Thanks for the reviews and, once again, sorry for the stall (it wasn't writer's block, I was busy with work and just had very little time left in the day). All of the stories that I am currently writing I will finish, I promised that to myself, it might take a while but I will finish them.


They hurled themselves forward with the last of their energy, firing erupting in all directions as they poured every last round into the closing greenskins, desperate to prevent the gap that would be their last salvation from closing. Gunfire of every kind flew past Tarchus, from the bright, fiery tracers of boltguns detonating against the greenskins and creating gaping maws in their flesh, to the incandescent scarlet streaks of lasbolts which cauterised wounds as they caused them, and even the presence of several heavier grenades lobbed in wild and deadly arcs into the mass, spreading death in the form of a cloud of shrapnel.

The impact upon the orks was devastating as they were charged from this unexpected quarter, the humans' resolve making their reckless advance all the more powerful and allowing them to close quickly towards the gate. However, the orks recovered themselves quickly (as orks are wont to do when they gather in such numbers) and soon they turned upon the new attackers, pressing in against the tide of fire with glee and excitement in their hideous red, glowing eyes.

A volley of weapons fire came form the ork horde, a thick tide of heavy shells and blasts from bizarre, unexplainable energy weapons. They had no time to duck, no space to dodge, no cover of any kind, their only protection was the poor accuracy of the firers and the ferocity of their own return volleys. But even so, Tarchus was aware that men and marines had begun to fall, blasted apart by the crude guns or melted by the energy weapons, wounded or dead it did not matter; for the only Emperor's Mercy would come if their arm could still work and still held a weapon. None could care for the wounded anymore; Tarchus could not even tell if the Apothecary was still standing, all they could hope for would be if they reached the gate. However, with each gun lost, their only protection weakened.

Tarchus redoubled his efforts, pushing himself onwards, even though the orks had reached arm's length. The greenskins preferred close combat to shooting matches, and they were built for it, but so was he. He struck out with power fist and bolter alike, his last magazine empty it now only served as a heavy and effective club. His swings were timed with skill that could only have been learned over many decades of combat. He would strike one ork down with a mighty blow from his bolter and when the next rose, the mystical energies in his power fist would reduce their flesh to pulp and grind their bones to powder. It was a pattern that he could carry out for hours… and it certainly felt like it.

He was unaware. Unaware of anything around him. Unaware of the noise of the battle that raged on about him as humans and greenskins fought to the very last in a desperate struggle for survival. He had lost all awareness of his allies, he knew not how many still stood, he knew not how many littered the battlefield with their corpses, he didn't even know if their was anyone still following in his wake, as he carved his own path through the xenos.

He was aware, however, of the lack of support fire from the walls of the fortress. He was also acutely aware of the lack of any weapons fire or engine noise from the Thunderhawks. He was also aware of the orks. He saw every last filthy xeno as it appeared before him, and he placed all of his focus into smashing each and every one aside, into destroying them utterly. He enjoyed the satisfaction it brought, lessened to no extent by each kill, to see the orks reduced to nothing but bloody carcasses upon the floor… but it stopped.

He came to a halt, abruptly. There were no more orks ahead. He was so stunned by the sudden lack of enemies that it dawned very slowly upon him… he had passed the gate. Before him stood not the curtain walls but the lower defensive fortifications of the once proud Arbites spire itself, a place (in normal circumstances) seen only by the unluckiest of the ordinary citizens. And in the courtyard that stretched out before him sat the two Thunderhawks, their idling engines kicking up spiralling columns of dust and their front boarding ramps open in a welcoming manner, and before them were squads of yellow armoured space marines, their leader beckoning frantically to the dazed sergeant, an urgent reminder that they should leave.

So, once more, he ran.

[*]

"First salvo ready to fire, awaiting reports from other ships." The Captain sounded nervous as he made his report, and with good reason, Marek was not known for being a patient man.

"Captain?" The Inquisitor spoke softly, in a manner which still managed to carry the sense of a vast amount of authority despite the almost casual tone.

"Yes, sir?" The Captain turned from one of the small display screens that he had been hunched over for several minutes and looked at him straight. Marek could see the fear burning in the officer's eyes, could almost sense the battle that went on inside his head between the part of him that knew his duty and the human part that was afraid to die. Marek knew which side would win that battle, and he knew that he would kill this man when the time came. He had always known.

"Captain, target our first salvo onto the main city region, try and hit the Adeptus Arbites tower if you can." The moment he said it he saw the recognition in the officer's eyes and knew exactly what jumped to the front of his mind.

"Sir?"

"The shot which brought about the start of this war, Captain, was fired upon the Arbites tower, and demolished half of it. I only think it is fitting if the shot which brings about the end of this war were to do the same." He explained patiently, lying with well-practiced ease, one which none but a powerful psyker would be able to see through.

"Yes sir."

The Captain turned back to his screen whilst Marek leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, enjoying the way his other senses were heightened by his loss of sight. And a short moment later he felt the entire ship vibrate from the recoil of dozens of heavy guns; guns which fired a multitude of shells and missiles down onto the planet below, to lay waste to all that lay thereon.

[*]

The planet burned. As thousands of shells and missiles detonated upon its surface, the entire planet burned. Nuclear warheads hit first, wiping the surface of the planet clean, vaporising people and structures alike, and blasting what remained with the force of tens of thousands of conventional bombs. Some dug into the ground and detonated there, causing earthquakes of such ferocity as to rend the ground apart and change the landscape permanently. They were followed closely in by the incendiary missiles, detonating above the surface and spreading burning promethium across the planet's surface, such that every square metre of ground was set alight, and everything untouched by the first salvo burst into roaring flames hotter than plasma and which would feed like a ravenous beast upon anything that was left standing. Last were the virus bombs, detonated high in the atmosphere where the resilient plague would be carried around the world by the winds and dropped upon the surface. This, combined with the radioactive dust that was even now being spread into the atmosphere by the raging fires, would ensure that anything hidden away such as to survive the initial onslaught would die soon enough and would render to planet uninhabitable for many centuries.

Tarchus watched as it happened. Each detonation was a burst of light upon the planet, and as more impacted the surface became incandescent, burning with the energy and ferocity of a small star. Everything upon the surface would be destroyed; houses and fortresses, plants and animals. Friend and foe alike, all would be cleansed by the terror that was the final weapon of the Imperium.

He viewed the carnage safe inside the bleak, black interior of the Thunderhawk that had been sent to retrieve them. It had been a narrow escape as the pilots, with impressive skill, had evaded the incoming weapons fire from both the orks and the Imperial Navy, and navigated their passengers back towards their home. However, the cost had been high. The transport deck was filled with men and marines alike; many wounded, some mortally. Every available seat had someone in it, whether it be an exhausted guardsman or marine, whilst the floor was littered with the wounded and dead. Those still capable of moving, an apothecary and several medics patrolled the deck and visited each of the wounded in turn, doing their best for those that could be saved and sending the others into the graceful arms of the Emperor.

He wondered briefly if Arillus had made it, or the Imperial Guard sergeant that had held his duty through it all. But it didn't matter, the loss of such people would have little effect on him, as a soldier losses were simply a fact of life. But what hit him hardest of all was the sight of that planet, the visible surface quickly being obscured by vast, thick black clouds. He knew that at some point, too many years ago to count, that planet had been his home, and whilst he could not remember anything from those years he was still tied to it in some inexplicable way and its loss cut him deeper than that of any soldier or battle brother.

"Sergeant?"

Tarchus turned to see a marine standing behind him, his yellow armour was clean and fresh and a bolt pistol and chainsword were holstered at his belt. He was clearly one of the marines who had come with the thunderhawk to evacuate them, his armour unaffected by months of hard fighting.

"Yes?" He responded simply, allowing himself to growl the word as the marine saluted formally. He wasn't in the mood for such formalities.

"Brother Minas, 6th Company, 1st Devastator squad. We helped hold the thunderhawks whilst you retreated." Minas said this all quite cheerfully, and paused expectantly. Tarchus didn't bother to respond, everything he had just been told he had already ascertained from the insignia on the marine's shoulder pads, and his name was useless information.

"Uh… yes." Minas continued after a short moment, silent save for the cries of the wounded, though this time his voice was a little less certain. "You're Brother Sergeant Tarchus of 5th Company, 3rd Tactical Squad aren't you?"

"Yes." He growled again. This marine must be much younger and much less experienced than he was, otherwise he wouldn't have even bothered asking.

"Well, it seems you're the highest ranking surviving member so I've been ordered to take you to the bridge once we reach the Hammer of the Righteous. It seems that the Captain wants to debrief quickly."

"Good. Is that all?"

"Uh… yes."

Tarchus turned back to the view of the planet, now almost completely concealed in clouds of smoke. The view was made ever more eerie by the way the light from the fires permeated the thinner cloud levels, giving large patches a strange red glow. The planet grew smaller as the thunderhawk travelled outwards, towards the cruiser that was still waiting some distance away, and Tarchus could now see the fleet which had caused the devastation. He wondered which ship the Inquisitor who had called the order for the Exterminatus was on. He would like to meet him. At this thought he flexed the fingers of his power fist, enjoying the feel of the arcane energies which ran through it almost in response to his thoughts. Yes, he would surely like to meet him.