Tergum Cultro Chapter 3

The thunder of guns had ceased and the battlefield rang only with the screams of the dead and dying. Injured men lay in piles, clutching their wounds and calling out for medicaes. Field Chirugeons rushed to respond, helping those who could be helped and administering the Emperor's Peace to those who were beyond help. For the Heretic survivors there was no such mercy, no matter that many were ignorant or deluded, these soldiers had taken up arms against the Golden Throne and for that there was no forgiveness other than a swift knife to the throat.

The Imperial Guard had advanced from the outer earthworks into the slums of the city, pressing forward in a meatgrinder assault against rebel reserves scattered throughout the city. Far behind them the battlefield grew cold and gloomy, cast over by the shadow of death and the fear of the Adeptus Astartes. On the very edge of the earthworks a forward base had been established. It had been dropped from orbit and erected in under an hour, creating a secure bastion upon the enemy's very doorstep. It was ringed by razorwire and gun-servitor emplacements, with eldritich Auspex arrays and vox-masts dotted throughout. There was a looming Stronghold, plasma generators, landing pads, Chapel-Barracks, Machine Cult shrines, armouries, Apothecarions and a gold-encrusted reliquary-templum.

Within that templum Sergeant Toran knelt before an altar with his helm doffed. It was a low stone block, carved from obsidian and without markings and upon it his weapons lay before an open book. The walls of the small templum were covered in frescos and incense braziers hung on brass chains which wafted scented fragrances. A wizened cleric stood silently in the shadows, interrupting not as visitors came to his shrine. The roof bore a depiction of Him on Terra as the warlord who led the Space Marine Legions to conquer the galaxy ten thousand years earlier. Toran had bowed deeply to this icon, though he did not cleave to the teachings that the Emperor was a divine being the Sergeant's reverence for His works and teachings were second to none. Almost as high in his esteem was his adoration for his own Gene-sire, Roboute Guilliman, one of the twenty Primarch sons of the Emperor and wellspring of the vaunted Ultramarines. The Storm Heralds claimed descent from that noble lineage and for half the life of the Imperium they had fought according to the teachings of his Codex Astartes.

A copy of that venerable tome lay on the altar before Toran and it was to this he was paying his respects. This particular copy was a priceless relic, a tome gifted to the Chapter on its Founding day. Normally it was held in the Chapter's Librarian's tower, under stern watch by the warrior-psykers of the Librarius, but for this mission it had been bestowed upon the expedition to inspire the Initiates to greatness. Toran has studied lesser copies of this book all his life but the chance to behold so direct a connection to his Gene-sire was irresistible and he had grasped a fleeting moment to gaze upon it. This respect for his genetic legacy was as close to religious fervour Toran permitted himself to drift.

The solemn moment passed as the wizened cleric stepped up and said, "Do you seek a benediction?"

Toran nodded solemnly as he replied, "Yes, let this moment be commemorated with the hymn of righteous zeal."

The Cleric drew forth from his robe a script of parchment and read aloud, "Hone your righteous hatred. Let your blade reap the alien and the Heretic without doubt or hesitation. Lay low the Traitor and bring an end to his vile works with the sure and certain knowledge that you serve the will of Him on Terra."

Toran recited by rote, "Every life I take I dedicate to you, my Emperor."

The cleric drew forth an auto-sealer and fixed the script to Toran's shoulder with a blob of red wax; he then flipped the device over and pressed a glowing rune into the soft material, flash-baking it in moments and leaving an imprint of an Aquila. This bordered on superstitious dogma but Toran preferred to think of it as a promise he made in the moment, an oath as serious as any he had ever sworn. The Purity seal having been applied the cleric bowed and withdrew as Toran stood up. The Sergeant reached out to claim his weapons but paused for a moment. Before him lay his chainsword, a stalwart example of its kind. Its chainteeth were razor-sharp and it functioned perfectly, thanks to countless hours of loving maintenance across the centuries. Toran wasn't the first Brother to wield this sword, across nine hundred years fourteen Brothers had held this blade. Toran knew all their names and fates, some had been promoted and trusted with superior gear, others had specialised in different roles and the rest had died with this sword in hand. Most notably Assault Marine Utupa, who had fallen to an Eldar corsair seven centuries earlier, but with his dying breath he had plunged this very sword into the conniving Xeno's belly, ending a threat that had bedevilled helpless Pilgrim convoys for years. Toran could still see the kill markings etched into the casing after the fact, a memorial so every soul who took up this blade would remember the heroic a sacrifice. Toran was determined to be worthy of such a legacy, he was determined to be the very best Space Marine he could be. His honour demanded no less.

Toran picked up the chainsword and his bolt pistol, not nearly so storied a weapon but a trustworthy and reliable companion. Then he turned and marched out of the templum. Outside he found IXth squad loitering, hanging around watching the activity beyond the razorwire. Brother Furion looked at the Sergeant as he descended the three steps from the door to the bare ground and inquired, "Have you completed your devotions?"

"Yes," Toran replied, "Are you certain none of you wish to meditate within?"

Heads shook in reply and Furion said, "Templums and I do not see eye to eye."

Toran sensed the hurt in those words, long ago Furion had been booted out of training under the Chaplaincy, deemed unworthy by High Chaplain Samect. Furion attended all the necessary rituals and ceremonies expected of an Astartes but other than that had no time for sermonising. He preferred to let his faith be demonstrated on the battlefield, striding through the carnage with bolter in hand rather than on his knees. An attitude sadly lacking in the majority of Storm Heralds.

Toran put this from his mind as he asked, "What are you looking at?"

Persion answered, "Look, the Guard are bringing up prisoners."

Toran peered into the distance and his augmetic eye magnified the horizon. Indeed there were gangs of troopers waving men and women and children forward, bringing them out of the edge of the city towards waiting pens of razorwire set up to receive them. They were filthy and malnourished folk, walking with their hands on their heads and faces downcast. Not one bore a weapon and they looked dejected and defeated, not a hint of defiance in any of them.

Brother Ophelion spat, "Worthless Heretics, they are lucky to be alive."

"Aye," Brother Jediah concurred, "Shoot them and be done with it."

Yet Persion commented, "They don't look like fighters, probably civilians and non-combatants."

"So?" Jediah scoffed, "What difference does that make? Kill them anyway."

Toran frowned for Jediah was a bloodthirsty warrior, who fought for the joy of killing. He was about to speak out but Persion beat him to it, "We don't kill non-combatants."

Jediah snorted, "Yes we do, how many die when the Chapter drops Magma-bombs on cities? How many do we slaughter to reach one Heretic leader?"

Persion's lilting accent grew dark as he said, "Casualties of war, unavoidable losses, but we don't kill helpless women and children."

"Keep telling yourself that," Ophelion snidely muttered.

Persion's jaw clenched as he said, "The Emperor made us to protect Mankind, not slaughter them."

Jediah cocked his head and said, "So you've never killed anyone who can't fight back?"

Persion retorted, "I don't kill the helpless. Unless they're a Xeno of course, or a Traitor. Or a Heretic, or fighting for a Heretic."

Furion stepped in then and said, "I'll stop you there, before you trip over your tongue. We Space Marines fight the battles no others can and we must be stern in word and deed. But we never take enjoyment in the deed, we never draw out suffering. When we kill we do so cleanly and swiftly, we do what must be done without pleasure. It is the Storm Herald's way."

Jediah sniffed, "What about those prisoners then?"

Furion declared, "They have lived under the boot heels of Heretics, maybe they can be redeemed or maybe they are corrupted beyond salvation. It is none of our concern, the Inquisition shall determine their fate."

That seemed to settle it but Ophelion muttered, "Kinder just to kill them."

Toran noticed Novak hadn't said anything, instead peering into the city, his handsome features screwed up in thought. The Sergeant inquired, "Problem Brother?"

Novak replied, "The fighting is moving deeper into the city but very slowly. They should be halfway to the Inner Wall by now."

Toran looked and saw he was right, the fighting was advancing slowly, far slower than typical Codex prescriptions demanded. It was farcical to think the Space Marines were bogged down, it was almost like the Storm Heralds were taking it slow on purpose. Toran chewed his lip and mused, "Perhaps they do not want to risk damaging the Tech-Priests shrines, they are why we are here after all."

It was true, the numerous Mechanicus shrines on Caminus were hallowed sites to the Machine worshipping priesthood. Their loss was an affront to Mars and the Tech-priests wanted them back intact. The Storm Heralds had seen the chance laid before them, to rescue those shrines would earn great favour from the Cult, whose influence in the byzantaine politics of the Imperium was weighty indeed. The possibility of strengthening ties between his Chapter and the Adeptus Mechancius has been too tempting to ignore. When word had reached their homeworld, two weeks earlier, First Captain Athead had thrown together a Scratch Company and set sail aboard the Strike Cruiser Million Worlds that very day. Arriving just in the nick of time Toran was pleased to note.

Novak frowned as he remarked, "The part that bothers me is why have we been held back from the front. All other squads are engaged, so why was IXth squad ordered to remain here?"

Persion commented, "The vox-net is clear, the Captains seem to have everything in hand."

Toran's one organic eye fixed him with a glare as he said, "Persion, have you been skimming vox-channels without authorisation again?"

Persion didn't seem bothered as he replied, "Only to keep my finger on the pulse, what I don't know could kill me."

Toran sighed, "Brother you seem to delight in censure, why do you insist on being so cavalier with vox-protocols?"

Persion grinned slightly as he replied, "Perfect rules are for perfect situations, it's just that I've yet to meet a perfect situation."

Toran shook his head as he lamented, "If the Chaplains couldn't beat it out of you then what hope is there for me. Just try not to do something bad enough to get yourself converted into a servitor."

Persion smirked, "Sergeant, I've been doing this since before you were born, I know what I'm doing."

Any reply Toran was about to make was cut off as his vox squawked. He listened intently for a moment then straightened up and declared, "It seems we are about to find out what going on. I have been summoned to the Stronghold, to be briefed by the Captains. Stay here while I speak to them and for Throne's sake try to keep out of trouble."