Tergum Cultro Chapter 7
The darkness was still and quiet, broken only by the noises of rebels griping about their lot, rolling dice and lighting up Iho-sticks. They had been deployed here for hours and were bored of guarding a gate. They had heard warnings of Space Marines from their officers, but not one of them took it seriously. Astartes were myths and legends and not one of them could name someone who had genuinely seen one, if Astartes existed then they were anywhere but here. Thus the rebels were totally unprepared when without warning eight giant figures charged from the darkness of the sewer.
They sprinted forward at a pace even the finest athlete could not have matched. Sergeant Toran was in the lead, surveying the sandbagged defences as he ran and silently counting down in his head. They were one hundred paces away, distance enough for the rebels to pour on enough firepower to turn power armour to slag if given the chance. The squad had to cover that distance before the rebels had time to react, they had to get into close combat where their Genic superiority could be employed. At eighty paces the first rebel saw them, glancing over the sandbags drawn by the sudden noise. His eyes went wide in disbelief and he opened his mouth to yell a warning as other faces turned to check the disturbance. Toran redoubled his pace, practically leaping forward with mighty pushes from his power armoured legs. He felt a wisp of desperation in his soul and drew upon that tingle to lend fire to his limbs, channelling all his being into the quest for speed. By the time he had reached sixty paces a hundred faces were peering over the barricades, their numbers still growing every second, yet they did not fire. The rebel's guns were held loosely in their grips and their faces were caricatures of shock, disbelief and horror. One man stood with his jaw working up and down but not able to say a word, his brain unable to process what he was seeing. Toran had experienced this reaction before; the Imperium even had a term for it.
Transhuman Dread.
A gene-forged warrior, carrying armour more appropriate for a tank, was enough to give any man pause, but to see one in motion was another experience altogether. The human mind was conditioned from birth to certain expectations, one of the most fundamental being that bigger meant slower. The Astartes however did not conform to this prejudice, they were faster and more agile than any beings of their bulk had any right to be and the sight froze the rebels in total denial and disbelief. The Space Marine's speed was ferocious, their mass not hindering them but in fact turning each of them into an oncoming juggernaut of ceramite. Yet worse for the Heretics, worse by far, was the knowledge that they were facing Astartes: the Angels of Death were coming for them all.
The rebels just stood dumbfounded, guns held slack as their minds rejected what their eyes were telling them to be true. It could not last long but it might just buy a few precious seconds more for the Astartes to close the distance. At thirty paces a rebel in officers' braiding began yelling at the men and finally the first las-shot rang out. It sailed past Toran's helm, dissipating harmlessly behind him but it was swiftly followed by more, dozens more in a overwhelming volley. Toran's armour rang with impacts and he felt Las-shots burning across his plate. The squad began to weave and dodge, not in an effort to preserve themselves, but in an attempt to draw fire from Furion and his vulnerable Heavy Flamer tanks.
The weight of fire was increasing with every second and their armour was ringing with impacts. Toran briefly considered returning fire and trying to suppress the rebels, but there were too many of them. The bolt weapons would have to wait, speed was everything now. The Space Marines put their heads down and raced on, trusting in the spirits of their armour to stand true. At twenty paces the Heavy bolter finally opened up, its shells hurtling into their midst, leaving behind fiery tracers from rocket propellant. Toran was jarred as a bolt careened into his pauldron, its detonation making him stumble. His mark VII plate held true but the force cost him vital speed and a perilous second as he rebuilt his momentum. The fire were falling faster now as the rebels found their range and the squad suffered greatly, but they knew it was better they took the brunt than Furion. One shell detonating against his Flamer tanks could end everything. At ten paces another volley of las fire rang out but not from the front, rather from behind, the Mechanicus Skitarii had finally formed a firing line and let loose suppressive fire. Their Hell guns had far greater penetrating power than regular lasrifles and punched through the sandbags to cut down a dozen rebels. It was not enough to break the foe but it disrupted their volley fire for a critical second and Toran knew the squad had to make the most of it.
When he was only five paces away Toran jumped into the air and his boots came up as he leapt the last distance. Powered by fibre motive bundles and with armour heavy enough to crush a man Toran became a flying wrecking ball, effortlessly smashing aside the line of sandbags. Three rebels were smashed into the ground in the first second of his attack, skulls and spines shattered by the sheer force of his impact they died without even having time to scream. Toran regain his feet and instantly lashed out with his Chainsword in a wide circle, clearing a space around him and pieces of bodies were sent flying. The rebels were flung back by his charge but so numerous were they that fresh bodies piled in like a tide. Toran met them head on with savage sweeps of his blade, the spinning chainteeth wrecking carnage in all directions yet the filth kept coming. Toran felt his righteous hatred surge for these degenerate Heretics, who had turned their back on the Emperor and all Mankind and the outraged fury coursed through his limbs like liquid fire, emboldening every strike. Rage burned in his heart, never letting him relent and his contempt for the Heretical foe stoked his determination to see every last one of them dead.
"We are the Emperor's Storm!" he roared as he carved rebels apart.
The squad leapt to follow him as they bellowed the traditional battlecry of the Chapter; "We are His wrath!"
Brother Persion was the first to land bringing his combi-bolter down heavily to crush a skull with the stock before whipping out his combat blade and setting about the tightly packed rebels. Daite leapt the barricade a second later, barrelling into a knot of rebels and bowling them over with his bulk before crushing their skulls with his boots. Halis cleared the sandbags and landed behind a pair of rebels, his blade slashed once and then twice and two corpses fell to the ground missing their heads. Meanwhile Jediah tackled a rebel and held him firmly down to the ground with one hand as he ever so slowly pushed his knife between the mortal's ribs. Jediah looked deeply into the man's eyes as he glided the blade in inch by inch, savouring the moment of life slipping away. Ophelion saw a knot of rebels charging at the distracted Marines' back, he calculated the most efficient way to dispose of them and then lobbed a Frag Grenade into their midst. A sharp crack heralded shrapnel tearing through thin fabrics and webbing, leaving a half dozen men sprawled groaning on the ground. Ophelion instantly marched over to them and broke their necks one by one with his boot heel.
The rebels still held the advantage of numbers but now IXth squad was in close they could not bring their guns to bear and none of them could match a Space Marine in combat. Novak was confronted by a rebel with officers' braiding, who bore a broad cutlass that shimmered with the energy of a power field and brought it down heavily in an overhead strike. Novak deflected the sparking blade with an elegant parry, angling the rapier just right to avoid it being shattered by the energy field. His next slice tore off the officers' arm then he finished the man off with a quick thrust through the heart. Three strokes to kill one man: Novak was showing off again. Meanwhile Magos Castabore redirected her Skitarii to fire further along the emplacements, trying not to hit the Space Marines. The soldiers of Mars were met with sprays of fire from the bunker, the Heavy Bolter chugging as it lashed out trails of shells. Three skitarii were caught by the torrent, their armour crumpling and their bodies exploding as the mass reactive rounds detonated. Most men would have been cowed by the fusillade but Skitarii were Neuro-slaved to Castabore's command, their augmented frames would not them flee and they stood firm, trading shot for shot with the bunker.
As the Skitarii drew the rebel's fire Furion slammed his backpack against the ferrocrete of the bunker, keeping the tanks of the Heavy Flamer well away from the line of shells roaring by. He braced as the tongue of fire lashed out inches away from his helm then the fire ceased and there were the frantic sounds of men trying to reload. Furion immediately stepped out and swung the Heavy Flamer around until the nozzles were pointing directly into the firing slit, then he squeezed the trigger. Instantly a tornado of fire swept through the bunker, burning everything inside to ash and pulling the air from rebel lungs. Men screamed as they burned alive, flailing madly and crying for succour but Furion was relentless. Then the ammunition cooked off in a detonation that rang across the battle. The roof of the bunker blew off in a mushroom cloud of red flames, scattering rocks to fall heavily upon friend and foe alike as thunder rolled over the combatants.
Toran saw the moment the battle would hinge upon was at hand and he cried, "Let them see the Emperor's Fury Brothers!" The Storm Heralds responded by throwing themselves at the quailing rebels, wrecking a most terrible slaughter. Heretics fell in droves to the blades of the righteous and the battle became a slaughter. The rebels quivered, unmanned at the terrible violence and fiery destruction that had overcome them and for a moment it seemed like their courage would break. But just as the first man turned to flee a mighty squeal filled the air as the great gate ground up, revealing a long tunnel winding away into the depths of the foundations.
From that tunnel came three brutish giants covered in thick leather overalls and plasteel plates. Their flesh was interwoven with bulky augmetics and chem injectors and their faces were sculpted by gigantism and they had thick jaws that drooled as they breathed. Their hands had been removed and surgically replaced with snapping claws and siege drills that whirred and snapped eagerly in anticipation of battle. Toran saw them stepping out into the light and yelled a warning, "Ogryn Charonites!" In a heartbeat his enhanced mind processed the situation and found the odds inexorably shifting away from his squad. This could turn the whole battle against them, they had to react swiftly before they lost the advantage.
"Magos!" roared Toran, "Redirect your fire, bring down the Ogryns!" But there was no response, even though the calamity of battle the Sergeant could tell the supporting fire from the Skitarii was absent. He glanced about to see if some new disaster had befallen the Mechanicus troops, but all he could see was Magos Castabore and her Skitarii turning their backs on the fight and marching away into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving IXth squad surrounded by foes.