The fully charged plasma cannon thrums in my hands, my shoulders locked to prevent the weapon vibrating. I blink and in the split second it takes me to close and reopen my eyes, the shimmering blue haze that had enveloped Brother Turmiel and the Helbrute disappears. I have positioned myself squarely behind the brute in anticipation of such a thing occurring and now, standing less than two metres from my target, I depress the activation stud on the cannon and unleash molten fury.
The white-hot plasma superheats the air, burning off trace chemical elements unique to the atmosphere of this world and filling the air with a scent not unlike decomposing vegetation. The aroma is quickly replaced however as the shot finds its mark and the metallic hide of the Helbrute turns to slag.
I maintain my firing position and keep my legs fixed apart, heels dug into the wet earth beneath my feet, as I continue to jet plasma. The beast does not scream, does not make any sound at all, as the plasma corrodes his armour and continues to burn through the organics and mechanics within. Neither does it thrash or raise its weapons, nor even turn to face its killer. This is not just an acceptance of its fate – it welcomes death.
The gauges on my helmet display are all registering numbers well in excess of danger levels but I keep my gauntlet over the activation stud just that little bit longer to make sure the job is done properly. When I finally do ease off, an eerie silence fills the clearing, disturbed only by the ever more distant sound of the enemy retreating. The beast stands motionless, the gaping hole in its torso almost comical, framing as it does the blue-armoured figure of Turmiel standing the other side of it. It sways unsteadily until, as if both gravity and life fail simultaneously, the Helbrute topples onto its side.
+Excellent work, Brother Heskia,+ Turmiel’s voice says in my head.
+My thanks to you, Librarian,+ I reply without words. +Together we have avenged the death of Master Zadakiel and ensured that this… thing will never threaten the worlds or citizens of the Imperium ever again.+
He nods and I am suddenly struck by the realisation of just how powerful a being Brother Turmiel is. Having seemingly advance knowledge of where and when bolter shells are fired is one thing but to wield the power to subdue and lay low a foe as massive and deadly as a Helbrute is a different matter entirely. Thank the Lion that he blessed us with finding a psyker as powerful as Turmiel before the enemy did. He nods once more beneath his hood, giving me the distinct feeling that he is still in my head listening to my thoughts.
Master Balthasar’s voice breaks over the general vox-channel. ‘Squad Raphael, report. Any sign of Arion?’
A disappointing stream of negative replies follow but my hearts lift when I hear Sergeant Raphael’s voice among them.
‘Form on me. Sergeant Barachiel, you and your squad will take point,’ the Company Master continues. ‘Squad Raphael, take formation behind the Terminators. Turmiel, with me and see if you can find any trace of Arion’s psychic spoor.’
+There are still eleven souls in the group we are about to give chase to. Though several of them are merely cultists, at least seven have psychic wards in place suggesting they are Space Marines, though I cannot tell whether Sergeant Arion is one of them.+
‘Sergeant Raphael, you will remain here and prepare the dead for progenoid extraction,’ Master Balthasar says.
The vox crackles as if a response is about to be issued but then the link closes once more without anything being said. Sergeant Raphael turns and assesses us all approvingly and makes the sign of the aquila across his chest before commencing to strip our dead of their armour. Though the sergeant is a proud warrior with decades of exemplary service to the Chapter, he realises that in his current state he would be a liability in the battle ahead and accepts his task with dignity and honour.
Following the Deathwing out of the clearing, each member of Squad Raphael returns our sergeant’s salute before entering the undergrowth once more to retrieve our stricken brother.