Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 113

Crushing weight lay upon his spine, contorting him around the mass of his backpack. All was darkness and silence, save the laboured sound of breath drawing through his helmet's recycler. Internal oxygen, his swimming mind noted from a great distance, the Machine Spirit had engaged automatically, keeping him alive. He tried to shift the weight off his back but was pinned, unable to move an inch. Whatever was trapping him weighed more than he could lift from a prone angle, he was being squashed like a bug under a boot. All in all Captain Nemkir rated his chances of survival to be somewhere between low and non-existent.

"Captain Nemkir to Sergeant Oroton, I am pinned and require extraction. Nemkir to anyone who can hear me, this is the Captain, come in." The vox spat static into his ears, giving no clue if he had been heard. Perhaps his vox had been smashed in the impact, or perhaps he was buried in rubble so thick it blocked his signal, either way it was bad. Unable to move, unable to call out, he had never been so helpless in his life.

Resignedly Nemkir set his vox to a repeating distress tone and determined to wait for death or rescue. With nothing else to do he reviewed the last few hours. The Raven Guard had been gathering intelligence for a deep-ranging raid beyond enemy lines when the Tellarites revealed their mightiest weapon. From the forges of Holorus it had rolled, a Capitol Imperialis, a giant of legend rarer than a Titan. Needless to say the apparition had sent panic rolling among the Imperial Guard, clashing vox-channels barking denials and begging for orders. How this was possible, how the Tellarites had concealed such a galaxy-shaking artefact, how they were going to respond, these questions swamped the comm-lines.

To his credit Lord Militant Marcher had rebuffed the tide of confusion with sheer volume, screaming orders at his regiments to redeploy. With surprising speed the Terran forces had readied a counter-charge and concentrated artillery fire, but it hadn't made any difference. The men had watched in stunned awe as the Capitol Imperialis shrugged off their worst efforts, unbreakable and unstoppable. Nemkir had known it would be so, he'd used Codex equations to calculate the amount of ordnance against the rated shields for a vehicle of its displacement and had come up short, thus he had pulled his Astartes back to join the Reserves, where they might do some good. However he'd underestimated the range of its main gun.

Frustration gnawed at Nemkir. His Brothers could be fighting even now, while he lay here helpless. Worse they could be dead, blown apart in the megaton-strength blast. There was no way to know and the lack of information was a spear to his twin hearts. Nemkir, vaunted breaker of the Word Bearers, the wise 10th Captain had led his Marines into a slaughterhouse. Shame burned his soul, until the Leman Russ hulk pinning him down was suddenly lifted off and smoky light stabbed into his eyes.

"I have found Tuun-Ok!" a mechanical voice hollered.

"Dreadnought Aapo?" Nemkir gasped as his head rose from the compressed mud.

"Your eyes yet work, let us discover if your feet do the same, lest you wish to lay there all day and take your rest?"

Nemkir pushed himself to a crawl and scrambled out from under the tank's shadow. Aapo dropped it with a crash, as Nemkir straightened up. His bones ached and every sinew protested the motion, but that was nothing compared to the sight that greeted him. A vista of ruin and death as far as the eye could see, filled with smoke and flame. His autosenses switched to nonvisible spectrums, revealing flattened ground radiating out from the blast site. Rubble and fabric were matted together to make a carpet of debris, pummelled flat by crushing winds. Bits of metal were dotted about, weapons, tools and storage crates torn to pieces and thrown aside without care. Here and there a stouter vehicle slumped, melted and burning, armoured tanks gutted by flames. His respirator opened and Nemkir inhaled the fatty stenches of burning meat and oil. Men were mixed into that tangle of debris, thousands upon thousands of them, filleted by flying debris and sprinkled liberally among the ruins. Nemkir's guts were ice, shock nearly overwhelmed his soul, but his Hypno-indoctrination did not permit him to freeze up. An Astartes knew only one response to the horrors of war, to strike back twice as hard.

"Nemkir to all squads, who is in charge?" the Captain voxed.

"Chaplain Bulvok here, thank the Emperor you live."

"Gratitude to the Throne must wait, report our status," Nemkir demanded.

"We've accounted for twenty-one Raven Guard, the Smoke Jaguars stand at thirty."

Grim tidings, the explosion had sundered their already ragged forces, yet Nemkir's mind was already processing stratagems. He had fifty-one Space Marines and a Dreadnought, cities had fallen to lesser forces. Might he had, yet what he lacked was intel. With a thought he expanded his vox and sent a pulse to Alacritous Intervention in orbit. The Battlebarge was lurking over the curve of the horizon, safe from rebel anti-orbital lances, but Servo-skull probes lingered nearby. A snapshot of the battlefield was inloaded to his mind and he noted surviving units and fleeing forces. The Imperial defence was shattered and Tellarites poured into the breach, many of them headed this way. Time was short, yet already his mind conjured new strategies.

"All squads, bearing 350, double-pace!" Nemkir commanded as he sprang into a run.

"Fleetness of foot will not avail us," Aapo protested as he fell in.

"I'm not running, I'm regrouping. There's a column of tanks lingering on the edge of the blast zone, we must link up!"

Nemkir steered along the vector and rejoined his squads. Chaplain Bulvok was there, armour yet shining thanks to his sacred Rosarius. Sergeant Oroton fell in, and Nemkir was gladdened to see he yet lived, though his Sternguard numbered only three. Damchak and his slovenly Smoke Jaguars fell in without a word. How strangely fitting they seemed among these benighted ruins, their macabre appearance sublimely suited to a world of tragedy and woe. Nemkir wondered for an instant if perhaps they had a keener insight into the nature of the universe than the Raven Guard, then dismissed the notion as a lingering echo of his injuries.

Ahead a column of Leman Russ tanks lurked, commanders standing slack-jawed in their turret hatches. They must have been delayed en route the muster call, arriving just in time to avoid being wiped out. Two hundred tanks, armed and armoured, Nemkir could do much with that. Sadly he first had to convince them to follow his lead.

"Who's in charge here?!" Nemkir barked as he ran to a tank with expanded comm-gear.

"Colonel Alhasar," a greasy-faced officer with a bushy beard called, "675th Vostroyan armoured."

"Colonel, the Heretics have struck a mighty blow and they will be coming to finish the kill. We must make a stand here."

"I have no such orders," Alhasar protested, "We should withdraw and await direction."

"Run now and you lose the Isthmus," Nemkir snarled, "We must form a rearguard and delay the Rebel's advance. The Imperial Guard need more time to rally and mount a defence."

Alhasar looked ready to break and run, his every instinct urging him to turn his tanks about and flee. Nemkir would have loved to order him to make a stand, yet had no authority to command the Imperial Guard. However Bulvok spoke up, "How disappointing, I thought the men of Vostroya were famed for their dedication."

Alhasar looked offended at the suggestion, "None more faithful, none more loyal."

"Colonel, the Emperor expects every man shall do his duty. Will you be the one to disappoint Him?"

Alhasar stiffened in outrage, "Vostroya failed the Emperor once, we shall not fail Him a second time. The Vostroyan Firstborn shall never run from Heretic scum!"

"Good, then I recommend you disperse and make ready for sudden engagement."

Alhasar began shouting into the vox-horn about his neck and the tanks growled loud as they pivoted and deployed into a broad semi-circle. The squads broke up and moved amongst them, supporting them against possible infantry assault. Any Tellarite daring to close would have to brave a hail of battle cannon shells, then when they got close the Space Marines would tear them to pieces. It was a pitiful defence compared to the fortifications already breached, but it was all they had. Nemkir estimated they could hold for some time and blunt the advance of the Heretics. He could only trust Marcher was rallying his regiments already.

Aapo ground about on his waist gimbal, "You grasp that if that Great Byson targets us, we will not survive a second shot?"

"I do, but there is nothing I can do about a Capitol Imperialis," Nemkir muttered.

"Your Codex has no guidance for this?"

"In times of drastic need a rearguard action can delay the enemies' plans long enough for others to prepare a countermeasure."

Aapo considered this, "The Jade Foot needs a better rulebook."

Nemkir dismissed this as he drew his bolt pistol and awaited the first sight of the Tellarites. In the distance his autosenses sketched a vague impression of the Capitol Imperialis, looming as a dark blot in the swirling smoke. Strangely it was turning away, steering for an objective other than the ragged survivors. A brief mercy, for lesser vehicles were advancing, covering the kilometres swiftly. Hundreds of machines poured through the gap in the line, spreading out to flank the trenches further along and rout the defenders. The breach would soon widen and the front line would collapse utterly. There was little Nemkir could do about that, save buy some time. May the Emperor judge his sacrifice worthy, for there was little chance of survival.

Suddenly the vox-crackled, "Lord Militant Marcher to all regiments, commence immediate fallback to the third layer of defences."

Nemkir's aim did not waver a hair as he responded, "Captain Nemkir here, we require reinforcement."

"You're still alive?!" Marcher spat, "I should have known you wouldn't have the grace to die."

"I'm about to, we're forming a rearguard at the perimeter of the blast zone. We cannot hold for long without aid."

"You won't buy a single minute, fallback now."

"Without a rearguard no Terran for a hundred kilometres will make it to the third line," Nemkir spat.

"Don't tell me how to prosecute a war. I've already arranged fire support. The Righteous Fist of the Emperor shall lay down orbital lance barrages to thin the leading edge of the Heretic's advance."

"He says what?!" Bulvok intruded.

Nemkir agreed, "Your battleship will have to manoeuvre directly overhead, that puts her in range of Holorus' Hive guns. Even a Legatus-class Battleship cannot withstand those barrages."

"She can take a few licks. One pass to slow the Heretic down, with grace we might even hit that Capitol Imperialis. The order has been given, so move or die."

Nemkir's calculations shifted. A series of lance strikes could indeed slow the Tellarite advance, buying time for forces across the front entire to fall back. It would be close, many would not make it, but something could be salvaged if they acted now. Unfortunately for Nemkir time had run out, the rebels were nearly upon his position, withdrawal now would prove costly, very costly. Whether he'd meant it or not, Lord Marcher had trapped the Astartes again. Nemkir knew it, but he was not the only one.

Alhasar's head popped out of his turret, "I heard everything, you make for the third line, we shall buy you time to withdraw!"

Nemkir's head came up, "The Adeptus Astartes shall not abandon their comrade-in-arms!"

"The Emperor's Finest cannot die uselessly in the mud; you will be needed in the days to come."

"I cannot ask you to do this," Nemkir protested.

Alhasar's reply was, "You do not have to, my men shall be proud to lay down our lives, if it leads to your eventual victory."

Nemkir placed his power fist against his breast, "The Manufactorums of Vostroya shall resound with songs of your valour, so swears a Captain of the Raven Guard."

Alhasar bowed his head in acknowledgement, "Our fathers will be glad and our mothers shall shed no tears, for we die as any Vostroyan should."

Alhasar ducked down as two hundred Leman Russ engines roared to life, driving them towards the enemy. The tankers gripped their guns tight and said their final prayers, not one flinching from the suicidal charge. Brave men all, proud to die for their Emperor. They vanished into the swirling smoke, faces forward, eager to greet death and stare it in the eye. Nemkir ordered his squads to withdraw, knowing they would be needed for the coming fight. Still he lingered, fist clenched to his breast, saluting the heroes of Vostroya. Only when the first shot was fired did he turn and run.

Rage gripped his hearts and his determination to make the Heretics pay grew ever fiercer. A keen blade of will, one he would drive into the still-beating heart of the enemy. Yet first he had to survive. As they ran the sky was split by searing columns of fire, incoming lance strikes, passing overhead to gouge at the advancing rebel army. Moments later return fire streaked into the heavens, Holorus Hive's defences seeking to swat the intruder from the void. Thunder rolled and the ground shook, but Nemkir had no time to marvel. Already the next battle was formulating in his mind, the Heretics hadn't won yet and by his oath they never would.