Chapter 35
My chainsword wails its hymn of slaughter as it descends on the blotched, sickened form of the Scourge creature. Intent on the panicked Guardsman, it does not notice my presence until it is too late. A muted groan of surprise issues from its unhinged maw as the kiss of monomolecular teeth graces its diseased skin. Then it dies. The song my weapon sings becomes harsh and dissonant, made so by whirring blades sawing through flesh and bone. The unholy abomination flops into two twitching pieces, cleanly bisected in twain. The fountain of blood that follows is impressive, and a decadent amount splashes onto my polished war plate.
My primary heart beats faster, fueled by the first surges of combat stimulants. My secondary heart keeps at its original pace, for it is only in the direst circumstance that I have need for both organs to sustain increases in adrenaline.
The man I have just saved, his features hidden beneath cold steel like mine, stumbles back in shock. But that lasts only a second. I see the alarm dissipate from his armored frame, replaced with awe and wonder. He lifts an arm high, mailed glove clasping a gore drenched sword to salute me. I do not return the gesture, for my legs have already taken me into the thick of the fray. His voice hounds me, however, a sound that I have heard too many times on too many battlefields.
"The Iron Angel! The Iron Angel is with us! Praise the Light!" he cries out, barely heard over the din of clashing metal and bellowed shouts.
The screech of my chainblade, joyous at the prospect of more bloodshed, drowns out all other noise including the man's shout. The whirring teeth drive down, sinking deep into another of the foul foe, and leaves it on the ground missing half its head. My next blow, made deadlier, made stronger, by artificial muscles laced within my power suited arm, crashes into a stumbling monster. Gnashing curved spikes do their grisly work, and the blackened spray of ichor that erupts from the plague fiend's sunken chest tells me the work has been done well. The ragged, disheveled body collapses, life fluid bubbling from the horrendous gash and onto the dark soil.
I have holstered my boltgun via the mag-locks on my suit's leg plate, not wishing to waste valuable ammunition on weak enemies such as these. It rests silently at my side, its venerable machine spirit placated and waiting patiently for the call to war and violence. My left arm, the one usually encumbered with my bolter, now freed from its duty, lashes out in a powerful strike. The back of my fist, layered like the rest of my armor in thick ceramite, meets the mutilated features of an undead. The following crunch is satisfying to my ears, and the resulting view from my blow is equally as pleasing. The thing's head snaps back, face caved in, spewing fragments of splintered bone from its fatal wound.
As the plague monster falls, my chainsword performs a brutal dance in my other hand's grip, hacking and chopping onto inhuman heads while avoiding the red and white bodies of my Guardsmen allies. The throaty hum of my weapon is contagious as it kills, and I find my spirits lifted by the simple drone of mechanized motors. The spirit of the machine that resides within the chainsaw blade is not as complicated as the one that lives within my boltgun. It is an undemanding conscience, and asks not for holy oils to be plied to its serrated teeth or prayers of reverence to be issued to its proud form. All it wants, the humble chainsword, a rugged tool in the vast arsenal of humanity, is to spill the blood of the foe. All I want, the humble Astartes, a divine instrument of the Emperor's Wrath, is to spill the blood of the foe.
We are a perfect match. Simple describes the essence of a chainblade. To kill and to butcher. Simple describes the goal of all Space Marines. To destroy the enemies of the Emperor.
The chainsword agrees with my thoughts. Understands them. The gurgling cry it gives as it churns its way through an undead's midsection is its roar of concurrence. The spray of viscera and shredded flesh that results; the evidence of its comprehension.
I leave the corpses of those I have just slain to be trampled upon as I wade further into the battling mass of the living and the dead.
A zombie has pinned a Crusader to the dank earth, snapping jaws inches away from the woman's revealed face. Her helm lies next to her, shed unwillingly from her head in the heat of the confused melee. The Scourge is crouched over her, forcing its slobbering jowls closer and closer to her naked skin. It nears no further. My gauntleted palm descends upon the foul aberration's skull and snares its cranium in an iron grip. A brief raspy grunt escapes its defiled lips which in turn transforms quickly into a long howl of frustration as I lift the creature from its trapped prey. It writhes and kicks in my grasp, and I am surprised at the vigor in its struggling form. But deny me the same respite from a ravenous hunger, then I too would fight against my tormentor with all my strength.
Its thrashing stops abruptly, and I relax my hold, feeling the gelatinous remnants of brain matter seep and flow around my fingers. Even though the zombie possesses an unholy amount strength in its withered body, its durability is still well within the frailty of humans. I cast the carcass away, glad to be free from the touch of such a corrupted thing.
The woman, her countenance hardened by war but not unpleasant to the eye, pushes herself back up. Sword forgotten on the trodden soil, she cries out to me, one arm stretching out to brush against my armor. Her tone is laced with the hysteria only battle can bring, but in it I detect the traces of worship and adulation. I wonder what her hazy eyes see before her. How she views me. A mighty warrior beyond compare? An angel who has lost his wings? A god of death and devastation? She would be correct if she were to select any one of those choices. Even more so if she sees me as all three. For the first, I am to my brothers. The second I am to the citizens of the Imperium. And the third I am to the enemies of man.
The servos in my power armor whine as they work the false muscles in my suit. They take me away from the still reaching woman, propelling me deeper into the ocean of combatants.
Three strokes and I slay three more of the foe, picking them out from the chaos that was once a proper battle line. The slickness of their blood makes my chainsword sound happier, more content. The dry screeching is gone, now replaced with a satisfied purr. But my weapon is far from being satiated. It has slaked its thirst on the ichor of the damned, but as always, it still demands more. More blood to spill. More flesh to rend. More enemies to slay.
That, at least, I am willing to provide.
Dressed in rags frayed from decay, a man with gory chunks torn from his neck sways drunkenly towards me. Its jaws are coated with fresh streams of life fluid and as it opens its revolting orifice, I spot the pieces of caught meat that linger in the uneven spaces of its teeth. So this one has feasted already. A shame today was its last chance for a meal. My chainblade skewers the monster in the stomach, merrily chewing away at its innards. A second later and I drag my sword out, spilling its blackened intestines and long useless organs out into the daylight. To my disgust, I see portions of human flesh, pale and healthy in comparison, among the shriveled bags of pus and coils of entails that now litter the floor. I make my revulsion known by jamming the tip of my chainsword into its still open maw.
Let it taste something that can bite back.
I twist the sputtering weapon, unmindful of the arterial spray that spews forth and splatters droplets on my breastplate Aquilla. I continue my way forward, ignoring the sagging corpse without its head.
They know that I am in their midst now. The Crusaders that is. The shouted praise of those I have saved from grisly fates and the roared approval of those who have seen my martial strength firsthand intermix with the furious sounds of the still raging battle. The discordant shriek of my chainsword is not hard to miss either. The humans around me fight harder, wielding their archaic swords against their assailants with renewed vigor, each desperately trying to acquit themselves well under my gaze. Where minutes ago, the formation was all but shattered into pieces, now, the first semblances of order begin to assert themselves. Men and women crush the doubts that previously threatened to overwhelm their minds and press against the unholy enemy with fiery vengeance. Their voices rise above the tumult, and the first beginnings of a massed cheer assails my hearing.
They know not my name, but they know what I am.
"Angel! Angel! Angel!" the cry spreads like wildfire, ripping from each throat in a roaring ovation that overpowers even my chainblade's mechanical howl in volume, "Angel! Angel! Angel!"
If I were a mortal man, perhaps I would have found such adulation to be gratifying. Maybe even pleasing. Many lesser men live their whole lives with scant recognition for their achievements, many more with none at all. Those who are recognized bask in the attention of their peers, however brief it may be, and forever remember it as their moment of glory. It is a most fitting irony then, that the Emperor made us Space Marines, the greatest warriors of humanity lauded by all, to be utterly indifferent to the accolades that mean so much to our distant kin. We do not require others to validate our existence. We know we are superior to normal men in every aspect. We know we are the best mankind can offer against this hostile universe. Yet, we do not enjoy the adoration of the Imperium's people, and in some cases, outright detest it.
Inquisitor Xera once asked me why the Death Spectres, like the rest of the Adeptus Astartes, do not seek acknowledgment for our duties. I had struggled hard to answer her question, for a simple medium like language could not possibly describe what a Space Marine thinks of his sacred task. In the end, I could only find one phrase that fit will with my beliefs and those of my brothers.
Service is its own reward.
I do not need the accolades of these crimson clad Guardsmen. Nor their cheers. They waste the breath in their lungs celebrating my arrival when they instead should be focused on killing the foe. A frown of disapproval wreathes my features, and the first phrases of censure begin to form on my lips. With difficulty, I halt the reprimand before it can enter my helm's vocalizers. I remind myself that I fight besides humans, not the ceramite covered frames of my battle-brothers. I cannot expect them to match the feats of my fellow Astartes, but that does not stop me from wishing they could. Had the squad of Sergeant Darkur been with me, then there would be no need for petty speeches to the masses or a continued search for allies. If only my own squad was with me…
Damnation! Why does my conscience continue in these pointless contemplations? The Honored Ones are gone. Dead. Their remains lie within the hallowed crypts deep beneath the planet crust of Occludus, honored by the rest of my chapter. I should have fallen on that accursed battlefield as well and joined them in an eternal rest. But such a fate, as welcome as it would be, was not granted to me. And rightfully so. A glorious death I do not deserve.
"Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel!"
The fools still cheer. If they only knew the turmoil within my mind.
My chainsword howls its dirge of righteous slaughter as it impales an undead through its emaciated chest. The fell creature jerks like a puppet gone mad in my weapon's cruel embrace, spraying its polluted blood onto my vambrace. With a forceful thrust, I shove the foul thing onto its back, my revving blade still lodged within its pallid torso. It bays, like some dumb grox denied its feed. I sneer as I bring a booted foot above its putrid countenance. If it is no longer human, then it is an enemy. I stomp down hard, crushing its skull into fragments beneath my servos enhanced strength. Blood and viscera splatter out from underneath my ceramite heel, and my sabatons further expresses the revulsion I feel by grinding down against the gory mess.
I tug my weapon free from the twitching corpse, the churning serrated teeth whining in disappointment as it leaves the ruptured flesh it has just so recently destroyed. I sate its desire for more butchery by hacking into the unprotected side of a haggard man-thing. At once its whine changes into a gurgling sputter of satisfaction, gorging itself on decayed meat and rotten gristle. The roiling spikes hew deeper and deeper into the zombie's shuddering body until there is nothing else for the sawed blades to cut. The monstrosity topples over, its arms flailing as its torso separates entirely from its waist.
"Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel!"
They surround me on all sides, these humans who have given themselves to the Emperor, surging forward to once more to slay the enemy. They continue to chant my title, their voices rising into an unstoppable crescendo. And they are not the only ones. The militia on both flanks, drive their opponents steadily back with their crude weapons, their mouths parting again and again to shout out a name that is not mine yet describes me fully. The Myrmidons in support cry out the same words as they hack and hew into undead filth, their worshipful tone mirrored to a lesser extent by the spearmen who back the left flank. The archers resting in the rear of the battle line, having no more role to play in this conflict, make their approval known the loudest, having seen my rush into the fray in all its entirety. Even the horsemen, now riding around the Scourge horde to strike from behind, repeat the mantra, their calls resonating above the rapid beating of hooves upon earth.
My Lyman's Ear filters out the racket. Their cheers have reached an unacceptable level. I do not need such annoyances when I have not yet finished the holy slaughter that is my duty.
I near the front, where the heat of the battle is most intense. My chainsword hisses in delight at the prospect of more enemies, spitting out caught chunks of flesh as it thrums impatiently in my blood drenched hand. Flecks of ichor patters onto my armor, courtesy of my overly eager weapon, and a grunt of distaste emits from my lips as a droplet lands on my newly obtained Rosarius. The bead of darkened fluid quivers on the golden figure and I whisper a prayer of forgiveness for allowing this act of desecration to befall an image of the Immortal Emperor. My gaze drops from the ensuing melee onto the angelic figurine that dangles from my neck. I feel the uncertainty that lingers in my mind slowly recede, driven back by fresh surges of confidence.
Strange, but the autosensors built into my helm has not detected any energy readings from the power field inducing amulet. Not when I first received it from the Arcanist, and certainly not now. It is entirely possible that after ten thousand years with no tech priests to soothe its angry spirit and no priests to pray for its protection, the relic no longer is able to function. A disappointment, but one that I cannot say I did not expect. A Rosarius is a symbol of faith in the Father of Mankind and only protects those whose conviction is boundless. Though my belief in Him on Terra is not to be questioned, it cannot compare with the likes of Reclusiarch Targon and his acolytes. Even if this holy artifact had not weathered long eons of dormancy, its ability to safeguard me from harm would still be in doubt.
However, the fact that this relic is inert does not bother me. The fact that a reminder of the Emperor's Glory is so close to me gladdens my hearts and reinforces my flagging faith.
A wretched figure stumbles into my sword reach, face a disheveled mess of hair and blotched skin. A woman, though the advanced state of decay that wreathes her form makes it almost impossible to tell. Her torn dress hangs limply from one gaunt shoulder, revealing a shriveled lump of flesh that droops hideously from the left side of her chest. Perhaps she was beautiful once to her fellow man. Perhaps she was not. It does not matter now as my chainsword promises to make her even uglier.
"Release meeee…"
My weapon halts in its descent, and I blink in shock, not willing to believe such a corrupted monster was capable of human speech. My hesitation allows it to stagger closer, and my visor automatically focuses on the miserable being's face. Blue eyes matching my own stare back at me, and I resist the urge to take a step back at the intense gaze of those dilated irises. This woman knows. She knows what she has become. She is not one of the mindless creatures that assail our ranks. Those eyes hold sanity within them.
"Killll meeee…"
She latches onto my leg, her frail body dwarfed by my own power armored bulk. With a sorrowful cry she opens her mouth, already stained red with the blood of the living, and bites down on my ceramite plate. Rotten teeth cannot penetrate the blessed protection of Astartes, and I watch with revolted fascination as she tries again and again to break through my armor. Frustrated in her efforts, the possessed woman claws at me with bony fingers, at the same time piercing me with that haunted stare. She does not want this, I realize. She does not want to feast on the flesh of humans. She does not want to feel the still warm ichor of the recently dead gush down her throat. But she cannot refuse the blasphemous hunger that traps her soul.
"Pleaseeee…"
Once more she begs. That is enough.
My free hand slowly wraps around the woman's skull. Gentle is my grip. Tender almost. As a child would stroke his beloved pet. Those azure eyes once more lock with my own, hidden behind vision slits of crimson. They plead with me. Beseech me for an end to her suffering. My lips part and my vocalizers hiss into action, ready to convey the words I speak within my helm to the outside world. But what can I say to this woman that can placate her anguish? What can I say to this pitiful creature that will ease her pain? What can an Angel of Death, whose sole purpose is war, do to comfort one so fallen from the Emperor's Light?
My vox-speakers still wait for my speech. I opt for a simple one.
"Be at peace," my voice grates, a discordant, metallic sound that is inhuman even to my own ears.
Her eyes close, but before they do, I catch a flicker of gratitude in those cerulean pupils. My wrist twists suddenly and her body abruptly ceases to struggle. I detach the woman's head cleanly from her shoulders and let it drop from my grasp. Her body sags to the floor, her arms still entwined with my leg.
I should feel pity for this woman. I should. Instead I only feel hatred.
"Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel!"
Curse these fools. Why do they continue to cheer? Why are they so jubilant to see me in battle? Their concept of angel differs from mine. Theirs is a shining, benevolent being on wings of feathered light, who shields the weak and the downtrodden. I am not that kind of angel. My armor does not shine. I am neither kind nor compassionate. My wings are mechanical thrusters of blazing fire. I detest the weak.
My chainblade snorts, laughs, shrieks. It too derides these humans for their fanciful thinking.
Four more strides and no more Crusaders surround me. I have left them behind, blocked from following me by the waves of moaning undead. These same undead now crowd me, clutching at my armor, grappling with my limbs, seeking to do what they can never accomplish. They crave salvation. I can give them that.
My vocalizers distort my tone as I chant the Catechism of Vengeance.
"By the Light… I have seen men scream as they fight. Shout. Even cry. But reciting poems? He is mad. Insane, this angel." Vachon growled as his rapier sank deep into Scourge flesh. His victim had already been gutted by the giant's keening sword, and had put next to no effort in resisting when the Scarlet captain loomed over it.
"Is that so friend?" Melrache smiled, displaying a perfect set of white teeth, "I say some madness is good. Faith cannot be taken too seriously all the time. Unless you're a Myrmidon."
The swarthy Crusader hacked down on the outstretched arm of an undead with his claymore, slicing the limb clean off in a geyser of blood. A return swing caved in the creature's gaunt face and smashed it face down in the dirt. A raspy moan issued from the zombie's ruined countenance, and it struggled in the foot churned soil, desperate to attack the living locked in combat with its kin. The butt end of Whitemane's staff dove into its weakened skull and ceased its hoarse mewling. The newly appointed Commissar jerked her impromptu weapon from the twitching corpse, shaking it to rid the flecks of brain matter and fragments of shattered bone.
Vachon wrenched his own blade from his now dead opponent, shaking his head as he did so. His gaze shot to the man in question, ten paces in front of the Crusader lines, standing tall and proud amidst the foe that surrounded him on all sides. A sweep of his tooth sawed sword felled half a dozen Scourge, spraying their blackened blood into the air. As the aberrations dropped, a space appeared between the angel and the next of the hungry dead. Before the gap could close, the giant had already taken a step forward, his strange yet deadly weapon already carving deep into the following rank of unholy things.
Darrik laughed as he saw his fellow officer's expression of begrudging respect.
"You always were the more handsome one, Edgar. But I'll be damned if a maiden would choose you between the both of us with that look on your face."
"Laugh all you want. But my point still stands. I do not think he is entirely right in the head. What man rhymes as he fights? The battlefield is no place for artisans."
"Then why not make it so, my friend? I myself would not mind slaying the enemy while listening to the priestesses in the abbey at Tyr's Hand."
"Really now? It is my belief that your attention would be focused more on the priestesses themselves rather than the contents of their work."
A ragged howl interrupted their conversation, and Vachon was forced to raise his shield to prevent the source of the yowls from overwhelming him. A stab to the creature's leg forced it to kneel, but did nothing to quell its desire for flesh. The subsequent stab, placed unerringly on the bridge of the monster's nose, did however. With a grunt of disgust, the Scarlet captain pushed the slumped over carcass from his sword with his kite-shaped aegis.
His friend had also dispatched one of the hated foe, dragging his two handed weapon from a sundered body with fierce relish. Melrache winked roguishly back as he pulled his blade free, a thin smile etched on his features.
"A gentleman studies well both the artist and her work. Without one there can be no other. Better to appreciate both."
Before Vachon could make his retort known, the red and white figure of Commissar Whitemane strode from behind the two captains, staff slick with fresh blood.
"Quiet. Both of you," she hissed, a wave of her hand silencing her subordinates, "Listen. The Iron Angel's hymn. It sounds familiar…"
Vachon raised a questioning eyebrow. He sincerely doubted that the former Inquisitor could pick out the exact words from the giant's chant. The roaring cheers of their cohorts were like a storm of human making, and they could only catch bits and pieces of the angel's mantra from the massed cacophony. Still, he strained an ear and listened, the habit of following orders long ingrained in his conscience.
"Wrath! Thy anger dwells within my soul! I shalt dole thee out to those who are unworthy to stand before His Light!"
The phrases bellowed out were accompanied by distorted static, both from the Iron Angel's sneering mouthpiece. The bombastic declaration was followed by an unearthly shriek, emitted from the giant's churning blade. A tattered line of undead toppled, their bodies betraying deep and gory lacerations.
"Fury! Thy rage beats within my heart! I shalt burn the enemies of mankind in your undying flames!"
A return sweep from the angel's horrifyingly effective weapon hacked into the Scourge drones that stumbled mindlessly over the corpses of their comrades to attack. The first zombie was cut apart at the waist, splashing thick ichor and shredded organs over its mindless cohorts. The metal clad warrior dragged his sputtering sword into the wretched frame of the walking cadaver next to the slain first, the screech of motors replaced instantly by a low gurgling wail as silver teeth feasted deep into the unlucky creature's side. A spurt of blood rent the air as the giant's blade, spitting and snarling like a beast possessed, exploded from the misshapen creature's other side. Before the two pieces of the unholy thing could flop to the floor, the jagged spikes were already busy tearing into their next victim.
"Vengeance! Thy ire flows within my veins! I shalt destroy the heretic and xeno alike to do thee honor!"
The colossus's broad legs pushed him forward, never back, into the horde of monstrosities. Clawed hands scrabbled against his gothic armor but did nothing to curtail his anger. Another swing from his sword sheared through a gaggle of decrepit undead and spilled their entrails onto the soil. His other fist did not rest as the screaming weapon tore and ripped into swaying frames, lashing out in blurs of movement that dazzled the Crusader captain's eyes. Even as Vachon watched, the angel's plated gauntlet hammered into the gaunt chest of a mutilated woman. The sickening crunch that resulted was heard despite the considerable distance between him and the source. The zombie was thrown back like a rag doll, limbs whipping about its body in a vain attempt to halt its unstoppable motion. It landed in a pack of its cohorts and the entire group went down, the momentum of the woman-thing easily overpowering what tenuous grip unsteady feet held on the earth.
He was impressed. He hated to admit it. But the combat prowess of this angel could not be denied.
"I do not recognize those words. Perhaps the Commissar would enlighten us?" Melrache half asked, half swore. His claymore was trapped in an emaciated man's sunken ribs, and he could not free it from the walking corpse in time. Already the Scourge had lurched within attack range, unmindful of the heavy blade that slid deeper and deeper into its tattered torso. Vachon moved hurriedly to his companion's aid, his slender sword reaching Darrik's assailant just in time. The rapier punched into the monster's left cheek and travelled through its unhinged jaws, slicing the horror's grayish tongue clean off. With a bellow of effort, the Scarlet commander wrenched his weapon free, destroying the lower half of the creature's face in the process.
"Yes… The War Chant of the Arathi Highlords…" if Whitemane realized the struggles of her two commanders, she certainly did not show it on her perplexed countenance, "my father was a knight during the Second War. He told me that Lord Lothar would intone a litany before each battle and ask that his followers join in. What little parts my father remembered he recited to me…"
"And you memorized his words?" Vachon snarled in disbelief, his attention still locked on the creature that remained thrashing on his friend's sword.
"My father came back from the war wounded beyond help. The priests say it was miracle he arrived home without perishing on the way. Those few days I had left with him were ones I will never forget," the Commissar's tone grew cold and stiff, and he knew instinctively that he had crossed some invisible line. Whitemane's stave clacked resoundingly against the forehead of the Scourge trapped on Darrik's blade, as though if making her displeasure known, shattering the man-thing's skull and driving splinters of bone into the vulnerable brain. With the threat now brutally ended, both captains freed their weapons and cast uncertain gazes towards one another.
"You are more handsome than me, yes. But your smooth-talking needs work. This is not the first time you have insulted a woman with your rashness," Melrache whispered.
He winced. That brought unpleasant memories abound.
"I am the Emperor's Wrath made incarnate! My fists stain red with the blood of the foe! My steps crush their blasphemous dead!"
The angel boomed, his voice akin to rolling thunder. A zombie hung limply in his enormous gauntlet, head downwards, its legs caught between iron fingers, lifeless as all dead things should be. The giant swung the corpse like a club, smashing aside a half a score of the enemy with one tremendous blow. His shrieking sword felled the same number of Scourge in one lethal sweep, and left ten more bodies upon the uneven floor.
"I am the strength of the Light made incarnate," both men turned as Whitemane murmured, "My fists are the protectors of the innocent and the dealers of judgment. My steps the enemy fears, for the bloodline of Arathor flows in my veins."
"I am the Emperor's Fury given form! The xeno cannot stand against His wrathful anger! The heretic dies screaming in His vehement gaze!"
"I am the Light's indomitable will given form," the Commissar mirrored the Iron Angel's words, her lips working quickly to form sentences not used since her youth, "The unjust cannot withstand the righteous, for that is what I am. Evil dies by my hand, for the Light's stern gaze never falters."
"I am the Emperor's Vengeance on the fields of battle! The traitor needs not fear my presence, for I grant them redemption through death!"
"I am the enemy's salvation on the fields of battle. My foes needs not fear my presence, for the Light grants them redemption before death."
"Come to me, enemies of mankind! Come to me, xeno and heretic alike! Wrath! Fury! Vengeance! I shalt carve these words upon the bodies of your slain!"
"Come to me, the evil and the unjust! Strength! Will! Compassion! These are the traits that will allow me to prevail and you to falter!" She finished, a wistful veil settling before her eyes.
Melrache buried his blade into a decayed monster's shoulder, speaking between thick gouts of arterial spray.
"Beautiful, yes. But what does it mean?"
"It means, captain, that you and I will join the angel in his litany when he decides to chant anew."
Vachon grimaced as his own blade released a tortured soul from its unholy thrall.
"We do not know the words, Commissar. You cannot expect us to join you when the gist of each phrase escapes our understanding."
Whitemane smiled. Almost motherly in nature. Almost if it weren't for the fierce and undeniable zeal that was etched upon her features.
"Then you will learn."
The charge was perfect. Textbook perfect. Flawless in performance. Highlord Fordring would have been proud.
Captain Elisa Pureblade gave an excited shout as Garith carried her in a full gallop into the disorganized rear of the Scourge mass. Her broadsword rose and fell in bloody arcs, hacking unmercifully onto heads unrecognizable from decay. The undead horde was single-minded in their purpose, and ignored this tiny pinprick that bothered their back stragglers, fully intent on the Iron Angel that remained undefeated in their midst. In the instant it took her steed to prance five steps she accounted for three of the foe, slaying them before they realized the threat that rode within their own ranks.
Then her horsemen hit en masse, their chargers gathered together in one powerful, cohesive body.
The slowest of the zombie host, creatures left behind due to movement crippling injuries, were instantly ridden down and trampled into a gory ruin beneath iron shod hooves. They had no time to register their imminent doom. One moment they were focused on their prey, their shambling gait slowly nearing them towards their goal. The next, they were slammed face down into the dirt with nothing to accompany them except the darkness that was death. The Reaper's Scythe claimed their souls before a single moan could escape their phlegm clogged throats.
With no warning that the Scarlet cavalry were seconds away from impacting, the main throng of Scourge creatures continued their miserable howls and vain attempts to drag down the giant that hacked and hewed a bloody path through their uneven lines. So engrossed were they in this task, that they did not even notice the very earth trembling under their feet from near four hundred pounding hooves. If the undead could make facial expressions then she would have loved to see the looks on their faces when her riders struck.
The vast horde of groaning dead hurtled closer, courtesy of Garith's increasing speed. She allowed herself to appreciate the magnificent sight before her. The crowd of monstrosities was like a sea of green tinged forms and outstretched arms from her vantage point on her horse's back. She saw the Iron Angel, a revving, sputtering sword splashing black blood in the air in one hand, a battered zombie being used as a club in the other. She saw the advancing ranks of her fellow Crusaders, a solid line of red and white figures that drove back the unrelenting tides of Scourge scum sword stroke by sword stroke. She saw the flanks held stoically by the militia elements of Captain Rhiana and Farmer Solliden, lagging slightly behind the more experienced swordsmen but still admirably keeping pace in felling the foe. And resembling the closing maw of a bull devilsaur, were the formations of the spearmen and Myrmidons, who swung from the left and right in a clumsy but effective flanking maneuver.
These infantry was the anvil. She and her followers was the hammer.
The whinnying, trilling wave of surging war mounts and their crimson clad masters crashed into the rear of the undead horde in a thunderous din of clashing steel and bellowed cries. Surprise was total. Scores of ragged frames were flung from their feet and into the backs of their wretched kin by inexorable momentum. Scores more fell with their skulls cloven in twain, sundered from descending sword arms. There was no resistance. The brain of a plague infested zombie is a simple thing. Once set upon its path to a potential meal, it would only deviate from its course when it discerns another source of food. With the attention of the foul creatures solely focused on the angel and their footslogging compatriots, the Scarlet riders were free to vent their rage with little fear of retaliation.
And that is exactly what they did.
Elisa swung her sword in a horizontal arc, catching a Scourge's head in her weapon's lethal range. A death rattle escaped the stricken thing's revolting mouth as her blade parted the top half of its cranium from its skull in a messy spray of blood and viscera. The unholy fiend staggered forward towards the human battle line for a few more steps before toppling behind the still oblivious masses of its kin. Her men copied her action, striking down at unresisting forms with flashing blades from their saddles. Putrefied monsters fell in droves, victims of the Crusaders' able blade work. But competent swordsmanship was not the only factor in a successful cavalry charge.
Garith snorted as his impressive bulk ploughed onwards through the decayed forms of men, women, and children who once were Lordaeron's loyal populace. The Scarlet war horse rammed into their frail bodies and smashed them to the earth where they were ground into ruins by his trampling hooves. His fellow chargers matched him in their wanton destruction. Entire packs of the dead disappeared beneath surging legs, delicate bones in emaciated frames snapping and shattering under the furious stampede. Many of those who fell under the tumultuous hooves did not die. A minion of the Lich King could suffer much before it found its blessed release. Arthas's grip upon his slaves was a strong one, and not so easily broken through mortal means. Still, a zombie whose limbs were flattened into uselessness posed no danger to her or her men. When the battle was won they could easily come back and deliver mercy strokes to free the damned from their torment.
"Well met Captain Pureblade," Elisa reined in her mount as the Iron Angel neared, his indomitable frame slick with the blood of the foe, "your assault was a grand one and worthy of commendation."
She shivered at the grating tone and wondered how a helm could make a man's voice so harsh and inhuman.
"Yes…" she hesitated, not knowing if she should be glad or dismayed at such praise from this war-forged being, "Thank you."
The infernal shrieking of the giant's sawed blade answered her, evil looking teeth churning deep into the last Scourge within his reach. She flinched as the man-thing convulsed madly under the sword's duress, throwing up thick sprays of black ichor and shredded flesh. With a mighty kick the angel sent the creature flying back from his weapon, rolling and tumbling to a halt before Garith's hooves. Her horse whinnied nervously, not because of the fresh corpse at its feet, but from the frightening smell of metal and blood that approached unswervingly.
The giant stopped at last, a meter away from mount and master, both with a trail of broken bodies behind them.
"That is a fine beast."
The words took her by surprise. She tried to hide the astonishment in her own timbre as she replied.
"Yes. Thank you," Elisa repeated, knowing full well how stupid she sounded.
"I too once rode on beasts of war. Mechanical creatures with noble machine spirits that served me well."
"Then we have some similarities," her riders continued their charging onslaught, unaware of the conversation that was ongoing between her and the angel, "was your horse a thoroughbred? Or a war stallion bred for knights?"
The giant laughed. Mirthless and devoid of humor. Yet from him, all so natural.
"Your knights would not have tamed one of the war bikes of the Adeptus Astartes. Without a black carapace to sync their minds to the soul of the machine, it is doubtful whether your knights could even start the ignition."
She did not know how to respond to that.
"I heard you lost warriors during your attack on Felstone Field, including your lieutenant. Their sacrifice will be remembered, for no man who dies in His service dies in vain."
There was something wrong about his tone that she found disconcerting. It was akin to a judge pronouncing a sentence on a criminal. And she was the criminal. Then realization struck her.
"You… you… expected me to perish in that place… didn't you?" her voice wavered, filled with disbelief and anger, "You expected me to die, and Hielan to live."
"Yes, I did," the quality of the angel's words were as brutal as they were honest, "Lieutenant Hielan was a better officer. He was more experienced by far and knew the difference between duty and faith. I expected you to lead your men on a futile charge into a vastly superior number of the enemy and die in doing so."
She wanted so desperately much to bring her broadsword crashing down upon this man's skull. She fought down that urge with difficulty. The angel's death would not bring her slain warriors back. That and she was not sure her weapon could even dent the cruel mask he wore.
"But I was wrong. You came back in one piece with the majority of your forces. Perhaps a revelation struck you as you battled the Scourge so distant from help. Perhaps you had an epiphany as you watched your men die. I do not know. All that matters now is that you came back."
She was thankful the cacophony of noises that surrounded her and the angel prevented her riders from hearing the wrath in her tone.
"You could have made your orders clearer. You could have told me fully what you expected of me. You could have prevented the deaths of my men."
"Maybe. But I am not your shepherd, and you are not my flock. I do not intend to command men who must constantly rely on my guidance. I need an army that is self-reliant and capable of waging war without my presence. My orders were clear enough. The way you interpret them is your own responsibility."
Both of her fists tightened, one clasping firm the leather leash attached to her steed's bridle, the other strengthening her hold on the grip of her sword.
"But you cannot send me into battle like that! I had no experience! No understanding of orders! You cannot just cast me into a tide of monstrosities and expect me to prevail! It is not right!"
"And yet now you do have experience. Now you do know the meaning of discipline. You have learned what is most important through the blood of your comrades. You have learned by watching them die. No tactician can teach you that. You are no longer a virgin to war. Baptized in the fires of battle and remade into an officer who can command her men without indecision. You are not Hielan. But perhaps in time you will become his better."
"Is it wrong that I hate you, angel?" she murmured, "Is it wrong that I hate you yet respect you for what you have done to me?"
"Hate me then, Pureblade. Hate me with all your heart. But do not respect me. Respect is worthless. Hatred is not. Hatred is the great equalizer amongst men. Hatred is the currency of the Imperium. Hate your enemies as much as you hate me, and there is no battle that exists in this universe that you cannot win."
A brief moment lulled in their exchange, but the background noise of shouting soldiers and groaning undead did little to add to the pregnant pause.
"So… What now?" her gloved hand gestured to the rapidly dwindling ocean of Scourge caught between the solid blocks of Scarlet infantry and her own mounted Crusaders, "This battle is won is it not? Those undead that are left will swiftly fall beneath our blades. Do we move onto Andorhal immediately?"
"No. This conflict has not yet finished. The puppetmaster still lives. We need to slay him to ensure our victory. That purpose I have left with the paladin and his Argent Dawn," the last two words the angel spat out in distaste, and Elisa was forced to agree with his revulsion. The idea of humans working with lesser races was a horrifying one to her.
"And you will check on them? Your compassion for nonhumans and traitors is duly noted."
The angel took a single step forward, crossing the distance between them the second it took her to blink. A curse found its way to her mouth and her body tensed in response to the sudden movement. Garith pawed the ground nervously, whinnying in fear at the immense frame that now stood not inches from his face.
"Anger still runs rampant in your mind. They have influenced what you say, and thus, I will not kill you for your audacity to suggest that I empathize with turncoats," the giant's crimson eye slits flashed as he spoke, and she felt the hidden rage behind the helm, "Understand me well, captain. For all your hatred you feel towards me now, your loathing is inconsequential compared to my own towards a traitor to mankind. My brothers and I have killed more traitors in your lifetime than you can count, and the Emperor willing, we will continue to do so for the millennia to come. No, I do not go to their aid as you think. I go to see if any of them have survived."
The black clad being marched away from her, toothed sword softly thrumming in a massive gauntlet.
She hesitated, unwilling to question him further. But she needed to know.
"My lord angel," Elisa called out, "What is the life of my men worth to you? What is the life of Lady Whitemane, Vachon and Melrache, and the others worth to you? What am I worth to you?"
The angel did not turn back as his metallic voice reached her ears.
"Nothing."
His answer sent a chill creeping along her spine. So brutally honest. She bit her lip to prevent them from parting and crying out insults at his retreating form.
And then abruptly he swiveled on his feet to meet her gaze. Thick arms spread wide. She could feel the smile beneath that leering black helm. The angel spoke once more.
"Everything."
She could detect no lie either in that tone.
PipBoy: Thank you!
Leafy8765: The Larraman's Organ does not actually prevent bleeding. What it does is enhance the cells within the bloodstream so that once a wound does appear, they can quickly clot it within seconds. So an Astartes will bleed when they are injured, but only for a few seconds.
Soulless Reader: It is entirely possible. Remembrancers are known to write entire works regarding the Great Crusade, the Space Marines, and of course the Emperor. However, psyker powers were not really recorded during this time period, as humanity did not really know much about their own psychic potential. The battle in Icecrown Citadel will not be as simple as "shoot Arthas in the face". Avarian has many challenges in front of him, and the Lich King is one of the greatest.
Norwest: You'll find out in this chapter. :P
JGKing: Thanks! You are free to use my work as the basis of your story. However I just ask you not to copy it word by word like one of the authors did a couple of months ago. (To his credit, he did delete it once he received complaints)
Salle1980: Battle scenes are what 40k novels focus on the most, so you'll find a greater proportion of it in this fic as well.
Hand of Sand: The problem is that anyone can be corrupted by Chaos (except the Emperor and the Grey Knights). Hell, Horus, a noble and wise primarch before his fall, subsequently did fall to the Ruinous Powers. And if Chaos can corrupt primarchs, then they can certainly corrupt Varian.
Emperor Chronicler: Steam armor might be able to match Astartes power armor. It might not. I believe that ceramite would be a tougher nut to crack than whatever material steam armor is constructed from. But, that is only my opinion. However, the thing with Warcraft power armor is that they are incredibly slow, as evidenced by the Goblin Shredders in WoW. That is a flaw that any Space Marine will utilize to his own advantage. Imperial armaments won't magically appear in the hands of the Scarlet Guard. The School of Necromancy is actually Scholomance, but yes, Scholomance and Stratholme will be future destinations to our hero.
PaphaBear: Yes! Kneel before me and accept me as a god! :P If you take notice, the times when Astartes die in novels from bolter fire is because there is a mass amount of it. Standard bolter rounds by themselves cannot penetrate power armor, unless fired into the joints. They will however, blast big craters, though this will have a negligible effect on the Space Marine within. As for chain lightning, that will sadly not work. In the first Horus Heresy novel, a squad of Emperor's Children Marines (before they turned to Chaos) are on a planet called Murder, where lightning storms are a common occurrence. Several Astartes are actually hit by streaks of lightning. Their response? They laugh it off like it was nothing. In response to the Burning Legion's difficulty, they are woefully easier to defeat compared to 40k daemons. Much of Sargeras's armies are actually corrupted species he conquered from countless worlds, whereas the daemons of Warhammer are actually essences of the Warp itself.
Glennis: Thank you!
Arankor: The thing with weapon classifications in 40k, is that there are just too many to count. An autogun could be a variety of things. It could be a modern day assault rifle in the possession of a Hive ganger. Or it could be a power armor breaching death dealer in the hands of an Inquisitor. The only tie-in between these two weapons is that both shoot projectiles. Compare this to the myriad versions of the lasgun, which all shoot lasers but at different power levels. Or even the different types of boltguns. You'll see that a gauss rifle will fit well with the classification of an autogun. Also, it has been calculated that a gauss rifle has the same power of a .50 caliber machine gun, which would be lower or around a 40k heavy stubber in terms of penetrating power. And heavy stubbers do squat against Space Marines in the fluff. Three companies worth of Astartes will undoubtedly be outnumbered by their foes. But that's what Space Marines are made for. They constantly fight and win against enemies who outnumber them in the thousands. What are a bunch of convicts in imitation power suits to them when they've faced so much more danger in the universe? Of course, with a battle barge orbiting the planet, any notable concentrations of Terran marines will be vaporized by the ship's lance batteries. In space, if the Imperium warship was a smaller class like the Cobra Destroyer, then yes, the SC factions will have a chance to destroy it. However, a battle barge is not a mere destroyer. It is magnitudes more powerful with a lot more nasty weapons and far more void shields. It is doubtful that anything can dent it in the SC arsenal. This isn't the place to debate SC vs 40k though, and I would recommend Spacebattles or SDdestroyer dot net to see the general consensus regarding this subject.
Yukilumi: Thanks! Not every faction seeks to use him. Only the Forsaken so far. And that is more because Sylvanas is a schemer type. As for the harem, well, only Keina has any form of affection towards Avarian so far. Vareesa just wants him for her own purposes. Malicia has been promised a bolt round for her troubles once Scholomance has been cleansed. The Dark Ranger is following her mistress's orders. And Whitemane sees him as a divine figure. No harem yet I'm afraid. :P
Blackmamuth: The Scarlet gryphon riders are all in Northrend, so none for the Scarlet Guard.
Winged Knight: Thanks! Space Marines do value sacrifice, but it is doubtful they'll value it from something that isn't human.
RogalDorn: You are very close with your thinking, my friend. But I won't disclose it all to you for the purposes of the plot. And yes, Avarian's litany was derived from Grimaldus's.
Xynth: Since this is technically in the events of the Wrath timeline, Illidan is dead, and much of the Outland has been pacified. But it won't be for much longer! Lasguns will not miraculously appear in the hands of every Crusader. There will be some that will be found and equipped, but only a small number. And Sylvanas won't be falling to Nurgle any time soon.
Grey Knight Stern: Actually, the chapter with the most common traits to humanity would be the Salamanders.
Lunatic Pandora1: Catapults were historically not used for battle, but for sieges. The same goes for trebuchets.
BloodRedSword: He will use his jump pack soon enough. Avarian is a tactical marine. But he wasn't always one. :P
Belton180: Cervix has two definitions. One means something pertaining to the neck. The other means what you are thinking of.
Overdrive1: The pilot of a Dreadnought isn't dead per say. He's just been injured to the point of near death and then sustained by the sarcophagus.
Pinto: Thanks!
Bogy shashav: Space Marines are not big on building barricades to keep out the foe. They tend to surge forward and attack until the enemy is destroyed.
Lazylegionspark: Thanks!
NightHunterMGS: Maybe. In Brothers of the Snake, a woman is cured from radiation poisoning by Astartes blood. And a very accurate definition of the lasgun and why they are used!
Akira Stridder: It is entirely possible a Space Marine knows the components of basic Imperial weaponry.
Boggieman: It is a possibility. I plan for a number of sequels, and the reason why will be apparent at the end of this story.
Ranger24: Tirion will have his meeting with Avarian. And yes, Darion still possesses the Corrupted Ashbringer.
Legionary: Most likely! :P
Word Bearer: You are correct. A battle barge is akin in power to an Emperor class battle ship with a complement of Space Marines on board to boot.