Finis fide Chapter 2

Two different breeds of men marched in the midnight woods, the smaller men grumbling and muttering, the Space Marines towering over them but walking in disciplined silence. The native patrol had not wanted to come with the Storm Heralds but Toran had thought their local knowledge would prove useful and had insisted. The locals had quickly acquiesced when the alternative was arguing with an angry Space Marine.

Sergeant Toran walked in the middle of that group, his armour a black hole in the midnight gloom. He was somewhat young for his rank but his face betrayed a keen intellect and a determined drive to excel. He was a rising star in Ninth Company, held to be on a path to high rank, though many whispered behind his back he needed another century of seasoning. At his belt he wore a chainsword and a bolt pistol and his face was embedded with a glowing augmetic eye, the loss of his original eyeball a parting gift from a Chaos Warlord.

Sergeant Toran watched his new allies as they walked and was surprised by how clumsy and inept they were for supposedly born woodsmen. They tripped over roots and walked too close together, occasionally bumping into each other. Toran opened a closed link to his squadmate Halis Paur and subvocalized with twitches of his larynx, so the men would not hear, as he said, "I thought these natives would be useful as guides, but look at them."

Halis' helm glanced over as he commented, "It is dark."

Toran was puzzled by this and said, "What's that got to do with anything?"

Halis replied with an amused tone, "It is the middle of the night and the stars are obscured by trees. Human eyes are only mortal, they literally cannot see the hands in front of their faces."

Toran was surprised for he had forgotten how weak and frail mortal men were. For too long he had been accustomed to the superior perceptions of the Astartes, even without his helm on he could see as if it was broad daylight and that was without his augmetic right eye.

"Perhaps we should have left them behind, they will likely die before this is over," he mused.

Halis could not shrug in power armour but his sentiment was clear from his tone of voice as he said, "If they get us where we need to go then what does it matter if they die?"

Toran half-expected the response, for Halis had been rendered bitter and cynical by loss, even other Astartes found him callous and cold. Yet he had a sharp insight and a chillingly pragmatic bent, his mind was like a corkscrew and he oft noticed things others missed. Toran looked around and took in the rest of his squad seeing how easily they moved through the darkness, wise Furion, impudent Novak, savage Jediah and snide Ophelian all in perfect formation.

Further out was Persion the cavalier comm-specialist and with him was Daite, who was odd even for a squad of the Reserve Companies. Daite was a quiet one which made many underestimate his skills yet it was his gene-seed that truly set him apart. It was not a fact the Storm Heralds announced widely but their gene-seed hid a small defect, namely a defective Catalepsean Node. When overtaxed it could occasionally induce visions or hallucinations and these visions often came true with a disturbing frequency.

This was not true prophecy, like a psyker could perform, but rather intuitive insights, profound revelations and incredible leaps of deduction. It was a subtle difference but enough to keep the Inquisition at bay as no hint of Warp taint had ever been associated with it. Most brothers would go a lifetime perhaps being unlucky enough to experience one vision at most but Daite had been beset by them since his induction. The genetic mutation was a mystery but still the visions made Toran uncomfortable, yet the Masters of the Chapter held the visions in high regard, so there was nothing he could do except put up with it. At least it helped that Daite held the squads' auspex, which gave him a plausible rational for his insights, a small excuse but enough.

This then was IXth squad of Ninth Company. Held by some to be the Storm Heralds premier demolition experts and by others to be a gaggle of misfits and oddballs, best kept in the Reserves. They got the strange and inglorious assignments, supporting roles and missions that did not justify a Battle Company. Basically any task the Line Captains thought to be beneath them, like coming to this Xenos occupied backwater world.

Toran decided enough was enough and voxed, "Daite, any threats nearby?"

"Nothing for leagues and leagues" came the response.

"Very good," said Toran then announced, "In that case stab-lights on."

Instantly eight beams of light sprang out from nowhere making the mortals blink and rub their watering eyes in the sudden illumination. With the way lit the group picked up speed and the men moved with much more confidence. Now the natives could see their new companions clearly and they kept stealing glances at them in disbelief.

The youngest one drifted closer to Toran until he had to crane his neck to look up. Zander cleared his throat and asked "Is it true you are Astartes?"

Toran had no wish to engage in conversation so replied briskly, "Yes."

"My Da told me you would come but we have not seen any Imperials since before I was born," said Zander, "Why didn't you come sooner?"

Toran replied with the blunt truth, "The Imperium is beset on all sides by terrible foes, Ork Waaghs, Traitor assaults and ancient Xeno races, yet despite that we have never forgotten the Osirian Psybrids. They are a foe of antiquity, whom challenged the Legions of the Great Crusade and were eventually declared extinct by our glorious Primarch Roboute Guilliman. A declaration that has proved somewhat premature. That is why we Storm Heralds will never forget: their continued existence is an insult to his legacy."

"It's been so long since we saw any sign of the Emperor's warriors," said Zander glancing at the oldest member of the party, "Some of us have begun to loose faith."

Toran tried to reassure the native boy with a smile, but the child looked at him in blank incomprehension. Toran realised the mortal had no experience in dealing with transhuman expressions, what would be blatant to another Space Marine was subtle and obscure to a mortal. He thought perhaps that was the origin of the myth that Space Marines had all their emotions cut out of them, a woefully misguided distortion of the truth.

Toran said, "Rest assured, we have come to reclaim this world in the Emperor's name."

Zander nodded eagerly as if hearing divine revelation and said, "Well I can't see you lot being stopped by mere Kerns."

"Kerns?" asked Toran with a frown.

"Oh… the mindless," Zander replied then made a weak grin, "Like Kern seeds, they come in these fat pods, what you do is scoop out the edible parts and what you are left with are these perfect husks, but all hollowed out inside. I guess the name started as somebody's morbid joke."

Toran looked at him blankly, the child was obviously making some attempt at humour but it baffled him why anyone would do this. He sub-vocalised a link to Halis and asked, "What is he saying?"

Halis replied on a closed link, "Humans often need to diminish a threat by making humorous remarks about it."

"Foolish," replied Toran, "To mock threats is to underestimate them and that hands the enemy an advantage."

"They are only mortal," scoffed Halis, "We are Astartes, what more is there to say?"

Toran realised the conversation had lapsed and the native boy was staring at him. He tried to encourage the child to reveal more information by asking, "What are those stones you all wear?"

Zander looked surprised and picked up the stone hanging around his neck on a cord, "These? These are Ward stones, we all have them; they keep the Psybrids from taking over our minds."

There was a snort from the other side of the marching line and Phelps called out "Don't toy with it too much, you will go blind!"

"Why do you always have to sneer at everything?" Snapped Zander in frustration, "I told you the Astartes would come, they will drive the Psybrids off Odiosis!"

Phelps grimaced and said, "We don't need them, we can do it ourselves. There are only eight of them, all they will do is get a lot of us killed and where will they be when the Psybrids come for revenge, not here for certain."

"You are wrong," barked Zander, "The Sky-Emperor has sent his Astartes to save our world."

"Don't give me that" Phelps spat, "Where was he when our world was invaded? Where was he when we struggled for decades alone? The Emperor doesn't care about us."

There was as sudden blur of movement and Toran blinked at how Phelps suddenly found himself held aloft by one giant hand, pinning him hard against a tree truck. Brother Furion was holding his neck in the cage of a spread hand, fingers passing by his throat to plunge knuckle deep into the pine tree behind him, splintering bark with the pressure. Phelps kicked and gasped for air as he clawed at the ceramite gauntlet but was helpless as a babe in the merciless grip.

Toran watched as Furion leaned in closer and as Phelp's face turn scarlet for lack of air he growled, "I am making allowances for your long fight against the Xenos, but my patience is limited. Take the Emperor's name in vain again and I will rip out your throat for Heresy, there will be no more warnings."

Then he ripped his hand away leaving Phelps to fall limply and flop on the ground, clawing at his throat as he sucked down air. The natives stood dumbfounded, shocked by the display of force. Toran gave them a sharp glance and they hurried to form up and get back on the march. Even Zander scurried away, not wanting to risk saying anything to upset the Transhumans further.

There was no more backtalk from the natives and IXth squad kept their thoughts to themselves as they paced onwards. So the party marched away, disappearing into the night.