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“Chapter Master Corin, we have arrived at Dawn III’s orbital position.” Within the grand and solemn bridge of the Battle Barge Glorious Sacred Word, Captain Thomas Wilson’s figure moved in and out of the light cast by torch-styled electric lamps.
Wilson stood tall and rigid, a statue cast upon the deck, facing the massive hololithic projector before the command throne, rendering a formal salute to the Chapter Master, who was countless light-years away leading the main strength of the 4th Chapter on a separate combat operation.
Captain Wilson wore Mark IV ‘Maximus’ Power Armour.
Its livery bore the Word Bearers Legion’s characteristic deep and solemn grey, edges traced in fine silver, the Legion’s heraldry engraved upon the left pauldron.
Chapter Master Corin’s image in the hololithic projection flickered and wavered with the extreme communication distance, yet the authority and commanding presence befitting an Astartes Chapter Master remained entirely undiminished.
The background visible behind Corin appeared to be the tactical command centre of another warship.
The shadowed forms of busy Tech-priests of the Mechanicum and officers were just discernible within it.
“Wilson.” The Chapter Master’s voice, filtered through the communication equipment, carried a faint metallic resonance, yet remained filled with an authority that brooked no question.
“The main fleet will proceed according to the original plan: striking directly at the filthy home world where these greenskin Orks breed, and wiping it and their savage civilization entirely from the Emperor’s domains.
The task of relieving Dawn III — purging its orbit and surface of xenos — falls to you and your 2nd Company.” “Understood, my lord.” Captain Wilson’s reply was concise and resolute, without the slightest hesitation or doubt.
“The Emperor’s will shall be made manifest.
The glory of the Word Bearers shall shine upon this engagement.” The communication cut.
The hololithic projection dissolved.
The bridge returned to its customary low hum and the quiet murmur of data streams.
Captain Wilson turned at once, the mind within working at the speed of a precision war machine, orders forming and issuing at nearly the velocity of thought.
“Navigator, maintain stable orbit.
Weapons Officer, lock onto the star fort held by the Orks — all Macro-cannon arrays, charge and stand ready.
Shipmaster, hold the fleet in battle formation and be prepared at all times to answer any orbital counter-strike from the enemy.” “All Assault Squad members, muster at Drop Bay One.
Landing Fleet, prepare for forced atmospheric entry — target: Dawn III, coordinates of the Hive Forest.” At that moment, an Imperial Navy Officer stepped forward at a quick pace, holding a freshly decoded vox transcript.
“Captain, sir!
We have intercepted and decrypted a continuous distress signal from the planetary surface, the source identifier reads…
894th Infantry Regiment Headquarters, Imperial Guard!” Captain Wilson took the transcript, gaze sweeping rapidly over the distress message written in High Gothic.
“Reply to them.” Captain Wilson ordered loudly.
“Inform the garrison on Dawn III that the Word Bearers Legion has answered their call.
The Emperor’s Angels of Death have arrived.
Order them to hold their positions at any cost.
We will cleanse the orbit and descend to the surface immediately.
In the name of the Emperor and the Master of Mankind, tell them, hope has not abandoned His faithful servants!” “Understood!
My lord!” The officer immediately sprinted back to the vox station.
.
A few minutes later.
All squads deployed.
Captain Wilson set forward, the servo-systems of the Power Armour emitting a low hum.
Wilson walked through the bridge corridor inlaid with Sacred Scripture, heading toward the weapons rack.
With both hands, Wilson lifted the meticulously maintained Power Sword etched with scripture, checked the energy readout and ammunition status of the Bolt Pistol at the hip, and finally, with deliberate solemnity, secured the helmet bearing the Captain’s Crest.
The eye-lenses flickered to life with a cold red glow.
“Operation begins.” The murmured words connected through the internal Vox Channel to every member of the company.
For an Astartes company, especially the Word Bearers, renowned for their unshakeable faith and tactical efficiency, this was, in truth, closer to a standard rescue and counter-encirclement operation.
Their objective was clear and unambiguous: reinforce and rescue the loyal Imperial Guard on the surface, and simultaneously annihilate every greenskin that dared defile the Emperor’s domain.
Completely.
Utterly.
Right here.
Washing the shame from this world with their blood.
The Glorious Sacred Word and its escort fleet moved swiftly toward the star fort regions now under Ork control.
The escort consisted of several Lunar-class Cruisers, elegant in line yet armed to the teeth, adjusting their bearing silently, like a pack of wolves closing on prey.
Their massive prows were trained upon the planet below, its surface blotched with green patches like a dirty, tarnished emerald, and upon the star fort in its orbit.
The Orks had ravaged the structure beyond recognition, encrusting it with crude additional structures and gun platforms that resembled nothing so much as heaps of scrap.
“It’s dem puny shrimps in their iron coffins!” Inside the star fort, the Orks had clearly spotted the approaching fleet.
They lacked unified command, yet possessed an animal instinct and a frenzied, chaotic ferocity all their own.
Weapon platforms of every crude and varied description began to traverse, from salvaged Imperial Autocannons to self-built energy projectors the size of giant catapults, all operated by shrieking greenskins, all brought to bear on the elegant and deadly Imperial warships.
Energy beams and solid-shot projectiles of no small power but utterly without accuracy lanced across the void.
Most dissipated harmlessly against the ripple of the warships’ Void Shields.
Those that did connect left only inconsequential scorch marks on the heavy armour plating.
“Open fire.” Captain Wilson’s order sounded calmly across the Fleet Vox Network.
The next moment, the enemy’s guns were torn apart by the Emperor’s Wrath.
The Macro-cannon batteries along the flanks of the Lunar-class Cruisers unleashed a deafening roar.
Even in the near-silence of the void, the violent vibration could be felt conducted through the hull.
Every salvo from those great guns landed like a blow struck by the Emperor’s own fist.
The Binary Hymn chanted by the Tech-priests of the Mechanicum, woven together with the Litany of Armament, seemed to take on physical weight, pouring itself into each howling Macro-cannon shell, every one the size of a small mountain.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
The thunder of annihilation struck the star fort’s surface with precision.
The fortifications and gun platforms the Orks had cobbled together from scrap iron, rock, and incomprehensible technology proved as fragile as a child’s building blocks before the absolute firepower of the Imperial Navy.
A chain of brilliant, lethal explosions blossomed across the star fort.
Debris, twisted metal, and green severed limbs were hurled like a rain of refuse into the cold of space.
The shockwaves raged through the star fort’s narrow corridors and chambers, tearing countless howling Orks apart or pulverising them into pulp.
The moment the fleet’s firepower suppressed and breached the external defences, tearing several massive gaps in the outer shell, the launch bay doors of the Glorious Sacred Word burst open with a thunderous crash.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
Like sacred meteors, Drop Pods bearing the markings of the Word Bearers Legion were catapulted free one after another, trailing scorching plumes of flame.
They drove with precision through the channels the Macro-cannon fire had blasted open, plunging deep into the star fort’s interior.
The Drop Pods disregarded the Orks’ sporadic, disorganised intercepting fire.
They slammed into the belly of the star fort with utterly unstoppable force.
Heavy impacts rang out in rapid succession.
Constructs of metal weighing tens of tonnes punched through deck plating at tremendous speed, each landing impact comparable to a heavy-yield bomb.
Dense clouds of steam and impact-stirred dust billowed outward instantly.
Several Orks unlucky enough to be near the impact sites never had time to cry out.
They were ground into unrecognisable smears of green across the floor.
Then, from within the steam and dust, a sound arose, one far more dreaded by the Orks than the roar of the Macro-cannon batteries.
The distinctive, rhythmic, devastating thunder of Bolters.
“For the Emperor!” The battle cry rang out like a thunderclap, cutting through the shriek of twisted metal and the screams of the Orks.
One after another, tall and imposing figures in grey Power Armour burst from the drifting mist and dust.
The Emperor’s Angels.
The Space Marines of the Word Bearers Legion.
Their movements were swift as lightning, their coordination seamless.
Bolters snapped in precise bursts, each spinning bolt finding its mark.
Ork Boyz that charged forward would barely lift their crude weapons before their entire upper torsos were reduced to a spray of blood and shattered flesh by a short, sharp detonation.
The bolt rounds tore effortlessly through thick green hides, crude iron armour, and brittle bones.
Within the star fort’s enclosed spaces, the sound of the guns rang out with particular clarity, lethal, and carrying with it an air of near-ritual finality.
Captain Wilson was at the very front.
The Power Sword was already drawn.
Its ghostly blue energy field hummed as it cleaved an Ork that lunged from the flank, along with its axe, cleanly in two.
The Bolt Pistol began to bark.
With each pull of the trigger, an Ork’s skull burst open or its chest detonated.
“For the Emperor!” Wilson drove to the vanguard, Power Sword moving like a butcher’s cleaver through obstructing Orks, reducing them to clouds of blood mist.
“WAAAAAAAAAAGH!” An Ork Nobz swung a massive iron claw and came charging in.
Wilson stayed calm, adjusting stance swiftly.
In the instant the Nobz closed in, Wilson sidestepped the strike and swept the blade horizontally in one fluid motion.
“The Emperor sends his regards, xenos filth!” The Nobz’s head rolled free.
Wilson holstered the Bolt Pistol and raised the severed head high.
“This is the fate that awaits every last one of you!
Xenos filth!” “Feel the Emperor’s Wrath!” Wilson’s voice drew the attention of countless Orks still locked in combat with the Boarding Party and the Space Marines.
When they saw their Nobz beheaded, the morale of some began to crack.
Their Ork Logic began to falter.
Some had already turned and broken into a run.
“Kill them all!
Leave none alive!” Captain Wilson roared.
➤ Next: Then Come On!
Xenos!