Considering the state of affairs at large on Armatura, it was astonishing that we didn't run into trouble sooner. Though the ground was flat and, for the most part, barren, the heavy clouds of dust blowing across the land ensured that we could never see nearly as far as we might like. Conversely, this had the benefit of making us difficult to detect. Well, beneficial to me, at least.
From the way he paced during our rests, axe forever clenched in his hand, I could tell that Marrlë was craving battle, and Thurion was even touchier than usual. Their restlessness was making me worry, as even by then, nearly a week and a half after meeting them, I wasn't sure that those two wouldn't suddenly decide I was worthy of their blades after all. The bloodthirsty excitement that crossed both their faces when Damantin suddenly declared that a squad of Boyz were coming our way at once relieved me and worried me further. That, and my total lack of confidence in my own abilities.
On our way to Armatura, there had been much joking among the conscripts about how we would be the audience to the Guard's mopping up of the orks. Much of this talk was complemented with passages from the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer, which had much to say about the orks. Most notably, that they were small, weak, and would likely die from a single las shot.
As the Armatura Welcoming Party had very quickly and violently proven, the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer was, to put it mildly, full of it.
As this announcement was made and Marrlë hungrily revved his chainaxe, I looked down at the lasrifle in my hands, my worry plainly etched on my face. This weapon was described in the Primer to be one of the greatest weapons ever deployed, an instrument of the Emperor's Justice. Barely over a week ago, I'd had the eye-opening pleasure of witnessing the Emperor's Justice fizzling harmlessly against a horde of orks as they hacked apart the Infantrymen this book was addressed to.
"You're going to use that?" Damantin asked, his helmeted head tilting inquisitively. I looked up at him and shrugged helplessly. He pointed to my hip, and my eye followed his finger down to the bolt pistol resting there. "If you want to kill efficiently, that's the tool for the job."
"Um… I actually haven't trained with pistols much," I mumbled. In fact, 'hadn't trained at all' would be closer to the truth. He shrugged and turned his helmet to watch Marrlë and Thurion storming off towards the source of the distant 'WAAAGH's pervading the air. They were growing louder by the minute, and my throat was getting dry.
A pair of hands squeezed my shoulders, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to see Rosie laughing at my reaction, and was about to demand just what was wrong with her when she drew close, brushing my cheek with a soft hand. "If you're in trouble, just call my name. Okay, Fen?" Before I could answer, she wove around me and sprinted after Marrlë and Thurion.
"You're not going with them?" I asked Damantin, who stood still, observing the dust clouds shifting. Soon, the orks would emerge from the closest one, and then… I didn't know. My fear was that it would be a repeat of my last experience with combat; then again, two Space Marines, a daemon, and… whatever Marrlë was, were a different case altogether than the untested and disorganized group I had landed here with.
Damantin shook his head. "I'm no blademaster, Fenwick – not like the others. Besides," –and here I could hear a hint of pride creep into his voice- "my talents lie elsewhere." Raising his hands, he uttered a word, one that chilled my blood and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The dust coiled and dispersed, revealing the charging squad of Boyz within, each one yelling fit to shake the earth, choppas held high as they bore down on Marrlë, Thurion and Rosie. I gulped; they outnumbered us five to one.
Then lightning sprang from Damantin's outstretched hand, and three of the orks tumbled to the ground as blackened husks. I was suddenly a lot more confident about our odds.
As I watched in awe, Marrlë leapt into the air, bringing his weapon roaring down on the lead ork Boy, who raised its choppa to block it. A fatal mistake; the chainaxe's serrated teeth dug straight through the choppa and onwards into the ork beneath, who had just enough time to squeal before those whirling teeth carved it from skull to crotch. The red-haired Khornate landed in a shower of blood, and with a cry of savage joy let loose on the Boyz who turned to face him.
Rosie was next into the fray, outpacing Thurion on their way there. Her deadly claws, which I noticed she carefully kept clean of dust, now opened stomachs and clipped off heads with all the grace of a professional dancer. I heard her musical laugh ring out as she twirled and leapt among the orks, sudden spurts of blood signalling where she had been a second ago.
Thurion, though last to engage, made up for it by exploding a Boy's head with a well-aimed bolt and checking another to the dirt with his armoured shoulder. His boot pulped the grounded ork's head, not slowing him in the slightest as he drove against the apparent leader of this squad, a hulking Nob with an armoured jaw, bulging muscles and a power klaw accompanied by a chain-choppa. The Nob roared as his klaw met with Thurion's crackling blade, and brought his chain-choppa around to sever the Space Marine's sword arm; this was met by the marine hammering his bolt pistol down on the flat of the weapon, knocking it off its course. Instead, it skimmed over Thurion's side, and he responded by emptying his bolt pistol straight into the Nob's face. By the end of it, the big ork's head was a bloody paste spattered all over the Boyz behind him, all eager to test their mettle against the monster in the black armor.
Between Marrlë's berserk onslaught, Rosie's graceful dance of death, Thurion's efficient butchery and Damantin's lightning barrage, I was feeling quite ineffectual.
Nevertheless, I contributed the only way I knew how, putting my lasrifle to my shoulder, staring down the sights and firing into the fray, trying not to hit my allies. The key word being trying. A poorly aimed las shot sizzled into one of Thurion's pauldrons, and I hoped desperately that he'd fail to notice. It certainly hadn't slowed him down at all – in fact, it had barely made any mark on his armour – but Damantin gave me a sideways glance that, despite displaying nothing more than his helmet's habitual scowl, made me feel small anyways. With a grimace, I continued firing. A small smile touched my face when a Boy, rushing Marrlë from behind, howled and stopped, a laser having burned out his eye. My smile vanished when he charged me instead.
I froze, looking over at Damantin. The sorcerer had walked ahead and was now chanting more Words; several of the orks were falling to their knees and gibbering, no doubt having their minds assaulted by psychic energies. It was too bad the ork racing towards me wasn't one of those afflicted. I fired my lasrifle again and again, but my shots seemed to either go wide or strike at its thick midsection, which only made it angrier.
It was on me a moment later, roaring furiously as it battered the lasrifle away and punched me square in the face, sending me tumbling to the earth. The world seemed to slow for a moment as my head hit the ground, and I rolled to the side as the Boy's choppa slammed into the ground where my face had just been. I was pretty sure I'd lost a tooth or two from that punch, but that didn't matter now. I yelled and scrambled backwards as the ork advanced, hatred blazing in its one good eye. "Look wot you'z zoggin' done ta me eye, 'umie!" it roared, choppa swinging wildly. I scrambled back further, even as it pursued me. I almost called for help, but realized that if I did, I'd never live it down. The heretics had saved me once, and I was determined to hold my own this time.
I remembered the bolt pistol at my side, and, wrapping my fingers around the handle, yanked it from my hip and fired. The recoil jolted my hand, but well worth it, it seemed; the ork stared stupidly at the bleeding stump of an arm that was left behind, my shot having blown most of it clean off. I cursed my shaking hand, unable to take aim properly. Pistols were not my forte.
Before I could shoot again, the choppa came around once more, and I cried out as it knocked the pistol from my grasp. I couldn't believe it – the thing could keep going like this after having its arm blown off?! I almost managed to scramble to my feet when the ork slashed again, and I ducked. I felt a sharp pain on the side of my head, but I ignored it for the time being. I had more important things to deal with.
As I looked upon this ork's piggish visage, righteous anger pushed my fear aside and filled my body with another kind of adrenaline, a kind I didn't know I had. Seemingly by instinct alone, I pulled the chainsword from my hip and without a moment's hesitation, drove it right into that ork's roaring maw. Its inhuman eyes widened in surprise, immediately before I pressed down on the throttle, and the blade howled, bursting through the back of the ork's head with a spatter of gore.
The xeno's scream was almost as loud as that of the weapon piercing it. Its meaty hand dropped the choppa and came up to clamp around my arm. Pain flooded that limb from the tremendous pressure, but I gritted my teeth and thrust the chainsword deeper. Eventually, the ork's eyes glazed over, its bloodied, shredded tongue lolling out of its mouth, and I hauled the chainsword free, letting my conquered foe fall to the ground. The anger that had fuelled me in that critical moment was gone, and I found I was breathing heavily. A bruise was already beginning to form where that ork had grabbed me, and I felt warmth trickling down the side of my head. The chainsword suddenly felt very heavy in my hand.
Marrlë came up to me, soaked from head to toe in ork blood. I couldn't see a scratch on him, but that was probably due to all the gore making it hard to see his skin. It wasn't an exaggeration: his entire body was drenched, to the point where his hair was dripping with the stuff.
"Are you all right?" He asked, and I saw genuine concern reflected in his expression. I started to say 'I'm fine,' but caught him looking at the side of my head. With a frown, I lifted my hand, and found my earlobe – and nothing more. My eyes widened as the pain suddenly kicked in. I bit my lip and winced, clapping a hand to the bleeding remains of my ear. That only seemed to make the pain worse. I could faintly hear Marrlë calling for Rosie, felt her gentle hands on my shoulders. I could barely register it all. Somewhere in the confusion I dazedly reached for my lasrifle, battered away by the ork. It was only then that I realized that the middle and ring fingers on my right hand were missing.
That was the moment I lost consciousness.