Pointless.
It was utterly pointless.
"How are we supposed to penetrate its armor?" First Sergeant Gradiore of the Corinth Carrion-Eaters had served in the Planetary Defense Force of Corinth Prime for 26 years. In those 26 years he had fought on six different worlds in every climate he could think of. In 26 years he had put down insurrectionists, Ork incursions (the things had a nasty habit of being hard to get rid of once you got them), and even the odd Tau expansion or two.
Insurrectionists were equipped like he was, but broke at the first sign of resistance and often surrendered after the first battle. Orks were horrid, bestial things, but they were simple. Assuming you had the ammunition, and as long as you could keep them from closing the distance, small Ork raids were handled easily enough. The Tau expansions were the worst, because they could shoot you before you could see them, and then their weapons were certainly more dangerous than the humble lasgun Gradiore and his men were armed with. But, with enough men and enough armor even the Tau were easy to take down, once you got in range. And if you got into bayonet range with the Xenos, even the humblest Guardsman could kill in the God-Emperor's name.
But before him was no meagre rebel, nor a simple Ork, and it wasn't a fragile Fire Warrior.
Standing over eight feet tall, in thick, jet black power armor, the dread-inspiring warriors of the Black Legion marched towards the Imperial fortifications. The Heretic Astartes of the Legion were centuries, or even millennia old, as far as Gradiore knew. Their armor seemed to disagree with reality, twisting and forming spikes and mutations at odd angles. Their eyes glowed a dull, haunting shade of blue, more akin to a ghost's sunken eyes than the helmets they really were. Even their weapons emanated pure malice, lacking any real aspect of military weaponry aside from that of a killing machine. Bolter rounds hung lazily from the belts fed into their weapons, and their melee weapons were sickening to look at. If one looked closely enough, you could even see wretched eyes and other abominations on both weapons and armor, but Gradiore was smart enough to avoid really making out the details.
He turned to the gas-masked officer to his right, a Marshall from the death world of Krieg, and asked his question again. When he got no reply, he lowered his lasgun from where it had been aimed and prodded the officer once more.
"Can you hear me in that thing?"
"First Sergeant Gradiore, please address me correctly." The Krieger's voice was slightly garbled by the comms adapter in his gas mask, and the accent was distinctly that of Krieg. The eyelens of his mask peered endlessly into the battlefield ahead, not even turning to face Gradiore.
"The hell do you mean? I asked you a question, man." Gradiore thought for a second that the off-worlder might be referring to the fact that he hadn't addressed him by his rank, or sir, or something of that nature. He figured not even the men of Krieg could be that hard-assed.
"First Sergeant, before your commander was killed, did he award you a field commission?" Now, the marshall turned from the battle and looked straight at Gradiore. If there was a man behind the mask, Gradiore couldn't see him from behind the soulless eyes of the rebreather mask.
"No… no he didn't. Sir." Gradiore's hunch had been correct. This Krieger was really about to reprimand him for not being courteous...as they were being besieged by the forces of Chaos.
"Then, were any of your men awarded a field commission before they were slain by the daemon engines, and manage to give you the same before said demise?" The Krieger hadn't shifted his gaze from the sergeant, even as a bolt round ripped apart a tree less than a meter from their position. Gradiore wished he hadn't internally grumbled at the fact that the Krieger looked away from him at first. He much preferred to avoid eye contact with the man.
"No, sir. Though if I make it through today, they might get put in for an award." Gradiore wasn't sure who he made the joke for - the Kreiger certainly would ignore it, and he wasn't in any particular mood for comedy either.
"Perhaps if you spent less time taking great pains to ignore the customs and courtesies of the Imperial Guard, and more time keeping your men in line, they wouldn't have been skewered as they fled for their lives. Don't you agree, First Sergeant?" The Marshall turned his attention back to the Legion's advance. Before the PDF trooper could reply, he continued his lecture.
"In fact, I seem to remember one guardsman, his entire squad already crushed by the onslaught, who not only didn't flee from the abomination, but instead fixed his bayonet and charged into the unholy thing? Now, what regiment did he hail from, First Sergeant?" The Marshall looked through binoculars as another squad was blasted from cover via massed bolter fire.
"Yours, sir."
"Ah, and the very same soldier drew his entrenching tool and proceeded to club the few unarmored portions of the machine that he could. He turned and fought, First Sergeant, while your entire company was skewered, burned, and otherwise torn to ribbons. And now he is prepared to defend your home for you. I fully expect you to address his officers as you would yours. Assuming there hasn't been a breach of discipline in that area as well. Now raise your rifle and resume fire, trooper."
Gradiore hadn't been called trooper in ages. It was yet another way the Marshall intended to flout his superiority, or at least what he perceived.
"Sir, commissioned and non-commissioned officers are to refrain from questioning or otherwise undermining each other's leadership in front of the soldiers, as it makes them harder to lead." If the Marshall liked to be so well-versed in the regs, then Gradiore could meet him halfway.
"Had you any soldiers left to lead, I might be inclined to agree with you." The marshall's hand went from his binoculars to a holstered laspistol at his waist.
"Raise your weapon and fire, First Sergeant. That is an order."
"Understood, sir." There was definitely malice in Gradiore's tone, but the Krieg officer didn't act on it. Instead, he turned back to the battlefield and watched.
A squad of Krieg Guardsmen had been surrounded by three squads of Heretic Astartes. The Chaos Marines would make short work of the Guardsmen. They were not blessed by dark gods, nor were they armored in ancient power armor, nor were they engineered by both god and man as the Astartes were. They were simply men, trained in a wasteland with no purpose but to redeem themselves in the crucible of war. And war was perpetual for the Imperium of Man.
As the Guardsmen were ripped limb from limb in bloody melee, Marshall 1214 watched and evaluated their performance. Guardsman B-2233608 had managed to pull the pin off his grenade as a chainsword split him down the middle. The explosion only seemed to lightly wound a single Marine. Guardsman B-2201564 had charged forward into a champion, but his weapon was tossed away and he suffered a blow from a power fist that seemed to crush his internal organs in a single strike. He had seen the attack coming but chose to attack instead. His profound lack of skill would earn him a posthumous demerit. Finally, Guardsman A-2214985 drove his bayonet into the gullet of one of the Chaos Marines, the same that had been injured by the earlier explosion.
The Chaos Marines were surprised at this - they always were, as they were veterans of the Long War, the first of the traitors, warriors who had despoiled the galaxy for millennia and who had once existed as the finest the God-Emperor had produced. Guardsman were feeble things by comparison, dying before a century had the chance to pass and without the sheer strength or toughness of the galaxy's meaner inhabitants, to include Loyalist and Heretic Astartes alike.
A voice came in over the radio. It was a monotone, placid voice, but in the background, screams and yells were audible.
"Battery D, Grid Coordinates are as follows: 1, 9, 7, 8, 2, 4, 2, 7."
Marshall 1214 heard the report of the Earthshaker Artillery in the rear encampment thunder across the skies, and just as a daemon blade punctured the chest of the Guardsman, shells rained from above and killed another of the Heretic Astartes. That was three dead.
"Sir, may I inquire as to how we are going to combat their armor effectively?" Gridiore's voice was absolutely drenched with sarcasm.
"Well, First Sergeant. We are going to continue to whittle their numbers down in any way we can until we receive the order to fortify a different location. As long as the Astartes can complete their mission, we will have succeeded today." He paused, then added, "To… varying degrees."
Gridiore frowned. The Black Legion was marching closer and closer, taking slow, asynchronous steps that sent a chill down the veteran's spine. Another squad of Krieg Guardsmen was unloading everything it had into the traitors, but the distance had just been closed and they prepared to fix bayonets, knowing full well that in less than a minute they would all be dead, crushed under the force of power armor and the gifts of the Dark Gods.
"Field Marshall 1214, Guardsmen A-2293660 reporting enemy officer presence on battlefield. Transmitting visual confirmation now. Guardsman squad 3A-1214 expected to terminate within thirty seconds." The voice that came over the vox was as calm and placid as that of a servitor.
The officer counted the seconds until the last of the squad had been pummeled, bashed, or otherwise shredded. Thirty-two seconds. Guardsman A-2293660 was known to overachieve. The Marshall turned on his vox and began to transmit.
"First Lieutenant A-1179369, proceed with orders to charge and slay the enemy warlord, armored in Terminator plate. Squad HQ-B1214 will assist you."
"I thought we were making contact with friendly forces, Captain?" Brother Torael wondered aloud, the sound of his bolter almost drowning out his voice. The bolter rounds exploded on the putrid armor of the Death Guard surrounding them, but did little to discourage them. In discordant, unaimed shots they returned fire, almost taking pleasure in the situation. The bright bronze, almost orange power armor of the Screaming Bells' 2nd Company did well to blend in with the landscape around them, the sand and burning skies matching the warm glow of the sun. Their pauldrons were ice blue, as were the eyelens of their helmets, a welcome distinction in the desert environs.
Captain Reamus, one of the few Primaris Marines to ascend to any command in the Chapter, replied as he drove his power sword into the last of another wave of poxwalkers, horrid plague zombies that grinned widely as they crookedly lurched into battle. His Boltstorm Gauntlet fired into the horde, but even as they thinned, more emerged from the ruins of the city. The bronze of his armor was much darker, and the pauldrons and cape a stark white. His palette was relatively rare within the Screaming Bells - it was an honor all its own, and most of its officers as well as distinguished battle-brothers were awarded the right to bear armor like Reamus's.
"We are, Brother Torael. The Blood Angels are en route, and once we have our objective, we have two entire regiments of Guardsman behind us." Captain Reamus flashed his blade once more, and still more Poxwalkers fell.
"And the Chapter Master?" One of Torael's squad, a slack-jawed man by the name of Mallus, punched and shattered the ribs of a cultist that had charged him screaming praises of daemons.
"He and Captain Lupo are dropping in as we speak, Brother." Captain Reamus took stock of the situation.
Primaris and traditional Marines were blended with success in the Screaming Bells - Hellblasters provided a heavy support role that had gone on largely unfulfilled since the majority of the Chapter's Devastators were seconded to other Chapters, or left to garrison previously captured worlds. Intercessors and Tactical Marines took the line, providing the bulk of the bolter fire. The Tactical Marines were capable of responding to varied threats. Some were armed with missile launchers or plasma weapons, allowing them to take on a wide array of targets. Intercessors were sturdier and armed with better rifles, but lacked the flexibility of Tactical Marines. Together, however, they were able to cover for each other and they did so now - Bolter rounds poured into every visible target from three different squads, while special and heavy weapons took down the deformed Plague Marines and anything tougher.
Though now, Reamus wished he had brought a little more than what he did.
Poxwalkers were suddenly flooding in from every direction, falling, but reforming even as the bolter rounds tore them to powder. The Plague Marines were running now, their sickening growths spilling from their barely contained ancient armor, hurling curses long forgotten against their erstwhile brothers. Behind them, more cultists and evening Plague Drones could be seen converging on the area.
"Let's hope he and the 1st Company arrive before we catch cold." Reamus grinned at the joke he had made before slamming his power sword into a Death Guard Marine that had drawn a foetid blade after closing the distance.
The fighting continued to escalate, until the shriek of a Daemon Engine caught their attention. By the time it shrieked again, the Astartes knew what it was, and were already mentally prepared to take it on as they had the other forces of Chaos in the system. When the Defiler crested the hill, the sound of the atmosphere giving way to something falling from orbit bestowed even more resolve onto the Screaming Bells. With a shared grin, Brother Torael broke the silence.
"I think he does that on purpose."