A Clash of Interests [Warhammer 40,000]

The Berserker fell to its knees, a steaming crater in its breast plate from which poured a sheet of blood, hardly recognizable against the Traitor Marines bright red armour. Gedriel lowered his bolter, a trail of smoke twisting from its barrel as the World Eater fell face forwards into the deck. The Ultramarine looked forlornly down the corridor, where a bloody display of gore from a dozen slaughtered ship hands announced the path of the Khorne Berserker. Although they were not his Battle Brothers, the men and women who crewed this ship were the proud people of Ultramar and it was Gedriel's sworn duty to protect them, as much as it was to protect the entirety of the Imperium's civilians.

'World Eater located and dispatched. Starboard crew dormitories.' Gedriel was silent for a moment as he awaited his Sergeant's reply over the internal vox-channel of their helmets and he took the time to contemplate on their current situation. A week ago Ultramar had been informed that a warband was rampaging through a nearby system. Normally such an incursion would take months to be responded to, the reports having to first filter down through the long and complicated procedures of the Imperium's clogged bureaucracy. However the Planetary Governor's had seen fit to send their reports and cries for help to the nearby system of Ultramar, almost an Empire on its own, and the Ultramarines had responded with swift judgement.

Captain Sicarius of the 2nd had eagerly volunteered his Company for the relief force and so it was. The Valin's Revenge, primary Strike Cruiser of the 2nd Company had been prepared with all haste and had made good time through the warp. The Ultramarines found a trail of ravaged worlds on their arrival, the mass slaughter and pillaging entirely reminiscent of the blood thirsty World Eaters. They had taken pursuit across the system until they had at last found the foe's vessel, already preparing to lay waste to another Imperial World for their wretched God, Khorne.

With delight had the Traitors turned their guns on the Valin's Revenge, but only to give themselves time to close with the Ultramarine vessel so that they could launch their boarding parties and fight a battle they were more familiar with. A barrage of torpedoes and lance fire had raked the World Eater ship, but it had not been enough to stop them from closing the gulf and hurling their warriors head first into battle. Cato Sicarius had anticipated such a reckless move though and had already spread his squads across the Strike Cruiser, ready and waiting to cut down the World Eater's as they leapt from their DreadClaws.

Gedriel's squad had been hunkered down at such a location when the boarding vessel had smashed through the hull to spew its crazed warriors into the Valin's Revenge. The maddened World Eater's had been met with perfectly overlapping fields of bolter fire as they charged from the DreadClaw, losing several of their men in the opening stages. Yet, from the darkened bowls of the DreadClaw had emerged a beast of a warrior, even by Astartes standards. The Berserker had smashed through the Ultramarine blockade and allowed his warriors to disperse into the corridors to wreak havoc on all they encountered.

In an act of incredible courage, Gedriel's Sergeant had drawn his Chainsword and engaged the hulking World Eater in combat. The battle had been intensely fierce, the Berserker dealing out blows of pure brute force with astonishing speed that would shatter a lesser man. Yet in the end the traitor's fury had been his undoing, the Ultramarine Sergeant displaying a commendable feat of cool-headedness and methodical calculation while fending off the furious attacks to slay the traitor, using the World Eater's savage swings to knock him off balance before soundly beheading him.

Then, after a brief moment to catch his breath, the Sergeant had split his squad up and sent them after the World Eater's who had escaped. Gedriel looked down at his most recent kill. This one had rampaged through the ships corridors, the crew men helpless to stop him. Gedriel had come across the path of butchery and had used his greater knowledge of the Valin's Revenge to outflank the Khorne Berserker. Knowing that there was no way he could stand up to a Berserker in a melee, Gedriel had slapped a clip of Kraken Pattern Penetrator Rounds into his bolter and stepped out into the corridor in front of the approaching World Eater. Calmly taking aim as many years of training had taught him to do, Gedriel had blasted a hole through the foe's chest.

'Good,' came the terse reply of his Sergeant over the vox. 'Ship wide survey's confirm that was the last of them. Regroup on me by the starboard hangar decks.'

Burying his confusion at such a strange rendezvous point, Gedriel set off down the blood spattered hallway, making for the hangar decks. Were they going to launch a counter-offensive and send their own boarding parties at the World Eater ship? Such a reckless tactic seemed unlikely of Captain Sicarius, but that knowledge only served to fuel Gedriel's curiosity.

Making quick time to the Hangar, the Ultramarine Battle Brother stepped through a wide door onto the gantry that overlooked the cavernous space. It was hard to believe they were in something as apparently confined as a space craft when such vast expanses existed. Thunderhawks and Starfighter's lined the deck below, attended to by a hundred muscled servitors and Chapter serfs. The huge hangar doors had been opened, and the vastness of space, like an ocean of star speckled velvet, spread out before Gedriel. It might have disturbed a lesser man to know that the only thing keeping them from being snatched out into the void was a thin integrity field, but Gedriel was far more concerned with the hulking mass of twisted metal that was the World Eater's ship. As they were wont to do, the traitors had adorned their vessel with all manner of heretical symbols and jagged spike and the once proud vessel was now warped into something perverse.

Below, Gedriel's Sergeant waved him down with his Chainsword to where the rest of his squad were clustered about ten Cobra Class Starfighters. They had been painted in the proud colours of the Ultramarines and with a sudden bout of clarity that banished the confusion, Gedriel knew their mission. As Astartes they were trained in all manners of warfare to be the Imperium's best, everything from close combat to piloting a Starfighter.

'Gedriel, Captain Sicarius is eager to end this battle, but he cannot do so if these traitorous madmen run amok in our ship,' said the Sergeant as he approached. 'The World Eaters' are surely preparing another wave and we have been tasked with intercepting their boarding craft.'

Splaying his palms against his chest in the Aquila salute, Gedriel marched over to where his Brothers were preparing for the launch. One Starfighter had been left without attention and he approached it, knowing it to be his. They were magnificent craft, the Cobra Class Starfighters, their form lithe yet deadly, like the very incarnation of the Imperial Aquila itself.

'Good work taking down that cur, Ged.' The use of his nickname gave him a moment's pause, the voice too distorted by the helmet grill through which it was spoken to be identified. Gedriel turned to the Ultramarine standing behind him, hunched with apparent fatigue. His armour was battered, sporting jagged rents in places, some of which had dried blood plastered around the edges and the damage it had sustained made it appear ill-fitting for the Marine.

'It seems you fared with less ease, Brother,' he said, still unsure of who this Ultramarine was. He was certainly part of their squad for he bore the designated shoulder markings, but Gedriel could identify all of his comrades through small foibles of their armour, whether it be the placement of an Oath scroll, specific markings or small trophies. This Space Marine had no such identification and Gedriel could not shake the feeling that he had never met this Marine before. He knew that was impossible, since he was bonded with all of his Squad mates with a brotherhood rivalled only by that which he shared with the Chapter. Perhaps whatever trait that Gedriel used to recognize this Brother while clad in full battle plate had been lost in his obvious struggle with the World Eaters?

Following his gaze, the unknown Ultramarine looked down at his armour. 'Yes. It was a hard battle. That the World Eaters have no skill with a weapon doesn't mean one isn't deadly in their hands.'

Gedriel chuckled awkwardly, ashamed at not knowing who this Battle Brother was but unable to bring himself to ask. He was saved further unease at the bark of his Sergeant, ordering them into their Starfighters.

'I'll see you out there then,' said the battered Astartes, nodding with an air of knowing before turning sharply to attend to his craft.

Beneath his helmet, Gedriel frowned deeply. Had the battle with the World Eater's shaken him so? He deeply hoped so, for he could not bring himself to accept that he knew his brothers so superficially as to not recognize them without the quirks of their armour. Racked with frustration, Gedriel climbed the ladder to his Starfighter and slipped into the cockpit, pulling down the harness as Servitors approached to ready the craft for launch. They worked with mechanical efficiency and a moment later the countdown filled his vox channel as the reinforced canopy lowered around him.

'Alright Marines,' spoke the austere voice of the Sergeant as the countdown commenced. 'I want perfect formation and firing solutions. We go down their broadside and destroy those boarding vessels before they even get the chance to fully launch. Courage and Honour!'

'Courage and Honour!' echoed Gedriel through the vox with the rest of his Brothers.

The roar of ten engines firing up filled the hangar and vanished in a second as the Starfighter's soared from it, passing through the integrity field as though it were nought but water. The vastness of space surrounded Gedriel as he fell into the 'V' shaped position with the rest of the squad. Behind him the glorious form of the Valin's Revenge poured fire into the vessel before him, nothing more than a shadow of Ultramarine ship. As they approached anti-fighter fire spattered towards them, but their pattern of flight and evasion was perfect in accordance with the Codex Astartes, and not a single Cobra Starfighter fell.

'There!' barked their Sergeant, his voice grainy in the vox, 'They launch already!'

Gedriel followed the bright streaks of ammunition that hammered from his Sergeant's fighter and noticed that more DreadClaws were indeed punching from the World Eater battle ship. Squeezing down on the trigger, Gedriel lent his fire to the storm being unleashed by his brothers and the boarding pod came apart, flinging armour clad figure into space. Those foolish enough to have removed their helmets died instantly and those who had not lived scarce seconds more, ripped to gory shreds by the Ultramarine fighter squad as they swept passed to engage more targets. Normally drop pods were impossible to target and destroy in their descent, but in space, without the forces of gravity, it was a different matter entirely.

A second DreadClaw was destroyed, swiftly followed by a third and it became evident that the World Eater's would not step foot on the Valin's Revenge again, as far as this engagement was concerned at least. It was then that Gedriel realised something wasn't right. The Fighter parallel to him was breaking off course and drifting towards him. At first he thought it had been hit, but as he glanced through the shield screen he noticed that the approaching Starfighter was without a single scratch.

'Starfighter NXY-eighteen, you're breaking off course!' he said urgently as he read the designation on the side of the straying Fighter.

No reply came.

The Sergeant's voice filled the Vox, angrily ordering the Fighter back into position but still no answer came. Shocked at such blatant disobedience Gedriel stared hard at the Fighter, trying to determine whether a loose round had pierced the canopy and struck the Brother within dead. As his eyes, augmented by his super-human enhancements and once again by his helmet, roamed the cockpit, he noticed a Space Marine in battered armour look straight at him. Even with his helmet on, Gedriel could sense the Marines determination.

Too late did he try to break formation, the Fighter smashing into his flank and sending them both hurling towards the World Eater ship. Gedriel tried desperately to wrestle back control, but the two craft were locked together and there was nothing he could do. Glancing out of the shield screen, he watched as the wideness of the enemy ship spiralled closer and closer, until it filled his vision. Shots snapped past as Gedriel's brother's tried to free him from the deadlock, but it was of no use.

The world went black.

Warm winds blew golden sand through the shattered canopy, where they gathered about the prone, blue armoured figure of an Ultramarine. Where he had survived the crash, his Fighter had not. The once proud Cobra Starfighter lay fatally wounded at the end of a groove that was already fading in the advance of the ever shifting sands. One of its wings had sheared off, now a charred affair of twisted metal some metres behind the craft and the other was unnaturally bent. A collection of other parts, thrusters, fuselage plates and gun batteries, were sprawled along the groove, indicating the manner of its collision with this Emperor-forsaken world.

Within what remained of the cockpit, Gedriel stirred. His blurred vision was quickly restored with several blinks. Standard protocol kicked in to stave off the confusion of his situations and Gedriel did a damage report on his body. Sand had filtered in around him, burrying his legs from sight but other than that he appeared, miraculously, undamaged. Pulling himself from the ruins of his craft, Gedriel slumped on to the sand bank and rolled on to his back. A blue sky, lit by a golden sun filled his vision and Gedriel was awed by such a rare and beautiful sight. He had heard that once Terra had been blessed with blue skies, before the terrible pre-Unification wars had dried up its oceans and immolated its forests, turning its skies into black, mourning vistas.

He was half tempted to remove his helmet, but the sand-heavy winds persuaded him otherwise. Getting to his knees, Gedriel retrieved his Bolter and Gladius from the wrecked Cockpit and rose to his feet. The sand sifted beneath him, but he stood firm as he took in his surroundings. All around him, structures that resonated with an existence thousands of years old rose from the dunes. They were angular creations with smooth sloping edges, wrought from some kind of sandstone and heavily weathered by aeons of enduring the wind and sun. Nothing could be more different from the dark, Gothic structures that were typical of the Imperium's cities. On further inspection Gedriel noticed that he had landed amidst some kind of complex, multiple buildings cluttered around a central one from which rose a tall spire. It paled in comparison to some of the Hive spires he had witnessed, but must have been a striking tower in the age which it was built.

As he made his way into the cover of the closest structure, a thought occurred to Gedriel. Was this planet even occupied? Was is it even in the Imperium's fold? His first assumption was that he had crash landed on the planet they had rescued from a World Eater incursion, but as mission briefings returned to him he recalled that it had been a storm-racked planet of barren, rocky continents and horizon stretching oceans. This planet certainly didn't match that description. Where in the name of the Emperor was he and more importantly, how had he got here? He ventured into the shadows of the ancient building, hoping to find some hint as to his whereabouts so that he might rejoin his Brothers and the eternal fight.

The screaming of warning klaxons filled the corridors while the normally pale halls were painted an angry red by flashing lights. The ship shook and listed; unsteady as the fierce battle raged around it in the endless void. Ten armored soldiers dashed down the corridors of the ship, the pounding of their boots drowned out by the howl of the sirens. The lead soldier pushed past any crew or menial that wasn’t smart enough to get out of his way, adding to the chaos that filled the corridors of the ship.

“3rd Platoon, report to the Bridge!” Lt. Alixander Rothe shouted into his vox-mic. He shouldered past an Air Caste crew and then turned a sharp corner that led him and his men to the heavy blast doors of the Bridge. Alix punched in the command code and the doors hissed open, revealing a scene of death and destruction to the ten Gue’vesa. Blacked control consoles and twisted spars of metal provided the background for a masterpiece of blood and gore. The bodies of the command crew were strewn throughout the Bridge, the Captains’ chair empty. View screens were cracked and broken wires sparked dangerously. “What the hell happened here?” one of the soldiers asked while hiding his nose in the crook of his elbow. The smell of blood and charred flesh permeated the room. “Someone get me a damage assessment now!” Alix barked, and three soldiers sat down at relatively undamaged consoles. Soon after the rest of 3rd Platoon rushed into the Bridge, some men carried on the backs of others. Sergeant Ramirez approached the Lieutenant.

“What’s going on Lieutenant?” the Sergeant asked, echoing the question previously. Alix turned to look at his Sergeant. “We must have taken some fire from the Tyranid Hive Fleet, and the Command Crew has been completely wiped out. If we can’t get this ship moving, we are going to be dead in the water,” he turned back to his men on the consoles, “what about that damage report?”

“It isn’t looking good sir,” one of the men said, “We’ve got multiple decks sealed off from hull breeches. The Ordnance Decks have been compromised, as have Crew Quarters Three through Five. Lieutenant, we are in bad shape.”

Alix looked grim. All of his men turned their faces to him, looking expectantly for orders. “Can you pilot this thing soldier?” He asked the man who had spoken previously. The soldier shook his head, “No sir. Even if I knew how these damn controls worked, this ship can barely move. We are bleeding fuel, and out primary engine just cut out.” Alix nodded, taking all of the horrifying news in stride. It would seem to any normal man that this was the end, and that one should simply prepare for death. Alixander Rothe didn’t prepare for death; death prepared for him. “Private,” he asked again, “what’s the status of the jump drive?” The soldier turned in his chair with a look that told Alix the man throught him insane, but when he was confronted with the stoic expression on his commanding officers face, he turned back around and punched in a few more commands. “It’s working, but only just. We probably have enough power for one jump, but sir, the strain of the jump might be enough to tear the ship apart.”

“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take. We don’t stand a chance out here, and I’m not about to sit here while some damn insects decide how best to eat us. Engage the Jump Drive.” The Private nodded grimly, typed in a few more keys, and then counted down from five. Once he hit one, the world twisted, and the ship was gone.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“We made it!” A cheer went up on the bridge as the Kir’qath Escort ship pulled out of its Warp Dive virtually unscathed. The Private at the controls breathed a heavy sigh of relief as several soldiers clapped his shoulders roughly and laughed out loud. Sergeant Ramirez smiled and looked at Rothe, “Well, looks like you saved us all once again Lieutenant.” Alix didn’t return the smile, but stared at the planet that now filled the cracked cock-pit window. He didn’t recognize any of the landmarks he could see from space, but the ship couldn’t have jumped very far from the battle. Where are we..he thought to himself. Alixander was wrenched from his thoughts by a sudden blaring alarm. The laughter and cheers died immediately.

“Lieutenant,” Another man at a console shouted over the alarm, “we’ve got a major problem! We have landed too close to the planet, and its gravity well is starting to pull us apart. Estimates are that we have sixty seconds before massive structural failure!” Alix burst into action. His urgency was not fueled by fear, at least, not fear of his own life. His fear came from the safety of his men. “Everyone get to the Emergency Life Pods now! Leave no one behind, but get off this ship!” Without another word, the twenty-five Gue’vesa soldiers ran out of the Bridge, carrying the wounded and the unconscious. They shouted the Lieutenants orders to any crew they passed, and soon the whole ship was moving to the Life Pods. Alix was the last to leave the Bridge, dashing down the corridors after his men, the alarm still screaming in his ears. The Life Pods were not far, and he saw his men and the crew piling in, and he heard the engines of the small craft roaring as they launched from the ship like manned torpedos. Alix climbed into the very last Life Pod, and strapped himself into one of the four seats before slamming his palm of the launch stud. The engines flared to life, and he was catapulted into the void at a stomach tightening pace. Just as his pod ejected from the ship, it was ripped apart by its own weight in the gravity well of the planet.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A sudden light stung his eyes as it penetrated through the single view window in the tiny pod. Alixander squinted against the glare, and touched a hand to his throbbing head. He must have been knocked unconscious upon landing, but at least he was alive. The sudden realization of this brought a new wave of pain through his body, as he had taken more than a few bumps during the quick descent into the atmosphere of the alien planet. Alix unstrapped himself, and then turned to engage the emergency tracking device that would allow him to see where every other pod from the ship had landed. Not a single blip appeared on the screen. The weight came crashing down around his shoulders. He was the only one who made it. Everyone he had known from that ship was dead. His platoon was destroyed. He was the sole-survivor. This realization brought a renewed pain to his head, and his vision swam.

Alix steadied himself, and then let his survival instincts kick into gear. He had no time to mourn the deaths of his men. He was on an alien world, with nothing but his weapons, and a small emergency kit in the Life Pod. Alix went through the kit, and found a weeks’ worth of rations, a small med-kit, and a small vox-receiver. He repacked everything except the receiver. There was no one to call out here, and the receiver was far too small to transmit into space. Once he geared up, he opened up the hatch, and stepped into the burning sunlight.

He didn’t know what hit him harder: the heat or the wind. Either way, he was suddenly blasted by a wave of immense heat, and buffeted from all sides by a stinging wind. The pod had crashed into some desert, and the wind carried tiny grains of sand that scoured his face. Alix clipped his respirator into place to protect his nose and mouth from the sand, and snapped down his visor over his eyes. The visor helped to eliminate the burning light of the glaring sun. He surveyed his surroundings, looking for any landmarks that appeared to him. Turning, he saw that behind him lay an immense complex of buildings. He was too far away to see them clearly, but they lay at the bottom of the dune he was on. A tall tower split the sky, and Alix knew that he would need shelter from the elements. That place was as good as any. The sand sucked at his heavy boots, but Alix trudged on, plowing through the sand and grit to the ruins. He saw them more clearly now, sand blasted stone that looked centuries old. Suddenly Alix stopped and dropped down onto his stomach, inching backward in the vain effort to find some cover.

In the middle of the complex, lay a bright blue ship. The vessel had been hidden from view, but now that Alix had made his way to the bottom of the dune, it was clearly in sight. Alix lifted his Pulse Carbine up to his face and peered through the scope. The vessel was severely damaged, most likely from its crash into the ruins. A stylized “U” was embossed on its side, and the sight of that made a chill go up Alixanders’ spine. This was an Ultramarine ship, belonging to one of the fabled avatars of war of the God-Emperor of Man. Alix only knew this from his military history lessons as a conscript. The Ultramarines, along with other elite military groups called Astartes, had participated in the engagement that had left thousands of human soldiers stranded in the Tau region of the Damocles Gulf. They were part of the reason why Alix fought with the emblem of the Empire on his shoulder instead of that of the Impirium. Through the scope, Alix did not see any survivors of the crash, and he hoped that the soldier had died in the crash. He was on his guard now, for no good could come of a Space Marine showing up here. Alix rose into a crouch, carbine still pressed into his shoulder and held at ready, as he slowly and methodically made his way closer to the Ultramarine ship.

The feral roars of their green-skinned foes drowned out all other sounds as the Orks charged at the Black Templars, who in turn had hastily drawn their weapons and formed ranks and battle formations, despite their chances of survival being slim, and in turn retaliated with their own blood-curling roars, fueled by the thirst to kill the wretched xeno scum.

Merely five minutes ago a Neophyte had come running out of the jungle, covered in blood, yelling something incoherently as he charged into the camp, desperate to talk to their Castellan. Upon reaching the commanding officer the scout quickly and, at first, incomprehensibly, tried to convey a message, and when the Castellan had convinced the Neophyte to calm down, he only spoke one word.
“Orks.”
The Castellan looked up from the face of the Neophyte to the edge of the clearing they had set their camp up on, and when he listened he could faintly hear, indeed, the sounds of a large Ork horde, ready for stompin'. Barking orders the camp turned to organized chaos in a matter of seconds, as Initiates ran to grab their weapons, Neophytes following behind. Another few seconds later the first line of defence had been set up, steadily growing as more Initiates arrived with their Neophytes, armed to the teeth.

A small squad of Initiates had been send out to gauge just how many Orks they were facing, as the Neophyte, in his panic, had simply turned around and ran. Despite feeling ashamed about this himself, the Neophyte was assured by the Castellan that he had done what was right. Due to his swift retreat, they knew Orks were coming and had time to set up a good defence. Pleased, the Neophyte returned to his teaching Initiate: Nykerius.

“Good thing I send you out there to check,” Nykerius spoke to Aferhan, the Neophyte. Aferhan nodded and raised his weapon – a bolt pistol – and squinted his eyes, trying to see better. The Neophyte didn't have the superhuman eyes of a Space Marine yet, nor was he wearing the enhancing Power Armour, so he mostly trusted on Nykerius to tell him what the Initiate was seeing. Chainsword in one hand, Bolter in the other, Nykerius was ready to kill some Orks, although he also felt slightly worried. They were the first Fighting Company to arrive on the planet and were supposed to set up a forward base of operations and work on a battle plan for the rest of the Crusade, but now they were under siege by an unknown number of Orks, without any back-up. This wasn't the plan.

Less than a minute later, the Initiates that had been send out to determine an estimate of Orks returned and send a message to all Astartes in the Fightning Company, as they had been instructed, with their estimates: “At least five-hundred of them, possibly more.”
Nykerius cursed softly and Aferhan had an expression of both fear and grim determination on his face. “Did you see that many?” Nykerius asked Aferhan, who shook his head and coughed. “No, I hadn't... I thought, maybe two-hundred...”
The rest of what the Neophyte said became inaudible and Nykerius turned his attention back to the treeline, from where the Orks were supposed to emerge. The Iniate had seen his shares of fights, and he had been outnumbered more than one-to-five before, but never in a situation like this. With no possible back-up. The words possibly more still rang in his ears... the more Nykerius thought about it, the more likely it was that there were more than five-hundred greenskins out there.

And then they were upon them.

Charging forward, Nykerius raised his chainsword high and fired his Bolter onto the incoming horde, Aferhan doing the same with his bolt pistol, long knife in the other hand. The two forces collided and Nykerius' Chainsword tore into green flesh, spraying blood all over the place, an Ork falling. First blood.

Nykerius could hardly identify one Ork from the next, so many were there, and so tightly packed together, like a tidal wave of green skin and crudely made shootas. Only just in time, Nykerius saw an axe coming down from above to split his head in two and he blocked it with his Chainsword, firing Bolter rounds into the Ork responsible. Aferhan stood on Nykerius' right side, and a Sword Brother to Nykerius' left. “Look out!” Nykerius shouted and Aferhan ducked, allowing the Initiate to kill an Ork with his Bolter, the rounds flying over Aferhan's head and into the xeno... until Nykerius realised, a mere second later, that the rounds hadn't actually hit the Ork.

“BIG MEK!” Nykerius screamed and pushed Aferhan out of the way, the Neophyte thus narrowly avoided being turned to pulp as the Power Klaw of the Mek missed and dug into the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and earth. The Sword Brother who had stood on Nykerius' left dove onto the Big Mek, allowing Nykerius and Aferhan to take care of the other Orks, covering the Sword Brother's back.

As the battle raged on, Nykerius noticed the Black Templars were being pushed back slowly by the seemingly never-ending wave of Orks. The Sword Brother and Big Mek were still locked in combat and it looked like the Sword Brother was on the loosing hand, until he was saved by the timely interference of their Chaplain, and the two finished the Big Mek off, resulting in a cheer of all the Black Templars who had witnessed the fight, including Nykerius and Aferhan. The Sword Brother's place on Nykerius' left-hand side was taken by another Initiate – until something very confusing happened and their ranks shattered.

Something had exploded in the middle of the fight, sending both Orks and Marines flying everywhere. Nykerius managed to catch a glimpse of a Leman Russ tank, painted red, as is customary with Orks. Looted, Nykerius thought to himself and grinded his teeth as he and Aferhan were forced to back up after another explosion rocked the ground. He spotted a rocket flying over the heads of the Orks and into the Leman Russ tank – a well aimed shot, as the tank exploded, killing the Orks within. Nykerius spotted the Initiate with the rocket launcher responsible for the shot and cheered, but not with a lot of enthusiasm, as their defence had been broken and they couldn't fix that anymore, as the Orks charged forward and into their camp, spreading out to chase down all Templars. What the Orks hadn't expected was the brave and suicidal response of their quarries.

“No pity! No remorse! No fear!” Nykerius heard the Castellan vox to all Marines and repeated the battle-cry with all his Brothers, charging into battle once more, the Chainsword roaring furiously as it rended more and more Orks apart, the Bolter singing as it unleashed one deadly barrage after the other. Nykerius' squad had been broken apart in the initial stages of battle, probably just like most squads, and now it was simply a matter of fighting with who was by your side. Nykerius found himself and Aferhan with the Sword Brother he had fought with earlier (the one that killed the Big Mek together with the Chaplain) and the two nodded at each other in recognition. The three sprinted into the fray, taking on a group of Orks who were threatening to overwhelm a squad of Initiates from the flank. They were in the middle of the camp now and Nykerius smelled fire, knowing the Orks were already burning it down to the ground as they fought.

Enraged, Nykerius beheaded a Nob who he had been duelling with for the past 30 seconds and cast his body aside, that being the last of the squad of Orks. He looked around, searching for his next target, together with the Sword Brother, Aferhan and the group of Initiates they had saved, bringing their little squad up to a decent number of 9 Marines, the Sword Brother taking the lead. He pointed at the largest group of Orks, who were still on the outskirts of the camp, fighting the Castellan and his troups. “Take the flank again!” the Sword Brother yelled at Nykerius, who nodded. “I'll take them from the other side with you,” the Sword Brother now spoke to a few of the other Initiates. “You, you and you, go with him,” the Sword Brother commanded three other Initiates and pointed at Nykerius, who nodded and stood by Nykerius' side. Nykerius realised the Sword Brother had practically dubbed him second-in-command of their improvised squad and felt a surge of pride rush through his veins and he let his Chainsword spin threateningly as he, Aferhan and the three other Marines advanced on the flank of the Orks, attracting some attention, seeing a few green heads turn in his direction. Raising his Bolter, Nykerius fired, the Marines copying his move and they roared their battle-cry once more in unison and dove onto the group of Orks with such ferocity that said group was split in two, allowing the Castellan and the Marines that had gathered around him to finally break through the wall of greenskins. The Sword Brother and his Initiates took on the group that Nykerius had seperated from the other side and the Orks found themselves trapped between two pincers of death. Within a minute, all the Orks were down and the Sword Brother said to Nykerius: “Good work, Brother,” and Nykerius nodded in respect, responding with: “You too.”

More and more time went by, the battle now already raging on for nearly an hour, and it looked like the Black Templars were on the winning hand as the number of Orks in their encampment swiftly dwindled. However, just when everything seemed to be going right, another group of Orks appeared on the other side of the camp. All Marines turned as one and watched with worry – that soon turned to rage – in their minds as they once again faced a horde of Orks, just as big as the last one... if not bigger.

Amongst the charging Orks was the hulking shape of the Warboss, his roar the loudest of all, carrying all the way across the battlefield. Nykerius vaguely heard Aferhan say “Oh no,” behind him but barely paid any attention as he saw the few Marines that were at the far end of the camp were crushed by the incoming wave of Orks. His anger peaked and apparently so did that of all the other Black Templars as they rushed forward, screaming incoherently, dropping all pretension of level-headedness – even the Castellan. Black slammed into green and once again Nykerius found himself in a confusing, dazzling battle, but this time, he couldn't care less, instead mercilessly cutting down everything in his path, rage building up inside him, turning him into an unstoppable killing machine, scaring even Aferhan who had trouble keeping up with Nykerius.

His rage was so great that Nykerius did not even notice that the rest of the Marines were being pushed back and he soon found himself cut off from the rest, completely surrounded by Orks, with Aferhan nowhere in sight. This did not deter him, however, and simply added to his fanaticism, brutally slaughtering all and any Orks in his sight, creating a circle of open space around himself, until the Orks were upon him again. Suddenly Nykerius realised, in one bright moment, that he could not win.

Opting for a tactical retreat, Nykerius miraculously managed to escape out of the horde of Orks and join his Brothers' side, who were still forming a solid line of defence, and this time there seemingly wasn't a looted tank to shatter their lines.

There was, however, the Warboss. Far larger than any other Ork Nykerius had seen in this battle, the heavily armoured Warboss slaughtered the Marines, single-handedly being the main reason why they were being forced back. Nykerius fired his Bolter at the giant Ork, who was fighting some twenty yards to Nykerius' left, but all that came was a muffled click and Nykerius realised he was completely out of ammo and attached the weapon to his waist, gripping his Chainsword with both hands and mumbling a swift prayer to the Emperor for protection.

That's when everything changed. As if in slow-motion, Nykerius saw painfully slowly, every detal clear to him, how the Warboss grabbed and crunched the Castellan in his Power Klaw, grinning madly at the Black Templar, before throwing the body aside.

More blood – an Ork's shattered face fell onto the ground – pushing a Marine aside – impaling an Ork into his Chainsword – trembling, he was trembling – could he even think – crouched down by the Castellan's mangled body, tears running down his own cheeks, dropping the chainsword, picking up the Storm Shield and the Power Sword – roaring until his throat hurt and his lungs were out of air – locking weapons with the Warboss.

By the time Nykerius came to his senses, he was looking up at the surprised and highly amused face of the Warboss. He could see the Ork's mouth move, but the sound of his own frantic heartbeat drowned out the words of the Ork and before the Warboss had even finished speaking, Nykerius attacked the Ork, his sight troubled by tears of rage, stabbing the Power Sword into the left arm of the Warboss. Nykerius blocked the retaliating blow with the Storm Shield, sparks flying off the protective power field around the shield, stabbing and slashing with the Power Sword again, drawing more blood, seeing the Ork's face contort to fury, but Nykerius laughed humourlessly, in some perverted realisation the Warboss would never be as angry as Nykerius was now.

“FOR THE CASTELLAN AND FOR THE EMPEROR!” Nykerius screamed, his side joined by the Chaplain and the Sword Brother from before, the trio forcing the Warboss back, disbelief on his face as he was the one overwhelmed now, struggling to even stay alive against the unstoppable wrath of the Emperor's sons, his Angels of Death. The Warboss stumbled and fell on his back, Nykerius not wasting a single second as he jumped onto the Ork's chest, raising the Power Sword. “This is for my friends,” Nykerius said, his voice broken, and drove the sword straight through the Warboss' head, killing him instantly.

The rest of the Orks were shocked and surprised by their leader's death and scattered as half of them fled, the other half swiftly cut down by the revigorated Black Templars, inspired to greater feats than ever before by the victory over the Warboss.

Soon, the battle was over. Exhausted, Nykerius pulled the Power Sword from the Ork's head, stumbled off the Ork's corpse and slumped onto the ground, the world swimming before his eyes. He could barely make out the Chaplain's skull-themed helmet before he passed out, everything turning calm and black.

Nykerius awoke with a shock and sat up straight. He was no longer on the battlefield – no, he was inside. Somewhere inside. On a bed. After a few seconds of confusion he recognised the interior; he was inside a Thunderhawk. He was no longer wearing Power Armour or his helmet, instead garbed in simple white clothing. Slowly he dropped back down on the bed and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. Memories of the battle filled his mind, up to the point where the Castellan was killed – that's where he drew the line. He didn't want to think about that anymore.

When he opened his eyes again he was startled to see their Chaplain, still wearing Power Armour, but not the frightning helmet, instead looking at Nykerius with concern in his eyes, sitting on a chair in the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the Chaplain spoke. “You are Nykerius... correct?”
Nykerius nodded and sat up once more, leaning against the cold, steel wall, waiting for the Chaplain to say more. Or not. Whatever the case, Nykerius wasn't interested.

“You may be interested to know your Neophyte, Aferhan, survived the battle,” the Chaplain said eventually and Nykerius perked up and then felt a rush of shame; he had completely forgotten about his pupil. He nodded and managed to whisper with a croaked voice: “Good.” He coughed, trying to convince his voice to become normal again. “What happened to him?”

The Chaplain suddenly grinned, making Nykerius wonder what's so funny. “When you passed out he suddenly appeared out of nowhere, stained with Ork blood and tried to carry you to the Thunderhawk without a word. You were, of course, far too heavy for him to lift and I helped him. It was a very kind gesture, however... you must be a good teacher.”
Nykerius snorted. “Or a kind one,” he replied, his voice now normal, although still soft. He noticed the Chaplain's expression was once again faintly tainted with worry, but didn't want to look at him. The silence dragged on for minutes and eventually Nykerius couldn't stand it anymore and blurted out: “The Castellan was my teacher, back when I was a Neophyte... we have always fought together, or at least in the same Fighting Company, ever since my training. Nearly a century of...” Nykerius didn't finish the sentence, instead ending it with a cough and briefly looking at the Chaplain, whose expression had flashed understanding and now looked as if he pitied Nykerius. This made the Initiate slightly angry – he didn't need pity. He averted his eyes again.

“The Power Sword and Storm Shield you used to slay the Warboss belonged to the Castellan, didn't they?” the Chaplain asked warily. Nykerius wondered if he would be reprimanded, but didn't care and nodded. More silence followed.
“You can keep them,” the Chaplain suddenly said and stood up from his seat. “I'm sure he would have been very proud of his student.”

And with that the Chaplain left Nykerius to his own thoughts, who, to his own self-loathing, felt more tears well up in his eyes. Despite not wanting to admit it, he was emotionally stirred by the Chaplain's last words, as he had always tried to live up to what the Castellan had taught him.

He felt the ship rise, knowing they were returning to the Strike Cruiser that housed their Fighting Company. He wondered how many of the men were left but wasn't going to get off this bed any time soon, so he would have to wait to get an answer. At least Aferhan had survived. He sighed and drifted off into sleep again, a restless sleep filled with dreams of screams and cries, interrupted by sequences of memories, all related to the Castellan in one way or another – him teaching Nykerius, or fighting by his side, or just having a relaxed talk over a drink or two...

When Nykerius woke up again he was this time in the company of a Chapter Serf, who smiled at him and said: “We've arrived at the Strike Cruiser.” Without waiting for a reply, the servant left and Nykerius saw someone – possibly a few of the Chapter Serfs, maybe a Servitor – had delivered his Power Armour to the room... along with the Castellan's weapons. My weapons, Nykerius corrected himself and got off his bed, taking his time to put his Power Armour back on. Why exactly he wanted to wear it he was unsure, but maybe he should. They probably wouldn't have delivered it to his room if he didn't.

Stepping out of the Thunderhawk into the hangar, Power Sword in one hand, Storm Shield in the other, Nykerius was beckoned by the Chaplain, who was talking to one of the other Initiates further down the hangar. Making his way there, the Chaplain greeted him – 'the Emperor protects, brother' – and told him of the situation. “A Space Hulk has appeared not far away and is currently en-route to meet us boardside. The new Castellan has decided that-” the Chaplain was cut off by Nykerius, who said: “New Castellan? Who?”

The Chaplain was apparently undisturbed by Nykerius' interruption. “Remember the Sword Brother, Amitor, that fought with you, and helped us kill the Warboss? He's the new Castellan.” A bit begrudged by the swift choice of a new Castellan, Nykerius still thought of the Sword Brother as good choice, and listened to what the Chaplain had to say. “The new Castellan has decided that we will board the Space Hulk instead of engaging it in ship-to-ship combat, as we cannot hope to live in such a battle. You are going with them, in that Thunderhawk,” the Chaplain said and pointed at the nearest Thunderhawk, of which the hatch was opened. “We suspect it's infected with Orks, probably the ship they used to get down on the planet in the first place. It will be a dangerous mission, but... considering your circumstances, I don't think you mind, or do you?”
Nykerius shook his head and didn't answer the stare of the other Initiate, who was probably wondering what his circumstances were. The two – him and the Initiate – made their way to the Thunderhawk and boarded it without saying a word. Inside, 12 other Initiates were waiting, along with 2 Sword Brethren. Nykerius wondered just how many of them had died at the planet-side catastrophe, and worry gripped his heart. Shoving that aside he sat down next to the other Black Templars without a word and soon the hatch closed, isolating the Marines from the rest of the galaxy.

The Thunderhawk's engines roared to life and the craft left the hangar, only noticed by the Space Marines in the increase of G-forces on their bodies as the Thunderhawk accelerated. The Space Hulk was closer by than Nykerius had thought, as the pilot's voice rang out, saying: “10 minutes ETA.”

These minutes passed without anything interesting. A few of the Marines started talking amongst each other, some were praying to the Emperor instead. Nykerius, however, was still thinking about the events that happened earlier.

His musing was brutally interrupted, however, as suddenly he felt an alien force tug at his body, one that he had often felt before. “What's happening?” he heard himself ask and the pilot's distorted voice replied, but was inaudible. “Why are we... oh, no,” one of the other Initiates said... and then everything went black.



Suddenly sound returned and Nykerius found himself on the wall of the Thunderhawk, feeling a gravitational pull coming from below. However, he didn't have much time to think about this new predicament as the Thunderhawk was ripped apart and Nykerius was flung out of the craft. The world turned around him as he flipped in the air, flashes of blue and what looked like sand passing the revue, before he slammed into a soft surface with thunderous force, rolling on for a few more seconds before coming to a stop, face-down. He heard a crashing sound followed by a large explosion, but was in too much pain to move, only making a small grunting sound.

A few seconds later he heard several other more muffled crashes followed by a loud boom that shook the ground and prompted Nykerius to sit upright and get a good look at where the fuck he was now.

Sand. He was in a desert. Shakily standing up, he discovered nothing was broken (miraculously) during his fall onto the dune and he still had his sword and shield, something he was grateful for. However... he saw a compound of buildings ahead, with a spire rising from the midst of it. The spire was broken though and smoke rose from the top. A large dustcloud hung in the air on the left side of the complex and smaller ones rose all around that.

With an ice-cold sensation in his stomach Nykerius realised the Thunderhawk crashed into the spire. The portion of the tower above where the Thunderhawk had crashed must've fallen off, slamming into the ground right next to the other buildings in the sand – that's what caused the earthshaking – and the Thunderhawk...

Completely destroyed, of course. Nykerius swore violently and roared, the sound echoing across the dunes, throwing his shield and sword onto the sand and clasping his helmet with both hands. They were all dead. He knew, somehow, that they were all dead. He was on his own, stranded on a planet – which one he didn't even know. Why did this happen to him? Emperor, what have I done to deserve this? Nykerius asked himself and sank onto his knees in disbelief. What have I done...?