I am back! Life seems extremely busy lately, so sorry I couldn't get this out sooner. We have the battle on Earth, and things are getting grimmer as we go. I thank you all for your wonderful reviews, for your support, and that all of the reviews were helpful, and not complaints. Speaking of which...
themadnimrod: I would say everyone is more on the endangered side, but the Asari certainly now qualify.
Doc43Souls: Thank you! Also, thank you for correcting all my typos. It means a lot.
BonesofSmite: Thank you! I'm glad everything for the Consecrators was in-character.
gods-own: Thank you! I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Big E: Ah, thank you for the clarification. Pineapple on pizza is truly the mark of heresy, and should rightfully be eradicated.
Dragon Blaze-X: Very true. Teach a man how to build a fire, and he's warm for a day. Set him on fire and he's warm for the rest of his life...
Hunter19941: I agree. They have some of the most badass quotes in Warhammer, and that's saying something. "Salt the earth, burn the sky," is especially good.
Chronus1326: Thank you! I think there will be a slower paced space battle coming up soon, though the pacing is hard to tell because I'm not quite there yet.
ThousandSonSorcere: Yeah, the Consecrators certainly have all the old goodies. Thank you for your review! I'm glad you liked the chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one as well.
RememberReach312: I don't think they would have done a full Exterminatus with virus bombs or cyclonic torpedoes, but they would have destroyed enough of Thessia with phosphex and orbital strikes to make the result very similar.
valhalan guardsman: So was I, but I figured a contemptor worked slightly better.
Guest: Indeed. The Consecrators are very good at their job...
jetjedi: That's just how the sons of the Lion roll.
local doc: Thank you. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well!
Guest author: Thank you. The Asari certainly have other colonies, and aren't going to be a rarity, though both them and most of the other races of the galaxy have lost massive amounts of the pre-war populations. We'll see the main crew soon enough. I think the Imperium, overstretched as they are, realizes that if the Dark Mechanicum gains a foothold in this galaxy, they're toast in their home galaxy when the Dark Mechaincum returns. Therefore, they have no choice but to fight for it, and later, if they win, they can turn it into a power base. I would also think that the Asari on Thessia were too busy to send or record anything about the Consecrators, and even if they did... well, Cawl and the Tech-Priests would probably stop it. The sons of the Lion have always been a more cold bunch, so I think a lot of Guardsmen might be afraid of them. That's why Dante and Shrike are serving on Earth, though. Thank you for your kind words, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Lucho: It can ALWAYS get worse.
Anatheras: Thank you. I think there would be a problem theologically with the Hanar and Imperium, but the Imperium would regard them as stupid jellyfish and really not care. I think they'd just steamroll them politically and be done with it.
Clown2107: There are definitely more Asari worlds. But the Asari and most other races have lost huge numbers, so perhaps that what others were referring to. Thank you for your review!
Austin: Well, the humans lost their homeworld, and the Asari weren't willing to help... so I think the Turians and humans are more smug about the whole thing. I once the war ends, that will be the story for the most part. There will be some aftermath chapters, but after that, I think that's where the story should end. However, rest assured, I have other ideas for stories in the future, which I will write, and I think most people here will very much enjoy.
thebigmeme: Thank you! I agree; it's nice to see not only the Imperium interacting with others, but the more noble and honorable sides they could have if not for the overwhelming darkness of their reality. I'm glad you like the story, and thank you for your review!
Fernix13: I'm glad you liked it! Trazyn had plans, though he can't get everything unfortunately. Also, the virus wouldn't tough the becon, but the firestorm might. I'm not sure if the firestorm afterwords would destroy structures or just incinerate the atmosphere, but I'm no expert. Thank you for your review, and I hope you like this chapter!
oOo
Hell on Earth
"Hell on earth, the trenches mean death, keep your head down low,
Charge their lines, the ultimate test, it's a synchronized sacrifice,
When the bullet hits its mark,
Know your time in hell's been served,
You won't return home,
Dream of heaven,
Angels are calling your name." -Angels Calling, Sabaton
"Then we march. All of us who bear the Blood. Chaplain Ordamael, summon the Amarean Guard. Open the gates of the Tower of Amareo. Let the damned march with the damned." -Lord Commander Dante, Devastation of Baal
oOo
Lord Commander Dante sat somberly upon a chair of plain wood. It was like something of a Baroque painting- a golden god, his face a death mask, slumped over a chair with an expression of such beautiful sorrow one could not help but weep at the sight. His weapons laid as his side; ornaments to the somberness and tragedy of the scene.
Around him were the other members of the Angels' high command. Behind Dante was Sepheran, commander of the Sanguinary Guard, arrayed in his own golden armor and gilded mask. Mephiston, Chief Librarian, Lord of Death, stood nearby, his pale and bony face displaying its usual fearsome visage. He leant an air of indistinct gothic horror to the scene; the faint terror of his appearance only enhanced by the whispers of Warp power hanging around his person like a grim mist.
There was also Astorath the Grim, High Chaplain, Redeemer of the Lost. His pitch-black armor and wings were a stark difference from the glorious gold and red of the other Marines- a dark reminder of the flaws of the chapter and the necessity of the High Chaplain's role. Much like Mephiston, his face was slender and sharp-boned, nose hawk-like and white-blond hair reaching down to his shoulders.
There was Brother Corbulo, the Sanguinary High Priest, in his glorious red armor with white trim. His face was chiseled and handsome in the classical sense, with short curly blond hair balanced above a broad brow. Yet he was not smiling today- his face wore an expression of grim regression. Next to him was Brother Incarael, the head Techmarine and master of the armory. His helmet was on as his mechadendrites and servo-arm fiddled and flexed, taking in exterior data on the war raging around them.
Last were Captain Karlaen of First Company and Captain Castigon of Fourth Company, both bedecked in pitted and blood-spattered armor. Karlaen stood back, helmet on and arms crossed, as Castigon, helmetless and pacing, made his report to Dante and the rest of chapter command.
"Ignatum is still engaged with Mortis throughout the center of the continent," said Castigon, hand flexing on the hilt of his power sword in agitation. "We have no idea who is going to prevail. The Mechanicus say they have some secret weapons coming; certainly, Ordo Reductor is here and working on something, but what we do not know, when it will arrive we do not know, and, knowing the Mechanicus and how they operate, this could all simply be hyperbole." He ran a crimson-gauntleted hand through his hair in frustration.
"Continue," said Astorath softly. Castigon gave some sort of noise that was halfway between and gulp and a sigh as he went on.
"South America is mostly secure. However, major pushes have been made from all Dark Mechanicum centers of operation, the largest being Mortis's push from Vancouver in our section. The Raven Guard is spread throughout the rest of the world, attempting to contain and fight enemy forces wherever they can."
"If anyone can do that, it's the Raven Guard," murmured Incarael as he tweaked a data slate. Castigon's head snapped up, agitated, at the Techmarine's voice. With a soft shake, he continued his pacing and his report.
"The Harakoni and Cadian forces with us are fighting as well as can be expected by the full power of both the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum. The Alliance is…" Castigon tilted his head. "Doing their best. Their soldiers are not used to this type of war, but they are trained enough and this is their home planet, so they're fighting desperately. The Cadians seem to be doing the best, though, which, in a ground war of this scale, is to be expected."
"Continue," said Astorath once more, cold eyes boring into Castigon as if they would melt away his head.
"As for the chapter…" Castigon swallowed as he continued. "We are fighting throughout the southern part of this landmass, especially throughout the flanks of the Titan fight… as I'm sure you all know," he hurriedly added. "We don't want to get too close to the god-engines." A wry smile graced his lips, then quickly turned somber once more. "All companies are engaged throughout the landmass, and all ancients have been awoken from their slumber. The armories, as Brother Incarael can attest, have been stripped to give the chapter every advantage it has on the field." Castigon frowned and sighed. "Even then, we are losing ground. Our casualties mount by the day. We are the Angels of Death, but the Dark Mechanicum has unleashed horrors not seen since the Heresy and before. Our chapter has seen some very trying times, many of which you were all present for, and I fear this may be one of them," finished Castigon.
"And?" asked Astorath, face as cold as granite. Castigon visibly swallowed and prepared to give everyone's least favorite part of the report.
"The number of victims to the Black Rage is rising," he said softly. Everyone else around the table frowned or closed their eyes in sorrowful reverence. "We are on Holy Terra, and the similarities to ancient battles are strong… as we suspected," continued Castigon mournfully. "It is not as high as we suspected, which is a great relief, but it is still a slight increase, which is nevertheless troubling." Captain Castigon sighed. "And that is my report."
Astorath simply pursed his lips, emotionless. Mephiston turned to mutter something to Sepheran. Incarael continued to fiddle with his bits of technology. The news was dire. The chapter's flaws were showing in greater numbers. The Titan battle continued, with no clear winner either way. It was too soon to be sure of such things.
However, the ground battle was different. Despite having the full power of the Blood Angels chapter, in addition to the Harakoni, Cadians, and Alliance Marines, they were being gradually pushed back. The Dark Mechanicum was a fierce and terrible enemy: more powerful and dangerous than any Ork or Tyrannid. Indeed, the Dark Mechanicum was perhaps more dangerous than Traitor Astartes, for the Dark Mechanicum had access to ancient secrets, forbidden arts, and technology of an unheard of power and scale.
Simply put, the allies on the ground were losing. What the Dark Mechanicum could muster was too much. Twisted creations numbered in the millions upon millions, each more dangerous than the last. They were all supported by the power of ancient weapons and relics, some not seen since the Age of Strife. Hell had been brought to Earth, a destruction more terrible than the initial Reaper assault.
Throughout the entire report, Lord Commander Dante remained silent. The Death Mask of Sanguinius barely moved as Captain Castigon gave his report. His weapons languished on the table behind him.
Finally, as Castigon finished and the other members of the high command began murmuring amongst each other, Dante sat up straight. Astorath and Mephiston looked over. The Lord of the Angels sighed and hunched over, his pose one of resigned dejection.
"Unleash Death Company." The words were spoken quietly, in a deep and normal tone, yet their impact was like a shockwave through the room.
"My… my lord!" spoke up Captain Karlaen. "Are… are you certain? This is… I…" he tried to find the right words to voice his protest, but was reduced to mere stammering.
"Those who are here would know," intoned Astorath gravely. "They would see, and while others have seen before, at this point, due to the nature of this war and our allies, they might ask questions."
"I realize this," replied Dante, his voice almost a whisper.
"My lord, we cannot-!" began Sepheran. Dante raised a golden gauntlet, and the commander of the Sanguinary Guard fell silent.
"Unleash. Death. Company," he repeated. He stood to his full height, glorious golden armor seemingly towering over the rest of the room in comparison. Captain Karlaen spoke up once more, trying to give voice to his protests.
"My lord, if we unleash Death Company, there are countless issues we might face! The enemy could run experiments, our allies would know, or worse, be butchered, and-"
"I am Lord of the Angels," replied Dante calmly, evenly. "And it is my decision. Summon the chaplains, and ready Death Company." The Marines around him bowed.
"It shall be done, my lord," replied Astorath. "My axe shall be ready, for when the time comes." The Death Mask of Sanguinius tilted curiously.
"I don't think your services will be required after this battle, High Chaplain," said Dante. "For we are all damned." Without another word, the Lord of the Angels strode from the room, leaving everyone else inside to ruminate upon his words.
But his words were simple, and those in the room knew, whether they wished to admit it or not. It was the unspoken truth of their existence.
All among the sons of Sanguinius were damned. Some just fell sooner than others.
oOo
Sargeant Ridus Jandic hissed and swore as he snapped another power pack into his lasgun. He brought it up just in time to blast away a screaming monstrosity as it charged his position. Nearby, other members of the Harakoni Warhawks, clad in their tan plate and dark purple suits beneath, blasted away at the incoming enemy hordes. There must have been millions of them!
It was complete and utter chaos. The Harakoni had deployed along the southern frontier of what had been the United States before the war to support the Titan and Blood Angels push against the traitor forces. They had been hopeful; excited even. Who could oppose the glorious sons of Sanguinius in open battle, not to mention Mars's own Titan Legion? But it seemed the traitors had answered that question with a Titan Legion of their own and enough terrifying monstrosities to populate the Warp itself. Everything had devolved into bedlam after that.
There were Alliance Marines intermixed with the Harakoni. Jandic didn't know who they were or where they came from. The Marines, in turn, seemed equally confused- but there was no time for confusion. Both groups fought side-by-side now, intermingling in each other's lines as the necessity of battle forced them.
Jandic looked back as a distinctly Cadian tank rolled over a slight incline to blast away a Marauder with its main battle cannon. He didn't think there were supposed to be Cadians here. Yeah, everything had gone to hell.
The neverending din of whining lasguns and the roar of gunship jets was all that Jandic could hear. Thank the Throne they blocked out the screams.
Medics worked on wounded soldiers. Alliance Marines, pure fear in their eyes, blasted away at charging skitarii, Brutes, Husks, Cannibals, Marauders, and other less-identifiable, far more terrifying monsters. Thermal clips and empty cartridges and power packs coated the ground like dew after a cold morning. Bodies, rich red human blood staining the earth, contrasted to those of the fallen enemies, pus, rust, and congealed black filth leaking onto Terra's holy soil. Jaundice was infuriated at the sight. How dare they stain humanity's holy homeworld with their impurity. But there was nothing he could do except fight.
Another Valkyrie roared overhead, peppering the ground with missiles, bolter shells, and lascannon shots. A column of fallen skitarii were obliterated. Jaundice continued firing grimly. If not for the Harakoni aerial supremacy, they would have probably been overrun long ago.
A Warhawk was ripped apart by a skitarii, screaming. Another roared definitely as she was grabbed, then detonated every grenade on her body, blasting away several of the monsters at the cost of her life. A Marine fired an incinerate straight down a Cannibal's throat. It exploded with a nearly cartoonish pop.
A line of Marines was devoured. A gunship obliterated a line of skitarii in retaliation. The Cadian tank fired again, turning a huge behemoth of a creature into bloody pulp. It ground over a group of Husks with its treads.
An Alliance Marine, shell shocked and crying, scrambled away from the battle. Unable to run, he desperately crawled. An advancing Commissar shot him in the head without a second's thought, then slammed a new magazine into his bolt pistol as he drew his power sword, advancing into the fray. No one took any notice. Even the Alliance Marines didn't care at this point. There were far more important things to worry about. Such was life on the battlefields of the 41st millennium, and now such was life on the battlefields of this reality too.
"We're losing more men by the second!" Jandic whirled around, lasgun still clutched firmly in hand, to face the Alliance Marine who had shouted directly in his ear. He couldn't blame the man; he could barely hear him over the din of battle as it was. "We're too exposed! We need to pull back!" continued the Marine. Jandic noted he was also a sergeant.
"We can't pull back without orders!" Jandic replied firmly as he let loose with another blast of his lasgun. "Where's your commander?" he asked. If the Marines pulled back without authorization, it would not only put the Warhawks in a terrible position, but the Marines were likely to be shot by someone.
"He got eaten!" replied the Marine sergeant just a tad too hysterically for Jandic's taste. "The lieutenant's dead too, and I have no idea who's in charge!" Jandic looked around. The Imperial and Alliance soldiers were desperately fighting… and seemingly losing. Whoever this Marines sergeant was, he was correct. They were too exposed, and there were simply far, far too many enemies for them to win.
In fact, they seemed to be losing. This was some desperate last stand-like battle; if the Harakoni and Alliance lines fell, then it meant the enemy could push even further into allied territory. Who knew what havoc they could cause there? Things were very desperate. Jandic frowned.
"I'll have to go ask the major, he-" He was interrupted by a huge whine. Looking up, he realized the gunships were in a circling pattern, clearing the area for something lest they get hit. A series of booms, something, or rather, somethings breaking the sound barrier, reached his ears. Looking back, he saw, and his jaw dropped.
Space Marine drop pods were falling directly behind their lines. A great cheer rose up from the Harakoni and Alliance forces on the ground as the drop pods fell behind them with muffled booms. Jandic was momentarily confused; from what he saw, the drop pods were black. Were the Raven Guard coming in to assist the Blood Angels and other Imperial forces in this sector?
Terrifying howls filled the air, this time coming from behind instead of forward. Jandic and the Alliance sergeant whirled around.
Space Marines in black armor came racing across the battlefield. Some had jump packs, and the whine of their engines sounded even over the blasting of lasguns and bolters. The Marines shouted and screamed incoherently as they came forward. This was no glorious advance, no proud stand of noble Astartes. Rather, this was a berserk charge, with Marines howling at the top of their lungs and moving so quickly they seemed to come close to tripping due to forward momentum.
Their movements were frenzied, seemingly out of their control. They shouted and screamed as no sane man ever should, and certainly no paragon of the Emperor's might. Jandic caught a quick glimpse of their heraldry as they moved. On the left pauldron was the Blood Angels insignia in white. However, on the right, was a chalice surrounded by a huge red X. Jandic was truly frightened at this. What was happening? Were these the Angels?
As they came forward, some washed over the Guard and Alliance Marine lines without a second thought or backward glance. However, some… did not.
A huge berserker in black, frothing at the mouth and screaming at the top of his lungs, charged towards Jandic and the Alliance sargeant. He raised an axe over his head, preparing to cleave a stunned and terrified Jandic in two with one huge, ungainly blow.
"DEATH TO THE TRAITORS!" roared the Marine. "DEATH TO HORUS!"
As the black-clad Marine's weapon fell, it was met by the skulled and winged staff of a Blood Angels chaplain. Jandic didn't have the faintest idea where the chaplain had come from, so frightened of the others he was. An almighty boom sounded over the battlefield, the two Marines' weapons meeting in a clash of angelic power.
"To the front! To the front!" shouted the chaplain as he struggled with the other Marine. "The enemy is not here! These are loyal servants of the Throne; human auxilia here to fight the traitors! Let them pass! To the front!"
And then the black-armored Space Marines were moving on, still shouting and screaming as they smashed into enemy lines. The chaplain gave one last look at Jandic and the Alliance sergeant, then, with a flair of his jump pack, he joined the fray.
oOo
Death Company came on in an unstoppable tidal wave of black armor. They were death incarnate, murder and rage made manifest. This was not even the power of gene-enhanced might: this was a force of nature, a storm that their enemies must weather or be destroyed by.
They leapt into battle with savage abandon. Bolter and plasma pistols rang out, aimed erratically but still true, smashing through enemies with purifying force. Squad after squad hurled their way past the stunned humans, raging at traitors that were not present.
The chaplains guided them, moving them forward, but there was no need. Death Company fought like demons, ripping skitarii limb from limb with their bare hands. Chainswords whirred, eviscerating corrupted monstrosities by the dozen, offal, blood, and gore spraying across the battlefield. It soaked the black armor of Death Company, blackening it even further.
A Marine, howling with rage, boosted forward, swinging a thunder hammer at a Marauder's face. It connected, shattering the Reaper construct, bone and blood spraying everywhere. Another berserker reached forward and tore a skitarii's head from its shoulders. Screaming with rage, he hurled it at a Husk with enough force to bowl it over.
There was a breeze, a force from above, and an axe was hurled to earth, splitting a Brute apart from head to toe. A shape clad in pitch black followed it, knocking over a dozen skitarii as it landed to retrieve the axe.
Astorath the Grim, Redeemer of the Lost, whirled around, The Executioner's Axe in hand, look of terrible fury and utter sorrow on his face. He swung. Five Husks keeled over, headless.
Death Company was now fighting upon a carpet of dead bodies. The murdered soldiers of the Alliance and Imperium, caught and killed as they tried to move back, made up the bottom of the macabre coating. Atop them were the Reaper forces killed by the Guard and Alliance Marines, already coating the earth with their corrupted toxic blood. Finally, the last layer were the enemies slaughtered by Death Company, twitching and staring wide-eyed in death.
It seemed only Astorath knew that Death Company themselves would join the carpet of the dead soon enough.
They were legion, hundreds strong. Astorath was saddened to see so many, even though their numbers and rage might turn the tide. This was the curse of their blood unleashed in full. The insane Marines used chainswords, pistols, hammers, power weapons, fists, boots, teeth, heads… anything they could use to get closer and rip the enemy to shreds with.
Astorath directed a group of Marines to attack a massive skitarii construct, his voice ringing powerful and true even over the clashing din of the battle. They fell upon it like starving beasts, shredding it within seconds. The Executioner's Axe lashed out, killing with every stroke. It was a maelstrom of death and destruction, a whirlwind of blood and murder, raging and screaming at ancient traitors who were not here.
Sargeant Jandic of the Harakoni Warhawks looked around, still terrified out of his mind, as he tried to pick targets with shaking hands. The Alliance soldiers looked just as worse for the wear. What was going on? Both groups of human soldiers were shaken to their cores.
The Space Marines were supposed to be the Emperor's Angels. They were paragons of strength and virtue, paladins of shining light in a dark galaxy. They were loyal and honorable, and while possessing great and righteous fury, they were noble warriors all.
Especially the Blood Angels. Especially Lord Dante. But yet these mad berserkers were wearing Blood Angel insignias, if not their colors. What was happening?
What was more was that Jandic couldn't shake the sense that something was profoundly wrong with these Marines. The chaplains among them seemed to be perfectly normal, perfectly in possession of their wits, and acting as Space Marines should. But the others…
Well, one had quite literally tried to murder Jandic while screaming about traitors, and had to be intercepted by a chaplain. Their movements seemed unhinged, and their minds utterly gone. It was as if these strange, black-clad Marines were completely and utterly insane.
Jandic looked over to the heart of the fight. There was a Marine there, a lieutenant, clad in black, wielding a chainsword as elegantly as anyone the Harakoni sergeant had ever seen. This one seemed to be nominally more in possession of his senses than many of his brethren, but what he was doing and saying made no sense.
"Come, foul dogs of Barbarus! Come, vermin of Nostramo! Come, scum of Chemos! Come, filth of Cthonia! Come, cowards of Colchis!" The chainsword fell in a deadly arc, teeth humming wildly as its wielder severed a skitarii claw from its body. The Marine lieutenant spun, moving the chainsword fluidly, elegantly, as if it were an extension of his own body, and ripped apart the monstrous beast with a single stroke. "Come one or come all, you shall not set foot within the Sanctum! The Eternity Gate remains barred, and while the Great Angel stands guard, NONE SHALL PASS!"
Jandic winced at the sheer power of the Marine's voice. What was he talking about? The Eternity Gate, the Great Angel… all those things had happened during the Siege of Terra. Perhaps he was comparing this battle to save the Terra of this reality to the one of the Heresy?
Maybe. The Harakoni sergeant had to admit it made a modicum of sense. Though what were all those other things he was talking about? Jandic sighed and continued to blast away Husks, trying not to get noticed by the terrifying Marines in black.
Even with so much rage, so much power, and so much death, the Marines had, for the present moment, simply checked the enemy push. Things had been much worse than Jandic realized from his small, confused, hectic and terrified view of the battle. If they had gone on much longer without the Marines, they would have probably been pulled apart. The line would have broken, and the creatures of the Dark Mechanicum would have reigned unchecked. The battle for North America might have turned disastrous. Thank the Throne that Space Marine commanders had good overviews of everything coupled by good tactical sense.
Jandic's thoughts were interrupted by a strange feeling. It pressed in the back of his mind; a heavy ozone stink and pressure like the wave of an incoming thunderstorm. He heard the crackle of electricity sound overhead. Whirling, he looked up.
High above the battlefield, soaring upon blood-red wings of psychic power, was Mephiston. The chief librarian of the Blood Angels was cloaked in eldritch energy, holy lightning and telekinetic fury dripping from his form. Jandic simply stared, open-mouthed. He did not know until now that Angels could fly.
Even from a dozen feet below, those watching could easily see Mephiston's eyes were shining a pure electric blue, tendrils of energy crackling around his face. His mouth was contorted in a grimace of terrible fury as he surveyed the battle below. With but a thought, he reached his arm back. A lance of blood red, crackling with empyrean power, made of the innermost rage of the Angles, appeared in his hand at will. Arm cocked back, torso twisted, eyes aglow, and wings upon his back, Mephiston looked like a pagan god of old, hurling down from on high, ready to smite any foe that dared to cross him.
With a blur too fast to follow, Mephiston hurled the lance into the forces of darkness. It smashed through dozens, bowling them over, before exploding in a cone of crimson energy and crackling lightning.
The librarian himself swiftly followed, body a blur as he dove forward, smashing into the enemy ranks with an explosion of Warp-power. Death Company howled their terrifying cheers at his arrival. Dante looked up slowly, methodically, terribly, eyes still glowing with unearthly power at the hordes of darkness that sought to claim this world. His body crackled with the horrible power of the Warp as he raised a hand.
The psychic force across the battlefield increased drastically, a head-pounding pressure that nearly made Jandic want to drop his weapon simply to clutch at the pain in his head. Mephiston raised his hand, palm outstretched, as chittering skitarii and moaning Husks closed in on him. A wave of red energy washed over them. They fell to the ground, twitching and crying in distress, grafted and rotting limbs twitching spasmodically in the dirt. A heartbeat later, they seemed to explode in puffs of red and black mist, their very lifeblood bursting from each pore with terrifying finality. Mephiston smiled; a terrible, terrible, spine-chilling smile.
The Lord of Death joined the Blood Angels' damned effortlessly, fighting side-by-side with his brothers as if they were unaffected by the Angels' terrible curse. Psychic power swirled and danced as the black-clad Marines of Death Company fought with berserk savagery. Chainswords and armored fists ripped apart a screeching Marauder as dozens of skitarii were boiled alive by eldritch lightning. Such was the power of the Lord of Death that Jandic and the other human soldiers could feel it washing over them from halfway across the battlefield.
The sharp whine of jump pack engines sounded through the sky, signaling the arrival of yet even more Marines. Jandic, astounded and wary, looked up once more. He didn't know what he was expecting. Today had been a day full of surprises. Insane, murderous Blood Angels, librarians pulling off powers that astounded, blood and battle and death in thousands of forms… he didn't know what would come next. But still, he turned, and was astounded.
Gold flashed overhead. Upon white-painted wings of fire, Marines clad in the gilded armor of the Sanguinary Guard soared into battle. With the grace of birds of prey, they dropped down upon the open field, touching down light as feathers in front of Death Company. And at their head… At their head… Jandic's mouth fell open. At their head…
Dante. Lord of the Angles.
If there was any doubt to what chapter the terrifying Marines in black belonged to, it was all dispelled at the arrival of Lord Dante. Yet, despite their ferocity, despite their murderous close-calls, the soldiers on the ground were still comforted by his arrival. Cheers rang out from ragged throats below. Though no one knew what precisely was happening, he was still Dante. He was still the Last Light in the Darkness. He was still the Last Archangel, the Bringer of Hope, and the Guard reacted as such.
If Dante heard their cries, he made no reaction to them. Instead, almost sighing with sorrow at the actions of those around him, he stepped forward at the front of the Angels' line and began his work.
Decades later, when the survivors of this battle told their grand-children of the war, it would not be of the horrible blasphemy of the creatures of the Dark Mechanicum, nor the destruction of the Reapers, nor of the men on the ground, nor of the black-armored charge. It would not be the arrival in a strange reality, or the arrival of others from a strange reality; it would not be of the parades, of the triumphs, of the moments that they fought as an individual. Nay. Instead, burned in each of their minds forever, and passed down with the same hushed awe they felt upon that fateful day, was the image of Lord Dante fighting.
Nothing was as beautiful, as sorrowful, as elegant, as graceful, as brutal, as ferocious as the Lord of the Angels in battle. He was everything at once, so many emotions combined with such style that it took the breath away. More than the most stunning of views, the most handsome of men, the most beautiful of women, the most enticing of foods, the eye was drawn to and could not look away from the chosen heir of Sanguinius.
He moved as if a blur, yet every movement was so refined, so precise, so utterly perfect that one could not miss it. Detached and sorrowful and yet still vicious and brutal, every strike was a death blow, delivered with the grace of a fencer and the power of a berserker.
The Axe Mortalis crackled with holy lightning, flashing out in a pattern that brought low dozens of corrupted skitarii in so many seconds. A weapon that would have taken even the strongest of mortals two hands to wield was but a whisper, merely an extension of the gold-clad arm in Dante's grasp. It spun as a blur, an arcing sheen of gold and electric blue slicing cleanly, powerfully, through every corrupted sinew it found. Nothing could touch Dante. Nothing on this battlefield, whether tank or soldier, corrupted monstrosity or frothing insane Marine, could come even close to the sheer awesome power of the Lord of the Angels.
Around their Chapter Master, the Marines of Death Company redoubled their efforts, smashing through rotting flesh and rusting metal. Additional Blood Angels dropped in around them, the full force of the glorious sons of Sanguinius deploying to stem the awful tide of Dark Mechanicum monstrosities. Psychic lightning flashed forth, Mephiston and the other librarians bringing the full power of the Warp against those who served it.
Around them, the mortal soldiers of the Imperial Guard and Alliance Marines, galvanized into action once more by Dante's arrival, readied their weapons and unleashed whatever they had into the Reaper and skitarii ranks. The might of the Blood Angels, supported by what mortal troops could be spared, clashed with an unending sea, a seemingly country-sized tide of filthy and corrupted flesh and metal.
Hell had come to Earth, and the damned swiftly met its legions. The battle would rage, but much like the massive duel between the Titans, it would find only stalemate.
oOo
Like a gargoyle, Kayvaan Shrike, Shadow Master of the Raven Guard, perched atop an abandoned building in the Hague. It was a tall, glass skyscraper; some office building built in the typical Alliance style. Shrike vastly preferred the much more massive and ornamented stone Imperial buildings. There were so many more shadows and so many more places to hide. Plus, the actual gargoyles on those buildings made for an odd sort of silent company.
Far beneath him, on the broken and rubble-strewn ground below, the human soldiers of the Alliance and Imperium fought in the streets in a desperate battle against the seemingly infinite enemy hordes. Crackling las fire and whining mass accelerated rounds flashed through the streets and buildings of the Hague in bursts of crimson and cerulean. Even from on high (perhaps due to his superior hearing and comms gear), Shrike could pick up the shouts and barked orders of the soldiers, the horrible curdling shrieks of the dark creatures, and the cries of the wounded and dying. Sharpened eyes picked out an Alliance Marine grabbing a wounded comrade and slinging their form over her back as her fellows covered her escape to the rear. A Mordian trooper bayoneted a thrashing skitarii. A trooper was ripped to shreds. One of the few Chimeras present was hit by an enemy mass accelerated blast and exploded.
But above all, he could hear the pleading. It seemed to thunder above everything else, pounding in his ears over and over again.
"We need immediate reinforcements! To any additional allied forces out there, we need help! Now! This is gamma-niner-one-oh, to any allied forces out there…"
It was the same thing, over and over, all across the planet. The newest wave of attacks from the Dark Mechanicum seemed to spread like a cancer to every corner of the globe. The mortal soldiers of the Imperium and Alliance were brave, strong, and powerful, but in the face of such overwhelming odds they were faltering. Shrike was not a boastful man, and had great respect for mortals; he thus had to admit they were doing quite well, especially against the horrors the Mechanicum had unleashed. But still, the mortals could not do it all.
The Raven Guard had, throughout the battle for Earth, become something of legendary. They were the silent watchers, the black-clad and quiet saviors. Shrike and his men would enter the battlefield seemingly whenever the normal human armies were in trouble. With no warning, the Raven Guard would appear as phantoms, striking down the enemy in a whirlwind of black armor and crackling weapons. Upon the complete annihilation of the enemy, they would vanish, going on to their next target. Such was the way of the sons of the Raven Lord.
But Shrike tried his very best to save the mortals whenever he could. It had reached a point where human armies in dire trouble who knew the Raven Guard were operating in their theater were actually pleading, "Lord Shrike, save us!" over the vox. Shrike would always try to answer when he could, but a small part of him died whenever he was unable to or arrived too late.
Today was no different. He could hear the mortals below him whispering, wondering, hoping that the Shadow Master would save them from nigh-certain death. They could fight the abominations, but many, if not most, would die this day. They prayed the master of the Ravens would come down from on high and deliver them from this evil.
But so too did the Dark Mechanicum. The Dark Magi were no fools. They heard the transmissions, saw the results of the battles, and knew Shrike's character. And so, today they had laid a trap.
In the broken buildings and rubble across the ruins of the city, Dark Mechanicum skitarii hid in the shadows. Unseen by the armies of the Guard or Alliance, they watched and waited patiently, making no moves or sound as the battle raged around them.
Their purpose was simple: whenever the Raven Guard arrived, full of nobility and wishing to save those already in the fight, the skitarii would rise from their hideaways. From every location at once, they would surround and destroy the Shadow Master and whatever Marines he had brought with him. It was simple, brutal, and whoever was caught in their trap would be obliterated.
What the Dark Mechanicum had forgotten, though, was that the Raven Guards were the only true masters of ambush here. Shrike smiled softly to himself. Though Corvin Severax might have been a fool, his death at Shadowsun's hands was an important lesson: Marines could be ambushed… if they were not careful. If they forgot the tenants of Corax. It was a mistake he would not make.
"My lord, we are in position. Victorus aut Mortis," came the soft voice across Shrike's helmet comms.
Shrike took this all in at once, every sound, every soldier, every enemy, every location, every loose piece of rubble, every twitch, every sound, every vox call, every single tiny minute detail. Then, with a deep breath, he took a step forward and dropped off the side of a building like a stone.
Wind whistled around his ears as he hurdled to the ground. The broken city streets rushed up with alarming speed as Shrike sped forward with gravity's aid. At the last moment, mere feet above the ground, he activated his jump pack and sped forward.
Body parallel to the ground, he soared forward, zipping past pockets of soldiers, a blur of black movement, until he reached the heart of the fight. The Raven's Talons, his masterwork lightning claws, extended from their mounts with a soft hiss of crackling energy. The skitarii in front of him didn't even have time to react before it was eviscerated.
Nearby, a Mordian trooper actually jumped in startlement, noticing for the first time the Shadow Master's presence. It was not even as if he had dropped in, or crept from the shadows: so unnaturally stealthy was Shrike it was as if he had simply appeared in the middle of the battle, emerging from thin air to slay the enemies of the Emperor.
An Alliance Marine shrieked in terror as a skitarii's claws came down to rip her in two. The sound turned to one of confusion as they were blocked by a black blur. Lightning claws flashed as Shrike spun, ripping the monster apart in seconds. The Marine could do nothing else but simply stare, slack-jawed, as Shrike moved from target to target, slaying them all with such speed and precision it boggled the mind.
For that was what the Shadow Master was- a reaping whirlwind of instant death and flawless perfection. With the aid of his jump pack and transhuman physiology, he moved faster than the eye could follow, killing in a spinning blur of motion.
Whenever he was needed, he would be there. When a death blow came down on a terrified soldier, it would be stopped by the Raven's Talons, their would-be killer obliterated in turn. When a blast of laser or mass accelerated energy rocketed towards a helpless human, they would suddenly find a black-armored mass in front of them, taking the shot in their stead. If someone went down, they would be picked up, moved backwards with grace and care, their savior moving back to the front in the span of a heartbeat. If the Reapers or Dark Mechanicum troopers charged a section of the line, they would find themselves subjected to a furious one-man counter-charge, its cheer desperate ferocity enough to check them.
As he fought, Shrike could distantly hear cheers sounding around him, the mortals screaming his name in jubilation. Some tiny, far part of him felt proud at this; he swiftly quashed it. He had to focus. Had to focus on his fighting, had to focus on saving each and every one of the mortals under his care. For while he had no closeness with them, while many might scoff at such a notion, to Shrike they were all his responsibility. Every dead soldier here was someone he could have saved. Every living one was someone who he had to keep alive. And so Kayvaan Shrike fought like he never fought before, claws a blur as he sliced through enemy after enemy.
Meanwhile, the Dark Mechanicum skitarii waiting in the shadows saw Shrike. Cackling to themselves, they readied their systems to move in for the kill. They would surround and obliterate the Shadow Master, and the troopers he guarded in turn. Yes, he was a deadly opponent, and he might take many of them with him, but he was but one man. He stood no chance.
Knives flashed in the darkness. Spinal cords, brain stems, and other vital systems were cut with surgical precision. Bolters rang out, skitarii and Husk heads exploding into red and black mist. Power swords and chainblades speared through vital organs.
The skitarii and Reaper forces waiting fell into total disarray at the unexpected and unannounced arrival of the Raven Guard. They stepped from the shadows themselves, appearing in impossible corners behind those that were already hiding. They ambushed the ambushers, for no one, no one, out-ambushed the sons of Corax.
Marines appeared on the front lines as if mirages, black-clad forms emerging from even the most minute of shadows. Bolters rang out, their booming fire slicing through the ranks of the corrupted as their wielders methodically advanced. A squad of Marines, jump packs flaring, landed beside Shrike at the front of the line. They quickly went to work, chainswords humming a deadly song as they shredded through metal and rotting flesh alike.
The skitarii faltered, then broke as a new series of bolters rang out from behind their lines. The Raven Guard had not only ambushed the ambushers, but turned the trap around to spring on the forces of the Dark Mechanicum.
The soldiers of the Alliance and Guard either watched open-mouthed as the massive armored forms of the Raven Guard advanced, or cheered wildly and joined in on the slaughter. For that was what it was: a slaughter. Just as the human soldiers were at the breaking point but minutes ago, the skitarii of the Dark Mechanicum were nearly undone. But, unlike the allied ground forces, there was nowhere for them to retreat or move back. They had been carefully encircled by the sons of Corax; rounded up and herded into a perfect killing field.
The battle was over quickly. The Raven Guard went about their work methodically and efficiently, killing not for glory, but to be rid of their enemy as quickly as possible. Heaps of bodies, cloaked in filthy and tattered black, leaking toxic and corrupted oil and blood over the once-pristine city streets. They were nearly eight feet deep in places; such was the deadly efficiency of Corax's sons. Shrike did not envy whoever was going to be cleaning this up.
The human soldiers reacted as they always did: slowly, comprehension that the battle was over dawned on them. They cautiously got to their feet, wary that the fighting might just flare up again, wondering if their survival was simply too good to be true. Some of them grinned, some of them collapsed in utter exhaustion. Some of them, nearly hesitant, began to approach Shrike. For what reason, he did not know.
He would never find out. Before they could reach the Ravens, they were gone, jumping to the skies or melting back into the shadows. They could not stay. There was more fighting to be done, more mortals to be rescued. And though they would fight, though they would give their sweat and Corax's precious blood to Terra's holy soil, not everyone could be saved. Such was the way of war. It saddened Shrike. But he would still do his duty, no matter what came.
oOo
"Move!" barked out Sargeant Ryner as he shoved Corporal Yyko and Admiral Anderson behind him. In most situations, it was neither appropriate nor good for one's health to speak to an admiral like that. This was not most situations.
The Kasrkin commander leveled his hellgun at a charging skitarii, corrupted spittle flying from its mouth as it roared. A burst of crimson energy took it directly in its open maw, blasting through the back of its throat and killing it instantly. Around Ryner, other Kasrkin and N7s fired professionally, stopping the mad skitarii charge in its tracks.
Farther behind them, Admiral Anderson, dressed in simple Alliance Marine fatigues, frowned as he was pulled back desperately by his N7 bodyguard. He had a pistol on his hip- a standard-issue thing that probably wouldn't do much good against the power of the corrupted skitarii, but Anderson nevertheless wanted to stay. He was not one to let his guards sacrifice themselves for him.
Major Barzov, the N7 commander of Anderson's bodyguard and one of the highest-ranking N7s left alive, was on the front, blasting away charging skitarii with his standard-issue rifle. Around him, the other Kasrkin and N7 guards of the Alliance's de-facto leader fought grimly, desperately trying to ensure their charge's survival.
Anderson had come to Southeast Asia to oversee the campaign there. He was always hopping from location to location, trying his very best to command the campaign to retake Earth to the very best of his ability. He was near-universally admired by both the Alliance and Imperium for his tenacity, honor, knowledge, good leadership, and refusal to quit or surrender. He was baffled to find the forces of His Divine Majesty enthusiastically backing his political career. But such things were far from his mind now.
Anderson had been caught in one of the major Dark Mechanicum thrusts. Originating from Singapore, one of the three strongholds of Hal's forces, it had swept upward, engulfing the allied forces there and overrunning countless defensive lines. Anderson's position, much farther to the north in what everyone thought was a safe location, was caught in the rush. Now, his bodyguard was fighting in hand-to-hand conditions to give him even the most remote chances of escaping.
But such a chance was looking continuously slim. Anderson was pushed along desperately by his few remaining direct bodyguards. The rest were fighting throughout the bunker complex, trying to keep the forces of the Dark Mechanicum at bay. It was getting increasingly harder to do so, for the Tech-Priests of the Dark Mechanicum had come to realize this was Anderson's location, and were taking steps to securing him for themselves. Having the leader of the Alliance resistance on the ground would be a great boon to them, and a death blow to humanity.
Anderson was shoved roughly inside another bunker by his guards. They numbered three now, all N7 nco's. They slammed a heavy metal door shut with an ominous clang, locking it and throwing bolts across its length. Anderson looked around desperately. There were no further corridors to go through. This was the center of the complex. There was no more room to retreat. It was hold or die.
Outside, he could hear the sounds of combat: the crackle of gunfire, shouts of exertion, explosions of grenades, and the screams of the wounded and dying. The admiral winced. He wished he could do something, anything, but there was nothing to be done. There was no help he could provide. It seemed he would die here today. It was only thanks to the Imperial insistence he take Kasrkin bodyguards that everyone was still alive. They might not be winning, but damn they could fight.
A blow seemed to shudder the very bunker. Plaster dust rained down on its occupants. The N7s in their black helmets looked around nervously, weapons raised. A chilling, inhuman scream echoed through the air, then turned into a distinctly unhealthy wet gurgle. The sound of lasfire picked up. Anderson couldn't help but smile. The Kasrkin elite would hold. The only question was… how long?
They spent an indeterminable amount of time in the bunker. Maybe it was seconds. Maybe it was minutes. Maybe it was hours. Anderson had no idea. He didn't seem to be able to breathe well. Maybe it was the dust. Maybe it was the tension. He didn't know for certain.
A massive crack caused everyone within the bunker to jump. One of the N7s actually cleared a few inches with his startled hop.
Suddenly among them was a massive figure, clad in bulky and extremely heavy black armor. Red eye lenses glowed down eerily from a white, snout-like helmet. It took a moment for Anderson to recognize the figure, so startled as he was by the sudden appearance.
It was a Raven Guard Terminator- that much was certain. It was definitely Terminator armor with the insignia of the sons of Corax, but there were further details that confused the admiral.
The Terminator had a staff in one hand: a beautiful, ornate thing topped with wings and a horned skull made of gold. A strange sort of power crackled along its length, making the humans shiver. The Terminator's armor was also slightly different. The massive hunch-backed hood came up farther, almost as if shielding the entirety of the occupant's head.
"Who are you?" snapped one of the N7s, still jumpy. The Marine held out a massive hand.
"Peace," he replied, voice heavy and distorted by his armor. "I am here to get you out." The trooper laughed; a desperate, mocking sound.
"How?" he asked. "How could you possibly get us out? We're locked in, and we don't have Terminator armor, so we can't teleport like you." The N7s winced as another massive blow shook the bunker. There were more screams, both human and inhuman. The Marine held out his left hand, palm out.
"Take my hand," he instructed, voice serene despite the chaos around him. One of the N7s complied immediately. The other two stared at him like he'd gone insane. Anderson stepped forward and touched the Marine's hand, his fingers curling around the cold metal. He glared at the other two troopers.
"Do as he says," he snapped. Despite what misgivings they might have, the two soldiers did as they were instructed, grabbing onto the Marine's huge gauntlet.
Looking down, apparently satisfied, the Marine took a huge, audible breath. The temperature of the room dropped, ice crystals forming on the walls. Anderson shivered. So, this must be a Librarian. He'd seen them before, though never in action.
"Be not afraid," whispered the librarian. "Embrace the darkness, and the darkness will embrace you." The red lenses of his helm stared at each of the humans in turn. "Do not fear. Remain calm, and this shall be over soon." So saying, he took another deep breath… and began.
The gloom of the bunker interior seemed to deepen. The shadows themselves warped and grew, reaching forward and coalescing into strange and twisted shapes. One of the N7s, nerves nearly shot, almost screamed as the shadows reached out… and engulfed them.
It was terrible. For the briefest of moments, Anderson was surrounded by complete and utter black. The deepest, darkest, most impassible, unseeable, all-encompassing black he had ever seen surrounded them. He could see nothing. He could not breathe. He could barely move. It was stifling. He had never been claustrophobic, but this… this was something else. He had no idea what happened, where he was, or how they got here, but he could still feel the reassuring forms of the Marine librarian and the N7s.
Then they were out. Anderson whirled around. A series of black armored forms regarded them almost as birds might curiously regard food; Raven Guard Marines all. They were in what seemed to be another bunker, though this one was far more spacious and open. He and the N7s stumbled forward, whirling and confused as to what happened and where they were.
The librarian, for his part, sank to his knees. Staff still firmly in hand, he held it in a death grip, as if it were the only thing preventing him from falling over. Several of the other Marines rushed to his aid, grabbing his arms so he did not fall.
"I'm fine," he wheezed. "Just… need rest. That's all," he managed to gasp out. One of the other Marines made a disapproving noise and began to check the librarian's vitals.
"Where… where are we?" Anderson managed to find his voice. His bodyguards were still looking around, trying to find non-existent threats.
"You're safe," rumbled another Marine, staring down at them from behind his beak-like helmet. "Brother Librarian Aymon was able to get you out. We're a good way behind friendly lines, and ready to carry out the next push against the enemy, Admiral." Anderson barely recognized the respectful title and tone.
He did not know what had happened; did not know what esoteric ritual the librarian was able to complete to teleport them out. He was grateful for his survival, yes… But many others were not so fortunate. They had, or were right now giving their lives for him. Such were the fortunes of war.
Anderson sank down against a wall, face a picture of dejection. Sometimes he hated being in charge.
oOo
Across the open fields of southern Europe, the Mordian Iron Guard, accompanied by the Alliance Marines, advanced. It was a massive line of brilliant blue with scarlet and white stripes, intermixed by the blue and gray armor of pockets of Marines. Flags and banners, the proud standards of Mordian, fluttered in the wind. Tanks rolled behind the infantry, numbering few but still powerful with their mighty cannons and armor, ready to provide whatever support necessary.
This was an army on the march; a sight rarely seen anymore. It was a pity no civilians were there to witness it, for it would have been something grand. A remnant of forgotten glory, a proud conquering legion to sweep away the enemies of a mighty empire. A sight seldom seen in this galaxy, but a glorious sight nevertheless.
Private Szymon Janowicz of the Alliance Marines was marching in formation as always. When he had first become a Marine, he and his comrades had shook their heads over all of the marching, all of the drill they were subjected to in boot camp. Why? What was the point? Yes, they said it was to teach discipline, but it was still stupid. Much like the perfect uniforms, marching formations wouldn't help on the battlefield. There was an old joke amongst the Marines: you never saw a battle-ready company with perfect uniforms.
But, much like the idea of bands in battle, or perfect uniforms, the Mordian Iron Guard put things into a terrifying perspective. The original point of drilling soldiers was so they could easily and instantly get into formatons that would save their lives or destroy the enemy. But with the advancement of weaponry from single-shot muzzle-loading weapons to repeating, then later mass accelerated weapons, formations of soldiers were a liability, not an asset.
But… In the galaxy of the Iron Guard, and now on the battlefields of Earth, the opponents they faced were so terrifying, so powerful and monstrous in their resilience and capacity for destruction that a single man with a single weapon would do nothing to them. But a hundred men, a thousand men with a thousand guns would shred even the most horrific of Dark Mechanicum or Reaper beasts.
"The division will halt!" The voice of the Iron Guard colonel snapped Janowicz out of his thoughts. He looked over to where the commander of the Mordian detachment strolled over to his vox operator. Janowicz shook his head with a grin. How did the man do it? His voice was able to carry over what seemed to be kilometers. The Marine supposed it was a Mordian thing.
"Why do you think we stopped?" muttered one of the nearby Privates.
"Don't know," replied Corporal Naydene. She looked around. "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."
They were on a series of hills overlooking a good-sized town below them. Even though the sun was shining and the grass was still green, Janowicz and the others could see the tell-tale pockmarks of war across the countryside: craters from a Guard artillery bombardment there, bodies of dead Husks here, and the mud-churned earth made by thousands of marching feet and grinding treads throughout. It was a sobering sight, for even though they were doing well and had a foothold on the planet and continent, the war still raged on.
"Heavy bolters and autocannons to the front!" The cry came from the Mordian colonel (whose name Janowicz did not know, but would have to find out at some point), and was swiftly passed down the line by the other Iron Guard officers. The entire line shuffled to make room for the heavy bolter and autocannon teams, who came running to the front to set up their heavier weapons. The satisfying click-click of the tripod-mounted weapons sounded across the line, as if waiting for worse things to come.
Worse things did come. A terrible, inhuman howling sounded, piercing through the sky itself. It came from the town below. The Marines shifted nervously and readied their weapons.
Like a swarm of ants, the corrupted and filthy skitarii of the Dark Mechanicum boiled from the town below, rushing up the slope with loping strides. It was a terrible wave of disgusting black, surging forward at terrifying speed, intent on ripping their human prey to shreds.
The allied line rippled; the natural consequence of human emotion when faced with such overwhelming odds. But they were the pride of Earth and Mordian. The line quickly steadied.
The longer-ranged weapons opened up as the skitarii charge carried them closer. A few mortars, a precious, precious few, dropped explosive death on the skitarii, blowing limbs and gore sky high. But they were not enough to stop the overwhelming charge. Only heavy artillery could do that, and the big guns were not yet in position.
The autocannons and heavy bolters opened up, their statico tattoo beating through the air as they shot death into the skitarii ranks. The gunner sighted grimly down their weapons, faces made of stone as they held down triggers and coaxed every bit of power they could from the guns. Loaders stood by with belts of ammunition, ready and waiting for the time when the guns would go dry. And the guns would certainly go dry, for the skitarii still kept their charge. They did not slow, they did not falter, they did not care about their wounded or dead. They only cared about the kill; to savor the sweet sensation of flesh ripping beneath their talons.
Private Janowicz took a few steadying breaths before raising his weapon. He had fought like this several times before, but it was still nerve-wracking. Over the battle for Earth, he'd gotten to know the Mordians very well (one Mordian in particular very well; he suppressed a smile at the thought). He still didn't know how they did it. Even now, they looked still and stony-faced in the face of overwhelming horror.
Then, booming across the battlefield, a command rang out that had not been heard on Earth for at least several centuries.
"At three hundred yards, volley fire present!" With terrifying precision, the Iron Guard, arrayed in two long rows, took a half turn to their right, leveling their lasguns with a series of muted clicks. At this point, nearly any sapient army in possession of their wits and emotions would have turned around and fled.
The skitarii did not care. They continued their charge as the bolters and autocannons pepper their ranks.
"First rank, fire!" The command managed to boom over even the gunfire of the Guard and the inhuman shrieks of the skitarii. A wave of crimson zipped towards the incoming horde, smashing through their ranks and leaving a line of dead as the skitarii moved onward.
"Second rank, fire!" Another wave of crimson. Another line of dead.
"First rank, fire!" The Marines were now joining in, those with heavier weapons firing on the Mordian command while those with lighter automatics waited or fired in bursts.
"Second rank, fire!" The Mordians were a clockwork machine, never allowing a moment to spare where there was not scarlet death zipping over the field.
Janowicz was steeled, his eyes hard as he sighted down his rifle. Nothing mattered but his tenacity, and his shots. The Marines were fully firing, mass accelerated rounds flying across the battlefield to pepper the armored forms of the frothing skitarii.
"FIRE AT WILL!" As the skitarii got even closer, the officers abandoned their shouted commands and directing swords and drew their sidearms, leveling them at the enemy. The Mordians abandoned their clockwork vollets and simply blasted away at full automatic. The sheer volume of las bolts seemingly turned the sky red.
The skitarii charged as desperately as ever, but were checked by the sheer volume of incoming fire. They crawled over mounds of their own dead, only to be shot down as they reached the apex of the gory hills. Nothing could survive that amount of fire. Even a Space Marine would be overwhelmed.
Janowicz would be later amazed that he survived. He would be astounded that the Mordian tactics worked. But now, the only things that existed were his gun, his thermal clips, the two Marines to his left and right, hordes of screaming skitarii, and the beating of his own heart.
oOo
"Throne dammit!" swore Major Blaine as he strode over bodies and sandbags. He leveled his laspistol at a Husk and pulled the trigger, spattering the things brains over the dusty earth. A nearby trooper, dressed in the drab olive green of Cadia, screamed, face contorting with hate, as he bayoneted a thrashing skitarii. A Brute grabbed a wriggling trooper, preparing to crush him, but the soldier pulled the pin on a grenade and shoved it down the Brute's maw. The beast exploded from the inside-out with a comical popping sound. Blaine turned around, threw a trooper out of the way of a Marauder, and shot the thing through the head at point-blank range, killing it.
The Cadian 217th was on duty in Myanmar. Previously they were pushing the forces of the Dark Mechanicum back to their citadel in Singapore, but now it seemed as if they were the ones being pushed. The Dark Mechanicum counter-attack boiled up from Singapore, overrunning Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, most of Vietnam, parts of southern China, and the southern section of Myanmar. The Cadian 217th were desperately trying to contain the skitarii… and only partially succeeding.
It had been a bad day for them all, reflected Blaine grimly as he blasted away at the incoming skitarii. Their position had been swiftly surrounded by the enemy, and a desperate battle for survival had been raging for the better part of the day.
The assault had come in the early morning. There was little warning, but enough, just barely enough, for the camp to mobilize and set up defensive positions. Then the neverending black tide came, and one of the most desperate and terrible battles Blaine had ever seen commenced. It was now about one in the afternoon (or maybe not; Blaine had no idea), and the 217th was down to about a third of their original numbers. The medical center had been overrun, its patients devoured. Colonel Freemar, Emperor rest her soul, was gone, last seen dueling three skitarii at once near the outskirts of the defense. Most of the tanks were flaming wreckages, but a few still rolled around, squashing and blasting away.
If not for the Cadian 217th, most of Myanmar would have probably been overrun. It was their desperate defense that drew nearly all of the enemy forces to them; a tough nut to crack and an impossibility to have in the rear of their lines for the Dark Mechanicum.
But even the legendary defenders of Cadia had their limits. Faced with overwhelming odds, their camp had turned from a ringed circle of steely soldiers and packed sandbags to a messy, brutal, open free-for-all in the middle of the last destroyed defensive line.
Blaine expertly snapped out the power cell of his laspistol and quickly replaced it, bringing up the weapon to kill a thrashing skitarii, already bayoneted by two struggling troopers. They nodded their thanks to the major and immediately brought their weapons up, charging back into the fight without a second's backward glance.
One of the tanks exploded, throwing out a wave of heat and debris. Blaine ducked and covered his head with his arms, then immediately turned and shot a skitarii making its way towards him. Around him, the melee continued, Cadian troopers fighting off the forces of the Dark Mechanicum with whatever they had on hand as smoke and dust churned around them.
"Sir! Sir!" It was only then that Blaine noticed the ringing in his ears. He turned towards the soldier, a lieutenant, desperately trying to get his attention.
"Yes?" shouted Blaine in reply, not bothering with niceties as he peppered the skitarii around him with las bolts.
"We can't hold this position any longer! We're back in the very center of camp, and the skitarii are starting to overrun or bypass us!" said the lieutenant. He made his way to Blaine, standing back-to-back with the Major as he fired a lasgun he must have picked up from somewhere.
"Why are you telling me?" asked Blaine. As far as he was concerned, they would fight and die here. It was that simple.
"You're the commanding officer!" shouted the lieutenant. Blaine whirled around.
"I am?" The lieutenant simply nodded in confirmation. "What about Major Dreiss?"
"He's dead!" came the reply.
"Since when?" snapped Blaine over the sound of a heavy bolter opening up.
"About five or ten minutes ago, I'm not sure!" A Brute roared and charged the pair, who both spun and blasted away at the creature before a plasma gunner fired a point-black bolt into its side. The Brute keeled over, dead. "You're in command now!" repeated the lieutenant for emphasis.
"Dammit!" swore Blaine once more.
What to do? He was swiftly running out of options, time, and men. The enemy would soon overrun the last defenses of the 217th, then the country itself. Blaine knew there were few forces that could react in time, and against such a massive attack, they too would most likely fall. But… Blaine swallowed at the sudden thought, but shook it off. There was no other way.
"Get me the vox operator!" he roared, still firing his laspistol as he moved over to the last safe bunker. A few stray rounds, fired off by those skitarii that had weapons, chipped the side of the bunker as Blaine walked in. The vox operator looked up as he entered and gestured with the transmitter of the vox.
"The Alliance 312th Marines is assembling behind us to repel the attack," he announced. "No one can reach us in time, but if we give them a bit more they can get to full readiness." Blaine frowned.
"I don't care! Get me sector command," he ordered. The vox operator swiftly complied, inputting the correct frequency and codes. He looked over to another trooper in the bunker. "Go get Commissar Trioc!" The soldier nodded and ran from the room, intent on finding the regimental commissar.
"Here we go sir!" announced the vox operator, handing the set to Blaine. THe Major nodded his thanks and put the receiver to his ear and transmitter in front of his mouth.
"Major Blaine of the Cadian 217th to sector command. Do you read? Over," he announced.
"This is sector command to Major Blaine," replied a deep voice. "We read you. Looks like you're in kind of a pickle. Go ahead, over." The trooper Blaine had sent for the Commissar, now panting, returned to the bunker and gestured for Blaine. Trailing him was Commissar Trioc, laspistol in his right hand, left busy holding in his entrails from a horrific gash across his abdomen. The Major gave the men an acknowledging nod, and gestured for Trioc to sit next to him. The Commissar did so with a wince, careful not to jostle his wound too much. Blaine turned back to the vox.
"We are nearly overrun and cannot hold long," said the Major. "After we fall, there's maybe one or two other brigades behind us that can prevent the country from being overrun and the Dark Mechanicum from breaking through." The man on the other side remained silent as Blaine gave his report. "We can't stop them." Blaine took a deep breath before saying his next piece. "Request… request Deathstrike launch."
"Repeat last?" asked sector command. Blaine was sure there was a frown on the man's face, wherever he was.
"Request Deathstrike launch," repeated Blaine. Next to him, Commissar Trioc frowned and shifted. Blaine wasn't sure if it was because of his idea or the Commissar's wound. Maybe both.
"That may take some time," replied sector command after a moment. "We have to approve it, make sure you're section is worth it, and the precision targeting required to not hit you would be extremely tricky to pull off-"
"I'm here, and this is a sector-wide threat!" snapped Blaine, interrupting. "Request you use this vox as a target. Request that you fire on our position." The Commissar eyed him, but said nothing. Blaine detected a faint air of approval, even as the vox operator blanched. "I have our Commissar, and he can give you his approval," continued Blaine. He might have been putting Trioc on the spot, but a Deathstrike on their position was the only way he could think of stopping the massive Dark Mechanicum assault.
"Put him on," said sector command immediately. Blaine handed the vox over to Trioc, who winced in agony at the slight movement he made to get it.
"This is…" Trioc swallowed painfully. HIs voice sounded weaker than Blaine remembered. "This is Commissar Trioc of the Cadian 217th. By the authority of the Commissariat, I approve the Deathstrike launch on our position. Commissarial override code 9271138279." There was a slight pause on the other end before a new voice came over the vox.
"This is Lord Commissar Undvel. Major Blaine, where is Colonel Freemar?" he asked.
"Colonel Freemar is dead!" replied Blaine. "So is Major Dreiss. I'm in command now," he replied. "You can ask Commissar Trioc, if you want."
"No need," replied Undvel. "If he's giving his approval, it means you're in command. Give me your codes," he said smoothly.
"Kappa-lema-7531-8542," said Blaine.
"Excellent," replied the Lord Commissar. "We shall remember your sacrifice. Deathstrike inbound," he said swiftly. "Good luck, Major, Commissar. May you walk in the Emperor's golden halls by tomorrow. Someday I'll see you there."
"The Emperor protects," replied Blaine reverently. "Major Blaine out." The vox went dead. Blaine turned to Trioc. "Well, it seems like this is it." The Commissar shifted and held out his hand. Blaine shook it.
"The Emperor protects," said Trioc seriously.
"He does indeed," said Blaine. Both men picked up their sidearms and exited the bunker.
Outside, it was still chaos. Cadians scuffled with skitarii, Brutes, and Husks, throwing up clouds of dust as they bayoneted thrashing enemies. A heavy bolter crew was overwhelmed and slaughtered as its operators futility tried to reload. The Cadians tried to stop what they could, but they were breaking even as Blaine made his vox call. It would all be over soon, either way.
The Major looked up, past the dust and smoke, to the pure blue sky of Holy Terra. He smiled. It was good to be here. Praise the Emperor for giving him a chance to see humanity's homeworld, unblemished.
Commissar Trioc snarled as he shot Husk after Husk, hand still covering his wound. There was more and more blood spilling over his black greatcoat every second. His face looked far too pale for any healthy man.
Another rush of skitarii. Something blew up, taking them all to oblivion. Blaine didn't know what it was. He didn't care.
There was a huge, all-consuming roar, then a flash of light brighter than the sun. Major Blaine looked up one last time and smiled as the world around him was cleansed in nuclear fire.
oOo
Codex:
Death Company:
The Death Company is a specialized unit that is unique to the Blood Angels Marines and all of their successor chapters. Its members are consumed by a permanent, debilitating psychosis known as the Black Rage, which is an inherent risk for any Astartes who bears the Blood Angels' gene-seed. This psychosis makes the affected believe they are in the thick of a critical battle of the Horus Heresy, and all others around them not of Sanguinius's blood are enemies. In addition to complete berserker insanity, it gives them a vastly increased pain threshold and greatly increased strength, even for a Marine.
Armored in black and marked by the symbolic wounds suffered by their fallen Primarch Sanguinius, the Death Company are a grim foreshadowing of the Blood Angels Chapter's final fate. Every warrior in their ranks is a boon on the battlefield, possessed of righteous strength and holy fury. Yet once the storm of war passes, madness and execution are all that await these tormented souls, driven past redemption by the curse of their tainted blood.
oOo
There we have it! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Things are getting grimmer on Earth... and the Left Hand of the Emperor, the dreaded Nightmare Titans, shall be deployed next chapter. I can't wait for it, and I'll try to have it out as soon as possible. Until then, I appreaciate any comments, criticisms, reviews, questions, and concerns!