Thirteen days had passed since the heavens had been torn asunder, apocalypse falling to earth on deathly wings. Not that anyone would have noticed. The skies, seeping with darkness, had been rendered impenetrably black by the vast warships high above, trails of armoured drop pods and landing craft. Fair Terra was cast violently into endless night as the hand of the traitor struck, burying its claws deep into the body of Man to rip out its heart. In the shadow of one of the orbital defence lasers, Captain Verian Larcius of the Imperial Fists Astartes Legion, re-donned his helmet, sealing it with a hiss and carrying a last minute check of his weapons, seeing the Astartes under his command doing the same. Squad Larcius stood with bolters and blades ready to meet the next assault, a thin yellow line to withstand the overwhelming hordes beyond.
His power sword was sheathed at his side, energised coils silent for the moment, and his bolt pistol was holstered at his right, full magazine loaded with on explosive round already resting ready in the chamber. Three more magazines were slid into the pouches on his belt, each one loaded with rounds that could blow a man's head off with a single blast. They would be exhausted in the first minutes of the next attempt to break their position. His yellow Mk III plate armour was battered but would hold. The fist of Dorn was displayed proudly on his breastplate, eagle wings fanning out across his chest.
Verian gripped the well-worn grip of his sword in anticipation as a roar arose from beyond the shattered wasteland before them and the earth shook with the beat of thousands of armoured feet. His men heard the sound too, turning their heads to watch the impending storm. "Larcius! Stand ready!"
From above, it was like watching a tide of blood surging towards the Imperial Fists' battle line. From the ground, the reality was far worse. Berserkers of the World Eaters legion, white and blue armour washed red with the blood of loyal warriors, charged up the shattered landscape towards the imperials, crushing the wounded and dead on the ground under armoured boots, screaming with blind rage and brandishing their chainaxes rising to an angry buzz as teeth whirled in anticipation of the coming bloodshed. Even from there, Verian could make out their expressions, blind killing fury stretching their faces in blood-curdling screams, eyes wide and unseeing of anything but their victims.
"Bolters to the fore! To the target in front, fire at will!" Verian roared the command even as he levelled his bolt pistol, sighting down its length and pulling the trigger. A World Eater's helmeted head exploded in a shower of blood and bone but Verian was already tracking another target, squeezing the trigger over and over again, precisely aimed bolt rounds punching through the air and detonating in the skulls of traitor Astartes, sending their armoured bodies crashing backwards to be stamped underfoot by their comrades. All around him, Imperial Fists pumped bolter rounds into the charging enemy, a steady rain of death culling the front ranks over and over again only to have another wave of World Eaters behind. An empty magazine clattered smoking to the flagstones and Verian slammed a fresh one into his pistol, racking the slide with practiced motions and taking aim again.
A hundred metres, fifty… He was down to his last magazine and he drew his power sword into his other hand, eagle-winged hilt gleaming above his mailed fist. The eagle, the aquila… It was the symbol of their lord and master; the Emperor, in whose name millions of warriors and soldiers had given their blood, were giving their blood for even now. It was for him that Verian now fought, though his yellow armour was rent and torn, spattered in the blood of both his comrades and those traitors who had once been his brothers, though his body was beaten and tired from constant, unrelenting battle, and his mind stretched to its limit, trying to comprehend what could make brother turn on brother and spit on their oaths to their master.
Inside his helmet, he closed his eyes, steadying his breathing, steeling himself. The roaring was getting nearer. The earth shook more violently than ever. The words of the traitors could now be made out over the unrelenting booms of cannon fire, curses to the Emperor and dark prayers being screamed to their gods above. Foul icons were slashed in blood all over their armour that hurt to look at for too long. The tide was almost upon them. Close enough… His eyes snapped open and he raised his power sword high so all could see. He pressed the activation rune and purple flames erupted down the blade, wreathing it in killing energy. "Brothers! Stand firm and brace for assault! For the Emperor!"
Verian met the first World Eater head on, energised blade cleaving through his chainaxe and burying itself into the traitor's chest. He drove a knee up to dislodge the body as two more lunged at him, chainaxes ripping the air apart as they attacked. He dodged, narrowly avoiding the first as it shrieked past his face, raising his bolt pistol and emptying his magazine into the two, riddling them with bloody craters. It clicked hollow and he swung it around in a vicious arc, cracking another World Eater across the face and taking advantage of the opening to drive his sword into the enemy's chest.
All around him, loyalists battled with traitor Astartes in close combat, bolters run dry and the Imperial Fists forced to use combat knives against chainaxes. Screams and cries of pain combined with the clash of Mars-forged steel. The World Eaters were unstoppable, enduring wounds that would have felled even an enhanced Astartes warrior, so caught up in their bloodlust. Brother Mettius fell, breastplate sawn open, spraying blood over the traitor who'd killed him. Brother Herius leapt forward to avenge his death, seizing the World Eater from behind by the throat and driving his combat blade into the traitor's spine, up into the chest cavity and piercing the primary heart.
The berserker, overcome by some insane rage, spun around, smashing an armoured fist across Herius' face and hurling him to the earth. He raised his chainaxe high over his head but Herius' hand came up, bolter clenched firmly in his fist. A throaty boom re-echoed around the battlefield as the World Eater's head exploded. Before he could celebrate his victory or even rise to his feet, two more berserkers were upon him, chainaxes swinging down.
Verian fought back to back with Brother Decius, warding off attack after attack, blade flashing in a glowing arc as he parried furious attacks and lashed out to drive them back. A chainaxe caught him in the shoulder, sawing into his armour and spinning him around from the force of the blow. He fell to the earth, rolling and slicing the World Eater's legs out from beneath him. Even as the giant fell, he dived forward, stabbing his sword into his chest.
He leapt to his feet, ready for the next enemy but suddenly the battlefield was still, the only sounds of battle coming from many miles away, battle cannons reduced to only dull echoes and battle cries replaced by only the groans of survivors and the death rattles of those strewn across the earth. Yellow and red armoured forms littered the churned up ground, shattered plates and weapons intermingled with the bodies. High above, the orbital cannon the Imperial Fists had been protecting gave a violent bark as if in celebration, a jet of energy rising into the heavens to blast another traitor cruiser from the skies.
Verian took deep steadying breaths to calm down his system, powering down his sword and wiping the blood from its blade, returning it to its sheath. The remnants of squad Larcius staggered over to him, their armour rent and torn, some limping where great chainaxes had ripped into their legs or holding one side of their body limp, all feeling severed from them. Of his squad before the assault, only nine remained, clutching at bolters near-empty and combat blades. He nodded wearily to them and they inclined their heads to their Captain half-heartedly. They had seen off the assault but the losses had been great and devastating as the last one and there were nearly too few men to withstand another.
Glancing up at the orbital cannon behind them, Verian considered that every minute they held it, the more shots it could unleash and bring down the enemy transport carriers, sending them crashing to earth like blazing comets, traitors screaming as they were burnt alive before being crushed under the weight of their transport. So overcome with battle weariness was Verian that the explosion that ripped out the core of the orbital cannon barely registered on his worn senses, even as he was hurled forward, armour smoking and glowing, setting his flesh on fire.
"Captain!" One of his men came staggering over to him, shadow falling across him. Armoured hands rolled him over, dragging him upright. His senses were ringing from the aftershock, overloaded. His mind fought to register the dark shapes materialising from the blazing wreckage of orbital cannon behind, behind his brother Astartes. His spinning vision struggled to bring the newcomers into focus. Upon their breastplates and shoulders, the eye of Horus glared down at him.
"Sons of…" The Imperial Fists who'd helped him upright spun around, blades raised, but energised weapons cleaved them apart before they could react. The sea-green figures snapped into clear focus and Verian felt coldness grip at his insides. "Justaerin…" he breathed. Justaerin…the terminator elite of the Sons of Horus legion… They had been there all along…planting the melta charges on the core engines and drivers of the orbital cannon while the Imperial Fists wasted their attention and men holding back the World Eaters. Now their objective was complete, they were content to slaughter the remaining defenders before moving on.
Verian forced his screaming muscles to obey, rising heavily to his feet despite its best efforts to give in to the agony, the painkillers flooding his system having long failed in their purpose. His sword was still gripped in his hand, blade igniting even as he stumbled a pace, fighting to retain consciousness. At a signal from their leader, the Justaerin opened fire and his men began to die, heavy storm bolter rounds blasting them off their feet in a shower of broken yellow armour plating.
One towered over him, head and shoulders rising above him, swinging at him with a power fist, gauntlet crackling with malign energies that scored a deep furrow across his chest, shattering the symbol of his legion from his armour. Fighting to stay on his feet, Verian drove forward, stabbing his blade into the heavy terminator armour, Imperial metal punching through traitor-cursed shielding and deep into the flesh beneath. The traitor screamed with pain and backhanded him, sending him flying backwards, helmet fracturing under the blow and falling apart. The powerful stench of death, burning and weapon discharge struck his sense, boiling winds blowing fresh against his bare face.
Gritting his teeth, he rolled, snarling as he lunged for the reeling Justaerin warrior, lashing out with his sword two-handed in furious arc that severed his head from his massive body, blood splashing his yellow armour. The next came at him but this time he spun under the blow, following through with a strike that scorched the surface of the armour but failed to penetrate. The Sons of Horus were closing ranks around him, massive armoured forms towering high over him.
At his belt alongside his pistol holster, he found he still had melta grenades remaining. If he could arm one…perhaps his death wouldn't be in vain… The Justaerin surged forward to stop him but his finger hit the primer as he stepped back out of their range. The timer flashed. He bared his teeth in a fierce grin of triumph and awaited death; a glorious death in the name of the Emperor and Dorn, his lord.
A smirk lasted for a fraction of a second before a fist closed on his wrist from behind, held it in a vice-like grip. The grip tightened, crushing armour plating and the grenade dropped from his limp grasp, into a hand sheathed in sea-green armour, which flicked the switch, killing it. Even as this fresh pain washed over him, there was a burning sensation from his chest as a crackling blade slid through his Mk III plate like paper, through his back and coming out his chest. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth and from the gaping wound in his chest as the blade was withdrawn.
Verian gave a breathless cry and dropped to his knees. There were heavy footfalls behind him, those of the unknown assailant. He waited for the last moment before lashing out behind him, spinning around, sword flashing in an arc. The blow never landed. The Imperial Fists captain strained against the captain of the Sons of Horus, but he was weak now, drained from battle. So too was his sword… The blade exploded, shards slashing into his face, one slicing diagonally across his face as he turned away.
His body was failing him. He could feel death clawing at the edges of his mind. He wanted to just give in and let the darkness take him but the core of his being still burned with hatred for the traitors that surrounded him, a furnace blazing with energy that made him drag himself upright, clawing his way up the slope to the stone pavilion above. The bodies of some of his squad lay there, on the steps, yellow armour broken open by explosive shells or blades. He crawled onwards, away from the Sons of Horus behind, tripping on the last few steps and coming to rest with his back against a pillar, chunks blown out of it in the countless fire fights that had raged around it.
He slid slowly down it, a streak of red staining the dull marble as his life leaked out from the wounds, alongside the body of Brother Rhesus. Far off, he could hear battle raging as furiously as ever. His brothers were not going to go quietly into the night. Though the traitors had forced their way to Terra, bringing thousands of traitor Astartes, daemons and millions of cultists, his brothers had stood firm. Imperial Fists, Blood Angels and White Scars had stood side by side, fighting with every last drop of blood in their veins to deny the Warmaster his triumph. They couldn't have done more… Even if they were to die, it would be with honour. Well…almost nothing more…
There were footsteps again. The Sons of Horus captain appeared there, naked blade still soaked in his own blood. The Justaerin were behind him. He marched forward and knelt before Verian, fist closing around his throat. "You've fought well, brother. My lord has uses for warriors in the future." The fist tightened. "Renounce your allegiance to the false Emperor and accept the Warmaster as your new lord."
His vision was blurring. His lungs were on fire. Every fibre of his being screamed their protest at being pushed beyond their limits. Thoughts came painfully and it was all he could do to remain lucid. The Son of Horus leaned nearer. "What say you, brother? Are you going to be foolish and throw your life away now for nothing…or be part of the new galactic order to bring control to all? For whom do you stand?"
Despite his situation, Verian forced a bloody smile. Through the confusion, there was this moment of clarity. Far off in the distance, he saw the figure of Lord Sanguinius, master of the Blood Angels, rising high above the earth on wings of purest white, casting down the greatest daemon encountered by Man. There was a cheer from the Imperials, a million ragged throats forcing the noise from the core of their being at this victory.
The sight of this great warrior, a son of the Emperor, lent strength to his failing body. He turned his gaze back to the Son of Horus before him. His spirit blazed with passion, his heart afire with the Emperor's wrath. "The words of a traitor are meaningless. The lies of the daemon are in your offer. I stand as I always have… For the Emperor!"
The battle cry tore from his throat even as his fingers closed around cold hilt of Brother Rhesus' gladius, lying alongside his body. In one motion, he stabbed upwards, punching the short sword upwards, through the base of the traitor's skull, right through the skull and bursting out the top. The Son of Horus uttered a sound but Verian twisted the blade and wrenched it free, dropping the dead captain to the stone floor in a dull crash of sea-green armour.
The Justaerin closed in on him but he had already faded by then. He barely felt as a claw closed on his sword arm, ripping it from his body along with weapon. Heavy bolter rounds hammered his breastplate and tore it open, detonating in his body. His eyes closed and the remaining melta grenade at his belt flashed on the final second. Verian smirked and spat a mouthful of blood at the nearest Justaerin. The Sons of Horus had a second to take a step back before the melta charges erupted. Superheated gas engulfed them and in one last blaze of glory, Captain Verian Larcius died.