Chapter 7: The World in The Warp
The landing was a bit confusing, all things considered. Since the Scimitar and the planet were in the warp, there was no real crash. Instead, just like my first landing on the hulk, we simply appeared onto the soil. The Scimitar was missing some of its armor, though. Newton complained about odd readings in my armor. Tharja giggled like mad to be off the hulk. At some point in the 'crash,' she was thrown on top of me, with the sound of something scuttling near the fridge. Newton called it a tertiary stasis vault, but the food was kept cold inside, so it was a fridge. I finally managed to pry Tharja off. Her joyful delirium gave me an advantage in lowering her onto the ground before she tried to take me with her. Rising, I finally managed to see whoever was rooting around in the fridge. Maw had undoubtedly grown, was the first thought.
The first thought was actually something along the lines of, 'wow, that is one starving alligator.' Apparently, I still remembered somethings from my previous life, so long as they weren't that memorable. An odd thing to note as my pet death bug pulled his slavering maw out of the fridge. His head easily as big as a fully grown pumpkin, Maw had taken quite well to the souls we had fed him. His body, armored with legs like swords to carry such an armored serpentine length, twitched in excitement, as I went over to pet him. Up close, with my fingers playing with his feelers, his eyes I noted were compound like most bugs but with tinges of Void fire in their collective depths. Along with the feel of him provided by my Shade, Maw had seemingly gained the very ideal of Hunger from the Void. An endless cavern in his soul, desperate to be filled with souls, matter, and even ideas oddly enough.
What exactly that meant he was capable of was much less clear, but the not so little bug seemed still as happy to see me as earlier. A glance around showed Aranea and Ferro coming online, twitching about or prowling menacingly, respectively. They were fine then. Heartened by the relatively safe arrival and a little anxious to see the fruits of our labors, I went to the closest airlock, no more than a small hall next to the cockpit that would hopefully open out onto a survivable planet. Tharja soundlessly sidling up to my back, both pleasant and nervous presence I felt from her as I let Newton insert the Worm tendril from my wrist into the port. It slid open metal retracting panels and plastic sheets to unleash the atmosphere.
It was not as bad as I'd feared, or as good as I had hoped. The planet we had landed on, Aurelia, was once a wondrous place by Imperial standards. A verdant series of hive cities and training grounds, Aurellia was the chosen homeworld of a chapter of Astartes, The Blood Ravens. It had once been a breathtaking place filled with hard-working people, watchful Space Marines, and eager young boys and men hoping to serve as Astartes themselves. Then daemons had invaded, specifically Nurgle's minions and one in particular called Ulkair. The planet had been flung into the Warp, Ulkair sealed into the earth, yet in defeat, he had had the last laugh. The warp storm had ruined Aurelia's orbit, instigating an artificial ice age event. Far above, through a sky made of tormented souls, screams of the damned, and shrieking daemons, the stars peeked down. The hive cities were filled with shouts of rebellion in the distance, gunfire, and harmonic screams.
Warp spawn beasts prowled in mindless packs, while somewhere in the distance, a greater daemon of Nurgle cackled like mad as he infected the flesh of innocents with merriment. New icy glaciers, some glistening red with frozen human blood, pressed into any space they could fit. The Scimitar rested on the only mountain slope in the nearby, giving us an uninterrupted view of the landscape. Once full of the faithful, quaint villages and smaller cities sat crumbling without their caretakers. The city beyond, reminiscent of fantasy locales stretching into the sky, were silent stone monoliths who gazed upon their dying world now. I turned to Tharja, quiet, and still in her armor, dreadfully focused on the mad world before her. I grabbed her hands, leading her insensate self down the airlock and onto the snowy ground below.
I feared that she would be disappointed that the first world she would bear witness to would be tattered and chilly Aurelia. Instead, the moment she had landed in the snow, misty cold, and snowflakes rising from the impact, she screeched in amazement. Maw rushed out to join us, perhaps desperate to explore after he'd had his fill of the supplies, rolling and twisting about in the snow like a giant scaly monster dog. Ferro and Aranea soon followed, the two bots turning about to simply keep watch while Tharja promptly lost her shit for a minute. Tossing her helmet to the dirt, breathing in the 'fresh' air with such enthusiasm, she started hyperventilating. Leaping about in acrobatic twirls and kicking at the snow like a girl of less than ten.
Maw came over, perhaps eager to play with Tharja in his new shape, and quickly found her just as ruthless as always. Dozens of legs like swords, feelers like whips, and Maw's massive insectoid skull twisted about with ludicrous speed to at least touch her, while Tharja dodged it all with lively thrill. The snow tossed and turned around them, obscuring Maw's stymied efforts while Tharja giggled wildly all the while. Her eyes were barely on him, I realized, Tharja's amber irises locked not on the sky necessarily but instead the stars hidden above. I suppose it would take more than a world lost in a warp storm to perturb her enthusiasm. It probably helped that she had never seen snow, the sky, stars, or human cities before. At some point, Tharja had even gotten Ferro in it, the robot wolf drone endlessly confused until she simply gave it an order to 'catch me.' I let them play a bit, poking at Aranea as I let some ideas in mind play out for a few minutes.
All too soon, the fun ended, Tharja not even winded. Maw and Ferro contented themselves with trying to catch each other in an impromptu bit of tag. It was astounding how rapidly a centipede the weight of a fully-grown alligator and as long as a freakishly long anaconda could move. Such concerns seemed unimportant to Ferro, leaping about with metallic claws to provide traction and jaws able to crack through Tyranid carapace never able to catch the bug. Tharja joined me, sitting next to each other as we gazed upon the two till I finally voiced a thought. It had worked for her, so why not return the favor? Ferro and Aranea had been unable to do much against Warp entities, but that could be rectified. "You wanna try and 'feed' Ferro like we did, Maw? Worst come to worst, he'll simply grow a bit as Maw did." I mused out loud as if Maw had only grown bigger. I would learn my mistake soon, but Tharja was apparently having the time of her life, and giving her a new reason to smile, plus a new animal companion to tear our enemies limb from limb, could only be a good thing.
Again, I would learn the error of my ways soon enough. Ferro came over, leaving Maw chittering in disappointment. Curious when I had become the bug whisperer, I had my Shade seamlessly send my thoughts to Maw. 'If Maw could keep watch while we helped Ferro, then we could finish sooner and thus go hunting together. Wouldn't that be nice?' I mentioned to Maw. A strange connection, established during our efforts to empower him, it seemed. Like all the painfully young, Maw hopped to the task with the promise of future fun with a will. Skittering about in an ever more widening perimeter on all his legs in a disturbing burst of speed to truly encapsulate the phrase 'nothing that big should move that fast.' I ignored that thought and pushed through. I sent my thoughts into my Shade at my feet and through it to the Void beyond. The Void was waiting, the King within aware of my desires and willing to acquiesce. I had yet to be repaid for the soul of the bloodthirster after all. The King always repaid his debts'. Power thudded outward, the toll of a beat to begin, and of course, to one day end as all songs did.
Ferro, though, was without a soul or a mind to become a soul like Newton's. Leaving the Void little option beyond leaving a thread of the bloodthirster's original essence behind. An empty soul was so effortless to corrupt, and the Void would not tolerate such useless weaknesses. Ferro became more, soul born in her metallic flesh to twist it all. Blackstone swallowed and fortified her servos and metallic muscles, Void became but a heart framework yet to be filled. The mind became the ideal of not bloodlust but something softened by the Void, Revenge, with flesh to follow. By the time I had opened my eyes, Tharja was giggling again as she hugged her pet daemon wolf. Her very sizable, cyborg, scarlet-glowing eyed daemon wolf. Ferro was, at a minimum now, the size of the average yacht. At the time, my most pressing thought was, "How are we supposed to fit her on the ship?" I spoke the words without thinking. I spent a moment mourning my sense of monotony and boredom that was once my day to day life.
Tharja, undaunted by my entirely legitimate concerns, simply continued hugging said giant cyborg daemon wolf while murmuring excitedly into her fur. The fact Ferro was sitting down, panting happily like the galaxy's most monstrous puppy, didn't help my case. The only thing to break the scene was the screams of fear, agony, and blood-curdling insanity from a daemon dying in the distance. Nothing new was my first thought, followed by more gloom at how casual that occurrence was that I could recognize that sound so well. Tharja, Aranea, and the new Ferro followed me as I went to see what the hubbub was about. I crested a small ditch, where a small crater was filled with a few dozen legless nurglings, two giant rot flies without wings or limbs, and a pair of very confused and terrified plaguebearers. Then, of course, there was the monstrous entity that had rendered them so vulnerable, the beast of Void and insectoid wrath gleefully tearing into these servants of the Plague 'God.'. Maw was certainly having fun at least, his feelers on his back whipping around in impressive dexterity to try and entangle one plaguebearer. Simultaneously, his front jaws darted forward to try and capture the other in his front pincers.
He wasn't taking them seriously, I knew, entertaining himself really while Tharja clapped approvingly. My instincts and skills in CQC noted Maw wasn't using his feelers in front to hold the frontal daemon. At the same time, his legs had already been shown to be capable of rapid assault yet weren't in play. Rather than continue bemoaning my tranquil past life, I called down to Maw, my pet, apparently daemon eating, insect monster. "Maw, stop playing with your food!" I lightly admonished him. Tharja giggled in anticipation, as Maw flinched at the command. Seeming to go from zero to one hundred in two seconds, only my innate connection to Maw and enhanced senses let me track his movements. His back feelers whipped forward to throw the six-foot-tall plaguebearer into the air above him like a basketball. His jaws snatched the screaming daemon from the air, eating it whole to cut its screams of fear and surprise off midway. The other plaguebearer, thinking itself forgotten, capitalized on the 'advantage.' It quickly regretted its hasty advance, legs whipped so hard from under it that it's rotted knees were severed. Simultaneously, it's wrist bearing a putrid blade was held fast with the other feeler. It was eaten without ceremony; my eyes temporarily granted sight beyond sight to watch as Maw not merely ate such daemons, but used what remnants weren't taken by the Void to bolster himself.
His eyes more perceptive, the body more supernaturally durable, and bony blades were growing sharper. More impressively was his soul bolstered, granted a sort of shield against corruption by magnifying and fortifying his essence. I watched as he ate the rot flies and legless nurglings, their ideals of corrosion and rot unable to find purchase in either his flesh or soul. "Clever little bug." I quietly complimented him. Tharja nodded in agreement with me. Maw chittered in pleasure, to be so favored in his ferocity by us. Ferro, feeling left out, whined pitifully for more attention. My practical self seeing the opportunity, immediately pounced on an idea.
"What if we all have a hunting contest?" I proposed aloud. Maw, Ferro, and Tharja all zeroed in on me, building excitement in their eyes. Aranea even sent binary bursts of pleasure at the idea of gathering more materials to break down. I raised my hands to slow them down before Tharja sent them all in a bloody massacre across the planet. After all, there were people, human and living people, out there and hopefully even Astartes. Initially, after the Warp storm had knocked Aurelia from its orbit, there had been no survivors left by the time the storm had ended, and Aurelia returned to real space. But now was just after the planet had been knocked from its orbit. Presumably, there were stubborn, resourceful, gloriously adaptable people hiding and surviving in the cities still standing. It only made sense to set some rules, convenient ones to serve multiple purposes.
"The first rule, no hunting on your own without telling someone where you're going," I said solemnly, to both ensure no one was ambushed but allow everyone their chance to shine eventually. "Second, don't hunt the bigger ones unless you have someone nearby to help. You don't have to have them helping, just nearby in case something goes wrong." I suggested, neatly sidestepping Tharja's prickly pride while ensuring she or the others didn't bite off more than they could chew. The way she went to pick her helmet up, equal parts frustrated by my 'coddling' as she was impressed by my verbal judo, told she was aware of what I was really asking. She slid her helm on, strutting back in sensuous lethality as I finished speaking.
"Third and last, if you can, leave me the biggest one you can capture. I want to use it to help Aranea grow so that she can hunt too." I assured the three supernatural predators to stave off the glares from that decree. With more than three seconds lapse in my tyrannical demands, the three dashed off for the nearest screams and explosions of battle—ongoing in a nearby city almost rural compared to the Imperium's hive cities. Aranea was undoubtedly confused, clambering onto my back as I followed after them. At least Tharja was having fun, judging by the laughing on the radio. Soon enough, we were headed towards the sounds of fighting and dying. From the sounds, daemons were trying to get in somewhere, probably whatever haven the locals had made. I was curious to see what they made of us, such an unusual party coming to defend them.
(PDF Epsilon Squad Lead Vince Erikson POV)
I was so tired it hurt to keep breathing, lungs gasping to be filled in the frigid winds. Stims in my blood and heart kept it beating, painfully chugging along, unlike the long-dead manufactorums dad used to work at. My arms and legs shrieked bloody murder, so tired from the endless fighting. The days on the line blurred together, shooting las rifles into the blasphemous hordes that assailed Haven. My eyes hurt from always seeing such abominations, and the worst part was that we were running out of ammunition. It wasn't good, considering we were dealing with one of the worst sieges in the past year of direct attacks.
It had been simple, at first. The main hives of Aurelia may have dealt with the 'Frost Fall' as we called it differently, but at Haven, the rules were straightforward for the first five years. Haven didn't have the supplies to last till the warp storm ended, so going off to loot the other periphery cities yet to become full hives across Aurelia was obvious. Once all the heretical elements from Haven were killed in the first two years, it had even worked. It helped that the nobility were all amongst them, leaving Colonel Price of the PDF in charge. The great Colonel had served in the Imperial Guard before 'retiring' to a job with the Aurelian PDF to raise his son, Darius Price. A prestigious position of trust, earned, rumors in the barracks said, from impressing the Blood Ravens themselves.
But then the daemons had begun following us from the looting, the raids that had struck from the tundra beyond Haven had escalated to a full-on siege, and deaths became routine. The PDF had fought well, of course, other worlds willing to let their planetary defense forces follow more soft training, but this was Aurelia. A land of pride, honors, and hardships where boys no older than fifteen were sent off to survive the unforgiving wasteland beyond the comfort of the cities to find the Astartes Fortress-Monastery of Selenon to start training. Every PDF soldier was drilled as hard as the Imperial Guard, meant to uphold the honor and defense of the homeworld of the God-Emperor's Blood Angels.
Desperate charges had been mounted countless times to break the stalemates long enough to gather more supplies. Soldiers buried themselves in the frozen winter tundra, well aware they'd never make it home again, waiting for their chance to surprise the enemy from behind. Colonel Price and his son had personally led the elite Blood Crows kill teams to support faltering lines or strike against daemon champions. Explosives had been littered in ever more inventive lanes of fire to leave the foul horrors the most sensible choice for their ilk. Throw themselves into the flames, or the crossfire of Aurelia's PDF. But today, it didn't look like our struggles would be enough. The numbers were higher than ever before. Four different Alpha targets, the greatest of the daemons known champions, were attacking all across Haven's border wall.
The Colonel had already sent out the Blood Crows kill teams in full force. The average soldier faced five freaks for every one of them. Darius Price had even been heard on the vox earlier. The bird daemon thought itself smart as it broadcasted its fight against the Colonel's son to break morale. Instead, they all had a good laugh as it ate hellgun las bolts live for all to enjoy. But no one was laughing anymore—the civilians in Haven's streets silent like never before. I could hear the screams of young boys and girls in the streets. Seargent Miles had thrown himself from the walls with a bandolier of live Krak grenades to give some minor relief to the squad, standard procedure besides when one was hit with the diseased one's weapons. Kotei, Sargeant Miles' second, did his best, coordinating with other squads on the Vox-caster even as he blasted flying daemons from the skies with his las rifle.
Pate had taken the heavy stubber above the gates, spitting so much fire into so many bodies that I wasn't sure if he was even aiming or shooting on instinct. Jones was barely better, laspistol in one hand, and chainsword roaring to leave him deaf to all but the screeches of the mutants who managed to scale the walls on either side of our spot. Of course, a few others helped as best they could from the closer walls, but it wasn't enough. Epsilon squad was only guarding one of the side gates alone because we didn't have enough men to guard every entrance fully. The barricades were shoddy things, with too many holes from previous engagements. They had never been designed to withstand constant warfare. Bolstered with broken-down machinery and war vehicles broken down by the freaks. A tech-priest would've grieved to see them, but at that point, I would've wept in joy to see a new friendly face. Most of the PDF soldiers on the walls were veterans of dozens of campaigns or youngsters like me of maybe fourteen years. I was barely thinking of any of that at that moment.
I was wondering if I'd ever see my mom again, hiding in Haven somewhere with my little sis, too young to be conscripted. Dad had taught me well enough before he passed. A big brother watched out for his sister, for his family, and his friends. I'd follow those words for as long as I could if only so I didn't forget him. My hands gunned down one of the annoying little burning ones trying to sneak up on Jones, a bayonet from Sarge thrown with barely a thought afterward into a tottering thing with too many mouths leaking pus that tried to poison Kotei like one of the others did Miles. I wondered if the Blood Ravens would forgive us for not fighting off the eyesores well enough to hold the line. My mouth was moving on its own again, a regular event after Sargeant Miles had left me of all people in charge. I called further up the line that more Krak grenades were needed, support at the northern line, and focused fire on the horizon to soften the next wave. The reply wasn't helping. That every line needed those, and relief wouldn't come for another thirty. No one explained whether that was minutes or seconds.
I wondered when I had become fast enough to duel the red ones, devilishly fast beasts that could slice even the Blood Crows if they weren't careful enough. I watched in the 'battle haze' as I'd heard some of the older guards call it, body moving without thought to hinder me as I dodged the sword-wielding daemon to keep filling it with las beams while Jones danced between two more while foaming at the mouth from exhaustion. Pate was hoarse from repeatedly shouting all the curse words he'd learned from the veterans at his targets, hands red from the overheating heavy stubber. We were probably going to die, I realized. The thought didn't elicit any panic or jitters to ruin my aim as I finished the red one demanding my blood and skull. It certainly didn't like having its head riddled with holes. As my friends and I panted for breath, the last wave defeated with 90% of Epsilon squad dead; I could feel the apathy settle in.
Even if I didn't know the word, it was a familiar feeling after dad had died on the line, and mom ran low on rations before I joined the PDF to help lessen the burden. After Pate's family had been killed when a handful of the red ones had broken through this very gate before being put down, he knew it. Jones did when his father had heard the whispers, and rather than give in, had eaten his laspistol. The cold confidence that death was coming, that no matter hard we'd fought, we still might fail. Pate was only fourteen. He'd wanted to take the trials and be a Blood Raven when he grew up. Jones, just thirteen, had wanted to join the Imperial Guard like his dad had, training since he was five to fight. Kotei, at fourteen years old, had been a noble's son, before the purges. Rumors said Kotei had choked his father with one of his ties when he'd turned to heresy and tried to open the main gates before a raid.
I wondered if the Emperor would forgive us, still welcome us to the Golden Throne in the end. Instead, all I saw in the distance was a new army of the damned. Their champion, a massive and weirdly muscled red-skinned brute, shouted and screamed in vicious hatred. At the same time, its lessers cheered like thugs eager to begin the carnage. It had fleshy wings that sizzled in the air, twin axes with more flesh and bone in their make than metal and armor of bone, brass, and iron so lacking it seemed useless to wear. The numbers of them alone were enough to warrant the full attention of Haven's entire PDF forces. Brass scorpions like giant tanks hissed bloody mist at the front with heavy weapons in their stings and claws. Many of the red-skinned daemons rode brass hounds like spiteful mounts. In contrast, flesh and blood ones prowled with snarling lips and brass colors around the back lines, ready to hunt. There were shouts of alarm over the Vox network as they appeared from the cold mists of the horizon.
Even if Haven lived, I knew that we, Epsilon squad, wouldn't. We were too strained after fighting for five hours. We were on the most dangerous line, facing directly to the north where the daemons were gathering. Too grim, ready to give in after what had been five long years of us all fighting to live another day. Too few all across the northern line, from the endless growing dead. But we could still buy time. I looked around, curious what it would take to convince my friends to follow me. No one even needed to speak, the idea in everyone's eyes. Kotei tuned the Vox-caster to the main channel, telling the Colonel we'd buy some time before the next wave hit. Pate managed to remove the heavy stubber from its mount, hefting it with muscles to put some of the vets to shame. Jones popped a stim taken from Krishna's corpse, eyes bloodshot, and chugging water while his laspistol cooled off. I helped Pate settle the heavy stubber's ammo box on his back with Krishna's flak vest straps. Krishna was a great lad, cooked well, but wouldn't need his kit anymore. We'd die well, at least, for Emperor, Imperium, and Aurelia.
Maybe it was because I was the only one able to focus on the horizon, eyes scanning for a good position. Possibly I was looking in the right spot, a little pair of snowdrifts that lay on opposing ends facing the crimson-skinned daemons flanks. Whatever, I was the first to see them. A ripple came from the snowdrifts before they exploded into a cold mist, two shadowy creatures bolting forward to spoil the daemons' unity. At the same time, their champion parried a strike inches from its throat with dual bronze axes, a hail of black bolts falling to harry it further. The sound of something like a heavy stubber rattled out in the distance, riddling the daemon's lines with rounds to throw them into confusion. In less than a second, I witnessed it. Like righteous lightning, I saw him fall from the sky to try and cleave the daemon champion's skull in half. Four different blades fell as well in his wake, each so black they glimmered while stabbing out for the daemon's flesh.
His armor was the stuff of dreams and legends. Dull black-armored plating emphasized the glowing red trim throughout like blood. His strength was mythical; blows passed traded between him and the daemon champion powerful enough to send tremors rippling through the air on impact. His skill was awe-inspiring, a gleaming black and white runic pistol in his off-hand blowing holes into the outraged monster's defenses. Wings of metallic grace and agile glory lifted him above the battlefield as he struck out against the daemon with leisure. The two beasts from before converged on the daemon, one a wolf of dark, mad machinery in its hind legs and slavering, red-eyed savagery at its front. The other a terrifyingly gigantic insect, worthy of every kid's nightmares through sheer size, let alone its astounding speed and dexterity.
The daemon soon fell, knocked off its feet, fighting to rise while its attackers tore into it without delay. The PDF across the walls reported that the other daemons were falling back to converge on their surprised companion's position. Jones and Pate laughed triumphantly, happy to have a chance to live and go home again. Kotei was smiling, the always dour blue blood seeming to have lost some invisible weight from his shoulders. Only I seemed to notice that the daemon champion wasn't giving in, struggling mightily as its worst wounds healed, or that the black bolts launched into the daemon's ranks wasn't thinning their numbers quickly enough. The man in the flying power armor seemed equally aware, his black blades slashing in ever more fierce assaults and his sidearm roaring out rapidly with holes stitched into the daemon's hide. It wasn't fast enough.
If the other daemon armies arrived, then they would be overwhelmed. A woman appeared amidst the daemon's ranks just as the black bolts stopped flying in, stygian daggers lashing out instead to put even the Blood Crows to shame in such martial displays. It still wouldn't be enough, the sheer weight of numbers dragging them all under soon. "They may be strong, but the figures are against them." Someone rumbled next to me, my body whipping around with the bayonet I didn't remember picking up to swing it at the guy behind me. I remember him, though. Darius Price was every kid's dream, the pinnacle of what they wanted to be like. What we all wanted to be like. Tall enough to stand over some of the vets at my age no less. If Pate were an iron shithouse, then Darius was a poster kid for the Imperial Guard. Standing with dark skin, limber muscles, shorn black hair, and blue eyes, he was convinced in his rugged confidence like I wanted to be.
He stood behind me, unbothered that I'd almost placed a bayonet between his eyes. His eyes firmly locked on the battle through his hellgun's scope, he had probably dropped from the higher walls to make it down here without going through the stairs. I certainly hadn't heard him, crazy that, considering the lowest wall above Epsilon gate was three times his height. "If we try and send out the Blood Crows, they'll take too long. They need help now before the daemons can reinforce each other." The stupidly perfect looking boy said all casually. As if it weren't a crisis, or it wasn't obvious for even me to notice. I ignored the weirdly growing rage, and eyes turned away from the annoyingly handsome guy to the lowest walls beneath our gate. We needed a position, something to use as a fallback point, or we'd all get killed trying to help the people trying to save us. I saw it then. It had been deserted early on when the sieges started.
Bigger than my house, with the main gun on it broken to Seargent Miles' griping. He'd often take us all down, to get a look at it up close like a giant of metal able to crush men under its tracks. After all the tours, I knew for a fact that there was still some gas in its' tank, and the tracks were still good. The Sergeant had even shown me how to drive it. Bragging about how he'd been honored enough in the Imperial Guard to drive one, and that he was just 'passing off his sage wisdom.' I was never more grateful to the man, picking up his bayonet from the ground as I thought about the idea. The main reason that no one was driving was that there was nowhere to take it. Most working vehicles now just deathtraps in the siege without the numbers to man them all in supporting lines. Not to mention the multi-laser on the side was busted, the front-facing heavy-flamer didn't have any fuel, and the pintle-mounted heavy stubbers on top taken away for parts. It still had smoke launchers, las guns on the sides, and a heavy bolter mounted in the hull's front.
I could still remember Mile's words, in the darkness at night, as he showed us everything there was to know about the chimera pattern armored transport. "Kotei, call up reinforcements. Whoever can meet us out front the gates, Pate, bring the heavy stubber and any ammo we can carry. Jones, help Pate with the ammo. Darius, if you can help with any supplies, more heavy guns, or calling for backup, do it now. We're all going for a joy ride." I let my feet carry me down the stairs, the lads already moving as I hurried down to get the chimera running. Even if it were a deathtrap, in the end, it would still serve us well enough. Best of all, I got to show up that fancy poster boy Darius. Who knows, maybe we'd even survive to celebrate afterward?
(Markus POV)
As I struck out against the frustratingly competent bloodmaster, Gorehorn, I cursed myself for a fool for the 5[SUP]th[/SUP] time. Killing such ilk was hilariously enough more manageable in the warp, if only because I was in the Roaming Heart. In such a space, I had the inherent advantage of my terrain actively weakening my enemies, the chance to strike with impunity from any direction, and an army of Void constructs besides. In real space (relatively), I had no such overpowering advantages. The bloodmaster could stave off my hits by deflecting with its fleshy axes, buying time while the other daemonic masses focused on us. Even if they fell to infighting as Chaos often did, there was no way to assure the city wouldn't fall. Maw was a black carapaced death spiral, lashing out in ever-growing strength to tear dozens of bloodletters and the reckless flesh hounds to howling shreds. Ferro was amidst the throngs tearing the flesh hounds and bloodletters up to support Maw. At the same time, Tharja had already given up on her Osculans and cut them down with her daggers.
It wouldn't be enough, though, not without digging deeper into the Void. Considering Tharja wasn't lashing out with her Shade, she felt the same limitation. If we called on the Void for power now, it would be worse than any addiction. Its power was, of course, ready and waiting to be used, but there was no way to kill the daemons fast enough without paying more of ourselves for it. If the daemons were allowed to congregate, then there would be no realistic way to keep them all focused on us. What little unity they had would shatter, sending mobs of them breaking off to continue charging at the city. My Orbit Blades spun around the bloodthirster, keeping its axes unable to support each other. Tyr rounds broke through its armor to bore into its unreal flesh. My Prifma Finis darted in where its defenses were lax enough to allow it, and even at my best, it wasn't fast enough.
More people would die because I wasn't strong enough yet. Aranea followed my frantic orders to thread more mines into the path of the incoming daemon army. It would buy seconds, maybe. But at that particular moment, Aranea alerted me over the radio that there was an armored transport starting up at one of the city's side gates, pointed at the Tzeentchian crowd of daemons coming to 'help' the Khornates I was fighting. A single infantry transport, about to set off on what would be a suicide mission, towards the enemy to buy the time I needed. I'd never felt so useless, nor vindicated in my continued if scarred faith in humanity—no reason to let them fight alone, though. I radioed Tharja, phrasing it as a challenge as I let her know the defenders were trying to counterattack, and indeed she, as such a capable huntress, could both keep them safe and cut down her enemies. By her laughing, she was aware I was bullshitting her but followed my 'challenge' regardless.
Leaping clear of the conflict amidst the Khronate Warband with jump jets to gather momentum, web-swinging acrobatics to use daemons like wrecking balls to slow down her would-be pursuers and meters high leaps as if gravity were just a contest to overcome. She pulled her Osculans out to nock an arrow, launching it in the same breath, nearly punching a hole in the Lord of Change over six kilometers away. Ferro followed after her mistress soon after, tearing a ragged path through the clash. Maw refused to leave though, growing ever more crafty in his tactics. His legs like pistons punching dozens of enemies away or into the air for him to snatch in his mouth. Using his feelers to throw enemies into each other's blades or even wield their weapons in exchange. Either he'd been watching me, so he could learn how to wield multiple weapons in close quarters combat, or Maw was growing exponentially smarter by the second with all the daemons he was eating. Either way, the battle was growing more desperate, more intense as Maw and I killed more daemons to use their souls as fuel.
(PDF Squad Epsilon Lead Vince Erikson)
If nothing else, driving a chimera was fun as hell. The controls weren't that hard. Just turn the wheel to turn the chimera, pull a few levers to increase speed, and push a few buttons to get it going faster. I was pretty sure if there were any tech-priests left, they would've shot me more quickly than a commissar who smelt heresy. At least the daemons were surprised. Many of them were burning with hellgun las bolts to their innards. Those who weren't suffering weaponized flashlights to the face enjoyed dual streams of rounds and insults from Pate and Kotei on the heavy bolter mounted at the front of the chimera, with Kotei firing the heavy stubber through the front-firing lot. The daemons honestly seemed to hate the insults more than the lead, but whatever. We were a distraction, not a one chimera crusade. Not that the old guys didn't try their best. Krak grenades were thrown with gusto when power packs had to be swapped. The oh-so-awesome Darius Price was deserving of not only entire bushels of Krak grenades but five veterans of the PDF and hellguns besides. I pushed down the stupidly persistent hate/discomfort that rose whenever I even thought of him, not helped by the fact he was made tank commander.
"Specialist Pate, Kotei, cross your streams of fire as best you're able for our advance. The more daemons are dead before they reach us, the better. Specialist Jones, use the smoke rounds at your discretion to frustrate the daemons' aerial unit's accuracy as best you're able; if we are struck from above, we will make it nowhere fast. Farque, Faris, Wright, Bella, and Evelyn, continue your fire against the horrors in our immediate area; if they manage to swarm us, we will die in moments."
Darius commanded us all, blessedly not trying to order me lest my agitation spill out of my mouth. A bird looking daemon like the one Darius killed earlier, in charge of the army we were charging toward, was screaming something in the tongue of the damned. Logically speaking, there was no reason we should have heard it over the din outside the chimera. But daemons didn't care about logic. I swerved on instinct and panic, everyone screaming, as a pillar of blue flames, tried to swallow the chimera where it would be a moment ago with a wave of the bird daemon's weird book staff thing.
"Squad Lead Vince, continue evasive maneuvers," Darius told me, stating the obvious oh so heroically. I pushed down the growing irritation; eyes forcefully focused on the snowy plains ahead. Maybe that was why I saw the bird daemon flinch, another black bolt falling through the place it's head had been before it moved. I saw her fall amidst the daemons there numbers meaningless as she danced out of reach while firing more quarrels from an archeotech bow worthy of song. The giant wolf servitor from before followed its owner, barreling into the daemon ranks with far less grace and much more destruction in its wake. It also left a lovely distraction for us, leaving the chimera, not the biggest upset in the mayhem.
"Squad Lead Vince, follow the giant wolf! Punch a hole through their ranks and fire everything! If we can distract the lesser filth, these warriors may be able to slay the daemon's commander and break their morale!" Darius urged, as I once again was already doing it anyway. Far be it from me to point out that one chimera wasn't exactly the most threatening thing than the power-armored woman shooting holes into the daemons with an archeotech plasma bow or the massive servitor wolf thing eating demons.
Not that the others weren't willing to give it their all to be as distracting/annoying as possible. I still wasn't sure if the daemons were actually threatened by us or just desperate to make us all shut up. "Hey, Evelyn, how many you killed so far? Bet I have more!" Wright joked even as he fed one of the pink horrors a Krak grenade, with a quick throw through one of the firing port hatches that had to have been luck. Wright wasn't exactly the most fierce-looking guy, with a scruffy black beard, barely taller than me with tats everywhere on him, and only his upper half of flak armor on as he shot the babbling horrors outside with a lho-stick in his mouth. With a hellgun and grenades strewn about his torso, though, he made shooting daemons full of holes look easy.
Evelyn, a woman with a name far too soft and pretty to refer to the tall, tatted-up, and half bald virago with abs prominently displayed capable of grating tack bread loafs with. Her voice was worse somehow, gravelly like she'd spent her years growing up eating dirt. "You wish, Wright! Got me thirteen pink buggers, five flying ones, six of the blue ones, and 19 of the little burning freaks! Bet when we get back, I'll have more!" She growled like a grox in human skin. Wright cackled maniacally, offering rounds to whoever killed the most of the daemons. Pate seemed enthused by that offer, judging by his renewed insults. "You bet your old, wrinkly ass. I'll be getting those drinks, old guy! Just as soon I finish feeding these cock-gobbling, grox loving, shit sniffing dumbass freaks every round in the clip!" He let loose, barely stopping in his rant. He'd hopped on the heavy bolter controls as soon as we'd gotten in, and I wasn't sure if he'd try to take it with him if we ever left.
Bella was the stereotypical Aurelian beauty, red hair with blue eyes and a body with just as many curves as muscles. Her voice didn't hurt, throaty huskiness that shouldn't sound so nice coming from a woman. She was busy cracking wise with Faris on the opposite firing slit from Wright and Evelyn That if Farris managed to impress her. She might actually give him a night if they survived, whatever that meant. Farque was badgering them all like the world's grizzliest grandpa, popping daemon heads off even as he berated them all for 'showing off for the youngsters'. Faris was a tall man with completely covering custom grox skin leather and flak plating armor, who ignored Farque's admonishment and stared at the giant wolf near their position. It was tearing up a flame spewer with weird mouths for hands at the moment. "Hey Vince, that's your name, right? Think you could get us over to that wolf over there?" His gentle tenor asked. I'd do it, or die trying. Because these guys were pretty entertaining if nothing else, and Farris had even remembered my name. At least I wouldn't die bored, worse come to worse.
(Markus POV)
I could only imagine the insane kind of bravery it took to try and ride Ferro amidst a daemon horde out for your blood. Whoever the man was, though, he was lucky Ferro apparently found him amusing enough not to drop him to his death. Loud enough in his challenges that I could hear him as well, impressive despite my suit's enhancements and my own abilities. "Come on; you piss-chugging freaks! Gimme your best shot! You call this an army! This is just my work-out, you puny little abominations!" He called out in his tenor tones, blasting Tzeentchian screamers from the air with a hellgun like it was easy, a chainsword in his off-hand as well to slash at the braver amorphous horrors that sought to pull him from his daemon hound mount. Tharja was outright howling in her helmet over the radio, that she was more than happy to keep those people alive if they were all this fun.
I left her to her fun, gathering the souls and power I would need for my gambit against the bloodmaster with every shot of the Tyr. Just because Gorehorn managed to start dodging my rounds didn't mean I wasn't still gaining something for each pull of the trigger. I ignored Gorehorn's incessant outraged screaming like the world's most enormous bloodthirsty toddler as I kept putting Blackstone bullets in his soldiers. I sent instructions to Aranea to set up an overwatch position overlooking the Tzeentchian conglomerate and open fire as soon as she was done planting mines in their path. Maw had apparently been rather fittingly marked a severe threat by the bloodmaster, my precious pet death bug dueling three different brass scorpion daemon engines like a pro. He would be overwhelmed soon regardless, his power not enough among the hordes still around us, but that was fine.
I made a note to Newton to reward the brave soldiers fighting off a mob of daemons later if we all survived. Then I let myself touch the ground, spinning out of the way of a sizzling ax blade nano-seconds before it decapitated me. Power coursed through me, the power of Void bought with the two dozen bloodletters I had True Killed earlier. I let it all be bound in my Shade, not merely empowering it as I had thoughtlessly done before but reinforcing it. Gorehorn aborted the next dual chop of his axes to entrap me and cleave my torso in half. It was the only reason he didn't die immediately. At first, my Shade had only assisted me in indirect ways. Obscuring my movements. Imbued itself into my strikes to try and inflict more effective wounds to Gorehorn. Shared its perspective of a Shade so I could use both technical and supernatural senses in concert. All such actions solely to leave me even able to compete in a martial contest with a daemon so favored by Khorne.
Now, my Shade became a weapon, the living shadow at my feet darting forward to nearly spear directly into Gorehorn's chest. Instead, thanks to Gorehorn's own supernatural sense of battle, he had managed to have his side ripped out instead. Blood of a far too molten consistency like lava dripped from Gorehorn's wound, the bloodmaster stepping back to grasp at the injury with fear and uncertainty in its eyes. Every daemon nearby belonging to Khorne froze, witness to an impossibility they were literally incapable of understanding. A bloodmaster of Khorne, one who had led such armies to uncountable conflicts without hesitation throughout generations of humanity, afraid and backing away from a fight. The wounds from before were in a way too nondescript and weak, the losses the Khornate berserkers suffered at first disregarded amidst the unexpected ambush.
But now was different, the blow I had given Gorehorn one only one force in this galaxy could've caused. From one man that they all knew of, who had stood triumphant against the Four Gods Of Chaos. A name that every daemon would know and learn to fear as they whispered it in unison. "Markus, Prince Of Void and Shadow Of The End." They chanted that name, with equal parts revulsion, terror, and reverence. For I was everything they played at, True Death, and the very fear of it personified. The name resonated in my essence. A promise of what would be, what was, and the stakes. Before, the battle had been like any other for the Khornates. A way to gather skulls for Khorne, to spill blood in his name, but now it was something else entirely. The crackling of Gorehorn's blood on the snowy ground underscored it, the perils that every Khornate daemon faced without their berserk blood rage to blind them to the dangers. To confront me and mine, and fall to our weapons, was to risk True Death.
The creaking of thousands of daemonic hands tightening on their hellblades, daemons themselves of anger, and Warp-forged wickedness resounded in rekindled unison. Above all, the worst of Khornate abilities was an innate interconnected battle lust. So long as one was willing to fight and cause uncounted cruelties on their foes, they all were. Gorehorn seemed ready, wound left to bleed as he eyed my skull to memorize it before he took it for Khorne. The three brass scorpions surrounding Maw reared up with renewed hissing like the roar of thousands of blood-curdling screams apiece. Maw was undaunted, eating the hellblades he'd stolen before as they tried to burn his feelers as if to insult his enemies. I laughed, the tensions skyrocketing as I cackled with the sound of millions of innocents fallen to Khorne.
If Maw and I tried to fight every Khornate in the field directly, then we would lose. There was no real question about it. Even if they all died eventually, they would still manage to ruin the city in the distance and slay all its residents before then. I had been foolish to try, but now I had what I needed. The Khornates still had the superior numbers, their supernatural skills in combat, and daemonic strength. They had regained their unity, now focused far more resolutely against Maw and me with much less of their blood craze to blind them to their wounds even to the point of death. They even had their leader, Gorehorn, a bloodmaster who sat on a tier of power somewhere between a bloodthirster and a bloodletter. A genuinely catastrophic threat they were, all the more so that they were focused now.
But there was a new element in the battleground, something only I could inflict and nearly disregarded. An advantage the Void hadn't managed to allow me against the Tyranids but hinted at in the second long war in the Warp. The daemons were afraid now. Terrified to die a True Death that they could never have comprehended until it was staring them in the face. Such fear lurked in the air now, sharpening the bloodletter's legions skills to a razor-sharp edge. But fear was one of the five aspects of the Void, one I was most closely affiliated with. I was afraid of this universe, and all the horrible things native to it. I was scared of the daemons, their 'Dark Gods', and countless other things, but I would only ever seek to grow to be greater than said fears. Through the Void, I mastered not only my own fear but theirs as well.
The shadows of every daemon around me twitched toward me as I fed their fear into newborn Shades. I became but a channel for the Void and one of its core aspects. I was The Shadow Of The End, the fear that all things felt when facing mortality. Daemons had no context for such matters. How could they when they had never met a foe capable of cutting them down with such inescapable finality? Why would they not be afraid, to be forced to confront their own demise personified? Such unease was delicious to the Void, imposed on the Four Gods OF Chaos' servants/shards/personalities. Shades were born throughout that field, a web of horror and shadows underneath the feet of my enemies. Their own growing unease fed such Shades until they started leaping up to grab bloodletters screaming into their own shadows and the awaiting Void. Their screams were quite gratifying.