Warhawks
Chapter 1
Lange Fields
"When will my soul be like thrice-forged steel?' shouted Chaplain Kylan to the survivors of the first company of the Warhawks Chapter as the orks charged again, their fire-red eyes glowing in the Space Marines visors. This was the tenth day straight day of battle, and the orks were still coming. The Thunderhawks could not land because the orks owned the skies, but Kylan would not abandon this world to the orks while at least one Marine still breathed.
The world of Sinon definitely had an infestation of orks. The first and last estimate by the Machine-Sprit of the Swooping Flame, the First Companies assigned Strike Cruiser, put the orks numbers at roughly fifteen thousand, with supporting tanks and vehicles. Approximately a hundred-and-twenty to one when the battle began, which were odds Kylan could respect.
Kylan had no idea if the Swooping Flame still in orbit! The ork fleet had been hiding on the far side of the sun, half a dozen heavy cruiser equivalents. The Thunderhawks had no time to extract the company. Kylan loosed a flurry of bolts, a half dozen red bursts across the first mass of orks.
"In the heat of battle!" came the reply over the crash of seventy-five bolters firing. They had run out of flamer canisters and the like yesterday and were running out of bolter ammunition, but the orks kept coming. Captain Koresh had died two days ago killing a particularly huge ork, probably a so called 'war boss' and that had almost broken the Company, but their righteous fury drove them on. Kylan was in-charge now and his litanies of hate drove the Marines on. The ork weapons were crude and malfunctioned half the time, but with so many firing at once, a dozen Marines fell, their armor breached in a half-dozen places by numerous hard-round impacts. Hundreds of orks had died now, and their charge was beginning to lose momentum.
"When does your duty to the Emperor end?" again yelled Kylan as the next ork wave came into sight. This one was slowed by the sheer number of corpses and even more died from the massed volleys of Space Marines. Even so, the orks were making progress towards the Space Marine line. He had not chosen this spot to fight, it had been chosen by the orks. An open field was not the place to fight against a horde.
"In deaths cold embrace!" again came the shouted reply. Ammo was scarce now, the bodies of the dead Marines being carefully searched for any and all magazines. The orks seemed to sense the faltering fire, and their courage was renewed. With a brutal cry of 'WAAAGH!' the orks sped up again, brutal cleavers and heavy pistols at the ready as they slammed into the Marines.
All along the line the Space Marines were fighting viscously against the orks. Chaplain Kylan was at the fore, his shining Crozius Arcanum sizzling as thick green ork blood boiled off the power field. A giant ork reared in front of Kylan, a massive cleaver raised above its head. Snarling, Kylan sliced his Crozius into the orks chest, but the razor-sharp blade stuck fast in its rib-cage. Bellowing, the ork wrapped its arms around Kylan and squeezed him in a giant bear-hug. Kylan could hear the power-generator on his back sputter as the ork crushed him, then he could feel the ceramite plate that formed his back-armor begin to crack. Kylan brought his helmeted forehead straight down into the orks nose with the gut-wrenching crack of bone. The ork released its bear-hug, thick green blood gushing from its crushed nose and Kylan shot it in the head three times with his bolt-pistol. The plasma-pistol he normally carried had taken a piece of shrapnel to one of the coils and he did not want to risk the ancient thing blowing up in his hand and so was safely tucked into a holster. Looking around, Kylan could see this wave had ended, but a low chanting from the ork lines signaled that another was about to begin. Would they not stop coming?
"What will be your reward?" shouted Kylan. He had no doubts that they would all die today, but they would sit at the right hand of the Emperor in the next life. Such was the reward of duty.
"The knowledge I have done my duty!" was the reply from the fifty battered survivors of the 1st Company. Every Marine was bloody and battered, but the determination in their voices was clear as day. This battle would be both a tragedy and a display of courage to future generations of Space Marines. The next wave was in sight now, this one comprised of thousands of orks, their battle-cries deafening. Behind the orks, crude smoking tanks drove, clanking and sputtering, dozens of slave creatures repairing the tanks as they rode along. Kylan quickly checked the load on his pistol and found it empty. In disgust, Kylan slid the pistol into the holster upon his thigh and took up his Crozius with two hands.
"What will be your battle-cry?" shouted Kylan as the ork wave was almost upon them, their firearms forgotten in their battle-lust. The Chaplain raised his Crozius above his head and bisected the first ork that came over the barricade, the orks moment carrying the two halves of the green beast past Kylan.
"Death comes for you!" came the reply as the Marines began to fight their last battle. Kylan was swinging great figure-8's, killing the orks in droves. One body-slammed the Chaplain and threw him to the ground, screaming a brutal war-cry. A member of his Reclusiarch squad, men who were in training to take his place when he died, blew the ork apart with a plasma-gun.
"You have my thanks, Brother Erastus!" Kylan shouted as he flipped back to his feet. Another ork reared in front of Kylan, swinging a heavy axe and spraying widely with his crude bolt-pistol. His Rosarius failed, and the rounds dented his chest-plate. Gritting his teeth and forcing more power to the servos in his shoulders and arms, Kylan grabbed the ork by the neck and took its head off his Crozius.
"My pleasure, Brother-Chaplain! By the Emperor, that's a big ork!" Erastus returned, a 'nob' chopping a marines arm off with a brutal cleaver while punching him across the face. A stream of super-heated plasma left the ork missing half its chest. The Tactical marine was quite dead.
The barricade was down, swamped by heavy green bodies. Bolt gun ammo was gone. The flamers were down to their last shots; plasma-gunners had a few canisters, melta-guns the same. Things were not looking good. They were down to blades, fists and hate. Then again, that's all a marine really needed anyway.
A tank shell or something blew up in front of the marine line, showering them with shrapnel and green blood. No one was done, but it meant the tanks were getting closer. It was not a good sign. Heavy autocannon fire started incoming also. A marine from his Reclusiarch squad fell to ground, his head and torso a mass of shell-craters and impacts.
Kylan flicked a retinal rune, switching to the all-squads frequency, "Any grenades left?" A chorus of negatives was his response. They had nothing left to knock out the tanks. Sergeant Cadmus had a power-fist, but he was dead. A slave-creature detonated a handful of charges at his feet.
"Close ranks! Do not turn your backs to them! For the Emperor, we will be remembered this day!" Kylan held his Crozius high, the Banner-bearer, Reiata, raising the standard high as a rallying point. The banner, covered with the many battle-honors of the first, was burnt on the edges, light shining through numerous bullet and shrapnel holes. Kylan side-stepped an orks charge and rammed his fist into its face with a sharp crack.
Suddenly, the sky was lit up by flame. From the clouds, came a dozen or more drop-pods, their green and red hulls glowing. With a shriek of landing thrusters, the drop-pods slowed and landed in the middle of the ork horde. Automated storm-bolters on the drop-pods opened fire and chewed a clear circle around each drop-pod. Then, the pods split open like seed-pods and the men of the second company poured out, bolters blazing. The orks died in droves, such was the shock the drop assault.
The second company marines pushed the orks back over their own dead, leaving dozens more corpses in their wake. Captain Jorran was at the fore, his ancient power sword cleaving a 'Nob' in two, and his plasma-pistol spitting death. Descending down behind the drop-pods came three squads of Assault Marines, their jump packs flaring as they neared the ground, bolt pistols barking. The Assault squads had landed in the orks line of retreat, cutting them off to be culled like cattle. The Warhawks did not abandon their brothers.
One Marine in particularly ornate power armor, with golden eagle heads decorating the exhaust vents on his power-pack and purity seals dotted along his chest-plate, strode up to Kylan.
"You are Master-Chaplain Kylan?" spoke the Marine in a deep, commanding voice, a gold lightening claw on his right hand, and a storm bolter slung over his left shoulder-guard. Kylan noticed that the Marine had already painted the center strip of his helmet red, which marked him as of the first company.
"Yes, I am." Kylan replied, picking bits of ork out of the gaps in his armor. He would have to venerate its machine-spirit before it failed him.
"I am Captain Mepesto. The Council has heard of death of Captain Koresh and I have been sent to replace him." Kylan could see an Iron Halo rising from the center of the Captains power-pack and he wondered what the Captain had done to earn such an honored relic.
The Warhawks did not have a Chapter Master, but instead were controlled by a Council of the greatest heroes and highest ranking Marines, battle-hardened men from every company who decided the fate of the Chapter. Long ago, when a section of the Warhawks turned to Chaos, the Council had been created so that if the Chapter Master succumbed to heresy, he would not take the Chapter with him.
"Well, sir, this is fairly irregular, usually the company promotes someone from within to be the Company Captain, and I don't know why the Council would… force someone upon us." Kylan knew that he was being slightly insubordinate to the Captain, but it was tradition in the Company that the new Captain was elected.
"Chaplain, after the Hell Gate massacre, the Council would have sent me to a reserve company, but after hearing of the death of Captain Koresh, I requested this company for my command." Mepesto stated simply. He had a different reason for selecting the first company for his command, but Kylan did not need to know right now.
"I'm sorry, Captain, I didn't realize…"
"It's alright, Brother-Chaplain. Now, you can say you survived the Battle of Lange Fields. Now, Thunderhawks are coming to gather up the men, we'll be going back to the Swooping Flame to get reinforcements from the reserve companies. I'll address the Company after that."
"Acknowledged, Captain." With that, Kylan walked back to where the 1st Company had arranged themselves in perfect parade formation, tattered banners flapping in the light breeze. Kylan was proud of the Company; any other force would be lounging, or taking trophies, like the heretical Space Wolves. Unwashed barbarians, though Kylan, before banishing the thoughts from his mind.
"Attention, my battle-brothers' began Kylan, 'I am immensely proud of you all. The dead shall be remembered as the Emperors Finest. Your bravery will be taught to the new initiates and the names of the dead will be recorded in the Hall of Heroes in the Chapter Monastery."
As one, the fifty survivors of Lange Fields raised their voices in a cheer.
Aboard the Swooping Flame
Cradling his helmet under his arm, Captain Mepesto strode up to the podium in front of the assembled 1st Company. Just days after Lange Fields, the Company was still at about seventy percent strength, even with reinforcements from the reserve squads that had come with the Second Company and their ship, the Wrath of the Emperor. Now, Mepesto was addressing his Marines.
"Praise the Emperor" began Mepesto, his deep voice reverberating off the distant walls of Chapel.
"Praise the Emperor" boomed the men of the 1st Company in return.
"As you already know, I will be taking over command of this company after the death of the honored Captain Koresh. Since the company has lost much of its strength at Lange Fields, I will be limiting the Companies deployments to small-unit actions until such time that it is at full strength,' Mepesto paused, gathering his thoughts, 'For those of you who don't know, I fought at the Hell Gate and for my actions there, I was given the command of this Company. Let me tell you the tale from my view, even though I know you probably have read the reports. The daemons had just attacked, and we were falling back in disarray. Dozens of good Marines had already died and the bearer of the Second Company's standard, Brother Saul, had just been slain, the sacred banner being propped up by his body. I rallied my squad around me and pushed forward through the daemons to recover the standard. By the time I reached the Banner, my entire squad was dead. I lifted the Banner above my head, and forged my way back to firing line. One hour later, the Thunderhawks, Eagle Flight and Salvation, picked up the survivors.' Mepesto paused again, the weight of so many dead comrades heavy on his mind, 'After the Chaplain Kylan's sermon, we shall resume training." With that, Mepesto saluted and strode away, to join his command squad at the front of the chapel.
The chapel aboard the Swooping Flame was small compared to the ones the Black Templars or other, fanatic Chapters, but the vaulted roof soared two dozen meters above their heads. Statues of the previous company heroes, men who had forged a bloody path across the stars to make their warriors-name, men who had fought in the most terrible battles, men who had died honorably.
Kylan nodded to him and took his place at the podium. "KNEEL!" he commanded. With a deafening crash, one-hundred and sixty armored knees hit the adamantine floor.
"Where would we be without the Emperor?" asked Kylan
"Nowhere, for the Emperor is all." Responded the 1st Company as one, their deep voices echoing off the buttressed walls of the chapel.
"What do we ask of Him?"
"Nothing, we owe Him for His sacrifice."
"What does He ask of us?"
"Our unquestioning obedience and undying loyalty."
"How will you be judged by the Emperor?"
"By the measure of my life's deeds."
"Praise the Emperor"
"Praise the Emperor."
"You are dismissed." Kylan said simply as he moved off the podium, swinging a censor that billowed clouds of sweet smelling smoke. He was not armored, dressed only in simple dark green robes. He was still wearing a rictus-mask, decorated as a grinning skull.
Mepesto stayed after the sermon, he needed to speak to Kylan. The Chaplain was still standing behind the great oak podium, watching the company file out of the Chapel to resume their training. Mepesto rose and walked over to Kylan.
"Do you have a moment, Master Chaplain?" Mepesto was purposely formal, what he needed to speak to the Chaplain about deserved nothing less.
"For the faithful, I always have time.' The Chaplain responded, 'Do you wish to go to my Reclusium?" The Reclusium was the Chaplains personal quarters, located behind the chapel. It was his inner sanctum, the most holy place in the entire ship.
"I believe we should." The Chaplain lead Mepesto to a small, sparse room tucked away behind a statue of the previous Chaplain. His room had a bed, statues of the Emperor, Robute Guilliman and Sebastian Thor. He also had an armor and weapons stand, the dark wood worn with age and use.
"What would you like to speak to me about, Captain?" The Chaplain had remained standing, but had removed his rictus-mask. Few Marines had seen the Chaplains face and this was Mepesto's first time. The Chaplain had a square, set jaw, with piercing blue eyes. Across his face, the shadows of pre-Marine tattoos could be seen; a serpent curling on his cheek, and a sunburst on the other. On his brow, there were one silver and two white studs, for one-hundred years as a Sergeant, and two-hundred years as a Chaplain. He was getting old.
"Chaplain Kylan, I felt the need to tell you this information, because I feel you can be trusted with this information, since it could pose a morale issue. I have requested the command of this company for a different reason. I have sworn an oath to the Emperor, in front of the Council, that I will hunt down and kill Bjorn Death-Hand, and bring his head before the Council. To make this task more difficult than it currently is, the company cannot take on more recruits. Do you understand?" Mepesto bowed his head and waited for the Chaplain to answer.
Bjorn Death-Hand. That name was a curse, a plague upon humanity. He was once a Warhawk company captain, a distinguished veteran of dozens of wars and battles. He was rumored that he was to be a Councilman, if he could overcome his temper. He would go berserk in battle, uncaring of the destruction he threw upon his foes.
During the battle to retake a planet from the Word Bearers, Bjorn fell prey to their words and their promises of power. Then, Bjorn spread their heresy to his company, the fifth, and to the sixth Company. That was four hundred years ago. Since then, they had burned dozens of worlds and slaughtered thousands of men. Several Captains had lead forces against him, but each in turn was wiped out or were turned to Chaos by Bjorns false promises of power.
Now it was Mepestos turn.
After a tense moment, Kylan answered, "Yes, Captain, I do understand and I am proud that you have chosen this company for this task. I believe it is best if we indeed left the company known, it will fill their hearts with pride and duty."
Mepesto smiled for a moment. "You are, of course, correct, Brother-Chaplain. That is a duty for morning sermons tomorrow."
Kylan nodded respectfully. "Is there anything else, Cpatain?" Mepesto looked up and saw that the Chaplain had replaced his rictus-mask and picked up his Crozius and was staring at the ancient power weapon.
"No, Chaplain. I will let you return to your duties." Mepesto saluted and turned on his heel, walking out of the Chaplains quarters. He had to see how the training was progressing with his new company.