The obdurate Captain of the Imperial Fists’ First Company teleports into the thick of it.
Reality swam into focus. The violent uproar of battle rose to drown out the screaming madness of the Warp.
Darnath Lysander felt the comforting presence of solidity beneath his feet. He adjusted swiftly to the teleportation, taking in his surroundings. He had emerged from the Warp into a wide corridor. The rusty metal walls and walkway appeared to have been bolted together from jagged scraps of metal. Within a fraction of a second, he sensed the thrum of engines and reports of guns reverberating through the superstructure of the Gargant. Bright flashes of further warp translations illuminated the gloom. His battle-brothers appeared amidst bursts of lightning.
Lysander’s Terminator armour flooded his mind’s eye with augury data, targeting runes bracketing foes. Stunned Orks turned to face the newcomers. Storm bolter fire cut most of them down before they could so much as draw their weapons. The survivors grabbed for clubs, blades and guns, bellowing as they hurtled towards the intruders.
The walkway swayed beneath Lysander’s feet, moving in time with the Gargant’s lumbering stride. Ahead of the First Captain, more Orks emerged from hatches and adjoining corridors, surging toward the Terminators. Lysander moved to meet them, the boots of his armour mag locking to the deck with each step. He smashed his shield into the face of the nearest assailant, splintering bone and sending the Ork smashing through the guard rail and plummeting into the guts of the war effigy. He followed the blow by swinging Fist of Dorn at a second Ork, caving in the beast’s skull. A third strike sent another foe reeling. Concentrated storm bolter fire from Lysander’s Titanhammer Squad shredded the remaining aliens in the chamber.
‘Forward. We must find the command centre,’ Lysander ordered.
The Terminators slaughtered their way steadily through the guts of the metal beast, and their bright yellow armour was soon caked with gore.
Eventually, the winding corridor sloped upward, opening out into a large chamber filled with Orks. Some of them were hunched around control panels, tinkering with machinery. Others scrambled for weapons and rushed to meet the intruders. The whine and clangour of machinery drowned out most of the xenos’ bellows. Loose piles of shells lay strewn around, and fuse boxes and electrical cables sparked and hissed. A trio of Meganobz clad head to toe in crude heavy armour entered the chamber via a bulkhead on the far side of the control room, shouting battle cries as they lumbered towards Lysander and his Terminators, pushing smaller Orks out of their way.
Lysander’s battle-brothers opened fire, cutting down dozens of Orks in an instant. The Meganobz, however, were a different proposition. Storm bolter rounds deflected from thick armour as the first of them powered into the Terminators, saw-blades spinning.
Lysander met their advance, intercepting a whirring blade with the rim of his storm shield, Rampart. A shower of bright sparks flew, momentarily blinding his assailant.
He brought Fist of Dorn down over the lip of his shield, smashing at his attacker’s armour. The blow caught the Meganob’s iron-toothed gorget and smashed it from its hinges. The Ork reeled backwards, swinging wildly. A second strike found the creature’s head. Its skull cracked under the force of the impact, and its eyes crossed and lost focus. It crashed to the deck.
To Lysander’s right, the second Meganob buried its twin killsaws into the flanks of a Terminator, grinding through thick ceramite armour. Arcs of bright blood spilt forth, splattering across the deck plates. The stricken Space Marine used the last of his strength to bury his chainfist in the Ork’s gut. The beast roared in rage and agony. Both warriors collapsed to the ground, locked in their death grip, blood still spraying from ragged wounds.
The last Meganob bellowed and snatched at Lysander with a clanking power klaw. Lysander stepped over the corpse of his first victim and deflected the blow with Rampart. His speed seemed to catch the Ork by surprise. The Captain swung Fist of Dorn from right to left, smashing the Ork’s pauldron. He struck again, harder. And again. Each blow sheared off or smashed loose bolts and layers of welded armour. The Ork attempted to fight back, but Lysander’s onslaught was relentless. A final overhand strike destroyed its skull in an explosion of bone and brain matter.
Lysander kicked the limp body of the Ork aside. Already, he could hear the roar of more Orks, doubtless coming to join the fight.
‘Brother Kruze, place the charges,’ the Captain growled, turning to face the onrushing Orks. ‘We will hold them off.’
Lysander could hear their crude war cries and smell their rancid breath coming closer. He hefted Fist of Dorn.
Then the Orks were on them, streaming into the chamber from all directions. The bark of weapons and the throaty growl of storm bolters filled the dank air.
Raising his hammer into the air, Captain Darnath Lysander bellowed a battle cry.
‘For Dorn! Glory to the Emperor!’
Darnath Lysander’s new miniature is available to pre-order from tomorrow, alongside an Imperial Fists Combat Patrol and a dice set.
