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“Hold the line!” Roared the Sergeant, ripping his blade free from the torso of an Ork. “Hold the line!”
It was no use. The rampaging Orks had burst through the first guardsmen without even slowing, chewing them apart with blades and bare hands. The dozen or so remaining soldiers began to fall back, firing sporadically as they did so. Brennan watched disconsolately as the creatures shrugged aside the rounds, hacking into the men as they did so. To his left one guardsman stood, parrying blow after blow, before being driven to the ground, where he was kicked to death by the steel-toed boots of three huge Orks. To his right, the Warboss stood, one blade stuck in the chest of a still struggling man, the other hacking away at his vulnerable body. Feeling the bile rise in his throat, he raised his rifle, tears of anger and resentment running freely down his face. Firing burst after burst into the Orks, he watched as he blew them into pieces, feeling nothing; no pride, no anger, no remorse. Several of the Ork Nobs left the carnage, charging at him. Aiming down the scope, he calmly took in the creature’s hate filled faces, the scars on their jaws, the spit and blood on their tusks. He shot once, twice, three times, but still they came. His face creasing into a contorted mask of anger, he began to run at them, firing and screaming wildly.
Allen stood his ground, feet spaced over Stephan’s body, sweat and blood dripping and mingling over his body. His clothes were torn and ragged, the knives in his hand bent and chipped. He didn’t care. He had nothing to lose. Nearby lay several Orks, cut apart and lifeless. Around him paced several Ork Nobs, spitting and grunting at him. Jostling each other, they pushed and shoved, deciding who would get to spill the blood of the knife wielding man. A thin smile curled the edges of Allen’s mouth, cracking the congealed blood and spit there. He could see their bickering, their competition. He knew they wanted him. He knew he was a prize. He knew he was dead. Gripping the handles of his weapons so tight that his knuckles whitened, he lowered his gaze and spoke, just loud enough for the Orks to hear.
“You wanted to kill us.” He muttered, “You wanted us all dead. Well, you took everything from me, but I just won’t stop. Stop fighting yourselves, fight me.”
Looking up, he almost growled, “I know you can hear me, I know you understand.”
A wild light came into his eyes as he shouted the last words with every ounce of force he could muster,
“FIGHT ME!”
Looks of anger, puzzlement and shock crossed the Orks’ faces as they regarded the blood-stained warrior in front of them. Then slowly, but as one, their wicked mouths turned into toothy smiles, their ravaged faces lighting up with the joy of battle. Pushing and bucking one another, they leapt the Ork corpses at their feet, hurling themselves at the determined Guardsman.
The Sergeant fired his pistol straight into the back of the giant Warboss, the shots pattering against his armour with no real effect. Flinging the eviscerated Guardsmen off his blade, the hulking Ork turned his frightening gaze towards his assailant. His heavy jaw jutted out, huge tusks glinting with gory splendour, gobbets of flesh mixing with viscous drool. A low rumble of anger began to emanate from his chest, rising to a bellow as he swung his tree-trunk arms in a deadly arc towards the Sergeant. Ducking the swing, he tried to counter, ramming his chainsword against the Warboss’ arms, but the weapon’s teeth skittered over the heavy armour plating, merely scratching the surface. He tried to roll away quickly, but he was a faction too slow, and the next blow hit him. It was only a glance, but the Orks’ inhuman strength sent him careening across the floor, a huge gouge cut into his left flank. Struggling to his feet, he barely parried the next blow, and only just dodged the next. Stumbling in pain, almost tripping over the slick of blood that was pouring from his side, he swung his blade in desperation, the teeth finding purchase in the creature’s thigh, chewing into it, tearing sinew and muscle. The Warboss barely even registered the blow, grabbing the still whirring blade, and wrenching it from the Sergeant’s grasp. His yellow, blood-shot eyes wide and frenzied, the Ork lashed out with a kick, cracking several of his beaten opponent’s ribs, sending him crashing backwards. Bounding forwards with a cry of wordless satisfaction, the Ork bore down upon his victim, his every step marked with a grim finality. Trying to stand, to face his foe one last time, the Sergeant fell, his body limp with fatigue and pain. And yet, as he fell, something caught his eye, and a smile began to form on his face, before the monstrous visage of the Warboss eclipsed his view. Looking down, the Ork revelled in its victory, and yet, the thin smile on the Sergeant’s face was unnerving even to it. It looked up, to see what the dying man was staring so intently at. Eyes widening with fury as it witnessed what had granted the human his solace, the Warboss let out an enraged cry, shaking his blades at the sky, as fiery contrails descended ever more rapidly towards the battle.
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