319.947.M30 – Eremus Gate
The time had come to deal with the orks. No matter our duty to Eremus II, no matter the lure of deeper secrets in the Expanse, we could not press forward with a horde of greenskins gnawing at our flank. If ever we wished to return home, their fortress-rok at the gate would have to be broken.
Sergeant Tyndrel summoned us to hear the plan. It was Kallin’s design, though he gave us the courtesy of his ear. The Imperial Fists are not afraid of the counsel of others, and in these days, there are too few of us left to waste wisdom.
The strategy was simple enough in outline: launch the Astartes in boarding torpedoes, hurled across the void under stealth. They would punch through the ork shields and breach the surface of the rok, while the Ashen Promise engaged the raider ships clustered about it. Two forces: one to cut off the head of the beast, to slay the warboss and throw his horde into confusion; the other to deliver the vortex warhead into the heart of the fortress, ensuring its destruction. Together, both blows would cripple the orks beyond recovery.
It was, however, a plan with no return. Once inside the rok, there was no sure way out. Death in battle is well enough, but to embrace it without purpose is folly. I said as much. I urged that Thunderhawks follow our torpedoes to give us at least the option of withdrawal and the certainty of fire support. A Thunderhawk is more than a transport: it is a flying fortress, a battle tank that soars. I argued, too, that we should not scatter ourselves in the depths of the ork warrens, but hold a breachhead where the greenskins would surely rush to meet us. Better to fight where the enemy comes to us, than to lose ourselves in endless tunnels. And at last, I suggested that only a small squad be tasked with the warhead. Five men can move unseen where twenty cannot. If the main force drew the tide upon themselves, then the bomb-bearers might reach the generatorum unopposed.
Tyndrel listened, and to his credit, he brought to Kallin, who, to his Legion's credit, heeded much of it. The Thunderhawks would come later—they are too large, too loud—but they would come. A breachhead would be held. And the warhead would be borne by the smallest of teams.
Thus it was divided. Kallin himself led the main host: his four surviving Fists, half our Guard under Sergeant Tyndrel, the Wolves under Hrothgar split into two packs, and a half squad of Alpha Legion beside them. Eighteen in all, the wall of stone upon which the tide would break.
The second team was led by Sergeant Calvien of the Third, with myself at his side. Aristaeus, the marksman; Akeiron with his heavy bolter; and Phoros, who had set aside his missile launcher for the same weapon. Five of us, and the warhead, slaved to Calvien’s armor. Malchior was forbidden to come, no matter his protests. His duty was to the ship, and to the gene-seed of us all. Four Astartes of the Alpha were left to protect the ship besides.
Our torpedoes screamed across the void. For a moment, a flaw in our calculations threatened to hurl us down first, before the breachhead was secured. But again I saw the pattern, the spiral in the numbers, and corrected. It saved us from being flung alone into the maw.
We struck deep, and the plan held. The main force had already seized the landing bay, bolters roaring as the green tide poured against them. All ork eyes were fixed there, and not on us.
Our path to the generatorum was brutal, but not impossible. We carved our way forward. The first clash was with a mob of boys and a plated nob, his armor thick enough to turn a chainsword. We killed them swiftly. I cut down the nob myself, though in my haste, I forgot to load kraken rounds. My brothers laughed at that, even in the midst of slaughter. So did I.
Further in, we reach a grand hall. Four batteries pounded at us, gretchin and boys swarming their controls. It was a bitter fight. I was struck through the thigh by a zzap gun, the beam slicing clean through the plate. It hurt, but pain is nothing. Calvien held the horde alone while the rest of us silenced the crews. He stood like a wall, and for a moment, I felt a strange respect for him, for all that he is tainted by secrets.
We pushed on, and came to the beast pens. Here the orks had loosed their handlers with bomb-runners. But I was at the point, and I saw them before they saw us. Bolter fire cut them down, and the charges they carried tore apart their own kin in a thunderous chain of explosions. What might have been our ruin became instead an easy advance. Draco Vult.
At last, the generatorum. There we set the warhead. Its failsafes were armed. If the orks so much as touched it, it would detonate. We could only hope they did not, or we would follow the rok into the Warp.
No such thing happened, but fate had one more trial. Mega-armored nobs and a mek suit ambushed us. Their bulk filled the chamber, their fists crackling with power. Aristaeus fell at once, his head sheared from his body. Our heavy bolters spat, but the shots glanced harmlessly from their armor. It came down to blade and will. Calvien and I pressed forward, chainsword and fury. The mek’s klaw raked my armor, tearing me open, but I would not fall. At last, I drove my bolts, each tipped by a piece of Fenrisan Kraken, into its core, and the beast fell silent.
We staggered on, into the landing bay where the main force fought for its life. The warboss himself awaited, a mountain of muscle and iron, his horde around him, and psykers shrieking storms of warp-lightning. One Thunderhawk already lay crippled, its wing torn away. The Wolves and Fists fought at the edge of ruin.
I drew every grenade from my bandolier—frag, krak, smoke, all of them—and hurled them into the midst of the witches. The blasts consumed them, and for a heartbeat the storm was broken. Then we struck, our squad crashing into the orks’ flank, breaking their line. Together we threw them back. The Thunderhawk roared, battered but unbroken, and we hauled ourselves aboard, the second craft covering our retreat.
Behind us, the warhead did its work. The rok shuddered and split, power dying, quakes tearing through its mass. The Ashen finished the ruin with torpedo fire. Leaderless, broken, the orks scattered into the void.
I cut the progenoid from a fallen Alpha Legionnaire, before warp-taint could claim it. Quick work, but necessary. Tyndrel, our sergeant, was crushed by a warboss’ blow. He lives, but lies in stasis now with the wounded Fists. All of us bear wounds, though none as grave.
But we live. The rok is no more. Stone beats rok.
The gate is clear.
Honor is satisfied.
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