Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 182
"Waaagh!" the cry rang inside the Stompa, drowning out wheezing mechanisms and the groan of overstressed metal. It echoed in the generator room and resonated in the tiny crawlways. Mekboyz heaving wrenches in the legs took up the cry, Snotlings shovelling bullets into buckets for the shoulder gunners joined in and goggled gunners squinting through tiny slits repeated it too. From the flat feet to the tip of the head the Greenskins let loose their racial impetrative, giving the Stompa a voice.
Orkamemnon heard it as he leaned out an eye-window seeing the gate growing nearer. It towered over the Stompa, with triple crenelations and braced by twin towers crowned by Macrocannons. Even though its lower reaches swarmed with Orks the fortress seemed inviolate, able to withstand the entropy of the universe itself. Orkamemnon planned to prove that boast hollow, and knew exactly how he would do it.
"Mor speed!" he yelled at the driver.
"I'm onnit!" the fat Ork wheezed.
"Screw dat! We needz ta get stuck in!"
"Do Ya wanna drive?!"
Orkamemnon drew in a breath to hurl invective but the heavens erupted with fire. A Macrocannon shell had detonated overhead, its trajectory cut short by a forcefield stretching overhead. The Stompas were bunched up, their protective energy bubbles overlapping and reinforcing each other in a manner no Tech-Priest would have believed the simple-minded Orks could engineer. Reds and yellows spread over the sheet of energy, rippling out like a stone thrown into a pond, but seen from below. The control deck became a carnival of flashing lights, illuminated by the incandescent display.
"Ooooo," Diorkgenes crowed, "Pretty!"
"Shut up ya loony!" Orkamemnon snapped, "We'ze in for a wild ride!"
"Hoomies are running!"Sorkrates barked.
"Not enuff," Orkamemnon growled, "Bring up da big Gatler!"
Kill-Da-Gits's left arm came up and erupted in torrents of firepower. Thousands of blunt bullets peppered the front of the Gatehouse, sweeping the hoomie positions with hurricanes of shots. Tongues of flame ejected from twin barrels, reverberations of the discharges rattling loose plates on the decking and causing the Orks to guffaw in delight at the destruction they wrought. The torrent of firepower forced the Imperial rearguard to duck behind their parapets, covered in stone chips torn from the walls. Seconds turned into minutes as the barrage ripped wild, then the drum barrels ran dry and the deluge stopped. The gatehouse had withstood the barrage, but precious time had been bought for the Stompas to close.
"Reload!" Orkamemnon shouted down a brass speaking tube.
"We'ze nearly dere!" the driver called.
"Not close enuff," Orkamemnon growled, "Get da ovvers ta close up, make a big fist!
On the roof of the Stompa's head Snotlings waved coloured flags in a crude semaphore. In response the Stompas closed ranks, bringing their bulk together into one solid wedge. Another Macrocannon shell exploded overhead but the greater danger was the gunners on the walls. Lascannons flashed, missiles streaked away and Heavy Bolters lashed the front of the Orks with firepower. With all power diverted to overhead shields the front armour of the Stompas was peppered with shots, ramshackle plating penetrated over and over. Ork crews died as shrapnel filled the front compartments, shredding the Boyz within. Compartments breached and pipes burst but the sheer bulk of the Stompas was protection enough. The gunners could not concentrate firepower on any one target and though they suffered for it the Orks were nearly at the gate.
"Mor speed!" Orkamemnon yelled as anticipation filled him.
"We'ze going flat out!" the driver yelled as the Stompa wheezed and clanked from the strain.
"Mor speed!"
"She'll break apart!"
"Mor I said!"
"Kaptain, I'm giving her all she's got!"
The fusillade was a horizontal waterfall but the Stompas pressed into the face of obliteration. Faces deforming, armour buckling, they strained to close the range. Orkamemnon felt the deck quivering, from impacts and overworked gears but the grey wall of the Gate filled his vision, they'd made it. The Stompas broke apart, their frontages were a ruined mass of broken plates but they yet stood and fought. To each side of the impenetrable gate they went, ignoring the sheets of Adamantium to hack and gouge at stone instead. Mega-Choppas carved deep rivulets into the Ferrocrete surface, while piston-hammers bigger than Leman Russ Tanks crazed the stone. One Stompa had a whirring drill bit for an arm and plunged it deep, spraying chips of grit into the air and another swung a wrecking-ball arm shattering layers of rock.
Orkamemnon was forced to step back, even an Ork's face unable to withstand the sandpaper tide of wind being produced. It scoured the battered fronts of the Stompas, but each blow carved another piece of the gate away. Reinforcing girders toppled from the walls, Hoomies fell screaming as their footing collapsed beneath them and the Macrocannons fired last desperate shots into the horde beyond, before their power feeds were severed. On came the onslaught, on and on, hacking, pounding, breaking and gouging as only the Orks knew how. The Stompas took the tower apart like a demolition crew deconstructing a hab and within minutes the gates fell away, toppling backwards to slam into the roadway beyond.
"We'ze dun it!" Sorkrates yelled in triumph.
Orkamemnon yelled, "Quick like, getz us in dere and gut sum hoomies!"
"Lotsa Boyz running underfoot, howz we know wat we shooting at?"
Diorkgenes chimed in, "If ya shoot an miss, itz be one 'a ourz, if ye hit sumting it's a hoomie!"
"Wat he said!" Orkamemnon chuckled.
Through the breach the Ork horde poured, thousands of Greenskins jostling to be the first into the city. They were met by monsoons of firepower from embedded defenders, wicked crossfires decimating any flesh and blood being that dared face them, but the Stompas were not mere meat. Old Scrappa was the first into the city, guns blazing, engines roaring. Its metal feet squeezed the Adamantium slab of the gate into the dirt, bearing down like the foot of a God. Old Scrappa bellowed with steam whistles as it beheld the city just waiting to be torn down, but then a searing plasma blast streaked into its chest, setting its front ablaze.
"Wat Da Zog?!" Orkamemnon yelled as Old Scrappa melted, its armour cascading off in rivers. A moment later a Volcano lance speared into its exposed heart, ripping clean through and out the other side to puncture the wall behind. The Stompa sagged drunkenly, then fell over, collapsing like a toppled tree. In the wake ringing silver trumpets sang clear, a clarion call of chivalric valour in the bleakest of hours as the Knights of House Orhlacc galloped to meet the intruders. Feet pounding, oath banners flapping in the wind they came, outmatched in size and strength by the least of the Stompas, yet willing to test their courage regardless. Knightly virtues seeing them brave the dread wickedness of the dragon.
Orkamemnon's brain fizzled as ideas stabbed deep. A broad machine at the rear set its feet as a plasma decimator and Volcano lance spewed waste-heat, Knight Castellan, the unwelcome thoughts intruded. At its side a lesser machine smote Greenskin foot soldiers with streams of gatling fire, Knight Warden, his implants sparked. To the left a Knight Paladin moved to engage the Stompa Gork's Foot, and to the right a Knight Errant unleashed a Melta shot that sliced off the Deffrokket battery that was its arm. But coming straight at Kill-Da-Gits was a Knight Gallant, pounding into the fray with weapon arms held high.
"Dakka!" Orkamemnon bellowed and the gunners let rip, only to find their shots bouncing off bubble-shields floating before the Knights.
"Give 'em mor Dakka!" he commanded.
"We'ze can't!" Sorkrates protested.
"Why'z not?!"
"We blocking da gate, we can't fit more Stompas through!"
A bottleneck, Orkamemnon realised, forced by the ruins of the two towers yet standing. By engaging the Orks at the tightest point the Knights were preventing the majority of the Stompas from getting inside. Three-a-breast could they fit through the gate, and no more, trapping eight Stompas outside. If these melee Knights could but hold the line then their Castellan could pick them off at range, thwarting their most potent weapons. It couldn't be allowed, but there was nothing to be done.
The Gallant slammed into the Stompa and Orkamemnon was thrown from his feet, sent skidding across the deck. A terrible ripping sound filled the bridge as a Reaper blade plunged deep, tearing into mechanical innards. The Gallant dragged its blade back, taking sheets of decking with it, then lashed its Thunderstrike Gauntlet across the wound, ripping the outer hull away and exposing the crew within to open air.
"He'z a bit keen!" Dirorkgenes shouted.
"Smack him with da Choppa!" Orkamemnon bellowed.
"He'z too quick!" Sorkrates snarled.
"I dun care! Get der arm up an thwack him!"
A screeching tearing noise heralded the Knight scything its Reaper blade wide, nicking leg supports. Kill-Da-Gits lurched to the side, making the bridge yawn over. The driver lost his stance and went skittering across the floor, smacking into the wall, where jagged pieces of metal cut him all over. Instantly Diorkgenes was in motion, leaping to aid the stricken Greenskin, his buzzsaw already whirring. The driver yelled in denial, crying it was only a flesh wound but the Mad Dok ignored the protests and began sawing off the arms and legs as part of his 'procedures'.
"Zog dis!" Orkamemnon snarled as he dug his fingers into the uneven floor. Hand over hand he heaved himself along, pulling his bulk towards the control levers. Screeching terror echoed from the speaking tubes but he ignored it, focused only on his goal. Three metres, two, one, then he was gripping the levers tight to pull himself upright. He leaned on a lever and the Stompa rocked madly, then he shoved it the other way and the whole bridge slammed straight. A glance out the window showed him a purple curve at a low angle, the Gallant was barely two-thirds of the Stompa's height but had done immense damage. Only the massive bulk of the walker was keeping it upright, but not for much longer.
Orkamemnon grabbed another lever to heave back and the Mega-chopper on the right arm swung high. He shoved the lever down and the arm followed, enormous chainteeth spinning fast. It caught the Gallant on the left shoulder and made it stagger, almost throwing the Knight to the ground. The pilot was skilled, he brought his feet about and balanced his stance before catastrophe fell. Orkamemnon swung high again but the Gallant surged forward, punching the Thunderstrike gauntlet deep, hauling out masses of broken parts and squished Orks in its grip. Another grievous wounding but the Mega-chopper came down on the same shoulder and this time ripped half the carapace away.
The Gallant staggered; cockpit exposed to open air. A measly hoomie squinted through the jagged tear, wires buried in his head, seeing the Stompa with his own eyes. Orkamemnon could almost hear his thoughts, the urge to flee fighting his courage for dominance. The hoomie proved to be made of stern stuff, faced with obliteration the Knight drew his Reaper blade back and braced to charge once last time, determined to pierce the heart of this monstrosity. Orkamemnon wasn't having that. As the Knight surged forward the Mega-choppa came down a third time and smote the open cockpit, tearing apart the Throne Mechaniucm and dicing the man bound to it.
The Gallant came to a halt, then slowly toppled backwards and landed amid the broken stone that littered the ground, kicking up a cloud of grit. One down, but others remained. Orkamemnon rushed to the window and saw Lucky Klaw was dead, the Knight Errant that killed it making a hasty retreat. Gork's Foot had done better, pounding the Knight Paladin into scrap with a Mega-hammer. Its victory was short-lived, a Volcano lance shot from the distant Castellan struck the head off its shoulders, leaving it a dead effigy standing over the remains of its kill. The Knights began to retreat, walking backwards as they fired into the hordes of green swarming their feet, rebuffed but not defeated. Three Stompas down, a quarter of their mightiest weapons gone, but the Gate belonged to the Orks and the city lay wide open.
The hoomies were beating a hasty retreat, falling back along a broad avenue that stretched off to the horizon, ten kilometres of exposed ground, flanked by buildings perfect to hide snipers and artillery. Flashes of blue betrayed the Space Marines had withdrawn with marginal casualties, doubtless headed to link up with the next layer of defence. It was a killing ground, but the Orks cared not, rushing through the broken gate and around the feet of the idle Stompas, racing to catch up with the hoomies and spill an ocean tide of blood.
"Da fite's moving on, get uz moving!" Orkamemnon yowled.
Sorkrates gingerly prodded a control lever, "We'ze all kinds of beat up."
"I dun care if we hav' ta hop after dem, nobody getz ta fite da Beakies without me!"
"I getz da Mekboyz on it," Sorkrates promised.
"An' sum new arms an legz!" Diorkgenes called from tending to his quadriplegic patient.
"I waz fine!" the patient protested.
"Delusional too, let me have a look inside dat brain..."
"Noooo!"
Orkamemnon ignored the loon's antics as he looked to the horizon. The Orks had broken the city open but it would be a hard fight to claim the rest. Kilometre after kilometre of urban warfare, the most arduous kind of fighting imaginable. The Orks were blind to the danger and other Stompas were pushing past the ruins of their kin. The slaughter to come would be terrible and magnificent in equal measure. Orkamemnon couldn't wait for it.