The Clash at Vorbek

Chapter 2

by Son of the Gorgon

Disclaimer: I do not own Warhammer 40,000

Orks ran rampant throughout the galaxy, especially on the fringes of the Imperium of Man. Some chapters of Astartes patrolled it exclusively to combat the green skin threat, several fortress worlds had been founded to keep them from spilling into more peaceful sectors. The Howling Hunters patrolled the edges, not only to fight the Ork, but to keep themselves from undergoing too much contact with the Imperium as a whole.

They did not mind the mortals they protected, but they found it difficult to spend any prolonged amount of time with them. Their place was in the stars, traveling from battle to battle. Mikael Red Axe found he to had that attitude, as he led his men in exercise aboard the battle barge Ravager. Currently, he was gritting his teeth behind a breaching shield, his second in command Lucas was firing his plasma gun next to him, using his own shield as cover.

Servitors burned to a crisp, next to Mikael one of his striplings was wielding a flamer behind his breaching shield. Breki, proud, grinning Breki with his red mane of hair, shouted in victory at his brothers work. Joros nodded, not paying him any more mind as he put the weapon to work.

The bell peal of metal being struck resounded, the training grounds resembled the corridor of a battle barge, and it was rife with automatic defenses as one would expect. Breki's shield had been struck by a metal bar, that could very well have cut him in half had he not had it. Still, he had not expected it, and took the shield to his exposed face.

Hans laughed, he was further back in the press, but the veteran had seen what happened, "won't be the last time that happens, young blood, better keep your eye on target!"

"Bah, it only happened because I wasn't expecting it old man, there won't be a next time," Breki retorted, spitting a small amount of blood out onto the deck. The acid spit mixed in with it started sizzling into the grating.

Everyone laughed at that, Breki seemed to have become something of a heart for the squad. The young blood's jokes and ways seemed to bring a smile to their faces. Hans, the old veteran, had taken him under his wing, and began instructing him in the way of the axe, Hans' preferred weapon.

Later, after the drill was done for the day, Mikael found himself in the chapel with Chaplain Lauri. The blond, boyish faced Astartes chiding Mikael lightly for interrupting his work. They both knew the Chaplain was merely making a joke.

Chaplain Lauri had been a member of the Sixth Company for a few decades, which was still relatively new for an Astartes. The Astartes was fresh from the Reclusiam, but he had proved his mettle more than once. Both, as a Chaplain, and a warrior, Lauri was respected for his blade work and his word smithing. He often led the Company in prayer before battle, his black armor adorned with purity seals and stylized cogs. The head of his Crozius resembled a great brass gear, having been a gift from the Iron Hands upon their founding.

"What brings you to my chapel, brother, surely one as ancient and venerated as yourself hasn't come upon a problem that you cannot reason out. Perhaps you are hear to enjoy the company of the Sixth's relics?"

Mikael nodded, "more or less, Brother-Chaplain, that and to ask what task you have been given in the coming campaign."

"I will make planet fall with the assault squads, the orks did not slake the thirst of my wrath for Mankind's enemy well enough. I desire to be in the vanguard again," he grinned, "besides, it's been far too long since I took to battle with a jump pack. It will give the traitors quite a fright, I imagine."

"It isn't to see what I have to say about the good Inquisitor trying to get on my good side, then is it?" the Chaplain was suddenly serious, the smile gone from his face. The eyes turning into ice chips in their sockets as the mirth disappeared from them.

"Has she told you at all why it is she wants me for her retinue?"

"You know the Inquisition, they don't want you to know until it's too late," the Chaplain grunted, "she did mention something about needing Astartes killing power, I think she might be in love with your sword arm."

It was many moments before Mikael realized it was a joke, he chuckled a little if only to humor the Chaplain. His days in the shadows were over with. He wasn't interested in retaking the black, not for any reason at all.

"Why is she so damn persistent, I've already told her I have no interest in joining her, yet she's still here."

"The Inquisition works in it's own ways, it could be they're using this as a smoke screen. They could be investigating Astartes affairs, affairs mortals have no reason to know."

"She is Ordos Xenos," Mikael replied quietly.

"No one says an Inquisitor can't change her Ordo, what little knowledge we have about them, it points to the fact that they can change their main targets of investigation at the drop of a hat."

"She's playing a dangerous game, our Inquisitor."

The two nodded together, in agreement. It would be a trying time when the matter finally reached the ears of the Chapter Master. Hopefully, he would not bow to the will of the Inquisition, but what was one space marine before the life of his brothers? If the Inquisition wanted to force the issue, would the Chapter mobilize against them?

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Guardsman Daniel Montegard was not having a good day, not a good day by far. It had been a few months since the traitors had come to Vorbek, and the situation had only gotten more dire as the days under attack grew. Hives, far fewer than the planet had, still held out under the siege of the crazed servants of the Blood God.

He debated trying to get his men into one of the hives, but they were all under such attack that there would be no way that a group their size would be able to fight their way in. And if they tried to sneak in, well, if they could find a way in, what would stop the cultists from doing the same?

Rumors of a fleet sent to aid them were a pipe dream to the young guardsman. Still, some of his fellow survivors clung to the hope. The only thing that they had was their faith, faith in the God Emperor. He may have been a man who attended church, but Montegard found he had more faith in his lasgun these days than he did in any sort of celestial being. He knew enough to keep his mouth shut about such things, though.

They were currently taking refuge in an abandoned munitions dump. The corrugated steel was rusted, the building empty of any sort of comfort, but it was safe enough. Miller and Jonias were on watch. Everyone else was sleeping, but Montegard found himself unable to sleep.

He was exhausted, they all were, but his thoughts still kept him awake. It was an event that had happened the previous day, and kept playing over and over in his head.

The woman looked normal enough, dirty and covered in rags like everyone else that didn't have flak armor. One of their number, Emperor above, he couldn't even remember the man's name, had tried to offer her a ration. The woman's face had turned feral, in almost an instant. She was howling and hacking into the guardsman's neck with a butcher knife, shrieking like a cat in a blender the whole time.

Montegard had killed her, shooting her till she stopped moving, and a few after for good measure. Vandenreich understood, and didn't say anything. It wasn't the killing that bothered him about it though, it was how normal the woman had looked. Could there be more cultists among the civilians scattered in the ruins? The occasional contact they made with the hollow eyed citizens were already strained enough, would they submit themselves for inspection of heretical markings if they demanded them? He missed the days of being a simple guardsman, instead of being the leader of a platoon trapped deep in enemy territory.

He let out a breath, closing his eyes. Suddenly, he heard rocks skittering, having been kicked, and was instantly alert. The lasgun by his side was never raised, a giant stood above him. The Astartes armor was green, and of a completely different make than that of the traitors they had fought or run from. It was primarily a chest piece, for one. The giant had a camouflage cloak over his shoulders, and a pistol larger than Montegard's lasgun. A long bladed knife was on the man's belt, with what looked like a sniper rifle over his shoulder.

The Astartes held a finger up to his lips, holstering his pistol. He gestured for Montegard to stand.

"I am Sven," the Astartes said quietly and simply, "a scout of the Howling Hunters. It took some time to find this band of guardsmen, I commend you."

Montegard was unsure of what to say, but remembered enough to make the sign of the aquila across his chest in salute. Sven returned it, his dark eyes alight with amusement at this. The Astartes had the biggest beard Montegard had ever seen, it trailed down to his chest, a mix of black and grey.

"What, what are you doing here my lord?"

"That is easy enough to answer, it is my job to gather intelligence, intelligence was needed here. I have not been able to find any other loyalists, not in such numbers, but there are plenty of the arch enemy to go around in these parts."

"Now tell me, guardsman, what you know of the Eaters of Worlds, and why they have come to Vorbek."

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Stanislav Doombringer eyed the ramparts of ferrocrete and steel arrayed before him. Six months, six months since the campaign upon Vorbek had started, and they still had not breached Hive Secundus. His blood packs were thirsty, for combat, for blood. There was no point in sending them at the walls, they would not be able to cut their way through with their chain weapons.

It would merely result in their death, from the massive siege cannons or from guardsmen throwing satchel charges from the ramparts, he and his cohort would not play a part, not yet. He could hear them howling even know, his blood packs, chained and locked away lest they slay the mortal slaves they employed.

Stanislav turned to his second in command, an iron armored son of Perturabo named Yuri. He had left Sergei in charge of the siege, in charge of breaking the walls of Secundus and pulling the puling mortals from their hiding place.

"What news do you bring for me, Yuri, it can't be that of victory, for I see the walls of Secundus stand before me still." The voice of the war band leader sounded like knives being drawn across whetstones.

"No, not of victory, not yet my lord. Our ships in orbit report a small craft breaking orbit late last night. It was later reported as having landed somewhere in the North, I have dispatched three squads to investigate." Yuri's voice was a bass drum, loud and boisterous to Stanislav's quiet, deathly timbre.

"Assassinorum perhaps, though it's not like them to be caught so easily," Stanislav mused to himself. Yuri waited patiently, his leader had a flair for theatrics, one that he had become used to after years in the Eye of Terror under his command.

"I doubt that, my lord. The assassins of the Corpse Emperor are rarely so indirect. If they wanted to slay me, they would have an assassin scoop my brains out from miles away with their rifle, or send a shrieking skull faced maniac to rip me asunder. No, if anything it is the same thorn in our side we have faced before."

Stanislav growled, "the Hunters, sons of Manus. Worthy foes, but as sneaky and sudden to strike as snakes at times. One of their lone scouts?"

Yuri nodded, Stanislav growled, even louder this time, "send the Blood Pack, let no knowledge of our doings escape the planet."

"It will be done, my lord."

The steel door whined open, steel on steel putting Yuri's teeth on edge. Eight beasts that had once been Astartes were chained to the walls, howling like animals that scented blood. Yuri pitied them, they had once been warriors like him, now they were lost to their maddened quest for blood. He himself had little use for gods, having replaced mutations, so called gifts, with bionics when they had surfaced.

Wordlessly, he commanded the slaves around him to start carrying the Blood Pack away. The howling warriors were brought to a thunderhawk, where they would stay until being dropped into the relative area of the loyalist scum. Yuri grinned, whoever was out there would not last long with the blood pack on their trail. They could smell their prey from miles away.

The squads that would accompany the Blood Pack, iron armored just as he, were already waiting at the thunderhawks. It would be a great day for hunting, a pity he could not go.

He had a siege to break, and a city to kill.

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Twisted, malformed ships occupied the space above Vorbek, the fleet that had defended it so much wreckage scattered in the system. Mikael stared at the ships from the observation deck. It wouldn't be long before they began their attack, he would have to leave for the boarding torpedoes soon. His squad was raw, still unused to working together, hopefully the fires of war would forge them together into a complete blade.

"Do you remember our first battle, Mikael," Lucas asked, standing next to his sergeant, "the defense of Hive Tertius on Badalan. We were just scouts then, children really, barely knew how to work a bolter."

He paused, "we get older, and every brother I see come after us these days, every replacement, I see that same kid that I once was. It's not gotten any easier with age, watching them die."

"Why are you bringing this up, Lucas." Mikael asked quietly.

"Because, Mikael, I can feel it in my bones. This is going to be my last campaign before I go to the Emperor's side." Lucas smiled grimly, "my death bell has sounded, and I've heard it's call."

Mikael shook his head, omens were ill-ignored amongst them. Still, no one knew what fate would have in store for them, "you can't know that."

"A specter came to me last night, black in plate, wreathed in holy flame, he merely pointed at me. No words were needed, I know an omen of death when I see one. My end is coming, and it is coming soon, old friend."

Nothing was said for the longest time, nothing was needed to be. Eventually, the two departed for the boarding torpedo, passing serfs clad in carapace to repel boarding parties as they went. Other Hunters nodded as they passed, heading off to their own tasks.

When they reached the torpedo, the rest of the squad was waiting. Breki was idly inspecting his flamer, trying to hide his nervousness. The rest of the squad were doing their usual checks of equipment. Mikael stood by, watching his striplings. They did indeed resemble Lucas and himself when they were wet behind the ears. They were the new face of the chapter, and the thought of that hit Mikael, he had been hearing it without realizing it up until this point. So few Astartes of his age were still alive, still fighitng. It was miraculous he was not dead or in a dreadnought himself.

Hans was muttering under his breath, prayers and catechisms of faith. He had a nervous habit of doing it, said it comforted him during battle. Mikael thought it was his way of fighting off the desire to let go, to berserk his way through the foe. It was the people of their planets way, when they had been plucked from it so long ago.

The doors sealed behind them, everyone strapped into a harness. The light was red and sparse inside the torpedo. Mikael double checked his axe, chambered a round in his combi-melta, and settled in. He didn't have a long wait till the torpedo was launched.

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Daniel Montegard stood next to Commissar Vandenreich, the two arrayed in front of the large Astartes scout Sven. Four additional giants, arrayed in the same armor as Sven had shown themselves over the last two days, with a further five somewhere else in the area. They were all grey, possessed bionics, and oddly cheerful.

"We have made contact with several other groups like yours, arraying in sizes from platoon strength to company. As we speak, they are being directed to a staging area fifty miles to the west in preparation for actions in support of our brothers. But not you, you have a special task," Sven spoke, he seemed to be the leader of this band of scouts.

One of the scouts had lain a map across a broken chunk of rockcrete. On it was a aerial view of an old munitions factory. It was only a few days old, and showed off impressive fortifications and what appeared to be hundreds, if not thousands, of cultists. Sven took the time to point out several key areas on the building.

"They archenemy is keeping something in here, and we don't know what. But whatever it is, we'll need to destroy it. I'll be taking your band into the sewer systems beneath in order to destroy the factory."

He traced a finger from the streets into the factory, "Siggi has found the access point here, and is going to try and find out just what they're hiding in there. He's already commenced his mission as we speak."

Indeed, the scout known as Siggi had already begun his recon mission. He was the same height as all the giant astartes, the only distinguishing feature to note would be the silver hair upon his head being braided. The scout found himself relying on his own eyes in the deep darks of the sewers.

He spoke no words, for no one was their to hear him. He merely trudged on, sweeping his advance with his stalker boltgun. The trusty bolter had seen him through over a century of campaigning with the scouts, and he hoped it would see him through a few more before he joined the Emperor's side.

Something cracked, footsteps skittered in the dark. Siggi drew a bead upon the area, and found a sniveling cultist in his sights. The wretch was clutching a severed arm, no doubt hiding in the sewers to eat his prize in peace. Without pause, the Astartes holstered his boltgun. Instead, he drew the monomolecular edge of his combat knife. There was no point in wasting rounds.

The poor bastard never knew what was coming, Siggi nearly sliced the poor bastard's head off with the edge of the blade, from a combination of the blades edge and his own prodigious strength. With the man's lifeblood staining his gauntlets, Siggi hid the body under some rubble and continued on his way. He didn't sheath his knife, if there was one cultist down here, chances were there would be scores more. It was only five hundred yards into the bowels of the factory, through twisting and turning tunnels, he didn't like the chances of not finding any others.

In fact, Siggi would encounter three other groups of cultists, clustered around fires in barrels, warming themselves in the dank of the tunnels. He didn't need to use his boltgun, his bionic fists and knife were all it took to kill these miserable mortals. Siggi had left that behind him two hundred years ago. He left their remains painted across the walls, there was no need to hide their bodies, where would he hide over twenty bodies in a sewer tunnel anyway? If any heretics came down into the tunnels, they would find their friends rather easily, so he left them in the open. He didn't think they'd be coming down their any time soon, and he didn't plan on leaving the same way he came unless he had to.

He came to a manhole cover eventually, he didn't bother opening it, not just yet. Instead, he slipped a small camera upon a fiber optic cable from one of his pouches. Cracking open the cover, he slide the small lens through it and peered around the room. He was not surprised by what he found.

The factory floor was alight with blood and remains of slaughter, dead cultists and guardsman dotting the floor, but the place was far from inactive. Floodlights exposed machines being created, tanks of the PDF, ruined or captured, being turned and rebuilt in dedication to the dark gods.

Siggi could not tell how many were built, but the factory itself no doubt had room for hundreds, if not thousands, of these vehicles. They were building an army of armor, one that walls could not stand against. He pulled the camera free, he had to tell Sven and the others of this, he had to-

A hammer blow sent Siggi flying down the tunnel, the peal of metal striking ceramite filling the air. Blood dripped from the cracked carapace. Siggi coughed as he rolled to his feet, his knife drawn in one hand, the other full of his bolt pistol's grip.

His opponent was a giant as he, only clad in the iron power armor of a son of Perturabo. One hand had been replaced with a cruel claw bionic. It was the hand that had no doubt been used to strike Siggi. The Iron Warrior was alone, clearly thinking he needed no help to deal with a single scout. Were this any other chapter, where the scouts were the raw and untested, the traitor would have been right.

Siggi was no greenhorn boy, he was a veteran of his chapter, and he would prove this slime wrong. With a roar of fury, Siggi threw himself at his opponent, bolt pistol sending silent death before him.

The rounds didn't penetrate the traitor's ceramite shell, proving too thick for them. They left gouges in the ceramite, one in particular leaving a whorl in his chest plate, defacing the steel skull of the Iron Warrior's heraldry.

The Iron Warrior met Siggi halfway, the two locking fists, having caught each others strikes. The Traitor began laughing, pushing his power claw slowly down toward Siggi's chest. With power born of desperation, Siggi freed his left arm, and struck the traitor across the helm with a bionic fist. The ceramite shattering beneath his powerful blow, sending the traitor reeling.

Siggi did not see the claw strike it's blow, sending him on his own journey away from the Iron Warrior. When he had regained his footing, he saw the traitor discarding his shattered helm, revealing pale, corpse like flesh marred with a crude metal jaw, and red rimmed eyes.

"Come lapdog of the Emperor, make your death worthy enough for me to remember," The Iron Warrior beckoned with his flesh hand, the claw replacing the other flexing and unflexing.

Siggi said nothing, tossing his combat knife from hand to hand, before breaking into a run towards the traitor. His bionic left hand free to strike as he attempted a slash with the knife in his right.

As the traitor went to block, meeting the knife's blade with his claw, Siggi let his true intentions known. The Iron Warrior had left his face exposed, and the Betcher's Gland within the scout had been hard at work since he had risen from the first strike of the claw.

A mouthful of acid splattered across the Iron Warriors face, getting into both of the traitors eyes. The acid began sizzling almost immediately, rendering the son of Perturabo blind as it ate away the flesh. The blinded warrior began rolling around on the ground howling, his hands seeking purchase on anything.

In his carelessness, Siggi had left himself open to the grasp of the claw. It closed around his left ankle, snapping shut with all the care of scissors slicing through paper. Siggi bit down on his lip, toppling to the floor beside the thrashing Iron Warrior. He drew his bolt pistol and finished the Astartes off with a headshot, what he should have done from the beginning. It was too late now, another piece of his flesh was gone, from his own fault no less.

It didn't take long for the stump to stop bleeding, his physiology allowed for his wounds to heal rather quickly. He felt feverish though as he regained his footing, limping his way back the way he had come, not in any shape for a fight. A bit of blood was coming up with the occasional cough, no doubt from the sucker punch he had initially received. Siggi was observant, and a good scout, but what he didn't see, was the tinge of black that had started creeping up his leg from the severed stump.

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Breki stood next to his Sergeant aboard the tainted ship they had breached. Gunfire and smoke was everywhere, and the young Hunter could only grit his teeth behind his boarding shield and wait for it to subside. Mutants and fallen humans were filling the passage with las and auto gun fire, though he thought his armor could take it, there was no point in risking death or injury for pride.

To his right, Einar was clutching a power sword that to a mortal would need two hands. The blade was stained with the corrupted essence of many a mortal already, the veteran was clutching a bolt pistol in his other hand, waiting to unload it's magazine on his enemy. The blond, grim faced Astartes had little to say, and Breki couldn't fault the blade smith for his demeanor. He was not originally part of Mikael's squad, hadn't joined it as a fresh faced youth, from what Breki had been told, Einar had been the only survivor of his squad.

They had pulled the Hunter from a pile of dead Dark Eldar, clutching a broken length of chainsword in his one still attached hand. Around him were his brothers, broken under xenos blades, xenos guns. Einar had killed and kept killing until he had been brought down. The corrupted eldar thought him slowly dying from their intricate poisons, the few of them still alive had left. That was their mistake. When reinforcements had arrived they had found the Einar in a healing coma, his skin already sweating the poison out of his system. Mikael had led the reinforcements, having needed a replacement and impressed by the tenacity of Einar, he had taken him into his squad.

The lull came finally, the need for shields was over. Breki pulled the flamer at his side free, ready to hose down the tunnel with flaming promethium. He didn't get the chance to. Einar was already running ahead, bolt pistol firing as he closed with the enemy, cutting them down with clinical strikes from his blade.

Breki was beside the swordsman when the killing lulled, firing his flamer down the adjacent corridor to clear it for the advance. The roar of promethium burning, the screams of heretics accompanying it, let him know it had been required, renewed the young Astartes sense of purpose. The rest of the squad was arrayed behind the two, waiting for their time to replace the leading three. Mikael would not step aside for another of his squad to face danger where he could have, so it left Breki and Einar to trade out. The young Hunter had something to prove though, and had yet to be replaced. His armor was dented in several places for his trouble, his left leg blackened from a heretics flamer.

The squad came to a crossroads, orders were to scuttle the ship. Two other squads from Sixth Company were aboard. Breki wasn't privy to the reasoning behind it, but his squad had been given the mission of taking the bridge of the ship.

Mikael grunted beside him, "the bridge can't be far ahead, that's where we'll find our fight, our real one. Traitors dwell there, glory to the first to bring me the head of a fallen Astartes!" he roared, his blood up as he pointed his power ax forward, a command for them to advance.

Locking shields, the Astartes advanced into the face of renewing enemy gunfire. A low chant was coming over the squad's comlink. Hans was singing again, a song that Breki did not know. It was low and deep, with the feral wording of a death worlder all over it. Soon, other voices joined in. Einar, Lucas, and Mikael began singing the dirge with Hans, before beginning turning it over to the vox. The eery song echoed over the lasfire in the ship corridors. Soon, Breki found himself joining in, hearing the stanzas repeated over and over had lent him the ability to, even if he didn't know what the words meant.

They pushed on through barricades and gun emplacements, going a further two hundred meters before traitor angels made themselves known. Iron clad, with hazard stripes painted on their armor. Their gunmetal bolters chattering as they spat death at their loyalist cousins. Breki could hear the hate in the dirge as they advanced, before a screeching roar of fury overtook it. Mikael had surged forward, engaging the largest of the traitors with his ax.

Ax met blade, as the traitor defended himself with an oily, serrated sword. The traitors brothers joined in the combat, meeting the veteran swordsman Einar and the squad second Lucas in melee combat. Breki found himself too busy to watch, he had his own fight.

An Iron Warrior with a crimson topknot upon his helm had lunged for him with a chainsword. Breki had maglocked his flamer, and drawn his own chainsword to meet it. The two blades locked, motors revving as they sought purchase upon their opponent.

Breki shoved the traitor with his shield, sending the him into the bulkhead, the blades came apart, Breki's scoring a gash through the iron breastplate, the traitor's blade left a whirring gouge up the length of the young Astartes' forearm. The following blows from the Iron Warrior were blocked by Breki's shield, before he saw an opening. He plunged his blade forward into the traitor's gorget, nearly decapitating his foe.

He took stock of the battle around him. Joros had lost his right arm, it dangled from a few strands of meat before Einar removed it fully with a strike of his blade. Mikael had finished his foe long ago, leaving the chest plate of his opponent savaged open. The bulkhead doors before them lead to the bridge, to their objective.

With the melta bombs in place, the squad took up position before them. Shields raised, ready to charge in. They didn't have to wait long, the explosives doing their job. Breki was in the lead, howling with his Sergeant, as they entered a charnel house fit for nightmares.

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Schedule is hectic, hurried this one out. Hopefully it isn't too bad.