Special Entry!

Sons of Cadia

Lift, lengthen, land. Lift, lengthen, land. Lift, lengthen, land…God-Emperor, when will your salvation ever arrive?

Guardsman Elen Rul of the Cadian 8^th trudged along with his march through the ruins of a devastated hive city that once specialised at producing arms and ammunitions. His regiment had been stationed at the fortress of Khol Vellan for almost a month with hardly any action taking place. They were ordered to rendezvous with the Cadia 48^th Armoured Column at the St. Jallen Battery. His legs had been in motion for nearly a day of non-stop force-marches, of which nearly two dozen soldiers within his battalion had been executed on site for exemplary behaviour or mere acts of cowardice for dropping out of line and requesting to resign from the war.

Such foolish and unbecoming behaviour of the valiant defenders of Cadia were given stern orders to revoke their decisions, often at gun-point by their own sergeants and commissars. However the soul-piercing fear of facing the enemy and mind-numbing fatigue of the constant battles they fought drove them to choose such drastic actions.

“YOU ARE GIVEN FIVE SECONDS TO WITHDRAW YOUR REQUEST OR FACE THE EMPEROR’S MERCY!” a sergeant hollered to a cowering and sobbing guardsman several metres in front. Elen leaned to his left, trying to see what was unfolding. The sergeant, standing straight and rigid, as though at a parade square, held a las pistol aimed at the forehead of the soldier. Elen could see that the sergeant’s stance was poised, as though ready for a punch to be thrown at him or a weapon to be fired at him from the wailing and frenetic soldier.

“It-it’s too mu-much fo-for me Sarge. It’s rea-really too much fo-for me!” the solder mourned, burying his head in his sooty black hands. His lasgun was on the ground by his side. “I cannot go on.” He murmured, raising his head and staring straight into the cold gaze of the sergeant.

A las round went off, and blood and brain matter splattered onto the now ownerless lasgun. The corpse of the soldier slumped to the ground, another grim testament to the harsh and unforgiving war they were fighting in.

Elen grimaced. As he marched past the corpse and gazed at it, did a moment of envious thought run through his mind? Was the soldier now lavishing in the Emperor’s embrace, compared to the hell-hole that he was currently fighting in now? Damn, maybe there is an alternative to this…

Elen snapped out of his reverie, swearing at himself for thinking such blasphemous things. He raised his head, at the same time massaging the stiff muscles of his neck. Above him, Elen could identify several other hell-holes, either as bad as his or worse. Towering spires of long abandoned manufactoriums rose to amazing heights above him, of which thick bundles of plasteel cables ran along the sides of the vast chambers within, visible from huge craters at the sides of the megalith inspired factories. Ruined statues and edifices lay in rubble or stood crumbled, such as one Elen spotted along the ledge of a temple many kilometres up on a building dedicated to the immortal Emperor. Its powerful figure suggested a mighty warrior of a Legio Custode, even superior to the Adeptes Astartes as they are tasked with guarding the sacred body of the Emperor himself.

Looking further up, amongst the ruins of buildings, wrecks of vehicles and corpses of fellow Cadians, Elen could vaguely make out many straggling citizens along the link-bridges and pavements that lined the buildings. Many such passageways were already obliterated, torn asunder from the heavy artillery fire and massive bombings during the early days of the invasion. Desperate for survival, these civilians now pushed, shoved and even fought their way across the bridges to safety. Was it a bag or body that just fell from the link-bridge? Elen could never be sure. Fierce fires raged through the residential habs, burning anything that was left within. Ash, soot and dust clogged the air, giving it a permanent light brown colouring.

Elen craned his neck, looking up to the skies of his dear homeworld. Already the environmental effects of the invasion were becoming visible, with a tinge of blood red creeping into the healthy light blue radiant of the atmosphere. Thick, grey haze and clouds of ash drifted; the forces of Chaos were at work here. Thunderhawks, Valkyrie assault carriers, Vulture gunships and Marauder bombers dotted the sky, delivering payloads of bombs and salvoes of missiles to the enemy. Enemy planes were present as well, their wild incandescent tracer fire lighting the gloomy sky. A plane exploded every few seconds, showering the area around it in glowing, super heated scraps of metal and shards of glass. Such debris fell to the ground as bright and violently burning objects, as though depicting a meteor shower.

Beyond the atmosphere, Elen recognised mighty beams of firepower being exchanged from various starships. Explosions were less common, however eventually a ship was destroyed and the sight of it dying was tantamount to a supernova. Elen watched in awe, as a tiny dot of silver grew into a sphere of white dazzling light, five times in size before dissipating into space, nothing no more. Many other Guardsmen looked up, watching in wonder and subtle fear at the scale of such a battle taking place above them.

This is Fortress Cadia, and the Thirteenth Black Crusade had begun.

“Boarding action at level 2, sub-chamber 4A has been resolved, my Lord.” A petty officer on the bridge of Imperium’s Pride reported. His posture suggested competence, his tone professional.

“Send medical teams and tech-adepts down there to seal whatever up, we don’t want another similar incident.” Lord Admiral Basora replied, his voice low and commanding, such as always when he was in battle.

The bridge of the Imperial Navy Emperor Class Battleship, Imperium’s Pride, was surprisingly peaceful, as though on a routine patrol sweep. An occasional shudder of an enemy’s missile impact and mild vibrations as the ship’s own shield generators fought to absorb the damage. Desks, terminals and consoles were stowed in neat rows, with tech-adepts, servitors and officers operating them. Admiral Basora always insisted on peaceful organisation and proper planning, as only in this way that a battle can be controlled and maintained in his own fashion, usually victoriously. However such an observation of the bridge would be proved entirely wrong if one caught a glimpse of the battle unfolding beyond the blast screen, which dominated the circular walls of the bridge at the far end from the Admiral’s pulpit.

At least half the fleet of Battlefleet Corona was present, along with many other flotillas of Space Marines battle barges and planetary defence ships. The Imperium’s Pride was deployed at the South East facing, facing directly at the vile, pulsating Eye of Terror. Silhouetted figures of the enemy floated ahead, menacing and massive in its own right. Planet Cadia loomed to portside, along with many other massive transports and freighters ferrying troops, ammunition and supplies to the surface and back. Occasionally a stray missile would find its way to such a ship, blowing chunks of it away, spewing men and machines out into the void of space.

Basora, Lord Admiral of Battlefleet Scarus had entered the Cadian system several days ago, ferrying a Cadian regiment from a nearby system and had been providing the venue for a top secret meeting for the Lord Militant and Lord Castellan Creed himself.

Basora easily identified the much-prized St. Jallen Battery on the planet’s surface, of which he was greatly appreciative of its fire support. To date, it had taken down at least three enemy cruisers, seven escorts and numerous smaller vessels. Basora was glad the Imperial forces on the ground were not giving it up easily.

A low and foreboding moan beyond the blast screen brought his attention back to the battle in front of him. It was coming from an Imperial Navy Lunar Class Cruiser, Emperor’s Hammer, starboard from the Imperium’s Pride. It was doing a nose-dive, a maneuver extremely risky for a ship that size. Basora looked on in horror as the crippled ship suffered many raging fires and explosions along its stern and sides as it attempted to give as much surface area to cover the oncoming salvoes of missiles and plasma torpedoes for the other Imperial ships behind it. Basora had to shield his eyes as the ship was engulfed in a blinding white sphere, with a powerful shock wave that sent debris whizzing past the Imperium’s Pride, shaking the ship unsteadily.

A low moan of sadness came from the assembled crew on the bridge, offering prayers to the lost souls.

Beyond the wreckage of the Emperor’s Hammer, Basora could already see the oncoming wave of enemy fighters: ghastly, mutated versions of Thunderhawks and Thunderbolts zooming left and right, nimbly dodging laser fire and ordnance form the arrayed Imperial fleet.

“Dispatch Thunderbolts. Marauders to standby. Scan for survivors of the Emperor’s Hammer and bring in their pods.” Admiral Basora ordered. A soft whiz of the door behind him caused him to turn around, facing a man, who Basora thought to be as powerful and successful as himself, his forces rivaling the number of men under his own command. It was Lord Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed and his colour sergeant Jarran Kell. Both were fully dressed in their military attire, with Creed’s usual cape running down his broad back. Medals hung glittering on his chest, testament to a glorious career and high ranking statement. As usually, his colour sergeant Jarran Kell stood behind him, hoisting a brightly coloured Cadian flag proudly on his right shoulder.

“Lord Castellan.” Basora began.

“Lord Admiral.” Creed answered.

Wasting no time for formalities, Creed said, “I hope the battle goes well for you, and I express my condolences for the loss of the Emperor’s Hammer.”

Basora nodded and smiled.

Creed said, “It is good to see that we have arrived at Cadia safer then we expected, and I now request for the use of your transports to send the Cadian 12th and myself down onto the planet’s surface.”

Admiral Basora nodded again, and gestured to his officer, “See to it that it is done.” Basora then turned to Creed, “I hope the meeting with the Lord Militant has been pleasant enough, but now both of us are tasked with great responsibility and I wish you all the best.”

“Aye, Emperor protects. You do a good job up here and I do a good one down there.” Creed replied, smiling amiably and giving the Admiral one last gaze before turning his back onto him and marching out of the bridge.

Basora watched Creed walk away through the closing doors before turning back to the battle before him.

“Nodabba, you said his name is?” Creed asked Commissar Beln Gram.

“Yes, he seems to be another one of the Despoiler’s chosen champion, a fallen Space Marine of unknown origin. Leading a host of demonic entities and legions of mutated troops in our direction. Orders are to hold our position or die.” The Commissar replied.

“Yes, I have seen the mission details. What I want to know is, what do we know of this Nodabba?” Creed asked, raising his eyebrows in Beln’s direction.

“Hideous. Merciless. Powerful. Has been said that psykers hundreds of kilometres away had awaken from blood soaked nightmares, often driven insane and eventually killing themselves.” Beln replied, casting a nervous glance at Creed.

“So he’s a psyker. What of his legions?”

“Well, they range from daemonettes to hell-spawned nurglings in the thousands. Their legions compromise of warped mutants, chaos cultists and at least a full chapter of chaos marines. Reports also suggest at least several thousand tainted civilian population following them.” Beln said, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice.

“Hm.” Creed murmured as he looked down upon the precious remains of several data slates piled on the steel table before him, illuminated by glow globes suspended above them.

These data slates were salvaged from a retreating column of Chimeras from the manufactory city of Khol Anka, carrying troops of the Cadian 120^th over the Andur Bridge while it was ambushed by Chaos forces. Of the hundred and twenty-eight Chimera transports that set off, only twelve arrived at the relatively safe haven of Kasr Barrus. Fortunately, one of them was the transport of the Commissar of the regiment himself, along with his retinue of adepts and servitors that stored these slates. Hence information has been shared that the forces of Chaos that ambushed the transports at the Andur Bridge were intending to travel along River Andur, landing right on the North facing of the St. Jallen Battery.

“They chose a risky path, but its destination could be lethal to us. What is the strength of our forces here?” Creed thought out aloud, directing his question to the assembled commissars and colonels.

Commissar Grolm, of the Cadian 12^th, was first to answer, “My regiment currently stands at twelve thousand men, with three battalions of four thousand each. My supply battalion is yet to be supplied by the Departmento Munitorium, as our previous campaign saw nearly a battalion being wiped out.” He concluded, trying to hide the sorrow from his voice.

Creed shared a sympathetic glance with the other commissars as he turned to Commissar Beln, of the Cadian 8^th.

Beln snapped to attention, “The Cadian 8^th is currently at full strength, with three full battalions of three and a half thousand each, along with five hundred men in supply companies for each battalion. All inclusive of anti-armour and anti-air firepower.”

Creed nodded, already feeling his chest swell at hearing his regimental commissar report on his own regiment. This regiment was said to be “The Lord Castellan’s Own” and were never known to fail a given mission. This time round, they were to be put to the test again. Creed then turned to the final figure in the room, the leader of the 48^th Armoured Column.

“Commander Brosk, report.” Creed said.

“The 48^th Armoured Column currently stands at nearly full strength of two and a half battalions. We lost half a battalion at the defence of Lemak Spaceport. Our Enginseers are repairing the damaged tanks even as we speak, and I hope that we recover most of our tanks before the attack.” He concluded, giving a throaty cough, such was common amongst the tank regiments.

Creed nodded, sitting back down on his seat and said, “The enemy is coming. Time is not on our side. From the reports and reconnaissance, we have less then two weeks to prepare. This battle will be of titanic proportions, with both sides piling on great number of troops and machinery. Victory may also mean death. Due to the potential presence of daemons and the many warp entities, I shall request for the aid of Space Marines. I strongly encourage you to explore this place, make use of every nook and cranny for the perfect defence.”

Creed gazed hard into the eyes of all the men in the room, eyeballing them one by one, before growling his last request, “We shall not fail. Meeting is adjourned.”

“Troopers- fall in!” platoon leader Grelon Ampos calmly shouted as the soldiers of the Cadian 8^th, 3^rd Battalion, 2^nd company, 1^st platoon sluggishly filed into their positions in the middle area of their camp site. The fiery sun that was rising in the east was already stretching itself, its rays of fingers bending over the horizon and creeping ever forward across the waking planet.

The Cadian 8^th had managed to reach their destination of the St. Jallen Battery just before nightfall the previous day, where the mighty vehicles and automations of the 48^th armoured column greeted them warmly. Immediately as the regiment marched into the Imperial outpost, scores of medics and servitors were dispatched from the med tents to tend to many men that were already fainting and falling into unconsciousness after their arduous trek of unending kilometres. Elen himself was a victim of such a harsh journey, happily dropping face first into the dirt before strong hands grabbed and hauled him away to the nearby med tent.

The Cadian 8^th slept fitfully that night; an occasional soldier uttering a muffled cry of agony or anguish due to the influences of warp nightmares passing through their frail and exhausted minds. Some even woke in a cold sweat, shivering under thick bundles of blankets and darting their wide eyes wildly around, as though a predator lurked in the gloomy recesses of their tents. Such were common happenings when battling against Chaos. Not only did they have to battle enemies with their guns and blades, they also battled their enemies in their mind, willing themselves to expunge all thoughts of possession and corruption from their souls.

Now, come morning, the Imperial forces at St. Jallen Battery were awakening. Soldiers poked their heads out of tents, sentry duty was being exchanged and the usual cacophony of sergeants yelling at troops to get in line rang out loud across the ramparts of the outpost.

Guardsman Elen yawned sleepily as he limped to his position in the fall-in. His legs still ached from the tortuous march the day before. Many other Guardsmen also seemed to be suffering the same fate, some worse. Guardsman Leoln, one of Elen’s closest friend, came back hobbling on a crude walking stick, one he picked up along the way as he came back from the med tent.

Their eyes met and they smiled. Leoln fell-in behind Elen.

At the front of their platoon, stood at rigid attention, was Lieutenant Arl Mash. His barrel chest heaved in and out has he stood staring sternly at the ragbag platoon assembling in front of him. It was another minute or so when his commanding voice broke the silence.

“Good morning men.” He said, looking into the eyes of every one of the twenty soldiers present.

The lieutenant stood there with narrowed eyes as he witnessed a ragged and weary response from his men.

“I said, good morning, men.” He repeated, this time relaxing his poise and folding thick arms across his chest. An ugly gash ran along his right arm, its skin dried and healed, from elbow to wrist. Rumour had it that he attained it while killing an Ork Nob.

“Good morning, Sir!” the platoon chorused back in reply, snapping out of their weary trance and into attention.

“That’s better. Sounded like women with morning sickness for a moment.” Arl sneered as a light laughter rippled amongst the men.

“We have two weeks, maybe less before Chaos arrive. This installment has been divided into three sections. The ramparts, which overlooks the plains in all directions, the plains, and an evacuated fishing town to our North, which is where they are expected to land.” Arl said as he bent down and used his finger to draw a simple sketch of the area.

Elen leaned forward on his position, catching a glimpse of it. He identified the massive shape of the Battery, with a horizontal wall labeled “R” parallel to the beach line directly north of it. In between the wall and beach line, a square and circle was drawn. The relatively smaller square sat beside the beach, dominating the coastline. It was here where a circled number “1” was written, followed by a second circle right above the walls, which Elen knew refereed to the wide plains stretching beneath the ramparts.

“They come from here, under fire from the artillery of the 48^th.” Arl said, pointing to the circled number. “That’s also where, fortunately, the second and third battalion of the 12^th shall cover their retreat back to the Battery when Chaos hits land.” He said, drawing a straight line from the town leading back to the battery and tapping on it.

“Then, once safely behind our lines, the town, which the enemy will have began to occupy, will be under heavy fire from our artillery on the ramparts,” Arl continued, using both hands to tap on the walls and town. “This will cause them to not be able to stay put, either retreating back to the river or coming forward, onto the plains.”

The Lieutenant looked up, making sure everyone was listening.

The soldiers looked on, their fullest attention trained on the drawn map.

“We will be stationed on the ramparts. That’s where we kill them off, along with the help of the tanks of the 48^th, no doubt.” Arl concluded, standing up and brushing his hands on his pants.

The soldiers leaned back, now aware of their mission. Somehow Elen knew that it wouldn’t be as easy as it sounds, but it still appeared easy nonetheless.

Trooper Galvin, to Elen’s right, raised his hand.

“Yes, Galvin?”

“Lieutenant, will there be a retreat signal, or a route which we are to take to regroup?” Galvin asked.

“Well, orders are to fight, or die fighting. I would do the same too. This is an important piece in our fight, soldiers,” Arl said, looking at his men, “Without this battery, we wouldn’t have the aid of the many starships, troops and supplies coming down from above!” Arl shouted, passion alight in his eyes.

“Thank you, Sir.” Galvin said, looking down at his boots embarrassingly.

“Right, if there’s no more questions, I suggest you to make good use of this day to explore the area, especially the ramparts. I suggest you can begin on the Eastern side, which is where we’ll be deployed. Dismissed.” Arl said, clapping his hands together and taking a step back.

“Yes sir!” the soldiers shouted in unison as they snapped out of attention and relaxed. Many began dispersing into the crowd beyond.

Lord Castellan Creed was walking along the ramparts with Jarran Kell by his side when he stopped, turning to face the open plains that lay sprawled before the massive construction that was the premise of the St. Jallen Battery. He squinted out into the horizon as the massive sun of the Cadian system was making it’s descend to relief the other side of the planet of darkness. The ramparts were raised platforms made of durasteel, rising twenty metres above the now acrid plains. Lifeless and barren, the plains before him were slowly deteriorating to the state of wastes, a classification of unlivable and extreme toxic conditions where only the diehards, mutants and bandits dwelled.

Creed knew that in due time the plains before him would even be beneath the classification of wastes, as the forces of the approaching host of Chaos were bound to conjure foul spells of daemonic essence, further polluting the land and tainting it.

Behind him, the high and imposing towers and silos of the St. Jallen Battery loomed. Every hour, a loud booming bell echoed off the valley walls, signaling the firing of its main silo. Powerful jets of steam hissed loudly out of vents along the sides of the silo as its main blast doors, measuring half a kilometre wide, moaned open amidst clanking chains and grinding gears. Tens of missiles, some thrice longer and bigger then a Leman Russ, would rise up on hydraulic platforms supported by thrusting pistons that were controlled by the main control tower beside the silo, and would aim itself at a particular point in the sky and blast off. Such a phenomenon would leave a contrail of incandescent burning particles along with men cursing at the ruckus it caused as the whole valley would be reverberating in its wake.

With less then a week to prepare, Creed had taken the initiative to inspect the ramparts, where most of the soldiers will be positioned. It was a long stretch of rockrete, nearly three kilometres long, ending in both sides at a mountain range which the Battery was dug into its valley. Already gun emplacements, artillery batteries and many other fortification stockades were in place, with soldiers busy about setting up gun posts and patrolling the area. Several Basilisks were rolling into position, clamping itself onto the ground as sandbags were placed around it. There was the usual cacophony of the striking of metal on metal, the shouting and muttering of people and the revving of engines as vehicles drove about.

The sweet smell of incense which tech-adepts were busily applying onto the tanks and the aroma of marinated food which drifted from the nearby tents mingled, creating a fuzzy feeling of warmth.

His gaze fell upon the shanty town of Luxonburg. It was silhouetted against the harsh backdrop of the glaring sun, storage towers of fresh water and flat, broad buildings of stockades of fishing stockpiles and equipment. Down on the plains, Creed could see the column of troops and machines of the Cadian 12^th and 48^th Armoured Column leaving the gates of St. Jallen and moving forward to Luxonburg. From his point of view, the soldiers looked like ants burrowing in the soil and the tanks seemed like rocks that were moving along as the ants carried them.

As calculated, a group of that size was expected to kick up much sand and debris, of which Creed duly noted swirls of yellowish dust rising high above their heads. Creed himself had ordered for the deployment of his troops during the evening, allowing it to stretch into the night. In this way any enemy spying from above or beyond would be given less visibility to estimate the strength of the Imperial army marching forward to fortify Luxonburg.

“Jarran, how goes the fortification efforts?” Creed asked, turning to face his colour sergeant. The evening rays shone on Creed’s face, outlining his grizzled and battle-scarred features.

“My Lord, the Eastern ramparts are yet to deploy the Basilisks and Griffons. Their previous engagement had cost them dearly, and they are being restored and repaired at this very moment.” Jarran replied, turning to face his Commander and friend, one whom he had went through hell and back countless times.

“Will they be ready soon enough?”

“Aye, indeed no answer can be given for that yet my Lord; however two-thirds of the tank force will be present by then, at the very least.” Jarran said as he turned and looked down the eastern stretch of the ramparts, silently counting the tanks moving about with groups of tech-adepts trailing it.

Creed nodded, turning away from his Sergeant and walking back to camp, where he will conduct another field meeting to discuss and further refine their defence efforts with other officials. As they strode through the camp, the sun finally sank beneath the far horizon, throwing the defenders of St. Jallen Battery into a much gloomier and darker world.

“You hear it, Elen?” Leoln asked as he shifted nervously in his crouched position, casting a sideway glance at Elen who was also crouched on the floor, checking his lasgun. Both of them were in a sandbag pit dug in front of a Griffon siege tank, its thick heavy mortar barrel rising high above them. Their platoon was separated, dividing themselves into two sandbag pits.

“Not unless I’m as deaf as a Ratling and dumb as a Grox.” Elen replied, momentarily irritated at the unnecessary question as he finally concluded his checks and looked up at Leoln, who seemed so tense he would snap at any moment.

Leoln chuckled and relaxed, realising his comrade’s glare at him as Elen stood up, brushing dirt off his pants. Leoln joined him, both surveying the scene before them.

It was as though the arrival of Chaos forces at Luxonburg signaled the beginning of a storm; however Elen knew better that this was no other storm, but a warp storm. Mauve, purplish clouds roiled the skies ahead, vile tendrils of blight creeping forward, reaching nearer to St. Jallen. The distant thumps of artillery fire and explosions could be heard, along with a lighter decibel of droning, its lyrics lost in the wave of nausea if someone tried to discern it.

The town of Luxonburg was alight in many places; the greatest of all was its main town hall; its tall tower already blasted down to half its height with many fires raging on it. An explosion ripped the building apart, drawing surprised gasps from the soldiers on St. Jallen and causing them to shield their eyes as a dazzling white light engulfed the building, reducing it to smoking ruins.

It was another minute before Elen felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck as a light breeze began to pick up from behind him, tugging playfully at his sleeve. He gave Leoln a look and could see the apprehension in his friend’s eyes. Both knew that the breeze was not a natural occurrence, but a foul spell siphoning indefinable energies from the depths of the Eye of Terror, calling on entities of unimaginable power.

The breeze grew in strength as the hairs on the back of their necks stood on end, until, as if on cue, an unseen shockwave was sent forth from the distant battlefield ahead of them, washing over them in a warm, sickly embrace. Immediately after, the breeze, prickling sensation and shockwave dissipated.

Several soldiers of Elen’s platoon staggered back, coughing out blood. However their plight was unseen by a much worse event.

A loud, booming and powerful roar emanated from the bloodied crust of Luxonburg. Wild traces of incandescent energy and erratic lightning flashed before Elen’s face, throwing the impossibly gloomy and dark mid day into a state of blinding light and utter darkness, alternating between the two as a pillar of bone and blood burst forth from the ground, throwing up gouts of brackish ichor and dismembered bodies in reviled ecstasy as it thrashed violently in its new found body of flesh and blood. Thick, sharp horns rose obscenely above its head as it reared to its full height and let loose another raw howl of fury. A whip in its right hand flashed past, letting out a powerful sonic boom as it slapped the air blissfully. A swing of its left hand grasping an ornately crafted warhammer slaughtered men by the dozens.

Elen watched in horror, eyes and mouth wide open as Basilisk and Griffon tank shells exploded harmlessly off its pulsating flesh. Smaller gunfire peppered its body, without a single hint of injuring it.

The daemon roared again, raising its right hand and pointed at the St. Jallen Battery. Directly where Elen was standing.

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“Jarran, speakers on please. Come, follow me to the platform.” Creed said as he took a vox-mic from his colour sergeant’s outstretched palm and strode out of the command centre, into the impossibly blood red skies and shuddering lands of his dear planet Cadia.

He reached the command platform, which was raised around ten metres higher then the ramparts. It was Creed himself that established his command centre right out above the ramparts, for none was more staunch then him on frontline duty. Soldiers and tanks ran and rolled about beneath his platform, reaching their positions before hunkering down into their sandbag pits and parking spots. Chanting tech adepts applied unguents and incense paper onto tank hulls, while the usual huddle of servitors huddled around the vehicles conducting final routine checks.

Creed allowed himself another moment admiring his milling army as he strolled along the platform. After another minute, he cleared his throat. Standing absolutely straight and professionally poised, Creed gave his final speech before the inevitable battle.

“Defenders of St. Jallen. Men of honour. Sons of Cadia. Stand tall, stand proud.” Creed began, looking down at the turned heads looking back at him. Creed smiled reassuringly, splitting his grim features, revealing an impeccable set of white teeth.

“We have come from many paths. But we reach the same destination. The premise we stand on now has been our only bastion for hundreds of miles, overlooking not only the plains of Luxonburg, but the skies and space above.” He continued, ignoring a sudden shudder of the earth which sent light grains of rockrete skittering off the ramparts. A wild blue lightning whipped across the sky above him, momentarily illuminating the area

“Has the thought of failure, defeat and death ever come to your minds, fellow men of Cadia?” Creed said, casting an inquiring glance across the soldiers as he began to pace across the platform, hands behind his back, elegantly placing a foot before the other.

Expectant faces looked back up at him. Some showed courage, some displayed apprehension, but strength still evident in their eyes.

“If so, fear not. For there can be no failure in this, only in the ultimate destruction and desecration of this place. There can be no defeat, for everyone will fight to the end, until their last dying breath. Also, there can be no death: For death is what we seek in our final moments of glory. Sons of Cadia, LET THEM FEAR US!” Creed bellowed, his loud voice booming off the distant valley walls. For a moment, even the distant explosions were drowned by the returning echoes of his shout. The explosions unfortunately returned eventually, as though a reminder of the grave situation at hand.

However, even the returning explosions and shuddering of the earth were undermine as the regiments of soldiers before Creed responded.

“AYE, THEY SHALL FEAR US!” Soldiers of the Cadian 8^th and 12th and men of the 48^th Armoured Column perched atop their tanks shouted as one. Some of them raised their lasguns high above their heads, as though cheering on each other. Others raised clenched fists, punching the air with wild enthusiasm. Others remained motionless, taking in the awe-inspiring sight of their fellow comrade in arms in such fervent state.

Creed watched on, his arms opened wide, taking in the whole scene of roaring, zealous soldier. He laughed aloud, “YES, THEY WILL DIE BEFORE US. YES, WE WILL OVERCOME THEIR SOCERY. YES, WE WILL STILL STAND!” before taking a step back, regaining his composure and giving a final salute to his men.

Casting his last gaze over his high-spirited and driven men, Creed turned and strode back into the command centre. There, he handed the vox-mic back to Jarran and resumed his planning.

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They walked past Elen, their powerful frames elegantly striding past him. Elen, along with his platoon mates watched in awe as Space Marines of light grey hue power armour walked along the ramparts, silently inspecting and muttering amongst them. Elen couldn’t help but compare his feeble looking lasgun to the Marines’ boltguns. Similarly coloured grey, the barrels of the boltguns itself were nearly measurable to a quarter of Elen’s own lasgun. Tattered yet unmistakable purity seals hung from the Marines’ armour and weapons, fluttering gently in the breeze. The Marines’ walked another twenty metres or so away from Elen before stopping. There they stood, huddled as a group looking out towards the ruins of Luxonburg. Already the retreating elements of the 48^th Armoured Column and battalions of the 12^th were seen as tiny silhouettes ahead of the ramparts, making their way back to the battery at a dreadfully slow pace. Elen was surprised, compared to the massive size that left St. Jallen days before, only a fraction of it was returning.

The soldiers in Elen’s sandbag pit were silent, many still gaping at the Space Marines who were walking back, others cleaning and preparing their equipment. The atmosphere was like any other battle; the calm before the storm. Tanks that had fortunately been prepared in time rolled into their positions, whilst tech adepts hurried after them, conducting rituals that Elen had never understood. Platoons of soldiers placed sandbags around their pits, clambering into it soon after to hunker down and get ready.

“Greetings, fellow defenders of Blesseth Cadia. I am Ragnar Blackmane, Squad leader of my fellow Space Wolves.” The nearing Space Marine called out. He stood at a staggering height of over two metres, thick black hair flowing down his back. His eyes had the intensity of a hawk, piercing yet warm at the same time. His grim features were split into a friendly smile, of which Elen and his other platoon mates smiled back.

“Hail, Mighty Space Marine. Indeed the Emperor has blessed us with aid from your mighty chapter, the Space Wolves.” Lieutenant Arl replied, rising to his feet and stretching his hand to shake the Space Marine’s.

“We have been deployed on the Easter ramparts.” Ragnar said, looking around. Elen could see his nose was twitching. He was sniffing. “And I am glad I am fighting with courageous soldiers. The Castellan’s own, they say.” He said.

“Indeed we are. Nothing is better then offering what we were made for. To fight and even die in the name of the Emperor.” Arl answered.

“Aye. The enemy would be upon us by noon, if it even matters in this state.” Ragnar said, glancing distastefully at the roiling and turbulent sky. It was a seething ceiling of boiling clouds and whipping lightning. A distant moan emanated from the plains, now shrouded in grey mist. The soil had turned blood red days ago, with nothing on the plains left distinguishable. A sweet yet sickly stench had settled on St. Jallen. The scent of Chaos.

Elen looked on into the mist. For a moment he thought he saw a massive metal figure, striding powerfully on four vast metal legs. Two huge metal arms grew out of its sides, ending in razor sharp and snapping pincers. Elen looked on, seeing a platform on the figure and squinting his eyes, attempted to discern what was moving on it.

A blood red body, skin stripped off, lay writhing in its bondages. Its head had its eyes dug out, its mouth open in a silent scream. Agony was written all over its gory face.

COME! JOIN US IN EVERLASTING ECSTACY! The body seemed to be saying to him as it faced Elen, its mouth forming the words as blood foamed out of it.

Elen looked away, doubling over and gagging. A wave of nausea hit him, both in his mouth and mind. He felt as if his brain was about to burst upon the sight of such compulsion that was not even imaginable in his worst nightmares. That wasn’t right, Elen thought.

As if knowing what had happened to Elen, Ragnar said over the loud thunders and explosions.

“Men of Cadia, Let us pray.”

Immediately the assembled soldiers got down on their knees and followed Ragnar in fervent prayer.

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“Welcome, Wolf Lord Logan Grimnar. It is with utmost relief that your forces of Space Wolves have arrived. Five companies, you say?” Lord Castellan Creed smiled as he looked up at the approaching hulking figure that was the Chapter Master of the legendary Space Wolves chapter. Thick grey hair flowed down freely off his massive armour encased shoulders, as though wild splashes of water cascading down smooth surfaces of rock.

A grizzled yet smiling face regarded Creed as he entered the command centre, for a moment appearing aloof as Logan glanced around warily at the confines of the room, sensing for potential threats. A retinue of Wolf Priests and four other Space Wolves entered the command centre, all encased in bulky Terminator armour. Jewels, trinkets and purity seals dangled and jangled off their armour, giving off metallic sounds. Their huge bulk filled much of the cram command centre, causing Imperial officials to move out of the way or be shoved accidentally.

As Logan neared, Creed couldn’t help but notice the various wolf skulls that hung on the Wolf Lord’s armour, shining dazzling white in the glare of the glow globes.

“Aye, Lord Castellan Creed. It is also with utmost anticipation that I and my brethrens rid this planet of the foul daemons that stalk the lands. What is the current situation?” The Wolf Lord replied, drawing up near Creed and with his cold blue eyes, looked straight into Creed’s gaze.

Creed nodded, obviously sharing same thoughts with the Wolf Lord. Time was of the essence now, and both sides wasted no time in formalities.

“The remaining elements of the 48^th Armoured Column and 12^th Regiment are retreating across the plains as we speak. Much of them have been lost in the battle at Luxonburg. The remaining soldiers of the 8^th and 12^th, along with the 48^th Column are now deployed along the ramparts, of which has been divided into the Eastern and Western ramparts.” Creed said without bothering to refer from the data slates and maps on the table in front of him.

“I see. I have not been briefed on your defence efforts in Luxonburg. However I wish it has proven its use well and our defence efforts in St. Jallen shall thwart any attempts of Chaos to intrude further into our land.” Logan replied, gesturing for the Wolf Priest behind him to come forward.

“This is Wolf Priest Ranek Frostheart. He and his retinue of sanctioned psykers and priests shall be inspecting your men, preventing daemonic possession and other similar heresies.” Logan said, referring to a thinner, slightly taller Space Wolf. A thick but tattered tome was clad in his right hand, an ornately crafted scepter glowing in his left. His helmet was a thicker sort, of which Creed recalled such Wolf Priests usually donning Psychic hoods for extra psychic protection, from both the enemy and their own minds’.

Creed nodded to the Wolf Priest. For a moment Creed was taken back by the bluntness of Logan. Ranek smiled back and turned, walking out of the command centre to begin conducting his inspection. Creed began to feel as though his brain was being spied upon. He shifted in his position uncomfortably as an examining hand seem to probe his memories and thoughts, sifting through ranges of past emotions and feelings, attempting to root out any thoughts of betrayal and treachery.

Men of Cadia conducting acts of heresy? Impossible! Creed thought disgustedly at himself, purging the thought away immediately.

“The enemy will be upon us by noon latest, which is two hours from now. I hope this gives you and your men enough time to get ready.” Creed said, reaching his right hand out to collect a data slate report from an Imperial officer.

“Lord Castellan, we Space Wolves are always ready. May the Emperor guide us with utmost care, as we give him our utmost devotion,” Logan replied, hefting his massive rune inscribed battleaxe in one hand and striding out of the command centre. His warriors flanked him, forming an impenetrable line of ceramite.

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“There they are,” Leoln breathed, going as low as possible behind the sandbags but still trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching enemy host. He shifted in his crouch, looking down on his lasgun to make sure it was loaded. Elen glanced down at his own, confident that his zealous maintenance on his weapon had pleased the spirit of it well enough.

“Silent…” Ragnar whispered, himself and his other hushed Space Wolves lying low in the sandbag pit. He sniffed the air, once, twice, and winced in distaste at the absolute foulness that perpetuated it.

“Don’t want to make ourselves a tasty target eh, with our noise?” A Space Wolf murmured from behind, which previous introductions had made him known as Sven Bloodhammer. He was a burly one, constantly belching and grumbling about an empty stomach. Elen and Leoln shared an amuse smirk when they heard what he said.

An uneasy silence was upon the ramparts, with an occasional soldier stifling a cough, sneeze or nausea as the minions of the foul powers neared them. A distant drone, which had increased in volume as the enemy approach had became into a chant. It was an undulating chorus of depraved voices.

Elen looked out into the swirling mist. For a moment, he thought he saw mad, cackling malicious faces, congealing and dissipating in the shrouding mist. But all presumptions were taken away when Elen finally saw the emerging forms.

At the front were zombies. Mutated, twisted parodies of Cadian troops and civilians. Phrases and mummers that were impossible to articulate came forth fluently from their parched and cracked lips, of which the Space Wolves cautioned sternly to avoid trying to discern it.

Behind their massed ranks, marched forth the once honourable and chivalrous Chaos Space Marines. Marines of the Thousand Sons, Word bearers and Death Guard marched on, pestilence and vile demeanor inscribed on their armour. Amongst the throng, spawns of Nurgle and retinues of daemonettes were present. Far behind, lurched monstrous forms of machines, twisted in impossible ways yet still mobile. Huge daemons walked side by side, as well as the Bloodthirster that Elen saw the day before. A howl emanated from a bloated daemon, of which from its disgusting form of pus and organs, Elen guessed was one of Nurgle’s.

Elen heard a snarl from behind. He turned around, expecting a fellow platoon mate of his to become possessed at any time. Instead, Elen was faced with the barred fangs of the Space Wolves, growling menacingly as they shifted uncomfortably in their position, brandishing their ornate chain swords and bringing forth their bolters. The hunger for combat was evident in their sparkling eyes.

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“They draw near…” Logan cautioned. The Great Wolf stood side by side with his Honour Guard at the side of their Rhino transports, several hundred metres away from the main command centre, in the marshalling area between the Eastern ramparts and camps. Even from their point; a hundred metres behind the ramparts, they could see the approaching enemy host, now swelling in size as the bulk of their armies came forth from the enshrouding mist. Wild cackling laughter and blasphemous chanting emanated forth from their ranks which seem to be rising out of the massive ruins of Luxonburg.

Logan smiled. He and his brethrens this day were facing the foes of the Imperium with weapons in their hands and courage in their hearts; they were true sons of Fenris. Like tradition, the outcome wouldn’t matter if they went down fighting, just like how a pack of wolves would rend and tear to the bitter end.

Logan sniffed the air, smelling the scent of fear. He looked across at his men. No, they were brimming with zealous courage ever since the day they stepped through the Gates of Mor’kai.

He looked over his shoulder, at the crouching figures of the Cadians. Yes, that was the source. Some of them had already passed out, pale faces glistening with cold sweat. Medics rush to and fro the sandbag pits and med tents, carrying paralysed forms of soldiers on stretchers.

Logan grimaced. Even before the assault, the soldiers were already falling to the adverse effects of Chaos. Logan knew foul magic was at work here, conducted from some fallen sorcerer amidst the seething throng of foes.

Logan himself was about to exhort the Cadians before the battle, however someone else took the responsibility.

“Men of Cadia! Will yourselves!” Commissar Beln bellowed as he strode across the ramparts, a stalking silhouette of absolute faith, with the hated enemies marching on as the backdrop from Logan’s point of view. Wild flashes of lightning whipped the sky, shaking the ground mere seconds after.

“This is what we have been made for! To fight and fend off the accursed enemy! What will it be for without us?” Beln continued. Logan was impressed at the commissar’s words, along with the effect it had on the soldiers. Already they were straitening their backs, nodding heads and shouting agreements to their commissar’s words.

Before Beln could continue, a low moan could be heard from the other side of the plains. Logan looked on, his trained eyes immediately falling upon the eternally hated Thousand Sons Chaos Marines. He couldn’t help but snarl in agitation at the sight of their brightly coloured helmets, the many millennia long feud between the Space Wolves and Thousand Sons running deep in his veins.

As if on cue, distant booms could be heard, along with the sudden unanimous roar of the enemy. Possessed civilians and soldiers rushed forth from their positions, hands and weapons raised in utter lunacy as they threw themselves forward.

Amongst the throng, huge daemons and machines of madness lurched forward. A Bloodthirster howled in ecstasy as it threw itself off its feet and used its powerful wings to keep itself floating in the air. It threw its head back, raising its arms high up as red balls of arcane energy was conjured within its palms. With a mighty roar, it threw its hands forward, flinging the energy balls towards St. Jallen.

Logan saw many towering pieces of black metal, nearly twice as tall as the elevated ground where he stood. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a loading platform for their troops to climb aboard to assault the ramparts itself. The very deviousness of Chaos!

Defilers and other forms of massive constructions loomed behind, bristling with weapons. Many of them had begun firing onto the ramparts.

The first impact came upon the Imperial lines. From the sky, thick, deadly globules and missiles dropped like rain upon the defenders. The sickly green globules splashed onto the ramparts, spreading its viscous liquid across the ground, onto unsuspecting soldiers. Immediately the mephitic nature of the liquid took effect; eating its way through the Cadians’ body armour, into their fresh and succulent flesh beneath. The unfortunate victims fell on their knees, thrashing about, trying in vain to shake the vile poison that was now seeping into their body through their exposed skin.

The missiles landed with impacts like planets colliding. Explosions erupted all along the front lines, tearing up huge chunks of rockrete and bodies, flinging them heedlessly into the air. Headless and limbless bodies of soldiers slapped onto the ground, causing wild shrieks of absolute terror from the throats of their comrades.

Reserve units rushed forth from the camps behind to take the place of the fallen, whilst medical teams scampered too and fro the ramparts and med tents. The deployed tanks blasted its cannons, rocking in its position before being fired again after reloading.

Still, the mass of the enemy swept on, every second bringing them nearer to the battered ramparts. The Cadians had opened fire upon them, mowing down hundreds of bodies in the first few seconds.

Logan looked on grimly, knowing full well this was merely the beginning of the attack. He could begin to feel the awesome might of the Wolf coursing through him, bloodlust and long suppressed battle fury rising to his surface. He sniffed the air, blood, death and fire all around him.

He felt his brethrens doing the same as he let loose a powerful wolf cry, which was responded by others along the ramparts, echoing off the distant valley walls.

=============================================================================

Elen glanced around. Amidst the cacophony of blasting cannons and screaming men, the Space Wolves had finally shown their true selves. Ragnar, along with his fellow Wolves had reared up to their full height, transforming into leering and threatening forms. They towered over the cowering Cadians, raising their faces to the sky as a raw howl ripped through the air from their throats. Elen felt the very ground shudder under his feet, not from projectile impacts, but from the awesome shockwave of the might of five hundred Space Wolves roaring in unison.

Their battle cry lasted for another minute, before the first of the attackers arrived at the bottom of the ramparts. Swarms of possessed and twisted men, women and children threw themselves heedlessly to the hail of las beams, clawing their way up the ramparts. The foul powers of chaos had given them the ability to scale walls with their own mutated and warped claws and tentacles that were once hands.

Elen’s heart was pounding as he saw a seething wave of sneering, haunted faces rising up the vertical walls of the ramparts. Their bodies were bent into impossible angles, bones snapping and twisting with sickening crunching sounds as they scaled the walls. The explosions around him seemed irrelevant as he readied his lasgun, targeting the nearest enemy.

“COMPANY- FIRE!” Lieutenant Arl’s powerful voice boomed across the scene, snapping Elen out of his terrified state.

“Damn, finally!” Leoln managed to utter as the lines of the Cadian 8^th, 3^rd Battalion, 2^nd Company became a hissing serpent; hundreds of lasguns discharging las beams simultaneously at the oncoming enemy horde.

Chunks of flesh and limbs flew off the ramparts that seemed to be alive, teeming with snarling mandibles, snapping claws and cackling faces. Trails of blood flew through the air, painting the walls red. Hundreds of lifeless corpses fell off the walls in the first few seconds, whilst las beams hammered on them like rain droplets. The cries of the wounded victims were of tortuous screams, reminiscent of Elen’s worst nightmares.

Elen fired into the mass, trying not to listen and notice the dead and dying around him. An explosion ripped from behind, throwing thick clouds of dirt and rockrete into the air. Men screamed in utter agony, many of which Elen found familiar. As though in response, the tank behind Elen gave a loud boom, firing its cannon at the advancing wave of Chaos. Its weapon carved a deep empty hole in the enemy’s advancing wave, which was soon filled again by more forms. Elen’s ear ached in the blast, but he still kept his finger firm on his trigger.

As Elen felled another screaming zombie to the throbbing depths below, a face of a child, no older then ten appeared from the nearing throng. It too bore similar signs of mutations, however its angelic face seem to be spared from the harsh changes. Elen spared a second’s gaze at it, fleetingly feeling a moment of sympathy for the poor child that was subjected to such a gory and undeserving death.

A face suddenly appeared before Elen, its rotten pale skin shifting as tiny worms burrowed and surfaced in it. It snarled, revealing a toothless mouth as it raised its hand bearing a bloody axe. Elen yelped in surprise as he tried to jump back. Elen knew he was too slow as the axe came down upon his neck. Eyes wide with trepidation, Elen watched as the face was blown away, followed immediately by its flailing hand dropping the axe as it lost its sense of balance. Trails of blood and brain matter flew through the air, splattering obscenely onto Elen.

Breathing hard and dazed, Elen staggered back and turned around. Like an avenging angel from the skies, Ragnar stood poised with his bolter, covering the area where Elen had left empty, pumping shell after shell into the chaotic mob.

Above the cacophony of shouting men and screaming daemons, Ragnar bellowed, “ELEN RUL! HOLD YOUR GROUND! NONE IS LOST IF YOU STAND TO GAIN! I HAVE YOUR BACK!” his eyes were firm and intent, warm assurance surging from his gaze.

Elen immediately felt his heaving chest swelling with pride. Adrenaline coursed through him as he realised what he was in this: He was a defender; an essential piece in the overall outcome of the battle, no matter how small. He gazed around, looking at his fellow Cadians fighting valiantly; shaking off the attackers no matter the thousands more that still clogged the plains below. Already mobs of enemies had clambered onto the ramparts, drawing swords, pistols and blades as they assailed the defenders.

The Space Wolves moved into action, letting off howls as they leapt into the thickest of the enemies. Their chain swords roared into life as they hacked and slashed, gristle and sinew spilling from their victims’ wounds.

A men bearing the credentials of a Cadian soldier clambered over the ramparts, drawing his combat knife similar to Elen’s and charged forward, pointing his weapon directly at Elen. With honour in his chest and courage in his heart, Elen charged, drawing his own combat knife and readied himself to slaughter his enemy before him.

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The battle had begun in earnest now. Creed had just stepped out of his command centre onto his command platform when a stray shot from the fighting below barely missed him, shattering the doorway’s ceiling above him. Flakes of rockrete drifted down, with larger chunks landing on the ground with a loud thump.

Creed knew better then to offer a prayer to the Emperor. Many a time men had died without knowing why due to such unfortunate things. Many too were his men.

For a moment Creed stood silent on his platform, the scene and carnage of the unfolding battle before him enveloping his senses. The forces of Chaos were at work here. Even well trained against psychic attacks, Creed could hear whispering echoes of tortured spirits, urging and coaxing him to lift his hand with the las pistol and aim it upon Jarral…

But Creed abolished such thoughts with the force of a Land Raider barreling through a plasteel wall. If he were to succumb to such devious influence, he would have done so many decades ago.

Explosions, screaming and shrieks resonated from the combatants below, casting wild flickering shadows of bestial forms on the ground and valley walls. The sky was blood red, its clouds now seemingly pulsating like tumours, roiling and bubbling.

Creed proceeded to the side of his command platform where he followed a flight of steps down onto the ramparts. Men were running about, some of them injured while others appeared to be full of zeal and courage. Creed stopped to let a pair of medics pass, a stretcher between them carrying a soldier screaming in agony, raising his two bloody stumps of hands in disbelief.

Creed had been in many battles but this was like no other; this was a battle of Chaos. Entities that had no measure in scalar now stalked the battlefield, and beings of indefinable power could kill the weak minded with merely a thought.

This was where Creed had placed pride in his Cadians. They were of an absolute loyal force, putting themselves in the way of Chaos before dying, heedless of how terrible it would be.

Creed continued along the ramparts, in the general direction where the Wolf Lord was. The tanks of the 48^th blasted their cannons, drawing the slightest flinch from Creed. Soldiers parted in his way, executing smart salutes before returning back to their posts. Jarran strode on at his side, exhorting the soldiers to even greater feats of bravery.

As Creed surveyed the scene, the first wave of the enemy had already befallen on the ramparts. Mounds of corpses had been piled up at regular intervals along the ramparts. Oil was poured onto them, before setting them alight into bright, incandescent flames.

The enemy seemed to be giving them a moment respite, however reports had told of them merely massing another wave, which would this time include the more lethal Chaos Marines and dreaded machines of Chaos.

The soldiers still appeared jovial however, with many still offering smiles and an occasional rabble of laughter.

Sporadic gunfire could still be heard from the Western end of the Ramparts. Creed dismissed them as mere precautionary, something Commissar Grolm was known for.

The forms of the Space Wolves Rhino transports came into sight. Several mounds of funeral pyres burned beside them, testimony to the sheer ferocity of the Wolves when they came into close combat with their foes.

A looming figure appeared beside the command Rhino, of which from his long and shaggy beard and blood slick battleaxe, Creed could tell was Logan Grimnar.

“Lord Castellan, we have stood strong against them.” The Wolf Lord bellowed across the ground towards Creed.

Both of them smiled, one revealing huge ivory fangs whilst the other an impeccable set of white teeth.

“That is good to know, however what next is as important,” Creed said, wishing the bloodlust, still evident in the Wolf’s eyes, to subside.

As if realising his mistake, the Wolf Lord snapped out of his battle trance, his wild gaze returning to his studying stare as he lowered his bolter and battleaxe. He walked towards Creed, long legs striding forward across the bloodied floor.

“Logan, I need the expertise of your Devastator Squads to take out the machines. They pack too much firepower to be ignored. Along with the degrading fact that the soldiers will realise their futile attempts at destroying it.” Creed said, giving the Wolf Lord a firm stare, expecting his orders to be fulfilled.

Logan nodded, ignoring Creed’s mistake of using Codex terms. He understood and appreciated the directness of Creed about his men onto the chaos machines. Only his Long Fangs, and possibly with proper coordination with the tanks, can take out the monstrous machines that were approaching at this very moment.

“Aye, Lord Castellan, it will be done. By the time the next wave is upon us, we will revel upon their smoldering wrecks.”

=============================================================================

Elen watched in reverent awe as Long Fangs Space Wolves went about their business of getting their weapons ready. Hoary and grim looking, they seemed intent on getting their weapons in perfect shape before the next wave of enemies arrived.

All along the ramparts, the Imperial forces were recovering from their losses on their previous defence effort. Fortunately, none of Elen’s platoon had fallen, except for a broken finger of Lieutenant Arl’s.

A burning pyre of charred corpses flickered by Elen’s sandbag pit, one which Elen tried his best not to notice the ghastly forms and faces that lay motionless. Sometimes Elen wished he didn’t notice a twitch of a still living body in that tangled mess.

Tech adepts and servitors huddled around tanks, removing blemishes on hulls and repairing damaged components within. Several tanks, including the one deployed at Elen’s sandbag pit rolled away, damaged beyond temporary repair and sent back to the hanger bays at the other side of the Battery for restoration.

Elen was just done cleaning the barrel of his lasgun when Ragnar appeared several metres before him.

From his sitting position, Elen looked up at the intimidating figure of the Space Wolf. Surprisingly the Wolf had managed to remove the blood stains and scratch marks on his armour, although deeper cuts and dents on it still remained.

The Space Marine seemed to be in deep conversation with Lieutenant Arl. Ragnar had his hands pointing out into the plains beyond, gesturing with circulating fingers and stabbing the air soon after as if with contempt.

Lieutenant Arl frowned, as though momentarily disagreeing with what the Space Marine said.

However a quick mutter from Ragnar soon made him change his mind. Arl nodded and walked over to Elen’s huddled platoon.

“Men.” He said, standing still and placing his hands casually on his hips.

The men immediately snapped to discipline silence, casting wondering glances at what their lieutenant was going to say.

“We have received orders from Wolf Lord Grimnar himself. We are to assist him and his Wolves to board the main Black Tower; one which Nodabba is believed to be residing within. Even if it takes us through the next wave and into his lair.”

The silence that followed was of a brooding atmosphere.

Already some of them had began praying, asking for divine protection in their newly assigned mission. Some still stared at disbelief at the Lieutenant, as though being betrayed by being sent on a suicide mission. Some thought of speaking up, but the menacing glares and fingering of their bolters of the Space Wolves standing behind Arl made them think twice.

Elen merely stared on, already aware of the horrors that awaited in the Black Tower, one of the many that would be used to assault the ramparts. Already leering mechanical faces of utter lunacy could be seen through the thick mist that had been present throughout the invasion. Massive creatures on robotic legs, crab like monsters and Black Towers were vaguely identifiable.

“When the Wolf Lord gives the go, we follow after them in. A reserve company will replace our positions.” Arl concluded, giving his men a gaze that pierced everyone of them into their soul, encouraging them to seize this chance to prove their worth.

The men nodded back, some giving shaky affirmatives whilst others looked away, already contemplating their eventual final hour; for some, their finest hour.

Arl smiled back before turning his back on Elen’s platoon and walking to the next, with Ragnar and his Wolves trailing him.

As the Lieutenant walked away, a tank rumbled into position above Elen. Elen looked up, recognizing it as a Basilisk, its long and thick barrel rising high above them.

As though on cue, booming sounds could be heard from the distance. Elen, along with everyone else immediately got into position, the first two minutes or so a cacophony of shuffling feet, revving tank engines and loading and locking of armaments.

The men stared out into the mist, soon seeing lumbering machines of madness coming forth, as though a rift was open to allow such insane structures of malicious architecture to spawn.

Defilers, Black Towers and corrupted Land Raiders were of the enemy’s force. Their hulls pulsated with an unholy aura. Organs and tiny figures writhed on their platforms. Deformed servitors, some sprouting an additional head or limb, still clung lifelessly onto their nests, manning guns and batteries that had long been damaged beyond repair.

A howl emanated amongst the machines, one which everyone by now knew was of the Bloodthirster. Some men shuddered, unable to cope with the sheer mental power the entity before them held.

“Men.” The Lord Castellan’s voice came over vox-speakers along the ramparts. “We let them come.”

============================================================

The second wave smashed into the Imperial lines with no less ferocity then the first. This time, the attack seemed more organised. Columns of troops marched fearlessly behind the massive machines, banners dedicated to their foul gods fluttering in the wind. Tank shells and las beams exploded and bounced harmlessly off their hulls.

As the machines got closer, cries of sadness and utter shock ran out from the Cadians’ mouths. Even the Space Wolves gasped in disbelief at the vile scene before them.

Perched atop the hulls of the machines were captured Cadians, both civilians and soldiers. They were tied down, arms stretched wide as diseased organisms crawled through their skins. They screamed in agony, many already dead, their innards exposed revealing dripping blood and organs.

As though sensing their disbelief, the insane cackling from the machines grew louder, relishing at the Cadians’ dismay. However the Cadians were not to give up so easily, and strengthened their salvoes of fire with renewed vigour.

Although useless against the relentlessly advancing machines, the tank shells and occasional potshots of las beams tore out chunks of enemy infantry. However no matter how big the explosion, many more still seemed to take their place.

Elen had switched his aiming to the figures that ran along the lengths of the machines. Some of them manned guns, while others ran around performing reparation duties.

Elen watched in satisfaction as a victim of his fell, flailing in the air as he plummeted down onto the ground below.

“Elen! We make our way now to the Central Ramparts!” Leoln called out, snapping Elen out of his shooting stance as the rest of his platoon began making their way towards the central ramparts. The Wolves were already far ahead, along with Lieutenant Arl.

Elen just had time to watch his victim get trampled beneath the hordes of its own side before he turned away to join his platoon.

Elen managed to see the reserve company take his own place as he ran along the ramparts, looking at other soldiers huddled down into their own sandbag pits whilst firing away. Tanks rocked in their positions, blasting their cannons. More then once, Elen had to stop to allow medics carrying wounded soldiers away from their pits, writhing in pain atop their blood soaked stretchers.

Soon, they reached the Central ramparts where the Great Wolf Lord himself stood, flanked by his bodyguards. They were huge, even taller and more powerful looking then Ragnar and his men. They wore trinkets of all sorts, dangling and jangling off their armour as they ran and moved. Several squads of Long Fangs stood behind him, their bulky weapons charged and ready.

The Central ramparts was a circular podium, slightly jutting out of the straight line that the Eastern and Western ramparts were made along. Once, it used to be a platform where an official could address the assembled crowed below in a more glorious occasion. Now, it would be where the Imperial forces would meet Noddaba’s Black Tower head on, charging into its depths to dispose the foulness within.

As Elen’s company assembled, the loud voice of the Wolf Lord could be heard above the cacophony of cannon blasts, shouting men and explosions.

“It is there, coming straight for us! When the ramp lowers, we charge in!”

“AYE!” The assembled troops shouted in unison.

Elen stood in his position, playing with the safety catch of his las beam nervously. Leoln stood at ease beside him, ruffling through the contents of his backpack.

“What you doing?” Elen asked, leaning over too look.

“Nothing, just looking for that necklace she gave…” Leoln said before pulling out a gold tinted necklace, with a figure of a man sitting on a golden throne as a pendant.

“Better to wear it in case we meet, eh?” Leoln said as he lowered his neck to wear the necklace.

Elen nodded, wishing he had something similar to present if he was to die in this mission.

The men waited with baited breath as the Black tower loomed nearer, revealing repulsive hieroglyphs and pulsating iconography on its surface. Dead corpses writhed in its bonds on the structure, screaming in agony as its soul burned forever in the Warp. Thick chains running along the sides of the tower began to move as a black ramp lowered from the front of the tower. A sudden wave of nausea hit Elen as many other men doubled over, coughing out phlegm and blood. The stench coming from within the Black Tower was of dried corrupted corpses mingled with the sickly sweet scent of Chaos, and Elen, for a moment, was hesitant to step into that structure.

It revealed a yawning mouth, as though alive with brackish ichor oozing out of the ceiling, dripping down onto the blood soaked floor. Unidentifiable crawling organisms writhed on the floor, neither alive nor dead. Beyond, darkness beckoned as a deep, throaty laughter sounded its way through the darkness.

“MEN OF CADIA, SPACE MARINES, ATTACK!” The Wolf Lord bellowed, raising his battleaxe high above his head and charging into the depths of the Black Tower.

=============================================================

“They’ll teleport out, you say? And what of our men?” Lord Castellan Creed frowned as he turned to face his colour sergeant Jarran Kell. They stood by the Space Wolves’ Rhinos, no one else in sight except servitors and passing medics and soldiers. They had seen the Wolf Lord and his retinue off, along with the men under Lieutenant Arl, swarming into the ruinous depths of Noddaba’s Black Tower.

No matter how hard the booming of the tanks shook the ground, the powerful shockwaves of it were ignored by Creed.

“Yes My Lord. It appears that they will attempt to silence the enemy from the head, by killing Nodabba. It also appears that by Noddaba’s willingness to lure them into his Black Tower, he should be thinking likewise.” Jarran voiced his assumptions. Apart from his professionally well composed poise, his subtle tone and creased eye brows betrayed his anger within.

Creed was the same, if not even more furious. He stood rigid, ignoring the screaming of wounded men as they were carried past. His folded his arms across his chest, looking ponderingly down onto the ground, slightly obscuring his lividly red face. To a certain extent, he admired the Great Wolf’s courage. However his courage was also at the expense of his men. Creed was well aware that Force Commanders were given the authority to requisition any Imperial Forces within their battlefield to their own use. Creed himself had done so many times; however he was utterly shock at the way in which Logan treated his men.

Creed also knew that for Imperial forces not to comply with Force Commanders’ requisitions, exemplary execution was due. A very subtle part of how the Imperium works indeed, even when constantly embroiled with conflict.

Like lambs to slaughter! Like cannon fodder! Creed thought to himself.

No, that is not right. Whatever the Wolf Lord had in mind, it is for the good of the battle. That is all I shall rely upon now. Creed thought to himself again, feeling slightly more reassured. In fact, he felt foolish for thinking the Wolf Lord by committing such heinous acts.

“These...Wolves,” Creed said, looking up at Jarran. “It matters not now on what they do. I shall only pray that our men make it back out alive, with their faith and courage still intact,” He said, casting his gaze over to the Central ramparts, where the last figures of the Cadians were advancing into the gloom of the Black Tower.

=============================================================================

The battle outside seemed to recede away as they treaded ever deeper into the Black Tower. The booming of the tanks soon became muffled sounds as though the very walls of the structure they were between was…warping the sounds, playing with the wave lengths of it to its own sick harmony of twisted notes, along with his sanity too.

Elen snapped out of his trance, raising his lasgun and momentarily glancing around, looking for possible threats. He felt a nudge in his mind, as though someone had rummaged through his mind and pulled the sane part of it back to the front before leaving his mind, slamming the door closed.

Elen whirled around, facing the tall and wise looking Wolf Priest. The Wolf Priest gazed knowingly back at him, before nodding and striding further down the column of soldiers. The Wolf Priest stopped occasionally beside soldiers to conduct similar rituals on them, sometimes causing the Cadian to gasp, stumbling out of his Chaos induced trance.

They had ventured several hundred metres into the gloom of the Tower, the Cadians donning their tri-domes and mark XI re-breathers. The stench was so foul that Elen could still taste the tainted air that his re-breather cleansed. He knew that it was a mere side effect, another one of those mind tricks that the scent of Chaos usually played on its victims.

The space in the Tower was cavernous, as though trekking into the depths of the uncharted mountains of the poles. Black, gelatinous liquid dripped off stalactites that were skull white, as though crafted from the bones of hapless victims of past incursions. Pools of dark coloured liquid covered spots on the ground, giving out sucking sounds as men lifted their feet from it.

Though awed at the sheer size of space in the Black Tower, Elen was not surprise as he knew vile sorcery conjured the space here, bending the laws of physics to its own twisted will as it drew energy from the immaterium and cast it onto the walls of this arcane structure he was in.

Elen watched in slight cautiousness as black figures appeared in the furthest reaches of their torches and Marines’ mounted shoulder lamps. From this distant, the figures seemed to be bobbing up and down, as though suspended on elastic strings. They seemed harmless at first, though beginning to appear from all corners, including the distant and sightless ceiling. Elen couldn’t discern if those figures were men or animal; alive or not.

Soldiers muttered nervously as they shared uneasy glances with each other.

Soon, the column of marching men stopped, as ordered by the Wolf Lord.

Ragnar soon appeared striding down the side of the column. He stopped by Lieutenant Arl, whispering something into his ear.

Arl nodded, casting his gaze to his assembled company. He raised a hand to adjust the micro bead tuner frequency on his wrist, before looking back to his men.

“Men, this is Lieutenant Arl.” The Lieutenant‘s gruff voice crackled in Elen’s ear. “Possible sightings of the enemy. Orders from the Wolf Lord to turn off all portable lighting devices, mounted or not. Don’t want to go attracting them, eh? Over.” He said as he switched off his lasgun mounted torch beam.

Soon, cones of light became darkness as soldiers did what they were told. Bit by bit, the Imperial column of light winked into darkness in the gloomy cavern.

“Great…more darkness in this darkness.” Leoln muttered beside Elen as they were plunged into absolute blackness, standing awkwardly in their lines as they waited further orders. The soldiers remained quiet, as instincts told them enemies were nearby. The only sounds were the occasional muffled cough and dripping liquid from the surroundings.

The silence was unnerving. At least, for normal men.

Logan was relying on his sense of smell for directions.

“Logan, what are these things? They seem…warped by dimension.” Lars Ulrik the Slayer, one of the Wolf Lord’s most trusted Wolf Guard Terminator voiced his concern beside the Wolf Lord.

“Yes, they are” Logan replied, sniffing the air once more. He felt almost as relaxed as if the lights were still on. Space Wolves were trained on days deprived of their sense of sight and even sound, only relying on their sense of smell for survival. Logan himself had been in missions where only his sense of smell mattered, being thrown in total darkness against unseen enemies.

“What are they?” the Wolf Guard asked, slight tension evident in his voice as he strained to locate the flow of the enemy.

Logan glanced around in the darkness. Even in this place that was void of light, Logan, from many centuries of training and battle, was able to detect faint traces of movement, both in the air currents and pressure. Complementing with his enhanced sense of smell, he was soon able to paint a vague mental picture of his surroundings.

“They come from the far walls and ceiling. High pressure from certain areas indicates that there are holes in the walls and ceiling, where they flow out from. Their constantly fluctuating air currents and sweet acrid scent around them indicate they are of Tzeentch. And they are nearing as I speak.”

For a moment Ulrik was awed by the Wolf Lord’s perception, however he pushed the feeling aside. He was the leader of one of the greatest Space Marine chapter after all, why shouldn’t he possess such abilities, and even more?

“Very well. Shall we set up a defensive perimeter?” Ulrik asked as he prepared to signal to his battle brothers the order.

“Yes, immediately.” Logan managed to utter before the first signs of attack ripped through the men.

Unknowing of the approaching wave of enemies, the Cadians were left exposed to their rending claws and gripping talons of death. Scores of men died in the onslaught, including several Space Marines. No one fired their weapons, fearing they may end up striking down their own comrades.

Brief screams were immediately muted, replaced by the thuds of the sound of falling bodies and equipment, some almost undetectable.

As though on cue, light from an unknown source flooded into the red soiled cavern, revealing the vast space they were in. The ceiling and walls of the cavern stretched nearly two kilometres where they stood to all sides. Craters and pillars of the same soil dotted the alien landscape. Some of the craters were big enough for a whole platoon to huddle into, whilst some pillars were nearly twice as tall as the Space Marines. Bones and disemboweled corpses lay scattered, as though the creator of the landscape took pleasure at such a perverse form of decorating his domain.

The Imperials were also shocked on the sight of their dead and dying comrades. The lay on the blood soaked ground paralysed; unmoving and silent. Their mouths were wide open, some seemed as though they had their jaws dislocated and long ugly gashes ran along their bodies, drawing out blood and organs.

Only their eyes remained wide open and blinking, tears of agony streaming down their cheeks; the only testament to their still living forms.

It was like nothing even the Space Wolves had seen before. Men mutilated to such degrees without making the slightest sound! What of the excruciating pain they must be feeling now along with the inability to utter a word!

It was only when they recovered from their shock and when they looked around dumbly to realise the disappearance of their foes. They left as silently as they came.

However, it was not the worst sight the Imperials had yet to witness. A clear line of Space Marines stood at the other end of the cavern, their power armour in deep contrast with the gory surroundings. The curve horns and spikes of their helmets unsettlingly displayed their allegiance. No, they were nothing but Space Marines. They were the Thousand Sons.

It was Logan’s booming voice that broke the first unsettling silence.

“MEN! TAKE COVER BEHIND THE PILLARS AND CRATERS! WE WILL SEND EVERY ONE OF THEM BACK TO HELL!”

=============================================================

Elen’s heart pounded in his chest as he sought cover amidst the sudden dispersal of Cadians and Space Wolves. He had his eyes on the running figure of Leoln ahead of him, who was making a dash to a crater where two other Space Wolves were jumping into. A throaty roar that was the battle cry of the Thousand Sons reverberated throughout the cavern, sending rock particles and bone fragments rattling eerily on the soil and a shiver down Elen’s spine.

As Elen leapt into the crater he managed to catch a glimpse of the Chaos Marines. The foul servants of Chaos had begun their advance across the blood soaked soil of the alien planet’s surface that seemed to exist entirely within this Black Tower. From this distance, the brightly ornate power armour of the Thousand Sons was visible, wild and vivid in the glare of the light. Their bright strips of yellow and blue helmet dresses was a stark contrast to their velvet blue coloured armour.

In the crater, Elen cautiously raised his head slightly above the ridge of the crater, sighting along the edges. The Thousand Sons had broken into a run, their long and powerful legs striding effortlessly across the ground, carrying them through the air, covering almost half the distance between themselves and the Imperial lines within seconds. Many had their bolters and weapons raised in bloodlust and battle fury, all craving for the morsels of bodies to slaughter and mutilate to their desire.

“Steady…” one of the Space Wolf in the crater insinuated, well aware of the nearly overwhelming scent of fear the two cowering Cadians beside him were emanating. His blood too was pounding, but for a different reason entirely. The chance for the ultimate sacrifice and execution of the Thousand Sons was at hand! He had to suppress the urge to let a howl rip from his throat.

The Space Wolf lowered his hand onto his belt dispenser before handling a krak grenade into a throwing position. Elen looked about, noting other Space Wolves and Cadians preparing their weapons and taking aim. Elen and Leoln did the same, agreeing to pick the same target that seemed to be a sorcerer, holding a runic festooned staff in one hand and a massive corrupted bolter in the other.

The Imperials opened fire upon the command of their commander.

“FIRE!” The Wolf Lord bellowed, not bothering to cover the vengeful tone in his voice.

The air between both sides became a patchwork of las beams, bolter shells and shrapnel. The firing of the weapons of the Cadians and Space Wolves combined gave an unprecedented level of noise, the explosions echoing off the distant walls and ceiling of the cavern.

Elen fired his lasgun, scoring a direct hit on the sorcerer’s right eye. Instead of expecting the figure to at least stumble and lose his bearings, his las beam merely passed straight through the Chaos Marine, leaving white swirling smoke where the beam had hit the target.

Elen gasped in surprise at the sorcerer as the seemingly unharmed Chaos Marine turned his head to face directly at Elen. Several other bolter shells, shrapnel and las beams found its mark too on the sorcerer’s form, though disappearing through the sorcerer as Elen’s las beam did.

The Thousand Sons were closing in at alarming speeds on the Imperial lines. Cadians and Space Wolves alike gasped aloud in amazement and horror at what their lethal weapons did to the seemingly ethereal Thousand Sons. It all simply passed through their targets, leaving nothing else but a swirling white smoke that drifted away into the air.

Elen looked on in absolute horror as the first of the Chaos Marines closed in on him, the imposing figures of them raising their weapons of power axes and swords in their hands and sending it down towards him. Elen closed his eyes, feeling tears flowing out of it. This was how it was going to end, he thought.

Other soldiers of similar fates gave out their final battlecries and cries of terror, soon becoming silent.

=============================================================================

Elen sat there for another minute or so in the ensuing silence, feeling a mingled trickle of sweat and tears flowing down his face. A familiar voice made him open his eyes for a moment, glancing around foolishly and blinking away the tears.

“Elen, open your eyes, they’re just apparitions! Ha-ha!” Leoln said, his jovial laughter following soon after.

Elen turned to face his friend who was doubled over with laughter, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. The Space Wolves remained impassive, standing up to climb out of the crater. They had been sullied by a trick of Chaos. The Cadians and Space Marines were already regrouping where they first dispersed, under the command of Logan and orders from Lieutenant Arl.

Elen was puzzled. The past few minutes had been like a nightmare, nothing more. Still, he was glad to be alive.

Elen was about to climb out of the crater when he suddenly heard a booming laughter. It was a throaty cackle, so deep and unnerving that Elen almost didn’t dare to turn his head to face the source of it.

Heads turned in unison towards the far end of the cavern, where the Thousand Sons had stood. Their eyes fell upon a silhouetted figure of staggering height standing in a crevice on the cavern wall several metres high, with a backdrop of misty, grey haze drifting through the crevice.

Elen’s heart nearly froze at what he heard next.

“Nodabba…” the Space Wolf beside him murmured, casting a sidelong glance to his Wolf Lord.

The Wolf Lord had his eyes firmly planted on Nodabba, his mind already thinking on how to best eradicate his target.

A moment of tense silence followed the laughter, both sides glaring at each other across the alien landscape. The Cadians were getting back into their columns, casting nervous glances at the figure.

“Men, keep vision on him. Long Fangs, stay in the rear and cover our backs. Everyone, advance.” The Wolf Lord ordered as he began walking towards Nodabba.

The Space Wolves began carrying out their orders dutifully. With their prey so close at hand, many couldn’t stop from snarling, their nostrils closing and inflating with a predator’s signature.

Lieutenant Arl, though perplexed with the Great Wolf’s order, gave the signal for the Cadians to march.

They were halfway across the cavern when the figure raised his arms, muttering ancient chants of chaos.

He was conjuring a spell.

Immediately, the cavern rumbled to life. Shinning bone stalactites shivered out of their sockets and crashed to the ground, shattering and flinging razor-sharp shards everywhere.

Soldiers and Marines shifted in their positions, attempting to avoid the crashing spikes. More spikes fell, impaling men. They howled in agony as the spikes and shards dissolved into their skin, melting and burning away their flesh.

The victims trashed about in their spots, unable to move out of the way from more dropping spikes and eventually being buried and pierced by a rain of needles.

Nodabba, finally satisfied with what he saw, took a step out into the light.

What struck Elen most was the opulence of his bright pink corrupted power armour. Eldar gems, Ork heads and even medals of Imperial officers hung on his armour. His shoulder pads were of gleaming gold, though it couldn’t have been gold, for it was constantly shifting, reminding Elen of the currents of the warp. More then once Elen could swear he spotted a leering face or tortured soul sifting through it.

Surprisingly, Nodabba held an unknown weapon that could only be described as a crooked and gnarled brown staff in his hands. Its top ended in a leering silver skull with glowing eye sockets, whilst its bottom half was a curve blade with serrated edges. Yet again, what foul powers can he conjure just with that staff?

His face was surprisingly smooth, pale white with a pair of eyes and a nose that saw and smelled through slits. His lipless black mouth was smiling, revealing festering organisms within.

“SURRENDER NOW OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE EMPEROR WHOM YOU BETRAYED.” Logan’s powerful and commanding voice boomed.

Nodabba chuckled, “Who is the Emperor? What is his wrath? Why did I betray him?”

Before Logan could reply, Nodabba leapt into the air, as though on invincible wings. He traveled through the air for the remaining two hundred metres and flew straight into the column of Cadians.

Elen watched in horror as Nodabba landed on the wide-eye soldiers, moving his staff in swift, controlled motions that spoke of immense skill and experience. He had both hands on his weapon, eyes intent on the victims to slay in front of him.

Soldiers raised their hands, attempting to use their lasguns to block the blows in vain. They fell under a stroke of the staff, or a flick of the blade. Limbs dropped and heads rolled, soldiers grasping torn muscled and ripped bodies.

Seeing the massacre unfolding in front of them, the Space Wolves wove into action.

“Men, fall back- get behind the Long Fangs!” Lieutenant Arl ordered frantically as he lifted a wailing soldier with two bloody stumps that were hands onto his shoulder.

“Let’s go!” Leoln shouted as he grabbed Elen by the shoulder and shove him ahead.

Elen ran amongst many other soldiers, occasionally stepping out of the way to avoid a charging Space Wolf.

Elen felt his hair stand on end as a cry from behind rooted him to the spot.

Elen turned around, looking down on Leoln’s body. His head was blasted open at the side, with brain matter oozing out. His body bore numerous other gashes, spreading wider by the second as more blood pooled out.

=============================================================

“NO!” Elen cried in frustration. The lines of the Long Fangs were no more then fifteen metres away!

As though sensing his anguish, Nodabba laughed aloud, rocking the whole cavern, causing stalactites to sway dangerously above.

Blinking back tears of sadness, Elen raised his head, looking at the Chaos Host. He was in a dance of death, twirling through the Blood Claws as they desperately leapt into combat with him. Space Wolves fell like trees being snapped, their roars of anger and howls of anguish echoing off the cavern walls. The Wolf Lord was off to a side speaking to several Long Fangs. The Long Fangs nodded and sprinted away towards various points in the cavern and planted what Elen thought were boxes of tools at first.

Upon closer inspection, Elen discovered them to be demolition packs, each counting down to its final detonation after a Long Fang activated it and went to another location to plant another charge.

The Wolf Lord was now speaking to a huddled group of Wolf Priests. They were arranged in a circle, placing metal devices onto the ground. Several more arcane mechanisms and automated contraptions were laid out.

Amidst the violent fighting and brutal slaying, Elen realised what was the ultimate plan of the Wolf Lord, along with the fate of the Cadians.

Stern training and intuition had made Elen thought it to be the best of choices, for the better of the battle. However instincts whispered vengefully to him of the Space Wolves forsaking them, of them abandoning him, the Lord Castellan’s own men to the twisted desires of Nodabba and whatever else in this accursed Black Tower.

Elen had to make a judgment call. He could either die like a grox in a slaughterhouse, trapped with no way out, or, die like what his training to become a soldier of Cadia had taught him all along: To die glorious and without shame.

Elen made his choice. He lay his lasgun down beside Leoln’s corpse, detaching a frag grenade from his waist to place in his hand and extricating the grenades from Leoln’s waist to attach them to his own. He began to run towards the deadly swirling melee. More Space Wolves fell around the Chaos Lord as their brethrens tried to pull them to safety.

Elen was nearing the fighting, a cacophony of grunts, exhortations and the mad cackle of Nodabba loud in his ears. For once, his heart was not pounding in the face of imminent danger.

Ceramite armour knocked and shoved him around in the circle of fighting. Through moving limbs and swaying bodies, Elen caught an occasional sight of his target. He appeared as deadly as ever, effortlessly deflecting blows and parrying strikes as easy as returning them.

“BEACONS UP- INTO PORT ZONE!” a Space Wolf’s voice roared through the din.

Immediately, Elen felt the surge of bodies around him recede, leaving him glaring hatefully at the Chaos Lord.

Nodabba smiled menacingly back, his face slick with blood. He seemed to be thinking of what the puny human in front of him was up to.

With a vengeful roar, Elen threw himself on the Chaos Lord, scrambling up his side.

The Chaos Lord looked on in amusement, beginning to laugh at the foolishness of the human.

Elen took his chance when the damned thing opened his mouth.

The Chaos Lord stopped laughing immediately as he realised what had happened. For a moment, Elen saw a glint of fear pass through his eyes as he looked down upon his mouth that was clenched shut with Elen’s hand pointing a las pistol straight at it. His other hand was wrapped around Noddaba’s armour in a firm grip.

Three.

Elen felt a sudden surge of mental strength willing him to rip his hand off the Chaos Lord. He felt his bones bend and muscles tear as an invincible force tried to pry him loose. Elen spat out blood and held on.

Two.

Elen fought to remain conscious as his shoulder was dislocated, the stress growing every second. Blood was flowing freely out of his nose and ears, but he willed himself to hold on.

One.

The grenade within Noddaba’s mouth detonated, along with the waist of grenades on Elen’s battered body. The Chaos Lord had only managed to experience a split second of being obliterated before being consume in a ball of heated plasma.

As though on cue, the demolition charges detonated.

Lieutenant Arl had only managed to utter a surprised gasp as a wall of white flame engulfed him and his company of soldiers.

Creed looked up.

The sky was clearing. Above the battling forces on the ramparts, the blood red sky was dissipating to reveal a pleasant hue of light blue. Distant winks in the sky suggested other battles in space.

A low moan could be heard from where Noddaba’s Black Tower was. Riveted plates along it expanded, stretching into extreme degrees before exploding, blasted outwards into the sky.

With their leader lost and the immensely soul wrenching psychic death scream that followed, the Chaos forces immediately lost their sense of reality. Many fell dead; others dropped their weapons and fled, only to fall soon after being fired down hatefully. The few remaining Chaos Marines knew all hope was lost as they went into their suicide charges, but were gunned down mercilessly.

It was over.

Creed fell to his knees, emotion taking a whole on him. Jarran stood respectfully to one side, admiring the victory.

Creed prayed.

Lord of Humanity;, saviour of mankind,

Once Chaos came, once we triumph;

God- Emperor, your salvation has finally arrived.

===