Fighting With Faith- 48^th

The command room was in a bustle. Various other messengers, commanders and Imperial officials ran along the outer perimeter of the circular room, handling various data slates and notes. Several were deep in conversation, every gesture enforced with purpose and power.

Tactician Abjax of the Asat Guard prowled through the shifting throng, glancing up occasionally to sight a servo skull buzzing by, recording and monitoring the ongoing operations.

For once, Abjax felt momentarily relived, the heavy burden of offering assistance to the Commissar on the overall running of the battle was demanding. What he wanted now was just a quiet, purposeful stroll around the bunker, resting and soothing his tired mind.

The bunker shook again, sprinkling dust and flecks off wall onto the crowd beneath. The Basilisks were still not letting up, constantly pounding the surroundings of the warehouse, providing adequate cover for the returning Chimera transports.

The air smelled of sweet incense, thick and heavy. The noon shift had just started, and the priests had just applied their daily dose of oil and unguents.

“Abjax! Come and see this…” a wide eyed messenger whom Abjax knew as Frolmin scurried towards him.

Sensing his urgency, Abjax quickly made his way over to the centre of the bunker, where a huge hololith dominated the circular platform. Green and red blips flashed continuously, revealing friendly and hostile units. Fortunately, the outer perimeter of the warehouse seemed secure enough. However the mass concentration of red dots in the Upper levels of the warehouse was distressing.

“There…” Frolmin whispered, pointing towards the brightest spot of red.

Abjax took it all in a glance. He easily spotted where Leetol was, along with the bulk of the assaulting units, in the central chamber that dominated the first floor of the warehouse. He also recognised additional friendly units entering from doorways 7 to 9.

“They’re crawling through the ducts and vents. Tyranids, definitely.” Abjax thought out aloud. “This must be relayed to them. Their short range scanners will be unable to pick them out; it’s too compact and hot in there.”

“Aye Tactia. So be it.” Frolmin replied and raised his wrist to his mouth. “All units, advised on mass Tyranid contacts entering from above. Repeat, mass enemy contact from above. Operations out.”

Done with his work, Frolmin glanced at Abjax helplessly. Both knew what each other was thinking.

After a long, agonising silence that seemed to last an eternity, Abjax sighed and spoke, “Just pray for them, Frolmin, the Emperor’s grace is needed here…”

“Benlian!” radio operator Palton of Bel Squad yelled from behind a fallen platform.

Benlian wrenched his combat knife out of the rib cage of a screaming cultist and turned around, dashing towards Palton.

Squad Bel had stalked through the wreckage of the Generatorium and finally emerged at the backlines of the Tyranid force. Several squads were already reinforcing the position and they were raking a bloody hole in the enemy forces from behind.

“Status.” Benlian said.

“Operations have just advised a mass of assumed Tyranid organisms coming down from above.” Palton said, one hand holding the mouth piece of the vox caster, the other clutching fearfully at his lasgun, obviously shaking hard.

“Shit.” Benlian cursed.

“What’s going on?” Kennil said as he dropped by, stooping low to avoid being seen.

“Mass enemy units dropping from top.” Benlian said curtly.

Kennil, momentarily surprised, raised an eyebrow to Palton.

“Which means we either pull back, or get ready for them to drop on us.” Benlian said impatiently, glancing warily at the looming, darkened ceiling. Sporadic gunfire and explosions lit the edges of the roof, and Benlian wasn’t sure if what he saw was merely an illusion or a shadow of something far more sinister.

“Throne…” Kennil moaned, nursing a bruised wrist of his as he contemplated the situation.

Benlian was about to give the call to fall back and regroup with the main force, but was stop short as hundreds of shrieking, clawing horrors leapt down from above.

“OPEN FIRE! ENEMY FROM ABOVE!” was all Benlian could say.

Fighting With Faith- Forty-Seventh Entry

The battle was at its height now; there was no doubt about it. Starut could feel, see and taste the battle lust and rage all around him now. Unrecognisable limbs lay gored and twisted in obscene angles on the ground. Some were cleanly cleaved off; whilst others were still attached to its dying owner in tattered shreds. A mixture of blood; black, red and the colours in between pooled the ground.

Stuart nearly slipped on the slick ground as he scrambled through the bloody melee, hacking and sawing relentlessly. Everywhere he turned, a head was there to be sliced off.

Starut roared in jubilation as he made his tenth kill, firing his pistol at point blank range into the mouth of a Guardsman. The poor fool didn’t have time to react; even as the lifeless corpse hit the ground, his head was in a thousand bloody fragments.

Above the din, a voice, vaguely familiar, roared, “MEN OF ASAT- KILL THEM ALL!”

Starut looked up, momentarily hesitating as he located the source of the battle shout.

There, fifty metres away, Commissar Leetol stood side by side with the Asat Guardsman, killing and maiming all that stood in his path. His eyes were two orbs of fiery wrath, as though wherever his gaze fell, an enemy would crumble to ashes.

In response, the Guardsmen chorused in a raucous, ragged cheer that echoed off the distant walls. That nearly made Starut stall in surprise for not the bloodbath around him.

A Power Sword buzzed to his right. Instinctively, Starut leapt aside. He snarled as he drew his ornately crafted bone scabbard, shaped and molded from slain Tyranids’ carapaces. It was purple in colour; slick in blood.

The enemy, a lanky Repentant that seemed too frail to be wielding such a powerful weapon, stood defiantly in his way, towering over Starut. His mouth was frothing, and self inflicted scars decorated his scantily clad body. His bald head glistened in the gloomy light, slick with sweat and blood.

The Repentant roared, muttering an undecipherable oath as he lunged forward, nearly cleaving Starut in two for not a Tyranid Genestealer scuttling past. The buzzing razors bit into the sides of the creature, causing a howl of agony.

With inhumane speed, the creature leapt around, facing the Repentant directly.

With another furious howl, the Repentant leapt forward, bringing his Power Sword into an arc that was aimed at cutting the Genestealer’s head off.

However, millennia’s of evolution was not stopping the creature.

With barely a shuffle, the Tyranid sidestepped the flailing human and appeared behind him. With barely a shriek, the Tyranid leapt onto his back, its arms in a flurry as it tore skin, ripped muscle and severed arteries. Blood splattered the Tyranid and surroundings as the Repentant fell onto his knees, unwilling to die.

His eyes now wide with anger and agony, the Repentant shrieked in maniacal terror.

Starut gazed apathetically at the dying man as the Genestealer appeared through his chest.

With a low moan and heavy sigh, the Repentant died.

Starut sneered as he leapt back into the swirling melee, risking a look around. More Asat Guardsmen were still pouring into the Generatorium as the last few ranks of Tyranid forces crashed into the battle. Several groups of Guardsmen were making desperate sprints through zigzagging silos and fallen machinery. A few had already made it to the other side of the chamber, regrouping behind wrecks of machinery.

Starut cursed, watching helplessly as the rear Tyranid forces were slaughtered in the initial surprise rear and flank attack. Red gore splashed the walls as cultists, unaware of the threat from behind, were mowed mercilessly down.

“WITH ME!” Starut roared as he fell back, dodging swinging blades and flying projectiles.

Foolish Imperials, fancy such a petty tactic? Let’s see what else you have in mind…Starut thought to himself as he stalked the field of death.