Armorum Fidei Chapter 25
"Fall-back by squads, staggered withdrawal in the centre. Tanks reverse gears and move with us, Rhinos and Repulsors get to the rear and prepare for evacuation. Aggressors and Devastators watch the flanks in case they try to rush us!" Toran bellowed into the vox. In response to his orders the Storm Heralds reformed, presenting weapons to the closing foe. They were wounded and bleeding but unbroken, defiant to the last, the aliens would have to kill every last one of them to claim victory. Unfortunately that seemed more than likely at present.
The Captain stood amid a defiant circle of blue, thundering away at the sea of alien flesh trying to engulf them. Toran knew they would be hard pressed to hold the line regardless but with the threat of artillery ranging in there was no prospect of standing their ground, let alone advancing. There was no viable strategy save to disengage and withdraw. The Codex Astartes was brutal in its assessments, disengaging from an active battlezone was the most difficult and hazardous of all manoeuvres, Space Marines or not this was going to cost dearly.
Toran cried, "Polarus, take your strike teams and spike the guns. We need that artillery battery silenced!"
"What do think I'm doing?!" Polarus snarled, "We're assaulting the roof as we speak but resistance is heavy."
"Make haste," Toran barked, "Every second those guns can..."
As if brought on by his words there was a flat crump from the Train-city and a trio of shells soared into the air. One shell fell short, landing in the empty ground between warring armies and Train-city. Another struck Triumph of Progress, making its void shields flare opaquely as overpressure carried far, buffeting the nearby squads. The third however fell just beyond a Tactical squad, knocking Space Marines to the ground. Toran saw several lifesigns blink black in his vision, telling of fatalities, but the rest were merely wounded.
Quick as a flash he bounded over, grabbing a Brother under the arm with a free hand and heaving him upright. Brother Vertum was bleeding from a score of wounds and he muttered weakly, "Leave me..."
"Not today," Toran hissed as he heaved one-handed.
"I'll slow you down," Vertum gulped, "Get out while you can."
Toran knew the Brother's injuries were crippling and spirit flagging and yet he refused to accept it. Harshly he barked, "You don't get to die until the Emperor orders you to die! On your feet Marine, pick up your bolter and move. I want you in the firing line right now! Why are you still standing here, move, move move!"
Vertum responded to the gruff commands the only way he knew how, by straightening up and moving his feet. He lurched like a drunk but he was moving and quickly headed to the rear, followed by the other survivors of his squad, where the white-blob of Sixth Company's Apothecary hastened to meet them. Satisfied a few lives had been saved Toran turned his attention to the remaining two hundred, sadly their prospects were equally grim. Everywhere embattled Storm Heralds fell back, firing ceaselessly into the mass of foes. They were blowing hundreds of aliens into red mist but it wasn't nearly enough, the surging tide of enemies was in danger of overwhelming them.
Raynek's voice cut in, "They're pressing up the right flank, we can't hold for long."
"Hellblasters, Invaders and bike squads, support the Captain, hit and run strikes, don't get bogged down. Furion, take Lorath and the Inceptors and secure the left, steady the withdrawal and maintain fire discipline, it's our only chance."
Toran's eye was drawn to the centre and he saw a surge of foes trying to breakthrough. Sergeant Matheus' squad was holding the line but they were outnumbered and outgunned. Hastily Toran flicked the controls on his blade but the noble weapon's spirit was ailing and the energy sheath failed to manifest. Frustrated Toran grabbed his bolter one-handed and stepped up to the line, sweeping his gun about with a barking torrent of fire. Glag and Tallestrians and E'kinda, and Scythians fell, blown to bits by mass-reactives as the squad poured on fire.
Toran emptied his magazine and cried, "Let loose your righteous hatred Brothers, give the Xenos no quarter!"
"I wasn't planning to!" Matheus shouted as he fired off a grav-pistol with one hand and held his chainsword ready in the other.
"Pick your targets," Toran barked, "Make them pay for every inch of ground!"
The squad's fire was decimating, tearing apart foes but then from the midst stepped a more dangerous enemy. A towering Psybrid, different from the one earlier, wielding a long stave with a spiked mace and a curved talon on the other end. Instantly bolt fire shifted to target it but with startling speed it leapt high, letting rounds pass under it.
Toran was caught in an awkward position, bolter in one hand and sword in the other. He had no time to reload and so mag-locked the gun to his hip and took up his inert sword in both hands. Barely had he lifted his sword when the stave struck, stabbing like a thunderbolt for his eye. Toran jerked aside as he twisted his wrists and the dead weight of his sword clashed off the talon with a dull clang. A numbing impact rang up his arms and Toran gritted his teeth, readying a counter, yet the alien was faster.
The alien swirled its arms in a dazzling display and the mace flew past his guard to screech over his flank. Spiny thorns found the gap under his armpit and broke through the fibre-bundle weave to pierce skin. Instantly Toran's nerves caught alight, flaming agony clawing into his chest. Pain wrapped a vice of fire around his hearts and his lungs filled with ice. Agony drilled into his body, crippling pain that would have left a man screaming in torment upon the ground and yet Toran was no mere man. A Space Marine was no stranger to pain, it was as familiar as the sound of his own voice, it did not debilitate, it only drove them to greater fury. Nerves on fire Toran fixed the Psybrid in his sight and growled, "Mistake..."
Fired by furious zeal Toran threw himself at the alien, sword swinging like a blacksmith's hammer. The lack of disruption field was no issue, even without it the blade was a two-metre shaft of adamantium, driven by Astartes strength. Toran unleashed a blizzard of hacking blows, without grace or skill, but driven by all his fury. Toran channelled his pain and anger into the assault, fury lending him strength and pain speeding his limbs. All of his righteous ire was in his hands and he directed every drop at the Psybrid.
The foe fell back in desperation, swinging its stave wildly to block and parry. It fought to keep him at bay but Toran would not be denied and threw everything he had into the attack, keeping up the assault without cease. Then as if by a miracle his sword stirred to life. Perhaps it was the noble machine spirit responding to his anger, perhaps the generator had enough time to reset but the Sword of Thiel erupted into a blazing corona of energy and with one almighty smash Toran sundered the alien's weapon.
The Psybrid fell to the muck and Toran lifted his sword high to finish it off, but then cruel chance intervened. From afar came the sound of engines and the shadow of dark wings, then the Thunderhawks and Overloads shot overhead, heavy bolters raining down annihilation. The strike force, returned to aid their brethren, carving deep furrows into the alien horde. It was a welcome reprieve for the Storm Heralds but quite unintentionally the downdraft of their vectored engines blew Toran off balance and spoiled his strike. Toran staggered and in that instant the Psybrid twisted and dove away, bounding over the ground on all fours like a mastiff. It disappeared into the reeling throng and was seen no more.
"Accursed fiend, come back and die properly!" Toran barked.
But Polarus' voice cut over the vox, "Artillery destroyed, we need to withdraw immediately."
Toran wanted to shout invectives at the Chaplain but knew this was no time for blind anger. The Storm Heralds had but moments to get in their vehicles and break off, if they didn't depart immediately they wouldn't be leaving at all. Toran lowered his sword and ran calculations in his head, judging they had just enough time to mount up and ordered, "Aerial force: make one more pass. Triumph of Progress and Resolute Defiance lay down suppressing fire. Everybody else, embark now!"
Across the line Storm Heralds turned and ran for their Rhinos and Repulsors, diving into open hatches and up ramps. The unexpected manoeuvre caught the aliens by surprise and they were a second too slow to give chase. Turrets spat fire at the confused horde, blowing holes into their ranks while the gunships shot by again, leaving death behind.
Toran ran alongside his Marines as the wave of blue dashed for the transports. He spied wounded Brothers being carried into the open bay of Pride of Lujan and veered off, keeping with Matheus as they angled for a humbler Rhino. They reached the ramp and Toran paused to let the Tacticals embark first as he sheathed his sword, determined to be the last to leave the battlefield. In a moment they were all aboard and he turned to Matheus and said, "You get in."
"You first Captain, I won't be..." Matheus began.
Toran was facing him and so was perfectly aligned to see what happened next. From the raging fires stepped a line of bulky figures, more Nephilim, walking through the devastation untroubled. They were led by a Psybrid, the earlier one with the infernal whips. Even as they emerged they were firing, sending blazing bolts across the distance to strike the retreating Space Marines. Matheus took one bolt right in the back, blowing through his chest and incinerating his internal organs. One second he was standing there, the next Toran's faceplate was splattered by blood and chunks of Ceramite.
The Sergeant dropped forward and Toran caught him crying, "Matheus!" It was no use, the brave Space Marine was dead, no one could live with a hole that size blown through them. Matheus' corpse sagged and the Grav-pistol fell from his hands and Toran knew this was the end of his saga. Matheus was no more.
Toran looked up and saw the Psybrids barrelling forward, pressing hard to cut off any escape. Toran wanted to meet them, wanted to stand and fight. The need for vengeance carried through him and he yearned to draw his sword and dive into the face of alien horror, to exact a terrible price in blood before he fell. Yet cold logic denied his fiery hearts. The lives of his Brothers were in the balance and he had to save as many as he could. They had to fall back or die.
"Break contact and drive!" Toran yelled into the vox then turned and dragged Matheus' corpse up the ramp. The Rhino's tracks began spinning before the ramp even closed, driving for the horizon and leaving bitter ashes in their wake. Toran had a last glimpse of Triumph of Progress breaking away, grav-fields throwing Xenos aside even as its turret rotated to fire backwards. Then the ramp slammed shut and cut off his vision.
Strong hands took Matheus' body and laid him out upon the cold floor. Toran knelt by the Sergeant's corpse and laid a hand on his shoulder as the Squad lowered their heads in mourning. Grief bit hard and in its wake came terrible anger. The Xenos would be made to pay for this insult, he swore it would be so with all his being. Wracked with sorrow Toran oathed, "By the blood of the lost, as the Emperor is my witness, you shall be avenged."
