Legends of the Smoke Jaguars chapter 196
The attack on the docks was only one vector of the assault. Across the front Orks sprang into motion with fearful coordination, hitting the Imperial line from north to south. Waves of mobs charged up Hanged Man Lane, testing the guns of the hundreds of tanks stationed there. Rickety trukks pounded up Bridgeway, trying to storm past the Superheavies with sheer weight of numbers. Aerial forces raced overhead, crude Deffkopters and Whirligigs ferried carrying mobs of Boyz behind the lines, only to be shot out of the sky by thunderous barrages of Hydra flak, under the shield dome there was little room to manoeuvre and they died in droves. It mattered little, for the Stompas were on the move. Seven towering constructs forcing their way up Hanged Man Lane, their progress slow but inexorable, nothing the Imperials had left could stop them.
Orkamemnon however did not accompany them, for the warboss was leading his hordes into the Purple District. The leader of the Waaagh had grown in power, the communion with his kin lending him strength and power beyond reckoning. He wanted to bathe this new sensation, he wanted to taste the rush of combat first-hand. It was indeed thrilling. The pulsing waves of psychic energy pouring out of his kind only strengthened the more they fought, thundering through his skull like an avalanche. How blind Tvos had been, how blinkered, to think he was trying to dampen this ability, to shackle it. The Maker had got it all backwards but Orkamemnon understood the true strength of the Ork could not be tamed.
"Gut dem! Mash dem! Krump and smash dem!" he roared as waves of Orks threw themselves at the embattled defenders. The hoomies hadn't chance, quickly overrun at all points by jeering hordes of Greenskins. The Beakies had vanished, drawn away by the flank attack on the dock. Orkamemnon hadn't expected that, his plan was to have his reserve rush the far side of the city before the defenders could withdraw, but it worked to his favour. Without the Marine Boyz these weedy hoomies couldn't hold, the slaughter was all the greater for it.
"We got dem by da short and curlys!" Sorkrates hollered.
"I'z got dem, you'z a useless berk!" Orkamemnon snarled.
"Dunt matter, we krump and krump some more!"
"Ya tink ya tuff, I show ya tuff!"
Sorkrates was looking worse for wear, having had a building dropped on him in the first rush. The destruction hadn't been enough to end him, but it showed in the numerous tears and scabs breaking his black skin. Orkamemnon didn't care for his minion's suffering, just as he didn't care that Dirorkgenes had been left behind to work on the Cyborks. All that mattered was the killing, the rush of blood in his ears and the feeling of impacts shaking his arm as he broke meat and bone.
He put this into practice as he charged a foxhole. A group of terrified hoomies were firing from behind piled sand bags, making a last stand before an opulent townhouse. Orkamemnon went through them like a hurricane, tearing them into pieces with his fists and boots, shattering spines with his Grot-prodder and ripping intestines out in stringy ropes. Too easy, far too easy, the warboss wanted a real fight this was nothing but chaff.
A strange impulse made him turn his head, an absence in the Waaagh, a gap in the roaring rush of psychic energy. Orkamemnon would never have noticed it before but his heightened awareness made it plain, like a missing tooth in the gum. The gap nagged at him and drew his eye to a soaring building with faux turrets and a frontage of columns and statue-cherubs. It was just one more gaudy box in a suburb where neighbours competed for grandeur and yet of the Orks rushing ahead he sensed none within.
"Boss?" Sorkrates asked as they took off.
"Dat one's off," Orkamemnon hissed.
"It'z nothing, da fite's dat way."
"Nah, itz rite here, I smells it."
"Wanna tell me howz ya know dat?"
"Want ya 'ead ripped off... Na… Den shut ya gob!"
Orkamemnon led an arrowhead of green towards the building, kicking open the doors with such force they went flying to the carpet in chunks. All was quiet and dark within, a long passage leading into the interior, abandoned and void of foes. And yet he smelled blood in the air, the faint odour of spores shed in the thrill of combat. No bodies to be seen but someone had fought within, he knew it. Orkamemnon lifted his Grot-prodder laterally as he stalked within, followed by a horde of curious Orks. He pressed to the end of the corridor and entered a large theatre. Some nobles' folly, used to lord over his neighbours. Rows of plush seats faced inwards as they dropped towards an elevated stage, and a massive chandelier hung overhead, glittering faintly in the dim light. The space was vacant, utterly empty, so why did Orkamemnon pause as if under attack.
"Boss, dere be nothing 'ere," Sorkrates dared.
"Ya wrong, we be surrounded," Orkamemnon growled.
"I'z can't see sod all."
"Dat's how I know dere 'ere!"
Suddenly the shadows came alive. From nowhere they emerged, Astartes looming out of cover with bolters blazing. Dark shapes in dappled hues of dusk and ash. The thunder of their weapons was deafening, the perfection of the ambush staggering, but the most shocking thing was the mere fact of them. The room could not have contained so many, not undetected, the walls were too thin, the shadows too shallow. Not one giant in ceramite could possibly have hidden in so bare a space, and yet scores had. The shadows disgorged Space Marines from nothing, as if they had been in another room and had just stepped through a doorway.
Orkamemnon's mobs took ferocious losses in the first five seconds, mowed down by bolt rounds and culled by black knives. One lead the charge from the right, twin circlets in his hands that cut through skin and bone like gossamer. The killing was swift and sure but the Greenskins were many and kept coming, pouring through the entrance, drawn by the thunder of war. Orkamemnon was already on the move, charging at a dense knot of grey. Terminators, the most elite of the elite, a worthy foe, whom Orkamemnon yearned to test himself against.
The hulking shapes came at him with claws flashing. Their strikes were deadly, their aim keen and yet Orkamemnon was beyond them. The power of the Waaagh flowed through him, swelling his muscles and accelerating his reactions. To his eyes it seemed the Marine Boyz were moving in slow motion and he effortlessly dodged their first strike. He swung his Grot-prodder and discharged a blaze of electrical torment into the nearest, but the flowing current passed harmlessly over Adamantium skin, proof against such common assaults.
Orkamemnon dropped his weapon and grabbed the Terminator by the shoulder and hip. The warrior lashed out but the warboss was riding a high of Waaagh energy and rebuffed the assault with ease. One heave saw him hoist the Space Marine aloft, then with a feral yell he hurled the bulky form into his comrades, bowling them over. Down they went in a tangle of limbs, the awkward mass of their plate working against them. Orkamemnon grinned, they would be easy to finish, but another dared to disagree.
"The hour of our meeting is foretold!" a gruff cry challenged.
"Wot?" Orkamemnon blinked as he turned to find another Terminator lumbering towards him.
"The cry of the eagle of the wind turns the ear, the flash of plumage guides the swift spear!"
"You'z a nutter," Orkamemnon hissed.
"Then try this: I am Tachna of the Smoke Jaguars… and I am going to kill you!"
Orkamemnon made to scoff but something strange was happening. The closing warrior grew in stature, becoming magnificent and potent, somehow denser than his kinsmen. His stride shook the earth, his axe and power fist gleamed with potential and the missile launcher on his back was heavy with warheads. Smoke Jaguars kind could hide their presence on an empty plain, but this one was the reverse. All else was backstage window dressing, he was the sole thespian on the stage. Tachna was the most singular being in the room, his presence demanding all attention, even the Boyz grappling tooth and nail in combat found their heads turning, and so were blind to the knives inches from their eyes and throats.
Orkamemnon felt the impulse sink into his brain, trying to disarm him. An instinct he did not understand demanded he stand slack-jawed, unable to move, unable to defend himself. Be still, it urged, admire the closing foe, even as his axe removes your head from the neck. Orkamemnon could have died then, but he was long accustomed to strange impulses in his skull and when the axe pulled back to land the executioner's strike he moved first.
Orkamemnon barrelled forward, slamming bodily into Tachna. The Astartes was staggered by the sudden motion, expecting no resistance, but he recovered quickly. His power fist struck upwards, glancing the Warboss's flank and tearing away a wide strip of skin and muscle, revealing the iron rods and greasy pistons beneath. Orkamemnon snarled as pain battered at his awareness, but was more than able to overcome it. His own fist rammed into the faceplate, rocking Tachna back, and then he grabbed the pauldrons and swung hard to the right. Tachna was hauled off his feet by the strength of the Ork, like a bucket on a rope, heaved around by a strong arm.
Seating exploded into wooden shards as the Terminator's bulk smashed through, showering embattled Boyz with splinters. Despite his distress Tachna struck back, carving a red furrow over Orkamemnon's bicep with his axe. The warboss ignored it as he slammed the Space Marine into a wall, crashing bodily through it into the next chamber. He heaved backwards, then smote him again, and again, punching a hole into the wall with each strike. The Smoke Jaguar was shaken hard, rattled within the confines of his armour, unable to break the warboss's grip.
Orkamemnon heaved back, then flipped him about and ran into the fray, carrying Tachna off the floor like a battering ram. Orks crashed into the foes' front, bowled over by their sprint, but Orkamemnon cared not. Space Marines went down too, unable to get out of the way in time. The Warboss took great pleasure in stepping on them as he passed. Into the middle of the chamber he charged, then hoisted Tachna high, holding him aloft like a weightlifter does a dumbell.
"I'm gonna snap ya spine!" Orkamemnon hissed as he exerted enormous pressure with his swollen muscles.
Armour creaked in protest as Tachna snarled, "Il-Tzak does not yield, Il-Tzak does not break!"
"Keep yappin, you gonna snap like a twig!"
"Foolish is he who forgets his enemies' most deadly weapon!"
The rocket launchers on Tachna's back erupted in streaking contrails and a second later punched into the roof. Rippling explosions detonated a heartbeat later blasting the interior of the building. An instant blizzard of falling masonry and beams toppled upon the fighting warriors, inundating them in a storm of debris. Orkamemnon saw the chandelier coming down, its sharpened edges coming right at him. He threw Tachna aside as he dove away, raising his arms to protect his head in a reflex even Orks could not deny.
Crashing echoes thundered in his ears and his back was battered as bricks and beams hammered at him. The weight piling on him doubled, then doubled again, then again, threatening to crush even his enormous bulk. Orkamemnon could do nothing but shelter his head and try to breathe through the rock dust and plaster coating his larynx. Light disappeared, crashes echoed and he was buried in the detritus. Finally the booming crashes ceased and he dared to move. The weight piled upon him was immense, his position bad, but the ebbing strength of Waaagh energy was undeniable. Orkamemnon pushed himself upright, shifting more debris than a bulldozer could, his raw strength impossible to resist. He broke the surface, showering chips of plater and dust off in a cascade of grey, only to find the building had been gutted. The interior of the house was a hollow ruin, devoid of internal flooring, the roof supported only by its exterior walls. Like a rotten tooth it stood, a circle of apparent health encompassing a black void. Orkamemnon didn't care about that though, what concerned him was the Smoke Jaguars had vanished.
"Where iz dat sneaky git?!" he bellowed.
Echoing groans were his answer and he yelled, "I said where dey go?!"
A shuffle of debris revealed Sorkrates emerging, he'd survived by wedging himself in a corner and planting his shield at an angle, "I'z getting tired 'a buildings being dropped on me 'ead!"
Orkamemnon ignored his comrades' plight, "Where dat wretched grot-fondler go?!"
"Dunt see em boss, guess dey got out da same way dey got in."
Orkamemnon was incensed, "Cowardly ferrets run away from a fite! Dat's not on. I'm gonna make dem pay for dis insult! I waz gonna burn dis city to da ground anyway but now I'z gonna make it hurt! When iz get my hands on dem Smoke Jaguars I'z gonna make dere deaths slow and painful. Nobody in da history of suffering 'as suffered like da suffering I'll make dem suffer!"