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Here's a story i'm in the process of writing, it's pretty bare bones at the moment but i plan to flesh it out as i go.
Comments are appreciated.

Prologue

Veteran Sergeant Cain was trying to meditate.
Trying and failing.
He sat, cross legged on the floor of his Spartan quarters clad in only a pair of charcoal combat fatigue trousers, eyes closed, breathing slowly. His pale skinned chest rose and fell slowly, the numerous scars forming a pattern of slashes, bullet wounds and burns that stretched as his paper-dry skin moved over striated muscle mass.
He had remained immobile for over 2 days now and was dangerously dehydrated, yet had not once managed to slip into the trance taught to every Space marine as a neophyte.
It was partly because of his head. Smooth, dull adamantium was visible through a large gap in the flesh of the left side of his head where a bolter round had detonated against his helmet years before. He had been lucky to survive that encounter, even luckier to retain both eyes though now approximately half of his skull was constructed of the durable metal.
And it was vibrating.
Barely noticeable in day to day life, the background vibration of the strike cruiser Reaper’s main engine was amplified to a nearly unbearable degree when trying to meditate with an adamantium cranium, making a normally simple task infinitely more difficult.
Cain blew out a sharp breath and opened his grey eyes, staring straight ahead. The walls of his chamber were bare plasteel, as was most of the ship, it‘s inhabitants preferring function over form in terms of design. In one corner of the small room was a small ablution chamber and basin, in the other was a folded up sleep mat and foot locker, containing appropriate robes and training fatigues, as well as a comprehensive weapon cleaning kit.
Furthest from the door in the dark cell stood his weapons and armour, mounted on a simple steel frame.
The pauldrons and helmet of his armour, the latter fashioned to resemble a skull, were painted matt black with a blood drop encircled by a saw blade on the left shoulder.
The rest of his practically unadorned suit was a deep red, the colour of torn flesh.
The armour was chipped and the paint had worn away in a number of places but despite appearances was well maintained and had saved Cain’s life on occasions too numerous to count. The mk4 suit was covered in equipment pouches and magazines containing the various different loads permitted to be used by a veteran of his status, configured to keep Cain going for protracted engagements without resupply. The suit’s single non combat oriented feature was a scroll of parchment tightly wrapped around the right thigh, secured in place by Cain’s bolt pistol holster. Common to all members of Strike force Reaper, it was something of a tradition to renew oaths of loyalty and personal honour before embarking on a patrol arc, the exact details of which being recorded on each marine’s scroll. It was viewed as a bad omen should the parchment be lost or destroyed in battle, though no particular stigma was attached to the loss for the individual.
His only blade was sheathed to the front of his left shoulder pad, a simple standard issue combat blade, the robust leather sheath embossed with the sign of the Aquila.
Cain’s main close combat armament came in the form of an unorthodox pattern power fist, armoured cables running the length of his left arm, culminating in exaggerated knuckle studs. The weapon was far less powerful than a standard power fist, but also less cumbersome, lending itself to a faster style of hand to hand combat.
The weapon‘s origins lay 20 years previously when, as a newly promoted Assault squad Sgt, Cain‘s armour bore the brunt of an archenemy’s heavy bolter burst at point blank range, with his power fist absorbing most of the damage. With the weapon wrecked, Cain managed to persuade Techmarine Alamos to see if he could salvage any functionality from the device. Lacking the time or resources to affect a full repair, Alamos reluctantly agreed and stripped the mechanism from the heavily damaged adamantium casing. Jury rigged to the power supply of Cain’s armour, the power fist mechanism is configured to trigger only on impact, giving Cain’s punches explosive power, albeit far less potent than its original design. This behaviour, viewed as tech heresy by some, had become increasingly common over recent years in the chapter as weapons and armour became rarer and the expertise to repair them was gradually lost. The desperate nature of the chapter had left things like sentimentality and compassion behind. Living for the present had become sort of an unofficial ethos the chapter had embraced, and rightly so in Cain’s eyes, given the state they were in.
They simply didn’t have the time.
Placed to one side of the armour, on it’s own stand, was Cain’s only coveted possession. As unimpressive to look at as the rest of his wargear, Cain’s bolter was the epitome of practicality, a Mk2 mars pattern weapon dating back to the great crusade itself. After Millennia of use it’s action was still smooth and it still fired straight and true, it served as a testament to the skills of the artificers of the Mechanicum. Cain treasured the bolter as it was one of few weapons as old as the chapter itself, rumoured to have been wielded by one of Master Amit’s personal guard when he served as a Captain in the Blood angels, defending Terra against the hordes of Horus.
Cain Closed his eyes again, a deep frown creasing his brow, and gritted his teeth.
Though the Vibrations in his skull were annoying, Cain could deal with them easily enough, they weren’t the main reason he could not find peace.
It was the rage.
Not for the first time in the last few days, he bared his teeth and let out a barely audible snarl, clenching his fists so hard that blood began to seep between his fingers.
The desire to maim, to destroy, to kill every living thing around him threatened to consume him again and he fought the urges down, his entire body shaking with pure force of will.
Now sweating profusely, Cain’s nose twitched of it’s own accord as he smelled the odours just outside his cell. The flesh and blood of Serfs moving up and down the corridor assailed his senses, his head nodding rhythmically as he sensed their weak heartbeats as they passed. Cain begun to salivate uncontrollably, every cell of his being wanting to rush out into the corridor and butcher the slaves, to drink their blood and devour their remains.
Still, he shook in silence.
After an indeterminate amount of time the minor seizure faded and Cain opened his eyes once again. Letting out another breath, slower this time, the Veteran stood up, a sense of finality filling his soul after this latest outburst.
He stepped over to his basin and pushed the activation rune, resisting the urge to lick his hands free of blood as he cleansed them under a steady stream of cold water.
Realising that now his thirst was more instinct than rage, he leant down and drank directly from the tap, enjoying the sensation of cool water as though for the first time as it passed his lips.
Once he had quenched the more innocent of his thirsts, Cain looked at himself in the small mirror bolted above the wash basin. A young man scowled back at him, wiry and thin for an astartes, though heavily muscled by any human standards. His dark hair was cut high and tight in a severe military crop, his heavily scarred face eternally young thanks to his Blood Angels genetics, his face barely appearing to be in its twenties.
Though at 100 years old, he was reaching middle age according to Flesh Tearer average life expectancy.
He quietly uttered a phrase to himself, one that had become a mantra for all Lucid Flesh Tearers to live by.
“We don’t have time.”
Cain flinched as the Reaper shuddered violently without warning, the motion sending a shockwave of pain through his skull.
He instantly recognised the feeling, the strike cruiser was dropping out of the Warp. Too early, much too early, the ship’s navigator had predicted another 3 months before Reaper would reach Cretacia. The 1st company were meant to be returning home to re-arm and hopefully reinforce after their 3 year patrol arc, and there was the none too small matter of formally replacing the Company Captain after Captain Slaught fell to the Rage.
Whatever the reason was for dropping into real space, it would be an inconvenience.
The Strike cruiser’s tannoy burst into life, the distorted sounds of Reaper’s Captain, Andir blaring all over the ship.
“General Alert, Warning order. Distress signal received from Planet Ryanthis, am responding. All brothers prep for battle, Squad Sergeants report to war room in three zero minutes. Acknowledge.”
Cain hit the Acknowledge rune on the console next to the door leading into the main corridor, then hit the request rune below it.
Right now Marines, Serfs and servitors would be hurrying about the ship, the former suiting up for the coming battle, and Cain was no exception. Assistance would be required to put on the heavy battle plate of an Astartes, and Cain begun to work his way into his boots as his mind focused on the task ahead.
This was unexpected, but as Loyal servants of the Imperium, the Flesh Tearers 1st company was duty bound to respond.

The war room was a simple affair, just large enough for a company’s worth of commanders to all fit around a central holo-projector. Brother-Captain Andir stood at the top of the room, next to a servitor tasked with controlling the projector console.
The venerable Captain was a mess of a man, his war ravaged body an amalgam of armour, prosthetics and support systems. Suffering heavily at the hands of the Orks on Armageddon, he had once been given the choice of living out his days as a Dreadnought, one of the Chapter’s most revered brethren but had declined, preferring to confine himself to his ship. It was here that he let his true talents as a Strike cruiser commander take priority, shunning the glory of battle for the good of the chapter.
In the absence of Captain Slaught, Andir had overall command of the 1st company strike force, though due to his inability to deploy, command of forces on the ground fell to Sgt Cain as senior Sergeant.
Cain stood in full battle plate, as did his brother Sergeants, minus his helmet. He looked around the room and nodded greetings to all present. Adjacant to himself, standing the other side of Captain Andir was Sergeant Saur. The hulking Assault marine grinned back at him, flashing his prominent fangs as he patted the chain axe sheathed at his hip. He carried the immense weapon alongside a bolt pistol and a plethora of grenades, as well as 2 combat blades sheathed across his chest plate. As Cain’s oldest friend and second in command, the battle would become his responsibility should Cain die.
Next to him stood his tactical squad sergeants Phaeron and Nicholye, both wearing the same humourless expression. It had been joked that they were twins, they always seemed to be able to pre-empt the other’s thoughts which constantly worked out to their advantage in battle.
Standing to Cain’s immediate right was Lorzen of the Sanguinary guard, his unblemished, patrician features totally at odds with his fellow flesh tearer’s ragged appearance. Standing immobile in his deep bronze artificer armour, Lorzen’s chosen elite were not technically under the command of Cain but still followed his commands to the letter as a fellow brother and oath bound member of the Strike force.
To his right was Cortez, commander of Strike force Reaper’s second assault squad. Quiet and unassuming on ship, Cortez turned into a frothing madman in battle, easily rivalling Saur’s fury, if not his physical presence. His age betrayed his nature, for he was the second oldest marine in the strike force at 237, next to Captain Andir. To spend that long in an assault squad spoke volumes about a man’s character. At the other end of the projector table stood Daemos and Turth, Devastator and scout squad sergeant’s respectively. They would be taking a reserve role in the coming battle, for their particular talents were not deemed necessary for Cain’s initial drop tactics.
“Brother-Sergeant Cain, account for your men.” Andir wheezed, his tortured voice box robbed of inflection.
“All present Captain, minus Chaplain Gornt, who tends to the Death company as we speak.” Cain’s voice was low, a throaty growl common to those who have spent years screaming in rage as an assault marine, as most Flesh Tearers had.
“Very well then, allow me to begin.” The Captain continued without further pause.
The servitor brought up a holo display of the planet below, the rough image hazed around the edges momentarily before showing a steady green orb, rotating slowly.
“We are currently in high orbit around the planet Ryanthis, a mediocre world at the centre of the Segmentum. The Governor has sent a distress signal for immediate assistance to which we, as you all know, must respond.” The hololithic display showed a planet with vast oceans bisected by 2 major landmasses. Climate was temperate, with snow at either pole and a tropical band around the equator. Various streams of data reeled off from the display, covering everything from locations of major population centres to air quality, from the planetary governor’s blood line to the specific quantities of the last tithe, which in the case of Ryanthis was mainly foodstuffs and a relatively small mineral output.
“From what we can gather, forces opposed to our rightful rule have attempted a coup, thinking themselves above the Rule of the Immortal Emperor. At this time, a taint of the cursed ruinous powers cannot be confirmed or denied, it is too early to tell.”
Brother-Captain Andir pointed an augmetic finger at a sector of the Western landmass, which zoomed in to show the local topography, with a large urban area Labelled ‘governor’s palace’.
“The city of Ryan Primus and the Governor’s palace contained within are under siege, with approximately 70% of the local PDF having turned renegade.” Andir paused to take a laboured breath.
“We are not interested in this objective at this time.” He motioned with his hand, causing the planet to rotate to the South some 200 kilometres.
The green image steadied itself, then zoomed in further to show what was obviously a large space port, with hangar complexes, a multitude of open flat permacrete areas and a control tower all situated around an immense, 3 story structure. The central hub. The North of the civilian site linked up closely with the border of a city, it’s blinking tag read Cortunna.
“We will secure the planet’s primary Spaceport, creating a beachhead for further imperial forces to land and form a staging area.” He breathed again.
“Already, there are other Astartes forces in the area. The Sons of Ultramar have made planet fall and are liasing with loyal PDF units in order to push North towards the Capital.”
“We will get there first.”
The Captain was interrupted by a blurt of speech over the ship’s internal speaker system, an automated servitor programmed to relay priority messages.
“Sons of Ultramar Strike cruiser Guilliman’s Vengeance, hailing this ship. Recommend immediate respo-”
“Ignore it.” Andir interrupted, receiving a burst of machine code in acknowledgement by means of reply.
“We estimate that the Ground forces of our Astartes cousins will be approximately 7 hours behind us upon initial drop, the details of which I will leave to Brother-Sergeant Cain.”
Cain nodded in thanks as Andir stepped back from the display, servos whining in protest as his augmetic body moved out of the way.
Cain moved next to the servitor, his armour humming quietly with his movements. It’s efficient systems in stark contrast to the noble Captain’s ruined body.
“Let me begin by iterating the most important point.” Cain said, his quiet voice struggling to fill the room, but still easily heard by every Astartes present.
“We have no idea what nature of rebellion this is, or the exact numbers of enemy we will encounter. To this end, I’ve decided that all forces encountered be deemed hostile until further notice. Understood?”
Cain detected an expected pheromone spike in the room at this order. The distinct smell of testosterone and adrenaline was emanating from the 2 assault squad commanders in particular, with Saur’s face fixed in a feral grin. This time the expression was completely devoid of any good natured intention, his teeth gritted in barely suppressed rage.
“Good, then listen well brothers, as we don’t have time for mistakes.”
He spoke a phrase under his breath as Cain outlined his plan, being careful not to interrupt his brother’s orders.
“Flesh will be torn.”

Chapter 1

Three thunderhawk gunships screamed from the skies on roaring thrusters, the pilots expertly maintaining a tight wedge formation as they slowed their manic drop towards the planet below.
The wedge consisted of two standard pattern craft, one carrying an underslung vindicator in heavy retaining clamps under its boxy hull, the other bearing no such burden. The third, a transport variant, cradled the Strike force’s 2 Razorback transports in its elongated cargo area.
Strapped upright in their restraint harnesses, Veteran squad Cain went through final checks on their personal battle gear, using the relatively mundane tasks to calm the violence in their minds before the inevitable bloodshed.
Oblivious to the gut wrenching turbulence the thunderhawk was battling through in it’s violent descent, Cain loaded a long sickle mag into his bolter, racking the charging handle and appreciating the smooth motion of the working parts. He pulled the charging handle to the rear slightly to check that a round had fed into the chamber, old instincts from his scout training never truly going away. The black, snub nosed weapon was unmarked apart from it’s original serial number above the pistol grip. Cain had modified the hand guard to incorporate a vertical forward grip for better stability on the move, as was permitted of a Veteran of his standing but otherwise the weapon had remained unchanged for millenia. Satisfied, he let the bolter hang from its thick leather sling as he repeated the drill with his bolt pistol, replacing it in his thigh holster once he was done. Glancing around the red-lit interior of the Razorback, Cain regarded the 5 Battle brothers accompanying him in this combat squad. All were similarly adorned, their armour festooned with kit pouches to accommodate special ammo loads as well as all manner of personalised combat blades and other trinkets to establish their personal identity. The one thing that unified their appearance, aside from chapter colours, was the oath scroll around each marine’s right thigh guard, each one inscribed with whatever the warrior wanted to achieve on this particular mission. Their suits of armour were generally older marks, their surfaces pitted and scarred from the 3 years of battle endured on this patrol arc but otherwise perfectly functional.
Along with the other 6 veteran brothers in the rear Razorback, Cain recognised that he and his men were rare, a breed apart in a chapter born of carnage and bloodshed and nothing else. Individually chosen by Seth to form dedicated squads of Bolter brothers, the cool headed nature of the Sternguard formed a logical centre point of calm for the less blessed brothers to fight around. Seth believed that by incorporating these squads into each company he could temper the uncontrollable rage of his brothers by some small degree.
The ability to keep one’s cool was a highly prized commodity among the sons of Sanguinius.
Cain looked to each of his brothers, testing his helm’s target lock ability as the machine spirit followed his gaze and outlined each warrior in turn in white, identifying them as friendlies. He blink-clicked a reticule overlay into place, which in turn brought up his bolter auto sense link, a small arrow indicating that his Bolter’s point of aim was outside his periphery. He brought the weapon up and a reticule snapped into his vision, Cain’s mouth silently reciting the litany of aiming as he locked onto an internal bulkhead.
The Veteran Sergeant grinned inside his helmet as he was reassured for the tenth time by his wargear’s consistency.
The Thunderhawk lurched suddenly, the turbulence rapidly replaced by the steady roar of afterburners and the sensation of smooth acceleration.
They had levelled out.
This meant that they were close to the target destination.
As if on cue, the voice of Arnod, pilot of Cain’s thunderhawk, crackled over the vox.
“2 minutes to insertion point.”
Cain Blink-clicked in confirmation and saw all 5 runes on his visor representing the fellow squad members light green momentarily.
In his mind’s eye, Cain imagined the lead thunderhawk powering away from its brothers now, maintaining altitude as the other two continued their steady descent, racing to drop it’s deadly cargo.
Incidentally, this was exactly what was occurring.

Sergeant Saur could hear nothing but his own breathing. The corners of his vision blurred as he stared at the gunmetal grey floor of the thunderhawk, not really seeing anything. His teeth were fixed in a snarl, the grip of his gauntleted hand so strong on the overhead rail he would later discover he left indentations in it.
Saur knew that now the other craft were deploying to the South to commence their mechanised assault, he knew that the strike force was outnumbered at least 20 to 1 and the success of the mission relied on simultaneous surgical strikes designed to divide and conquer the hated enemy.
He knew all this and a lot more but didn’t care for any of it.
He was fixated on the sounds coming through his internal vox unit.
“Kill the Heretic, Burn him, rend the flesh from his bones!” Brother-Chaplain Gornt growled, his voice even more haggard than Cain’s, though where Cain’s voice was measured and cold, he spoke with the inner fire of a zealot.
“Care not of motive, of reason, of proclaimed innocence, for the act of Heresy condemns them to an eternity of pain. There is only consequence!”
The Death company were chanting something over the howling report of the gunship’s engines, but it could barely be heard as their vox units were deactivated.
More animated now, Gornt Raised his Crozius Arcanum to the ceiling of the thunderhawk as he faced his assembled Brethren, his back to the entry ramp of the craft.
The ramp began to lower even as the Gunship decelerated to a practical standstill, the darkened compartment filled now with howling wind and a scything rain that rattled off ceramite and plasteel battle plate like autogun fire.
This display of weather was not even noticed by the Astartes, being stirred into a frenzy by their Spiritual guide.
“RIP THEM APART, DISMEMBER THE ENEMY AND FEAST ON THE REMAINS!! TODAY WE KILL EVERYTHING THAT STANDS, FOR SANGUINIUS, AND FOR THE EMPEROR!!”
The final word was drawn out into an incoherent roar as Gornt threw himself backwards off the entry ramp, followed immediately by the screaming forms of the death company. The 4 black armoured brothers, former Captain Slaught among them, revved their chainswords at thin air as they dropped into freefall behind the Chaplain. In stark contrast, the bronze armoured shapes of the Sanguinary guard jumped in silence, falling in perfect formation towards their designated objective. Hot on their tails, squads Saur and Cortez leapt from the belly of the formidable craft, Saur being dimly aware of Cortez voxing
“Drop complete” to the pilot as the last man cleared the ramp.
The thunderhawk veered sharply away to the South to commence a holding pattern.
Saur watched as the Death company drifted to the East, their target a large hanger where it was believed a Battalion of traitor infantry was being held to reinforce once the attacking forces had broken the ad-hoc Imperial defence.
The Sanguinary guard peeled to the West, diving directly to the centre of the Sprawling Terminal Hub building, their job was to butcher the surviving defenders from above, linking up the ground assault to strike from both sides . Saur could see massed Las fire whipping back and forth by the Besieged South entrance, the furthest entrance from the city, and Cain‘s target. Looking North, Saur could just make out smoke trails snaking through the city through the ferocious downpour, evidence of the second mechanised traitor battalion about to join the fight.
Looking directly below, Saur target locked his objective, a red reticule appearing over his chosen target, followed swiftly by 7 faint orange reticules, showing the designated targets of each of his squad members. He knew Cortez would be going through exactly the same process.
As much as Saur wanted to shed blood, he conceded to the fact that some metal had die first, some Guard pattern junk, and he readied a chunky melta bomb in one hand. The other wielded his chain axe, the blessed motor purring as he dropped from the sky with all the grace of a half ton piece of armour and muscle, which consequently, he was.

A bone jarring impact signalled the landing of the razorbacks, tracks already spinning full speed in anticipation of the rolling dustoff. The thunderhawk transporter didn’t stop as it deployed it’s charges, swooping low to the ground to release it’s docking clamps before lifting hard straight away, attempting to rendezvous at altitude with the lead gunship.
By contrast the last Thunderhawk, a regular gunship pattern, had to stop momentarily to release the heavy vindicator it held under its belly, the heavier tank falling into loose formation behind the transports, tracks squealing in protest as the armoured beast fought to keep up. Suddenly free of it’s burden, the thunderhawk powered low over the top of the speeding razorbacks to start a strafing run.
Looking at the crew monitors, Cain saw a 360 degree view around the troop carrier as it sped to the objective, thanks to many ocular devices attached to the outside. The second razorback was to their right, keeping line with Cain’s own while it powered across a flat landing pad, Lucifer pattern engine roaring at an unnerving pitch.
The first port of call was an old trench system, a millennia old throwback to the days when the starport and Cortunna were part of a PDF garrison.
To his credit, whoever the commander of the Traitor PDF forces was had the foresight to man the trenches as he advanced on the starport, lest he be caught in a counter attack from behind. He had also left a troop of armoured vehicles, which to be honest was the only reason Cain didn’t just ignore it as an objective.
Though, the forces he left could have never expected what was about to attack them.
Cain watched as the Thunderhawk opened up, Slack jawed PDF troops not quite believing what was happening as their chimeras exploded behind them.
The battle cannon and lascannon batteries opened up simultaneously, obliterating the three troops transports before they even had a chance to move, robbing the lightly armed mech infantry of their primary firepower.
Swooping low over the trenches, the human troops instinctively ducked as the gunship shrieked overhead, the pilot pulling hard Gs as he threw the craft into a tight 180 degree turn. Happy with the destruction it had brought upon the enemy armour, the gunship moved behind Cain’s advance in preparation for it’s next tasking.
Cain estimated roughly a 100 men had been left in the trenches as rearguard, an under strength company at best, with practically no heavy weaponry.
They were doomed from the start.
A few single shots of las fire glittered past, the bright red beams of light sizzling as they burnt the moisture in their flight path. Those shots quickly turned into a barrage as the guardsmen regained their bearings and recognised the imminent threat of 3 armoured vehicle bearing down on them, appearing like something from their worst nightmares through the rain. They poured their fire into the 2 razorbacks, each impact sounding to Cain as though someone was outside throwing stones at the armour, and having about as much effect.
The drivers waited until they were within 100 metres of the trenches before returning fire, the tell tale sound of motorised barrels spooling up marking the first traitor’s violent deaths.
A sound not unlike what Cain imagined would happen if the sky itself tore open signalled the retaliation, both razorback’s twin linked assault cannons firing nearly in unison, causing the Veteran Sergeant to smile inside his helmet. The razorback turrets panned left and right, unleashing hell at the hapless traitors, the impacts of thousands of shells throwing up plumes of permacrete and mud around the trenches as a score of traitor PDF were kicked off their feet by armour piercing rounds. In nano-seconds, every man directly in front of the transports was dead, their flak armour offering no protection against the high velocity ammo drilling through their frames, splattering their comrades with gore as they slumped into the bottom of the trench.
Almost immediately the las fire reduced to a trickle, a third of their number dead, the remaining PDF instinctively ducked for cover rather than face the fearsome firepower on display.
The Driver’s chose this moment to slam on their brakes, bringing the transports to a juddering halt no more than 50 metres away from the trenches, the exit ramps crashing down onto the hard standing while the assault cannons pulverised the trench defenders.
Cain’s squad hit the release runes on their restraint harnesses as one and filed out the rear of their vehicle at a sprint, peeling to the left of the razorback and spreading out in a firing line, the other 6 members of the stern guard pulling an exact mirror image of the manoeuvre some 20 metres to Cain’s right, under the command of squad leader veteran Neyf.
Once his last man was in position, Cain voxed his driver to raise the ramp and advance and the squad rose as one, Cain noting a momentary flash of polished bronze falling from the sky ahead as he moved.
Stalking forward at a brisk walk with weapons in the aim, Cain’s squad of veterans started banging off single shots at the defenders, miserable looking figures in urban camo fatigues toting simple machine stamped lasguns, the precision fire exploding among any traitor brave enough to stick his head up. Within seconds they were at the trench line where they stopped and opened up on automatic, mercilessly gunning down the majority of the surviving traitors. Cowering among their own dead, explosive bolts tore soft bodies apart in a visceral display of astartes power, leaving an unrecognisable slurry of meat and bone spread along the length of the trench in the wake of the Bolter‘s thunderous report..
One or two PDF troopers who had somehow survived the assault clambered out of the trenches and attempted to run, managing no more than 5 paces before being calmly dispatched with a bolt to the head, their skulls bursting like over ripe melons from the impact.
Cain ordered his squad into the trench, jumping down onto the viscera of mangled corpses to take a knee and wait momentarily for the next move.
He noted with slight interest that the Traitor’s uniforms were not defiled in any way, their armour and helmets still proudly bore the imperial Aquila, and none bore any heretical slogans or symbols that usually marked the early signs of a full blown rebellion.
A point to be pondered later, perhaps.
Their armoured bulk barely fitting into the trench, Cain’s squad reloaded in pairs, one brother covering while the other changed magazine with an innate economy of motion, reloading one’s weapon as natural as breathing to these genhanced warriors. No words or signals were given, the Astartes simply acted in unison, a product of decades of relentless fighting and training together.
A ripple of explosions sounded to the East, a mixture of dull thuds, the signature sound of melta bombs, and the more sporadic booms of ammunition and fuel tanks detonating.
Saur and Cortez are getting to work.
Cain thought with a smile.

Space Marines were shock troops, first and foremost.
Trooper Allon truly appreciated this fact in his final moments of life.
Before this point he didn’t really get it, especially upon witnessing the lacklustre performance his comrades were putting on. It appeared to him that any enemy could be stopped with enough firepower, and the idea of shock troops charging straight at the enemy was just stupid.
Allon was not impressed.
They had been taking shelter in the hangar nearest to the Spaceport, a huge, high ceiling dome more used to housing cumbersome Atmospheric landers or the Odd rogue trader craft, it now stood empty but for the troop’s unwelcome presence. The troops, initially nervous and fired up, their first feelings about the coming battle had quickly turned to boredom when they realised that their immediate deployment was not immediate at all.
It was in fact, a support role.
Most men watched the battle unfolding before them when they first got off the trucks, those with magnoculars giving a running commentary of their mechanised partners’ progress.
Standby, full battledress and weapons primed to reinforce once the star port was taken.
That had been the extent of their orders, and even now the officers were away in some back office deliberating what to do once the port fell, grand plans above and beyond what was necessary for common troopers to know, no doubt.
It was inevitable. They had told them.
Just a matter of time.
Well time was passing slowly and Allon was bored.
He looked out of the vast hangar door Across to the West, to where the battle was raging about a kilometre away in the terminal building, squinting to make out anything through the ferocious downpour.
Allon wished the rain would stop, a bit of sunlight would lighten his mood, already dark at the prospect of dying today under a hail of lasgun fire. He shivered, despite the fact that it was not cold and pulled the collar of his combat jacket up higher around his neck.
Some summer this was turning out to be.
Through the rain he could make out glittering slashes of light as lasfire was exchanged, momentarily lighting up the firers as the attacking forces, The 121st “Ryan’s own”, made their slow advance.
Every few minutes or so, a stray las bolt would fizzle past, lacking the energy to do any damage at this extreme range but cause enough to make Allon flinch involuntarily.
Hardly any sounds carried across from the battle, the wind whipping away the sharp cracks of lasguns and yells of excited young officers, the only sound carried was the occasional burst of heavy bolter fire as the defenders raked the choke point entrance, stalling the advance with their heavier fire.
The tanks of the 121st stood outside in orderly ranks, some 100 metres away, battened down against the rain and idle, their crews inside sharing the hangar with Allon’s own unit, the 223rd light infantry. A unit so poor it didn’t even get the honour of joining the attack. It didn’t even have a nickname.
The tanks had been ordered to stand down, the Few Leman Russes in particular wielding weapons that could cause great damage to the thousand year old terminal building, which had been deemed too important to the highest echelons of command.
Obviously nobody had thought to tell them that the tanks probably could have crushed all opposition in minutes.
Allon scoffed at the thought.
Instead, the attack was reduced to a sporadic tit-for-tat as the lightly armed assault force, led by inexperienced commanders and reluctant troops, hesitantly pushed against a numerically inferior but better armed enemy, who probably had enough ammo to hold out for days.
Throne, this was dull.
Allon turned away from the enormous hangar doors and ventured further into the building, walking past squads playing cards on overturned ammo crates, a junior officer biting his thumb nail while intently listening to ongoing vox reports and a preacher giving a quiet sermon to some of the more faithful troops.
All told there were just under five hundred men in the hangar building, having waited three hours now for the order to move.
And none were as bored as Trooper Allon.
Allon was about to settle down to a game of regicide with Daiv, 3rd platoon’s vox operator when the stout older man gestured for him to stop.
Annoyed at being delayed when all he wanted to do was sit down, Allon was about to gesticulate a suitably rude response when Daiv said.
“You hear that?”
Allon slumped down onto his ammo crate and pawed a playing piece from the table, inspecting it’s poorly carved construction.
“What? All I hear is wind and rain.”
The older man frowned, before replying, straining his words for emphasis.
“You’re sure you can’t hear that?”
Allon looked at him quizzically.
Daiv cocked his head to one side and looked away at nothing in particular.
“In the wind, it sounds like its roaring or howling or something.”
Allon was about to retort when he heard it too.
“I can hear it. It’s getting louder too-”
Allon looked up just in time to see the sheet metal roof of the hanger cave in with explosive force, sending shards of metal and plastek spinning away to the ground below.
Through the hole fell 5 black shapes, giant things on wings of flame, the first one’s head shaped like a grinning skull.
And they were screaming.
A sheer wall of noise, amplified by external speakers to ear splitting volume filled the hangar.
Allon was fixed in place, unable to do anything but stare in disbelief at the armoured monsters that fell now amongst them.
Five Bolters firing on automatic added their sound to the screams, the deafening booms echoing around the hangar interior as a cataclysmic thunder, drowning out even the inhuman rage being vocalised by their attackers.
Men were dying before the Death Company hit the ground, bolts exploding inside skulls and blasting apart torsos with overwhelming force. Each massive form thudded to the floor with crack of permacrete, not stopping for a second as they tore among their tightly grouped foe.
The quicker troopers among the 223rd had started to react now, some screaming as they ran in absolute terror away from the nightmarish shapes that were tearing into them, others diving for cover behind stack of ammo crates or anything else that was to hand, before realising the folly of their decisions.
Explosions bloomed as Astartes deliberately fired upon ammo crates at close range, the detonations throwing a storm of fragmentation in all directions, scything down scores of men. Chainblades roared, the rapid swipes of the Death Company’s weapons cleaving entire bodies in two or decapitating their prey, throwing limbs and entrails all over the hangar with their unbound enthusiasm.
A few Stoic individuals took up arms with impressive speed and stood firm in the face of impending death, sending accurate volleys of lasfire into the black armoured giants, their faces set with stony expressions of grim determination.
These unfortunate fools went unnoticed by the charging maniacs, being chopped down like so much chaff, their bravery unnoticed by history forever as their features were devoured by revving chain blades and explosive bolts.
Most of the Battalion simply stood still, like Trooper Allon, in complete shock. Their brains, unused to combat as they were, were totally incapable of comprehending the carnage that was being inflicted upon them.
It mattered not to the Death Company how the enemy reacted, all they could see were traitor Astartes at every turn, vile followers of Horus who had to die a violent death at their hands.
Allon was the 157th member of his Battalion to die, roughly ten seconds after the Death Company hit the ground.
Allon, who never really wanted to join the PDF, who struggled through training, died with an ironic smile on his face, which would have seemed peculiar had his killer been any normal enemy.
His last thought before Former Captain Slaught Pulverised his skull with the muzzle of a bolt pistol, was of how he truly understood the definition of a shock troop.

And that's it for now.
I've noticed that all of the 'thought' lines are no longer in Italics since i copied the text across, you'll just have to figure out when the characters are thinking!
And here's a rough sketch of the protagonist, veteran Sgt Cain.


Darkchild

Nice sketch! I liked the story to, it was a little hard at first until I figured out that you were telling the story from more then one perspective but I think that has more to do with me then your writing skill. Looking forward to seeing more.

Yeah, maybe i should have pointed that out! after chapter 1 it will settle into one perspective, i just wanted to cover all aspects of the simulataneous assault before concentrating on Cain.

Thanks for the comment.

Darkchild

Quite good. It's great to read another of your fiction. The first one was really good.

I hope we'll see some more of your modelling and drawing skills too!

JP

Thanks mate, i plan on writing a bit more this week, as well as drawing Sgt Saur with his chainaxe.

Darkchild

More

***

Sgt Saur watched the black forms of the Death Company disappear into the hangar complex some hundred metres below and snarled, willing gravity to pull him faster.
To the South, he could already hear the unique sound of assault cannons, their wailing blast signalling the enemy’s blood being spilled. Battle had already commenced and the desire to destroy had consumed all rational thought in his mind, every sense purely focused on destruction.
The two 8 man assault squads fired their jump packs, bright flames signalling their presence in the cloudy sky, and begun a controlled burn to reduce their velocity to a survivable level.
Saur ignored this, watching his altimeter count down with savage glee, waiting ‘til the last safe moment.
Looking down at the unyielding ground rushing up to meet him, Saur triggered a full burn for exactly a second, just enough to bring him practically to a halt, before cutting his thrusters and freefalling the last twenty metres.
Melta-bomb primed, Chainaxe revving wildly, Sgt Saur slammed into the top of the Leman Russ with the force of a small bomb, causing the battle tank to rock on its suspension.
Even as his knees bent under the impact, Saur was already fixing the charge into place, pressing the arming rune and leaping clear in one practiced movement.
In mid jump Saur noticed a number of things, his squad all landing on their designated targets all within a split second of each other, carrying out the exact same task as their leader. He also noticed a lone tank, another Leman Russ previously thought to be empty, gun it’s engines and tear off in the direction of the battle to the South.
Saur landed with a thump, followed by the dull crump of a melta bomb detonation. Saur moved at a sprint as the Tank’s ammo cooked off in one mighty explosion, sending a fireball some twenty metres into the air and buffering his armour with a fearsome shockwave, shrapnel fragments of all shapes and sizes peppering the rear of his battle plate.
He ignored this as a number of other explosions followed the first, lighting up the grey sky in in a cascade of stuttering flashes, giving everything a momentary hue of brilliant yellow, Astartes filters instantly adjusting the light to acceptable levels.
16 Enemy tanks and transports died in half as many seconds.
Over the din, Saur Heard a voice he recognised as his own send a message over the vox.
“Cain, this is Saur. One enemy MBT en route to your location.”
He heard a single Vox click on Cain’s channel by means of acknowledgement as his body moved towards the hangar complex at a sprint, the rest of Squad Saur falling behind in a loose V formation, weapon motors howling with anticipation.
Cortez had been detailed to deal with the remaining tanks while Saur’s squad formed a cut-off group to terminate any would be escapees from the traitor reserve Battalion.
Scores of traitor troops were pouring out of the hangar doors in complete disarray, half of them unarmed, some carrying their wounded comrades and all with wide eyed stares of terror etched onto their faces. Blood curdling screams could still be heard from inside the hangar, twinned with the constant, overlapping noise of multiple chain weapons.
The first Guardsman to notice Saur’s squad charging at them just dropped to his knees, closing his eyes in the hope that he was in some terrible nightmare, about to wake suddenly in the comfort of his own bed next his love.
The reality of Sergeant Saur simply ran through him, his armoured bulk first lifting the human off his feet as a ceramite plated knee crashed into him mid stride before the next gigantic step stamped him out of the air and shattered the man’s ribcage, crushing all internal organs under one immense boot.
Saur’s chosen target was a closely packed group of individuals, ten or so in number, that were cradling a pair of wounded men among them. They had fallen back on primal instincts and formed a protective group, the concept of strength in numbers forming this logical process.
The process didn’t really help, however, when confronted by a superhuman warrior that is attracted to blood.
Saur Smelled the fear, mixed with adrenaline, testosterone and most importantly lifeblood as he crashed into his foe, relishing the chance to get to grips with the enemy.
The first man disappeared into a red mist under a downwards swing of the chain axe, the Adamantine teeth chewing him apart in a flash of metal. Saur’s momentum took him into the middle of the group, bowling over the men supporting the wounded individuals, snapping bones and knocking wind out of lungs without actually ending any lives.
Saur’s bolt pistol appeared in his left hand and banged of a single shot, point blank range into one of the wounded men’s torso. The detonation tore the body apart, sending the severed head sailing through the air in a pleasing arc to thud into the hanger wall, leaving a red smear on the Permacrete surface.
Sensing the heartbeats all around, Saur lashed out to his right, the faint tremor of resistance shooting up his arm telling him that he had struck true, cleaving a man in two at the chest.
One brave fellow bellowed in rage and ran, bayonet fixed, straight at the hulking Assault sergeant. The blade stabbed at Saur’s chest plate and glanced off, causing the man to stumble, his momentum carrying him under Saur’s left arm.
The Sgt smashed his forearm down in a hammer blow, the grip of his bolt pistol caving in the back of the man’s head as he fell past.
He didn’t get back up.
A second bayonet wielding hero steamed in, stabbing low at Saur’s groin, trying to probe for a weak spot. As luck would have it, he caught Saur’s knee guard as he strode forward, the blade glancing off the armoured surface to jam into a small gap between joints.
Saur’s knee seized immediately, the mechanism cutting off to avoid damage. Unfortunately this meant that the huge Sgt fell to one knee, his right leg unable to finish it’s step.
Amber warning runes appeared on Saur’s visor, detailing the obstruction, which he blink clicked away, snarling incoherently.
The fleeting look of elation on the guardsman’s face disappeared as he regarded the glowing emerald Eye lenses of saur’s black Mk5 helmet, just a moment before Saur rammed it into the man’s face, turning his features into a bloody crater and launching the corpse off it’s feet to land in a tangled heap some feet away.
Saur swatted the bayonet from the stricken knee joint with a flick of his bolt pistol and stood up, feeling a slight jolt to his rear armour as he did so.
A proximity alert rune displayed itself, detailing that one of the traitors had thrown themselves onto his back when Saur’s movement was impaired, desperation obviously lending the remaining traitors some semblance of courage.
The marine triggered his jump pack for a half second, the searing blast of the thrusters not enough to lift him off the ground, but more than enough to achieve what he wanted.
The proximity Alert rune disappeared and Saur was rewarded with a strangled scream, the noise cutting off almost as soon as it started as the traitor’s voice box was incinerated in the intense heat.
Gritting his teeth in a mixture of joy and barely contained fury, Saur gunned down the remaining three able bodied traitors that were plinking at him with Lasguns, perforating their yielding forms with explosive bolts in one sweeping burst of fire.
A mouth watering smell of charred flesh and burning fat filtered through the systems of Saur’s helmet while he reloaded the smoking bolt pistol, causing him to salivate uncontrollably.
Fighting the urge to eat everything he just killed, Saur looked around him for more targets, only to be greeted by a relative calm, too soon, he felt, as surely there were many more heretics to purge. Killing the motor of his chain axe as the cocktail of combat stimms washed from his system, a cold clarity drifted back over Saur’s perceptions, setting his mind into gear to prepare for what was to come.
His squad, and the squad of Sgt Cortez stood around, surrounded by the corpses of traitor guardsmen, each battle brother having slain a mere handful of the enemy, nowhere near enough, he knew that none of his Brother‘s blood lust would be sated by this pitiful display of resistance.
The screams coming from inside the hangar had stopped, evidence enough that everything inside was dead and Brother Chaplain Gornt was calming the cursed brothers to a controllable level. This pleased Saur, as the difficulty in directing the cursed brothers would limit their participation for the next phase, leaving more foes for his assault marines.
The only sounds now where the constant drizzling rain, joined by the gentle crackling of burning tank hulks and the half sobbing, half moaning noise emanating from the final wounded guardsman at Saur’s feet. Saur Silenced the pathetic creature with a stamp of his boot before voxing his squad, ordering them to consolidate on his position, in anticipation of the next phase of the assault.
***

That's it for now.
From now on, i will mark perspective changes with the symbol
***

For this part i wanted to concentrate on Saur's involvement in the assault, and his nature, being vastly different to Cain's. I didn't put any thought Lines into Saur's narrative, and kind of imagined him like some humanoid shark, acting on instinct.

Comments are appreciated

Darkchild

Another good piece of action. I like your explanation on Saur's behavior - sharks make a good parallel for blood frenzy. Though I must admit I'm not too fond on the cannibalistic approach you took.

In my view of the FT, they crave blood and slaughter but not human or any other flesh. Anyhow, I look forward to your drawing of the Assault sergeant.

Well in my View, Flesh Tearers are Blood Angels but worse.

Blood angels are vampires, cannibalism is the next logical step. Civilians sometimes turn up drained of blood in Blood angel campaigns.

In Flesh Tearer Campaigns (in IA articles and fluff), enemy prisoners disappear in their presence (coinciding with their 'feast of victory'), and they are known to rip their enemies apart using just their hands and teeth.
Plus they are known for turning on their allies, put the two together and you have guardsmen being eaten.

Just makes sense to me.

Plus, they haven't actually eaten anybody yet in my story, taking of Flesh will be ritualistic and part of a victory Tribute to Sanguinius. Not just randomly chewing on a human drumstick when they get peckish!

Darkchild

More, if you bother to read it, please comment.


***

“Cain, this is Saur. One enemy MBT en route to your location.”
Cain Clicked his Vox once to confirm he received the message.
looking out across to the East, the vast hangar loomed about a kilometre away on the other side of the flat, featureless vehicle park.
Sure enough, a lone Battle tank, one of the many variants of Leman Russ by Cain’s reckoning, painted in the same dull grey drab as the PDF trooper’s uniforms, was barrelling along at some speed towards their location.
A bright red outline appeared around the vehicle on Cain’s HUD as his helm tracked it’s movement, the word THREAT appearing in bold text above it.
No sooner had Cain linked the targeting information to his squad when the tank fired, it’s main cannon belching smoke and flame, launching an armour piercing shell through the air at frightening speed.
The shell landed some metres to the front of the trench, the resulting explosion throwing up a plume of debris adding mud and permacrete to the rain that was beating down on top of Cain’s warriors.
The Astartes to Cain’s left, a usually stoic brute by the name of Daggar, let out a sharp laugh, distorted to a bark of noise by his external speakers.
“What do those Emperor damned scum expect to hit when running their engines flat out?” He snarled.
Cain shrugged, servos in his armour whining as they struggled to replicate the human Gesture.
“They are PDF brother, outclassed even by the Imperial Guardsmen we fight beside. I’m surprised they got that close.”
Daggar grunted in response, his way of conceding the point.
The Russ fired again as it powered on, this shell landing some distance to their rear, further away than the first and equally useless.
Cain waited until it was within five hundred metres of the trench before voxing to his own heavy weapon.
“Vengeance, kill it.”
The vindicator’s tracks whined as it traversed, grinding on the spot to find the correct aiming spot.
The huge hull mounted Demolisher cannon boomed, the concussive force of it firing so close to the trench could be felt even through power armour, the twelve veteran warriors involuntary leaning forward as invisible forces sought to push them over.
The shell hit the ground directly in front of the speeding Leman Russ, launching it into the air, on fire, the wreck seeming to freeze in mid air for just a moment, lazily performing a back flip as it’s forward momentum carried it onward. The once fearsome machine crashed down onto it’s roof, it’s chassis, enduring forces it was never built to withstand simply collapsed, violently imploding into itself as it hit the permacrete.
Before the burning wreckage had slid to a halt, the sound of 20 pairs of power armoured boots thumping onto hard ground caught Cain’s attention, the tactical squads of Phaeron and Nicholye running to join the fight.
The thunderhawk they had just deployed from roared overheard, closing the last five hundred metres to the South entrance of the Spaceport in a heartbeat and launching a volley of hellstreak missiles at the exposed attackers before banking away sharply to avoid any potential incoming from heavier weapons.
It needn’t have bothered, for the enemy forces were armed with no more than lasguns.
A ripple of explosions tore through the traitor ranks, maiming and killing dozens, forcing everyone in close proximity to hit the deck momentarily.
The Entrance to the Spaceport was pretty open, offering no decent cover to potential attackers, bar the huge, ornate support pillars that held up the covered entrance, the true entrance being recessed some twenty metres back from this false roof in order to keep important travellers from having to stand in the rain.
The lack of cover was not a problem for the attackers, as the Spaceport was built on a natural incline, meaning a large stone staircase had to be climbed to reach the doorway where it had been levelled off some millennia before, keeping any approaching person in the dead ground until the last moment.
This meant that the attackers could walk right up to the gothic majesty of the front door without being fired upon.
Realising this fact the defenders had pulled back into the terminal building, fixing their heavy weapons onto a raised balcony overlooking the entryway and cleared firing lanes looking straight at the door.
Led by a Colonel Jemiah Davise, the men of the 36th “Emperor’s own” Ryanthis Light infantry were the most battle hardened unit on all of the Western hemisphere, having been engaged with purging unruly criminal elements alongside the local enforcer units of Cortunna for ten years now.
The three hundred men manning the defences were well armed and determined, having prepared the starport for siege by blocking all but the main entrances with welded barricades, as well as covering all windows with heavy flakboard.
Knowing that his rebellious enemy would not risk damaging the sacred structure of the Starport, named after the minor Saint Ryan himself, Davise had been content to sit back and let the rebels throw themselves at his guns, allowing the choke points to do most of the work for him.
They had then simply shot anyone that entered within the last 3 hours.
Frustrated by their lack of progress, the traitor commanders had stalled the assault proper until they had planned anew, occasionally probing with a couple of bodies at a time while they wondered what the hell they were going to do without heavy weapons.
It did not look good.
Cain’s Veterans leapt from the trench and set off at a sprint in a loose firing line, each ten man tactical squad taking a flank and keeping in line with their commander.
A barrage of Las fire met them head on, most of it missing at this range, the traitor troops quickly recognising that this new enemy was a much greater threat than the loyalists they had previously been attempting to kill and bringing their small arms to bear.
Bellowing Sergeants organised their men into gunlines, the incline of the steps allowing practically the entire battalion to open fire at once, filling the sky with glittering purple flashes of light.
Cain’s force chewed up the distance in impressive time, nearing optimum firing range in under seven seconds. The Veteran Sergeant tore his gaze away from the densely packed body of enemy troops and stole a glance at the mission chrono on his HUD.
Six minutes.
It had been six minutes since the tracks of his Razorback had touched solid ground, deploying the instruments of the Emperor’s wrath to tear the enemy from this world.
Too slow.
Cain thought, chastising himself for conducting operations at this leisurely pace.
We don’t have time for this.
He would pay penance for this weakness.
Cain factored that he only had another 16 minutes before the second mechanised battalion struck through the city to the North, if he hadn’t secured the port by then, then the difficulty in holding it would increase tenfold, especially if the enemy decided to put their supporting tank units to good use.
“Engage.” The Veteran Sgt voxed to his tactical units, before skidding to one knee mid stride and opening fire with his squad. Phaeron’s squad to his left did exactly the same, with Neyf and Nicholye’s squads continuing to dash forward. The Razorbacks, trundling behind the tactical advance also opened up, scything down the front ranks of the enemy with punishing fire.
Cain and his men put down a wall of bolts, each Marine tracking and engaging individual targets with inhuman speed, each bolt fired hit home against a human form, each one lethal.
Once they had pulled ahead by roughly twenty or so metres, Neyf and Nicholy went static, adding their fire to the mix.
This was the signal for Cain to move, his squads rising as one and sprinting forward, being covered all the while by fire from his opposite number and the transports.
This was the routine they set for themselves over the next minute or so, a disciplined type of fire-and-manoeuvre, gaining ground rapidly while maintaining a constant rate of fire.
Soon they had reached the bottom of the staircase, a trail of shattered bodies in their wake, the enemy now on the back foot and slowly pulling back, all the while bunching up at the rear, unwilling to meet the defenders guns.
Cain looked around and decided to use this break in terrain as a logical point to up the pace again.
The retreating guardsmen remained in force all the way up to the entryway, at least two hundred of them remaining, pouring a constant hail of fire into their attackers, relentlessly loading and firing for dear life, hoping to drop at least one of the hulking warriors before them.
To Cain it felt like a heavy hail, las bolts dinging from his armour with such frequency that it had become background noise, the veteran prayed to his armour’s machine spirit to hold firm under the assault, dismayed at how it must look on the outside while he let an empty mag drop from his bolter, slamming a fresh one home before the spent one had even hit the floor.
No time for returning empties to pouches, they could be gathered later.
“GRENADES!”
He exclaimed, over his external speakers rather than using his vox, his guttural tones distorted to a truly inhuman bark when amplified by the helm‘s internal devices. It was intended to demoralise the already near-to-breaking point enemy, as well the more obvious intention of blowing them to shreds.
Thirty two Frag grenade immediately sailed through the air on this command, towards the exposed traitors on the steps.
Cain aimed his directly at a particularly loud squad sergeant who was red faced and angry while bellowing orders to his men, delighting as the small cylinder whacked into his face, snapping the head back at an unnatural angle before Cain lost sight of him in a hail of frag. The almost simultaneous explosions turned the first couple of ranks into mince, Marine weapons back up and firing before a single body had time to fall.
“BASELINE!”
Cain yelled, indicating to his men to let rip on automatic, continuing to fire without pause until ordered to stop.
The Astartes stood shoulder to shoulder, raking the enemy with an intense hail of bolts, decimating flak armoured forms while a carpet of empty shell casings formed around their feet, the hollow tinkling sound they made unheard against the deafening roar of the weapons.

Cain Reloaded twice in the barrage, firing nearly a hundred rounds alone in the space of under thirty seconds.
Times this by thirty, and you were left with a lot of corpses and a couple of dozen wounded and shellshocked traitors, broken and running for their lives to the top of the staircase.
Vengeance stopped most of them in their tracks with it‘s teeth shuddering report, the impressive ordnance shell placing itself just at the top of the staircase, right in the centre of the retreating pack.
Those nearest the blast were simply vaporised, bodies turned to the consistency of water by the shockwave then immediately evaporated by the heat, leaving not a trace of their existence behind. Those slightly further away were shredded into streaks of offal, shards of meat and bone adding to the fragmentation that ripped into those furthest from the blast, flinging them off their feet, the bigger pieces of shrapnel lopping off limbs or disembowelling their victims.
Fire and smoke from the blast billowed up and reached the false roof, obscuring the scene to un-augmented eyes and hiding the fate of those unfortunate few to be blown clear of the blast, wounded, directly into the line of fire of the defender’s heavy bolters.
The staccato rattle of belt fed heavy weapons ended their suffering.
A single arm, not a scratch on it, flopped down the stairs towards the Astartes, attached to a smoking lump of torso and half a head, before coming to rest by an equally dead comrade. The hand was fixed into a clawing motion, as if holding the invisible pistol grip of a rifle no longer there.
Then, there was silence.
When the dust had settled, all that was left of the top of the stair case was a jagged crater and a mass of tangled corpses. Even one of the mighty support pillars, stood motionless for over a thousand years, enduring the elements and whatever else nature could throw at it had fallen, shattered, to the ground.
Cain made a mental note to commend the gunner of Vengeance, a young battle brother by the name of Draik. That shot deserved praise.
Reloading his bolter yet again, Cain took stock of his situation, He only had three mags for his bolter left, and 5 for his bolt pistol. He switched his fire selector back to single shot before thinking what to do next.
The enemy attacking forces dead, Phase 1 of the operation was complete, the hard part yet to come. Clearing the Starport in time to muster an effective defence against the Northern traitor battle group would be time consuming, fighting an enemy with heavy weapons in tight confines always was.
Still, it was exactly the type of fighting Flesh Tearers excelled at.
Cain opened an open vox channel as the tactical squads and Sternguard spread out around him, securing a quick perimeter in Lieu of any further orders.
By now, each element of Strikeforce Reaper should have concluded their initial objectives.
“This is Cain. All squads Report.”
“Squad Lorzen, top floor clear, 90 percent ammo, no casualties.”
“Squad Saur, All armour destroyed, 90 percent ammo, no casualties.”
“Squad Neyf, with you, 30 percent ammo, no casualties.”
And so it went, with each squad giving a brief situation report, in order of squad seniority. The tactical units were all low on ammo, an eventuality Cain had prepared for. Right now, the third thunderhawk Would be unloading a pallet containing crates of fresh bolter magazine, grenades, and additional heavy weapons for the upcoming defence.
The assault Squads were far better off, having dealt with most of their threats via close combat or explosives.
Vengeance had only fired its main gun twice in the operation so far, so was practically fully stocked to go. The only logistical problem were the two Razorbacks, each having expended all ammunition in the assault.
They would have to liase with the third thunderhawk after it had dropped the Bolter ammo to receive the second pallet of ammunition, Assault cannon rounds stacked floor to ceiling in the Gunship’s hold. The lethal firepower of the transports could not be compromised.
The only anomaly was Gornt, the chaplain having remained silent when it came his turn to report.
“Brother Chaplain, this is Cain. Please report.” The Sergeant repeated, annoyed at the delay.
“I am leading the Rage Brethren in prayer, Brother Sergeant. They are compliant for now, but if you do not give us targets soon, I can predict what they will do and it will not be beneficial.”
“Control them just a short while longer, Brother Chaplain, I swear by Sanguinius they will find battle again soon.”
Gornt snarled his reply, Zealous Fervour etched in every word.
“Aye, they better do Brother Sergeant. Otherwise, the enemy will not be the only ones whose blood is spilled on this day.”
Cain killed the link, this wasn’t the time to exchange fiery rhetoric.
The sense of urgency Cain felt overrode any desire to maintain petty protocol, there were objectives to complete and a deadline to be met.
This was the Grim reality of war.
Having cogitated all the relevant information, Cain gave the command to advance with Phase two of the mission, taking the Starport proper.
As Cain rose, he noticed a slight stiffness in one knee of his power armour, a slight background whine adding itself to the usual angry hum of servos.
Apologising to the machine spirit of his battle plate for allowing it to suffer such damage, Cain gave a signal and moved off, the Space Marines of Strike force Reaper advancing into Ryan Starport.

Darkchild

Again, cool action text. I guess we'll see next time how Flesh Tearers interact with IG officers.

I like the logistic part you include in your fiction, it had some realism to it.

It would be nice to see how you handle writing a fight between even matched forces, say CSM or nids VS the Flesh Tearers. Anyhow, good job again, I enjoy reading your short-story.

thank you. It has realism because i've been an infantryman for ten years! It's always annoyed me how Space marines tend to fire one magazine worth of ammo then switch to their sword, its just not logical to fight like that!

If i expand their world the Flesh Tearers will fight some tougher opponents, the idea behind this story is to show how far removed the Flesh tearers have become from the humanity they "Protect".
they are a frightening parody of what Space Marines were created to be, commiting terrible atrocities in the name of the emperor.
Thanks for your comment.

Darkchild

I refuse to believe only 2 people have read this.
Is it that hard to leave a comment?

Positive or negative, i dont care as long as it's constructive, i post this stuff so i can improve and get a feel for what people think about it.

darkchild

Good stuff I must say, I like how you portrait the individual Flesh tearer Sm, and particular the battle scenes! keep up the good work

thankyou, i appreciate the comment. Have taken a bit of a hiatus this week, as i've been real busy.
but i should write some more next week if i get the time.

Darkchild

Your stuff is always good Darkchild. This is no exception. Do you have any plans on inserting this into a larger story? ...Like a book?

Thank you for reading.

Well i have loads of ideas, it's just finding the motivation to keep writing really.

I run out of steam quite quickly, and get bored of an idea real fast.

I'm still enjoying this story atm so we'll see...

Darkchild

More!


Part 2

The balcony simply ceased to exist. It’s sandbag fortifications, heavy stubber and heavy bolter pits, spare ammo and weapon crews, were brought down in a thundering ball of flaming death.

The defenders hadn’t fired at them. Even though there were shouts from the floors above about being under attack from some strange armoured forms, the first men of the 36th Ryanthis Light infantry just watched as a gore stained Vindicator smashed through the entrance of the Starport, slamming on it‘s brakes some 20 metres into the open lobby and skidding to a halt on the smooth floor.
Their logic was that whoever had instigated the terrible carnage outside must be an ally, breaking the back of the assault to liberate the besieged defenders.
Upon hearing the sounds of massed solid projectile weapons fire, some had even speculated that the legendary Astartes had come to rescue them.
Some even rejoiced as black and red armoured forms spilled into the breach, fanning out either side of the Astartes vehicle, fearsome weapons aimed up at them.

They kept this train of thought for about a second, until vengeance fired.

Deafening even outside on an open plain, the sound of the demolisher cannon discharging in the relatively confined space of the terminal building was a weapon in itself.

Cain’s helmet cut off all external sound for a couple of seconds, a safety mechanism to save damaging itself and the user from excessive noise, rendering him deaf.
Through this eery silence, punctuated only by his own breathing and the sound of his twin hearts beating rhythmically, Cain saw the effects of the weapon at close range and marvelled at the destructive forces it could bring to bear.

The concussion of the firing kicked up a cloud of dust around the vehicle, creating a visible shockwave that again threatened to push the marines over, shattering windows in its wake.
the warhead itself barely had time to arm before smashing into the sandbagged balcony, detonating with such force that all the defender’s ammunition and the consecrated stone of the raised area blew up, collapsing it all in a cascade of tumbling debris.
The force of the strike kicked up a huge amount of dust which roiled back along the lobby, consuming the Astartes in its obscuring false fog.
Cain Blink-clicked his helmet’s vision mode to infra red, casting everything in hues of grey and black, the heat based ocular setting cutting through the dust and smoke with ease.

“Squads Phaeron and Nicholye, advance and clear the ground floor.”
Cain spoke in terse, clipped tones, the sound of a man in a hurry.
“Sternguard, with me.”
And with that he moved off, noting the acknowledgement runes of his tactical squads light up briefly, his veterans forming a loose staggered formation behind him.
Cain made a beeline for the wreckage of the balcony, clambering up the mound of debris as Daggar took a knee to cover his ascent, scanning the top of the dust filled, man-made ridge with his bolter.

Originally there had been a sturdy staircase leading from the ground up to the balcony, forming an easy transition point between floors. This had been extensively booby trapped by the Ryanthis 36th, then annihilated by a demolisher cannon, leaving the only real option of getting up at this end of the building via the collapsed rubble.
Cain clawed his way up, punching holes into solid stone and permacrete to drag his heavy form up to the next floor, immediately bringing his weapon into the aim as he reached the top.
Upon seeing this, Daggar began his own climb, covered in turn by the Astartes behind him.
This sequence continued until all 12 of Cain’s Sternguard had rapidly reached the second floor, Squad leader Neyf giving the signal for ‘last man in’ as he reached the top.
The balcony led off into a series of corridors, each one just wide enough to fit two astartes walking side by side.
This was the office area where most of the menial admin staff worked, scribes and auto savants, toiling away to ensure flight manifests and passenger details were all present and correct, pay was distributed and records of every ship that visited the port were accurately recorded.

The immediate surroundings were dark, the concussion of the recent explosion having blown out all lume-strips within a wide radius and with all windows covered by flakboard, only tiny slivers of the dull daylight peeked through the gaps.
The rapidly cooling thermal signatures of a variety of bodies were scattered liberally around the area, some crushed by rubble, others peppered by exploding ammunition or blown apart by ordnance.
The stink of burnt meat pervaded the atmosphere, causing Cain to set his helmet filters to maximum, lest he become distracted.
His full squad stationary in a line to either side of him, Cain motioned to daggar, pointing at the stern veteran, then to his own forearm.
Daggar nodded in response, immediately bringing his left arm up, regarding the auspex unit mounted on the armour plating.
He tapped a number of keys on the small device, his armoured index finger moving with a surprising dexterity for something encased in such clumsy bulk and a grid appeared in the upper left corner of each marine’s visor display, relayed by Daggar’s wargear.

The grid showed movement, heat signatures and energy readings as colour coded blips, overlaid with a blueprint style map of the complex.
Cain waited until every man’s status rune flicked green to show they were all receiving full signal before gesturing with his left hand.
Two fingers up, down, two fingers again, then a pump of the fist and a blade handed point to the furthest left corridor, silently telling his fellow veterans to split into combat squads, then ‘buddy pairs’ in order to move through the complex in a controlled fashion, the fist was an assault command, and the point was a direction for his second in command, Neyf to follow.
As soon as he finished the hand signals, Cain rose smoothly and moved forward, servos humming quietly as he walked, weapon in the aim towards the furthest right corridor.

Upon entering the dark corridors, Cain was greeted by doors stretching as far as the passageway, which terminated roughly halfway down the terminal building, simple wooden affairs without any reinforcement.
Easy to breach Cain mused.
Cain stopped just outside the door and took a split second to regard his scanner reading.
The grid showed 4 man sized heat sources, grouped closely together in the centre of the office room, watching each other’s backs no doubt.
Daggar moved past Cain and stood adjacent to the closed entrance, before launching a huge push kick, his left boot smashing the flimsy door and frame completely, showering the office’s interior with wooden splinters.
Cain was through the entrance before the splinters had even landed, stepping through and left as they had done countless thousands of times before in training and combat, spotting and engaging targets as Dagger followed behind on his shoulder, stepping to the right.

The room was a mess of wrecked machinery and paperwork strewn all over the place, with an adjoining door to the far right leading into the next room of the maze of offices, it‘s layout making no logical sense in typical administratium fashion.
The four men were huddled behind a hastily constructed fortification made from overturned tables, elderly cogitator banks and other assorted debris, a mounted heavy stubber pointed at the door as well as their issued lasguns.
They had the look of desperate men, those that knew they had been left to die but were determined to go down with a fight.
Cain fired two shots, the flat bangs deafening in the close confines of the office, overlapping with two shots fired from Daggar’s own bolter.
The four men were plucked from their firing positions without ever returning fire, mass reactive rounds exploding messily within their torsos.
The room entry had taken less than a second.
“Clear.” Cain spoke, his voice calm and without emotion, totally at odds with the turmoil in his mind.
“Clear” echoed Daggar.

Upon hearing this the next pair, consisting of Brothers Grayv and Hark, entered the room and proceeded to the adjoining door, stacking up the same way as Cain and Daggar had moments before.
As they moved into position, muffled lasbursts sounded some distance away to their left, with the distinctive bark of bolter fire responding in kind in a series of rapid, single shots.
Neyf had engaged.

Grayv put an armoured boot through the door and Hark stepped through into the gloomy confines of the next room, his brother hot on his heels.
There was a moment of silence, before the vox crackled.
“Cain, Civilians, twelve of them.” The Southern twang of Hark’s voice was hard to mistake.
“Acknowledged.” Cain replied.
“Conserve ammunition, switch to combat blades.”
Cain didn’t receive a reply, or even a green lit rune, it was unnecessary. The veteran heard the sounds of furniture being violently moved, then screams as the pair went to work.

Durden and Tath, the last pair of Cain’s combat squad moved through the room and past the second pair as they butchered the civilians with reckless abandon, limbs and chunks of meat and arterial spray flying about the room as the screeching Starport staff were put to death.
Tath moved to his furious brothers while Durden covered the next doorway, speaking to them in cold tones.
“Self control brothers, we are veterans.” He said, emphasising the word “control”.
Hark nodded, reporting
“Clear.” As he sheathed his blood slicked blade.
Durden and Tath made entry to the next room, finding nothing but a mess of wire entanglements and a daisy chain of frag grenades, it’s arming pin dangling from a wire attached to the door.
Durden focussed on the pin, swinging wildly from being violently yanked away from it’s home by the motion of entry, and yelled.
“Down!”
he and That turned their backs to the grenades and knelt down to provide a small a target as possible, no time to retreat from the blast.
A series of loud booms signalled the grenade detonations, accompanied by a sudden cloud of dust and debris that billowed into the previous room, totally obscuring everything and making thermal imagery necessary again.
Cain and Daggar were up and moving, weapons in the shoulder as soon as they heard the blast, their instinctive training causing them to advance into the booby trap area past Grayv and Hark straight away, to deny the enemy any chance to capitalise on the surprise.

Upon entering the room and scanning their arcs, Cain’s pair found Durden and Tath at the opposing wall, stacked up on the doorway.
Their armour was blackened from powder burns and dust, pitted and scarred even more than usual from a point blank blast of frag.
“You ok?” Cain asked, his growling voice it’s normal mask of indifference.
Both men put a thumb up, from their non trigger finger hand and Tath spoke.
“Traps were meant to take down humans, Cain. They mean naught to us but a moment’s deafness.”
Cain grunted in response, already moving to take the next office.
He was running out of time.

This pattern continued through the seemingly endless maze of offices, each pair bounding through the last, entering and clearing every room they found with slick efficiency, no corner was left uncovered, no auspex return left unchecked.
They found a haphazard combination of scattered defenders, booby traps and totally empty rooms, with a random distribution of the terminal’s terrified workforce scattered throughout.
Cain immediately recognised them for what they were. The whole place was set up to force would be attackers into a grind, facing isolated pockets of resistance, not knowing whether the next room would explode in their faces or be as silent as a tomb.
This would slow the attackers down immensely and ruin morale, forcing them into a type of hellish combat that would leave many dead and even more wounded.
Leaving the civilians to their fate had been a ruthless tactic, one to add to the overall confusion and Cain’s respect for the enemy commander grew.
The tactic would have worked too, but Colonel Davise had never fought astartes before.

The methodical slaughter took another 5 minutes, Cain glancing at his mission chrono periodically as precious seconds ticked away, all the while cutting through the Starport defenders as though they weren‘t there, shooting the soldiers, bludgeoning or stabbing the civilians.
Though he was confident that his warriors could stop the next battlegroup with minimal fuss, Cain didn’t relish the thought of doing it without ammunition or without proper arcs in place.
With no fire zones, killing areas and choke points covered by his men, the armoured units rolling to meet them would be a much harder foe to defeat.
And if the next battlegroup commander decided to lift the ridiculous ban on tanks firing, it would be a tough battle indeed.

Durden smashed through the flimsy wooden door and kept going, stomping through and covering the left while Tath was on his shoulder, spinning to the right.
They found themselves in a long bisecting corridor that seemed to cover the width of the 2nd floor, their map overlays informing the Flesh Tearers that they were halfway through the building.
A hundred metres or so down the hallway another wooden door exploded outwards, a hulking figure in battered gore and black armour stepping to aim directly at Durden.
Neyf raised his bolter as he recognised one of his own and the two Astartes crashed their fists off their chest plates in informal salute.
Cain and Daggar moved past the pair and halted next to a large pair of double doors, considerably heavier and more ornate than those of the office network.
Neyf and his battle partner Merc stacked up on the other side, giving Cain the thumbs up, signalling he was good to go.
The type of door and intricately designed gothic framework around them signalled the change from menial staff to middle management positions, the offices beyond considerably more spacious and well furnished to cater for the more important people they contained.
Which meant easier to defend with better arcs of fire.

Cain took a knee as his eleven veterans filled the corridor and spaced themselves along it, wide enough apart as to not attract sustained bursts of fire but close enough to bring concentrated firepower to bear.
The map displayed that a heavy concentration of PDF lay beyond the double doors, at least 2 platoons formed in a circle in the centre of vast open plan office space, being dead centre of the building it was probably previously inhabited by whatever Tech Adepts were assigned to the Starport.
And that also meant it was the most probable location of Colonel Davise, who would need to be questioned regarding the confusing fact that every human in this fight was attired the same way.
The Mechanicus adept’s lack of concern for personal space would explain the open area, which was probably crammed full of machinery and decent cover for the defenders. With the amount of heavy weapons the defenders could bring to bear, it would be a hard room to take, even with the power armoured might of Space Marines
Cain was not concerned, he had something in reserve just for this eventuality, only time bothered him now, the seconds before the next phase of the battle dwindling away before him.

Cain moved to his right and mule kicked the heavy door on his side of the walkway, splintering the wood and tearing it from it’s hinges.
Almost instantly a hail of heavy bolter fire tore through the entryway, Cain ducking back as the mighty mass reactive rounds gouged chunks out of the solid corridor walls, showering the Astartes in chips of stone and ‘crete.
The leader of strikeforce Reaper opened a vox channel.
“Entry pattern Stonewall, on my mark.”
He counted from three.
“Mark!”
Cain and Neyf dived into the doorway, laying prone and opening up with their bolters.
At exactly the same time, Daggar and Merc filled the doorway behind them, firing from one knee.
Behind them stood Durden and Slav from Neyf’s squad, all six men filling the portal to the office with automatic bolter fire, their last precious reserves of ammo slamming into the defender’s solid cover and driving them back, numerous explosions forcing them to hunker down behind sturdy machinery and sand bag fortifications.
This was the intention, the enemy distracted, their heavy guns laying silent, this was the exact moment he needed and with it, Cain opened spoke into his vox once again.
“Brother Lorzen, engage.”
He got one word in reply, a bassy rumble from the Marine even Cain thought of as sinister.
“Affirmative.”

Thats it for now.

Darkchild

Excellent, consider me subscribed.

thank you!

Darkchild

Well done sir! I am now subscribing

Thank you!

Darkchild

Great job! Can't wait to read more! When are you gonna update it again?

You should really send some of this to BL!

Greetings from Holland

Very Good! This has got me wanting to do a Flesh Tearers army

I'm sold. I love it.

Thanks for all the comments!

I've been working 15 hour days this week, with next week being much the same so i wont get time to update this for a while.

But stay tuned, i WILL finish this story.

Darkchild

Alright, but please hurry
I'm seriously considering doing a Flesh Tearers army now, your fault!

i'm glad, Flesh Tearers are Awesome!

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GO- i mean EMPEROR!!!

Darkchild