Guardsman Rulf Noth took a long drag on the lho-stick before handing it over to his comrade. Emperor knows what gender they were, everyone in the trench's surrounding the last city on Dysthymia IV was so covered in mud and grime it was impossible to tell. He was stood on the firestep watching the forces moving towards their position through the morning mist with his magnoculars. Soon they would enter the range of the city's artillery and the bombardment would start up again. For each day of this that happened they burned inexorably through their ammunition and Rulf had heard rumours that today they would finally run out. Then they would have to fight these bastards up close and personal.
It had begun a week ago. A battleship had translated out of the warp almost within their upper atmosphere, the resulting chaos that had ensued from the immaterial shock wave had been devastating. Dysthymia IV had lost all of it's orbital defenses. Madness and possession seemed to spread like a virulent plague throughout the entire planet. Orbital bombardments had then driven any still alive and of their right mind here to the captial.
To many they must have seemed like animals penned in for the slaughter.
Now those that had fallen to whatever ruinous powers had launched this assault were closing in, driven before some unseen force. Rulf accepted the lho-stick again as it came back around. Bored, he took another pull. He'd fought in regiments against mad cultists and heretics before, this was nothing new. That wasn't what had stripped any trepidation from the coming fight though. They had the Emperor's own angels on their side. Not just any space marines either, the Turrae Fifth had been supporting a regiment of the Imperial Fists in ridding the planet of Xenos infestation before this assualt. No slavering mass of cultists would even put a dent in the defences of the masters of siegecraft, especially given the city's high walls. Quite simply the attack would go no further, they would break over and over on their bulwark. Once their orbital weapons were back online this would all be over. Rulf lowered his magnoculars to look over to where the nearest squad of the saffron plated Fists were manning a Firestrike turret emplacement. They too seemed completely unperturbed as they maintained their weapon and checked on the fortifications.
"Sarge... There's things moving through the bastards out there. They're big whatever they are," stated the anonymous mud caked soldier next to him.
Rulf didn't need his optics to see that indeed there were large shapes moving through the encroaching masses. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the bombardment hadn't started up today either. Perhaps there might be some excitement today. He raised his magnoculars once more to take a clearer look.
Rulf felt his blood run cold in his veins.
The shapes resolved themselves into awful clarity. It was as though twisted variants of the venerable Fists were striding through the gloom towards them. Even at this distance Rulf could feel a migraine brewing behind his eyes whenever he tried to look at them. Their armour was the pink of oxygenated blood and it bristled with heretical technologies. Now he knew what had coordinated the assault he wished for his previous ignorance once more.
Traitor Astartes.
Chaos marines.
A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his shocked catatonia. The face of his commissar was screaming mere inches from his own. Rulf's magnoculars dropped from numb fingers as he reached for his lasrifle. The Firestrike emplacement had already begun firing, it spewed its heavy rounds over the muddy ground at a target moving at speed towards them.
"Holy Terra..." he breathed in shock.
As their target drew closer it somehow grew even harder to believe what he was seeing. A single chaos marine was charging their lines, an axe larger than Rulf raised aloft. He drove before him a horde of cultists, the mass of their unwavering bodies soaked up the las fire aimed at the marine. The heavier rounds detonated against shimmering air mere meters from the charging giant. Tentacle covered forms wielding terrible staffs moved after him, cackling with each shell they prevented from reaching its mark. It was such a spectacle that all eyes and weapons were drawn to it.
Which was exactly what the enemy wanted.
The screams of the defenders on the walls behind them could be heard even from this distance. Rulf span around, craning his neck up to see what was happening. The commissar raised a hand to strike Rulf for not firing but froze when he saw the sight too. The fortifications at the top of the wall were lost to a sea of promethuim fueled flame. It spewed from the maws of huge crab like monstrosities of metal and warped flesh whose piston like legs had left craters in the wall as they had scaled it. Dread filled Rulf's heart, as heretical a thought as it was there was no way the Fist's could save them now. The very earth beneath his feet shook as the giant marine's charge brought him in range of his target. With abject horror Rulf watched as the giant leapt from several strides out, his axe raised high. It came down again as it cleaved straight through the Firestrike turret with ease. Moving quicker than Rulf could follow one of the giant's fist collided with the gunner's helmet in a sickening crunch of ceramite. His other had wrenched the axe free and with an arcing swing had embedded it in the chest of another Imperial Fist. For a moment Rulf's heart soared in hope as the last two Fists drew chainswords to engage their foe. Such hope has no place on the battlefield though. The giant simply took the first chainsword on his gold and black pauldron, sparks flew as he kicked out at his other foe. The Fist flew through the air and impacted against the city wall where he lay unmoving in his own personal crater. With a growl even Rulf could hear the traitor Astartes threw his shoulder forwards, knocking his attacker off balance. His foe staggered, he grabbed the haft of his axe in two hands and swung in an upwards arc.
The two halves of the space marine crashed into the dirt with a wet clatter.
Hands shaking Rulf took aim at the hulking form. If he was going to die here then he would die for the glory of the Emperor, not as a coward who had never fired a shot. Rulf pulled the trigger.
Belltor pulled his axe free from the decimated corpse of the Imperial guardsman at his feet. Usually such foes were beneath a Master of Executions but the insect had the gall to fire at him, an insult he would not let go unpunished. The rest of the man's squad hadn't even managed to shoot before he had killed them with his bare hands. He moved towards the now shattered city gates, building up momentum with each heavy stride. The horrifying bladed forms of the war band's daemon engines scuttled through the maw of bent and warped metal. They trampled the bloodlusted cultists of the front line with no hesitation, bladed legs and gaping maws made mincemeat of any that got in their way. Belltor was too eager for combat to wait for the lethal tide to ebb, he piledrived his way through. Crushing ally and enemy alike as he went. His fellow marines would wisely hold back until their front lines had soaked up the brunt of the enemies' retaliation. For the Master of Executions though, butchering a shrine world guarded by their hated enemy was too much glory to wait on.
The gate tunnel opened out into a courtyard that had once been ornately decorated. Now though the Imperial Fist's had converted it into a killing ground. Rockcrete rubble and metal debris was piled high to provide cover for the defenders, heavy stubber fire crisscrossed the open space ripping the warband's front line cannon fodder to pieces. The few places that a daemon engine had mounted a barricade the Fists swiftly dispatched them. Belltor bellowed in rage. He craved the perfect fight to offer as a gift to Slaanesh but these pathetic fools were hopeless. Ahead of him was the largest of the barricades, with thundering footfalls he charged it. The roar that emerged from his throat was loud enough to be heard over the gunfire. Solid rounds impacted his armour but he did not slow. He was the perfect warrior and he would
never
falter.
For a mere mortal the barricade would have been insurmountable under heavy fire. For Belltor it simply served as a minor delay. His boots pulverised rock as he bounded between boulders to reach the summit. Without breaking his stride he vaulted over it, bringing the heel of his axe down through the skull of a guardsman as he went. The heavy stubber the man had been operating was hurled through the air to scatter another squad down below. In a two handed overhead motion Belltor sent his axe hurling through the air, taking one of the Fists that had turned to fight him with it. His powerful fingers sunk into a hunk of rock next to him and it too flew through the air, throwing off the aim of the rest of the marines. Within a heartbeat he was amongst them, axe in hand once more. There was no room for poetry here. Each movement was short, sharp and utterly brutal. He tore off limbs. Hacked heads from shoulders. Eviscerated those who were too slow to get away from his wide swings.
Even when the enemy withdrew from his deadly reach, forming a firing line, bolters aimed square at him he did not falter. To always press forwards was their way and so he did. Mass-reactive rounds tore chunks from his armour and the ground as he charged them. It would have been a glorious end if not for the appearance of his comrades-in-arms. Return fire drove the enemy to cover and allowed Belltor his to sate his butchery up close.
"Cowards, it took you long enough to catch up," he grunted over the vox at the marines that entered the courtyard.
As always they ignored him. Unwavering discipline was the pinnacle of perfection for many of the others in the warband. They moved in perfect sync mowing down any living defenders. Now that their shock troops had ripped through the enemy lines, the chaos marines could move through the crippled remains and finish them off with minimal casualties. Although Belltor saw it as cowardice there was no denying the effectiveness of the Lord Discordant's strategy. The enemy was broken and the world was theirs.
"THIS IS WHY YOU TOOK SO LONG?" Belltor thundered at the legionaries as he watched them shepard dishelved, untainted, mortals onto a waiting thunderhawk.
The legionary had removed his helm and appeared completely unmoved by Belltor's outburst, his face was a mask of passivity.
"Lord Discordant's orders, to capture the slaves from the shrine world," he gave a shrug, "he knew you'd keep them occupied long enough to let us do our work."
