C. Goto - Dawn of War

Meanwhile, the Thunderhawk was back in the sky, hovering over the battlefield and employing its lascannons to great effect in the confined space of the valley floor. Beneath it, the Terminators stood immovably against the tide of orks that rushed, dived, and charged at them, ploughing through their number with a combination of continuous bursts of heavy fire and simple, brute force from their power fists. In amongst the throng, standing back to back in their own pocket of resistance, Gabriel and Isador fought off the mob with incredible ferocity and skill. Gabriel’s bolt pistol had jammed, leaving him with only his chainsword and his combat knife to dispense the Emperor’s benevolence. And Isador was alight with divine grace, slicing and searing with his staff as though guided by the hand of the Emperor himself.

Gabriel felt more alive than he had felt in years. It was almost like dancing, as he parried a cleaver chop with one hand and spun his combat knife in the other, plunging it up to its hilt into the ear of the offending ork. The screams and inhuman shrieks of combat gradually faded out of his hearing, only to be replaced by a single searing note of unbelievable beauty. The voice multiplied into a choir, filling his soul with light and washing over the action around him, making it seem clumsy and slow in comparison. Gabriel ducked and swirled with unprecedented grace, slicing cleanly through limbs with his chainsword and pushing his short combat knife into all the soft, vulnerable places of ork anatomy.

The explosions of ordnance fire boomed in the background, and Gabriel was vaguely aware of it as his knife stuck in the neck of a greenskin. He kicked the beast clear of his blade before turning and throwing it into the snarling, open mouth of another. With only his chainsword left, he clasped it in both hands and swung it powerfully around in an arc, slicing through the guts of six orks as they tried to close him down from three sides. Behind him, Gabriel could feel the motion of Isador as the Librarian flared with power, dispatching orks three at a time with blasts from his staff or fingertips. The pair were gradually cutting a path further and further into the ork forces, moving away from the Terminators on their own.

Whispering voices quested for their ears as they fought onwards into the orks. Kill. Kill. Bleed them dry. It is your responsibility. We all look to you. Drench the soil with their blood. Kill. Kill. Suddenly the silvery voices of the heavenly choir were shattered again by the screams of tortured souls, and Gabriel shrieked with pain as Isador’s staff scraped across his chest before cracking into the ork that was about to plant its cleaver in his head.

As Gabriel walked through the forest, he could still hear pockets of fighting continuing amongst the trees. The bulk of the ork army had been broken, and most lay dead in the valley, with their pungent blood running red in the river. The thump of dreadnought footfalls and the rattles of their autocannons could still be heard as the last of the fleeing orks were mopped up by the Blood Ravens. Small groups of the greenskins were mustering for their last stands, desperate to make one more kill before they died.

Gabriel had been slightly concerned that they had not found any orks large enough to be the warboss of such a significant force, but he had other things to attend to and he let a squad of scouts disappear into the forest to hunt down the ork leader. He had also noticed that a number of the larger orks appeared to have Imperial weaponry, including the boltguns such as Space Marines used. It was not uncommon for a few of these scavenger creatures to have weapons from other races, but the numbers here were noticeably larger than he expected. He was increasingly suspicious that there was more to this ork invasion than a typical greenskin jaunt.

“Captain Angelos,” said Sergeant Corallis, hastening from a clearing in the trees ahead. Corallis’ face was crestfallen and he was obviously distraught. As he approached, Gabriel noticed that he was carrying something roughly hemispherical in his hands.

“It’s Kuros,” breathed the sergeant, pushing the object towards his captain.

Gabriel reached out and took the shoulder plate, nodding in understanding. The underside of the armoured panel was covered in a thick layer of carbon, as though it had been used as a bowl in which to overcook some meat. “What happened to this?” asked Gabriel, handing the shoulder guard over to Isador but addressing his question to Corallis.

“It was still attached to his body, captain,” explained Corallis, tremulous with anger and disgust. “He is burnt beyond recovery of his gene-seed. Something seems to have reached into his soul and burnt him from the inside out.”

“What about the others?” asked Isador.

Gabriel placed his hand on Corallis’ shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Brother Corallis.”

“They were my squad, captain. I should have been with them.” Corallis punched his right fist against his left shoulder, where his left arm should have been. “This is a pathetic excuse.”

“Corallis, this is not your fault. Sergeant Mikaelus was leading the squad. He is a fine Marine and a devoted servant of the Emperor. You could not have left your squad in better hands,” said Gabriel.

“Mikaelus is also dead, captain, along with the rest of the squad. Their bodies are up there in the clearing.” Corallis would not be consoled.

“Are they all burnt like this?” asked Isador with concerned tone.

“No, Librarian Akios. Only Kuros is like this. Mikaelus is worse. Most of the others died like warriors, and we will be able to recover their gene-seed,” answered Corallis, turning to lead them back to the clearing.

The little glade was a scene of carnage. The bodies of the scout squad were strewn over the rocks and grass, lying in ruined poses, in pools of blood that matched the deep reds of their armour. The trees around the edge of the clearing were battered and shredded with bolter holes, and patches of the ground were scorched into dry browns.

Mikaelus was lying on his back across a large rock in the centre of the glade. His face was contorted with pain and his skin was blistered, as though burnt on the inside. Protruding from his chest was the handle of his own combat knife, and the earth around the rock was sodden with blood, as though he had been slowly drained of his life.

“He was still alive when we found him, captain. But his mind had gone. His soul had already left this realm, and he was rambling like a conduit to hell itself,” said Corallis numbly.

Scratched into Mikaelus’ armour was a crude mark. It looked like it had been carved with the tip of a dagger, or gnawed with a claw. In a vulgar way, it resembled an eight-pointed star.

“This is not the work of orks, Gabriel,” said Isador, giving voice to the feelings of everyone. “This is a mark of the ruinous powers. It is a mark of Chaos.”

“He is right, captain,” added Corallis. “The others were killed by bolter fire, not by slugs or cleavers. Boltguns are the weapons of Marines, not aliens.”

“Perhaps, Corallis,” said Gabriel.

“And the burns, Gabriel. They are warp burns, of the kind unleashed by sorcerers of Chaos. This looks like the work of a squad of traitor Marines,” concluded Isador reluctantly.

“The documents you found about Tartarus, Isador, did they say anything about what happened to it during the Black Crusades? Is there any history of Champions of Chaos bringing war to this planet?” asked Gabriel, still unwilling to make the logical leap.

“The great book does not mention these things, Gabriel, but I suspect that the tome is incomplete. I have a number of curators investigating the archives already,” replied Isador.