There were things in this universe that their fathers had seen fit to keep from them, things that existed beyond space and time, creatures that they had been told were a differing breed of Xenos and would die as easily as any other – they had been lied to. These creatures were not aliens, although one may have thought of them as such, bursting from the flesh of living beings or appearing from nowhere through portals of pure energy. All Ferreus knew, and what he voxed to his squad mates, was that they had to die.
“Are you seeing this, sir?” Crackled the helm-vox with Kazimir's agitated voice.
“Aye,” grunted Ferreus in return, “I see it...no doubt the spawn of the Arch-traitor will not appreciate our help.”
Oh yes, 'Prodigal' made it very difficult for others to know anything of he and his men – their armour was as black and marked with Imperial symbols as his own, they did not speak to outsiders, and none of the former Death Guard had ever seen them without their helmets. There were other ways, if one knew how to observe, that ones identity could be revealed and, no matter how hard they may try, the modus operandi of the currently engaged tetrad was at least clear to the leader of the Fourteenth Legion loyalists.
“What are they?” Questioned Gentian as he checked his bolter was loaded, a slight hint of nervousness evident in the veterans voice, a taint that had never before sounded from that throat.
“It does not matter from whence they came, or what they are, all that matters is we destroy them utterly; bring that melta to bear, Timohir, the rest of you form a line and fire as we advance. Short bursts, conserve your ammunition, and try not to hit our brothers.”
They did as they were told, the things currently engaged in close-quarter melee with the Luna Wolves only now beginning to register this new threat as they were flanked, the Dusk Raiders (for they were Mortarion's sons no more!) opening up with their own weapons; humanoid beasts of crimson flesh and horned heads, eyes burning with unholy hate and blood-lust, as tall as an Astartes and bound in muscle bearing two-handed blades of sizzling metal. What caused them to sizzle? A constant dapple of blood that seemed to cascade from out of nowhere. Had they been of lesser creation, their mind would have broken.
Ferreus raised his Ikanos-pattern pistol, firing of single shots of .50 explosive-tipped rounds, refocusing and firing again as he moved forward at a walking pace alongside his battle-brothers. Within the confines of his helmet, covered by the face grill and sloped eye sockets, his jaw was set hard in an expression of determination but also of annoyance. Why would these beasts not die like normal creatures? The unearthly roar of one burning daemon shaking his very soul as melta fire consumed it, miniature explosions tearing chunks out of them even as others simply ignored their dead and dying.
Terran born they may have been, but this did not stop the five silently forward-moving Astartes from employing the stoicism and brutally frontal tactics of their erstwhile Primarch, loosing off salvo after salvo in a fusillade of close-range fire power as they moved ever closer.
Once within charging distance the line was halted by a single word, the carefully targeted fire never ceasing until a magazine ran dry, Ferreus reaching for his chainaxe and activating it with a thumbing of the stub on the hilt that sent the teeth whirring. On either side of him he was imitated perfectly, smaller side arms and combat knives unsheathed with clockwork precision, each transhuman warrior prepared to give their lives for the good of the Imperium they still served.
“We are the voice and the clarion call; We are tyrant's ruin and rival's fall.” Voxed Ferreus through his helmet, and as they strode forward with extreme purpose of will the Dusk Raiders motto was echoed by all.
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