Fire, of Heart and Sword

[Meta Knight]

The orks are too many. I knew this from the moment we charged. Six knights against a hundred is suicidal, even for Astartes. It doesn’t matter. All I see are the alien brutes, the Guardsmen dying. All I feel is the pump of adrenaline in my veins, the hilt of my sword in gauntleted fist. All I hear are the piggish grunts of the greenskins, the wind whipping against our robes, and the voices of my battle-brothers as we roar our battle cry.

 

“No pity! No remorse! No fear!”

 

The first ork I reach dies cleaved from shoulder to hip, Sangnvjir parting its flesh like butter. My breath mists; in the heat of battle, the chill of the frost blade’s edge is blissful relief. I whisper a prayer of reverence as I kill another ork, and then another. Svengar’s sword is a magnificent killer, matched only in majesty by the Space Wolves’ gesture of gifting it to me.

 

In my periphery, I see two of the beasts trying to flank me. A sweeping slash separates them from their legs, but I have no time to watch them fall before a monster of an ork confronts me. A champion of its foul kind, it towers head and shoulders over me even in full battle plate. With a bellow, it hefts a length of metal pipe--a pipe--and brings it down in an overhead swing. Sangnvjir rises to meet it, holy blade meeting this insult of a weapon, and the cheap metal shatters as it connects with true ice. Contemptuously, I behead the ork before its pea brain can even comprehend what happened. All three metres of its pathetic corpse tumble to the ground.

 

Granted a brief respite in the melee, I look around. Beside me, Vayne blasts the beasts with two bolt pistols at point-blank range, nimbly dodging blows and slipping strikes between fusillades. Romarich and Samson fight together, the veteran defending the banner-bearer’s back as the greenskins clamor for our standard. Reinhart stands alone, laying waste to three orks at a time with each swing of his eviscerator greatsword. I smile beneath my helm as I see the hulking warrior tear the spine from a brute with one hand, spattering his armour with its filth blood. Gaston… Where is Gaston?

 

I see him, metres away. My brother is being overwhelmed. He fights desperately against four enemies arrayed before him, sword flashing as he blocks their attacks. He would kill them given time, I know this as truth, but the axe biting into his side is hampering him. More of the aliens are closing in on him from behind.

 

Gritting my teeth, I move to assist, but three orks engage me, blocking my path. I kill with murderous efficiency as I try to fight my way to him, but I am slow, too slow. Even as I slay the third, I watch as he is driven to one knee. With prodigious strength, he holds four axes at bay with his blade in one hand, the other rendered useless by the spear impaling his shoulder. I hear him over the vox, screaming his hatred with his last breaths even as he knows in the next moments, there is only death…

 

And then there is Hannibal. A burning black sword whirls in a lethal arc and the orks surrounding Gaston die, holy fire licking hungrily at their corpses as they collapse. The Champion is with him, and my hearts soar. Blood of Dorn, he fights like a hero of old, black sword streaming flames and combat blade in a reversed grip. Spite lashes from his helm’s vocalizers, recriminations of existence and litanies of hate. It is the first time since his withdrawal from the Chaplaincy that I have seen him like this, standing over a wounded knight, slaying alien filth for daring to live, heart aflame and oratory breathing fire into his battle-brothers as they rally to his call. Behind him, ten fresh knights crash into the fray, no match for the Champion’s lethal grandeur but no less zealous in their slaughter. Their cry stirs my blood with its wrath.

 

“Imperator Vult!”

 

Hannibal cuts down two orks in half as many seconds before sparing his fallen brother a glance. “Stand,” he tells Gaston. I can feel the hatred emanating from the Champion, flowing into Gaston, revitalizing him with its purity. His hands grip both hafts, and he pulls axe and spear free with a cry of pain and rage. He takes up his sword once more, and rejoins the glorious slaughter side by side with the Emperor’s Champion. I see the future of the Chapter in the two young swordsmen as they cut and cleave, carrying the legacy of Dorn and honouring him with righteous bloodshed. It is inspiring, and I know every Templar here is bearing witness to the same.

 

The orks know they are beaten now. Against our reinforcements, they cannot hope to prevail. The dozen or so who remain turn to flee, but there is no escape. Bolt rounds punch into their hunched backs as they turn to run, and in moments it is over. We stand, bloodied but defiant. Bolters are lowered, muzzles smoking, and chainswords whine reluctantly to a halt. And together, we kneel and lower our heads in ritual observation, seventeen knights joined in prayer, surrounded by a hundred slain enemies on the streets of a city going up in flames.

 

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

 

A small piece as a way to try my hand at 40k writing. I love ADB's Helsreach so I tried to take inspiration from his tone and use of first-person perspective. Also meant to test the waters a bit, if by some miracle you guys like what you read and/or would like more of these Templars, I'd be happy to post some more shorts featuring these guys! Cheers

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

Amazing read. I definitely got the feel of Helsreach - and not to detract from what you wrote, this is great as a piece on its own. I hope we see more of your writing!