He heard a voice speak to him, but with no real intention of his response, “Oh, you’re awake! I shall inform the Oberst.” He could hear who had said it, nor where really it had come from. He was alone again, left with the servitors on either side of him in this canvas tent. A slight breeze blew through, licking at his face. Perhaps it was because he had previously been concentrating more on asserting his surroundings, but only just now had he realized something rather odd; he was not wearing his gasmask.
One of the servitors moved to the side, the other still probing at wounds he could not yet feel. Into his view above him came the Oberst Viktor Morte von Krieg, the senior most officer of the Death Korps 501st Regiment. Oberst Morte was a highly imposing figure, just short of seven feet tall, tall leather boots, an armour cuirass, and a greatcoat over his armour, draped about his shoulders rather than actually worn. He wore his gasmask still, but for the time being had his helmet removed, like most Krieg helmets, but with a large crest atop it, an eagle’s head jutting forward. Morte put his black gloved hand on the man’s shoulder, his deep voice saying to him in a calming manner, “You do not place enough importance on your own life, Oberluetant Tier Altlied. Soon it seems that you will be more machine than man.” Though the comment was in jest, no expression got through the emotionless façade that was his mask. Merely two black eyes. He removed his hand and backed away slightly.
No sooner had Morte backed away did Tier feel a stinging in his side, the first thing he had felt since he had regained consciousness. Painfully, he sat up and turned to the side, swinging his legs off the side of the bed, hanging in the air. He wore only his trousers and boots, his shirt and greatcoat removed to reveal a untold number of scars, recently bound wounds, and bionic replacements to parts of his body now long gone. Most notable among these bionic parts was the entirety of his left hand, from the elbow down, replaced now with a metallic hand taken from a fallen foe, grafted to his arm by the 501st’s own.
The room appeared to be some sort of makeshift planning room, with medical equipment scattered everywhere. There were more officers in the room as well; the three Commissars, the two Grenadier Feldwebels, the illustrious Hauptmann Asche, and a few others. Behind the Oberst hung an enormous map of the region, who stepped to the side of it and pointed at a red circle near the center of the map, explaining, “This is where we are now.” Tier began to put his clothes back on as his commander continued, moving his finger up slightly, “The Ruinous Powers have been routed just north of us here into the Palace.” He removed his finger from the map, looking over the group, ordering, “Altlied, I want you to take your men straight up the front, under heavy supporting fire. Stein, Elend, take your Grenadiers and load up. Asche. Asche, I want you to obliterate any high priority target. I will lead the charge. I have a few surprises left yet today.” He was silent for a moment, in case there were any questions, but they’d all fought under the Oberst long enough not to have any. He nudged his head towards the door, and they all filed out. Oberleutant Altlied was now armored, barring for his head. He placed his mask upon his head, tightening the straps. Once on, he took a deep breath in and exhaled, the recycled air seemed ‘fresher’ to him than real air. Upon putting on his helmet, he followed suit.
Outside the tent it was dark, everything seemed like it was a shade of grey. They were in the ruins of what appeared to have been an Imperial city, the crack of bolter fire and explosions echoing through the streets. Tier looked up at the sky, filled with foreboding clouds, letting only precious few drops to fall from the sky. He looked down, the streets filled with mud and littered by debris. Three Leman Russ Vanquishers sat side by side, blending in with the rest of the drab grey, mud splattered across half their hulls. Directly across from them sat his men, his platoon, waiting for him. Fully numbering a full fifty men, casualties has narrowed their ranks down to seemingly about thirty from the fighting earlier. They stood as he approached, giving silent greeting. His command squad was first and foremost, minus one who’d fallen earlier, sacrificing himself to save his leader’s life. His second in command, unteroffizier Kopfig, lifted his arms to bear a power sword and bolt pistol, Tier’s own. He holstered his pistol, but left his sword out, raising it into the air. His men said nothing in response, but he could tell that their spirits had lifted. He had not survived in battle for the past quarter of a century with no knowledge of man. He pointed it down the road, and started walking down that way, the Palace solely capturing his gaze.
The first platoon of the Krieg 501st marched in loose formation down the road, inching slowly closer to the Palace. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, and then another, thundered bellowing soon thereafter, ushering in an almost immediate torrent of rain. Tier looked back at his men, and further behind that to see the Vanquisher team roar to life and begin to start off down the road through the rain, barely visible. He turned back around to look back at the Palace, which he could no longer see. It wasn’t just the rain, there was a fog; a rather unusual fog, in fact. He purged his mind of the thought, and continued his slow walk down the road, soon to be interrupted once more by the splashing of cloven hooves through the puddles, coming up beside him and roaring past him, a number of horsemen galloping past. One of them slowed down to his pace beside him, Hauptmann Asche. He looked down at the Oberluetant, jesting, “One of us has to die eventually, I thought you’d beaten me to it earlier today.”
Tier looked back up at him, the expression upon his mask the same as always as he replied, “You didn’t think that a mere treacherous Astartes would be able fell me, did you boy?” He turned his head back forward, looking to the invisible palace before continuing, “I shall not die until the Emperor lets me. My duty is unto him, and I shall not fail in my duty.” His voice was somewhat passionate, as that Tier was a staunch believer that the Emperor personally watched over each and every man, guiding them were necessary. He believed that the Emperor had saved him on more than one occasion.
“The Emperor protects.” Asche responded as if in litany, before jesting once more, “Well, the Emperor have mercy upon the souls of our enemies this day, for I know that they shall receive none from us.” He rode silent beside the soldiers for a moment, hesitantly asking, “When do you think your debt to Emperor shall be fulfilled?”
Tier responded almost instantly, as if he had prepared for such a question, answering, “My debt to the Emperor shall never be fulfilled, as I can never possibly do for him what he has done for me. My duty however… my duty shall be complete when I am released from my mortal coils to join the Emperor forever. Until, it is my duty to kill every mutant, every heretic, every Xeno that stands in the of His might. My life is His as He wishes it.”
Asche nodded and raised his head to look forward as well, riding silently once more. After a moment of silence more, he stated, “Well said, Oberleutant. The Emperor would be proud of your duty unto him. May you live forever.”
Looking back up at him, Tier responded, “And you Hauptmann, and you.” With that, the Death Rider nodded and kicked his stirrups into the sides of his beast, no longer quite a horse, and it dashed off ahead, soon disappearing into the fog. It wasn’t long thereafter that a few figures came into view, though who or what they were was still uncertain. He stopped and raised his fist in the air, his men stopping with him. Opening his hand up, he lowered his arm forward, his men dropping to one knee. Moving his arm to the left and then right, a squad went in either direction, to the side of the road, slightly ahead of the rest of them. Unbuttoning his holster and placing his hand upon his bolt pistol, he inched towards the figures in the mist, wary of what they may be.
As their shape began to take form, and he began to realize who it was, a deep voice whispered to him, “Hold yourself Oberleutant.” One of the figures turned around to face him, revealing him as none other than the Oberst Viktor Morte. At his side was personal bodyguard Orthus, a dog of gargantuan proportions resembling somewhat an Irish Wolfhound from days of yore. Even in the freezing rain, its tongue hung out the side of its mouth, near panting. He explained his plan in near whisper, his head naught but a foot away from Tiers, “I’m going to need you to set your men up along this line of rubble. It’s only a stones throw from their outer line. Because of the fog we haven’t been able to get a good view of their defense, except that they know that we’re coming from this way. You’ll need to crawl from here.” He turned and looked towards the Palace, scantly visible. “Don’t get up and attack until absolutely necessary.” Tier nodded in response, looking back at his men and waving his sword forward, beckoning them to stand and follow. With a sigh, he dropped to one knee and then laid forward onto the ground. Pulling the bolt pistol from its holster, he started his slow crawl forward, thirty-some men at his back, ready to leap to his feet and charge into a mass of heretics at any given moment.
There was a layer of water across the ground from the torrential downpour, but with so much water it was not as muddy, but more or less clean water. Soon figures started to take shape not too far away, standing at what soon appeared to be a makeshift barricade of rubble and twisted metal. None of them had noticed the guardsmen yet, and it soon became clear why; there were a number of heretics standing around, more or less just standing in the rain, making foul curses to the weather, bragging of their minor exploits, and endless other trivial pursuits. This weather is not to be cursed, surely it is a gift from the Emperor. They crawled up to the edge of the barricade, Tier rising to a kneeling stance and putting his back to the barricade, his men starting to do the same. One of the heretics yelled something and ran up atop the barricade, and everyone froze where they were, either against the rubble or still on the ground, everyone ready to bound forward at any given moment. The heretic however did not look down, he turned his head around and yelled back to them, “Look ye, I piss a’the ********’ Imperials, eh?” Just as he said this, he provided more liquid to the rain, landing directly on the back of the veteran Feldwebel Sterben, his squad temporarily under the Oberleutants command while his Chimera underwent repair. He looked up to officer, silently pleading to let him kill the blasphemous fool. Tier merely shook his head in response.
The heretic fastened his pants back up and turned around, walking down the rubble and back to his group. The remaining soldiers, Sterben included, made their way up to the edge of the barricade, placing their backs against it as well, ready at any moment to turn and leap over it. Tier turned and raised his head just enough to assess the situation. Before them no more than a couple dozen cultists, more enthralled by their company than their guard duty, it would seem. He looked to his left and right, seeing a scant twenty feet in either direction barricaded buildings, which is likely why this direction was chosen as the route of assault. Tier turned around and sat back down, quietly issuing orders to the two nearest Feldwebels, “Take your squads to the edge of the barricade and sneak to their sides. This’ll be a three pronged assault.” They nodded, crawling off in opposite directions, taking their men with them.
Sterben was one of those two Feldwebels, taking his men to the left. His squad had suffered more casualties than most of the others, due to his tendency to lead his men directly into his enemies face, flamethrower setting them ablaze. He was first over the barricade, swiftly moving through a hole blown into the building next to him, his four surviving soldiers behind him. For the first time since it’d started raining, they were somewhere dry, a roof now above their heads. Water trickled from their soaked clothing, dripped off of their weapons and helmets. If the rain outside was not so loud, he’d of worried that the enemy could hear them. Despite it, they advanced cautiously, quietly. Sterben, in front, raised his fist into the air, motioning for them to all stop. He head something. Slowly tiptoeing up to the doorway, he peeked around the edge, spotting two cultists embracing in a passionate affair, making a fair deal of noise doing so. Sterben looked back to his men, nodding forward, and then quietly entered the room, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He drew his bayonet and walked up behind them, grabbing the man by his hair and yanking upwards, pulling him up to his knees. Obviously he was taken by surprise, but what happened next took them both by surprise and terrified them. He shoved the blade through the mans neck, behind the trachea, and ripped it outwards, blood spewing all over her. Her eyes widened, and she seemed as if she was about to scream, but the butt of a rifle smacked into her temple, knocking her out cold, her naked body falling limply across the floor. As Sterben dropped the dying man to the floor, one of his men took the liberty of stabbing the woman multiple times in the chest, to make sure that she did not wake up, while another did so with the man. They left the corpses there, advancing to the next room, the furthest one. Sterben walked up to within view of the window cautiously, hoping that he was not seen, and waved his bayonet blade a couple of times.
Tier saw a glimmer of light from the left building, and soon thereafter from the right. Everything was in position. Tier crawled over the barricade with the other three squads and his bodyguard, readying their weapons. He started to walk forward, fully upright, twenty some men behind him. One of the heretics had noticed them, pointing and yelling, “Servants o’ te’ Corpse!” By now Tier could see the expressions upon their faces. By now they were in range. He fired his bolt pistol with a loud crack, and the bolt imbedded itself in his chest, blowing a gabbing hole in it, spraying his nearby comrades with blood. His men unleashed a hail of lasbolts, cutting the heretics down where they stood. Most of them were killed instantly, those few surviving making a mad dash to the building for protection, only to be shot by the Krieg guardsmen already there. Within mere seconds, all of them were dead.
Those in the buildings exited, rejoining their comrades, all of them stabbing the corpses to affirm their authenticity. Tier turned to his second in command, unteroffizier Kopfig, and ordered, “Go back and tell Oberst Morte that we’ve taken their outer defenses, and that we’re ready to advance.” Kopfig nodded and dashed off to where they’d just come from. For the moment then, they just stood there. They just stood there as the dead heretics before them had. If nothing else, they passed as the heretics through the fog. A large figure appeared in the direction of the Palace, and before they were able to discern any features, he already began to yell over the rain, “What are ye boody lot doin’? The Imperials could be here at any minute!” He seemed to continue spouting curses and insults as he approached, but not loud of enough to be discernable over the rain. He also didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the men either, instead shaking his head as he watched the ground. He stopped just a few feet away from Tier, looking from side to side, realizing what he just walked into. He was a huge man, larger than even the Oberst, clad in heavy metal armour, the Chaosphere carved all over it. He was bald, his head covered in wicked scars, and carried a large chainaxe in his right hand, already on, already growling, thirsting for blood. This must’ve been the cultist’s leader. He had a look of confusion upon his face, but only for a moment, as it soon contorted into anger, into fury. He yelled and hefted his chainaxe into the air, shoving it down at Tier. Responding quickly, he sliced his powersword to the left, slicing the head off of the axe, and with the same motion, bring his pistol to bear, bringing it to the face of the heretic’s leader. He pulled the trigger, and with a loud crack, his head was split asunder. Tier backed up a few steps, allowing the corpse to fall to its knees, then forward onto the ground with a resounding thud.
Behind him, Tier heard the clapping of an approaching Morte. “Impressive as always, Oberleutant.” Altlied turned to face the Oberst and nodded in thanks before he continued, “I’m moving up our heavy weapons as we speak. Soon the final assault of the palace shall begin. I’ve received word that the rest of the reclamation is going well, and that we may receive aid from the Imperial Fists chapter of Space Marines.”
Tier chimed back, “The Emperor watches over us this day indeed. He would even spare some of his sons to aid us? This is tremendous news Oberst!”
Morte merely nodded in retort, and looked back to the heavy weapons teams struggling to lift their Heavy Bolters and Autocannons over the barricade. He turned to his aid with the Master-vox and told him, pointing the teams, “Have one of the tanks roll over the barricade so they can move through.” The vox-officer relayed the order, and soon thereafter one of the Vanquishers, not too far back, thundered forward, crushing the rubble and metal beneath its treads, backing up just enough to let the weapons teams through.
Viktor Morte noticed at this point that the rain was starting to let up, from a downpour to just a normal rain, the fog lessening with it. He quickly turned and looked to the palace, no longer a shadow but now a well defined building in the distance. It had happened to quickly, their veil of surprise lifted. They were vulnerable. No sooner had he noticed this than a hail of fire shot towards them, but at this distance with little accuracy. None the less, he yelled, “To the buildings, find cover men!” A few fell where they stood, all else darted out of the way, desperately seeking cover. The heavy weapons teams stopped trying to get to the other side of the barricade, and instead used it as cover, quickly trying to set up their guns, making them ready to fire.
+ + +
A huge figure, clad in black, bits of rotting flesh hanging from his armour, gazed out the window. His bald head, covered in scars, snarled it’s pointed, jagged teeth. He was a Space Marine, long ago corrupted by the taint of Chaos, and through sheer strength and brutality, attained the rank of Lord. It was he who commanded the remnants of the heretical forces here, and he was not willing to go down without a fight, without killing as many loyalists as he possibly could. He knocked his left hand into a stone desk beside him, shattering it instantly, despite that his power fist was not even on.
A wind blew from behind him, pressing his flowing cape against his massive figure. An old man had come up the stairs, clad in a ragged black cloak, a hood hiding his contorted and wrinkled face. His frail form would have been long discarded by the rigours of the life of Chaos, had it not been for his wisdom and cunning. Cane in hand, he hobbled over towards the Marine, his creaky voice suggesting, “Oh mighty Lord Visius. Their forces are weak and now scattered, hiding. We should charge them while we have them pinned.”
Visius nodded, and growled to the other Marine in the room, his second in command, “Order the charge, send everything. Show them the strength of the Chaos Gods!” His lieutenant nodded and licked his lips with a serpents tongue, rushing out of the room and down the stairs.
The old man stumbled forward, giving out a cackling cough. Regaining his breath, he said unto his lord, “Your wisdom is as great as you are mighty. They… shall fall.” He hissed, and then said under his breath, “As you shall, my lord…”
An expression crossed Visius’s face, one of quizzical nature. The old man had been just as loyal as any other since they had landed, and his words had never strayed him wrong. Why would he all of the sudden wish his lord dead? For that matter, how did he really seek to accomplish that? A second expression crossed his face, a grimace of pain. He could no longer feel beneath his kneecaps and he fell forward to his knees. Everything was happening to fast for him to comprehend. A third and final expression crossed his face, horror. He had served the Chaos Gods for hundreds of years, doing their bidding, killing the servants of the corpse-Emperor. However, now he went to meet them.
Visius’s lieutenant rushed back up stairs, shouting in a shrill voice, “I have given the order my lord! Our men now rush to show that Chaos is strong!” As he ascended the final few steps, his paced slowed and came to a halt. A few confused steps led him closed to the corpse of his lord, blood pooling around his corpse. “How…” He felt a sharp pain in his neck, and removed from it a long needle, a skull at the end. He snapped it in half in his hand, and started to look around, to see where it had come from. His vision started to blur, he started to become delirious. Pulling his bolt pistol from it’s holster, he stared firing wildly about the room, hoping to hit something. Soon, he collapsed to the ground, blacking out.
+ + +
The fire upon their positions had in large stopped, but this was surely no good sign. Tier backed against the wall of the building and peeked his head around the side of a window, gazing at the palace, to see what was going on. Hundreds swarmed from it. Heretics and Marines alike charged forward, only firing the occasional meaningless shot. They were going to charge, rather than be shelled to pieces from a distance. However, this left them open for a while, easy targets. He yelled to all the men there with him, “Wait for my order, and then fire at will!”
He took a moment to look back, to see how many men he had at his disposal, only to catch an odd glimpse in the doorway. A naked man, his neck slit open, and bleeding profusely from multiple wounds staggered into the room. This in itself would not be all that concerning, but that he had a demolition charge strapped to his chest was. He started to snicker, soon growing louder into a laugh, and then finally a mad cackle, splattering blood everywhere from his mouth, almost gargling more than laughing at some points. His head was raised back, his eyes wide open and seemingly ablaze. He raised his right hand into the air, thumb over a button, and slammed it down, detonating the charge and instantly incinerating him, filling the room with a deadly inferno.
Tier had luckily been directly next to a window and flung himself out, a fireball belching out of the window above him. Another had come through the window with him, and looking to his sides, some others had done the same. As he came to his feet and backed away, he had little hope for whoever may have been left in the building. It was a conflagration, and likely if there was still yet anyone left inside, they were dead. However, much to his surprise, a body was flung out of a nearby window, and then another. A third body came through finally, this time on its own accord. A man in a large tan greatcoat, golden epaulettes, and a large black officers cap, emblazoned with the Aquilla. It was the Commissar Tartarus, an ancient veteran of both the second and third Armageddon wars. The flames licked at him, held bound by a Refractor field likely as old as he was.
Commissar Tartarus drew his sword and pointed ahead at the palace, his mask not giving justice to the stern look likely strewn about his face. Tier looked back at the heretics, getting closer with every moment. Suddenly, a wrack of fire came from the heavy weapons teams, glancing hits taking out traitors where they may. Seeing this, combined with the fire now coming from the soldiers in the other buildings, he screamed out, “Fire!” And those few left began to fire their lasguns from behind pieces of rubble strewn about. As the traitors drew nearer, Tier knew that what few men were left would not be able to repulse them alone. They were only a dozen meters away, bolters and auto guns tearing into the grown, imbedding themselves into soldiers. He had only a single option at the moment, and screamed the order, “Forward! Charge!”
There was maybe a dozen men left with him, and the Commissar Tartarus. He ran charged forward at the front, firing his bolt pistol blindly into the crowd. A string of autogun fire slammed into his cuirass, but did little to impede his charge. The closer he got to them, the more his rage built, and the more strength he had. Upon them, he lashed out, slicing through a treacherous guardsman’s midsection, and then hacked downwards at a Chaos Marine, his blade imbedded into the chest, roughly at his heart. The Marine laughed maniacally at this wound which would have likely killed even a normal Astartes, and raised up his Bolter, a wicked bayonet jutting out from it, still covered in blood. Tier dropped his Bolt pistol and used both hands to rip the sword to the left, separating his head and raised arm from the rest of his body. He collapsed to the ground, covering Tier’s Bolt pistol, organs spilling out into the space between his two sections. A heretic knelt to his side, stabbing repeatedly a dead Korpsman, his hands and face covered in blood. Tier sliced his head clear off and took a moment to assess the situation. The Oberst had charged forward into the fray with the other soldiers, but the battle still looked grim.
The Oberluetant started to continue into the battle, but something nearby caught his eye. A Sorcerer, assorted tubes coming from the back of his head and feeding into his arms, wearing no shirt but a long robe draped about his waist. He seemed to glow as he raised his arms into the air and slammed his fists down into the ground. A dozen nearby seemed to take on a similar glow, unable to move. Their bodies began to convulse wildly, and their flesh start to burn. Their skin seemed to pull itself away, and their flesh turn inside out. It consumed itself, replaced by something else, something otherworldly. They grew inside, bodies still trashing about, and began to take form. They became Bloodletters of Khorne.
The beasts bound forward, shoving all else aside, rushing towards the loyalists. The one in the lead charged towards Tier, and in all his fury, Tier charged back. He brought his sword back and made ready to strike as the Daemon did as well, but he never got the chance to strike. A mighty stead stopped before him, a spear shoved into the throat of the beast. It was Asche. With a mighty yell, he hefted the Bloodletter from the ground and threw it over him, pinning it to the ground on his other side, the explosive charge at the tip detonating in his throat, blowing it’s head clean off. Asche looked down to Tier and nodded at him, discarding his now tipless lance. Drawing his sword, he kicked his stirrups into the horse and galloped off through friend and foe alike towards the nearest other Daemon, hacking side to side when he had the chance.
The heretics began to break with the cavalry charge into their midst, and made a retreat back to the Palace. The Marines, knowing that they could not win alone, ran with them, firing indiscriminately back into the fray. Tier started off after them, his view directly upwards by the scream of engines moving forward. Two Valkryies shot missiles at the Palace as they advanced, peppering holes into its roof and sides. Hovering above, two squads of Storm Troopers dropped via rope onto the roof, jumping down into the newly made holes. The remaining heretics were shot down as they tried to re-enter the palace. The day was won.
There were no victory cheers, no compelling speeches. Only silent prayers of thanks to the Emperor. As they began to recollect, Tier made his way back into the group, searching for his leader. He soon found him sans his greatcoat, standing with piles of corpses and limbs about him, blood splattered over his front and back. In one hand he held his power sword, and in the other his plasma pistol, steaming to a degree that it was near ready to combust. His chest heaved in and out as he looked to Tier and gave him a nod.
Unexpectedly, a wall not too far off exploded, a Land Raider roaring into the courtyard, flanked by two dozen Space Marines. They assumed a firing stance, ready to fire upon the crowd, but soon lowered their weapons. The battle had already been fought, and the mighty Space Marines had gotten none of the glory. Morte merely shook his head and sheathed his sword, looking for his coat amongst the corpses.