Hero's Trial
Chapter 8:
Behind Enemy Lines
Guest Editor: TheLoneHunterThe scorching sun hung high in the light blue sky, casting its rays upon a little boy on the ground below. Sweat droplets ran down the child's forehead as he turned away and placed his hand on the top of a rusty gate that barred the path leading to his home.
The boy watched as the front door opened and his mother, her loving eyes glistening in the morning sunlight, and his father, dressed in his dirty metalwork uniform, walked out onto the wooden veranda. As they emerged from the shadows inside the house, he could see they both looked happy, with smiles on their faces. The gate opened with a loud creak as he pushed it back and eagerly broke into a run.
The wind howled in his ears as he dashed toward his family, yet he still kept his eyes on his parents the whole time. He was nearly halfway up the path before he realised that they had stopped looking at him. Their expressions had suddenly changed, from those of happiness and joy, to utter shock and horror.
His run slowed into a jog as he neared the front door and his parents. Upon seeing that their boy was slowing down, his father released his mother and started to run towards him, silently urging his son to run faster.
A bright flash of orange fire, a blinding white light, and the air exploded in a rippling curtain of flames. Screams of dying men and women rang through the terrified boy's ears as he whirled around, yelling for his parents to save him…
But they, too, were aflame, their charred skin peeling from their bones as the veranda began to crumble around them, belching a fountain of sparks and black smoke across the pathway like the breath of some nightmarish Warp daemon. When he dared to risk opening his eyes, nothing remained of his mother and father but two clouds of white ash, blown away by the shrieking wind as something massive and metallic crashed through the roof of the house, splintering the woodwork with a single blow from its mighty steel talons…
NO!
Revan woke from his nightmare, gasping and covered in sweat. Still trapped in his cumbersome Astartes armour, a single question pounded through his head as he fought to keep himself from blacking out again…
Where am I?
Space: Corinth System
The Imperial fleet hung in the darkness of space, overshadowed by the millions of bulky rocks that formed the great Corinth field. Once in a while, a small flash of light from one of the cruisers would streak across the void, clearing a path for the larger vessels through the dangerous asteroid belt. The armada had been ordered to wait; their prey would come to them in time.
The first wave of the rag-tag Ork fleet, after hours of traversing the deadly field, had just crossed within range of the gathered Imperial Navy and Astartes starships. Onboard every Imperial vessel, klaxons blared loudly, a fitting prelude to the conflict about to unfold before them.
Aboard the starship Fury: Command bridge
The bridge was bustling with activity, from the frantic footsteps of couriers running from station to station, to the loud buzzing of servitors and crewmen as they set about their various tasks to keep the massive battleship on its course.
"Sir, the first Ork vessels are within bombard range!" one of the stocky ensigns yelled, his voice barely carrying over the commotion that was taking place all along the bridge.
Admiral Constantine nodded, acknowledging this new development. According to the data streaming in from the consoles, the first wave of enemy cruisers was equal in size to what remained of the Imperial fleet. But unfortunately for him, that was not the real problem. The Orks' second wave was several times larger in numbers than the first, outnumbering them nearly four to one. It was obvious that the advance party was there to tie them down while the lumbering armada drew close enough to envelop the Imperials in a mass of Ork ships. While that tactic would have been a viable one on the ground, it was useless in space. All the aliens would accomplish would be to turn themselves into cannon fodder for the Imperial fleet.
Constantine stole a quick glance at the monitor beside him. Glowing runes and symbols raced along the side, outlining the holographic representation of the Corinth star system, while a mass of little green blips indicated the Imperial Navy with their Astartes counterparts. A second mass of red radar signatures revealed the position of the advancing enemy fleet. While the Imperial formations were well organized and strategically placed, the Orks were literally everywhere, numbering in the hundreds of vessels, from small frigates to giant battleships.
"Communications, set up a link to the Mars battlecruiser formations!" the admiral ordered, gesturing at a small line of green dots that flanked both sides of the allied fleet. "Once the cruisers fire their second volley, target any remaining Ork vessels with torpedoes. Bay control, I want all fighters and bombers launched within five minutes!"
The aged Admiral felt pride swell in him as he watched his crew work tirelessly, even in the face of imminent destruction. It was because of men and women like them that the Imperium was the dominant force in the galaxy. These people were the ones who worked to decide the fate of the battles he faced, and he was honoured to be the one who would lead them to victory.
Constantine stood from his ornate command throne and walked up to the communications tech-priest, Savios. "Patch me through to the rest of the fleet."
Savios did as he was instructed, tapping a few runes and muttering a blessing before he turned and nodded to the Admiral. "Go ahead, sir."
"Hear me, servants of the Imperium!" Constantine barked, his voice transmitted across hundreds of speakers throughout the fleet. "On this day, we face an enemy as relentless as time itself, an enemy that believes it has us outnumbered and outmatched!" He paused to let the words sink in. "But what they fail to realise is that we are guided by the Emperor himself! We are the proud defenders of humanity! We must not fail…no, we will not fail! In the name of the God-Emperor, we shall send these foul creatures back to the depths from whence they came!"
On board every vessel, a chorus of cheers echoed through the metal corridors and bays of the battleship, loud enough that if the Orks had been able to hear the noise across the gulf of space, chills of apprehension would have immediately shot down their spines.
Corinath: Imperial Guard staging point Alpha
Trooper Del sat on the old battered Chimera, stripping down his standard issue Mark-III lasrifle and examining each part individually. As with all the troopers of the Imperial Guard, regular equipment checks were a standard requirement for him.
Del was a well-muscled man with messy brown hair, typical of a Guardsman hailing from a heavy industrial planet. He wore the signature desert-yellow camo flak jacket of the 176th Descarian regiment, with a decorated shoulder insignia to match. Ever since he had left his homeworld, the jacket was the only thing to remind him of his birthplace.
Mere moments ago, Commissar Reg Dalon had announced that the regiment would move out in six hours' time. Most of the men were eager to finally get in the fight, having been waiting for what seemed like weeks while reports from the frontline flooded into the vox-nets. But Del knew better; this wasn't just some skirmish with a rabble of unorganised rebels and heretics. They were fighting not only greenskins, but also the forces of Chaos. In the very best of situations, this was going to be a slaughter.
But even so, there was no escaping the upcoming battle, and anyway, most soldiers preferred to go into the fight with hope rather than despair. Seeing this, the Lord General and Commissariat had immediately sent hundreds of priests to accompany the Imperial forces in a massive morale-raising campaign. Entire regiments were broken up into dozens of groups, each one joined by a servant of the Ecclesiarchy.
Del's mob of Guardsmen was fairly standard, consisting of five squads with about fifteen men and a sergeant in each one. The priest had made a moving speech about their holy work and had made sure to clearly warn each soldier about the risks of falling to the blasphemous forces of Chaos, and the terrible price of failure that traitors would pay.
Commissar Dalon stood several meters away, his back turned to Del. He was a tall and imposing man, bearing an ornate officer's cap and a black-furred coat across his broad shoulders. He always kept his ceremonial power sword at his side, protected by a leather sheath, while his bolt pistol hung from a holster on his left leg. The regiment's commander, Colonel Var, accompanied him, standing at his side and issuing orders through his personal voxcaster unit.
The colonel wasn't as tall as the commissar, but was well built, sporting a large scar across his right cheekbone in a diagonal line down to his chin. Unlike many of the other seasoned regimental officers, Var didn't have too many cybernetic implants, with the exception of the elbow of his right arm, which was now a bundle of wires and hydraulic pumps. The colonel was a gifted leader, having lead the 176th Descarian regiment through hell and back more than a dozen times. The men trusted him with their lives, and in the end, that was all that mattered.
After a few moments, Dalon nodded and moved off through the crowd of soldiers, apparently responding to some new incident that had arisen. The colonel, however, signalled for all squad sergeants to follow him.
"What's happening, Del?" Another trooper, a man named Selvon, grabbed his shoulder and shook him lightly. "Hey, you listening? Something big's going down on the front, and from the looks of it, Dolohov's mustering the squad for deployment."
Del turned and looked at his fellow trooper. Selvon had lost his left leg in a duel with a Ork Nob, and it had to be replaced with bionics. Now, every time he walked around, the Guardsmen could hear the distinctive buzz of his artificial leg.
"What do you mean?" asked Del. "I thought we weren't scheduled to move out until later today."
"Didn't you hear me? Something just happened inside the hive. The psykers have been acting all strange lately. I don't know what's going on, but what I do know is that we're moving out, and…"
He was interrupted in mid-sentence when Sergeant Dolohov walked up to them with half the squad in tow, a chainsword slung over his shoulder.
"Ok you two, clean out your ears and listen up. The High Command, in all their wisdom, have decided that now is the best time to strike the city. Get your kits ready; inspection in three hours. All troopers, dismissed!"
Corinath Upper Levels
Revan took his time to regain his footing, gripping onto the nearby table for support. He felt like he had been genuinely asleep, admitting that it had been a long time since he had received a good night's rest. As an Astartes, he was subjected to endless drills and prayers on a normal basis, and there was little time to doze off when a battle raging on around him.
Once he'd steadied himself, Revan carefully examined his surroundings. The room was small and cramped, with a table shoved roughly against the far wall that had been stacked with mounds of what looked like many different types of cutting tools. The Space Marine gently picked up one of these devices, taking care not to crush it in his ceramite gauntlet. The tool looked like it had just been manufactured minutes ago, bearing not a single scratch or rust stain on its silver blade.
Another glance around the room revealed that the walls bore several racks on which more newly made saws and cutters lay. This must be a storage shed for metalworkers, Revan thought to himself. It had most likely been long abandoned when the Ork Waaagh! had struck Corinath.
He immediately spotted the familiar forms of his bolter and helmet, the only two pieces of wargear left from his original armour, leaning on the far wall. The bolter, hallowed weapon of the Adeptus Astartes, wasn't just an ordinary gun; in the hands of a Space Marine, it was a tool of divine wrath, a symbol of humanity's power and an extension of the God Emperor's will.
Revan let the small tool fall from his fingers as he picked up the fallen bolter. At first glance the gun wasn't perfect, it was chipped in many places, covered with dents and scratches that gave away the weapon's many encounters in close combat. There was no doubt that the weapon had seen centuries of duty in the hands of various other Marines.
Shouldering his boltgun, Revan noticed that the scope wasn't aligned properly. Battle damage must have shifted it out of place while he had been sleeping. Lowering his weapon, he carefully began to tinker and adjust his targeter, muttering a hymn to the machine spirit of the weapon while doing so.
He checked the sights once more after he finished with the needed adjustments. Revan scanned the room with his bolter several times, clicking the trigger twice to make sure that the inner machinery was working properly. Satisfied, he slid a fresh clip into the breech of his bolter and carefully placed it back onto the table, exchanging it for his helmet.
He took his time to examine the piece of ceramite thoroughly, juggling the helmet between his hands. He remembered the first time he had been allowed to wear the very same helmet, some two decades earlier. But as the years went by, his original set of power armour gradually dwindled until it was reduced to only two pieces; his right wrist guard and the helmet.
The rest of the armour had suffered severe damage during the Siege of Pylogras, a disastrous campaign for the Imperial forces deployed there. It was the first time Revan had ever fought in a tactical squad, and the first time he had fought against the treacherous forces of Chaos, namely the Alpha Legion. It was in the shadowy depths of the underhive that Revan and his battle-brothers had stumbled upon an enclave of Chaos cultists.
The young Astartes nearly met his end in the bloodbath that followed after the cultists had summoned hundreds of daemons to battle the handful of Ultramarines who were slaughtering them by the dozens. The army of Warp spawn soon flooded the underhive, even as the Space Marines cut down daemon after daemon with bolter fire and blows from their chainswords. But even the seasoned warriors of the Adeptus Astartes were not enough to stem the tide, and within moments the battle had transformed into a chaotic melee of spraying blood and flashing metal.
The Emperor's finest were hard-pressed to push back the horrific monstrosities that the Warp spat forth at them. Some fell, slain by crude warp blades or by the razor sharp claws of the enemy. Still more Marines were torn limb from limb by the larger creatures, their reinforced ceramite armour useless against the crushing grip of the ravenous daemons.
In the end, only Revan, Sergeant Octavius, Brothers Thalion, Arterus, Meron and Cobal were left standing. But the worst was yet to come, and with much of the daemon horde decimated in the battle, the cultists unveiled a final surprise for the Imperials.
A giant daemon of Khorne answered their wretched calls for aid. The monster chose to possess the body of a heretic psyker, using his body as a medium for its unearthly being. The Space Marines could only look on helplessly as the daemon transformed the flesh of the psyker to suit its needs.
When the mutations were complete, a fully formed Bloodthirster stood roaring its fury at them, determined to spill the blood of all in the name of the Blood God, no matter whether they served the Emperor or the gods of Chaos. Any cultists who foolishly strayed too close to their daemon ally were brutally ripped to shreds in the monster's fit of inhuman rage.
The Astartes response was swift and devastating. Wave after wave of bolter shells rained down on the daemon, peppering its leathery hide with small explosions. Unfortunately, the attack did little more than anger the giant beast further.
Brother Cobal was the first to feel the wrath of the greater daemon, carved in half along his waist by the sharp blade of the Bloodthirster's axe. However his sacrifice was not in vain, for with his last breath, he had managed to heave a melta bomb toward the right shoulder of the monster. The ensuing blast ended Brother Cobal's suffering, but also took the daemon's right arm and a part of its ribcage along with it.
The remaining Space Marines regrouped and prepared to exploit the weakness given to them by Cobal. But to the dismay of the four Astartes, the Bloodthirster recovered far quicker than expected.
Bellowing in pain, the daemon lashed out and caught Thalion in its talons, attempting to squeeze him to death. Brother Arterus charged forward to save his battle-brother, but the wounded beast simply tossed Thalion straight at the other Marine, knocking them unconscious and shattering both of Arterus's legs.
The daemon used its remaining hand to gather a massive amount of corrupt warp energy, with which to finish off the two downed Space Marines. Revan ran to protect his brothers from the blast, even if it cost him his life, but before it could finish conjuring the energy, Sergeant Octavius had flung himself upon the Bloodthirster, swinging his power sword and slicing its right leg to the bone.
Though the ensuing blast of Warp energy barely missed killing all three Marines at once, the explosion was still enough to fracture Revan's power armour, turning much of it to smouldering ash. Thankfully, it wasn't powerful enough to damage his body.
Sergeant Octavius proceeded to leap onto the Greater Daemon's back, raised his power sword, and plunged it deep into the daemon's skull. By the time the beast's foul corpse had hit the ground, Revan was already in the blissful embrace of unconsciousness.
Loud explosions snapped Revan back to reality. He recognised the sound as the same pattern as a standard Imperial siege bombardment, this phase was merely to soften the target before the main sledgehammer force struck.
I should move on before I am discovered here, Revan thought to himself, checking to make sure he was still carrying his chainsword and bolter. As he was about to leave, he suddenly realised that Thalion had somehow disappeared.
Perhaps he has located the rest of our squad. If not, then…The young Marine pushed the thought out of his mind as he stepped out of the work shed and into the harsh streets of Corinath.
In the forests north of Corinath
Farseer Keleeth peered out at the distant Imperial capital, and the battles which were taking place within it. Giant plumes of black smoke rose out of the vast city, highlighted by threadlike beams of light from the heavens that tore through the buildings as if they were made of cardboard.
"Foolish humans," Warlock Pheal remarked, his voice cold with contempt. "It is a wonder that they have survived for so long on their own."
"The humans are useful in their own way," Keleeth replied. "Their stubbornness attracts the attention of our enemies, thus, our task is to exploit the weaknesses that present themselves." She turned to her ally, her voice suddenly stern in tone. "It would not go well for us if they were to be simply exterminated."
Pheal nodded in agreement. He was not one to argue with a Farseer of Keleeth's reputation.
"I trust the preparations are going as planned?" the female Eldar inquired, changing the subject.
"The Webway Assembly is nearing completion," answered the Warlock. "The Bonesingers report that they will be able to set up a gate system on this world within a few days."
"Very well," Keleeth said, turning to face the base camp. Lacking a Webway gate, the aliens had chosen to approach the world in a much more conventional way. By sending a small shuttle escorted by a squadron of Nightwing fighters to find a suitable area for the creation of the base camp, they then began the arduous process of joining the planet to the thousands of others that formed the Eldar's galaxy spanning network.
"Something is bothering you, Warlock," Keleeth observed as they walked across the landing area, shadowed by the elegant structure of the half-built gate. Pheal glanced at the Farseer for a moment.
"Are my feelings so obvious that you may read them without effort?" the Eldar asked, shrugging his shoulders as he looked out at the ongoing construction efforts.
"Well?" Keleeth asked with a touch of impatience.
"Why must we aid the Mon'keigh here?" Pheal continued, "They have shown that they are more than capable of defending themselves against the Orks, even if their actions are influenced by ours. And this is hardly the first time that they have faced the taint of Chaos."
"The humans, as usual, have blundered into a major trap, orchestrated by none other than the Forces of Chaos," explained Keleeth. "If the Imperials are allowed to be destroyed, then the Ork population will quickly overflow and spill out into the neighbouring sectors. This will result in massive casualties for both humans and Eldar alike."
The Warlock followed his Farseer to a stone pedestal on which sat a rune-encrusted case. Keleeth carefully opened it, allowing Pheal to gaze upon the object inside.
"Besides," the Farseer added, "we must not forget our task of delivering this relic to its rightful owner…"
End Chapter EightFinally managed to get this next chapter out, hope u guys enjoy.
Special thanks to TheLoneHunter for editing.
R&R