Requiem for Kyata [Supernovas fluff]

[Wargamer]

Kyata was the greatest of us all.

 

I remember the charge he lead across the dam. He went to battle without a helmet, having lost his in the fighting through the industrial district. His skin was olive, his hair the colour of wet straw. In his left hand was a broken power sword, snapped in half by an Ork chieftain. In his right was a bolt pistol, Ryza pattern, with his last magazine already half empty. It didn't matter. Kyata would have led the charge unarmed if he had to. I would have as well.

 

It was my first true battle. I had seen war before, both as a Mortal and Astartes, but this was my first true battle. Kyata came to me in the downtime as we prepared for war. I was a child, nineteen years of age and still grieving for the mentor I had lost the day before. The Captain put a fatherly hand upon my shoulder and said to me "When the sun rises, you will be Novr Aestra. One of us. My Brother."

 

All my doubts and fears were gone. When the sun rose we were half way across the dam, trampling over Ork corpses every step of the way. I remember the kick of the boltgun in my hand. It had been my mentor's weapon. His sword was on my hip; I was the only Novitae to be given such an honour. My armour was lighter than that of my brothers, of course, and so I was not permitted to stand in the first line with Kyata. Not initially.

 

I remember the Marine in front of me fall, clutching at his throat. A rocket struck to my left and hurled another skyward. I stumbled forward, teeth bared and boltgun firing, and suddenly I was beside Captain Kyata.

 

He plunged his broken power sword into the gut of a charging Ork and twisted it, causing the beast to yelp in pain as its life faded. A headbutt knocked the creature away and he raised his pistol, firing the last bolt into the eye of a second. The third charger was cut down by bolt fire from the Marines behind us. By then, Kyata had a combat knife drawn and ordered the counter-charge. I went with him, bolter abandoned and sword drawn.

 

Orks do not fight as we do. There is no grace, no finesse, just brute strength and raw aggression. I remember how the first tried to cave my skull in with his 'shoota', and how I ducked aside and broke his elbow with a pommel strike. I didn't kill him though, I merely pushed him off-balance and into the path of the warrior behind me, who dispatched the Ork easily. That was something Kyata, as a plainsman understood very well - the power of fighting in ranks. The front need only disrupt the enemy, stun or wound or disarm for the men behind to deliver the fatal blow.

 

I took the legs out of a second Ork, the third I killed cleanly. The fourth, fifth, sixth... they all ran together in a blur of motion, of fluid strokes and practiced attacks. They caught me many times, drawing blood or leaving bruises, but they couldn't stop me. Nothing could stop me. I was beside the Captain, a man who may as well have been the Emperor himself to me. In the time I had put down half a dozen foes, Kyata had killed twenty. He left very few for the second rank to finish. Just a long line of corpses with open throats.

 

The Warboss came upon us as we reached the far towers. I was not aware of him until he had lifted me up and slammed me to the ground so hard it shattered my spine. Two Marines rushed to my aid and were both smashed with a backhand blow that flung them both clean off the dam. A meltagunner tried to burn the giant Ork's face and was sliced in two for his troubles. The Ork did not use a power claw as was so popular with his kind; he relied instead upon a monstrous axe and raw, brute strength. He had that aplenty.

 

Kyata faced the Warboss. His form was perfect, every stroke swift and accurate, every enemy attack judged with masterful skill as to whether it should be parried, dodged or allowed to glance off the armour. Yet no blow could trouble the Warboss. Perhaps it was his thick armour, or his thick hide, but neither the dagger nor the broken sword troubled the creature at all.

 

Other Orks were surging forward, larger than any Marine and hungry for blood. The Warboss's retinue, I suspect. Their job was to ensure no-one could help Kyata. I lay there, broken, and watched as my Captain slowly lost ground to the beast. I watched as it landed an axe-blow that tore his arm clean off; watched as it crushed his chest plate with a punch; watched as it gripped Kyata's head and tore it clean from his body.

 

The Captain's broken corpse was flung toward me and the Warboss raised his trophy high, bellowing in triumph. I think he believed that our army would break at the sight of our dead Captain. But we are Supernovas, Space Marines, and we do not break. The death of Kyata, beloved by his Company, drove us all into a murderous rage. Somehow, broken as I was, I found the strength to crawl to Kyata's body and recover his grenade pouch. I armed them all. Try as I might, I cannot recall how I was able to stand, how I stumbled toward the Warboss with the explosives in hand.

 

But I do remember I was screaming Kyata's name as I threw them. The Warboss had just enough time to face me, confused and frightened, as the bomb pouch turned him into a cloud of bloody vapour.

 

They did not find me until sunset. Bloody tears streaked my face. I was lying on the roof of an observation room halfway down the dam, unable to move, barely able to breathe. I had spent that long day thinking of all the things I could have done different, of how if I had been more alert, or stronger, or faster I could have saved Kyata.

 

It haunts me to this day. We Old Ones dream when dormant, and I dream of Kyata. I dream of his final battle, of the first and only day I fought as Novr Aestra, as a Battle Brother of the Chapter. I have seen many battles since then, fought countless enemies and won many victories, but they are not real battles. They are like dreams to me, fleeting things that are forgotten almost as soon as they are over. No, for me there was only one real battle. One war. One day.

 

I am done remembering. Return me to the Old Hall. There is no battle here to fight, and I wish to dream again.