THE LAST LAUGH

James Sherriff

  Eirik spat blood on the sand and wiped his chin with the back of his vambrace. He
glanced skyward as a Thunderhawk swept overhead, crippled and burning, its engines
roaring like wounded beasts. Sponson-mounted cannon blasted defiantly at the greenskin
tide surging around him, whilst flames and black smoke belched from the gunship’s rear.
Carried on the hot wind from the downdraught, the acerbic stench of burning promethium
filled his nostrils.
The battle was not going well.
  Cursing through gritted fangs, Eirik used his axe to slowly get to his feet. His choler was
well and truly up. Rage, unbidden, surged to the fore, bringing with it renewed vigour.
Clenching the haft of his weapon, Eirik howled – a primal sound born on the distant world
of his birth – and then charged again at his monstrous adversary.
‘You wont sum more, wolf man?’ The creature grinned, unblinking red eyes oozing
malevolence. It was like an ogre from the sagas, crude glyphs encrusting its black armour; a
bull’s head, a fist, teeth.
Sprinting low, Eirik slashed at a knee. But the greenskin was fast, blocking and then
hacking at the Wolf's neck. Eirik rolled forward, the cleaver barely missing his jugular, to
bury the teeth of his chainaxe in the giant’s side.
The ork roared, elbowing Eirik in the face. Reeling, the legionary reacted in time to see a
chopper descending for his skull. He barely managed to block the blow, the impact driving
him down onto one knee. A huge boot smashed into his face, slamming him backwards.
The creature laughed. It was mocking him.
Eirik snarled and launched himself at the ork. His fist connected with a granite-like jaw,
pulverising knuckles and sending lancing pain through his forearm. With appalling speed
and an almighty roar, the ork swung its cleaver in a devastating arc, tearing through
ceramite and eliciting a shout of agony from the legionary.
The Wolf slumped to his knees. Vision blurred and wincing in agony, he clutched at the
ragged ruin of his chest plate, crimson viscera spilling through his fingers. The big ork
strode towards him, spitting a broken tusk and wad of dark blood from its mouth.
‘I’z gonna ‘urt you now, tin man. ‘Urt you good.’
The ork hauled him up, bringing their faces level. It wanted to gloat.
But its laugh caught in its throat as something cold rolled down the nape of its armoured
neck. Realisation dawning, the warboss flung Eirik to the ground and began desperately
clawing at its armour.
Eirik lay there clutching an arming pin. A muffled explosion spattered bloody rain across
his face.
What a fight, he thought, as the life bled from his body. Truly an encounter worthy of
retelling. He smiled ruefully.
Where’s a bloody skjald when you need one?