Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 203
Saint's Bridge fell less than an hour later, blown apart by demolition charges even as hundreds of fleeing Guardsmen ran across its length. Engineers wept as they plunged the detonators but the Commissars assigned to them made certain they showed no hesitation in executing their orders. Common Bridge lasted another two hours before the Greenskins breached the defences and it too was blown. Baywood Bridge and Uncommon Bridge soon followed suit, masonry tumbling into the swirling river below. Sancour Bridge was bitterly defended, but it too fell to its doom, as did Narrow Bridge and Broad Bridge. That left only Gilded Bridge, and here the fight became truly ferocious.
The southernmost bridge over Silver River was fed by the twin roads of Bridgeway and Hanged Man Lane. From the start these avenues had presented the greatest danger and so had been the most heavily defended. Armoured units lined their widths, battlecannons and sponsons laying down torrents of firepower. The Xenos had paid with their lives for daring to contest Imperial mastery of the roads, leaving tens of thousands of their kind rotting in the gutters but the toll had been heavy. The armoured units were drained, fuel spent and ammo running perilously low, while the burned wrecks of their fellows lined the avenues all the way back to Victory Gate. The Greenskins sensed weakness and pressed forward, but the line would not break. Brave crews hung on to the last, buying precious minutes for thousands of fleeing infantry to reach the last remaining bridge and evacuate to safety.
Vitcos esteemed their courage, but his attention was fully on the Orruk trying to kill him. The brute came at him with a flamer in hand, sloshing tanks of Promethium strapped to its back. From a long nozzle came a plume of fire, seeking to engulf the Smoke Jaguar. Vitcos was forced to dive aside to avoid being incinerated, power armour was tough but living fire could find exposed joints and breather grills regardless. The Orruk guffawed as it swept the nozzle about, smoky glasses reflecting orange hues and the iho-root clamped between its teeth half-ash.
Vitcos had nowhere to go save forward and dove in, closing the range to nothing. The Orruk was caught by surprise and found the warrior upon it before it could react. Vitcos drove a Chakram into its guts, but did not rip upwards, instead letting go and leaving the weapon embedded. The Greenskin race was tough, the Orruk wasn't dead, but Vitcos had other plans. His freed hands grabbed the long nozzle of the flamer, heat scorching his gloves, and swung about. The Orruk was stunned by the unexpected move and was dragged bodily with its weapon, hand clamped around the trigger. The gushing torrent of flame swung away from the Imperials and towards the closing mobs of Orruk, bathing the leading figures in flame. Orruk's caught alight by the dozen, their leathers burning away and faces charred to ash as they fell down dead.
The Orruk gawped dumbly and Vitcos took advantage of its shock to grab his Chakram and rip upwards, tearing its guts out. The heart-foe collapsed into a gory heap of entrails, but the fight wasn't done. The Smoke Jaguars were fully engaged, fighting side by side with the tanks of the Imperial Guard to deny the foe. Blistering attractional warfare, exactly the kind of fighting the Chapter abhorred, but Vitcos embraced it. On the bloody points of their blades would the Smoke Jaguars teach the Orruk to know fear, after all were they not sons of Konrad Curze, even in Heresy the Night Haunter's legend lived on.
Huacho and Hound Sinister Prowl fought to keep Greenskins away from a Leman Russ Punisher. Its Gatling cannon swept back and forth, screaming in fury as it unloaded torrents of bullets into the tightly packed foe. Terminators guarded its flanks, keeping any foe from closing to attack the vulnerable sides or rear. Elsewhere Tachna planted his feet next to a Hellhound, using his fist and axe to cut down any who survived the burning conflagration this tank laid down. Prowls Barking Dog, Steel Helms, Red Whirlwind, Deathmaker and Autumnal Kings fought their own battles, but none compared to the devastation of Aapo. The Living-dead was in the thick of the fighting, his glacis scored of all heraldry, his arms soaked in blood. Beset on all sides still he fought on, driving his Chord Claw into the front of a charging Trukk, lifting it high then throwing the entire machine back into the closing mobs, crushing them utterly.
"Well struck Eldest!" Vitcos called aloud.
"The spirit of murder is with me!" Aapo proclaimed as he swept his claw about and diced a trio of Orruk trying to sneak up on him with melta-bombs.
"The day's shadows grow long!" Tachna warned.
"Time we must have," Huacho rejoined, "Seconds precious as bolt rounds!"
"The serviles signal the task is done!"
"You are cruel to deny me such truths," Huacho spat, "Let the heart-foe taste our envenomed fangs!"
From the rear Doans emerged, lugging grenade launchers with them. The novices set the arcs of their trajectory high, then began spitting fat rounds over the line in long arcs. The grenades flew far and burst above the packed Xenos. No frag rounds, no mere blasts of heat and metal. Instead heavy clouds of black smoke uncoiled, engulfing the Greenskins below. Where Blackout smoke touched flesh it broiled, skin blistering with such vehemence it sloughed off, eyes boiling in sockets and tongues bursting to vomit blood. Bloodmire essence from Copan XII, a carnivorous plant whose spray dissolved victims to slush, then drank the soup of flesh via grasping roots. Long experience had taught the Chapter that even Orruk could not withstand this distilled poison, and so they swept the leading edge of the horde away.
"Make for the last line!" Haucho ordered and the Imperial began their final retreat. Tanks reversed their tracks as they made for the end of the road and Smoke Jaguars walked backwards, weapons trained on the swirling cloud of black smoke. Vitcos was keenly aware that they had exhausted their supply of grenades there would be no more reprieves. He led Blazing Shadow across uneven ground, so recently disturbed, and took in the gibbets and nooses lining the road. Well named was Hanged Man Lane, the street's length lined with rotting corpses of criminals and Heretics. The Arbites saw fit to display their judgements, making sure all knew the price of defying the Golden Throne. The condemned were fortunate if they were only hung by the neck, the truly cursed were those locked into iron gibbets and left to die of exposure and dehydration.
"Is this the end of our legend?" Ilquitio asked morosely.
"The final hour is not upon us yet," Vitcos spat.
"Would that it be," Ilquitio moaned.
"Bleak doom is mine to own," Sechura snapped, "Suit you it does not."
"A quicker ending would be a fine thing," Ilquitio grumbled.
"Stay your tongue and save your despair for the heart-foe!" Vitcos snapped.
The revelations of the last day had shaken them all. Aapo had counselled them to embrace their bloodline, but some took to that more readily than others. Ilquitio's pride was ashes and his humours unbalanced, but Vitcos had no time to steady his comrade. The hour of woe was upon them, and the Stompas were closing in. Shaking of the ground underfoot told them it was true, the massive constructs were closing through the Rathaus and when they arrived any pretence of defiance would be crushed utterly.
Gilded Bridge loomed ahead, its spars offering salvation. The entrance was packed with fleeing Guardsmen, running from every direction to reach sanctuary. Any semblance of regiment or rank was lost, these men were routed, their only thought to cross the river and live. How many had crossed: many tens of thousands most likely. How many were lost in the tangled warren of the Rathaus, unable to find their way past the enemy, as many as had fled for sure. The Herald of Storm's plan to bleed Orkamemnon had worked, but the losses suffered were far greater than the most dire predictions. So much for prophecy, Vitcos scoffed.
The tanks ground to a halt just short of the bridge, at the convergence of Hanged Man Lane and Bridgeway, and elevated their turrets. Hasty loaders ran from waiting foxholes, lugging crates of Heavy Bolter shells and fuel drums. They didn't even have time to finish before the Orruk were upon them, racing down the road into the teeth of the Imperial's fire. Battlecannons boomed, battering Vitcos' ears with an unearthly din as bolters thundered and autocannons chugged. Heavy Weapons had been previously set in the surrounding buildings and laid down supporting fire, as the tanks lashed the closing Xenos, but still they came. Piled bodies fell everywhere, lining the streets with corpses, but it mattered not, they still kept coming.
Vitcos drew both Chakrams as the wave of green flesh came at him, greeting the ragged remains of those who survived the onslaught. Hands blurred as he sliced open heads and hearts, removed limbs and gutted foes, killing with fury and speed greater than he'd ever known. His world shrank to a hacking mass of pressing flesh and stabbing knives, Orruk seemingly without end seeking to claim his life. His weapons never ceased for a moment as he sliced foes to wet ribbons, leaving them oozing upon the hard road. Vitcos felt his darkest urges rising and gave himself fully to the blood-madness of Konrad Curze, letting evil consume him. All was insanity, roaring maws and bleeding veins. He saw nothing but green flesh and red blood, his body painted with Xenos vitae. His Chakrams reaped a fine tally of lives and he discovered the dark joy of justice was as heady as vengeance. The Orruk was vile, to kill them was justice embodied and he was the gavel of the judge.
With fury unbound he cleared a space and saw the battle truly enjoined. Smoke Jaguars smote the Xenos as they came, but the river of green was without end, and the horizon was broken by the towering shapes of Stompas closing. Vitcos spied Ilquitio moving through the melee like the ghost of madness, his Daga blades so choked with gore they could not close. Others of Blazing Shadow were equally deadly with their blades, but Sechura was beset. He'd been divided from his Kinsmen by the press and was backed up against a wall, a half-dozen Orruk surrounding him. Vitcos' reaction was so blinding even he did not register it. A Chakram left his hand and flew high, cutting the line of a gibbet above. The iron cage fell, body and all, crashing upon the Greenskins and squishing them into the street. One remained, gawping at the sudden reversal, but Sechura's blade found its eye and the last of them fell dead.
"Do you save a Brother or seek to outpace my tally?!" Sechura snapped.
"The sun must rise in the morning, the reasons are moot," Vitcos deflected as he ran and snatched up his fallen Chakram.
"I would know the heart of my First."
"I am justice," Vitcos whispered as they returned to the killing.
The fighting was as brutal as any he had ever known, blade to blade and fist to fist. The Orruk were pressing hard to reach the bridge, but the slaughter itself was as much a goal to them. They raced to embrace death, but in their doing so took many to hell with them. Minutes crawled by and tanks fell silent, crews torn asunder and innards blown to shreds. Stormboyz assaulted the flanking Heavy Weapons, silencing them one by one and even Smoke Jaguars fell. Vitcos saw many Prowls suffer losses, the fallen awaiting rescue or final death. All sense of time vanished as he strove to make sure none of his Prowl joined them, but the peril grew with every second that passed. The odds were growing steeper and soon would overwhelm them. He refused to allow it, striking with the strength and fury of twin gene-sires, but when the shadows fell over them he knew doom.
"Stompas!" Sechura's voice carried.
"Our efforts come to naught!" Ilquitio gasped.
"Not yet," Vitcos spat.
"Against such might we cannot stand!"
"Standing is not our goal, to bait the snare's noose is!"
Attrition was not the Smoke Jaguar's way, but the laying of traps was. Long had it been clear that this would be the last defiance and preparations had been made. Teams of labourers had dug up the road for a great length of its stretch and deadly weapons planted. Shallow they were buried, poorly hidden, but the call of combat had blinded the Orruk to the fact that they were walking over buried Apocalypse missiles.
The world shook under Vitcos' boots as the rage of an angry god was unleashed. First a shiver of rockdust, rising as far as the eye could see, then the road itself heaved upwards. Ferrocrete held for a tenth of a second, undulating like a snake, then it cracked into a trillion pieces and exploded upwards. A gale-force wind smote Vitcos' faceplate, sending him staggering backwards as the air became a roiling hurricane of grit and pebbles. A moment later the boom struck, battering his autosenses and shaking the bone of his skull like a pea in a child rattle. The jelly of his eyeballs quivered and his teeth sang with resonance. The force of the blast passed through Vitcos as a great wave, leaving him feeling like he was wearing someone else's skin.
Moments crawled by like treacle as the blinding fog of rockdust swirled, then it began to settle and he beheld a boneyard. The length of Hanged Man Lane was silent, without a living thing to be seen. From the first buried warhead to beyond even a Space Marine's eyesight bodies lay in pieces, diced in a threshing machine of flying stone and razor-sharp grit. Orruk by the thousand left unmoving, faces to the cold ground as dust settled upon them, burying the slain in funeral ashes. Thousands culled in an instant, the stillness of the air terrifying after days of battle clamour ringing the ear.
"And lo it is done," Sechura breathed in awe.
"Two birds with one stone is admirable, a thousand with a word is more," Vitcos agreed.
"They shall learn to fear us yet," Sechura rejoiced.
"Be not hasty in your praises," Ilquitio warned, "The Stompas remain."
"The clock chimes thirteen," Vitcos reluctantly agreed.
The culling of the mobs had not stopped the Greenskin's superheavies. The Stompas came on, closing through the urban sprawl from the north, uncaring that they obliterated buildings with each step. Already the final Imperial tanks were reversing onto the length of the Gilded Bridge, forcing fleeing Guardsmen to give way or be crushed. The Smoke Jaguars hastened to join them, racing for the eastern bank. Mere minutes remained until this bridge must be destroyed and any man not across would be lost forevermore.