A/N: This is the first chapter not narrated by Fenwick. Kinda short, but I hope it'll be a nice change of pace nonetheless. As always, thanks to those who read and review. Enjoy!
I meet with the Stormboy in midair, and where there should be blood and meat, there is blinding light and a deafening blast. My jump pack fails me, and I am flung to the ground in tatters. Blood paints the courtyard – both my enemy's and my own. I am wounded, badly wounded, though I have yet to take a moment to discern the extent of my injuries. I try and pull myself up, and find myself strangely unbalanced.
Ah, now I see.
Shoving the tip of my sword into the earth, I force myself to rise. There is pain, tremendous pain, but I push it aside. It is nothing to me; I am a Space Marine, and it will take more than this to lay me low. I see my Battle-Brother standing near the garrison door, shielding the young Guardsman with his body, and in spite of all this pain, I spare a moment of pity for the fragile human. Yet within that pity is a tinge of admiration. He cannot fight as me and my Brother can, nor even as well as that red-haired jester, but still he fights. Our bravery is programmed, the result of genetic enhancement and countless years of battle; his is born of nothing more than his beating heart and his unyielding faith, and still he fights. He is doomed and knows it, yet still he fights.
As I rise to my feet, I decide to be like him. I will be like the Guardsman, and fight with courage deeper than the fearlessness intrinsic to the Space Marine, with strength of will drawn from a desire neither selfish nor malicious. I catch my Brother's eye, and he sees what I know, what I have decided. I, too, see the man beneath that ornate helm, the hero whose dreams are not yet dust. It is for him that I fight. For him, the Guardsman, the Khornate fool and even that vile daemon, I fight.
The orks have breached our gate; they come now, the undisciplined, bloodthirsty horde, crawling over each other like insects to draw blood, to be the first to enter the fray. They live to fight, and I will give them a fight to die for. But not now. Not yet. My life will be over soon, but it will not be given cheaply, or in vain. My Brother lifts the Guardsman beneath his arm, and they flee. I run after them, but not in mad flight – rather, I seek a tenable position, where I can stand and meet the foe in numbers that will not flow over me in an instant. In my mind, I mark my destination, and accept that it will be the place where I die.
The garrison blurs around me as I race through it. I stay hot on my Brother's heels, until he is on his way into the tunnel; then, once I am sure of their escape, I stop. I see the Guardsman's face twist in confusion, despair, and finally horror as he realizes what I have decided. My inhuman eyes see them racing into the dark – the Daemon, the Fool, my Brother and the Guardsman – and I smile. The smile is not for them, but for me, as I realize that I will die with my purpose fulfilled. All this time I had been seeking companions worthy of my blade, and in my arrogance, failed to see that I had already found them.
With the warmth of this knowledge resting in my black heart like a single dying ember in a cold furnace, I swing around to face my doom. It comes, wearing the faces of a thousand fanged maws, scrap-metal blades and crude guns. I spare a glance at the still-bleeding, ragged stump of my left arm. The entirety of my left side has been maimed, armour split open like a metal husk and the flesh beneath it charred. But both my legs are still strong, and in my right hand, I hold my sword. For ten thousand years, this blade has served me without fail, and it will not fail me today.
The orks eschew their guns; they have settled for shooting long enough. They wish to exalt in bloody, carnal, close-quarters combat, and I am more than happy to oblige. The first ork that meets me is neatly sidestepped and hewn in half; the next is split clean down the middle, a look of almost childish disappointment on its porcine face before it dies. Orks do not fall to minor wounds – every strike must be fatal, if I am to hold my own for any significant amount of time. Fortunately, it so happens that I am more than practiced in the vein of single-stroke kills, and now put every ounce of skill I have to the test. It is not as if I have a choice; even there, at the narrow mouth of the tunnel, they engage me three or four at a time. They are fast, and viciously strong. Unfortunately for them, I am faster and stronger still, and I will not tire for a long, long time.
As a neophyte Space Marine, one of the first things I learned was that to be fully effective in combat, every part of one's body must be a potential weapon. Though my body is no longer complete, this principle has not escaped me; I prove its worth as I use my shoulder to bash an ork to the ground, fracture another's skull with a headbutt, and decapitate a third while crushing the first under my boot. It scrabbles at the floor, vainly trying to rise, and I end its pathetic writhing before another second passes. A Nob rushes me, pushing through the Boyz before it and wielding a Big Choppa above its head with two hands. As that huge blade comes down, I ghost out of the way, drive my sword through its head, and whirl around, spattering the Boyz behind it with the larger ork's brain matter. A bestial roar tears forth from between my fanged rows of teeth, and the alien resolve that drives the Waaagh falters – but only for a moment. Then they are upon me once more, and I am battling furiously to hold my ground, to hold the line. I search for fortitude, in the war litanies of old, and one in particular springs to memory: the Litany of Brotherhood, a proclamation of allegiance, loyalty and might. I am no great performer, but the battle song that rips forth from my throat does not need to be tuneful. It needs only to embolden me, and to be the last sound these wretched orks ever hear.
My brother, come join me; through battle we grow stronger.
Our foes all shall falter, sacrificed on this altar.
Ten thousand years of waiting, over; now we claim what is rightful to us.
Come, my brother; with your courage we shall conquer.
In your sword I put my trust that you will honour.
I will hold the higher ground, should you concede it,
And my body be your shield if you should need it.
Innumerable hours of training fuse seamlessly with instinct, and instead of merely fighting the orks, I begin slaughtering them. I, a veteran of twelve Black Crusades, will not be bested by vermin such as these. This I vow as my blade ploughs tirelessly onward, cleaving through my foes even as I am forced to give ground. The mob presses forth, hungry to sink their blades into me, eager to be the one to land that critical blow. Their lack of higher purpose disgusts me, and I redouble my efforts. One step follows another, and inch by inch I regain the ground that was lost.
The floor grows slick with the enemy's remains. Bodies begin to pile, and slowly, impossibly, I advance into the hallway. There is no end to them, but neither is there an end to my fury; an unstoppable force pitted against an innumerable foe. Ever do their ranks replenish, and yet, in the eyes of those closest to me, I see the beginnings of fear: not of the prospect of locking blades with me, but at the dawning idea that I might slice them to pieces before they could even get as far as that.
I cannot push too far forward, for if I do, they will skirt around me and plunge into the tunnel at my back – not to mention, they will surround me if that becomes the case – so I advance no further. It seems there is no need, in any case; the orks appear to be pulling back ever so slightly. I butcher a few more before confirming that this is truly happening. For a moment, the notion that I, alone and one-armed, have repelled the Waaagh, flickers through my head, but only for a moment. I dismiss it at once; though I have slain so many of them that their blood is lapping at my boots in dissonantly gentle waves, orks do not back down, no matter the challenge. I scan their alien faces for a reason, and find my answer when an enormous greenskin with a crudely decorated banner rising from its back and chunks of heavy armour all over its body smashes through the far wall and stands glaring at me. I meet its gaze with disdain and defiance, and it begins stomping forwards, outright crushing the Boyz and Nobz that are too slow to move out of its way. It stands before me, nearly twice my height. Its back banner scrapes the garrison ceiling, causing splinters to drift down onto its head. It doesn't flinch; neither do I. At last, the beast speaks.
"You'z been krumpin' my Boyz real good, Space Marine. Wot do you fink you'z tryin' ta pull, stoppin' da Waaagh all by yerself? Not proppa, dat. Not proppa at all."
"Save your talk of propriety for one who cares, ork," I growl. "Now, are you going to keep running that ugly mouth, or are we going to fight?"
To my surprise, the monster laughs, thumping its massive power klaw against the garrison floor and causing the entire building to tremble. I keep my balance, but only just. "I like you, Space Marine! You're a roight Orky one, gettin' roight down ta bizness." I have no more words to express my revulsion, so I stab out one of its eyes instead. The warboss roars in pain and anger, and the klaw comes towards me, a mass of sharp, twisted metal that will certainly strike me dead if it connects. I don't give it the chance; I dart forwards through the ork's legs, sliding on my knees and leaving a nasty gash on the creature's thigh. Its twin-linked Big Shoota fires a full-auto burst – thankfully, at the far wall – as it flails around in semi-blindness. I take advantage of the situation and dart forwards to slash at the tendons of its arm, between two thick slabs of armour. I succeed, and the arm holding the shoota sags. The klaw comes around again; this time, I jump over it, my blade slicing through the beast's iron jaw mid-leap. My boots slide on the bloody floor as I land, and I nearly slip before hitting the wall. My recovery is quick enough that I'm able to react before the warboss can attack again, and I charge straight for it, aiming to end this. I almost reach him when a sudden burst of gunfire tears through my unguarded left side; through the shock and agony, I see the warboss's Shoota arm, which should have been hanging uselessly, still active, and steel cables set under its opened flesh to reinforce its muscles.
Just like my own, I think, in the half-second before that klaw lashes out in one final strike. This time, there is nowhere for me to go; a brutal crack splits the air, and as the massed orks cheer their leader's victory, the last of the Luna Wolves feels one final breath escape his shattered body.
Ah… a throne of gold. Can you see me now, you old bastard? Can you see me… father?
