"They're to the west. Emperor, they're not even trying to conceal themselves!"
Sergeant Steain Yelit nodded. "Brother Drese, I assume you have never fought this breed of xenos before?" Not waiting for a reply, Yelit continued. "Simply put, their goal is to raid this village, steal all valuables and people, and escape. They aim to be feared by their prisoners, so there is no reason to hide. They probably haven't even noticed us yet."
Drese couldn't argue.
"Now," finished Steain, "into the air!"
The jump packs screamed into life, the five Astartes lifted up. Drese took a moment to appreciate the liberty of flight before angling himself to catch up with the rest of his squad. Brother Geler's pack seemed more encumbered than normal, and as a result Drese wasn't last.
The land passed below, and looking down between strides, Drese could see mutilated skulls randomly scattered across the ground. The aliens couldn't not have noticed them, unless they simply made a habit of throwing out bones.
As the Assault Squad passed over the first houses, thick smoke obscured Drese's view. His helmet allowed him to continue observing the ground below.
There.
Drese has no psychic talent that he knew of, but all Angels Vermillion had a speck of sub-instinctual comprehending. It might have come from the blood-line of Sanguinius, or from the more specific Flaw of their single Chapter. It never lied, even if it was rarely useful.
The Squad swept down, and a xeno transport came into view. On its deck, the aliens were running around seemingly without purpose. Several humans were visible, bound and to all appearances taken prisoner.
The packs' buzzing didn't cause the xenos to stop whatever they were doing; they didn't even seem to pay attention. There were five of them, and Drese's sense told him there were five more. Only ten, and yet they had razed to the ground a village of hundreds.
The Dark Eldar finally looked up moments before the first blur of red landed on the transport's surface.
The ship collapsed into madness. Drese heard screams, but his eyes were intently focused on his goal. The xenos had desired to escape into the Webway, carrying with them the loot of half a world.
Cexryn.
"Don't aim for the engines. There's no need to kill the civilians, or ourselves!"
Yelit's words were expected, but his tone and Drese's knowledge reminded Drese of what he had been thinking moments ago.
Two xenos collided in an attempt to get away from the Astartes. Screaming in horror, one skidded off the transport and into the smoke-filled air. The other simply pitched backwards. Whispering something that sounded like "Must not stop", he hurled himself at the newly landed Geler.
Drese lifted his gaze from the fighting, instead running towards the open hatch that led into the ship's storage. It had been difficult to track the ships down, but the relics had to be in one of those two. It would take some time to search the cargo-
There was no cargo.
Running back up, Drese leapt towards the other vessel. The Jump Pack started up again, and the Marine was again flying. There was still plenty of power, but Drese sincerely hoped the other vessel was close enough to allow him to hit. More fervently, he hoped that its hull was not similarly empty, for that would mean failure.
That would mean the Bloody Feather had been taken to the Webway forever.
A Space Marine was supposed to have no fear, but Drese knew fear very well at that moment. It was not fear of defeat, for that was irrelevant. Rather, fear of failure, fear that his efforts had not been fast enough- those fears plagued him.
He tried to push the panic aside, tried to avoid the conclusion that this was just a trap the Eldar had set for them. He couldn't, for a part of him was becoming convinced that the Feather was not there, that this journey had been for nothing.
The impact of ceramite on metal ended his self-indulgence.
No shots came: the transport, while not abandoned, was undermanned and unprepared. The xenos had time to whip around before one had fallen, and of the remaining three, two hesitated to shoot. Drese dispatched them immediately: it seemed too easy, but it was clear that this transport had not been expecting an attack.
To the right, a fireball erupted from the smoke.
Drese knew it was important, that most likely something had triggered the engines, or alternatively there was a bomb hidden somewhere. It explained his panic: the foresight had been warning him, and he had taken it only as a sign that he might not get the Feather! The loss of the prisoners was unfortunate, and although his brothers would survive, any other treasure on board that transport had been lost too.
An impact on his knee awoke him, and he shot the last xeno, only to realize she wasn't there, or on the ship at all. Instead, some blunt object had collided with his leg.
It was a head.
The Sergeant's head.
Screaming in fury, Drese felt something pass before his eyes. Technology beyond the Mechanicum's greatest dreams exploded in the stars. Hands reached out, murdering slight forms from the aether. Worlds exploded and the galaxy burned.
Where an empire once stood, there was only an eye.
Roaring his anger to the stars, Drese advanced into the hull. The monsters that had killed his friends would suffer.
He awoke in the Apothecarion, the Feather still clutched in his hand. Reaching out, he grabbed the one observing him.
"How many?"
The Apothecary understood the question immediately. "One. Geler escaped, with his life and sanity intact. You weren't as lucky."
Drese throttled him even further. "Why-"
The Apothecary entered the room again. Was the thing he was choking a mere servitor? Everything exploded, the daemons raking his legs, the Warp percolating into the room.
He would fight them.
A single voice pierced the darkness, one so beautiful Drese knew it had to belong to his Primarch, the one he had never seen.
"Welcome to the Death Company, Battle-Brother."