C. Goto - Dawn of War

Gabriel stopped walking and turned to face Brom directly. “Orks respect only strength,” he said deliberately, “and I intend to show them that we have it in ample supply. The Blood Ravens are going hunting.”

Hidden in the depths of the forest, a safe distance down the valley away from Magna Bonum, the orks had stopped their retreat. The clearing was already cluttered with spluttering machines and slicks of oil. A terrible stench filled the air and wafted up into the sky, forming dark, pungent clouds that obscured the moonlight. Groups of mekboyz pushed each other around, smashing their wrenches into wartrukks and warbikes, punching rivets through their armoured plates to keep them in place. Snivelling gretchin sat in packs, chained into little circles so that they couldn’t run off into the forest. Some of the stormboyz poked about at their jump packs experimentally, pretending that they were testing their components, while the flashgitz spat saliva onto their shootas and buffed them with the hair from decapitated heads.

In the centre of the clearing, Orkamungus was standing beside his crumpled trukk, yelling at the mekboyz who fussed around it nervously, trying to winch up the back wheels in order to fix a broken axle. The wartrukk was so huge and so badly damaged that it seemed an almost impossible task, and the mekboyz kept recruiting more and more orks into service-partly to help them lift the immense machine, and partly to share the blame when they failed to fix it.

The warboss himself was stomping up and down alongside his trukk, screeching and hollering, slapping the back of his hand across the heads of any boyz who looked like they weren’t trying hard enough.

Suddenly he sprang into the air and crashed down onto the back of the wartrukk, thinking to use its elevation to help him see where the rest of the mobs had gone. The thicket of mekboyz working on the rear axle were instantly squashed into the ground as the orks that were already struggling to support the weight of the massive truck collapsed under the additional weight of the monstrous warboss. The trukk jolted back down into the earth with a crash that made Orkamungus stumble. He roared in displeasure and spun the rickety shoota turret to face the cowering orks at the side of the vehicle. They looked up at him with a mixture of resignation and terror, but then Orkamungus merely cackled his throat, pretending to riddle them with shot, sputtering and whooping with the imaginary report from the gun.

The clearing was not even nearly full, although Orkamungus could see more and more of his orks spilling out of the forest around the perimeter, barging their way through the thinning trees as their noses caught the scent of cooking meat. Fires were blazing all around, and the orks were roasting various creatures in the flames. The burning flesh sent thick clouds of black smoke billowing into the sky, and the gretchin strained to breathe it in, as though it was the only food they would get that night.

The warboss scanned the scene with his tiny red eyes. Still not enough. Wait more. He spun the shoota turret round to face the growing crowd and angled the barrel up into the sky, spraying slugs in a barrage of fire and crying out into the night. “Waaaaaaaaagh!”

Only half an hour after leaving the spaceport, the Blood Ravens caught the scent of the orks. In the distance was the echo of gunfire, and Corallis could make out the faint haze of fires on the horizon. But that was not their target tonight. The sergeant was at the head of the hunting squad, guiding them along the path that he had taken with the scouts earlier that evening.

The dark forest was littered with mutilated human corpses and the burnt out remains of woodsmen’s huts. Not even these wilds had been spared the ravages of the ork invasion-although Gabriel could not imagine that the greenskins had found much satisfaction in the slaughter of these defenceless farmers. They were probably just venting their frustration and hatred after being repelled by the Blood Ravens at the spaceport. Orks in retreat were just as destructive as orks on the advance-they are always on the rampage. War for its own sake, thought Gabriel with a heavy heart.

The Marines moved swiftly and quietly through the shadows, pausing occasionally for Corallis to pick up the trail. It was not hard to follow. Scattered along the ground were discarded plates of armour, broken machine parts that must have fallen from rumbling wartrukks, pools of blood and slicks of oil. The Marines could have followed the stench even in perfect darkness-even without their enhanced night-vision.

With an abrupt motion, Corallis brought the group to a halt, raising his fist into the air as he stooped to the ground. The moonlight dappled his armour through the canopy, making his image swim and shift before Gabriel’s eyes.

There was silence as the Marines waited for the sergeant to draw his conclusions. He was tracing a pattern on the ground with his hand and staring out into the darkness of the thick forest off to the side of the vulgar trail of debris and destruction. It seemed pretty obvious where the orks had gone, so Gabriel was concerned. He made his way up along side Corallis and rested his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Corallis. What is it?”

“I’m not sure, captain,” whispered Corallis in response. “There are some faint markings here, running alongside the ork trail. They are hardly here at all, as though made by feet that barely touch the ground. But there is definitely something-something swifter and stealthier than we are.”

“Were they following the orks?” asked Gabriel, as the significance of Corallis’ last words sunk in. “Or are they following us?”

“I’m not sure, captain. The marks are too vague to render much information about when they were made.” But the sergeant was staring out into the forest again, making it clear that he suspected that whatever had made the marks was still out there. Gabriel followed his gaze, scanning the moon-dappled foliage for signs of movement.

“The moonlight and shadows would hide anything tonight-even an ork,” said Corallis, shaking his head.

“Yes, sergeant-or even us,” replied Gabriel with half a smile, pressing down on Corallis’ shoulder as he stood and waved a signal to the hunting party. He clicked the vox-channel in his armour and whispered his directions to the squad. “Let’s take it off road. Keep to the thick foliage and trace this ork trail in a parallel motion. Silence, understood.”

Without a word, the squad of Blood Ravens dispersed into the trees, slipping into the shadows and the natural camouflage provided by the broken pools of moonlight.

Hidden in the shadows and the foliage, the Blood Ravens pressed on through the forest. “There is something else in these woods, Gabriel,” said Isador, leaning closely to the captain’s ear as they slipped through the undergrowth. “Something unpleasant.”

“Besides us, you mean?” asked Gabriel with a faint smile, as he dropped to one knee and levelled his bolt pistol. The rest of the Blood Ravens followed suit, each bracing their weapons and falling into motionlessness. There was a fire burning in a small clearing about one hundred metres ahead of them, and the smell of burning flesh was beginning to become overpowering. Gabriel signalled to Corallis to go and check it out, and then turned back to Isador.

“What do you mean, brother?”

“I’m not sure, captain. But there are voices in these woods. Silent voices that press in at my mind so sweetly…” The Librarian trailed off, as though remembering something beautiful. “They are evil and heretical voices, Gabriel. But I do not know where they are from.”

Gabriel looked at his friend with concern, not knowing what to say. He simply nodded. “We will be careful.”