Carpe Posterum Chapter 15
In the dark hall the two sides faced off, the noble trio facing their malformed and aberrant reflections. A single moment stretched out to eternity but then with a uniform snap the twisted mutants levelled their stolen bolters and took aim but the Storm Heralds were already in motion. Even as the first bolts let fly Toran and Novak were charging, presenting their thick pauldrons to the fore, using them as ablative shields against the incoming salvo. Nimodes in his lighter scout armour was forced to weave behind them, using them as mobile cover.
Toran felt a bolt round slam into his pauldron and the impact jarred him but he pushed through the pain and dived forwards as he drew his power sword. The malforms dropped their bolters as he closed and drew combat blades as they leapt to meet their blood-kin head on. The hall filled with violence as the two sides met, blows being traded faster than the eye could follow. Toran slashed at the first aberrant to approach him but it fell back and he was forced to pull his blow to parry a stab from another one of the mutants as they surrounded him with their superior numbers.
From the corner of his eye he saw Novak leap into the fray, his rapier a whirlwind of steel as he lunged and riposted with elegant flourishes. He was simultaneously duelling three of the malforms, holding off their blows and counter-attacking with a skill no mortal could ever achieve. Yet despite his expertise more and more of the aberrants were piling in and he was increasingly forced onto the defensive. Meanwhile Nimodes was relying on his superior agility to stay alive; his lighter armour unable to take the kind of blows his brothers were enduring. He ducked and weaved constantly as blows sought him out, lashing out in return but he could not land a telling strike against their mismatched and patchwork armour. Outnumbered four to one Novak and Nimodes were overmatched and instinctively slammed back to back for protection. With peerless coordination they fought off the attackers but they were fighting entirely defensively, it was only a matter of time before one of them made a fatal mistake.
Meanwhile Toran was facing off against four more mutants, one with tentacles for hands and another with splayed crab like legs. The next had one grotesquely over muscled arm in which it swung a massive axe while the last seemed normal save for bulging red eyes which were swollen out of their sockets. The mutated warriors were good, very good; whoever had trained them had instilled a deadly skill and speed that matched Toran's own. They had the advantage of numbers and knew exactly how to use it to keep Toran constantly off balance as they attacked from unexpected angles. He sought to strike back but every time he extended to land a killing blow another of them would sweep in and force him to pull back lest he be cut down.
He dodged a hacking blow from the axe wielder and kicked out to catch the crab legged malform from an unexpected direction. The impact sent it staggering back with its legs skittering under it, it crashed into a wall panel and tore it off to reveal a control panel before it righted itself and jumped back into the fray. Toran was beset on all sides now, taking countless blows that ripped into his armour as they sought to penetrate his vulnerable joints. He rode the wave of pain from the gouges and lucky strikes as he slashed back but he could just not land a death stroke.
Toran feinted a blow at the malform with bulging eyes but then diverted and his blade scored a vicious cut across the exposed wrist of the tentacle-handed aberrant. Blood spilled and tendons tore as Toran braced for the counter attack but almost lost his life when it failed to emerge. Instead the crab legged mutant cut in from the right and stabbed at his neck. Toran twisted away at the last second and prevented a killing blow but as he did so he saw the wounded aberrant falling back, holding its wrist in a tender grip.
In that moment the truth hit Toran: whoever had trained the aberrations had been good, perhaps the very best of mortals, but they had not been Space Marines. These horrors had not endured the most pitiless and savage training regime ever conceived, they had not suffered the agonising conditioning and trails of true aspirants. These deviants had not undertaken the sacred rites and tests of character that winnowed out all save those who thrived on conflict and war. For all the mutant's geneic resculpting, despite all the training, weapons and armour they had been gifted they were still mortal at heart. These foes were men not Astartes: they still Knew Fear.
Furiously Toran threw himself into the fight, lashing out in a frenzy of cuts and slashes but now he was not fighting to kill; now he was fighting to hurt. His blade nicked and scored at deviant flesh, spilling blood and ripping skin with every blow. In such proximity the aberrations were able to press in close, landing as many shallow cuts as he was himself inflicting. Yet what they had failed to grasp was the diamond hard will of a true Astartes, the ability to master outrage, fervour and anguish then channel it all into fuel for their zeal.
The fight was vicious and brutal yet the more wounds inflicted on Toran and the more pain he suffered the harder he fought, growing deadlier and more focussed with every passing second. The aberrations on the other hand were growing weaker and distracted, their pain slowing them down and their fear making them flinch away from the flashing power sword. Toran scythed at the deviant with red bulging eyes and it could not help but recoil, baulking in instinctive dread of the pain to come. Toran saw the opening and threw out his arm wide; the shining edge of the blade tore through the mismatched armour and ripped open the aberration's guts. A true Astartes would have accepted the agony and committed himself to one last strike in death, but the mutant merely fell to the ground, futilely trying to stuff its entrails back inside.
The other malforms thought they saw an opportunity and pounced to cut Toran down but the Sergeant was ready, as they leapt forwards he used his momentum to swing about and leapt to meet them. His sword thrust out as he vaulted forwards and the tip of the sword plunged into the chest of the crab legged mutant, tearing out its hearts. The aberrants were flabbergasted by this sudden reversal, seeing two of their kin cut down in moments and the shock caused them to freeze for a single heartbeat. Toran's reaction speed was so fast a vid-picter could not have captured it as his sword lanced through the throat of the axe-wielding mutant, skewering its neck and ripping out the other side leaving the deviant standing there like a hooked fish until the Sergeant pulled back his blade and the aberrant fell down stone dead. The horror overwhelmed the last malform and it backed away in fear, waving its tentacled hands before it in a desperate plea for mercy. Toran paced after it relentlessly, the very image of a pitiless destroyer. He became death incarnate as he raised his sword high then scythed it down like an executioner's axe, ending this travesty in a single stroke.
His attackers had fallen at last and Toran breathed in a single deep breath as he recovered but then turned to aid his beleaguered brothers. Novak and Nimodes were falling back before the remaining malforms but Toran ran to their aid launching a vicious attack from the rear. Though still having the advantage of numbers the deviants were now flanked on two sides and could not effectively defend themselves. Caught between three experienced Space Marines the aberrants stood no chance and in less than a minute they were all cut down. Novak claimed the last kill, his flashing rapier skewering a mutant through the eyesocket to end their threat once and for all.
The battle was over and the three Storm Heralds had won but there were other matters to attend to before they could declare victory. From behind his shimmering forcefield Brendan was quivering in rage, the act of being denied whatever he wanted never occurring to him before in his life. He turned purple as he screamed, "How dare you! Those were mine; I will kill you for this!"
Toran sheathed his sword as he looked at the pathetic man who thought himself a god, the force field was impenetrable yet there must be another way to deal with him. But as Toran pondered Nimodes had an idea and walked over to the control panel exposed in the fight, he reached within and began making adjustments.
"Fools!" cried Brendan from behind his shimmering force shield, "Do you think I did not take precautions, that I would not have a failsafe against my protection simply being shut off?!"
Nimodes was busy making an adjustment as he retorted, "Who said anything about shutting it off?"
As his hands moved the force shield grew more and more vibrant, darkening in tone as the field's power supply increased. Brendan looked panicked and tried to override with the controls in his own throne but he did not understand enough about his own protection to change anything. He staggered from his chair and tried to scream at the Astartes but his words were lost as the field darkened into a solid black pearl, cutting off all light and his air supply.
Torna looked upon a solid black pearl and remarked, "You made it airtight, he's trapped and his air supply is limited."
Novak looked at the new black wall before them and mused, "How much oxygen do you think he has in there?"
Nimodes rubbed his chin and said, "A man his size… less than fifteen minutes before he suffocates to death."
Novak was jubiliant at the fate of the heretic and smirked as he said, "So what do we do now?"
Toran looked at the corpses of the malformed tranhsumans and said, "We still have a mission to complete, we were sent to retrieve the lost relics and that is what we shall do."
Novak nodded and knelt to begin stripping the treasured armour components from the mutants however Nimodes said, "But what of the gene-seed, we have failed to recover the Chapter's future."
"Not necessarily," said Toran drawing his combat blade.
Nimodes looked shocked and said, "You cannot be serious! They are mutated and twisted, the Progenoids will be perverted."
"Perhaps," said Toran thoughtfully, "Or maybe this was the result of Brendan's incompetent sciences, his thug's lack of understanding of the mysteries wrought by the Emperor. If we return the Progenoids to the Apothecaries they may be able to undo his tampering."
Nimodes sighed, "Its worth a try, if they can recover a single gene-seed it will be a victory."
Then Toran knelt by the first malformed corpse and pushed the tip of his blade into the torso saying, "He that is dead… take from him the Chapter's Due."