Pain.

Unimaginable pain.

Tarkus tried to open his eyes. All he could see was darkness. At first he thought he had gone blind, until he realized that they were just caked shut. Raising a hand to his face, he wiped away the crud gluing his eyelids shut. Once his eyes were clear, he looked around. The first thing he saw was a tree. The second was the fact that he was hanging 15 meters above the ground. He righted himself and dropped to the jungle floor. He immediately fell to one knee as his left leg gave out. Tarkus looked down to see the source of the pain. A meter long piece of metal was sticking through the thigh, about half-way down. He gripped the metal spar and, grimacing, yanked it free with a roar. Tarkus pressed a hand over the wound to staunch the flow of blood and limped along the scorched scar left in the earth.

After about an hour's worth of travel, he came across the broken and battered wreck of his squad's Thunderhawk transport. The right wing was left buried in the ground at a 30 degree angle, 7 meters behind the rest of of the transport. The body of the transport rested on the remaining wing, surrounded by fragmented bits of armor and other detritus. Tarkus entered the wreck through the large gash in the side left behind when the wing came off. Inside, the bodies of his Tactical squad were scattered in various states of bereavement. Firenze had been impaled by one of the support spars from the transport's roof. Bolovus had been apparently burned alive when a fuel line was severed and swung, spewing white hot flames, into the soft armor at his neck. Galen hadn't even escaped his crash harness, crushed alive when the sides of his safety niche collapsed around his. Tarkus felt his gorge rise at the sight of so many brothers dead at once, especially when he came to the realization that none of them had been killed by accident. Here and there, signs of obvious sabotage or tampering became evident to his keen eyes. He offered a prayer to the Emperor to guide their souls, made the sign of the Aquila, and left the transport.

By now, the wound in his leg had scabbed over and begun to heal, though it still pulled tight with every step. Tarkus knew he would have to be careful should he come into any confrontation. Beginning at the the crashed Thunderhawk, he began a sweeping search of the local area. After half an hour's search, he finally found what he was looking for: an intact Imperial weapons crate. Somehow it had been thrown free of the wreck, sporting only a few minor dents and scratches.

A lot like me, Tarkus thought ruefully.

Inside were a number of bolters, several spare clips, and a chainsword. Tarkus removed the chainsword, checking the power cell to make sure it was fully charged, and hooked it to his belt. Then he reverently lifted a bolter from the case. Tiny inscriptions on the back listed the previous owners. Tarkus offered another prayer to ward the holy weapon from jamming and to keep it's aim true. It wasn't perfect, but without a Techmarine to provide an authentic anointment, it would have to do. He also took six extra magazines and put them in his spare belt pouches. He loaded one into the bolter and racked the slide, a smile cracking the granite slab of his face at the harsh metallic sound. It occurred to Tarkus at this point that he wasn't wearing a helmet. He was loathe to cannibalize equipment from a fallen brother, but he would need the enhanced senses in this place. He looked around some more, but every one he found was either cracked or non-functional. The only working helm he was able to find was still worn by Lycanus, who had been cleaved in half by a stray sheet of armor plating. Had he not been a Space Marine, and had he lacked all the training and experience he'd gathered over the centuries, Tarkus probably would have wept to see such a waste of gene-seed. As it was, he felt a tightening in his chest, as though an invisible knot were growing there. He shook his head. He could not allow himself to be distracted. He could not allow his centuries of training and experience be waster on such trivial matters as grief. Their deaths would be mourned in the only way an Angel of Death knows how: vengeance and honor. Each brother who died here would have a place of honor on the walls of honor within the Omnis Arcanum.

"May you rest in peace Lycanus," Tarkus whispered as he removed the dead brother's helm, "and may I honour your wargear as you once did. Courage and honour."

A rustle behind him caught his attention. He had tarried too long. He was no longer alone. Donning Lycanus's helmet, Tarkus took up a defensive position behind some wreckage, and awaited the mysterious intruder.

***