Tergum Cultro Chapter 2
The mad buffeting of re-entry faded, leaving behind the strange weightless serenity of free fall. It was an odd sensation for one accustomed to the mass of Ceramite armour and Genhanced bones, rarely experienced even for one could live for centuries. Void warfare was its own bizarre experience but free-fall was something else entirely. The howling of the wind, the spinning countdown of the readouts and the dark gloom of the Drop-pod culminated in a strange world unto itself and Sergeant Toran drank in the moment, knowing it would be over all too soon.
Clamped upright in his restraint bars Toran cut a towering silhouette. His armour was blue in hue, with grey pauldrons and the spiral in a starburst icon of the Storm Heralds. His plate bore the signs of battle yet every nick had been lovingly restored and its colours shone with polish while various campaign badges adorned the edge of his armour. At his belt was a Chainsword and a bolt pistol, each a treasured relic of the Chapter and his helm concealed the burning glow of an Augmetic implant buried in the ruin of his right eyesocket. Toran was the embodiment of a proud Space Marine, heir to a legacy of five thousand years of service and burning with the righteous authority of the Emperor's mandate.
The numbers in his helm's vision blurred as they counted down and Toran cast his gaze over his squad. Locked into their restraint bars the Brothers of IXth squad tended to their gear with solemn reverence. In addition to Toran there was Furion, Persion, Novak, Daite, Ophelion Jediah and Halis Paur. Their heads were low as they intoned blessings to the spirits of their weapons, utterly unconcerned that they were hurtling for the ground at terminal velocity. It was a dignified and hallowed moment, the warriors seeking to hone their zeal to its sharpest edge and summon the fires of anger in a manner practised since the dawn of the Imperium. Sadly that reverent air was broken as Brother Novak called out, "Daite, Daite! Got any visions for us?"
Everybody groaned as the impudent warrior shattered the moment and Toran snapped, "Novak, can't you act with a shred of dignity for once?"
"Not if I can help it," Novak quipped.
Brother Ophelion muttered snidely, "If he put half as much effort into fighting as he did joking he'd be the Champion of Ninth Company already."
Brother Persion spoke up, "Don't put ideas in his head, it's so big it barely fits in his helm."
"Good idea," Daite added, "We can use his fat head for cover."
Novak didn't seem abashed by the teasing as he said, "Daite, you didn't answer my question."
"No," Daite snapped testily, "I have had no visions about today."
Toran sighed under his helm for that was IXth squad. They had been his comrades through fire and war, brave and stalwart souls to a man, yet also a bunch of misfits and reprobates who were always earning some reprimand or another. Yet when the Storm Heralds Chapter needed something demolished there were no finer demolition experts, a fact that had earned them five precious combi-bolters, rare and treasured relics begrudgingly trusted to them by the Forgemaster. Levity aside Toran was certain that when the bullets started flying the squad would prove deadly.
Suddenly a chime rang out and stern Brother Furion called, "Thirty seconds to landing, everybody make ready and Novak shut up."
Toran saw alerts flashing red in his helm's displays and he announced, "We will land in the centre of the battlefield, into the heart of war. Gird your souls for battle and make Ninth Company proud. For Terra and the memory of Roboute Guilliman!"
A moment later the Drop pod's machine spirit sensed the ground surging upwards and it triggered the retro rockets. The sensation of weightlessness vanished as an almighty kick slammed into him, jarring his reinforced bones. Toran snarled as the foot of a god pressed down on him, insane deceleration causing his body to groan and his blood to flow torpidly in his veins. Only his genhanced frame allowed him to survive a force that would have shattered the bones of a mortal man. No one save a Space Marine could survive such a violent landing for only the Adeptus Astartes deserved the title Angel of Death. Then the pod slammed into the ground and Toran forgot the gentleness of a moment earlier as a force like being kicked by a Titan war machine smashed him into his restraints. For an instant blackness threatened to overwhelm him as his body fought to retain consciousness and all he could hear was the screeching of the pod's frame as it screamed like it was coming apart at the seams.
The trauma lasted for a single moment, then Toran was in motion. He sprang out of his restraints and dove for the door shouting, "Out, out, out!" The explosive bolts around the doors blew and the hatches fell away, opening the pod, like the petals of a flower. Toran's chainsword and bolt pistol were already in his hands as he charged forth and he was the first to set foot upon the surface of Caminus. What awaited him was a vision of hell, a smoking charred battlefield filled with fire and death. Around a grey city ranged defensive earthworks, trenches, barricades and redoubts filled with battling mortals. Explosions walked up the zigzagging lines and blood flowed freely as men fell in gory heaps. Tanks rumbled through the smoke, firing at unseen targets, only to be blown apart by return volleys. The noise was deafening and the sight of shredded bodies was gut-wrenching but to Toran it was his natural state of being, as comforting to a Space Marine as a man coming home.
As IXth squad piled out Toran declared, "It seems the Heretics started without us."
"How rude," Novak retorted as he drew a thin rapier blade, "Let us express our displeasure in person."
Toran scoured the area and he spied their objective, a battery of Earthshaker artillery platforms, surrounded by smoke. Plumes of flame burped out of the long barrels in sequence, sending heavy shells flying to the distance where they would bring death and destruction to the Imperial Guard army assaulting the city. His squad were at the rear of the trench works, at the edge of the urban slum of the city which shimmered under the umbrella of a void shield. Yet the Drop pod had deposited the squad almost on top of the artillery and they were but a short distance away. Toran led his Marines into a fast sprint, covering the ground in moments as he closed on the artillery, knowing that every second counted. Even now other drop pods would be slamming into the ground, unleashing dozens of Storm Heralds onto the battlefield. Toran had to silence that artillery before the rebels saw the threat and directed overwhelming firepower onto them.
There was no more quipping or levity in the squad, now they were focussed and deadly. Smoke enveloped them as they approached and Toran grinned under his helm, the rebels were only human, they would be blinded by smoke and deafened by the thunder of their own guns, left unaware of the threat closing upon them. Toran's autosenses were not so impeded and he made out the first rebel silhouette with ease. It was a man in a long coat, with a pot helm and he was struggling to shift shells up a short firing step, completely oblivious to the transhuman giant closing upon him. Toran's arm swept about the Chainsword roared as its metal teeth blurred into life. Spinning razorblades made contact with flesh and chewed it apart with ease, spraying showers of blood and viscera over the area, splattering Toran's noble plate with flecks of unworthy Heretic blood. The rebel never saw what killed him, he died with his spinal column ripped out, falling to the ground nearly cleaved in twain as he let loose a brief scream. The other rebel's finally noticed something when the shrill scream cut through the din of battle but before they could organise any form of response the Storm Heralds were upon them.
Novak leapt into the ranks of the rebels, rapier a smear of light as he tore out throats and disembowelled stunned soldiers. He danced through the bewildered foes like a beautiful storm, leaving a trail of bleeding foes in his wake. Furion was in his wake, his thick Mark III armour lending strength to his knife arm. His blows were functional but direct and his sheer strength meant anyone he hit was dead before they hit the ground. The others piled in, knives flashing as they tore the rebels apart, the feeble mortals barely able to touch the shining giants striding among them. Nothing could stay the Space Marine's retribution, they had speed, strength and skill and with the element of surprise on their side they made swift work of the killing.
Toran spied a lone man trying to pounce on Persion from above but the Sergeant casually lifted his bolt pistol and shot the man from his perch, then the fight was over. The Sergeant wasted not a moment to cry, "Quickly Novak, Jediah and Halis guard the perimeter. Furion, Ophelion, Persion and Daite spike the guns!" The squad split up as the designated Brothers drew melta bombs and began fixing them to the towering barrels of the Earthshakers. Toran left them to it, stepping away to watch the approaches and making sure they weren't surprised in turn. The smoke was clearing now the guns were silent and Toran could see the battlefield opening up. The trenches were bathed in blood and viscera, the bodies of men and women strewn freely in all directions. Yet without the suppressing fire of the artillery the rebel's resistance was wilting. Platoons of pot-helmed men were retreating from the trenches and gun-nests, fleeing waves of vengeful Guardsmen. The rebels were racing towards the sheltering confines of the city, and its looming Inner Wall but before they could reach the first hab block they were intercepted by blue giants.
From the swirling bedlam of battle the Storm Heralds strode forth, marching proudly into the fray with bolters booming. Toran watched as Tactical Squads of Sixth and Seventh Companies laid down complicated crossfires, catching frantic men in Codex prescribed fire patterns. The centre of the rebel mass was blown apart by a merciless onslaught and they broke around that bulwark like waves upon a promontory. Yet as they fled for the flanks two Devastator squads of Ninth Company brought Heavy Bolters to bear, their hammering fusillades scything down troopers and grenadiers by the hundred. Reversing tanks were torn asunder by dashing missiles and heavy weapons teams were reduced to clouds of red mist. The proud heroes of mankind stood firm and blazed away with aloof disdain, tearing the pathetic Heretic army to shreds.
"It is glorious," Toran breathed in wonder as he saw the Chapter at work.
But then Novak added, "The day isn't done yet, look, it is First Captain Athead."
Toran focused his vision and saw it was indeed the First Captain himself, the finest warrior of the finest Company. There was not a Storm Herald alive who did not admire Athead, the living legend who defeated the last great Psybrid incursion, threw back Waaagh Rokfist and denied the birth of the Daemon Plaguechild at Veltri. Athead was without peer among the heroes of the First and he was the right hand of the Chapter Master. Toran watched in awe as the First Captain strode into the midst of the retreating rebels, his magnificent Tartarus pattern Terminator plate carrying him over the uneven ground with a sure stride. In hands was a magnificent Electro-magnetic longsword, the legendary Sword of Thiel and he wielded it with consummate skill, destroying all in his path. At his sides marched squads of the Terminator elite, their Indomitus Pattern armours more cumbersome than his but no less potent. Storm bolters flared, power fists crackled and Assault cannons roared and the mass of rebels came apart like wheat under a threshing machine.
"Such peerless wrath, such admirable slaughter," Toran uttered in awe as the eleven warriors decimated hundreds of rebels in moments, "It is a privilege to watch them fight." Led by the First Captain the slaughter was brief and the field soon belonged to the Storm Heralds. The Squads reformed and hastily pressed on, disappearing into the outskirts of the city. In their wake the Imperial Guard reformed, chasing their saviours into the thick of war. With the battlefield secured the sky filled with bulky shadows, orbital transporters starting the laborious process of dragging down a forward base from their Strike Cruiser in orbit. Toran realised he was being left behind and yelled, "Make haste Brothers, the battle moves on while we linger here. Blow those guns and move out, we must grind these rebels into the dust!"