Exitus Ultima Chapter 2
Under the burning noon sun Vatalem burned. The holy city-state was wracked by explosions and spreading fires. Missiles rained down, penetrating glorious Templums and causing stained glassic windows to burst into deadly shrapnel. Soaring Marauder bombers rained incendiary bombs in long lines, creating firestorms that swept whole districts. Demolisher shells blew in the roofs of shrines and thunderous exchanges of gunfire riddled statues of notable saints, till they resembled nothing but lumpy stalagmites. The devastation was insane, the Crusaders laying waste the holy city-state but they cared nothing for the destruction they unleashed, the Space Marines' orders were to destroy all resistance and said nothing of sparing their wroth.
From the south Inceptors and Assault Marines in the colours of the Hawk Lords soared overhead. They rained down bolt fire at any Heretic who dared show his face, and fell with chainswords roaring upon those who hid. From the east came the Excoriators, led by plodding Aggressors. They attracted enormous amounts of firepower from concealed gunners but they strode through regardless, displaying their battle-damage with pride. Destroyer attack bikes squadrons raced up triumphal avenues, daring mutants to hit them as they thundered past, raking them with Heavy bolter and multi-melta fire. Tactical and Intercessor squads from the Sons of Orar advanced in precise formations, sweeping and clearing, fixing and flanking, their adherence to the Codex Astartes remarkable.
Within the first hour the Space Marines had swept the outer districts clear of all opposition, now they drove into the heart of the city-state. Furios and fast did they assault, followed by waves for Guard regiments, but none were more ardent than the Storm Heralds. Led by Chapter Master Phalros they drove a spear of Ceramite into the beating heart of the enemy, pushing through with Transhuman might backed by numbers unseen in many a century. Their hearts were aflame, their thirst for victory unquenchable and every Brother yearned to excel. They knew their Primarch was watching from afar, for many the first and last time in their lives that they could claim such a thing, and their need to earn his approval was intense.
Advancing up the edge Librarian Arvael felt the passion burning in their hearts. A Psyker by nature the jubilance of his kin was hammering upon his skull. He felt their passion bubbling like a geyser, building inexorably into a furious eruption of spectacular majesty. It was tempting, so very tempting, to bask in that sensation and let telepathic waves fill his spirit. He denied the impulse with stern resolve. To dabble freely in his power was to open the door to Chaos. A Librarian required the sternest of minds, the most rigid self-control, and he turned away from his own desires with grim resolve.
Young by the standards of Space Marines and yet made old by the things he had seen Arvael was a figure of awe and dread in equal measure. His helm was connected by many cables to a Psychic Hood and in his hands he bore a Force-Morningstar, one he had put to good use already today. His plate was marked by esoteric runes and arcane symbology, greatest of which was the icon of a Daemon's head, bisected by a falling sword, upon his pauldron. The markings of a Lexmechanic were to be respected but an aura hung upon him, greater and more dire, the sense that he had faced things no man should know and made choices to harrow the soul.
Currently Arvael was veering off from the main advance. By order of his Master, Chief Librarian Echeb, he was move to a grid-sector to lend assistance to whomever he found. Arvael didn't understand why, but his was not to ask why. Echeb's gift of foresight was keen and if he said Arvael was needed, then the Lexmechanic would not question.
As he strode through the ruins of battle Arvael found himself joined by a gang of ruffians. Reivers, those impudent outcasts, tasked to range far from the main line of battle. Independent by design, boorish by choice, their attitude stank. Half-masks could not hide their superior sneers and the multitude of scars upon their heads.
"A fine day for war," Sergeant Gotram commented.
"A worthy campaign," Arvael allowed, "We progress swiftly into the city-state."
"Won't be much of the place left when we're done."
"Blame the Heretics for that," Arvael dismissed.
Another Reiver leaned in, Veruel by name, "It's no coincidence that we level this place. Our orders were to annihilate Heretics, not preserve fanes. The Regent's antipathy for the Imperial faith is well-known, it does not trouble his nights if a Cathedral or two gets knocked over."
"The Cardinals will be spitting nails," Gotram laughed.
"And then some, must be hard, having a living son of their god swanning about and hating them with every fibre of his being."
"That's enough, focus," came a gruff voice. That was Lieutenant Jediah, the sly commander of the vanguard unit. Jediah was a Firstborn, with cold eyes and a colder heart. He wore modified plate, not quite Phobos but not full plate either, Mark IX. Jediah was a legend among Storm Heralds, a reaper of lives during their lamented civil war and a warrior without principle. A murderer through and through, respected for his strength but dreaded in all other ways. Arvael considered him to be the opposite of Captain Toran, cold and unconcerned, the flip side of the coin that was Astartes' souls. Still, he was the only one who could keep the Reivers in line, and that had to be respected.
At Jediah's word the rest fell silent but Arvael dared, "You think there is truth to that?"
"It is irrelevant what our superiors' think, all that matters is our orders. Speaking of which..."
Ahead a slab-sided Basilica arose, with thick stone walls and steep roofs. It was built in the classical form popular around the height of the Age of Apostacy, making it one of the oldest temples in Vatalem. The squat edifice was overlooked by more modern Cathedrals that reached for the heavens, but Arvael understood why the Heretics had chosen this place to make a stand. Like all buildings from that time it was a fortress first and fane second. The thick walls were cratered by Demolisher rounds but holding firm, the main doors flanked by sweeping transcepts, riddled with gunports and other doors that were narrow and barred. A hundred men could hold this place against thousands, and they already had.
Between the flanking wings a column of armoured vehicles burned. Thunderer tanks, Chimera APC, Leman Russ and Hellhounds. Bodies were strewn everywhere, burnt to a crisp, troopers gunned down as they fled burning vehicles. Hundreds of them had blundered into this trap, doomed by their haste and paying for it with their lives.
Among the bodies others hunkered down. Not the occupants of the vehicles, Arvael could tell that with a glance. A platoon of burly men wearing only fatigue trousers and bandoliers, leaving sacrred chests exposed. Their shoulders were heavy with straps, bearing many knives and their lasguns were held in expert grips. Brontian 99th, tattoos declared them, the infamous 'Longknives' and they crouched behind burned tanks for cover.
Among them a stick-thin Commissar was yelling at an unimpressed man who chewed an iho-root. The Commissar bore a laspistol and pointed it at a Brontian officer as he screamed abuse. The man fell silent as the Storm Heralds marched up and gulped, "Space Marines?!"
"What's going on here?!" Arvael snapped.
"Commissar Truwe reporting!" the weasley man barked with a sycophantic zeal, "Prosecuting the God-Emperor's wars!"
"By shooting your own men?"
"These cowards refuse to advance!"
The Brontian crossed his muscled arms and retorted, "Told ya, suicide to go up the front. We gotta flank the bastards!"
"Cowardice!" Truwe howled as his face turned red, "You should be proud to die for the God-Emperor!"
"We'd die alright, and not one man would make it to those doors. Useless death does not serve His holy majesty."
Arvael cut in, "What's your name?"
"Mefan, Captain Mefan of the Brontian 99th," the officer replied gesturing at rank tattoos upon his neck.
"Explain, in your own words, what happened here."
Truwe cut in, "They..."
"Silence," Arvael growled with a subsonic edge.
Mefan grinned at the Commissar's discomfort, "We were pushing up from the outskirts when we heard the 12th Redoubt Cavaliers stumbled into a trap. By the time we arrived the sodding Brown-Trousers were dead and dying."
"You speak with disrespect of the dead."
"Their wounds are to the rear; they were gunned down running."
Arvael didn't need psychic senses to tell him how proud the Brontians were of their scars, deliberately going without flak armour to show off their many wounds. All to the fore, marks of warriors who had never run. These men liked to face the foe up close and use their knives, even lasguns seemed too effete for their fierce spirits.
Arvael nodded, "I suggest we hold here and call in an airstrike."
"You what?!" Truwe gasped.
"This location has no strategic worth, we can level it and move on."
"No!" Truwe yelled in petulance, "You shall advance! Face the Heretics with courage and put them to shame. That is the way of the Imperium!"
Suddenly Jediah broke his silence to hiss, "Good of you to volunteer."
Jediah moved, grabbing the Commissar around the waist. He pivoted back and spun, heaving upwards and flinging the startled man high. Transhuman strength saw Truwe soar over the burnt-out tanks, arms and legs flailing as he screamed in terror. He hit the Ferrocrete on the far side and flopped over, taking a bruising. All was silence for a moment, then flash of light signalled an autocannon opening up from the Basilica. It hit the dirt near to the man, causing him to shy away in terror.
"No, not me! You can't kill me!" Truwe wept as he waved his arms pathetically, his cowardly soul exposed for all to see. It made no difference, a Heavy Bolter round tore off his leg, sending him flailing to the ground, then a Lascannon shot bored through him and put paid to his misery. A few seconds has he lasted, but it was enough.
Before the man hit stone the Space Marines were moving, charging to the flank and bursting from cover. While the gunners were distracted the Reivers charged, moving with Transhuman velocity towards the nearest wall. Before the Heretics noticed they had covered half the distance and by the time they retracked their guns the wall was a hairsbreadth away.
Mefan yelled, "The way's open boys, Ninth platoon follow the Space Marines!"
The Brontians charged, following in their wake and Arvael heard more than a couple snicker at the Commissar's remains, "Look out sir."
The Reivers reached the wall, under the arc of the guns, without taking a shot and began attaching Melta bombs. The Brontians weren't so swift. A hail of Heavy bolter fire tore through them, cutting bare-chested men down in droves. Arveal reacted instantly, casting a shimmering kine shield over their heads to shelter them. Bolt rounds hammered that protection, Atuocannon rounds and lasgun shots. Arvael felt every blow in his mind and his jaw clenched so tight his ceramic teeth splintered. More and more, every step contested, a Librarian's will all that stood between the Guardsmen and death. And then the melta bombs went off.
The wall glowed cherry red as Fusion fire punched through, metres thick stone running like molten lava. A whole section of the wall collapsed into slag, revealing a dark interior and scalding heat wafted from within. The Reivers didn't care, diving in to take the enemy from behind. The Brontians wasted no time to follow, pressing around the red-hot hole, skin burning from proximity to the dripping stone but pressing in regardless. Mefan was the last to go and he cried, "The God-Emperor reached down and turned the shots of the enemy away! We are blessed. The Emperor Protects!"
Arvael could only nod numbly as he let the Kine Shield collapse. The man didn't understand what had happened, and it was better he did not. Let him think the Emperor intervened, rather than know a Psyker had stood to his defence. The man would be revolted and afraid, right when he needed courage and conviction. A lie of omission, but a necessary one. Arvael was the last through the hole, knowing he'd just made one more religious fanatic for the Imperial armies. A bitter pill to swallow, but one he could stomach. He resolved to wash away this acrid taste with the blood of Heretics, kill enough and maybe he could tell himself it was worth it.