Cob Wargaming

Hellfire Munitions:

Part 3.

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Scout Sergeant Damocles felt the blade bite deep into his upper thigh. He stifled a shout through his gritted teeth as his leg began to dampen quickly with the flow of warm blood. He wrenched his combat knife from its sheath on his belt and swung around madly with it in the direction of the blow. The wide arc of his slashing attack cut a gory line in the cheek of a heretic whose hand was still on the axe that was now embedded in Damocles’ flesh. The heretic wrenched himself away from the flailing knife, and at the same time ripped the crude axe head from Damocles’ wounded muscle. A fresh bolt of pain blurred his vision momentarily as the jagged metal wrenched a chunk of flesh from the gory rivulet carved into Damocles leg. But the grievous wound did not deter the bloodied Sergeant who grappled with his retreating attacker, grabbing him so tightly by the throat that the pound of blood in his opponent’s jugular throbbed in his fingers. The heretic raised his axe, still shining with crimson, readied to strike again, but Damocles did not give him the chance. The Scout Sergeant flung his blade deep into his opponent’s chest, slipping the metal between his ribs with a surgeon’s precision. The Heretic gave a sharp intake of breath, but that was all, even as Damocles wrenched the blade free, and felt hot claret drench him and his opponent, the crazed madman flung his axe downward. Damocles tucked his head low, and the blow hit his armoured shoulder, the blade skipping from the armoured plating and saving him another deep wound. Damocles went to step backward but as the weight landed on his wounded leg he instead found himself stumbling; another hot flash of agony wracked his body coupled with a gory spurt of blood from the gaping maw of his wounded flesh. His adversary however was still standing and came at him again, the axe head dripping, coated in ribbons of tattered flesh. Damocles fumbled for his Bolt Pistol as his enemy approached, his hands becoming numb with pain. The Cultist swung the axe with a manic scream, Damocles barely managed to turn the blow aside with his combat knife, his hand still clutching at the Pistol Grip trying to worm the weapon free of its holster. A fresh battle cry rang to Damocles’ left and he turned just in time to dodge out the way of an incoming swing of a new fresh faced lunatic. The madman gnashed his teeth like a wild animal as he lunged for Damocles again with his weapon that appeared to be nothing more than a large rock crudely attached to a wooden shaft. Damocles charged forward as best he could and with his unwounded leg planted his boot square into the heretic’s chest. The force of his kick sent the crazed man flying to the ground landing in a heap in the mud. Damocles finally whipped his pistol free and prepared to dispatch his floored opponent, when a heavy blow landed on his back. The Scout Sergeant slipped to his knees beneath the hit, landing heavily on his wounded leg, this time he could not stifle the cry that slipped past his lips nor stop his Pistol from slipping from his fingers.

Around him he saw his men being overwhelmed. Hacked at from all angles by a multitude of weapons, being dragged to the ground and pounced on like cattle being harassed by wolves. The waves of attackers kept coming, pouring into the fray and adding to slaughter undoing the scouts years of endless and rigorous martial training with nothing more than weight of numbers and blind fury. The sight of his hard working and loyal comrades being brutalized in such a way stirred up a fresh bout of hatred in Damocles heart and ignoring his bodies shouts to cease he found himself launching himself to his feet. The scream of pain from his mortal wound echoed dully beneath the hammering of his hate-filled heart. He turned to face his attacker and still found himself confronted with his axe-wielding foe. The deep wound in his chest was darkening with clotting crimson and his entire front was laced with blood, but still the madman stood. Damocles would make no mistakes this time; and with a scream that sounded so alien that it even scared himself, he launched himself at the stubborn heretic. His bloodied opponent made a defensive swing with his axe, but it was futile, Damocles grabbed the haft of the axe before it could connect and locked his arm with the power of steel. His adversary tried to worm his weapon free of Damocles’ grasp but his efforts were hopeless, and the perplexed look that dawned on the heretics face remained there, even as Damocles drove his knife into his throat and carved the steel through muscle and flesh until he felt the blade scrape against the hard, knotted bone of his spine. The heretic finally yielded and his hand slipped from the handle of the axe as the sack of flesh crumpled to the ground. Damocles held the axe in his hand and swung round to return to the battle, the heretic he had kicked to the floor was scrambling to his feet but before he could regain his footing Damocles was on him. He buried the axe head into the heretics shoulder, the follow through of the blow was enough to send his opponent back into the mud. Damocles removed his hand from the axe handle and left the blade where it was, leaving the dying madman floundering in the mud like a dying fish. He scooped his Bolt Pistol from the mud and charged into back into the fray. Enemies fell around him as he carved a bloodied path through the mob, dropping his opponents with brutal hacks from his knife and exploding chests and heads with point blank range Bolter shots. Heretics came at him from all angles and yet he felled them all, even as the blood continued to pound from his wounded thigh. The more he slew the more his men rallied around him, until soon the numbers began to even out and Damocles led his men on a charge to rout their aggressors. Damocles gave another torrent war cry from his already ragged throat, his voice sounding like that of a hardened veteran. The heretics tried to battle back as Damocles and his men counter charged but it was no use. The fury of battered scout squad was unmatched even by the crazed bloodlust of the followers of Khorne and the Chaos Cultists began to fall in with ease. Where the Cultists had hacked at them with crude and improvised weapons the scouts put their rifles to such use, wielding them like clubs, bludgeoning their opponents, reducing skulls and limbs to nothing but a bloodied pulp.

As the last of the heretics began to flee or were smashed from their earthly bodies, Damocles felt his rage subside and finally give way to his injuries. Adrenaline and hate succumbed to pain and blood loss as his limbs weakened and failed him. His legs vanished beneath him and he braced himself for his harsh landing into the mud. But it didn’t come, instead he felt strong arms grab and hold him up forcing him to his feet. About him his men came to his aid and as he was lowered to the ground, already he could hear voices screaming for an Apothecary. But Damocles did not believe the help would come, not for a mere Neophyte. In fact, he still didn’t believe they would come even as the sight of Brother Marxus loomed in his blurring vision moments later, the unmistakable white helmet filling his vision, the stoic figure examining his leg with a keen eye. Damocles could feel unconsciousness loom, but even as the blackness began to engulf his sight he heard the voice of the Apothecary remark:

“Welcome to 6th Company, Battle Brother Damocles,”

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