C. Goto - Dawn of War

There was a flurry of activity on the command deck as servitors rushed to make the necessary arrangements and to notify the assault squads that they should start their purification rites and prepare their armour for battle.

“Inform Chaplain Prathios that he will join the party,” said Gabriel as he finally turned away from the viewer to oversee the bustling bridge.

Librarian Isador looked up from the pulpit at his captain’s last order, and raised a single eyebrow. The old Chaplain had been a fearsome warrior in his time, but he was now the oldest serving Marine in the Third Company, and he would be the first to admit that he was past his best, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud.

“Is everything well?” asked Isador with genuine concern, closing the great book on the stand in front of him and walking back to the view-screen.

“I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right about this,” said Gabriel, conscious that his words sounded rather too much like those of a Librarian. In the darkest recesses of his mind, he could still hear the silvery tones of a psychic choir singing to him. These were not sounds that a Space Marine captain was used to hearing, and certainly not something that he could discuss with a sanctioned psyker like Isador.

“No matter. The Emperor will guide our hands,” he said, rallying a smile for his old friend.

“Yes, indeed, Gabriel. The Emperor will guide us.” Isador held Gabriel’s hesitant eyes for a moment, watching them for shadows.

“And what of Tartarus, Isador?” asked Gabriel, changing the subject with a characteristic inquiry.

Isador did not look away. “For the most part, it seems an unremarkable planet, captain. It was settled in the thirty-eighth millennia by a colonising mission, who subsequently established it as an agricultural centre. More recently it has seen some affluence as a trading centre, and the population has grown. The Tartarus Planetary Defence Force has stood guardian over the planet since its foundation-successfully seeing off various incursions by the orks. Most of the Tartarans’ activity, however, has been the suppression of civil wars and uprisings, of which there have been many. Some minor Khornate cults have been recorded amongst the population at various times, but they have been efficiently suppressed. Considering the relatively small size of the population on Tartarus, a great deal of blood has been shed here over the centuries.”

“That will make the soil fertile,” said Gabriel with a faint smile.

“So it seems, captain. There is one strange thing in the historical record, however: there are a number of references to events on the planet before the thirty-eighth millennia.” Isador loaded his observation with a significance that was lost on Gabriel.

“And why is this strange?”

“Because, captain, the planet was not officially colonised until 102. M39, and the records show that the planet was completely uninhabited at the time of colonisation. There should not have been any humans on this planet in the thirty-eighth millennia, and certainly none recording an official Imperial history.” Isador furrowed his brow and stared out of the view-screen at the burning planet. “As you know, it is most vexing when Imperial records are incomplete or ambiguous.”

The two Blood Ravens shared a moment of thoughtful silence as they reflected on the history of their own proud Chapter. “Yes,” said Gabriel eventually, “most vexing.”

Planet Tartarus: Magna Bonum Spaceport

The rockets punched into the side of the Leman Russ, rolling the tank onto its side with the force of the impacts. The turret of the battle cannon swung round under gravity, smashing into the ground and rupturing instantly. Meanwhile, the hull-mounted lascannon spat impotently into the air, as though sending up flares. Colonel Brom could see the hatch flip open, and a tumble of tank-crew spill out onto the rockcrete. They were on their feet and running before another hail of rockets punctured the exposed underbelly of the tank. The explosion was massive as the rockets detonated in the fuel reserves and triggered the remaining cannon shells. A mushroom cloud plumed into the air as a fiery rain of shattered tank hailed down into the line of Imperial infantry that had been sheltering in its shadow. The fleeing tank crew were blown off their feet, skidding along the hard-deck on their faces.

The orks raised a loud, incoherent cheer, brandishing their weapons in the air and then charging forwards towards the breach. There were hundreds of them. Huge, hulking masses of green muscle bearing down on the Tartaran infantry, their massive axes and cleavers glinting viciously, already wet with Imperial blood. The weight of their charge made the deck rumble and roll, and their cacophonous war cries filled the air with aural terror.

The Tartaran infantry hastened to form a defensive line, troops from the rear rushing to fill the gap left by the ruined tank. From his vantage point behind the lines, Brom could see the fear plastered all over their faces, but they opened fire just as the colonel thought that they might turn and run. Streaks of las-fire lashed across the closing gap between them and the rampage of orks. Volleys of fire from heavy stubbers and plasma guns strafed through the advancing pack of greenskins. Even as one or two of the slugga boyz and gretchin collapsed to the ground, the thundering gaggle of teeth and muscles stormed over their prone bodies, trampling them into pulped death.

A barrage of grenades hissed out of the Tartaran line, arcing in tight parabolas before plunging into the throng of orks. Pockets of explosions ripped through the crowd of wailing greenskins, shredding them in clusters, sending sprays of ichor and green flesh raining down over their brethren. But the charge continued unbroken.

At the head of the charge was a knot of massive creatures, each covered in crudely riveted plates of armour. They brandished evil-looking power claws in one hand and clunky guns in the other. Attached to the back of one of them was a towering bosspole, crested with three impaled, severed heads. Even from this distance, Brom could recognise one of the heads as Sergeant Waine, and he flinched involuntarily at the barbarism of these creatures. The other two heads seemed barely human at all.

Erratic splutterings of gun-fire spat out from the charging orks, smashing into the Tartaran line with crude power, lifting Guardsmen off their feet as shells punched into them. Stikkbombz flipped and spiralled through the air, detonating into blasts of shrapnel as they hit the infantry formation. Guardsmen fell in dozens, clutching at puncture wounds and lacerations. And all the time the charge was getting closer, full of the promise of gleaming choppas and ravenous teeth.

The Tartaran line was beginning to crack, and Brom could see the terror induced hesitation from his gunners. They were beginning to freeze. The colonel drew his sword from its scabbard and flourished it in the air, pulling his pistol from its holster with his other hand, and charged towards his men.

“For Tartarus and the Emperor!” he yelled, barely audible over the screeches and cries of the incoming orks. A few of the Tartarans turned to see what the noise was, and a faint cheer came from the line as they saw their colonel plunging into the fray with them. But most of the men were staring fixedly forward, watching the orks steamroller their way through the barricades around the edge of the spaceport’s decks.

A couple of the orks in the front of the charge pumped their burnas experimentally, checking the range. Plumes of flame jetted towards the Imperial line, engulfing clutches of men, who fell screaming to the ground, thrashing in the fire. The orks screamed out in delight as they realised that they were now close enough for some serious fun. Burnas erupted throughout the charging rabble, dousing other orks and Imperial Guardsmen indiscriminately. Some of the shoota boyz cast their guns to the ground as they cleared the last few metres that separated them from the Tartarans, preferring to grasp their massive axes in both hands for the melee.