Final piece.

And here is the final piece of the story...

---

The remaining Orks were gone, their bodies piled up and discarded at the far end of the ruined shell of the building. Brennan looked around, his eyes steely and determined. The death of the Warboss had broken the Xenos, and they had fallen in short order. Brennan had called for his squad to regroup, and here they stood, bedraggled, blood-stained and beaten, barely standing. Six of them. They were all that remained. Six of the strongest Guardsmen on this planet wept quietly as everything, everyone, they had known lay dead around them. They were alone now, and the Astartes did not seem to care.

Allen looked up at Brennan as he paced angrily around. His face had been twisted by his grief, tear marks channelling deep furrows in the grime on his face, giving him a macabre look.

“Stephan’s gone Brennan. He’s really gone.”

Brennan stopped and crouched down, looking into the face of his friend, the devastation he saw within them almost choking him.

“I know my friend. I know. We’ve all lost so much.”

He glanced down at the data pad in his hand.

“And now we can’t even be with them. For what?”

He stood up, tears running down his face.

“The Astartes came, another victory for their stories, another battle for the fireplace. And what do we have? Nothing! They took it all. For what?”

He screamed the last words, the Guardsmen all looking at him in fear as his rage seemed to boil over.

“For what?!” He screamed again.

“For the Emperor, for the Imperium.” Spoke a deep voice behind Brennan. “For your families.”

Brennan spun, turning to face the giant Space Marine behind him. It was the Marine clad in grey Terminator armour, every inch of it covered in runes and ornate carvings. To his side stood two taller Marines, their power armour painted grey, except for their right shoulders and left greaves, which were painted bone, covered in intricate scrollwork and text, each line recalling a famous victory. Their left shoulders held the image of a stylised skull, and each Marine had a unique assortment of seals and laurels pressed onto his armour, marking them as veterans, even amongst the elite Space Marines. Between the two of them they carried a package, wrapped in a cloth bearing the Aquila.

“You.” Hissed Brennan, as the anger boiled in his blood. “You did this. You killed them.”

His hand began to stray towards the knife on his belt, before both of the Space Marines raised their bolters, anticipating his move. Raising his hand, the Terminator armoured Marine stopped his followers from firing, before stepping closer to Brennan.

“I am Captain Audentis of the Grey Slayers. What is it you accuse us of soldier?”

Wild-eyed, Brennan gestured at the Guardsmen behind him, their apprehension visible as they watched this confrontation nervously.

“This!” Brennan spat, “You came so late! Everyone is dead because of you, we have nothing to live for now. Nothing to fight for. We could have died at peace. With our families! But this is a victory for you isn’t it? Another laurel for your armour. Another trophy to hold dear. Because that is all you have, battle and war, you’re nothing, you hear me. Nothing!”

Brennan took a step back, his voice finally cracking as the anger came pouring out. His breathing was heavy and laboured as emotions battered his mind and body. In front of him, the Captain raised his hands to his helmet, the seals opening with a hiss of steam. Slowly, the mighty figure removed his helmet, his face remarkably youthful, with a shock of black hair standing out against his armour. Brennan stared at the sorrow on the Captain’s features, a deep sadness that shook Brennan’s vitriolic rage. As he spoke, the Captain’s face hardened, the sorrow replaced with a fiery zeal.

“Yes.” Even whispering, the Captain’s voice boomed in Brennan’s ears. “We have no family. No life but war. But we gave them to the Emperor willingly. Our lives are war for him. For his people. So that humanity can live with emotion and families, safe in the knowledge that we will protect them.”

He paused, giving Brennan a deep look that seemed to bore down into him.

“But perhaps we have failed you. Not because your friends are dead.” He looked over the guardsmen as he spoke. “But because you feel you lost. Each of you fought like a dozen men, lived where you should have died a hundred times. But while you live, so do those you lost. You remember them, just as we record each of our battles, and while you do, then you have them still. We are needed elsewhere, but you have our gratitude and sympathy. Take this, to remind you of the honours you won today. May the Emperor protect us all.”

The Captain handed Brennan the package, before turning, walking towards their waiting Thunderhawk transport.

Brennan stood still, empty, lost. Looking down at the package, he gently peeled back the corner of the cloth. A huge wracking sob left his body as he saw what lay inside. Dropping to his knees, he let the tears come as he stared at his father’s sword, polished and burnished, forty-two purity seals pressed onto shining metal. One seal for every day they had survived. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up into Allen’s face.

“Maybe they’re right.” He said, still gripping Stephan’s tags. “We can’t give up, while we fight, so do they.”

Brennan smiled, gripping the handle of the sword tightly as he stood up.

“I guess so.” He turned to the other four soldiers, “What do you say.”

Glancing at each other, they all nodded as they looked at Brennan and Allen.

“We keep fighting until we’re all dead, they keep fighting too.”

Brennan smiled wryly as he looked at his friends, the survivors. His family.

“Then I guess we fight.”

“Oh good.” A silvery voice spoke from the shadows behind the Guardsmen. As the figure stepped into view, a golden stylised ‘I’ flashed briefly.

“I think I may have an offer for you.”

More story...

The ceiling buckled and shattered, glass and steel raining down upon the combatants as they grappled bitterly below. Brennan dived to the floor, narrowly avoiding the beam that crushed the Ork in front of him to a pulp. Looking up through the dust and smoke, disorientated by the sound and destruction, he tried to see what had hit them. As his vision cleared, the dust settling again, every combatant seemed to pause, registering what had occurred.

Pulling himself to his feet, Allen took advantage of the brief lull, punching his knife into the throat of the nearest Ork, dragging the alien to its knees before kicking it to the floor, blood gushing from the fatal wound. The other Orks turned to face him again, but they were distracted, still shaken by the new arrival. Allen looked up, his blood stained face realising what had arrived. The Adeptus Astartes.

Three Drop Pods stood in the building, their intimidating presence made worse by the steam venting from the door hatches and quiet hum of thrusters cooling. In one simultaneous movement, with a hissing roar, the hatches of each Pod burst open, disgorging the mighty Space Marines into the fray. Standing seven feet tall, clad in mighty ceramite armour that was proof against all but the toughest of attacks, they stepped out of the Drop Pods in perfect unison. They were the pinnacle of war, perfect soldiers bred for the sole purpose of defending the Imperium. Now they had arrived, the day was surely theirs.

Brennan’s eyes widened, emotions coursing through his veins, as he watched the tide of the battle turn. Time had seemed to slow as the Drop Pods fell, it had taken fifteen seconds to disgorge the finest soldiers of the Imperium, but to the beleaguered Guardsmen, it had been an age. Even as the Marines deployed, the Orks fought with a renewed fury, a new foe to destroy. With cries in the air, they set about slaying the humans ever more vigorously, intent on crushing everything. Ducking one Ork thrust, feeling empty and hollow, Brennan fired his rifle into the creature’s armpit, barely registering as his shots tore out through the beast’s head. He could do nothing but stand there as the bolters of the Space Marines opened fire, well drilled volleys crashing into the carnage of battle. Impassively he watched as the mass-reactive shells blew apart Orks, rending them limb from limb. Almost in a daze, he witnessed the biggest Orks charge the giant power-armoured warriors. Combat blade met cruel axe, honed skills met raw savagery. A few of the Marines were taken to the ground by weight of numbers, even their armour was not total proof against the devastation the Orks could bring.

He barely registered the Ork Warboss thundering past him, feeling his thunderous passage as a draft buffeted him. He saw the biggest Marine, clad in a huge suit of grey armour with a glowing sword in hand, break from his allies, barrelling into the Ork commander. He could almost feel the collision as they duelled. Each blow was parried, each thrust evaded. Each searched for an opening, a weakness in their foe. The Ork lashed out again, and the Marine took his chance. The bolter on his gauntlet barked as it fired into the Ork’s hand, blowing fingers to pieces. The shock caused the Ork to reel, his concentration broken. Bringing his other arm around, the Marine’s sword embedded itself in the Warboss’ ribs. Tearing it free as the Ork stumbled, the huge Imperial kicked his foe in the abdomen, pulverising flesh and bone. Crumpling to the floor, the Marine’s sword flashed once more, stabbing straight into the corded neck of the broken beast. Looking up from his vanquished foe, the Space Marine nodded almost imperceptivity at Brennan, before turning back to the fray. Brennan stood there, feeling lost. Everything they had fought for. Forty-two days of pain and suffering they had endured, only for it to be ended in minutes and seconds. It didn’t seem right.

Something called to him, something tugged at the edge of consciousness, pulling him from his numbed stupor.

“Brennan.”

A voice.

“Brennan. We did it.”

He turned, knowing what he would see. The broken body of the Sergeant lay to his side. Devastated by his battle with the Ork Warboss, his fate had been sealed by the roof beam that protruded from his abdomen. Tears instantly welled up in Brennan’s eyes. Dropping his rifle he sprinted to him, cradling him close. He tried not to look down, at the blood and gore that stained the Sergeant’s body, their gruesome path across the floor spelling out the time he had left.

“No, no, no.” He whispered. “We made it, you have to make it, you will.”

“Heh.” A thin laugh cracked from the Sergeant’s lips, a smile almost forming, the effort clearly draining him. Blood pooled at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

“We did.” He reached into his tunic, pulling out a tattered data slate. Holding it fondly, he looked back at Brennan. “We did it, for them. We did it.”

His eyes shut, the smile still on his face. His hand slipped across his chest, but Brennan caught the slate before it could fall. He looked at it, the smiling faces of the Sergeant’s family looking back at him.

“Tell them hello, father,” whispered Brennan, wiping tears from his eyes, “Tell them I miss them.”

Gently laying the body to the floor, he snapped the identity tags from around his father’s neck, and looked up, a new purpose on his face.

Allen ducked another swing, rolling out of the way of the cleaver that threatened to rip him in two. Feeling a firm grip on his shoulder, he spun with his knife raised.

“At ease soldier,” a baritone voice reverberated from the helmeted figure in front of him. “We have them now.”

Deftly pushing Allen aside, three huge Space Marines engaged the Orks, their bolt pistols and blades cutting them down like grass. Exhaustion finally overcame Allen, and he dropped to his knees. He watched the Marines as they butchered the Orks effortlessly, acting in perfect tandem, a thorough killing machine. All at once he saw an Ork throw himself into the battle, he tried to call out, but his voice came out as a ragged cry, no words would form in his mouth. He watched in horror and despair as one of the Marines was borne backwards by the tackling Ork. Thrashing and twisting as he fell, the Marine slew his assailant, pushing his body to the side, but he could not stop his fall, his armoured bulk crashing onto the piled corpses below him. A sickening crunch, no louder than a whisper, reached Allen’s ears, but it sounded like a cannon shot. Stephan’s body, his friend, destroyed, after all he had done. Crying, ignoring the fighting around him, he dived into the melee, crawling amongst the blood and debris.

“Stephan!” His voice was cracked and hoarse as he tried to pull the mangled body together again. “Stephan...”

Tears ran through the grime and blood on his face as he tore the tags from the neck of his comrade, squeezing them so tightly his hand bled.

***************

More story.

Some more.
---

“Hold the line!” Roared the Sergeant, ripping his blade free from the torso of an Ork. “Hold the line!”

It was no use. The rampaging Orks had burst through the first guardsmen without even slowing, chewing them apart with blades and bare hands. The dozen or so remaining soldiers began to fall back, firing sporadically as they did so. Brennan watched disconsolately as the creatures shrugged aside the rounds, hacking into the men as they did so. To his left one guardsman stood, parrying blow after blow, before being driven to the ground, where he was kicked to death by the steel-toed boots of three huge Orks. To his right, the Warboss stood, one blade stuck in the chest of a still struggling man, the other hacking away at his vulnerable body. Feeling the bile rise in his throat, he raised his rifle, tears of anger and resentment running freely down his face. Firing burst after burst into the Orks, he watched as he blew them into pieces, feeling nothing; no pride, no anger, no remorse. Several of the Ork Nobs left the carnage, charging at him. Aiming down the scope, he calmly took in the creature’s hate filled faces, the scars on their jaws, the spit and blood on their tusks. He shot once, twice, three times, but still they came. His face creasing into a contorted mask of anger, he began to run at them, firing and screaming wildly.

Allen stood his ground, feet spaced over Stephan’s body, sweat and blood dripping and mingling over his body. His clothes were torn and ragged, the knives in his hand bent and chipped. He didn’t care. He had nothing to lose. Nearby lay several Orks, cut apart and lifeless. Around him paced several Ork Nobs, spitting and grunting at him. Jostling each other, they pushed and shoved, deciding who would get to spill the blood of the knife wielding man. A thin smile curled the edges of Allen’s mouth, cracking the congealed blood and spit there. He could see their bickering, their competition. He knew they wanted him. He knew he was a prize. He knew he was dead. Gripping the handles of his weapons so tight that his knuckles whitened, he lowered his gaze and spoke, just loud enough for the Orks to hear.

“You wanted to kill us.” He muttered, “You wanted us all dead. Well, you took everything from me, but I just won’t stop. Stop fighting yourselves, fight me.”

Looking up, he almost growled, “I know you can hear me, I know you understand.”

A wild light came into his eyes as he shouted the last words with every ounce of force he could muster,

“FIGHT ME!”

Looks of anger, puzzlement and shock crossed the Orks’ faces as they regarded the blood-stained warrior in front of them. Then slowly, but as one, their wicked mouths turned into toothy smiles, their ravaged faces lighting up with the joy of battle. Pushing and bucking one another, they leapt the Ork corpses at their feet, hurling themselves at the determined Guardsman.

The Sergeant fired his pistol straight into the back of the giant Warboss, the shots pattering against his armour with no real effect. Flinging the eviscerated Guardsmen off his blade, the hulking Ork turned his frightening gaze towards his assailant. His heavy jaw jutted out, huge tusks glinting with gory splendour, gobbets of flesh mixing with viscous drool. A low rumble of anger began to emanate from his chest, rising to a bellow as he swung his tree-trunk arms in a deadly arc towards the Sergeant. Ducking the swing, he tried to counter, ramming his chainsword against the Warboss’ arms, but the weapon’s teeth skittered over the heavy armour plating, merely scratching the surface. He tried to roll away quickly, but he was a faction too slow, and the next blow hit him. It was only a glance, but the Orks’ inhuman strength sent him careening across the floor, a huge gouge cut into his left flank. Struggling to his feet, he barely parried the next blow, and only just dodged the next. Stumbling in pain, almost tripping over the slick of blood that was pouring from his side, he swung his blade in desperation, the teeth finding purchase in the creature’s thigh, chewing into it, tearing sinew and muscle. The Warboss barely even registered the blow, grabbing the still whirring blade, and wrenching it from the Sergeant’s grasp. His yellow, blood-shot eyes wide and frenzied, the Ork lashed out with a kick, cracking several of his beaten opponent’s ribs, sending him crashing backwards. Bounding forwards with a cry of wordless satisfaction, the Ork bore down upon his victim, his every step marked with a grim finality. Trying to stand, to face his foe one last time, the Sergeant fell, his body limp with fatigue and pain. And yet, as he fell, something caught his eye, and a smile began to form on his face, before the monstrous visage of the Warboss eclipsed his view. Looking down, the Ork revelled in its victory, and yet, the thin smile on the Sergeant’s face was unnerving even to it. It looked up, to see what the dying man was staring so intently at. Eyes widening with fury as it witnessed what had granted the human his solace, the Warboss let out an enraged cry, shaking his blades at the sky, as fiery contrails descended ever more rapidly towards the battle.

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Story update

Getting near the end...

A bit more...


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Brennan twisted as he fell, forcing the bulky Ork below him. Still grappling with the knife that threatened to cut him in two, he barely heard the Sergeant’s battle cry as their two bodies crashed into the melee below. Broken Orks and Guardsmen lay beneath them, bones shattered and armour cracked. Brennan rolled off the Kommando, clutching his side as a thin film of blood seeped through his camo-cloak. The huge Ork was dead, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, and his body impaled on discarded weaponry. Brennan tried to stand, blurry figures charging towards him as his eyes swam. He tried to raise his rifle, but a jolt of pain caused him to gasp and flinch as he did so. He looked up, trying to focus, but all he could see was a crush of figures thundering around him.

The Sergeant swore as Brennan and the Ork crashed into the fight to his left, crushing allies and foe alike. Darting under the onrushing swing of one Ork, he let his chainsword carve through the creature’s stomach, before swinging it up to block the axe of another. Kicking out, he forced the beast back, into the path of another Guardsman’s knife. Nodding in acknowledgement, he began to turn away, only to watch as blood blossomed on the man’s shirt, before a knife burst through. A cry of rage on his lips, he leapt towards his new foe as he casually discarded the corpse.

His hands trembling, Brennan reached into his belt, searching for painkillers, drugs, anything to focus himself again. His fingers brushed a thin syringe, which he brought out, slamming it into his leg. Almost immediately he gasped as the stimulant rushed through his veins. The pain in his side forgotten, masked under the pounding drug in his system, Brennan quickly rolled up his shirt. Deep in his right flank was a wound scored by the Kommando’s bandoleer of knives. Gritting his teeth, as the pain threatened to overwhelm even the stimulants in his body, he took another item from his belt, a thin patch of wound dressing. Holding it to his side, he tore the covering off, crying out as the patch heated rapidly, instantly cauterising the laceration. His cry had not gone unnoticed; an Ork began to descend upon the apparently stricken sniper, a menacing leer on his face. Blinking back tears of pain, Brennan scrambled backwards, bringing his rifle up as the brutish Ork sprinted forwards. Squeezing the trigger, he let three rounds fire off, each hot-shot blast tearing a hole in the creature. Heaving himself up as the Ork’s corpse slid to a halt at his feet, he slung his rifle onto his back, pulling an Ork blade from the Kommando’s scabbard, before darting into the fight towards the Sergeant.

Allen dodged another blow, retaliating by slashing the attacker’s hand, almost severing several gnarled fingers. Behind him lay Stephan’s ruined body; alongside him were the shredded corpses of three Orks, each cut into pieces, their blood mingling with Stephan’s. Bringing his knee up, Allen made heavy contact with the howling Ork, causing him to double over in pain. Slamming both his blades into the back of the creature’s head, he wrenched them sideways, feeling bone and sinew snapping under the force of his assault. Crowing with victory, Allen’s bloodshot gaze turned to next Orks, blood and spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth.

Brennan plunged his acquired knife through the eye socket of an Ork, stepping neatly to the side as it keeled over, dead. His hand gripped his side as the tender wound caused a lance of pain to shoot throughout his chest. Ducking another swing, he pushed a Guardsman out of the way of a vicious Ork axe, barely avoiding it himself. Stumbling as pain lanced through his body again, he raised his arm to protect himself from the second axe blow. It did not come, the Ork’s body jerking as it was peppered with lasfire from the Guardsman. A grin on their faces, both men turned back to the melee. Brennan’s hand rested on the back of the Sergeant.

“So, this is our last ditch plan then sir?”

The Sergeant’s sword dragged across the chest of an Ork, tearing flesh and leather, sending sparks flying off the crude armour on the alien’s chest.

“It appears so,” He replied, a wry smile on his face.

Brennan grinned, as he pressed himself against the Sergeant’s back.

“Well we’d better go down fighting.”

A half laugh escaped the Sergeant as he fired his pistol at an onrushing Ork.

“Indeed.”

Brennan winced as he spun away from an Ork attack, bringing his blade around to slash it across the back. Kicking out with one leg, he tripped the beast, calling to his Sergeant.

“Grounded six o’clock.”

Stepping under his Sergeant’s swing, they seamlessly changed places, Brennan blocking the swinging arm of the Ork that had been facing the Sergeant, while he brought his chainsword down in a gory arc, almost splitting Brennan’s fallen Ork in two.

Riposting and blocking, the two stood firm, occasionally lunging to help another Guardsman, or block a stray attack. Out of the corner of his eye, Brennan could see their allies still stood, several Guardsmen having gone back to back, or found themselves fighting in a corner, holding their hulking foes at bay. Private Allen stood, almost isolated, several ruined Ork bodies around him, his legs placed astride the fallen body of his friend. A glimmer of hope began to grow in Brennan’s mind; maybe they could survive this after all.

All such thoughts were suddenly banished when, across the cacophony of battle, came a chilling cry. Louder, brasher, and more thunderous than before, the Ork’s warcry began again. Despair washed over Brennan as the source of the cry barrelled over the barricade. A huge figure, a full head taller than even the Kommando, clad in plates of heavy metal, his skull covered with studs, stood astride the defender’s bastion. Waving two curved swords above his head, the monster roared into the melee, his heavily toothed mouth spraying spittle into the gory arena. The Ork Warboss had found them.

As he stood roaring in triumph, the walls of the barricade finally shattered, broken apart under the repeated blows of the largest Orks, the hugely muscled Nobs. Their skin was darker than their smaller brethren, their armour better kept and more extensive, covering their rippling muscles with plates of battered steel. Their weapons were more menacing, curved blades and hooks glinting evilly in their gnarled hands, loose fitting scabbards hiding even more deadly weaponry. As one, their veined throats ululating with the cry, they let loose a terrifying scream, echoing their giant leader. As the sound began to die in their throats, they charged.