Da Red Gobbo Collection, page 16
‘Wot’s in dat?’ he asked.
‘Dunno,’ Da Gobbo replied. ‘Fuel?’
‘Nah, Migiz said da fuel tanks are beneath da church,’ Redsnot replied. ‘Must be somefing else. It’s hot though.’
‘Hmm,’ Da Gobbo said, adjusting his goggles. ‘I fink it’s wax.’
‘Wax? Like… from ears?’
‘Maybe. Dey use it for candles.’
‘Hmm…’ Redsnot frowned, his gaze flicking from the tank to the smoke-wreathed entrance. ‘Den I might ’ave an idea.’
‘Excellent. I knew yoo woz a smart one,’ Da Gobbo said. ‘Maybe when dis is over dere will be a place for you on Da Kommittee.’
The smile vanished.
‘Providin’ ya don’t screw up again.’
‘What we have here is a failure in the chain of command.’
Marvarry strode along the line of cultists, his eyes fixed ahead, observing them from the periphery of his vision. By the gods, it was embarrassing. Most of them couldn’t even stand to attention. Even Dunder, former soldier of the Imperium, no longer stood straight, though that might have been something to do with his spine. It was hard to tell beneath the scavenged robes, but his torso appeared elongated, arching him forward. He at least kept his chins up, the second having sprouted from his left cheek earlier in the day.
Marvarry had reached the end of the line. He slowed, glancing back. Shouldn’t there be more of them? Yes, some had died in the first attack, and further casualties had been inflicted by the second explosion. Then there were the handful he had sacrificed to obtain materials to complete the edifice. Which, in hindsight, had been an error, for sufficient materials would have been readily available following the first failed attack.
How many left now? Thirty?
It didn’t matter. If they all died it meant nothing, provided the mission was accomplished before his masters returned. That meant they needed the priest, assuming he still lived. Orks sometimes took prisoners, but he suspected the spiteful grots would be more likely to torture the cleric. He could at least take credit for their ministrations, if he could claim the body.
He shook his head, his gaze meeting one of the cultists. The man looked away, but still, he had looked. They were waiting for him to speak, to inspire them to victory.
What had he been saying?
‘Failure in command. I mean, failure in the chain of command,’ he continued. ‘I wanted to grant you opportunities to rise to the occasion, to prove yourselves to the Dark Gods without my guidance. But I realise now that was my mistake, for you are clearly incapable. Twice now you have been repelled by ork runts, creatures who not only have the colouration of boiled cabbage, but are also about half as smart.’
He paused then, looking them over. They held their heads low. This pleased him, for it meant they were cowed. But it also angered him, for it showed a lack of discipline. Presumably there was some optimal chin height between the two extremes that would satisfy him, but none of them had stumbled upon it. Useless, that’s what they were.
‘Clearly you need superior leadership,’ he continued, as one of his servants drew near, carrying a sealed case once adorned with the Imperial aquila. The image had been painstakingly erased, replaced by a poorly rendered symbol of the eight-pointed star. As he lifted it his gaze flickered to the twin effigies to the Dark Gods. One of them had started to sag. No matter, he thought, as he undid the clasp. The gods desired bloodshed more than ritual. They would graciously accept his offerings once they were stained by greenskin blood.
Within the case lay his power fist. Like the casing, the armoured gauntlet had once been anointed by symbols of the hated Imperium, but these had been stripped away, leaving it unadorned. Almost plain. He wished he had the resources to debase it, to carve symbols to attract the Dark Gods’ attention, reshape the fingers so they resembled talons. But perhaps this was better. No more ceremony: it would be baptised in blood.
As his attendants struggled beneath the weapon’s weight, attaching it to the servo-harness running along his arm, he glanced to the church, letting his hatred fester. Pathetic as his followers were, they remained unworthy of his hate. No, that belonged to the lying Imperium. For the grots he would offer only contempt.
‘No more debacles. No more failures. We will breach their sanctuary, even if I have to raze it stone by stone.’
CHAPTER 8
Upio’s ears reverberated with each strike. It reminded him of the church bells he’d rung as a child, except this shockwave not only pained his ears but also caused his whole body to shudder. He would have felt each strike even if he were deaf, and if the cacophony persisted much longer he probably would be.
He watched as Marvarry raised his armoured gauntlet, the power field crackling about the weapon like caged lightning. His fist thundered into the greenskins’ blockade, the barrier screaming at the force of each blow. He would have no doubt already breached the defences if the barricade had not been piled so high and haphazardly. Each strike cleared a path, but also resulted in an avalanche of scrap tumbling to fill the void. Twice the commissar had almost been crushed by the debris, saved once by a backhanded blow from his power fist, and a second time by a loyal cultist who pushed him aside. Their reward had been being crushed beneath the debris. Marvarry had barely acknowledged the sacrifice, his next blow spraying blood along with metal shards.
If it happened again, Upio would not save him. He hoped none of the others would either. Not that he said as much, fearing his would be the only voice of dissent. How ironic it would be if the rest felt the same, but feared giving voice to their views. He tried to make eye contact, glancing to each in turn, but hoods concealed their faces. Had some snuck away? Marvarry had sent two to cut off the fuel pipes adjacent to the entrance. He had claimed success, but had both returned? Were some deserting even now?
Another blow, and this one shattered the final remnants of the grots’ blockade. The incensed Marvarry made to barge into the church. But at the last moment he hesitated, gaze flicking over his shoulder to the cultists.
He stepped aside from the breach, nodding to Upio and the others.
‘Reclaim your honour,’ he snarled. ‘For the Dark Gods!’
This was the moment. He could fire his pistol, kill the commissar. Then flee, vanish into the wastes, wait for all this to die down, rejoin the side of whomever proved the victor. His flesh was still unmarked. None would know of his rebellion. He could claim he lost his eye fighting the traitors. He might even be thought a hero.
But would the others follow? Or avenge the commissar? How could he trust them? They had proven time and again that they were too spineless to stand against Marvarry. If one had raised his weapon, or even just his voice, Upio would have been right behind them. But no, they were cowards, and left him no choice.
‘For the Dark Gods!’ he bellowed, rushing forward and praying the rest would follow. Once inside he could hold back, focus on the layout of the facility. Let the others catch the first bullets.
But his pace slowed almost instantly. And not just him. All of them were struggling. It felt as though the floor of the church were grasping at his feet. Surely it could not be the will of the God-Emperor? Were they so damned that the church itself sought to slow their passage?
‘Look out!’
The cry came from behind him. He resisted the urge to turn, his eyes scanning the church, seeking the cause of the alarm.
He did not need to wait long. The molten wax struck down on them like a waterfall. Some were washed away by it, their voices stolen as it flooded mouths and lungs. Others, like Upio, managed to brace themselves and endure the deluge. The wax burned, but not as badly as the fire, his robes shielding his exposed skin. But it now ran to knee height, and cooled rapidly. He took a staggering step forward, but a second proved impossible, his leg held firm by the solidifying wax.
‘Return fire!’ he bellowed, raising his autogun.
It clicked. Something was jammed, or more likely flooded with wax. From above came shrill laughter.
His men, those not being pulled under by the weight of the wax, were having similar problems. A few managed sporadic bursts, but what were they really aiming at? All he could see was darkness. At least the grots seemed reluctant to return fire.
Damn the wax! He strained with all his might, until suddenly his foot was torn clear of his boot. It stung, the cooling wax still hot enough to burn his sole, but it was nearly solid now, and supported his weight. He dragged the other leg free, standing a foot above the others who were still wedged by the deluge.
‘Boots off!’ he said. ‘C’mon! Do you really want those little runts to get the best of us? We are servants of the Sons of Lorgar!’
‘True Sons,’ someone murmured from the rear. If his gun was working he’d have blown the man’s head off. Still, they were following his orders, dragging their feet from their boots, in some cases leaving behind entire undergarments. But ten were soon standing beside him, shuffling their feet, the wax still uncomfortably warm.
He glanced back to the doorway. No sign of Marvarry, though a couple of guards were stationed by the entrance. Whether to guard it against fleeing greenskins, or prevent cultists from retreating was another question entirely. His only option was to press on.
‘Praise to da God-Emperor!’
The voice was a drunk-sounding, fractured interpretation of Low Gothic, but the words were audible. Ahead, just beside the blackened remnants of the altar, he saw a figure standing awkwardly, clad in the robes of a Priest of Sanguinius. The man seemed intoxicated, swaying, yet somehow staying on his feet.
‘The priest!’ Upio snarled. ‘Get him!’
They surged towards the figure, who rapidly scrambled up the steps, his gait bizarre, like a poorly captured vid with missing frames. Something glittered in the air, but Upio ignored it. No more distractions, no more–
A stabbing pain pierced the sole of his foot.
He screamed, grasping for the shard of glass jutting from the wound. It was coloured, and must once have belonged to one of the great windows. Up ahead more shards were jutting from the wax, and from the grunts and curses it seemed his fellow cultists had stumbled across them too.
‘Little bastards,’ someone muttered behind him.
‘We’ll make them pay. Press on.’
‘With this in my foot? No chance,’ the man replied, sitting back on his rump and taking hold of his leg.
‘Then pull it out.’
‘Doesn’t that make you bleed out quicker?’
‘You can’t just sit there.’
‘So I should just die instead?’
‘If you don’t–’
Upio did not finish his threat, for another shower of glass rained upon them. But these were not slivers, some measuring a foot in length. It was one of these that severed the seated man’s leg at the thigh. He screamed, surging upright before falling, staining the wax crimson, his movements slowing as he clawed weakly at the stump.
Upio glared at the remaining cultists. ‘You want to sit here?’
‘For the Dark Gods?’ someone murmured from the back.
‘Exactly! Forward, True Sons!’ Upio cried, with the little spirit he could muster. For, in truth, it was not much of a charge, the men tentatively picking their way through the larger shards, stumbling into each other, their gaze either fixed on their feet or interrogating the shadows above. He could just make out the priest.
There was something very wrong about him. Not only the cackling laughter, but the way his limbs spun at curious angles, his feet only intermittently contacting the stone steps. But maybe that was the point. Yes, some of the practices and boons of the acolytes of the Dark Gods were… unsettling. But no more so than the servants of the Corpse-God. Chaos was the Truth, all else a comforting lie. Cognitive dissonance: that was what Apostle Aneath had called it. Perhaps the followers of the Corpse-God carried favours, but hid them from the masses. Guarding their power.
No more. They were but a few strides from the stairs, the priest’s silhouette framed high above, beckoning them on. The cobblestones felt cool beneath his feet, even if his soles were covered with blood. But there was no wax to hinder him, no glass to confuse his–
His foot slid out from under him.
He tumbled forward, arms outstretched. But he refused to relinquish his autogun, and his chin cracked against the step. He slid back down to ground level, just as the remaining cultists reached the base of the stairs.
‘You all right, sir?’ one of them asked.
‘They’ve done something to the stairs,’ he muttered, face still pressed to the stone. ‘Greased them or something. I think I cracked my chin.’
‘Could be worse,’ the man grunted, nodding over his shoulder. He followed his gaze to the entrance, where Marvarry had finally decided to grace them with his presence. He was making slow progress, delayed by the apparent requirement to execute any cultist still caught in the wax. He was chanting something, and discharging a barrage of shots into each victim, despite their pleas for aid.
Madness. Each was still a willing soldier for the cause. The nearest was caught like a fly in amber, his leg held tight by the wax. As Marvarry drew closer he clawed at his leg, desperate to free himself. The commissar stood before him, pistol poised for the shot. But he hesitated, finally holstering the weapon. He lowered to a knee, until his head was level with that of the trapped man. Upio could not hear what was said, though Marvarry patted the man on the shoulder with his left hand.
But the right was sheathed by the power fist.
The blow tore through his chest, the cultist exploding as though hit by a tank shell. Only his leg remained intact, preserved by the wax.
It was senseless. Had Marvarry lost his mind?
As if he had heard the thought, the commissar’s head snapped up, and he stared Upio in the eye. At least, it seemed that way; the distance and the peaked cap made it difficult to see the man’s face. But Upio could feel the uncompromising glare boring through his skull, seeking the faintest hint of insurrection.
‘Get moving!’ he snapped, and the cultists obeyed with renewed zeal. As they clambered up the steps, he wondered if this was the method to Marvarry’s madness. They had reached the stairs after all.
Redsnot watched the humies struggle with the stairs, tripping and stumbling, their bloodied feet unable to find purchase on the greased steps. One had the bright idea of trying the handrail, their fingers soon finding the shards of glass jutting from its sides. He would have grinned at the shrieks, but even they could not lift his mood, for he could see Gitzit on the level above, chatting with Da Red Gobbo as if they were old pals.
What were they saying? Was it about him? Gitzit had always wanted his spot, and now he was making his move. Why the hell was he following Da Gobbo anyway? Shouldn’t he be trying to stab the git in the heart, hopefully whilst leaving his own back suitably exposed?
‘Err… is it time?’
He glanced to the grot addressing him, who was struggling under the weight of a prayer stone – a sphere about a foot in diameter and engraved with script too tiny to read. Redsnot had no idea of its intended use, though knowing the humies they probably rolled it over their toes or something as a way of appeasing their Bloody Angel.
He looked at the staircase. The cultists were about a quarter of the way up, though some of them had resorted to climbing on hands and knees.
‘Wait until dey is halfway up. Or down,’ Redsnot murmured, glancing back over his shoulder. The conspirators were gone. Zog it, what were they saying?
‘Dey is gettin’ a bit close.’ Da Gobbo’s familiar voice came from beside him.
Redsnot sighed. ‘Ya do love sneakin’ around, dontcha?’ he said.
‘Maybe,’ Da Gobbo said with a shrug. ‘Or maybe yoo ain’t keepin’ an eye open. Dem humies are making pretty good progress up dem steps.’
‘Wot if dey is?’
‘Some of dem ’ave guns.’
‘Let ’em try and aim when dere feet won’t stay still. Besides, we is in da shadows. Humies don’t see so good in da dark.’
‘It’s gotta be a fight wiv you, ’asn’t it?’ Da Gobbo said, glaring at him from behind his goggles. ‘I give yoo an order, yoo ’ave to push back.’
‘Order? Sounds like wot a boss would do.’
‘If yoo ’ad a better plan, dis would be different. But ya don’t, ya just don’t wanna do wot yer told.’
‘Or yoo just don’t like someone else makin’ da call.’
They watched the cultists ascend, staggering and bleeding. They were at the halfway point now. The nearby grot with the prayer stone glanced to Redsnot, who shook his head. The grot’s gaze then flicked to Da Red Gobbo, who shrugged.
The cultists were inching closer, clawing on hands and knees. The grots glared at him, the prayer stones held ready, their eyes pleading.
‘Now,’ Redsnot murmured.
The grots began heaving the balls down the steps. They bounced, cracking the stone in the process. The cultists had a moment to realise what was happening before the tumbling spheres reached them, crushing fingers and shattering breastbones. One intercepted a cultist at head height, reducing his cranium to a smear. But Redsnot could not enjoy it. He was too twitchy, nervous of Da Red Gobbo’s presence.
The cultists, at least those who had avoided being struck by the prayer stones, were advancing again, some trying to squeeze shots off with their autoguns. But the diminutive grots were dug in behind scrap-shields, and the bullets did not find them.
‘Again,’ Redsnot snapped. Another round of prayer stones was unleashed. But the cultists were learning. They hugged the rails, despite the glass shards, vacating the centre where most of the spheres fell. Only one was struck, the impact breaking his leg and sending him tumbling down the polished steps, but the rest were advancing. Worse, more cultists were approaching from the doorway, urged on by a figure whose fist seemed to crackle with power.
