The Third War

Ray Harrison

I breathe in and taste ashes. Ashes and death.

The sun squints out from behind yellow clouds and smog. Acid rain hits my battleplate, hissing softly and curdling the black and bone paintwork. Hundreds of my Mortifactors brothers stand behind me, unmoving statues. Steam and smoke rises from their armour. Before us lies a hive city that reaches up into the sky like a desperate, grasping hand.

The hive is burning.

The distant wailing of hundreds of thousands of human voices carries on the wind. It is near-constant, like background distortion on a vox-channel. Titans move through the smog, illuminated by the fires and the flaring discharge of their weapons. I can feel their tread, even out here.

We stand at the foot of the city walls but we are not alone. Legions of dirty, grey-brown tanks churn the ground and rattle and squeal behind us. Hordes of mortal men in breather masks clutch their lasguns with grim determination. I smell the fear on them despite the stink of the chemical rain.

Inside the city, the enemy burn and ruin and roar.

I take a step forward and I falter, falling to one knee. My chest burns.

A hand on my arm. I look up. It is one of my brothers. He pulls me to my feet without a word.

I do not recognise him.

Inside the city, the Titan-tread rattles my teeth.

The smog is thicker here. It coils around my limbs as if it is sentient. I can no longer see the battle tanks, though I can still hear their engines chugging.

At a crossroads, we meet our foe.

A huddle of thick-necked orks bark and snap at each other beside the smoking hull of a Chimera transport. They club at the access hatches, knocking great ugly dents into the metal.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I start to run and the rhythmic pounding echoes in my ears. My chest burns.

The orks only turn to face me when I am close enough to see every pitted crack in their monstrous faces. I bring my bolter to bear. Three shots tear the first ork to pieces, separating his top and bottom jaws like a flower opening. The next ork in line howls in animal pain, shattered pieces of tooth and bone lacerating its face and neck, blinding it.

I silence its wailing with a clubbing strike from my crozius, caving in its brow. It lands a lucky strike with its blade as it dies, the rusty metal digging deep underneath my chest plate. I try to curse but it is blood that leaves my lips, not words.

I haul myself up onto the top of the transport. The other greenskins are gone. I cannot see my brothers either. Perhaps the smog hides them from me.

I hear a noise behind me and turn.

A huge, rusted claw clamps on to the hull of the transport, bending the metal shell of the tank. A massive black-skinned ork uses the claw to drag its bulk up onto the roof of the tank beside me. The creature is vast, at least twice my height. Strapped to its shoulders are huge pieces of curved metal.

Tank armour. It is wearing tank armour.

I ready my weapons and the ork roars.

The metal claw connects with my chest, knocking the air out of my body in a bloody gasp.

I see ground, sky, ground, sky.

Ground.

I blink heavily. I am lying at the base of a rockcrete wall. Pieces of my fused ribcage grind together as I breathe. My chest burns. I roll onto my back and reach for my weapons but they are gone.

A huge shape blocks the light out. The ork. It plants its foot on my chest, pressing my body into the stinking mud. I can’t breathe.

The claw comes down and closes around my battle-helm. I draw my combat blade, jamming it into the meat of the ork’s thigh. The creature doesn’t seem to notice. It just pushes down harder with its foot, splitting the ceramite of my plastron. Something inside my chest bursts under the pressure. Blood washes into my mouth.

The claw tightens around my helm and twists. The seals snap and hiss, and it is torn loose from the collar of my suit. The ork wrenches it free and throws it to one side. I see it land in the dirt, crushed. The acid rain starts to sting my face.

The pressure on my chest eases for a moment as the ork removes its foot. I try to get to my feet.

I manage to get to my knees.

The ork’s unarmoured hand closes around my neck, lifting me from the ground.

I stare it in the eyes. Those tiny eyes set deep in its head, burning like the last embers in an untended grate. The ork grunts and barks through a mouthful of yellowing tusks. I think it is laughing.

I spit in its face. In its eyes. The acidic saliva eats into the ork’s flesh and it roars, enraged. The metal claw wraps around my chest and squeezes.

My lungs burst.

My hearts judder.

My chest burns.

I awaken. It is like breaking the surface after swimming up from the aphotic depths of an ocean.

‘Gavador,’ a voice from beside me says the name. My name.

I blink heavily and breathe deep. I should not be alive. I should…

‘Gavador,’ the voice repeats.

The lights are bright and my eyes adjust slowly. I am in an apothecarion.

No.

The apothecarion. I am in the main apothecarion aboard the Basilica Mortis.

‘Gavador, can you hear me?’ the voice says again.

I look now and I actually see. Apothecary Hekimar stands beside me. The bright white light reflects glaringly off his armour-plate.

‘The vision nearly killed you this time,’ He says with a cold smile. ‘Both your hearts arrested whilst you dreamt. I have never seen the like.’

I remember. The vision-quest. The battle with the orks. It was a premonition. It was an omen.

‘Armageddon,’ I say. My voice is a rattling gasp. ‘I saw it. We must go to Armageddon.’

Hekimar nods solemnly.

‘You were not the only Chaplain to see Armageddon.’

I sit up, breathless.

‘Who else?’

Hekimar looks at me with another cold smile.

‘All of them.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ray Harrison is based in the East Midlands and works in digital publishing. After a hard day of ones and zeroes, Ray likes nothing more than escaping into the grim darkness of the far future.

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Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

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