Chapter 28

The bridge was just ahead, lying just beyond a delicate archway made from ossified bone. It lay open and exposed, tempting in its vulnerability. All that lay between the Space Marines and their ultimate objective were a teeming throng of Dark Eldar.

Toran pressed onwards, stabbing and hacking away with his Relic blade. The swirling madness of the melee surrounded him on all sides but he was perfectly aware of the placements of all of his force. Around him his command squad were in the thick of the fighting, their scars were many but they fought on regardless. Novak's hand and face were ravaged and Persion had lost an arm but they battled on, reaping a fearful tally. Bylan was holding the Standard high and inspired by its proud colours the Storm Heralds refused to be found wanting. However they were not alone in this fight, for they had linked up with the squads of Sergeants Matheus and Lorath. Their Marines were pressing forward with utter determination, showing the Eldar neither respite nor mercy. There was one other Astartes present, Chaplain Wrethan who was right at the front. His great Crozius rising and falling like a metronome, each blow ending an Eldar life. He bellowed his praises to the Emperor as he fought, stoking the Space Marines' zeal and driving them onto ever greater feats of valour.

Set against them was the last of the Dark Eldar's resistance, a rag-tag mix of bridge crew and elite warriors. The Xenos were throwing everything they had left at the Storm Heralds and yet it was having little effect. The Astartes had conquered whole worlds with less and this pathetic rabble couldn't hope to deny their advance. Toran drove his sword into the back of a lithe warrior, the point of the blade erupting out the other side as the Eldar shuddered in death. He shook the corpse off his sword and looked around, seeing the Space Marines making their final push. The archway to the bridge was just ahead and once it was theirs the whole ship would fall.

Toran was about to order his Marines on when the heaving scrum parted and he saw a figure he recognised. A Lord of the Dark Eldar, clad in dark armour that glistened like wet blood and bearing a long, thin sword. Toran gasped as he recognised the sight, for it was an Eldar he had faced before and defeated. Suddenly recent events made sense to him, the surprise attack and the dogged, relentless pursuit. This Lord was here for revenge, petty banal revenge, nothing more, nothing less. Even the presence of the Chaos Marines made sense, who knew what accursed bargains Athra J'rect had struck in the name of revenge?

Toran raised his sword before his face and shouted at the Archon, "Now you must face me filth!"

Athra J'rect laughed merrily and cried back in reply, "No, now you must face her!"

Toran frowned in confusion but then arose a high pitched shriek from behind him. The Captain swung about and was shocked to see a single white-clad being, standing with arms outstretched. She bore a thin staff in one hand and the other was held out before her in a grasping gesture while upon her breast was a glowing jewel that shimmered with eldritch light. Toran didn't understand who this was or how they came to be here, but it didn't matter for the hairs on the back of his neck were shivering. His transhuman brain immediately recognised a clear and present danger, something that could change the course of the whole battle.

Toran was about to redirect his forces but before he could say a word the eye lenses on the newcomer's helm blazed with crackles of lightning and the temperature fell like a stone. Toran heard Jediah cry, "Witch!" but then they were all blasted by a hurricane force wind that blew out of nowhere.

The power of the tornado hit the Astartes like a sledgehammer, driving them backwards with boots carving grooves into the deck. It slammed into their bodies, pulling them back and preventing them from advancing. Toran gritted his teeth and hunched over but the wind thundered into him too, holding him still and forcing him to merely hang on. It was not only the Space Marines who were affected, the Dark Eldar were hit just as hard. They were pulled off their feet and slammed into the walls, delicate bones and fragile organs broken by the forces at play. They thrashed and screamed but were helpless to resist as the cyclone hammered into them, breaking bodies and snuffing lives out. The white-clad witch however didn't seem to care that she was killing her own kind. She poured on power, calling the wind into being with her mind and Toran heard her shriek, "Die filthy, Mon-Keigh! In the name of Idharae, you shall all die!"

The cyclone was all-consuming as it battered at the struggling warriors of both sides, yet there was one being who was unbowed. Chaplain Wrethan was stood firmly in the midst of the tornado, facing the Witch defiantly. With sheer force of will the Chaplain took one ponderous step towards the Witch, then another and another. Toran had no idea how the Chaplain was still standing, yet alone moving but it was the most inspiring thing he had ever seen. The sheer indomitable will of the Chaplain set against Eldar trickery and deceit, the irresistible force set against the immovable object. Wrethan's black and gold armour shone gloriously, his skull mask glowered with hate and his Crozius was a promise of inevitable destruction.

With unconquerable determination, Wrethan marched into the face of the tornado and he cried, "Your sorcery is no match for the Divine-Emperor!"

The Witch laughed and cried, "Foolish creature, your God is nothing but a rotting skeleton set upon a Pain-Engine!"

Wrethan growled, "You know nothing, the Emperor is always with me."

The Witch's laugh faded as she saw the Chaplain closing in, she growled in anger then summoned her power in a new and more deadly aspect. A halo of blue lightning played around her body, then with a wave she unleashed it, spitting deadly power at the Chaplain. Wrethan however wasn't caught unprepared, with a second's warning he bent over and scooped up a thrashing Dark Eldar from the deck. He gripped it with one hand and pulled it up before him, holding the Xeno up like a shield. The lightning engulfed the terrified alien, consuming it in a blaze of power. Incandescent light erupted from the creature as it screamed inhumanly, then it detonated in an explosion of light and energy, reducing it to ash.

The act had spared Wrethan's life but the force of the blast knocked him back. He went staggering to the deck, stunned momentarily and falling before the Witch's power. Toran snarled in outrage to see the Chaplain laid low and the anger gave him the push he needed to rise to his feet. He forced himself forward, taking one ponderous step into the oncoming wind, refusing to be cowed by its power.

The witch saw him coming and turned her attention fully upon him crying, "You! You are the one! You have to die; you must die and seal your race's doom!"

Toran took another ponderous step and yelled, "Never, it is you who shall die!"

The Witch shrieked in mad anger and screamed, "The future demands your death! Once the Primarch is gone your race's doom will be certain. You can't save the Primarch; I won't allow you to save him!

With those words the Witch summoned the lightning once more and threw it at Toran. The Captain saw it coming but had no cover and no way to avoid the strike, it descended on him like a waterfall of light and engulfed his body. Toran screamed as no Astartes ever should, searing agony ripped through him etching every nerve ending in fire and shredding his nervous system. Toran's whole world was made of razor blades, every inch of his body screaming in torment as the alien energy sank its claws into every single cell of his being. Fire licked at his skin as the cold embrace of the grave gripped his bones and the silence of death filled his ears.

Toran sank to his knees as the power carved him apart, gouging at his very lifeforce and making his last moments a crescendo of anguish. On and on and on the pain came, second after second dragging out into eternity as agony consumed him and made him its own. And yet through it all there was a thought, a single mote that Toran held onto with all his being: he wasn't dead yet. Why wasn't he dead?

Toran forced his eyes open and was startled to see a shimmering golden halo surrounding him, a miraculous light covering his body. Most of the lightning was punching through it but not enough to kill him, just to hurt him. Toran was amazed by this miraculous intervention and he wondered was this the power of the Emperor at work? Was he truly Divine after all?

Then Toran felt something burning red-hot behind his head and he realised the truth. This was no miracle it was his Iron Halo: the Force-field generator was straining to the limit to keep him alive. Toran's body was still wracked with agony but he muttered, "Pain is an illusion of the senses, fear an illusion of the mind," as he forced himself back to his feet. The torment was no less but he refused to yield, all his training and indoctrination letting him rise above it. Every inch of him felt like he was covered in broken glass but he took the agony and forced it to work for him, channelling the pain to stoke his anger into a blazing inferno of empowering rage. This was the essence of an Astartes, what set them apart from mere mortals. They did not ignore pain and fear as most assumed; they made it the fuel for their zeal.

The Witch shrieked with rage to see him standing once more and screamed, "No, this cannot be! Nothing can resist my storm!"

Toran lurched forward, every movement a tale of woe all unto itself but he mastered it and staggered on, closing upon the Witch. Even as the searing lighting and the brilliance of his force-field struggled for supremacy he raised his sword high and yelled, "We fear neither the thunder nor the lightning, for we are the Emperor's Storm!"

Then he swung his sword down towards her head as he cried, "We are His Wrath!"

The mighty sword descended like a thunderbolt, unstoppable in its power and momentum but at the last millisecond the witch jerked backwards, bending out of the way. The point of the sword just missed her face by a hairsbreadth, sparing her life. Yet the absolute tip of it carried on straight down, to impact the glowing jewel set upon her chest. There was a brilliant flare of purest light and a blazing conflagration of energy as the stone shattered and the Witch screamed in pain and horror. Light and heat spilled out in a cascade of potent energy, far more than such a little bauble should be able to contain. Toran felt the psychic energy spilling out, carrying with it love and hate, courage and fear, compassion and cruelty as multi-coloured hues of heat and light. Then there was the hideous laughter of a Chaos God, coming to claim its prize.

Toran was thrown away by the power of the blast, crashing down upon his back as stars flashed in his eyes and his head span. All was hazy confusion and disorientation and for long moments he could not make sense of anything at all. Slowly the room stopped spinning and Toran sat up, seeing the other Astartes similarly affected, groggily picking themselves up. One by one they sat up and Bylan called out in amazed wonder, "Captain, you did it!"

"No," said Toran woozily, "Where is the body of the Witch and where is the Archon?"

Everybody looked about and saw that the bodies had indeed vanished, tellingly alive in their absence. Toran gathered himself up but Furion called, "Captain, you shouldn't be moving in your condition."

Toran however refused to be mollycoddled, even though it felt like glass shards had been lodged into his every joint, he forced himself to his feet and held his sword in an aching hand as he commanded, "Quickly, get after them. We can't let them escape!"