Rogue blood Angel: Trial by Swarm and chaos part 3

[Tred1998]

The words had barely left him when the ground convulsed. A massive tremor surged up through the floors, rattling loose plating and shuddering through their bones. Dust fell in streams from the vaulted ceiling, and the servo-skulls drifting in the chamber jolted from their idle circuits, optics flickering, binaric litanies warbling into panicked distortion.

From far above came the muffled thunder of heavy artillery, followed by the rolling bark of las batteries, autocannons, and the deeper crash of battle cannons. Between the human firepower sounded the piercing shrieks of Tyranids, a psychic chorus that wormed into the marrow. The Macro-Lance’s foundations groaned as though the fortress itself resisted being dragged into the storm.

Ventris caught herself against a cogitator column, her augmetic leg spasming violently. Sparks spat from its joints and the limb gave out, sending her to one knee.

Tred listened, helm lenses tilted upward, every vibration telling him the truth. “We are out of time,” he growled. “The swarm is here.”

Without hesitation, he clipped the slate to a mag-lock at his waist, sealing it against his armor. Then he crossed to Ventris. She tried to push herself upright, teeth bared against the pain.

“I can still—” she began, stubborn as ever.

“You cannot,” Tred cut her off. He lifted her as though she were weightless, settling her across the power pack of his armor just as he had before. “Eyes sharp. Rifle ready.”

Her hands gripped the lasgun, breath ragged but steady. She gave a single, reluctant nod.

With one last look at the star-map—spinning endlessly above the corpses of men who had died to protect it—Tred pressed the rune to the blast door. The seal disengaged with a grinding shriek, and the vault closed behind them, locking its secrets away.

The fortress shook again. The vibrations sang through every girder and panel as Tred carried Ventris upward into the dark.

They retraced their path at speed, pounding through the corridors where only moments ago they had bled and fought. Shadows of battle lingered in every corner—collapsed bulkheads, bolter casings scattered across the floor, the stench of ichor still sharp in the air. The bodies of Alpha Legion operatives remained where they had fallen, twisted ceramite glinting faintly in the half-light. Guardsmen corpses, too, lined the halls, their dog tags now gone, collected by Ventris’ steady hands.

The tremors grew harsher as they climbed, each blast shaking the deckplates under Tred’s boots. Somewhere above, an autocannon rattled off a short, disciplined burst, only to be drowned in the shriek of gaunts. A collapse rumbled in the distance, echoing down the shafts like thunder.

They pressed on. Servo-skulls bobbed past them in hurried flight, binaric voices muttering warnings to no one. Gutted lumen strips sparked overhead as the fortress bled its power into the Macro-Lance.

At one turn, the corridor narrowed where rubble had fallen. Tred ducked low, Ventris clutching her lasgun tight as she brushed against a wall streaked with blood both red and alien green. At another, they passed the husk of a Termagant, its skull caved in by a Guardsman’s bayonet still lodged in its maw. The hall was littered with memories of close battle.

The stairwells became ladders of sound—closer to the surface with every level. Artillery shook the walls constantly now, the vibration constant underfoot. Smoke trickled down from vents, stinging the eyes.

Ventris shifted slightly on his back, gripping the harness for balance. “You know, by now I think I’m getting comfortable riding on the back of a Space Marine,” she muttered, voice strained but tinged with gallows humor.

Tred did not break stride. “Good,” he rumbled. “Get used to it.”

Together they pressed upward, toward the command center, where the heart of the battle awaited.

The corridors shuddered as Tred carried Ventris upward. Each tremor grew sharper, shaking loose rivets and showering them with dust. The sound of gunfire above came in waves—first distant, then nearer, until at last the upper bastions opened before them.

Through narrow firing slits they glimpsed the swarm outside: gaunts clawing at trench lines, the silhouettes of Carnifexes battering the walls, and the flare of Imperial heavy weapons struggling to hold them back. The fortress itself shook as earthshaker shells roared overhead.

They pressed on until the bulkhead of the command center loomed ahead. Guardsmen hurried through the corridors, carrying ammunition crates, shouting orders, and stumbling to their posts. Many slowed as they caught sight of the spectacle—an officer of their own regiment riding atop the shoulders of a towering Blood Angel, lasgun braced as if the giant were her personal mount. Faces turned in awe, some with confusion, others with reverence, but none dared speak.

Tred ignored their stares and marched directly into the command sanctum.

Inside, the place was a storm of activity. Vox-officers shouted into headsets, Tech-Priests daubed runes of awakening across cogitator panels, and junior officers hustled between firing slits to oversee defenses. Colonel Verik Drast stood at the hololithic table in the center, a line of hard light maps flickering with red markers as enemy contacts spread across the periphery.

The moment he saw them, his rebreather hissed with sharp exasperation.
“Where in the Throne’s name have you two been?”

Sergeant Ventris slid down from Tred’s back, her augmetic leg sparking as it hit the deck. She winced but stood tall. From her chest she drew the heavy chain of recovered tags, the metal links clattering as she dropped them into the colonel’s waiting hand.
“My duty’s fulfilled, sir,” she said firmly. “I’ve gathered the tags of our fallen brothers.”

Drast closed his fist around them, eyes hard behind his mask. “They’ll be remembered.”

Tred stepped forward then, the weight of him silencing the chamber. From his side, he drew the data-slate and held it briefly for all to see before locking it once more to his mag-clamp.
“And I have recovered what the Inquisition seeks,” his voice rumbled like distant thunder. “You may tell them it is secured.”

The colonel’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Then the Emperor still watches us. I’ll send a vox-message at once—inform the Inquisitor this fortress holds his prize.” He gestured sharply to a vox-officer, who hurried to comply.

Tred’s helm tilted. “Have the swarm committed fully?”

“Not yet,” Drast answered grimly. “What we face are probes, nothing more—scout organisms testing our lines. The full weight of the swarm hasn’t hit us. When it does, Emperor help us, we’ll need every gun awake and firing.” He jabbed a finger toward the Mechanicus priests laboring at the cogitators. “The Lance must be restored before that moment, or none of this matters.”

The colonel’s eyes narrowed as he turned back to Tred. “Tell me, Astartes. What was it down there that was worth all this blood? Why would the Inquisition covet it so?”

Tred’s gaze lingered, lenses glowing faintly in the gloom. His voice came slow and heavy.
“I cannot tell you. To speak of it would doom you. Many died to ensure this knowledge reaches the fewest ears. The less you know, the better.”

Drast held his stare a long moment, then gave a slow, bitter nod. “Fair enough. When it comes to the Inquisition… nothing is above suspicion.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the rumble of distant guns, and the steady, ominous approach of the swarm.

The fortress held its breath.
Hours seemed to stretch as the Macro-Lance’s machine-spirit groaned and clicked under the ministrations of the Tech-Priests. Outside, the Tyranid swarm tested the walls in constant waves—scouts flung against lasfire and heavy bolters, probing for weakness. The bastion trembled with every artillery strike, yet the line endured.

Then the sky split. Vox-officers barked fresh reports: unidentified landers cutting through the Within minutes, the landing platforms groaned beneath the weight of black-hull craft bearing the sigil of the Inquisition. From their ramps spilled Tempestus Scions, their carapace armor gleaming, hellguns gripped tight. Servo-skulls circled overhead, broadcasting bursts of binaric code. At their head strode Inquisitor Kaelen Veyra, rosette blazing on his chest, his cloak snapping in the furnace wind. Flanked by cyber-mastiffs and bodyguards armed with plasma weaponry, he cut a figure of absolute authority.

Alongside his personal retinue came the lifeblood the fortress had prayed for: bulk cargo haulers thudding onto the pads, their ramps lowering to disgorge Mechanicus gun crews escorted by red-robed Enginseers. Massive equipment crates followed, servo-rigs clanking as they hauled replacement plasma coils, targeting relays, and fresh munitions for the Macro-Lance. Valkyries banked in after them, disgorging fresh squads of Guardsmen with heavy bolters, autocannons, and crates of ammunition to bolster the bastion’s firing lines. The air filled with the shouts of officers and the static hiss of binaric blessings as the reinforcements were rushed into position.

The inquisitor entered the command sanctum without hesitation, helm removed to reveal a hawk-like face scarred by old battles. His voice cracked like a whip.
“Colonel Drast. Report.”

The colonel saluted sharply. “Inquisitor. The swarm harasses our defenses, but we hold—for now. If the gun does not come online, however, all of this is for naught. Our lives buy only hours unless the Lance fires.”

Veyra’s gaze flicked over the hololithic map, then sharpened. “And the relic? The highly sensitive material hidden here?”

Before Drast could answer, Tred stepped forward. The crimson giant unclipped the slate from his mag-lock, presenting it openly in his gauntleted hand. “It has been recovered. Secure. No taint touches it.”

The Inquisitor did not take it. Instead, his eyes fixed on Tred, narrowing with suspicion. “Curious. No reports reached me of Adeptus Astartes deployments to this world. Only the presence of traitor marines.”

Tred’s voice was steady, implacable. “I am alone. Exiled from my Chapter. But I am still a son of the Emperor, and I fight for His will. That is all you need know.”

Veyra’s expression hardened. His bodyguards shifted, fingers brushing the triggers of their plasma rifles. The cyber-mastiffs growled, vox-enhanced throats grinding with static menace. The air in the sanctum grew taut, Guardsmen instinctively gripping their lasguns as their eyes darted between the rosette and the red giant.

Colonel Drast stepped forward, voice sharp. “Inquisitor, I vouch for him. Without this warrior, we would never have taken the fortress. He has slain traitors, butchered Tyranids, and saved more of my men than I can count. You would be standing in the belly of the swarm without him.”

But Veyra did not waver. His hand brushed the rosette at his chest, eyes never leaving Tred. “The Inquisition does not take assurances from mortals lightly. My will is the Emperor’s law.”

The atmosphere thickened. Guardsmen exchanged glances, sweat beading on brows. More than one soldier braced their lasgun, ready to defend the warrior who had saved them. A spark away from civil war inside the bastion.

The tension snapped when the blast doors slammed open. A vox-operator staggered in, headset cracked and hanging loose, his rebreather mask spattered with dust. His vox pack still hissed with background chatter, the frantic voices of embattled comrades bleeding through in bursts of static. He almost collided with the hololithic table before catching himself, saluting with trembling fingers.

“Colonel—!” His voice broke, raw with urgency. “Confirmation from the front lines! A Hive Tyrant has been sighted. It’s bringing a full swarm with it—gaunts, Carnifexes, bio-artillery—the whole damned wave is marching on this sector!”

The room froze. Even the servo-skulls seemed to hover still, binaric cant caught in their throats. Every soul present knew what the words meant. A Hive Tyrant was not simply another xeno monstrosity—it was the synapse made flesh, the storm given will.

Colonel Drast’s fist crashed against the hololithic table, scattering red light across the chamber. His voice cut the silence like a blade.
“Then this is it. We can deliberate on heresy later—but no one leaves this planet alive if we don’t hold the line long enough for the gun to fire!”

The Inquisitor’s jaw tightened, suspicion smoldering but tempered now by necessity. After a moment he extended his hand and took the slate from Tred, sliding it into a stasis pouch at his side.

“Very well,” Veyra said coldly. “Pray to the Emperor that we survive this hour, and pray harder still that you do not fall into heresy. For if you do… I will know.”

He turned sharply, barking orders to his Scions. The sanctum erupted into motion, Guardsmen and stormtroopers alike bracing for the coming storm.

Tred stood unmoving, helm lenses burning green, as the fortress shuddered beneath the first hammer-blow of the Tyranid assault.

The command sanctum was thick with heat and smoke, the stale air stinking of oil, incense, and sweat. Servo-skulls drifted overhead like watchful carrion, their optics whirring as they scanned the hololithic display. Crimson runes pulsed across the table as the auspex array tracked the enemy’s approach. The image shifted, lines of static crawling across its surface before resolving into a writhing tide of red icons converging on Hydra Battery Theta-5. At their center pulsed a glyph larger than the rest, crowned by jagged waves of psychic interference—the Hive Tyrant.

Colonel Drast leaned heavily over the display, gloved hands pressed against the edge, his rebreather hissing with every ragged intake. The lines under his eyes were carved deep by sleeplessness, but his gaze was steady.
“With our current defenses, we cannot repel this. Not with that beast at their head. A Hive Tyrant will punch through our lines and open this bastion like a tin can.”

The Guardsmen clustered nearby muttered at the sight of the projection. Some crossed themselves with the sign of the Aquila, others stared in pale silence, their imaginations already filling the gaps with the horrors to come.

Drast turned sharply, voice cracking like a whip. “Tech-Priest Feran! How much longer until the Lance fires?”

The Magos swiveled toward him, robed bulk hunched in a forest of mechadendrites. His vox-grilles rasped in bursts of binaric cant, interspersed with distorted words.
“Enginseers labor at maximum permissible threshold. Plasma conduits yet unaligned. Targeting arrays must complete calibration subroutines. Full sanctification requires at least—”

“Enough!” Drast slammed a fist against the hololith, the projection flickering with static. His voice broke with frustration. “By the Emperor, I need more time!”

The chamber fell into silence, broken only by the mechanical thrum of the Macro-Lance’s awakening machine-spirit and the distant boom of artillery rattling the walls.

Then Tred stepped forward, the sound of his armored boots carrying weight enough to command every eye. His helm lenses glowed a deep green, cutting like beacons through the haze. When he spoke, his voice rolled through the chamber like thunder.
“Then change the field. If we remain on the walls, the swarm will crush us. But if we sever the head—the Hive Tyrant—the beast will writhe and falter. Kill it, and the swarm scatters. That will buy the time you need.”

A murmur rippled across the Guardsmen. One grizzled corporal, bandaged across the brow, could not hold his tongue. He shoved himself upright, fists trembling.
“Kill a Hive Tyrant? I’ve heard it takes a hundred Space Marines to bring one of those monsters down! What chance do we have?”

Drast did not rebuke him. Instead he nodded, grim as iron. “He is not wrong. The Tyrant, and the swarm it leads, are more than we can withstand in the open.”

Tred extended a gauntleted hand and stabbed a finger at the hololith. The glyph of the Tyrant pulsed, surrounded by streams of lesser organisms.
“Then divide them. The Tyrant does not linger deep within its horde—it presses close to the front. Draw it out. Force it to break from its brood, and slaughter it before it can return.”

The colonel frowned, arms folding as he studied the shifting runes. “And how do you propose we aggravate such a monster?”

Tred’s reply was low and steady, implacable. “Leave that to me.”

Silence lingered as the thought took root. Around the chamber, Guardsmen shifted uneasily—some muttering prayers, others watching the Astartes with something approaching awe.

Drast exhaled through his mask, then jabbed a finger at the table. “If this is to work, the killbox must be somewhere the beast cannot call reinforcements. A place of choke points, high ground, and cover where we can bleed it dry.”

“I passed such places,” Tred said. “Empty hangars beneath the manufactorum. Wide enough for the Tyrant, but narrow enough for ambush. Catwalks, loading bays, crane rigs—perfect for lascannon and missile teams. A cage of steel and fire.”

The colonel’s gaze lingered on the display, then lifted to sweep the chamber. He met the eyes of his officers, of the Guardsmen who stood clutching their rifles, and finally the green glow of the Astartes’ helm. His rebreather hissed long and hard before he straightened.

“So be it.” His voice rose, sharp and commanding. “For the Emperor… we kill the Tyrant!”

A ragged cheer erupted from the Guardsmen, defiant and fierce. The walls shook with their voices, echoing through the bastion. Plans were drawn, weapons prepared—the trap was set.

The bastion became a hive of preparation. Orders barked over the vox were answered by the thunder of boots as men and women of the 107th scrambled into position.

The hangar selected for the trap was stripped bare in minutes. Heavy bolters were dragged into place along catwalks, sandbag emplacements rising around their firing arcs. Lascannon teams manhandled their tripods onto upper gantries, the crews sweating beneath the weight but working with grim determination. Missile launchers were stacked at fire points, loaders checking fuses twice over, lips moving in silent prayers.

Combat engineers swarmed across the floor, setting charges in staggered rows. Frag mines and krak charges were wired into choke points, each rune-etched detonator blessed with hasty litanies by attendant Enginseers. Servitors clattered about with crates of ammunition, their blank faces dripping oil as they deposited belt after belt of heavy bolter shells.

Vox-units hissed and crackled, their operators hunched over dials as they relayed targeting coordinates and firing schedules. Hololithic slates mapped every firing lane in the chamber, glowing red lines marking where the Hive Tyrant would walk into its death.

All the while, the Mechanicus toiled at the Macro-Lance above. Magos Feran’s voice carried down from the upper sanctum, chanting binaric canticles as coils were aligned and plasma conduits screamed under strain. Servo-arms sparked as they forced ancient machinery into life, the colossal weapon trembling with barely contained energy. The gun’s awakening echoed through the fortress like the heartbeat of a god.

Outside, the swarm gathered.

Through the firing slits of the bastion, Guardsmen glimpsed it in the distance: a dark wall of flesh and chitin stretching across the horizon, creeping ever closer. Gaunts by the thousands moved like a tide, their screeches carrying on the wind. Behind them lumbered the heavy silhouettes of Carnifexes, their armored hides glistening with ichor. Above it all, the psychic keening of the Hive Tyrant pulsed like a second heartbeat in every soldier’s chest, felt more than heard. It was as if the very sky darkened in its wake.

Fear rippled through the ranks. Even the most veteran soldiers muttered prayers beneath their breath, fingers tightening on weapons. They were men and women of flesh and bone, staring into the maw of something endless.

Then the vox-casters crackled. Colonel Drast’s voice, amplified across every corridor, trench, and firing step, rolled through the fortress like iron thunder.

“Soldiers of the 107th! Hear me now.”

The bustle quieted. Every Guardsman turned, listening, weapons clutched close.

“We stand upon the brink of annihilation. The Tyrant of this swarm comes for us with a tide beyond counting. Alone, we are dust beneath its claws. But we are not alone. We are the Emperor’s shield! We are His sword! This fortress is not yet broken, and while we draw breath, it never shall be.”

The vox boomed with his fervor.

“Our brothers and sisters have already paid the price in blood. Their names now weigh upon us. We will not falter. We will not break. When the swarm comes, we will meet it with fire, with steel, and with the faith of the Imperium. The Macro-Lance must rise again, and it is our duty to see it done.”

He paused, voice lowering, but carrying a harder edge.
“We may die here. Aye. But our deaths will be worthy of remembrance, for every second we hold buys time for this gun to fire—and with it, a Hive Ship will burn. And when that beast falls, the swarm will falter, and the Imperium will endure. Remember that. Each of you is a shield to your comrades. Each of you is the Emperor’s chosen today.”

Then, louder still:
“Hold fast, sons and daughters of Cadia, of Caltraxis, of the Imperium! Hold fast, and make the enemy choke on our defiance! For the Emperor!”

A roar answered him, rolling through the bastion like a wave. Guardsmen slammed fists to breastplates, voices rising in a single battle cry:

“For the Emperor!”

The cheer echoed from the hangar walls, defiant against the swarm that crept ever closer.

Time stretched into a breathless silence. Every gun was loaded, every detonator primed, every firing lane prepared. The Guardsmen stood ready in the hangar-killbox and along the outer bastions, eyes fixed on the horizon where the swarm gathered.

Then the enemy came.

Across the ash plains, the Tyranids surged like a living storm front. A mass so thick it blackened the horizon, endless bodies moving as one—gaunts by the thousands, chittering and screeching, bounding over wreckage and through craters. Behind them stalked taller shadows: Warriors with bone swords raised like banners, Carnifexes crashing forward on tree-trunk limbs, their armored shells glistening with ichor. The sky above swarmed with Gargoyles, leathery wings blotting out the smoke-clogged sun. And at the heart of it all, half-seen through the rolling tide, a psychic beacon pulsed like a wound in reality—the Hive Tyrant.

The first Imperial salvo split the air.

Basilisks thundered, their earthshaker rounds screaming into the advancing ranks, detonations tearing vast craters in the tide. Manticores followed, missiles streaking overhead in fiery arcs, each impact ripping swathes of gaunts apart in showers of ichor and chitin. Leman Russ tanks roared as their battle cannons joined the chorus, while heavy bolters rattled from bastion walls like furious rain hammering down upon a sea of flesh.

The swarm buckled, bodies bursting and charring, but still it came. For every creature torn apart, three more scuttled over the corpses. The Tyranid advance pressed on, unstoppable, like a tidal wave battering a dam.

At the center of the Imperial line stood Tred.

The Blood Angel was a crimson sentinel amid the firestorm, his power sword blazing with crackling energy in one hand, bolt pistol in the other. Around him the line of Guardsmen poured lasfire in unbroken volleys, their beams stabbing crimson lines into the horde. When the smaller beasts broke through, bounding past the rain of shells, they met the disciplined blaze of the lasguns—and when the larger beasts pressed through, they found Tred waiting.

A Carnifex lumbered toward the line, its maw bellowing, armored head shrugging off lasfire. Tred charged to meet it. His pistol barked mass-reactive shells into its face until he closed the distance, then his blade carved deep into its knee joint. The monster reeled, crashing down with a roar, only to be finished by another strike that split its skull in a burst of ichor.

Two Tyranid Warriors came next, bone swords flashing. They swung in unison, towering above Guardsmen, but Tred intercepted both with sweeping strikes, sparks leaping where chitin met energized steel. He rammed his shoulder into one, knocking it back into the path of lasfire, then cleaved the other from collar to chest.

All the while, the Guardsmen fought with grim determination. Every lesser beast that broke the artillery storm was cut down by lasguns, bayonets, and flamers. The killbox bent, but it did not break.

Then a new sound rolled across the battlefield: the psychic bellow of the Hive Tyrant.

Through the smoke and dust, its silhouette coalesced—towering, monstrous, and terrible. The Hive Tyrant strode forward, muscles corded beneath gleaming chitinous plates. It was taller than any warrior, its bulk framed by a crown of writhing spines and barbed crests, each trembling with psychic power.

From its torso sprouted two massive scything talons, jointed like serrated blades, dripping with venom and ichor. These were the monstrosity’s primary melee weapons—capable of rending ceramite and flesh alike. At its sides, a monstrous bonesword paired with a lash whip coiled like a living thing, the whip cracking with latent energy, the bonesword etched with synaptic runes and pulsing with vitae.

On its back, bio-cannons nestled among carapace ridges. One appeared to be a heavy venom cannon, its barrel lined with organic siphons and dripping with corrosive bio-plasma. Another module looked like a stranglethorn cannon, its muzzle flaring with toxic spores ready to choke life from a dozen Guardsmen in one breath.

Its head was bestial, with mandibles that snapped like jackhammers and a crown-ridge of sensory organs, each flickering with eerie green phosphorescence. Its eyes glowed with savage intelligence, and from them the psychic presence seeped outward, a pulsing wave that rattled minds and hearts.

Its legs were thick, like tree trunks of muscle, ending in clawed talons that gouged the earth with every step. Veins of semi-transparent flesh ran beneath the carapace, dark with flowing ichor. The whole frame was a walking nexus of synapse energy and primal rage.

Around it, lesser beasts clung in its shadow: Tyranid Warriors, Carnifexes, Gargoyles diving from above, each drawn by its command. But it stood alone in the center, a living spearhead of destruction, absolutely focused.

As it approached, artillery fire hammered the ground at its flanks, explosions carving craters around it. Missiles hissed, heavy bolter salvos pounded its escort, lasguns carved tracer lines through the swarm—but the Tyrant progressed undeterred.

The moment came: the Hive Tyrant’s psychic voice thundered in every soul present. Its spines flared, venom glands ripened, and it lunged forward.

Colonel Drast’s order cut through the vox:

“All artillery—concentrate fire! Clear its path!”

Shells rained down in a storm, hammering the ground around the beast. Explosions ripped apart its escort, vaporizing gaunts by the score, toppling Carnifexes, and leaving the Tyrant momentarily isolated. It staggered through the storm, screeching in rage, psychic energy boiling the air.

Tred seized his moment. Dropping his bolt pistol, he snatched up a fallen heavy bolter with long-barrel scope, braced it against the rubble, and fired. Explosive shells slammed into the Hive Tyrant’s head and chest, ichor spraying in bursts. The monster roared, its burning gaze locking onto the lone crimson figure across the battlefield.

It had found its enemy.

The Hive Tyrant bellowed, wings snapping wide, and thundered forward. Every step shook the ground, every psychic shriek whipping the swarm into greater frenzy.

Tred fired again and again, each shot tearing fresh wounds into its hide, each one dragging it closer, goading it on. His helm lenses glowed a steady green as he stood firm. His purpose was singular: to keep the Tyrant’s gaze fixed on him.

When the beast drew near, he slung the heavy bolter aside, his power sword igniting once more. With a final glance at the fortress behind him, he turned and retreated at a steady pace, the Tyrant screaming after him.

Step by step, the crimson giant drew the monster into the fortress, into the hangar-killbox prepared for its death.

The fortress shook as Tred sprinted through its inner corridors, the thunder of his boots echoing through steel and stone. Behind him came a roar that rattled every bulkhead — the Hive Tyrant, its talons gouging deep scars into walls and floor as it thundered in pursuit. The psychic pressure of its presence pressed against his mind like a claw scraping at his skull.

Tred took each turn with deliberate precision, vaulting through corridors already marked with the signs of preparation. He moved with the route mapped in his mind, knowing each junction and stairwell had been chosen.

The Hive Tyrant bellowed as it tore after him, smashing through doorways too narrow for its bulk, its whip-lash cracking and scything talons carving through ferrocrete. At every turn, it gained ground.

But Tred had planned for that.

He veered into a narrow hall lined with rubble. As he passed, his armored hand struck a rune-stub wired to the wall. A mine buried in the debris detonated with a thunderous crack. Fire and shrapnel tore across the passage, slowing the beast and showering it in smoke and flame. The Tyrant reeled but did not falter, shrieking in rage. Its silhouette burst through the smoke, still pursuing.

Another turn, another mine. Each charge slowed it, bought Tred precious seconds as he guided it deeper into the fortress, closer to the trap.

Finally, he entered the chamber. The space was dark, silent save for the rumble of the Tyrant’s approach.

The beast burst through the wall in a frenzy, wings snapping wide, talons raised to strike—only to jerk violently as something resisted its momentum. A massive electro-web net, blessed and reinforced by Mechanicus rites, snapped tight around its limbs and torso. Anchored into the ferrocrete floor by mag-clamps, the web crackled with energy, searing its carapace and holding it for one, critical instant.

The chamber flooded with light.

Guardsmen stood in every shadowed corner, lasguns leveled, heavy bolters braced, plasma rifles glowing bright in the half-dark. Mortar tubes and autocannons filled the gantries, all trained on the single thrashing silhouette.

The Hive Tyrant roared as the electro-net seared into its carapace, the sound a psychic thunderclap that rattled every man and woman in the chamber. It strained against the web, talons thrashing, ichor sizzling where the crackling lattice burned into its flesh.

“FIRE!” Ventris screamed, her voice cutting like a blade.

The chamber became an inferno.

Lasguns blazed in unison, their beams a storm of crimson lightning. Dozens of Guardsmen poured volley after volley into the monster, each shot punching smoking holes through its chitin. Heavy bolters thundered from the gantries, each shell slamming home with the force of a hammer, detonating in showers of gore that spattered the walls and floor. Fragments of bone and horn sprayed the air like shrapnel.

Plasma rifles flared like miniature suns. Superheated bolts struck the Tyrant’s arms and torso, punching straight through layers of armor to burst out the other side in sprays of boiling ichor. One plasma blast bored into its shoulder joint, and when it detonated, the beast’s upper limb hung by threads of sinew, oozing black-green fluid in heavy rivulets that smoked where it splattered onto the floor.

A squad of missile teams unleashed a staggered salvo. Frag rockets and krak missiles streaked across the chamber, the explosions smashing into the Hive Tyrant’s bulk with bone-splintering force. One krak round tore through its abdomen and erupted in a blast of gore that drenched the Guardsmen below in burning ichor. Still they held the line, faces lit by the glare of their weapons.

The Tyrant shrieked, rearing back, psychic pressure radiating from its skull like a furnace. One of its scything talons ripped free of the net and swept across a catwalk, bisecting three Guardsmen at once—their bodies torn in sprays of blood and shredded armor. Another thrash of its lash whip hurled two more into a wall with bone-shattering impact.

Then came the psychic scream. The crown of spines above its head flared, and a wave of force erupted outward. The blast slammed men from their firing steps, rupturing eardrums, bursting eyes, smashing bodies against steel. Blood painted the ferrocrete in thick arcs. But even through the carnage, lasguns kept firing, hands dragging weapons back up even as their owners bled out.

Through the storm, Tred surged.

His power sword hissed to life, the energized field casting sharp shadows across the chaos. He dove into the monster’s shadow, striking with surgical precision. His first blow cleaved through the joint of its talon, severing the limb in an explosive burst of ichor. The limb hit the floor with a wet crash, still twitching.

The Hive Tyrant lashed back, its whip cracking like thunder, but Tred ducked beneath the strike and brought his blade around in a brutal arc, slicing deep into the whip’s sinewy length. The weapon split apart, shriveling into lifeless flesh.

The Blood Angel drove forward, plunging his blade into the monster’s leg. The energized teeth carved through sinew and bone, leaving the limb hanging half-severed, ichor pouring like tar. The Tyrant buckled, dropping to one knee with a roar that shook the rafters.

But it did not yield.

It thrashed with berserk fury, smashing Guardsmen apart with its remaining limbs. One talon impaled a soldier and flung him across the chamber like a broken doll. A psychic shriek burst another’s head open in a spray of crimson mist. The floor became slick with blood and ichor, men drowning in gore even as they fired until their final breath.

Still the fusillade continued. Every Guardsman alive poured fire into the monster—lasguns blazing, heavy bolters hammering, plasma burning holes through its bulk until the chamber reeked of charred flesh and acid blood.

Tred struck again, hacking into the Tyrant’s torso, his blade carving deep furrows that sprayed his crimson armor in ichor. The beast sagged, its limbs severed, its body a ruin of burns, cracks, and gaping wounds.

Then, with a roar that shook the foundations, the Hive Tyrant gathered its remaining strength.

It lunged.

Its massive bulk slammed into Tred like the charge of a tank, psychic power flooding its body in one last surge. Armor shrieked as ceramite ground against ferrocrete. The Blood Angel braced, driving his boots into the floor, but the impact hurled him back regardless. Together they smashed through the chamber wall in an explosion of dust, stone, and twisted steel.

The two titans burst into the open night, crashing onto the blood-soaked ground outside. The killbox lay behind, shattered. Ahead loomed the greater battle still raging across the fortress walls.

The duel was not finished.

The world outside was chaos. Smoke and flame rolled across the battlefield, the fortress walls shaking under constant assault. Among the wreckage and fire, two titans dragged themselves upright.

The Hive Tyrant was a ruin of burns and wounds. Whole sections of its chitinous armor were shattered, ichor leaking from half a dozen rents in its limbs and torso. Yet still it stood, its psychic scream echoing in every mind within earshot, its burning eyes fixed on the crimson figure before it.

Tred rose slowly, one knee grinding against the dust-choked ground. His armor was torn and scorched, dents spiderwebbed across his pauldrons, and ichor slicked his power sword from hilt to tip. His breath rasped in the vox-grille, each inhale heavy, each exhale ragged. Still, he lifted the blade. Still, he stood.

The Hive Tyrant lunged first.

Its scything talon came down like a guillotine, missing his skull by inches as Tred threw himself aside. The ground cracked under the impact, fragments of ferrocrete spraying into the air. He staggered, caught his balance, then rolled clear as the second talon slammed down, sparks erupting from the gouged stone where he had just been.

Wounded, Tred’s reflexes were dulled. He ducked another strike, but a lashing tail caught him across the chest. The impact hurled him sideways, smashing him into the side of a collapsed bastion wall. The ceramite of his breastplate screamed under the blow, fissures splintering across its surface.

He hit the ground hard, the power sword skittering from his grasp. His limbs felt like lead.

The Hive Tyrant advanced slowly, savoring the kill. Its remaining bonesword dripped with steaming ichor as it raised the weapon high, psychic energy pulsing from its crown. Shadows bent and trembled as the blade came down toward the broken Astartes.

Then the skies screamed.

A battered Valkyrie gunship roared overhead, its engines coughing black smoke. Its side-mounted lascannons blazed in desperate fury, raking the Hive Tyrant’s back with fire. The monster turned, snarling as the craft bore down.

The Valkyrie’s nose dipped, engines howling as the pilot drove it in a suicidal dive. At the last moment, the Hive Tyrant swung a talon upward, but too late—the gunship slammed into its chest in a cataclysmic crash. Metal shrieked, glass shattered, fire engulfed the beast as the Valkyrie drove it back into the fortress wall.

The impact shook the ground. Dust and rubble cascaded in a choking wave, engulfing both beast and wreck.

For a long moment, the battlefield stilled.

Through the settling haze, Tred staggered to his feet. His helm lenses burned green as he beheld the sight: the Hive Tyrant pinned beneath the burning Valkyrie, its wings snapped, its talons scrabbling furiously against the hull. It shrieked in psychic agony, the air warping with its fury, but it could not free itself.

Then Tred saw it.

Amid the wreckage, half-buried in rubble, a heavy bolter lay discarded. Its tripod shattered, but its feed still locked with a full belt of mass-reactive shells.

Without hesitation, he strode forward. His hand closed around the weapon, hauling it free as if it weighed nothing. He mounted the burning hull of the Valkyrie, each step shaking with the Tyrant’s thrashing, and planted himself atop the wreck.

The monster’s head rose, eyes blazing with psychic rage, ichor streaming from its many wounds.

He hauled it to his chest, slammed his boots into the wreckage beneath him, and planted himself like an anchor. Both hands gripped the weapon tight, elbows locked, torso braced against the storm to come.

Then he pulled the trigger

The heavy bolter roared until its barrel glowed red, each shell hammering into the Hive Tyrant’s head in an unbroken storm.

Chitin cracked and burst apart in great plates. Splinters of horn and crest whirled through the air like jagged shrapnel. Each impact tore deeper, flesh bursting open in wet explosions, ichor spraying in great arcs that hissed as it steamed against burning wreckage.

Time seemed to slow.

Fragments of the Tyrant’s skull spun lazily through the haze, each shard glistening with slime. A tooth the size of a dagger cartwheeled past Tred’s visor. Shards of bone, scraps of mandible, and thick ropes of ichor floated in the air, caught in the pulsing muzzle flashes of the bolter. The thunder of each round blurred into a drumbeat, and in that stretched heartbeat, the battlefield was painted red and black.

Then time snapped back into motion.

A shell slammed through the left side of the monster’s face, obliterating the eye in a geyser of gore. Another hammered into the other socket, spraying liquefied tissue in smoking jets. Its jaw tore loose in chunks, teeth flying like shattered stone across the ground. Every round dug deeper until only the core of its skull remained, peeled open like a grotesque flower, the glistening mass of its brain exposed to the night.

But still it lived.

Psychic energy bled from the exposed organ, waves of pressure rolling outward, rattling steel and driving needles of agony into mortal minds. The Tyrant shrieked without a mouth, its fury projected straight into the skulls of all nearby.

Click.

The heavy bolter’s drum spun empty. The last shells clattered smoking onto the ground.

Tred lowered the weapon, chest heaving, ichor dripping from his armor. He stared at the ruin of the Tyrant’s head, the twitching brain glaring back with unnatural light. His grip tightened on the useless bolter.

“Tred! Catch!”

The cry came from the gantry. Sergeant Ventris, battered and bloodied, hurled a single melta bomb with all her strength.

The Astartes caught it mid-air without hesitation. He thumbed the pin, the bomb shrieking as it armed, and in one smooth motion he leapt forward onto the Valkyrie wreck.

He plunged the device straight into the exposed brain. The Tyrant convulsed, psychic energy flaring in panic. Tred turned, vaulted from the hull and the world erupted.

The melta bomb detonated with the heat of a newborn star. The Hive Tyrant’s skull vanished in a geyser of fire, bone, and molten ichor. Its brain vaporized in an instant, the psychic presence sustaining it annihilated in a scream so vast it rattled the heavens.

The backlash hit like a shockwave. Every Guardsman nearby dropped to one knee, clutching ears as the shriek scoured their thoughts. Around the fortress, lesser Tyranids spasmed in frenzy. Gaunts clawed at each other, Carnifexes stumbled roaring into walls, Gargoyles fell twitching from the sky. The synapse web buckled, collapsing in a violent cascade.

The Hive Tyrant’s body slumped at last, headless, ichor pouring in steaming rivers across the wreck of the Valkyrie.

Tred rose from where he had landed, cloak torn, armor slick with gore, helm lenses glowing steady green through the haze.

The swarm’s master was dead.

And the swarm itself was breaking.

The battlefield was quiet for only a heartbeat.

Tred staggered, armor dented and ichor-slick, one knee pressed into the ruined ground. Nearby, Sergeant Ventris dragged herself upright with her lasgun as a crutch, her augmetic leg sparking with every strained movement. Both were bloodied, both were bruised, yet still they stood.

His gauntlet brushed the ground beside him and found the familiar weight of his power sword. The weapon’s field guttered weakly but still hummed with life as he pulled it free of the rubble, ichor dripping from the blade’s edge. He rose slowly, steadying his stance, the sword once more in hand.

But the Tyranids were not done.

Even as the swarm fractured, even as gaunts tore at each other and Carnifexes stumbled blindly, knots of creatures still charged. A clutch of Hormagaunts bounded toward them, talons raised. Behind them lumbered a wounded Tyranid Warrior, bone sword hissing in rage.

Ventris raised her lasgun, teeth bared. “They’re not finished yet.”

Tred set his stance, sword held low, ready to meet the charge.

And then the world shook.

A thunder like the voice of a god rolled across the fortress. From deep within Hydra Battery Theta-5, the Macro-Lance awoke. Its colossal coils burned with blinding light, machine-spirits howling in ecstasy as centuries of silence ended.

The sky split open.

A beam of incandescent fire roared upward from the fortress, tearing through the clouds like the finger of the Emperor Himself. The shockwave hurled dust and ash in all directions, knocking the charging gaunts sprawling. The ground itself trembled beneath the sheer release of power.

For a moment, time froze. Then the beam struck.

High above, the Hive Ship loomed in orbit, a vast, pulsing mass of flesh and chitin silhouetted against the stars. The Lance’s fury tore into it with unrelenting force. The vessel convulsed, its hide rupturing in blossoms of fire. Massive tendrils snapped, spilling rivers of ichor into the void. In seconds, the ship swelled and burst apart, a star-bright explosion lighting the heavens.

The blast’s echo rolled back across the battlefield. A psychic shockwave erupted outward, raw and terrible, the death-cry of a synapse colossus.

The effect was instant.

Every Tyranid shrieked in unison, their minds ruptured by the collapse. Hormagaunts turned mid-charge, fleeing in blind terror. Warriors dropped their weapons and clawed at their own skulls. Gargoyles rained from the sky in spasming clusters, their wings folding as they plummeted. Even the mighty Carnifexes broke, bellowing in madness as they stampeded into the wilderness.

The swarm was undone.

Tred let his sword drop to his side, its edge streaked with gore, while Ventris leaned against the shattered wall, exhaling raggedly as the tide broke and fled.

The fortress was quiet at last. The guns had fallen silent, save for the distant thunder of retreating Tyranids and the groaning of burning wrecks. Smoke drifted like shrouds across the walls.

Sergeant Ventris sat slumped against the bastion parapet, her augmetic leg sparking, her armor dented and smeared with blood. In her hand she turned a battered flask, unscrewing the cap with weary fingers. She drank deeply, coughed once, then laughed bitterly under her breath.

Bootsteps approached. Heavy, deliberate.

She looked up to see the crimson giant walking toward her. His power sword slid into its scabbard at his hip, the faint whine of its field fading. He moved with the solemn tread of one who bore both victory and grief upon his shoulders.

Ventris raised the flask toward him, the liquid within sloshing faintly.
“To the Emperor,” she said hoarsely. “Want a drink?”

For a moment, the Blood Angel hesitated. He seemed carved from stone, unsure how to answer. Then, slowly, he lowered to one knee before her. His gauntlet reached to his helm; with a hiss of seals, he lifted it away.

A pale face was revealed, streaked with battle grime, his features angular and severe. Ginger-red hair clung damp to his brow, and his eyes held a depth that spoke of centuries of war.

He took the flask in one scarred hand, raised it briefly in salute.
“For the Guardsmen who made this day possible,” he said, voice deep but softened. He drank a mouthful, savoring the burn, and passed it back.

Ventris smirked through her exhaustion. “For a Space Marine—an Angel of Death—you’ve got a decent face.”

Tred’s mouth quirked, almost a smile. “My appearance is of little relevance. Only my service to the Emperor matters. But… thank you, Sergeant.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, gazing out across the killing fields. Corpses lay in heaps, both human and xeno, the ground painted black and red. Yet amidst the ruin, Guardsmen cheered, raising rifles and banners, their cries of defiance carrying into the smoke.

“So,” Ventris murmured, eyes still on the horizon, “you think we’ve won?”

Tred set his helm upon his knee, gaze distant. “This hour is ours. The Hive Tyrant is slain, the swarm broken, the Lance restored. But Chaos still festers on this world, and the Great Devourer waits in countless other systems. There is no end to this war. Only the Emperor’s will, and our duty to hold the line.”

His words hung heavy between them. Then he rose, placing the helm back over his head. The seals hissed shut, his voice now a growl of steel.

Ventris watched as he turned and began walking toward the dust-choked wastes.
“Will I ever see you again?” she called after him.

The Astartes paused, turned his head slightly.
“I pray the Emperor wills our paths to cross again. Until then, may He guard you and your soldiers.”

He strode on, his figure swallowed by the haze, until only shadow remained.

Ventris stared after him, flask clutched tight in her hand. For a moment she thought she saw a faint flicker of blue light shimmer around him before he vanished. Then her gaze lifted to the skies.

The clouds parted. Sunlight broke through, warming her face. From the heavens, transports and drop-ships descended in orderly columns, engines blazing as they came to claim the survivors.

Ventris exhaled, a weary smile tugging at her lips.
“By the Emperor,” she whispered to herself. “We have won this hour.”

 

The end

Till next time

 

 

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