Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 186
Within a day Pleasaunce Park was erased. The gentle fields and carefully tended Copses had been turned into muddy craters, where churned earth buried Greenskin bodies by the dozen. Overturned Trukks flamed into the void-shielded sky, making bonfires of the dead and dying. Delicate streams had turned into sodden quagmires that sucked the boots off running Boyz and intricate wooden bridges were left as shattered spars, sticking out over the ruins of generations of labour. The playground of the rich and idle was now a painting of hell, and the Orks hadn't even got serious about attacking. That was about to change.
"Get uz in dere and mess 'em up!" Orkamemnon roared from the top of Kill-Da-Git. The Warboss stood straddling the head of the Stompa, exposed save for the crackling forcefield above his scalp. From his high perch he could see the battlefield awaiting, and the dead already committed to it. He didn't care, they'd been impatient, rushing ahead of his main thrust, there weren't enough Black Orks to manage every mob after all. The air was cold on the patches of skin he had left, the evening light casting long shadows and his nose picked up scents of destruction on the breeze. The metal under his feet swayed with every cumbersome step of the Stompa, but its advance was unstoppable, as was the Waaagh's. Thousands upon thousands of Orks followed in his wake, stretching all the way back to Victory Gate. The casualties they'd suffered getting here were significant, but there were more than enough to take the Palace.
Orkamemnon's head fizzled as his brain crunched numbers. The gaudy edifice boasted high walls and numerous gun turrets, but was lacking in many respects. An ancient construction, raised before the Imperium came with its brooding styles and mania for fortification. The Palace would do well enough against Hoomies, but his intrusive thoughts concluded it was no match for the Orks. Less gilding on the buttress and more gun turrets would have served them better, but that was all to the good.
Orkamemnon lifted his Grot-prodder and tried to shut out the tirade of thoughts battering his skull as he roared, "Waaaagh!" The Orks all around took up his battlecry, advancing in the shadow of the Stompas as they pressed into the Parkland. The response was instant, artillery shifted, moving from flying down-range to hitting the front ranks directly. Explosions tore apart the leading edge of the Orks, throwing pieces of bodies everywhere. A stray shell flew straight for Kill-Da-Git but exploded across the forcefield covering its head, mere metres from Orkamemnon's scalp. The noise of it vibrated the implants in his brain but his jaw drew back in a vicious grin, this was a proper scrap.
The Palace walls erupted with torrents of firepower, sweeping the horde as it spread out. A mere kilometre to cross, but the Hoomies seemed determined to exact a high price in blood. The defenders seemed to be focusing on the rank and file, that was unexpected, the Stompas were the greatest danger. They're thinning your numbers, the unwelcome thoughts intruded, reducing your forces with attrition. Orkamemnon didn't listen, for the Stompa's began to return fire.
Ear-splitting noises split the air asunder as Mage-Gatlers, Zzap guns and Rokkets streamed away, pounding the high walls of the Palace. Mists of red showed where random Hoomies were struck, blown into vapour by lucky hits, but they were few. Most of the hits tore ornate gilding off the walls and sent it toppling to the dirt in pieces, but the solid mass of reinforced Ferrocrete beneath proved sound.
Two hundred metres the Stompas had covered when a lucky shell broke through a Stompa's force field. Gut-Sawwer took a direct hit to the engines and suffered for it. Smokestacks collapsed as runaway fires raged, feeding back along fuel lines which burst like popping Kaba nuts at a Dramatuge's play. Raging fires ignited on every deck, turning the Stompa into a flaming bonfire, Orks broiling alive as they flapped uselessly at the inferno.
At four hundred metres the Stompas unleashed their ire, every gun blazing with abandon. Ammo drums rattled dry, rokket batteries depleted in moments and still the return fire increased, and increased again. Orkamemnon stood proud, scorning cover. He was bound to Tvos' command, but the Magos had said nothing of hiding. The Warboss would fight from the front, that at least was his choice. So he dared death to take him, that too would be his to own.
Six hundred metres the ringing of horns announced the Knights returning. Three galloping war machines approached from behind the Palace, to attack the right flank. They were already firing as they emerged, hitting the walker Stompy-McStompface with a furious deluge of firepower. Gatling fire from the Warden swept its gunners from their perches as plasma and Volcano lance from the Castellan shattered its front armour. The Knight Errant bounded nearer and put a pinpoint Melta shot into the bubbling mass of metal. The thermal beam cut deep, severing internal leg supports and annihilating essential rods and girders. The Stompa lurched wildly then began to topple over, its leg blown out, sending it crashing into the mud.
Eight hundred metres and the intensity of the fire was so thick the tracers blinded. Orkamemnon saw three Stompas turning to engage the Knights, more than enough to end them. Four remained to besiege the Palace, still be too much for the defenders to handle. Thousands of Greenskins had been slaughtered in minutes, but the Hoomies had nowhere near enough firepower to hold the Waaagh at bay, they would reach the Palace in moments.
Just short of a kilometre flights of Valkyries stormed overhead, thundering from every hardpoint and open doors. Gunners emptied bandoliers of Heavy Bolter rounds into the packed horde, reaping lives with gusto. It made no difference, the horde simply rolled over the gaps, making it seem as if nothing had happened. Storms of return fire arose, filling the air with lead. Valkyrie pilots veered hard but stray bullets rebounded from their hulls, peppering them with shots. One jet engine inhaled a stream of bullets and exploded, sending the machine tumbling from the sky to crash in the city to the west. Its death a mere footnote in the fight.
Orkamemnon rode through the carnage with unflinching glee, relishing every second. The aura of violence was palpable, the Waaagh energy peaking and he rode that high right up to the walls. The Knights were falling back, leaving the Errant a smoking pile of scrap metal, and the wall gunners could not halt what was to come. The Hoomies no doubt had set their traps inside, expecting the Stompas to go for the main gates again, but Orkamemnon had a surprise of his own. As the walkers came level with the battlements ratcheting ladders extended from their backs, shooting high into the air. They wavered for a moment then pivoted and fell, slamming onto the wall tops, turning the Stompas into instant siege ladders.
"Into dem!" Orkamemnon roared and he was the first to pound across the rickety ladder, blind to the dizzying drop beneath his feet. Hoomies peppered him with lasfire but it was nothing to the Warboss and he threw himself into them with a glad cry. His staff caught a man by the throat, sending him into convulsions with electrical discharge. Another came at him with a bayonet charge, Orkamemnon merely backhanded him over the wall, sending him to his death far below. More came at him, trying to hold the charging Orks before they could spread along the walls, but the Warboss broke them as they came, smashing knees, imploding faces with punches, sweeping them aside with his staff. He was indomitable, nothing could stand before him, but then a genuine challenge appeared.
"Face me Xenos filth!" a blue giant roared as he pounded along the wall with four of his Brothers in tow.
"Beaky!" Orkamemnon howled, "Nobodyz touch dat flashy git, he'z mine!"
The Space Marine flashed a lightning-wreathed sword up in front of his eyes, "When you get to hell tell them Captain Symon sent you there!"
"I'z gonna rip ya 'ead off and hold it up so ya can watch all ya mates die!" Orkamemnon roared.
The pair met in a clash of arms that shook the battlements. The Astartes came in fast and hard, lancing his sword for the face, trying to score an instant kill. Orkamemnon deflected with a sweep of his Grot-podder, the length sparking as power field met metal pole. Symon redressed his attack, coming around in an arc to cut Orkamemnon's leg off, only to find the knee already rising to slam into his groin. The impact lifted him off his feet, ruining his strike and the Warboss followed it up with a haymaker punch to the helm. Sheer momentum sent the Astartes backwards, head throbbing from the blow.
Orkamemnon came again with a vicious stab of his Grot-Prodder, wrapping the Captain in electrical torments. Such agony would have unmade a man, it would have crippled an Ork, but the Space Marine only got angrier. Symon's blade smashed the rod aside and then he unleashed a flurry of blows. Orkamemnon found himself on the receiving end of a whirlwind of slices and stabs, furious and exacting. Symon came at him as a relentless destroyer, all wroth and retribution, he was channelling his pain into fervour, using torment as fuel for his zeal. Orkamemnon's skin was lacerated all over, revealing wheezing pistons and gears under the surface. The attack was unstoppable, no matter how he tried to parry Symon was faster reducing his defence to a feeble waving of the hands in the air.
"We are the Emperor's Storm, unleash the Tempest!" Symon yelled as he drew back and then thrust the tip of his sword into Orkamemnon's chest. The warboss gasped as the tip slid home, right down to the hilt. It thudded into his sternum, power field blistering flesh as its length sundered guts and muscle. The pain was intense, but crucially it didn't hit any of the whirring machines and pulsing devices that kept Orkamemnon alive. Symon froze when he realised the Ork wasn't falling over dead, then a beefy hand wrapped around his wrist as Orkamemnon growled, "Ya missed me hart!"
The Astartes tried to pull back but his arm was locked tight. Orkamemnon dropped his Grot-prodder and wrapped his hand about the pauldron. Muscles bulged, pistons extended and in one almighty heave he ripped Symon's arm from his body. Blood sprayed the gritty battlement as Symon reached for a bolt pistol at his hip but Orkamemmon's hand sliced for the other shoulder, chopping down with such force the pauldron ripped clean off. Symon reeled as Orkamemnon snatched the other arm up by the forearm, then brought his hand down again, cleaving the limb at the elbow. Symon was left without arms, a helpless cripple, but still worthy of killing.
"I made ya a promize," Orkamemnon growled as he wrapped both hands around Symon's helmet, then heaved upwards, snapping ceramic-laced bones and ripping sinews. The Space Marines' head came clean off, leaving his torso with a stump for a neck, then the body collapsed. The warboss hefted the helmet aloft, blood dripping from the skull within. The battlement was theirs, the other Space Marines crushed under the sheer weight of numbers, unable to dam the tide pouring over the siege ladders. He'd done it and Orkamemnon threw back his head in triumph as he roared "Waaaaagh!"
The battlements rang with echoes of Greenskin fury as they swamped the defenders, pouring across the siege ladders in droves. The horde surrounding the Stompas fought to get inside, running up the levels to reach the top and cross over. The park behind was a sea of bodies, twenty-thousand Orks dead, thirty-thousand perhaps, a significant loss for a kilometre of mud, but it didn't matter. They were inside the Palace, nothing could stop them now. Orkamemnon pulled the sword from his guts and tossed it aside, as he threw the helm to some random minion, he'd have someone fetch it later. He stooped to grab his Grot-prodder and looked for the way inside, determined to be at the front of the fight. Tvos would have his crown but this slaughter belonged to Orkamemnon and he was determined to enjoy it.