Fighting With Faith- Thirteenth Entry

To fight such abominations, is to fight your greatest fear.

They offer no mercy; only merciless carnage.

Smite every last of them, as though it is your first.

The wise verses of the wondrous and revered Epistles of the Great Tutelage, written by the great Farlton Exigen himself, late Warmaster of the Segmentus Obscurus drifted its way into Roidan Tanoit’s greiving mind. Farlton Exigen was a great leader who Roidan revered and respected; having served countless crusades against the never ending tides of enemies for the Imperium and eventually elavating to the chivalrous and dignified caste of Warmaster of Segmentus Obscurus. Almighty and adroit a human may be, Farlton was still a mere mortal. He held his last valient stand against an inexorable swarm of Tyranids, of Hive Archigon. On his well defended and equipped capital world, he fought with the true wrath of the Emperor’s fury coursing through him. An hour prior to his eventual fall, he resided in his office, writing the last chapter into his data-diary. The last chapter was what Roidan thought to be the most important chapter. It reflected Farlton Exigen’s fury, anguish and calmness amid the bloodcurdling horrors that stood prowling, in ambuscade and deception at his doorstep. That was where Roidan drew inspiration from.

It had been two hours since his last communication with his dear friend, Commissar Bukom. Bukom’s fate was sealed the moment he had given the order. It could never be otherwise. Roidan now was pacing his command pulpit, clenching and unclenching his right fist, with the pommel of his Honour Scabbard tight within his left hand. He benevolently lowered his Honour Scabbard into his finely crafted sheath hanging at his waistline. The reassuring sound of the blade entering its protection echoed around his pulpit, breaking the silence in exception of white noise emanating from his vox-unit he had left turned on on his desk. He then walked to the full length mirror at the end of his office. From there, he admired himself one last time.

In full battledress, he looked more efficacious and enforcing then before. His Grand Command Headdress was proudly placed on his head; the Royal Aquila proudly displayed in gold encrusted tabloids at the head of the headdress, the sides of the headdress sloping down to the sides of his head. His tan, grim features. A long and deep scar running down from the right side of his forehead to his chin, caused by a fight between him and an Eldar Witch, which he slaughtered, but almost fell foul to the foul Witch’s Death Scythe as it came screaming down to his face in its last stand. His sharp, finely shaped nose which rose above his lean, hollow looking cheeks with high-cheeked bones, and lastly, his piercing, acute hawk eyes which many were afraid to be within its view.

A blast sounded beyond his Adamantium vaulted office doors. The Tyranids had broken in.

Imperial defences were overrun and Guard units were scattered all over the Administratum city, displaying their last desperate belligerence before they were efficiently slaughtered by bio-engineered killing machines. Now, battle has been joined at the Smorjorn System’s Sector Command Centre.

Intoning a litany of peace onto himself, Roidan camly strode to the doors and flung it open.

Whoever had been on the other side of the doors would definitely be cowered by the magnificent sight of Roidan Tanoit in full battledress, brandishing his Honour Scabbard and hollering praises to the Imperium, all the while charging ostentatiously towards the nearest alien. Tech adepts, servitors and Guardsman were pitched in various combat all around the command centre, with already a significant amount of corpses strewn on the blood stained floor. Genestealers, Hormagaunts, Ripper Swams, cultists and even mutants were pouring into the breach which they have created on the Adamantium wall and they just kept coming. Roidan didn’t care.

He met his first foe with such great force that even striking the beast on his hard carapace back had caused the alien to lose its balance and falter onto its leg joints. That was all Roidan needed. He inverted his grip on his Scabbard and brought it down onto the Ripper beneath, causing an audible crack from the shell.

A mutant, deformed beyond recognition, stormed its way towards Roidan. Their eyes locked. The mutant was huge, almost as enormous as an Orgryn; bellowing in its loud bellicose manner and heaving a huge and crude cleaver in its heavily muscled hands. It may be big, but Roidan was quick. Roidan skillfully dodged the mutant’s initial thrust, so powerful that even the mutant was thrown off balance for a moment. Before the mutant could react, Roidan was on its back, hacking and slashing away with this Thrice Blessed Scabbard. Blood and gore cascaded from the grievous wounds Roidan inflicted upon it. The mutant howled in pain and vain, dropping its cleaver and trying to claw the mini size human off its back. Roidan obdurately hung on; driving his blade deeper and deeper into the mutant’s heavily muscled back. With a low and pitiful moan, the mutant sank to the ground, lifeless.

Hefting his Scabbard out of the mercilessly crafted wound from the mutant’s thick back, Roidan risked a looked around. It seemed that the fight was at end for the Imperials. Only a few Guardsmen and automated servitors were left offering futile resistance against a relentless onslaught. Twenty metres away, he could see a Guardsman, decapitated at his legs, trying in vain to fend off a brood of Hormagaunts clawing after him with the butt of his lasgun. Not too far from the hapless Guardsman, was a tech adept, virtually weaponless, clubbing a cultist at the head with a hammer, probably picked off from the ground. He was soon taken violently and bloodily down among a flurry of blades, shards and spikes. Off to his right was an inspiring sight of his second in command, Gregdon Optopulus, guillotining a cultist’s head and charging off into an oncoming swarm of Genestealers, gesturing to Roidan to do the same. Roidan followed on.

They fought with great skill and courage, determined not to show any sign of weakness to the enemy. Already, heaps and mounds of alien, mutant and cultist’s corpses were at their feet, thick black ichor spilling freely from huge gashes and cuts on their bodies. However, fatigue soon had its grip on both heroic warriors and their reactions and parries gradually slowed down. Before Gregdon realised it, his head was swiped clean off his neck, the sight of the bloody floor rushing up to meet him.

Roidan could offer no sympathy, as he was soon cut down amidst a sudden renewed violent and vigorous outbreak of claws and blades reaching out to him. His parries were useless, his deflective maneuvers futile.

The last sight he saw was of hundreds of aliens, mutants and cultists’ faces sneering back at him, blood oozed form his nose, bled from his eyes, and vomited from his mouth.

Soon, he fell, dead even before hitting the ground.