DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING IN THE WARHAMMER UNIVERSE NOR FRANCHISE! Here is another story for you all though..Enjoy!

Dorian gripped the shaft of his Warhammer tightly. He raised the weapon, bringing the head down upon the head of the marine that lay before him. Metal met helm, ceramite splintering, red eyes lenses fractured, bones shattering, blood splattering onto the green of his armor. The head of the traitor had been reduced to a bloody pulp. He removed his hammer, bringing it back to bear. The body twitched for a few seconds. Limbs arrayed in a deathly gray and green slightly spasmed before the movement finally stopped. He took a last glance at his weapon. Draconis. That was the name he given this hammer when he had first removed it from the forge. Named after one of the many beasts of Nocturne. The shaft was a mix of gold and black, decorated with various livery native to his homeworld. The head of the hammer was fashioned to resemble that of the head of the beast in which the weapon drew its name. A ferocious creature much like the warrior whom wielded the weapon.

The traitor's strike had caught them off guard. They had struck harder, slaying many of his brothers in cold blood before they even realized what had taken place, but the Salamanders had struck back harder. Though separated from their primarch and scattered across the planet's surface, they still fought fiercely much like the beast of their own world. They currently faced off against the Death Guard, in brutal combat. The warriors of the Fifteenth legion would make certain that they felt the wrath of the sons of Nocturne. Dorian watched as one of his fellow pyroclast bathed a squad of DeathGuard in promethium. The warriors howled in agony the as the flames cooked their flesh, roasting them within the very armour which was meant to protect them. The final warrior, a resilient one, had attempted to charge one of the firedrakes, perhaps spurred by a last burst of combat adrenaline, but fell short his burning body falling to the ground mere inches away from his target. He had long since spent the last canister of fuel for his own flamer, the weapon clipped to his waist, to allow him free use of Draconis.

The scene was similar all around, many Salamander locked in brutal close quarters combat with the traitorous cousins due to having spent the last of their magazines or not having enough time to reload their weapons. Despite their current success, he knew this would not last long. They were few and the enemy encroaching upon them were legion. Many of their warriors who still fought were gravely injured from the initial assault, and their foe was ruthless. They would give them no time to regroup and treat their wounds. Dorian himself was in bad shaped, his armor gravely damaged from days of conflict. Constant assault by blade and bolt had worn down the plate, he was currently missing his right pauldron, and his left visor lens had been cracked during combat. He could literally taste the death that hung in the air.

A helmless salamander approached him from his right. Despite the various modifications and honours upon the armor, Dorian easily could tell which model of armour he wore. It was the Mark IV Maximus Pattern armour, worn by many of their legion. The legionnaire used his gauntlet to wipe blood from his face. Whether it was his own or that of the enemy, Dorian knew not. The salamander was completely bald, with eyes the color of the flames found in the deepest pits of Nocturne, skin of a charcoal black coloration. He knew him well. It was brother Stellios of the Cortan Assault Squad. He was happy that they had found him during their search for survivors after the initial assault. His presence was much comforting to him.

Stellios pointed out towards the Death Guard's rear. "Brother look, the Death Guard retreat." He said. He noticed, watching as score of Death Guard slowly fell back from the Salamander's as the fought. His brothers too deep in combat to noticed or too driven by rage to care pressed on, firing onto the exposed flanks of the traitors. He never knew the Death Guard to back down from a fight so easily. There was something amiss. As if to answer his pondering thoughts a dirty cloud began to roll in, first engulfing the retreating Death Guard, then some of his brothers of reconnaissance and assault companies that had given chase. This was no natural mist that befell them. Something was off. Dorain watched closely as one of the warriors consumed by the mist stumbled out. Like Stelios's and many of their other brother's he was helmless. However, something was off, the warrior was holding his throat, coughing. His eye's had swollen, and were little more that sacs of pus, constantly oozing. The skin on his face was peeling off, sloshing off of him. The warrior fell to his knees gasping for air, in pain before falling to the ground, dead. More warrior's followed behind him, some helmless, others armored, all suffering the same thing. Many fell, killed by the poisonous mist, others felled by the Death Guard whom had renewed their assault with the arrival of this gas.

A virus bombing. The traitors didn't have the gall to face them in one on one combat but decided to sink to lower levels and kill them with this vile weapon. The tides of battle had turned. They were no longer in the Salamander's favor. All around him Salamander's fell back, he as well, aiming to escape the gruesome fate which awaited them in the mist. Many would be slain as they ran, done in by the fire of the Death Guard as they retired. Many were not even killed by the bolts, instead they were crippled, legs blown from under them immobilizing them completely. There they would lay as the mist slowly crept towards them bringing their agonizing end. Dorian pushed down his rage. He would make the traitors suffer later, for now he and the rest of the Salamander force had to get to safe grounds.

Luckily the field of which they fought upon was well fortified with multiple bunkers, he was certain that this would protect them until the poisonous gas dissipated. "To the bunker's brothers! We must seal ourselves in less we allow the gas to overtake us!" he yelled over the vox. They ran their hardest, genetically enhanced muscles and armour and bringing them forward. Many able bodied brothers were at the rear, having gone back for their comrades too wounded to keep up with the rest of them. Dorian and those closest to him were the first into the bunker. They piled in, the pyroclast standing at the opening, herding in as many of his kin as he could. He saw many battle-brothers still too far behind, too wounded or slowed by the injured they carried to keep up to speed. The fog was steadily approaching, its speed increased by an incoming torrent of wind, which carried it further.

He knew he could not wait for them. They would not make it in time. The fog would have them all by the time they all made it. Dorian bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood. Emperor forgive him for what he was about to do…He had no choice. "Close it!" he yelled. The brothers holding the door froze in hesitation. They were shocked at his proclamation, unsure of if to follow his order or not. "Close it you fools, less you wish to die with them!" Dorian exclaimed. With reluctance they slammed the door shut, just as both Astartes and fog made it to the door. They had just forsaken their own brothers to a brutal and agonizing death. He heard them beat on the door. They all did. They begged to be let in. Pleaded for entry into the bunker. Soon enough the banging grew weaker. The pleas replaced by choking and bloody coughs and then. Silence. He felt their pain. Their agony at yet another betrayal as the virus broke them. He clenched his fist, shaking his head. These wounds would forever haunt all those in the bunker. They would never forget.

Dorain heard coughing beside him. He looked to his left, noticing that it was brother Stellios that was the source. He had dropped to his knee's holding his throat, his flesh literally melting off him. The same was happening to many of the Salamander's inside with them. They had been too slow in closing the doors. They had trapped the virus in here with them. More and more Salamander's began to fall to their knees, the virus coursing through their veins. He himself began to feel weak. His body began to burn. He coughed, a glob of blood coming up in his helm. How was this possible. He was still armored. His armoured seale- It was then that the realization had come to him. A traitor's knife had pierced his gorget in an attempt to slay him. His armour had indeed been breached. He dropped to his knees, finding it harder to breathe. His strength slowly leaving him, and just as he realized the fate which was going to befall them. The screaming started.

END