"For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my battle-brother eternal."
— Flesh Tearers rite of initiation.
Death loomed over the world of Signatus Minorum. The coppery scent of human blood hung in the air, mingling with the stench of rotting flesh. The odor was so thick and pungent that even the sophisticated atmospheric filtration systems of Astartes power armour could not fully neutralise it. Of course, this was of little concern to Brother-Sergeant Vincenzio or his squad; as Battle-Brothers of the Angels Encarmine, they were quite acquainted with the smell of blood. But Vincenzio was troubled nonetheless.
"Truly nothing is sacred to these heathens," crackled Brother Othello's voice over the vox channel as the Space Marines surveyed the blood-spattered city ruins. Once proud statues were now toppled or defaced, and defiled corpses hung by their entrails from above, blasphemous icons carved into their violated flesh. The whole city had been turned from a masterwork of Imperial achievement into a heinous monument of carnage in tribute to the unholy powers of the Warp. The bloody scent emanated off of the mutilated corpses which were strewn across the streets or piled up into mounds like refuse. Others yet were carefully laid out beside defaced monuments and statues, presumably for use in various unspeakable rituals. Clearly, the planet's Governor had been careless in the ministration of his subjects, for so harrowing a scene could only have been the aftermath of and quick and brutal uprising on a massive scale. Vincenzio and his Marines had responded to the distress signal they'd received as quickly as they could, but it seemed that their efforts were much too little much too late.
It was something which had always troubled Vincenzio. For all of the incredible strength, speed and skill afforded to the Space Marines by their superhuman physiques, it all meant nothing if they were not in the right place at the right time. Had he and his squad been there at any point during the course of the uprising, who knows how many lives could've been—
No, Vincenzio thought, catching himself. I mustn't think about that. It will only lead to trouble.
"Contacts, seventy metres, two o'clock," reported Brother Thessius as the squad approached the crumbling remains of a cathedral through a narrow alleyway. Thessius was at the front of the group, using an auspex to scan the ruins for life. The Marine shifted his weapon to the side before dropping to a knee to help prevent the sunlight from glinting off of the display.
"Movement or life signs?" Vincenzio was fairly certain the detection was a fluke and nothing more. He and his squad had been searching the capital for over two hours now, and hadn't encountered a single living soul, friendly or hostile.
"Both," Thessius replied, much to the Sergeant's surprise. "Orders?"
Vincenzio heaved a long, exasperated sigh. "Move in, and stay alert. Do not fire unless I give the signal or you are fired upon."
The squad nodded in affirmation before falling in behind one another. They huddled over by the nearest door into the cathedral, of which Brother Crecio made short work by way of a simple kick. The Marines poured into the doorway, with only silence seeming to greet them on the other side. It appeared that the squad had entered into a back room of some kind; judging by the various Ecclesiarchal relics and paraphernalia, it was likely some kind of waiting and dress area meant for priests and other various clergymen. Inactive servitors stared blankly in the darkness, giving the space a quite unsettling feel. After scanning the surroundings, Vincenzio gave the signal to move forward, leading his squad into the remains of the building's main auditorium. Here most of the roof had collapsed, allowing sunlight to fill much of the space, though for the most part the walls along the periphery of the room remained engulfed in shadow.
The ten Astartes began a sweep of the area, searching for nooks and crannies in the rubble where people could be trapped or hiding. Barely had they gotten started when, without warning, the eerie quiet was perforated by the thunder of gunfire, accompanied the sound of autogun rounds cracking against stone and pinging off of ceramite battleplate. "Incoming fire from the balconies!" Brother Ferrizio shouted, pointing to a balcony on the far side of the cathedral, where smoke rose from the faintly glowing muzzle of a hot gunbarrel, easily visible against the otherwise tenebrous gallery.
The Astartes made for cover, some dropping behind the few pews that remained standing, while others ducked behind rubble or destroyed walls. Gunfire rang out across the cathedral again as the belt-fed heavy stubber tracked and fired, their attackers now realising that their targets were far more formidable than they had initially assumed. Crecio's bolter roared vengefully as he fired several bursts into the balcony, but Vincenzio could see his brother's shots flying past the enemy and detonating harmlessly against the walls behind them. For almost a full minute, the stubber noisily saturated the air with projectiles, until at last its clattering report ceased and the operator began to reload his now-empty weapon. This was their chance.
"Sabio!" Vincenzio called out to the Battle-Brother wielding a hefty Soundstrike-pattern missile launcher. "Bring that balcony down!"
Sabio's backpack-mounted autoloader whirred as it retrieved a fragmentation missile from its magazine and inserted it into the launch tube of the Marine's massive weapon. Shouldering it with a grunt, he braced the weapon with his free hand as a targeting lens extended from the its side. Sabio held his fire for a few short moments as he adjusted his aim, before his weapon unleashed its deadly payload with a jet of smoke and a furious whoosh. The missile streaked towards its target, spiraling as the stubber, fully loaded once again, attempted to shoot it from the air in a last-ditch effort at defiance. But the round struck home, blasting stone and metal supports out from the wall and sending it all tumbling to the ground with an earth-shaking crash.
Thessius consulted his auspex before broadcasting the all-clear signal, and the Marines cautiously stood up. Brothers Lorenzo and Tyris stepped over to survey the wreckage.
"They're cultists, no doubt. They bear the markings of the dark powers," Tyris reported, pausing. "No vital signs. They're dead."
Tyris was about to walk back away from the ruins of the balcony when he caught sight of a man dashing out from the stairwells that led up to the galleries. Seemingly unarmed, he stopped in the middle of the squad's ranks, meeting eyes with Brother Lorenzo. Lorenzo almost seemed to panic, hurriedly bringing his boltgun to bear whilst attempting to back away from the man with great haste. As the man's head turned to face Vincenzio, the Sergeant saw why. Branded upon the front of the man's cleanly shaven scalp was a wheel with eight long spokes, each tipped with a jagged triangular point: the wicked Star of Chaos. Realising what was about to happen, Vincenzio reached for his bolt pistol, just as Lorenzo managed to put a bolt into the man's unarmoured chest. But, even as the man's chest cavity flowered open in a pulpy shower of meat, it was already too late.
With a deafening bang and a momentary flash of blinding light, the cultist seemingly evaporated into a cloud of gore, his body all but annihilated by the explosion of the krak grenade. Lorenzo was thrown onto his back, his lower legs consumed in the blast. Bolter fire began echoing through the ruins as the Marines opened fire upon more suicide bombers now emerging from multiple doorways. Meanwhile, Lorenzo shouted curses and frothed hatred at the enemy; he had always been the prideful sort, and to be so gravely wounded by so insignificant a foe was undoubtedly a blow to his ego. Yet even in his crippled state, he managed to prop himself up against the crumbling pews and draw his bolt pistol from the holster on his ruined leg, and he began aiding his brothers in fending off the heretics. With each angry crack of his pistol, a cultist fell to the pavement, their heads bursting like overripe fruit. Even while gravely injured, Lorenzo's marksmanship was flawless.
It was not long before the heretics, apparently out of explosive ordnance, made a final, desperate charge, bringing to arms all manner of melee weapons against the Astartes. At long last, Vincenzio drew his chainsword, and its hungry teeth finally tasted the enemy's blood, howling with delight as it rent traitor flesh. They came in droves, shouting their blasphemies and speaking in their forbidden tongues, only to drop like flies before the legendary fury of the Angel's sons. Eventually, their numbers ran dry, and quiet fell upon the cathedral once more.
The Marines scoured the mess of mangled bodies for survivors, and sure enough, they found one. His legs severed at the thighs, he was losing blood quickly, but yet he still clawed frantically for an unused grenade strapped to a nearby corpse. Crecio walked over to the man and purposefully stepped on the arm grasping for the grenade, the bones audibly snapping and splintering like mere twigs beneath the Astartes' immense weight. The wounded cultist let out a bloodcurdling howl of agony, grasping his arm as Crecio casually aimed his boltgun at the man's face. "Do you need anything from this one, Brother-Sergeant? Or can I just put it out of its misery?"
"I do need something, actually," Vincenzio told Crecio, the still-wet blood of the enemy shining off of his power armour in the dim light. Waving Crecio aside, the Sergeant bent down so that the optics of his helmet met the wide, frightened eyes of the cultist. "What I want to know, traitor filth, is what in the Emperor's name is going on in this city."
"I won't let you stop my ascendance, corpse-thrall!" The man's voice was trembling, yet determined all the same. "I won't be left behind!"
"Who is leaving you behind? And from what?"
"The others, they forced us to stay behind," The man explained, struggling to speak through pain. "They said we had not killed enough of the corpse-god's slaves; that we were not worthy enough to witness the arrival of our prophets!"
"Prophets? What prophets?"
"The prophets who showed us the truth; who offered us riches and prizes far beyond anything your False Emperor could provide! They are powerful; more powerful even than than you Space Marines! They embrace the True Gods and wish to share their wisdom so that all may prosper!"
Vincenzio looked to Crecio, meeting his Battle-Brother's gaze. Whether the heretic spoke truth or lies when he claimed that these supposed prophets were more fearsome than Astartes, it was concerning regardless.
"Do you know when and where these prophets intend to arrive?"
The cultist scoffed. "Why should I tell you such things?"
"Because otherwise I'll have you handed over to the Inquisitorial agents aboard our ship," Vincenzio bluffed. There was no Inquisitorial anything aboard the Gladius upon which the Astartes had arrived, but this heretic had no way to know that. "I'm sure they would be more than happy to coax answers from you."
The man's eyes widened with fear, the Sergeant's bluff having apparently worked. "Servestus Valley, about eighty kilometres southwest from here. I'm not certain of exactly when, but it's soon."
"Excellent. That will be all, then," Vincenzio said, drawing his Bolt Pistol. A single, thunderous smack rang out, and the cultist's cranium erupted, smearing the ruined floors with even more blood and meat. But it was not Vincenzio's pistol which had been fired. Instead, the Sergeant looked over to see Lorenzo holding a Bolt Pistol in an outstretched arm, barrel smoking. The Marine's gaze remained transfixed upon the heretic's decimated skull as his arm went limp and his weapon clattered against the floor.
"Filth," the wounded Marine spat. "He lived longer than he deserved."
"Perhaps, but we had need of him." Vincenzio looked to the blackened stumps that remained of Lorenzo's legs. "What of your wounds, Brother?"
Lorenzo's head rolled back as he allowed his body to relax. "The blast cauterised the wound and nerves, it seems. There is neither pain nor bleeding, and the internal damage has nearly healed by now." Lorenzo's gaze broke with that of his Sergeant, as if out of shame. "I shall have vengeance for this indignation, even if I must crawl into battle to exact it."
"You must be mad, Brother!"
"I may well be, but I care not. We have at last tasted the blood of the foe; you cannot expect me to be satisfied with a mere taste. I must have more."
"Control yourself. Do not allow the flaw to cloud your judgement. I needn't remind you of the danger in that."
"Perhaps I should allow it. I could die with honor, clad in alabaster and wreathed in laurels. It would be better than sitting idle while the rest of you meet the enemy in battle."
"Enough!" Vincenzio roared. "You insult your afflicted brothers with your flippant attitude. You shall do penance for it later. Regardless, your service in this squad shall not end until the Emperor wills it."
"And who made it your place to decide what is the will of the Emperor and what is not?"
"The same person who made me your Sergeant. As such, I am the instrument through which the Emperor delivers His word unto you. That is how our chain of command works, Brother Lorenzo."
"So it is," Lorenzo admitted, begrudgingly. "Very well. I shall remain behind."
"Good. Brother Othello and Brother Tyris shall keep watch of you." Vincenzio looked to the pair of Space Marines, whom had both stood up in acknowledgement of the Sergeant's indirect order. "Take him somewhere secluded, and defensible. Should you be ambushed like this again, just three may not fare as well as the ten we had here." With a hiss of venting pressure, Lorenzo removed his helm, revealing underneath the scarred, weary face of a warrior almost two centuries old, upon it an expression of clear displeasure. Meanwhile, Othello and Tyris removed his pauldrons before hefting their wounded Brother up by the shoulders. "Emperor be with you, Brothers," Lorenzo wished his squad as the two Marines began to carry him off. "I'll keep these two out of trouble for you, Sergeant."
Vincenzio cracked a thin smile. "I'm certain you will."
With that, the remaining seven Astartes of Tactical Squad Vincenzio set off in search of the 'prophets' the heretic had spoken of.