Brother's End
A Warhammer 40,000 story
Prologue
One month earlier, the Cleansing of Pinscillus IV …
"Marcellus, Castor, hit the heretic's right flank!" He ordered through his vox-system. Two green flashes on his helmet's HUD confirmed the said marine's acknowledgement. He hacked at a cultist with his chainsword, spraying blood over his golden Imperial Eagle. From his right, he heard the steady chatter of bolter fire, cutting down several cultists with the self-propelled rounds turning the screeching heretics into chunks of gore and bone.
"Need a hand, Brother-Sergeant?" A blue-armoured silhouette spoke up, stalking across the battlefield to him. Andros probably had that cocksure smile that he always had plastered on his face, whenever he was in battle. He still believed that he was invincible, a belief that being a Scout hadn't knocked out of him yet. He nodded towards the younger tactical marine, a silent thanks for dealing with the cultists.
"Brother Andros, with me. Time to hunt down the ringleaders of this cult." He ordered.
"Well said Brother-Sergeant. Time to win some glory for Macragge eh?" The younger marine answered.
"Glory is not what we fight for. We fight for the Emperor, and the good of the Imperium. Glory is for the Assault Marines, anyway." He joked half-heartedly. Andros gave a harsh bark of laughter, a trait of his home-world of Calth.
They heard gunfire up ahead, the low drum-beat of a heavy bolter combined with the sharp crack of lasguns. The two Ultramarines ran forward, bolters in hand, towards the sounds of battle. Up on a high ridge overlooking the battlefield, Castor and Marcellus had positioned themselves to a suppressing position on the cultists below, the heavy bolter carried by Marcellus providing a great weight of fire. Castor had yet to ready his plasma gun, which had overheated, slightly scorching the tactical marine's forearm armour. Andros fired his bolter on single-shot as he walked forward, to gain greater accuracy as he moved forwards. He strode across the middle of the battlefield, seemingly unaware of the las-blasts that were bouncing off his power armour.
The enemy started dropping mortar shells on the Astartes's position. Shrapnel peppered his power armour, bouncing off and merely scratching the paint. He raised his bolter and fired a burst off with one hand, whilst running to cover. He could see Andros still advancing, oblivious to the amount of fire he was taking. His armour wouldn't be able to take much more punishment. "Andros, find cover now!" He barked through the vox bead in his helmet.
"But Brother-Sergeant, I can clear their first line of defence." Andros' reply almost sounded like a small child moaning to their father. Castor's plasma gun had cooled down, and he was laying well-placed shots on enemy heavy stubber posts and mortar nests with impunity.
"Andros, you'll get yourself killed. Get into cover now." He roared at the defiant marine. As he expected, Andros' armour couldn't hold up to any more bombardment.
A single shot cracked out across the battlefield as Andros' helmet cracked then burst open, spraying his brains across the half-dead grass. His lifeless (and headless) corpse staggered a couple of paces then fell into the dirt. The shot came from a bolter, he was sure of that; and at a range of three hundred yards; the firer was clearly a trained shot. He poked his head out of the crater he had dived into. He saw a faint scope glint on top of a wrecked Leman Russ tank.
He magnified the image using his helmet's optical systems, and sure enough there was a sniper. He couldn't get a clear look at the sniper though, as he was mostly covered by the tank's turret, but from what he could see, the sniper was wearing thick dark blue armour.
"Castor, you see the wrecked Leman Russ three hundred yards to my east?" He asked over the vox channel.
"Yes, taking it out now." Castor correctly guessed his intention with the question. He saw a flash of superheated plasma flash past his right, and explode in a ball of blue flame. Sure enough, a body fell from the explosion. But despite the armour the body was wearing bubbling and dripping off, he could still see the familiar outline of power armour.
"Watch for Chaos Marines in their ranks, the sniper Castor took out was one of these treacherous scumbags." He warned the rest of his squad. Eight icons flashed green to confirm they understood. Eight, when there should have been nine.
Then he heard an almighty roar coming from the Chaos lines. Suddenly a whole wave of cultists surged forward, coming out of foxholes and trenches by the dozen. Marcellus's heavy bolter cut them down in droves, the mass reactive rounds quite literally tearing them apart. Castor's plasma gun fired bolt after bolt, overheating in under a minute.
He heard bolter fire coming from behind him, and saw on his mini-map that the rest of his squad were firing as well. He unclipped a frag grenade, and lobbed it at least twice as far as any human could ever manage. It exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere, shredding the charging cultists.
He fired a magazine from his bolter before drawing his chainsword. He slung his bolter and thumbed the activation rune on the hilt of his sword. The blade roared to life with a growl, and he burst from cover, charging straight into the screaming mass. He shoulder barged the first cultist, smashing its face on his stylised U. He swung his chainsword, the whirring blade cutting three cultists in half. With his free hand he lashed out, catching another cultist in the face and sending the flailing man flying into two more of its kin. He parried the clumsy downward swing of a rusty steel blade and decapitated the owner. Ducking a las-pistol to the face, he kicked out at the assailant, crushing the cultist's ribcage.
Despite his bulky appearance, he was very agile and light on his feet. It was a fatal misconception for many.
Suddenly Althrax's rune flashed red on his visor. He frowned, what could have taken him down? Then Michelus's, then Balthas's, then Pollux's. Half his squad had been killed.
"Brother-Sergeant, traitor-marines to your-" Marcellus's transmission was cut out by a deafening series of explosions that rocked the battlefield. The cliff that Castor and Marcellus were firing from collapsed, impacts from large shells pummelling the rock to pieces. Both marine's runes flashed red. From the dust cloud in the Chaos lines strode a massive figure, easily the same size as he was.
The figure was wearing power armour, but it was an old version, that was covered with sigils and runes that burned bright orange. The armour was a dark, almost black, blue, and there were much gold trimmings on it. The figure wasn't wearing a helmet, which revealed bloodshot eyes, bleached white skin and teeth that clearly hadn't been seen by a toothbrush in decades. The figure, clearly a Chaos Space Marine of some importance, held a massive auto-cannon, which he promptly dumped unceremoniously, unsheathing a glowing obsidian blade. He was the one who had caused the deaths of his squad.
Behind him, at least a dozen more Chaos Marines stepped forward. He recognised the insignia on their shoulder pad's to be that of the Night Lords. He ordered the remaining two members of his squad to rally on him. After a few moments of brutal combat, Natoris was at his back; a few moments after that so was Cato.
"I don't want to lie to you. It's likely that this is our last battle. But I for one will not bow down to these traitorous bastards and be killed like a whimpering dog. I'll sell my life dearly, with my ammo spent, my sword broken, my hands round an enemy's throat. You will to, for you are Ultramarines! You are warriors of the Emperor, the Adeptus Astartes, and apart from being in a drop pod, you know no fear!" He roared, trying to encourage the last of his squad. They knew as well as he did that this would be their last. He reloaded his bolter, and held it in his right fist. If he was going to die, then so would many of them.
He roared a wordless battle-cry and charged head-first into the Chaos horde. His two squad-mates were at his flanks, both with wordless cries on their lips as well.
They burst forward, to be met by the mass of the cultists. However, an angry Space Marine is akin to an erupting volcano, dangerous, gigantic and uncontrollable. They hacked and slashed and shot and stomped and kicked and punched their way through the cultists. His armour took dozens of wounds without the machine-spirit's complaint.
He fired an entire magazine on full-auto one handed, turning at least fifteen Chaos worshipers into something akin to mashed watermelons. He could see out of the corner of his visor that his two fellow marines were fairing just as well as he was. Within minutes of butchery, the few cultists that remained were fleeing.
As the ordinary men turned around and ran, he saw giant's walking through them; the Chaos Marines. He charged towards them, firing his last magazine for his bolter from the hip.
He fired five rounds into the first Night Lord, catching him in the chest and neck. The mass-reactive rounds tore his windpipe to shreds, and he fell to the floor, air entering his punctured lungs and collapsing them. He fired at the next one, sending three rounds into the traitor's head. The beheaded corpse followed his comrade to the ground. He fired seven rounds into the next one, three missing, but the other four proving easily enough that they would do the job. Three dead traitors, for three dead battle-brothers.
He fired two more shots before hearing a dull click, meaning the bolter had jammed. He threw the weapon away and held his chainsword in a two handed grip as he neared the Night Lords.
Cato's icon flashed red on his visor as he heard the familiar sound of bolter fire. Another name to avenge. He sidestepped the combat knife of the fourth Chaos Marine, before loping the arm off and swinging his chainsword down on his opponent's head, cleaving it in two. Natoris's icon flashed red as he unclipped the frag grenades strapped to his next enemy's belt, hearing the sound of a throat being slit and the gurgling that followed behind him. He pushed his attacker back, and the grenades quite literally left nothing left. It was only him standing now, against possibly seven Chaos Marines, fifty years of experience against possibly millennia.
He was tackled to the floor from behind, driving all of the wind out of him. Dozens of kicks and punches rained down on him. His armour cracked in several places. Eventually the beating stopped, and he was hefted to his feet. He thrashed, catching a Chaos marine in the jaw, sending the traitor sprawling.
This was rewarded with his helmet being ripped off and a vicious punch smacking his face. He saw stars as a body next to him was held up. It was Natoris. The Laraman cells in his blood had clotted the ragged slit in his throat, enabling him to breath. He also had his helmet taken off him. He nodded to the wounded marine, and received a nod in return.
The Chaos Marine that he had seen kill Marcellus and Castor stepped forward. He was clearly the leader of this warband, and held an ornate bolt pistol. The leader stepped right up to him, so much so that he could feel the ice-cold breath on his face. He promptly head butted the Chaos marine in the face.
He heard the nose crack, but was unable to see what happened as another flurry of punches rained down on him. The pain was almost blinding. The leader, with an obviously broken nose walked up to him again, but kept a distance this time.
"You have spirit for a young one." The leader said bluntly. "Shame, I'm sure you would have been an excellent lackey of the false Emperor."
"It's your gods that are false, heretic." He spat in return. The leader merely chuckled as a response.
"Maybe we're both right. Maybe we could have been brother's, in a better time, a better place, but no more." The warlord then calmly raised his bolt-pistol and shot Natoris in the head. He closed his eyes as he felt his friend and battle-brother's hot blood splash onto his face.
He heard the leader's breathing draw closer, and whisper in his ear. "But maybe I'm the one with the gun." He felt a flash of pain in the back of his head and then darkness.