“Infidels everywhere! We are overrun, we are dying. Send help with utmost haste”

The screams of the half crazed tech priest rang out over the bridge intercom, a frantic overtone above the sounds of battle.

“Set
course, maximum velocity. Maxilus, awaken the men, we prepare for
battle!” Kruger had made his decision; the Ultramarines would rush to
the aid of the workers on the machine world Epstil VIII. Once the
heretics had been cleansed it would also provide an opportunity to
replenish their rapidly diminishing supplies.

“We are making orbit now, Commander.
Squads I through IX are aboard the thunderhawks,” announced the pilot,
almost an hour after the distress call had sounded. Nothing had been
heard from Epstil VIII since.

Kruger pounded across the bridge to the short range scanner
terminal. There were still small clusters of activity on the surface;
most likely the last vestiges of whatever defence the workers had
mounted. He pressed the screen, simultaneously activating the main
display and the thunderhawk pilot’s readouts.

“Here, here and here. We shall strike hard and fast.
Obliterate all resistance, minimise non-hostile casualties where
possible. None shall stand against us. The Emperor goes with you
Brothers.”

The airlocks of the cruiser hissed and the three
thunderhawks carrying the remnants of Kruger’s contingent along with
their heavy support catapulted out of their docking bays. In a flare of
thrusters they made for the atmosphere before splitting off on course
for their target areas.

Britus was unsettled as they dropped
from the twilight dawn sky. He’d flown his thunderhawk in a hundred
assaults and had long grown accustomed to his instinctive feelings.
This one did not feel right. They met no resistance during their
descent, the air free of anti-aircraft fire and what few ground troops
they had scanned quickly fled the landing zone. But still he couldn’t
shake the sensation.

With the expertise of decades of flight time, he touched
the hawk down with barely a shudder. Flicking the intercom switch he
leaned forward to speak. “Sergeant Publius, the area is secure,
disembark your squads. Fight well brothers.”

The cabin shook as the massive terminators shifted their
bulk down the access ramp below them. Britus’ co-pilot was glued to the
perimeter scan, checking and double checking for movement.

The proximity alarm rang out. “There, movement in the south quadrant.”

Again
Britus flicked the intercom switch, the signal automatically routing to
the Sergeant’s headset. “Publius, the perimeter is breached. Make
cover.”

The men below scattered as once again the cabin shook, this
time as the wing gun turret rotated to face the enemy threat. Britus
brought up the rear visual scanners onto the main readout. The display
showed no movement, but the perimeter scan insisted there was danger.
Both crew and gunner alike scoured the scene for the threat, but none
was forthcoming.

“Wait, there!” yelled the co-pilot, pointing frantically at
a shadow amongst the oil drums. “I don’t see it, where… by the Emperor,
gunner check your thermal scan.” The gunner flicked a switch and the
mess of rusty barrels was replaced by deep reds and purples. In the
shadow the co-pilot had pointed at was a dark, sucking void. Not only
was there the absence of heat, but it was drawing in the from the
surrounding area. A demonic aura.

“I check that, locking in.” The turret began rotating once more, as the gunner trained his sights on the shadow.

As
the twin heavy bolters mounted on the turret came to bear on the
shadow, the aura flickered on the gunner’s thermal scan. A power source
now read in the centre of the void. It was aware of their presence.

A massive thud rang out across the landing zone. All eyes
in the thunderhawk were riveted to the scanners, all the disembarked
troops waited anxiously. A second thud followed, then where there was
shadow there was form. A Chaos dreadnought. Britus had seen Chaos
dreads before, but this was unlike any of those. This was monstrous.
Each thunderous step forward caused a wave of static to run across
their scanners.

“The heavy bolters aren’t even going to scratch that thing. Fire up the thrusters, we’re getting the frag out of here.”

The
hawk’s venturi flaps spasmed as the onboard computers struggled to
control the huge blast of heat. Clouds of dust began to billow around
the hawk, compromising the vision of those on the ground. The co-pilot
was desperately flicking through the scan modes, trying to see this new
threat through the clouds of hot dust. None of them offered any better
view of the dreadnought, and so as he completed the cycle he returned
to the thermal scan. Then he saw too late their demise. The massive
plasma weapon mounted on the dreadnought’s right arm was ablaze with
white heat. The readout on the scanners was off the chart. He opened
his mouth to scream a warning to Britus, but the thump of all the
surrounding oxygen being consumed muted his cries.

Publius had a limited view from the far side of the landing
zone. His squad already in cover, moving away to secure their location.
Off to his right Sgt Calidus’ devastators were heading for the high
ground of the refinery east of the zone. Lepidus was leading his mighty
terminators in a flanking manoeuvre of the disturbance on the south
side. All three of them felt the same thump as the dreadnoughts mighty
weapon fired. A final message from Pilot Britus burst into his headset
before being drowned out by an almighty explosion at the rear of the
hawk. A chain of smaller explosions followed, debris flying clear over
his head into the depths of the city. Publius could only mouth words of
horror as the far wing combusted sending the gun turret, flailing
gunner and all, flying into the morning sky.

The flames seemed to reach the fuel tanks and the ammo
storage at the same time. The sky was illuminated for clicks around as
the thunderhawk was consumed in a cataclysmic explosion. The landing
zone was devastated, huge chunks of the concrete floor flying toward
the bunkered marines. Publius’ headset became alive, as his squad and
the devastators let slip their emotions. The terminators however were
silent.

Lepidus could see the steel beast ahead. Its giant plasma
weapon smoking, the surrounding area scorched from the intensity of the
blast. Its left arm bore a mighty hammer, crackling with barely
contained energy. The dreadnoughts head was reeling from side to side,
whether in anger, satisfaction or hysteria Lepidus could not be sure.

“Canidius, remove that repugnant beast from my scanner”

The
terminator to his right strode forward, raised its left arm and clicked
the trigger. Immediately the assault cannon he carried whirred up to
speed, then began throwing shells at the dreadnought hundreds each
second. A trail of impacts streamed across the dreadnoughts left arm,
the heavy armour repelling many of the shells, but not all.

Devastator marine Arcadius finally scrambled to the top of
the south refinery tower. The explosion of the hawk had nearly thrown
him to his death, but he hung by his right arm, clutching his lascannon
in his left. He looked down at the scene below. Off to his right
Publius and his assault squad were in heavy cover, looking on as
directly across the debris and scorched ground of the landing zone
Lepidus and his terminators gave battle with the dreadnought. His
headset clicked on, the dust below settling allowing Calidus to see the
terminators deadly duel ahead.

“Arcadius, aid our brothers. Target that power weapon. Titinius, get that heavy plasma up there and join the battery.”

Arcadius
had already drawn a bead on the dreadnoughts left arm and let loose the
first volley as Titinius settle alongside him. His first shot rang true
and the hammer fell limply at the beast’s side. Between them they
pounded round after round into the dreadnought, each exacting shot a
testament to their keen skill.

Publius could feel his blood rising, he felt impotent
crouching here, watching his brothers do battle with the monstrosity.
But no matter how finely honed his abilities with a power sword, it
would be no match for the armour of that. Perhaps it was his own lack
of foresight that he did not equip any of his squad members for
demolition? No matter, his brothers would soon see the beast slain.

As he looked on the dreadnought wheeled, letting out a
bellow of fury as the volley of heavy weapons fire wracked its shell.
The insistent whirr of the assault cannon could still be heard as
Canidius peppered every inch of the beast’s armour, scouring for a
weakness.

But even above the sounds of battle he could hear a low
hum, rising in pitch and intensity every second. The dreadnoughts
plasma weapon was fast recharging and no man on this battlefield,
tactical dreadnought armour or no, could repel a shot of that
magnitude. The time was now.

Arcadius clicked the release button and an empty cartridge
dropped to his feet. He clicked the fresh on in place and crouched to
steady his shot. This dreadnought was taking too much punishment and
without the hawk their supplies were limited. One shot was all he
needed. The gouts of steam rushing from the assault cannon wounds in
its head armour suggested that was the weakest spot.

“Titinius, I need a clear shot at the head. Can you
provide?” He momentarily drew his eyes away from the scene below to
check with his battle brother. “Check that” he replied, and began
concentrating his fire on the right hip joint of the dreadnought. It
buckled under the first volley, and took its attention from the
terminators it was intent on incinerating in a matter of seconds.

As Arcadius watched through his sights, the dreadnought
slowly turned, raising its head to bellow in defiance at Titinius and
his accurate barrage. Now. The lascannon bucked into his shoulder as
the beam flew across the landing zone, striking the head of the
dreadnought just above it’s right eye. Its howl was silenced
immediately as it doubled over forward, then rocked back to stare at
the heavens before disappearing into a blinding incandescence. Then it
was gone.

“Your shot was clearly guided by the Emperor marine,”
Lepidus’ voice clicked into Arcadius headset, “now all squads move out.
We have a mission to complete for the Imperium.”

The readout inside Philotus’ terminator helmet displayed the download from the cruiser.
“Latest orbital data shows the nearest insurgence to be 20 clicks north of our position, sir”

“Publius, Calidus, gather your squads and head due north.”

Lepidus
led his terminators away from the scene of destruction toward their
first objective. Behind him the devastators scrambled down from the
refinery towers and ran along the second level walkway. Sergeant
Calidus scanned the horizon as they moved, searching for an optimal
firing position over their object. Falvius and Flavinius darted in and
out of the pillars between the parallel walkways, scouring the eastern
side for any Chaos activity. Titinius and Arcadius lugged their heavy
weapons along the western walkway behind Calidus.

Ahead of both squads Publius and his assault marines
touched down on an abandoned landing pad. Atop some large factory it
afforded a good view of the surrounding terrain. Even at this distance
the sounds of battle could be heard. Screams of terror as the factory
workers came face to face with the horrors of Chaos. Publius signalled
their next destination to his squad, a small clearing next to a storage
bunker, then kicked into the air, his jet pack propelling him at high
velocity.

Though some way behind the assault squad Lepidus to could
hear the cries of the workers in his ears. He pressed on, picking up as
quick a pace as the bulky armour allowed. At intermittent junctures
Saturninus would wheel to face a dark alleyway, before cleansing it
with his heavy flamer. The taints of Chaos were fainter here, but even
so a stray cultist or Chaos Marine stumbled into view and were promptly
engulfed in righteous flame.

Up ahead the walkway cut across at 90 degrees. Calidus
signalled Falvius to accompany the two heavy gunners across the
walkway. This would run them closer to the terminators and the security
that provided until they could bring their weapons to bear. He and
Flavinius continued directly ahead, moving at a faster pace without the
arsenal to slow their plight. In the distance they saw Publius and his
men touch down in a clearing. Their headsets then exploded with
activity. The clearing was filled with smoke and the assault squad
disappeared from sight. Calidus and Flavinius picked up the pace
immediately.

Severus had seen the cultists just as he was coming in to
land. As always he was at Publius’ side, they had fought many campaigns
together and he never once abandoned his Sergeant. So it was that he
adjusted his trajectory and touched down between Publius and the
incoming threat. Before the rest of the squad had broke the skyline
behind them the clearing was full of cultists. The worst kind of Chaos
scum. Their outdated weaponry would be no match for power armour, but
they all carried bandoliers adorned with frag grenades. Then the air
turned thick with smoke and explosions pounded all around. The nearest
caught Severus clean in the chest and threw him backwards. Shouting a
mantra of defiance Publius charged into the cultists, a dozen strong
band of diseased minds.

The remaining three squad members touched down, Fulvius
rushing to Severus’ aid whilst Sempronius and the youngest member of
the squad Antoninius charged through the clouds of smoke to join
battle. Kneeling over the stricken Severus, Fulvius could hear the
crackling of power weapons and the haphazard firing of laspistols, and
even one grenade explosion.

The three men returned moments later, Publius’ power sword dripping with Chaos blood, his power armour splattered.

“Secure
the area,” Publius barked to the three standing marines. As they rushed
off he knelt at Severus’ side. “How are you, old friend?”

Severus did not reply, but slowly raised his head and
grasped Publius shoulder. “Just get me to my feet and show me the
traitors. Faith will do the rest brother.”

Publius heaved the wounded marine to his feet. “Somehow
brother, I think this has less to do with faith and more to do with
stubbornness. Some people just won’t admit when they’re dead.”

Lepidus checked his scanner again. The objective was just
behind the warehouse up ahead. When Calidus went charging off to aid
the assault squad the three devastators became his charge, so he gave
them the order to head for high ground. He then approached the corner
of the building with judged caution.

Titinius led Arcadius up an access ladder on the side of a
water purification tower as Falvius moved around the base to secure
their position. When he finally lugged the bulky weapon over the ridge
of the tower he was as startled as the Chaos Sorcerer he disturbed. The
vile fiend was enraptured in some twisted sacrifice to his god, the
mutilated corpses of several workers laid at his feet. The sound of the
heavy plasma gun hitting the metal roof of the tower made the sorcerer
spin around, one hand grasping the sacrificial knife, the other moving
to his temple to focus his powers. Titinius ducked down below the rim
struggling to draw his combat knife, not an action he had performed
since he joined the devastator squad many decades prior. The sorcerer
slowly approached. Unless his gods had granted him the boon of heavy
weaponry, there must surely be a child of the false god near by. A much
more fitting sacrifice.

Calidus and Flavinius rounded the corner as Severus and
Publius were preparing to move out. “Secure?” Calidus inquired. “All is
in hand Sergeant,” replied Publius, a little begrudged at his comrade’s
lack of faith. Publius and Calidus had also fought many campaigns
together, though whilst always fighting for the purity of souls, they
often engaged in a little personal competition. Even though aware of
the others outstanding skills, Calidus did tend toward over
protectiveness of his fellow Sgt. “Who would I compete with if you got
yourself killed,” was his usual justification to Publius.

However this time his over eager attempts to aid his battle
brother had left the remnants of his squad in mortal peril. Flavinius
was scanning the far side of the walkway when he spotted the two
devastators on the ladder. And the sorcerer closing in above.
“Sergeant, Titinius is in trouble.” He pointed at the water tower.

“This one is on me Calidus,” offered Publius, then without
waiting for response leaned Severus against an oil barrel and kicked
into the air.

The air currents were disturbed near the water tower, the
heat from the compressors below causing vicious spirals. As Publius
struggled for control of his velocity and trajectory he raised his
power sword, flicking the switch and setting the lightning crackling
down its blade. As he closed on the water tower the sorcerer was too
engrossed in his encroachment upon the marines to notice him.

Titinius drew his combat knife at last and signalled to
Arcadius to stay low. Steeling himself with a prayer to the Emperor he
grasped the top rung of the ladder and heaved himself to the top of the
tower. Landing in a crouched position, legs spread wide for balance,
knife presented ahead, he faced down the sorcerer, who merely laughed
at this bravado.

“Now my dark gods will taste your soul.” A flick of his
wrist and Titinius’ combat knife flew from his grasp. “Where is your
Emperor now, pathetic one?” spat the sorcerer as he closed in for the
kill.

“He sends ME to deliver your death,” roared Publius as he
touched down in a hiss of thrusters. The sorcerer ducked down and
around, wielding his knife in a defensive posture. Publius was upon him
immediately, power sword arcing down upon the Chaos fiend. The long
slender sacrificial knife parried the blow, glistening, reinforced with
the sorcerer’s psychic powers. Publius was undeterred, his sword
spinning around in a furious frenzy. The sorcerer rose to his feet
parrying each blow, thrusting at each opportunity, only to have his
blow parried in return. The top of the water tower glowed against the
crimson sky as the exchange of energies continued in this deadly dance.

Calidus and Flavinius reached the base of the tower on foot,
finding Falvius crouched in a defensive posture, unaware of the
activities above. This time putting his faith in Publius’ exceptional
melee skills he waited in position, reporting the situation to Lepidus.

Lepidus received the status report just as he was matching
his visual reconnoitre to his scanner readouts. The workers were
bunkered down on the far side of the large square. They didn’t look
like they could hold out much longer, the square was strewn with the
bodies of those not fast enough to make cover, or those pulled free
from it.

“Calidus, we cannot hold. The workers need our assistance.
Chaos forces are strong, but I believe we can repel them until your
situation is dealt with,” he spoke into his headset, before gesturing
his squad to split. He would accompany Saturninus down the east side of
the warehouse, whilst Philotus, Lucilius and Canidius with his assault
cannon would take the west side. It was risky splitting his squad
against the overwhelming odds, but a wider firing arc would increase
their chances of scattering the Chaos troops before they could mount
resistance. As they would not be expecting an assault from the rear a
two pronged attack would increase the panic. He once again cautiously
approached the corner of the building.

“We’re in position Sergeant,” came Lucilius’ voice over his
headset after a few moments. “Suppressive fire, break the cultists. We
shall deal with that berzerker squad. Now!” Immediately he heard the
familiar whirr of the assault cannon spinning up, then the square ahead
burst into a frenzied scene. The cultists who were lurking behind the
original assault on the workers suddenly found themselves in the firing
line of a few thousand shells. Bodies exploding all down their line,
they quickly gave in to panic and scattered. Many ran straight into the
guns, others into the paths of the berzerkers, mown down by their own
masters.

“Now Saturninus, purify those Khornate heretics.”
Saturninus stepped around his sergeant and let loose with a gout of
cleansing flame. The berzerkers left their assault on the now
insignificant workers and set their sights on the new, worthier
targets. Many caught alight but still they joined the charge. With the
cultists all but obliterated Canidius drew his attention to the
berzerkers and gave them another target to focus on. Fully thirty Chaos
troops now advanced across the square, screaming their battle chants,
chain axes whirring over their heads. All five terminators plugged
round after round against the onslaught, but not enough of the
berzerkers were dying. Hand to hand combat was inevitable.

Publius reeled from the psychic punch against his chest,
but still deftly ducked as the knife swung at his head. He rolled
across the tower, flipping off his jet pack onto his feet and spinning
around to meet another blow with his sword. The sorcerer was proving to
be more adept than he appeared. But Publius revelled in the challenge
and knew his faith would see him triumphant. Another psychic blow hit
him, this time pushing his legs from under him and he collapsed face
first to the metal. “No,” shouted an awe struck Titinius, still
watching from the rim of the tower, unarmed and impotent to help. The
sorcerer glanced in his direction for just a second, but it was long
enough. Publius whipped his sword around at ankle height, the clean
blow slicing straight through the sorcerer’s legs. Screaming in pain
and fury the sorcerer fell to the metal, blood pouring from his ankles.
Publius raised to his feet and parried a final blow as the sorcerer
launched the knife at him. “I send you back to your gods, wretched
scum,” snarled Publius as his power sword arced over his head and
cleaved the sorcerer in two.

As Publius kicked into the air to rejoin his squad,
Titinius retrieved his heavy plasma and finally took up his firing
position. Arcadius scrambled onto the tower, limbs strained from the
delay on the ladder. Once they were both at the north rim they could
see the battle taking place in the square. The terminators were being
rushed by a huge squad of Khorne berzerkers. Even their mighty armour
would not save them against those odds. “Sergeant Calidus, Sergeant
Lepidus’ squad needs assistance immediately.”

Calidus acknowledged, and with Falvius and Flavinius
following he ran on towards the battle, his gunners now safe in their
nest. “Publius, your squad is required in the square. Lepidus won’t
last long, so make haste.”

The terminators’ storm bolters were smoking with the heat
exchange. The berzerkers were quickly covering the large square, and
would soon be upon them. Then the whirr of the assault cannon suddenly
ceased. “Canidius, report,” urged Lepidus, fearing their position
breached. “Weapon jammed Sergeant, attempting to clear,” came the
anxious reply. “Attempt fast, marine.” Without the assault cannon they
really were in trouble.

The assault squad was already prepared to move out when
Publius once again touched down in the square. Severus, though injured,
was once again standing tall ready to join his brothers in battle. As
one they engaged their power weapons and leapt forward, thrusters
billowing the dust behind them. They skimmed over a line of oil tanks
and the battle scene in the square came into view. Many berzerkers lay
dead, but many more were still rushing forth toward the terminators.
The distance separating the two was now vastly reduced and Publius
prayed they would be in time.

Arcadius nodded with satisfaction as the berzerker slumped
to the floor, a gaping void replacing his mid-rift. At his side
Titinius was pouring plasma shots toward the battle, but with less
success. The heavy plasma was not as accurate over such a long range,
and many shots exploded against the rear of the huge warehouse. To
their right they saw Publius and his squad burst over the horizon and
begin their descent into the square. “Titinius, look there,” called
Arcadius over the hum of the charging plasma gun. A squad of Khorne
marines in ancient corrupted terminator armour rounded the workers
entrenchment just as the assault marines touched down. It was a trap.

“Covering fire, we have to hold off those terminators.”
Arcadius let loose another beam of energy, shooting across the dawn sky
striking the nearest terminator on the shoulder plate. The shot merely
glanced off, destroying a computer terminal some distance behind.
Titinius waited impatiently. With loyal troops in the battle his shots
must now be accurate, and waiting for a full charge was the only way to
guarantee this. The hum intensified in his ear and the weapon began to
shake. Almost, almost. The red light in front of his eye clicked green
and he loosed the starfire at the Khorne warrior he’d marked out. The
incandescent blast flew over the heads of Lepidus and his men, over the
berzerkers and struck its mark full in the chest and helmet. The
terminator all but vaporised immediately, only extruding limbs and a
smouldering crater remaining. And then Titinius waited for the charge
once more.

The assault cannon would not clear. The intensive use over
an extended period had wedged its mechanisms solid. Only the tech
priest would make this weapon function again. Canidius reported the
status to Lepidus.

“Very well,” Lepidus replied, facing the inevitable,
“engage chain-fists and advance upon the enemy. Give no quarter, for
the Emperor!” He knocked the oil drums out of his path and led the
charge. The ponderous suits slowing their progress, but the ground
between the two squads closed fast. It was then that Publius’ squad
touched down behind the berzerkers. Some Khornate warriors turned to
face the new threat, but most were drawn by the promised glory of
slaying a space marine veteran.

Publius engaged the berzerkers first. Their screams of fury
ringing in his ears, the chain-axe whirring incessantly. He parried the
first blow with his power sword then fired his plasma pistol at point
blank range into the traitor’s face. Before the carcass hit the floor
he was on the back foot, repelling an aspiring champion. The rest of
the squad advanced but met more resistance, the berzerkers enraged by
the taste of battle. They had succeeded in distracting some of the
remaining Khornate warriors; Lepidus should be able to handle the rest.
Now just to stay alive.

Marcullius howled inside his tainted terminator armour,
enraged at the loss on one of his number. Those loyalist fools would
rather hide far from battle than face them in true combat. And now more
had arrived, slaying the proud berzerkers. “Enough,” he cried, leading
his remaining men into the battle. They would crush these would be
attackers then deal with the snipers on the water tower.

Arcadius clipped his final cartridge into the lascannon and
began firing once again. After several deflected shots and one
penetrating shot on the lumbering chaos scum, his ammo was depleted.
Now all he could do was spectate and play spotter for Titinius. The
heavy plasma too was running low on charges; soon the battle would be
left to those in the square.

Philotus was the first to crash into the berzerkers, his
chain fist clashing violently with a chain-axe. He was forced to parry
another blow with his storm bolter until Lucilius was at his side to
deal the traitors’ death. The berzerkers fought with an intensity that
warranted their name, but the power of the terminators, and the
strength of their armour, proved their equal. With their attention
split between the terminators and the assault squad they had lost their
massive number advantage and it would only be a matter of time.

Severus punched his power glove through the berzerkers
attempted block and collapsed his chest plate, ribs and all. He glanced
around him. Publius was surrounded by berzerkers, many dead at his feet
but two engaging him in combat. Fulvius ran to his side and aided the
Sergeant. Antoninius was smashing through a berzerkers armour on the
far side of the melee, his power axe crackling. Sempronius had
disappeared from sight as he charged the flank to link the two Imperial
contingents. Then Severus looked over his shoulder and came face to
face with four advancing Chaos terminators. “Publius, they are not
alone,” he called over the headset, but the other squad members were
occupied. If the terminators entered combat now his squad would be
slaughtered from behind. Crying out in defiance Severus raised his
power fist high in the air and charged the leading terminator.

The plasma ammo was expended. Titinius dropped the heavy
plasma to his side and joined Arcadius in watching the battle. Lepidus
and his men were holding their own; the assault squad had disappeared
from their sight amongst whirling red bodies. At the far side of the
confrontation a lone blue figure was charging at the advancing Chaos
terminators. The two devastators watched in silence as the valiant
assault played out.

Lepidus was forced to step backwards, the pile of bodies in
front of him was giving those still assaulting too much of a height
advantage. Saturninus was still at his side, although he had taken a
nasty wound to his left arm and his helmet was cracked in two. The rest
of the squad also appeared battered, but still they held and they would
succeed this day.

Publius finally cleared his locality of screaming
berzerkers long enough to assess the situation. The berzerker squad was
vastly depleted and the terminators could probably assault the remnants
on their own. He scanned his men quickly, taking note of their
condition and location. All where healthy, though Antoninius had been
surprised from the flank and his left arm was hanging limp at his side.
Severus. Where was Severus? A bass voice resonated in fury behind him.
Wheeling around, he saw Severus charging full steam into a massive
Chaos terminator. The power fist would improve his chances, but in his
wounded condition.
Publius broke combat and charged toward his brother’s side.

Severus
crashed into combat with Marcullius. The traitors’ ancient power axe
deflected his first blow. He raised his hand flamer level to the
terminator’s head, but the whirring bayonet on its combi-weapon sliced
clean through his wrist. He yelled out in pain and slumped to one knee,
deflecting the rain of axe blows with his power fist. Lurching
backwards he put a couple of metres between the two, then barrel rolled
backwards until he was on his hand and knees. He raised his head to the
oncoming terminator, then cried out again, this time in defiance and
fury. Engaging his jet pack he shot forward, fist raised, angled up
toward the terminator’s face.

Marcullius could feel victory once the marine broke combat.
He had already wounded this pathetic boy, now he would crush him
beneath his heels. But then suddenly the fool was powering straight for
his helmet. He swung his axe up to block, and felt it connect
satisfyingly with the marine’s shoulder before the power fist crushed
into his face and blackness took him to his god.

Publius arrived as Severus dropped to the floor. The
remaining three terminators were closing quickly and he stood
protectively over his stricken brother. He may die today, but he would
not abandon his fallen comrade.

Lepidus and his squad cleared the last of the berzerkers
from their path with the help of the assault marines. Battered and
tired, but they were alive and they had succeeded. A short distance
away he saw Publius facing down three approaching terminators. “Fire,”
he barked out. His squad did not need further direction and both
Philotus and Lucilius joined their Sergeant in pouring bolter fire into
the terminators. Saturninus began advancing to find a firing position
for his flamer, flanked by Canidius looking to melee assault.

The three remaining assault marines saw their Sergeant in
trouble and as one leaped into the air, relying on their jet packs to
cover the ground rapidly. As they flew over the scene they saw first
one, then two terminators fall to Lepidus’ fire. Then the third smashed
into combat with Publius. His power sword darted and parried the mighty
axe, but could not penetrate the thick armour.

The remaining Chaos terminator knew he would not survive
this field, but that was not his intent. He was focused solely on
destroying this marine that would dare challenge him. He swung his
massive power axe in vicious arcs, but never made contact as the marine
ducked and dived out of the way. Then he finally saw his opening; the
marine had dropped his shoulder, instinctively raising his plasma
pistol. He swung his axe down in a huge arc and could see it speeding
through his opponent. Then two massive blows rained down upon his face.

Fulvius landed almost atop the Chaos scum, his power fist
thumping down through its’ helmet crushing the head beneath. The
terminator toppled backwards, a silent hulk.

Publius scrambled to his feet and returned to Severus’
side. His battle brother of many decades was dead. “One fight too many,
my old friend,” Publius whispered softly. He raised his head and spoke
to the remaining Ultramarines. “Let it be known that on this day
Ultramarine Severus willingly gave his life so that his brothers may
live. He will not be forgotten.”

Staggering to his feet, Publius lifted Severus’ limp form
in his arms and joined his squad as they left the square. They headed
for the second hawk’s rendezvous point. With their’s a smouldering
crater they would need transport off this forsaken machine world.

Then square was silent. The
Ultramarines gone, the Chaos troops all obliterated. The barricades
crashed to the floor and the last survivors of the workers defence
staggered out into the daylight. Staring in disbelief at the scenes of
devastation around them they stood in silence.

Then as one man they turned and exited the square, physically and mentally ravaged, but alive.

The post Distress Call appeared first on BlokeCrafted.

Not me though. I don’t fear what’s to come. I await it with
anticipation. Curiosity, if you will. I have fought on many planets
during my time in the service, and I’ve killed a lot of strange alien
beasts. But nothing quite piques your interest like the Khornate ones.
They’re human after all. I have killed more men than is right for
another human. I’ve seen my compatriots take fixed bayonets and combat
knives to mindless cultists and unknowing fools, simply because it was
"right". We slaughter maim and destroy, but because our cause is "just"
and "true" we’re heroes. Khorne’s soldiers though, they kill for the
purity, blood for blood sake, and they are the monsters?

I have seen the Khorne warriors in action before. They
strike terror into all that oppose them. Those too foolish or afraid to
run are cut down. Those that run are cut down shortly after. They revel
in the battle; they swim in their opponents’ blood. They know their
purpose. Ours is not so well defined.

We landed on this stinking rock 23hours ago as part of a
"Belaying Action". What a crock! We’re here because the fat governor in
the next system got scared and pulled a few strings. It’s our job to
put our lives on the line so some over paid idiot doesn’t have to spend
his money on defences. We fight because we’re told to. How can men with
no true cause stand against the ferocious simplicity of Blood for the
Blood God?

There! Off in the distance there is movement. These ruined
walls don’t afford much protection, but serve to block our lines of
sight beautifully. Another choice tactic from our divine overlord no
doubt.

I don’t know why we must wait. The only chance against
Berzerkers is to charge them, take them by surprise and overwhelm them
with numbers. If we wait for them we’re all dead men. And look. My
brothers in arms. Pitiful! I have seen these few men perform acts of
such unbridled fury, of such awesome destruction, yet they wait here
like the sacrificial lamb awaiting the knife. We should be moving.

The Sergeant is scared, I can see it in his eyes. He is
weak like the rest of them. No real leader of men would show fear. I
bet a Khorne warrior would never show fear before his enemy. The
Sergeant is a small man in a large frame. He is no hero. He’s another
mindless animal following the will of his masters. Heeding their
bidding. It’s pathetic.

They’re all getting anxious now, shuffling their feet, and
checking their weapons twice a minute. They have no fortitude. They
will fight, but not with passion deserving of a Battle. They will fight
because they are told to. It is wrong.

I know these men. They were once strong men, but now they
are weak. They know not the forces they face unheeding. They cannot
hope to survive when they cannot dedicate their souls to the love of
the battle. But I can save them. Yes. I can save them. They are lost,
awash in a sea of petty bureaucrats and fat politicians, but I have
their life raft. I can save them all. I must save them all. They cannot
be led like lambs to their deaths.

My knife is in my hand. I could draw this and save another
soul. Yes. Another soul saved, given to the purity of the Battle;
another soul for the one that deserves them; another soul for that
which I must serve. He sees me. There is fear and confusion in his
eyes. How sad he looks, what sorrow is in his heart. I am human, I am
only human, and I must do this for my fellow man. It would be inhuman
to do anything else.

The blade slides so gently into his throat. He gasps and
claws at me, but I think in the last few seconds he understands that
which I know. The look of fear fades and his eyes blaze with a fire.
His soul goes to the Blood God; his soul is set free.

The others are panicking. They too do not understand. The
Sergeant is weak, as I knew. He fumbles and hesitates. There, another,
he too can be set free. The blade flows through his veins, spraying
forth his blood, letting him die so that he can live.

Finally the Sergeant draws his rifle to me, I expected as
much. A true warrior would engage in combat first, but he hides behind
his sight. So be it. A flick of my wrist and my dagger flies true, the
metal blade cutting through the sight into the Sergeants eye cavity. He
falls to his knees, not understanding the pain. He fears death. Weak
fool.

The disruption is coming to an end and the other members of
the squad are coming to me. They do not comprehend. They are screaming
at me, calling me a traitor, calling me insane. Ironic somewhat, as for
the first time ever I am thinking clearly. The thoughts are aligned, my
mind focused to the task at hand.

As they encroach the first of the mighty Berzerkers hits
the position. He bellows his death roar as the pathetic men scramble
for cover. His squad arrives, crushing the skulls of those too slow to
move, destroying the defences of those who try to fight.

They cannot stand against the true lords of battle. These
brave, noble warriors are the epitome of war. They are death incarnate,
the walking weapon. He sees me. The powerful, mighty soldier casts his
eyes upon me. He knows my heart is pure and soul cleansed.

I bend and retrieve my knife from the stricken corpse of
the Sergeant. Whilst the magnificent Berzerker watches over me, I carve
the sign of our god into my very skull, bone chipping to the floor,
blood gushing freely. Before I delay the warrior too long, I kneel
forward, raise my arms to my sides and bow my head.

As he raises aloft his chainsword and prepares to speed my
soul to my God I chant the sacred words. My Lord knows I am coming, he
has called me, chosen me. I go to a better place, a place of war and
blood. A place of Order amongst true Chaos. My Lord I come to thee.

"Blood for the Blood God. Skulls for the thr…"

The post The Call appeared first on BlokeCrafted.

The cultists had pushed hard in this sector and it was up to the 27^th Platoon’s 4^th
Infantry Squad to push back. They had lost their fire support, they’d
lost their armoured support and their command squad had been reduced to
one man. Out of the three platoons positioned to cover this compound,
only 11 men remained.

With a chorus of praise to their vile gods, the cultists broke from the tree line and charged the open ground toward the 4^th‘s
trench. Levelling their laspistols and firing countless shots the
cultists ran headlong into the minefield ahead. Though at least one
fifth of their number were liquidated by the plasma mines, they carried
on heedless. Sense and logic suppressed by the burning desire to fulfil
their god’s demands. The guardsmen must fall.

As the Sergeant bellowed orders to retreat the first of the
chaos followers fell upon them. With a deft slash of his chainsword the
Sergeant sliced the fiend in two. Falling back through the network of
trenches the guardsmen provided covering fire for each other, hoping to
make it to the battle bunker at the rear of their lines before it was
too late.

They rounded a corner into the temporary infirmary to be
confronted by the most terrifying sight. They stood agog as the
recumbent form of their dying Primaris Psyker twisted and contorted
into a horrific Khornate demon. The last of the guards blundered into
the infirmary before the others could come to their senses and issue a
warning.

The Bloodletter rose to it’s feet, snarling horrifically,
running it’s claw along the length of it’s enormous sword. The cultists
shambled in behind the guardsmen, blocking off all hope of escape and
survival.

With a silent prayer to the Emperor, the Sergeant stepped
forward from his men, issuing the unspoken challenge to the beast. The
demon reared back its head, howled with unrestrained blood lust and
charged the brave guardsmen. As the creature’s blade arced down the
Sergeant raised his chainsword in an attempt to parry the blow. The
demonic weapon sliced straight through the sword and the Sergeant with
fearsome ease. Before the two halves of the stricken Sergeants body had
even hit the ground the Bloodletter had eviscerated two more and the
cultists pressed forward, pushing the doomed guardsmen as an offering.

In a matter of moments the 4^th were no more than
body parts and the cultists, now led by the demonic swordsman, swept on
having obliterated the first line of resistance.

The post The Swordsman appeared first on BlokeCrafted.

The other spike slams into the rock and he shuffles another
metre closer to his target. The climb is a long and arduous one, but
well within his capabilities. His rifle, heavy and cumbersome in
another mans hands, feels natural slung across his back. Without it
there he would very likely unbalance and lose his grip, so much a part
of him has it become.

As day breaks he completes the climb, slipping into the
position he will retain until his mission is complete. The top of the
rock spire is no more than a metre wide in either direction, precarious
and unfathomable for any recreational climber. But it affords the best
view of the imminent battlefield, and he is not up here for recreation.

For two hours he waits. His body immobile, his breathing
slow. Any movement that may belie his presence is subdued, any sound
stifled. The time draws near, the battle ever closer.

Almost three hours following his ascent the rumble of the
Armoured Company moving into position echoes from behind him. He does
not turn to look, for he already knows their movements. The battle
tanks form up in a spearhead formation; the APCs disgorge their
contents; the bikers race around the flanks, keeping mobile, keeping
ready.

From ahead comes the sound he has been awaiting. The gut
wrenching screams of agony and the pre-battle sacrifices are slain, the
slow pounding chant that rises into an almighty demonic cacophony.

"Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the throne of Khorne"

They
are here. He can sense the fear and discomfort from the Imperial ranks.
The Imperium has gone to war with Khornate worshipers many times over,
but the shear intensity and vigour with which they fight strikes fear
into the heart of every trooper.

The Chaos battle line forms up, a wall of whirring chain
weapons and enormous axes. Below the insistent chanting can be heard
the snarls and growls of the obligatory daemons.

Slowly, millimetre by millimetre he moves his scope across
the front of the Khorne troops. If the intelligence reports were
correct, it would only be a matter of time before he found him. The
close up view of the disciples of the Blood God made even this hardened
veterans skin shine with sweat.

There! Right were he was supposed to be, in the middle of a
huge rabble of Berzerkers he stood, a full head taller than his
soldiers, his ferocity evident even from this great distance; Kharn the
Betrayer; Slayer of men; Epitome of Khornate. Above his head he swings
Gorechild, his ancient and deadly chain axe. His eagerness for the
slaughter and desire to honour the name of his god makes him all the
more deadly.

Kharn was the reason he was here. Many attempts on The
Betrayers life had been made, but none successful, his competence in
battle and the undying devotion of his followers making him
impenetrable in hand to hand combat. And so the Imperium had dictated a
more underhand method be used. That, of course, was him. A sniper
raised from the ranks many years ago, trained in the Vindicare Temple
he learned the things that turn a simple gunman into a machine for
annulment. Though he lacked Kharn’s lust for the kill, his aptitude was
more than equal.

As the chosen of Khorne began their advance he readies
himself. His rifle loaded, his sights checked to the point of
perfection. There is nothing to do but wait for the opportunity to
present itself. Once the perfect shot lets itself be seen, he will
ensure the Imperium would never again be threatened by the blood soaked
terror.

The initial bombardment from the Imperial Guard forces
begins. Pummelling the Khorne troops with their mortars and artillery,
softening them up before they are close enough to charge. Once the
charge begins the battle will be a fragile thing for the guardsmen. To
repel the assault of the swarming Berzerkers they will need the
blessing of the Emperor and a miracle. More likely the infantry will be
swept aside, hopefully delaying the assault long enough for the tanks
to begin the counter attack. This was one fight he was glad to be out
of.

And then the chanting stops, made ever more notable by its
absence. The Berzerkers pause, then as one unified mass charge forward,
screaming their curses and praises to their God. Impatient with his
squad’s advance Kharn charges, swinging Gorechild and cutting a swathe
through his own men. Then he is presented with his opportunity. Kharn
is in the front line of the charge, providing the perfect target.

Muttering the ancient mantras he squeezes the feather
trigger. The rifle rocks back against him, but the muted shot is
drowned out by the screams from the battlefield below. The bullet soars
through the air towards its target. Kharn, still running, can only be
oblivious that with each step he takes he moves closer to his
rendezvous with death.

He lives for this. He doesn’t enjoy the killing, nor does
he desire it, but it was what his life has become. One long series of
names crossed out in a data file. This was who he is. He is Kharn’s
death.

Still the bullet soars, still Kharn runs.

This
will be a memorable annulment. There will be no victory celebration, no
pat on the back, no hearty handshake. There will just be another
assignment, another name.

And still the bullet flies. And still Kharn charges.

The
first of the Khorne troops are almost upon the Imperial Guard battle
line. Even in this unreal slow motion they Berzerkers advance seems
relentless. For an instant he wishes he could help the Guardsmen. But
to draw attention to his presence would jeopardise his next mission.
That could not be allowed to happen; the next mission was always the
most important one.

Then time catches up and the battle is flung back into real
time. Khorne’s chosen son is "blessed" more than any other. The Blood
God would not allow his favourite to fall so easily. The bullet stops.
No armour contact, no kill, just a bullet. Kharn doesn’t even raise his
head to acknowledge the levitating bullet in front of him, he just
charges on and into the beleaguered guardsmen.

He looks on with disbelief. He has annulled a great many
names, he has travelled the galaxy and seen many things, but for a high
velocity shell to just stop in mid air is.. is.. He doesn’t know what
it is.

Then the air begins to crackle, the hairs on the back of
his neck pressing against his body suit. Breaking every instinct
embedded into him through years of training, he slowly turns around,
risking revealing his position. One metre away from the top of the rock
spire, directly behind him, the air is shining. The sky turns white,
then deep blue, before a black dot appears at the centre. This dot
becomes a fist-sized hole, and then a body sized hole until it is about
a metre across. Inside is nothing. Not light, not dark, just the
absence of.

Slowly he moves his hand to his side, drawing his pistol
ready to face whatever danger may appear. Before he can remove the
pistol from its holster an ungodly roar deafens him, blasting out of
the void with the force of a hurricane. He flattens himself to the
spire to keep from falling to his death. In a few moments he will
reflect how that would have been preferable.

An indistinguishable shape forms in the centre of the void,
a swirling mass of dark reds and browns. As his curiosity piques, he
leans slightly forward drawn by natural tendencies. The mass extends
into a crude hand and wraps around his torso.

For the first time since leaving the ranks, he screams. He
screams in pain, in desperation, but mostly in terror. The hand is
crushing him, but not killing him. It’s restricting his breathing, but
not breaking him. It is so cold to the touch, sending shivers up and
down his body.

As his breathing strains and slows he becomes faint,
letting his weapons slip from his grasp. The nakedness he feels as his
rifle leaves his side is almost as terrifying as the demonic claw
wrapped around his midst.

Then, without another sound the hand withdraws, dragging him through the void, screaming and thrashing into the unknown.

The
battle is all but over. Kharn stands atop a pile of slain guardsmen,
the Imperial tanks mostly burning wreckage. The survivors are fleeing,
but the daemon hounds will soon chase them down and all would be lost.
Kharn casts his eye to the heavens, the heightened blood lust subsiding
to his more normal levels, blood of his victims running down his body.
As he stares he sees a portal sealing, and two objects falling from the
spire to the west of the battlefield. With what could almost be
described as a smile, Kharn turns away to seek more skulls, knowing his
god had claimed another lost soul.

The post Waiting appeared first on BlokeCrafted.