A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)

[Tandrax218]

im betting the ultrasmurfs lose max 20 marines

azeroth gets toasted

emphra appears at the end and deus ex machinas the ending

[Highlord Laan]

Oh, Garrosh. You're such a deluded moron. "We're under attack! You're all on your own!"

[Kuja]

01:30:22

"Thunderhawks now closing on the primary target," the shipmaster reports.

"Very good, captain," Guilliman replies. "Are your secondary targets fixed?"

"Confirmed, lord primarch," the master of ordinance says smartly. "Secondary targets designated alpha, beta, gamma, and delta locked. We are ready for bombardment at your discretion."

"Shipmaster, launch the Bellator Lancea. And make your firing time twenty minutes from my mark," Guilliman says. "That will give our forces time to clear the air. And...mark."

"Confirmed, lord primarch."

"Then my departure awaits," Roboute Guilliman says with a nod. He turns away from the commande throne and begins to make for the bridge exit.

"Good hunting, lord primarch," the master of ordinance says aloud.

"Steady aim," the XIII Primarch replies.

-------------------------------------------

The Bellator Lancea departs its parent ship in a manner unlike the previous wingpair. The thunderhawk slides from docking bay in sedate fashion. Unlike the robust, full-bodied Pilum and Hasta, the Lancea is a front-heavy, skeletal ship. A variant on the thunderhawk design, the Lancea is a transport, built to carry, deliver, and recover the fighting vehicles of the space marines.

The Lancea banks into a smooth turn that carries it around the strike cruiser's bulk and begins its descent towards the planet's night side.

--------------------------------------------

01:34:03

The fine red dust flies up into the air at the slightest disturbance. It covers their armor, obscuring the blue beneath.

Tarquitius jokes that it makes them look like Blood Angels. Nobody laughs.

Eighth squad has made a superhuman effort - even by the standards of the space marines - to maintain a dead run that has eaten the fifty-four kilometers separating them from their secondary target in just under an hour. It hasn't been an easy run, either: the sucking mud of the swampland gave way to a dirt pass through the mountains into the crimson desert to the south, at which point the squad had to maintain their time across the broken ground of the rocky landscape.

Their target is a fortress situated amongst the desert's foothills. It is not in a location Sergeant Alexios would have chosen, backed as it is into an effective box canyon. Defensible, perhaps, but in a desert like this, easily besieged and starved of food and water.

Not that eighth squad intends to kill it in such a manner.

The outer wall of Dreadmaul Hold is made of steel, enclosing a compound of buildings crafted from the stone of the desert and reinforced by more steel. A few large braziers burn low to illuminate the place. Also not a choice Alexios would have made: the fire obscures night vision and makes the guards more visible.

Nevertheless, one of the orcs sees them coming, but the size of the Astartes and the darkness of night betray his senses. "Ogres!" he shouts in warning.

Eighth squad make their own announcement moments later with the chatter of boltguns. The guards at the front gate are cut down immediately. Eighth squad is almost all the way through the gate before realizing his terminology is wrong - there is no gate, as such, only a gap in the defensive wall, reinforced by temporary barricades. He shakes his head.

There are creatures laying in the dirt at the center of the enclosure. The sound of eighth squad's gunfire has begun to wake them. They are huge, ugly creatures dressed in little more than loincloths and chain-link shackles. They remind Alexios of the ogryns of the Imperial Army. Ogres, then. One roars in challenge. Alexios switches over to full auto.

As gunfire fills the air, two members of the squad break off to approach the smithy just within the defensive wall. With cover provided by his brother, Sicero ducks within the building and slaps a melta charge onto the inner surface of the roof just beside the doorway. The pair retreat as the charge goes off, collapsing the smithy in a blast of fire and heat that lights up the desert night.

The portcullis of the inner stronghold opens up and orcs storm out to meet the attackers. A far cry from the lightly-armed grunts of Stonard, the defenders of Dreadmaul Hold bear full plate armor and most carry heavy axes. As they charge across what remains of their slaughtered ogre slaves, the sergeant of the eighth gives an order- "close combat."

The Ultramarines draw their hand-to-hand weapons, chainswords and combat knives that would serve normal humans as a fine sword in their own right. Orcish plate armor can't stand up to the enhanced strength of an Astartes, and the machined blades shear through metal and flesh alike. Numbers press against them, but a few frag grenades even the odds a bit.

The only weapon that gives eighth squad a moment's pause is the massive battle-axe wielded by the orcs' commander. With a roar the female charges in to swing at Sergeant Alexios. Energy crackles as the sergeant deflects the blow with his power sword, and the ferocity of the orc's attack even makes him drop onto his back foot.

"I'll hang your corpse from the walls!" Okrilla snarls. "The orcs will slaughter your kind!"

"I beg your pardon," the sergeant replies. As the orc makes another swide swing he parries expertly, hooking his blade into the curve of her axe and pushing it wide. Before the she-orc can recover, the sergeant closes one hand around her thoat and lifts Warmatron Okrilla from her feet. With pressure from his armored thumb and a squeeze of his fingers, the Ultramarine snaps her neck. "Subhuman filth," he growls as he tosses the corpse away.

The red dust of the desert drinks greedily of the Ultramarines' voluminous offering.

The battle takes a bare few minutes. Most of eighth squad's armor bears fresh scars from the orcs' blades. The crimson sand sticks to the blood that spatters them. They are a sight.

"Set charges?" Felix questions.

"Negative," Alexios responds after a moment. The sergeant holds his fingertips to the side of his head. "The Lancea is on its way down." He takes his hand from his helm and waves it with a snapping motion. "Sixty seconds! Tarquitius, Valerian, get the tower! Everyone else sweep the stronghold! Then we've got a run back to make."

----------------------------------------------

As the armored figures depart, a pair of figures watch from the distant hills, carefully crouched behind an outcropping. "Never thought I'd see the day I'd owe the old bitch a thank-you for throwing the non-orcs out," mutters Rofilian Dane, the Forsaken.

"What d'we do, mon?" questions his fellow rogue, Tak'arili.

"Well, I'm betting the boys at Nethergarde saw that bang. They're gonna send people to check it out. Best be gone when they get here." He pauses briefly, stroking at his chin. "Reliquary's got an outpost to the south," the undead murmurs after a moment's thought.

"Elf girlehs?"

"...sure. Elf girls. Let's go."

[Kuja]

01:36:37

"Gentlemen," Guilliman announces as he steps into the chamber.

"Second squad! Attention!" barks the voice of Sergeant Hadrian. There's a clash of steel as the men at the center of the room stand to parade-ground attention.

"At ease," the XIII Primarch replies in a neutral tone as he moves to join them within the circle. Alone amongst the 64th, the ten men that comprise second squad have stayed aboard the Bellator to act as the primarch's honor guard. Unlike the rest of the 64th, the men of second squad do not surrender so much as an inch to Guilliman's heroic stature. Each armored figure is a match for him in both height and breadth. Hadrian himself wears the banner of the veteran squad mounted above his shoulders.

"Magos?" the primarch questions as he moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with the men of his Legion. It's a tight fit with eleven armored men inside the circle.

"We are prepared for transfer on your command, master primarch," the representative of the Mechanicus replies.

"Well. Let's give Captain Valtis a few minutes to make his landing," Guilliman says. He flexes one hand - a hand now encased within one of two massive gauntlets that are the primarch's signature weapons.

A few moments pass as the attendants scurry about, checking machinery and making last-moment preparations. A hologram of their target floats above the lectern of the commanding Magos.

"My lord primarch," Hadrian murmurs to his right. "I have not had the chance to say. It is an honor to accompany you."

"You always say that," Guilliman muses.

"My lord?" Hadrian replies, thrown by the unexpected reply.

"You. The men of the XIII. You always say that it's an honor to accompany me. Nobody ever says, 'love of Terra, we have to nursemaid the primarch while our brothers engage as they please?'"

Hadrian's expression is impossible to read beneath his armored visor, but Guilliman can well imagine the man's shocked face. "Are...are you taking the piss, my lord?"

Guilliman glances his way. And smiles slightly. "Yes."

The sergant laughs.

----------------------------------------------

01:37:23

Warsong Hold burns.

Black smoke rises high into the sky, engulfing the mightly bastion of stone and steel. With a tremendous cracking sound, the roof finally collapses from the heat, pancaking downwards. A rush of more smoke follows.

"Holy mackerel," murmurs Fizzcrank Fullthrottle, watching the collapse through his binoculars. The white-haired gnome leans out the top porthole of his personal transport - a converted siege engine with the heavy ram mechanism pulled out for the sake of fuel conservation and speed.

"What the heck happened?" he hears the voice of his pilot call out.

"I dunno, but they did a number on the place," he replies.

"No kidding."

Fullthrottle lowers his binoculars. "Take us around to the farms," he says. "I want to see if they got hit, too." The vehicle lurches as the pilot puts down the accelerator, roaring over the grasslands of the tundra, careful to keep a fair distance between itself and the burning stronghold. Fullthrottle reaches to the handheld radio just under the lip of his porthole and pushes the talk button. "Airstrip, do you read, over?"

"Loud and clear, Fizzy. What's going on out there? Over."

"Warsong's on fire. Looks totaled. Get a plane fueled and ready for a flight to Stormwind, the head honchos are going to want to know about this. We're moving to check out the farms. Over."

"Roger that. Watch your tail. Over."

"Will do. Fullthrottle out."

He sets the handheld back in its clip and goes back to looking through his binoculars. Just like the stronghold itself, the Warsong farms burn. Corpses of orc and beast alike are left behind. A few boars brave enough to try munching on the leftovers flee at the sound of the vehicle's engine. "It's all gone," the gnome murmurs, half shocked.

"Hey!" his pilot shouts. "Something just moved down by the harbor!"

Fullthrottle turns his attention to the coast. The harbor that services Warsong Hold is a crude thing, rocks piled up to create a pier out of a natural inlet. In the wake of the Scourge War, the orcs typically kept a wooden transport ship or two docked there...and they still exist, albeit so far down in the water that Fullthrottle can tell with a glance it's no heavy load that causes such a thing. Both ships must be resting on the bottom. One of them lists badly enough that its rigging has become entangled with the watchtower at the end of the pier.

Then he spies what his pilot has spotted - a big, blocky machine-thing almost as big as his tank stamping about on two legs. Even as he watches, the thing lifts a foot big enough to squash a gnome and brings it down atop the head of a prone orc. Fullthrottle winces sympathetically. "Jeepers."

"Is that one of ours?" his pilot asks.

"Doesn't look like any peacekeeper design I've seen," Fullthrottle replies. "It looks like it's wearing Alliance colors though..."

"Sure doesn't like orcs!"

"Doesn't mean it likes us, either." He considers for a few moments. "Bring us to a hundred yards, nice and slow. I'll walk the rest."

"You sure, boss?"

Fullthrottle swallows. "No. Anything happens, just floor it and get out."

The converted tank creeps to within a hundred yards of the weird machine-thing before Fullthrottle grabs his nearby rifle and pulls the strap over his shoulder and clambers out. The gnome can feel his heart pounding as he carefully walks towards the big machine. He starts to reach for his gun so that he can bring it to bear, but then restrains himself. Don't make it mad, he thinks. "Ah...hello there?" he calls out as he closes to less than thirty yards.

The huge thing turns about and Fullthrottle freezes in place, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. After a few moments he slowly moves to raise his hands. "That's a...that's a mighty big gun you have there," he murmurs.

[Kuja]

01:39:13

The Bellator Hasta has made a long arc across the landscape of Azshara following the explosion at Bilgewater Harbor. It has been low, terrain-level flying amongst the hilly region to conceal the thunderhawk's approach to the primary target. Within the hold, the thirty space marines that comprise first, third, and fourth squads make their final preparations.

Captain Lucien Valtis flexes his hands. He is eager to be in combat. The hour-long drop has been excruciating, feeling every twist and turn made by the thunderhawk while he and his men wait inside for the moment they may take the fight to the enemy. For a member of the Adeptus Astartes, nothing is more painful than to sit idle whilst battle is joined by others.

"Sixty seconds," he calls out.

Across from him, the golden helm of company champion Severus Scaeva bows slightly. It is a ritual of the swordsman; not quite a prayer, which is something that would see him rebuked. Rather a moment of introspection. The 'breath before the plunge,' is his exact wording. Valtis allows him the foible- with his power sword and shield Severus is the finest hand-to-hand combatant in the company, even better than Valtis himself.

Alcrayn shifts his grip on the company standard. The adamantine pole is currently locked into brackets in the thunderhawk's floor and ceiling. Though secured, the cloth of the standard ripples slowly with the movement of the ship. The standard of the 64th is a simple one, consisting of rows of letters interspersed amongst golden laurels: XIII at the top, the Legion numeral, beneath which is the VI of the sixth chapter, and finally the LXIV of the 64th. The symbol of the Ultramarines tops the standard, hanging above the stiched lettering.

Apothecary Gallus extends and retracts a needle from his narthecium.

Chaplain Tiburtius quietly touches his armored fingertips to the chain links of the rosarius strapped across his chest. Despite the religious undertones to the distinctive piece of gear, the rosarius serves an entirely secular purpose. During combat it will cloak the chaplain's ebon armor in an invisible sheath of energy, deflecting high-energy attacks.

--------------------------------------------

A hundred kilometers to the southwest, the Bellator Pilum drops its altitude as it too closes with the Ultramarines' primary target. Inside the armored shell, another thirty men of the 64th - fifth, sixth, and seventh squads - ready themselves for action.

Codicier Avitus has his eyes closed. The psyker has scarcely moved in the past hour. His face is dreadfully pale beneath the armored sweep of his psychic hood. As the Pilum descends, however, his eyes finally open. His irises are a bright, piercing amethyst - a sign of his mutation.

Techmarine Varinius runs a final check of his servo-harness and armor. The clawed arm attached to his back flexes, as do the fingers of the power fist worn over his left hand. The check takes four point five seconds. Varinius is satisfied with the outcome.

He glances to his left and meets the gaze of Sergeant Laurentius of seventh squad. The youngest of the 64th's officers, Laurentius and his heavy support squad will serve alongside the techmarine, a natural configuration chosen so that Varinius can keep an eye on seventh squad's heavy weaponry. Laurentius gives his battle brother a thumbs-up in readiness. Varinius nods.

----------------------------------------------

At the north side of Orgrimmar, a whining sound begins to grow in the guards' ears. As brows furrow and mouths turn downwards in puzzled frowns, the strange sound builds up louder and louder into a sound like the loudest of goblin devices.

A boxy shape appears from the hills, bright blue in color. It skims low over the ground on approach for Orgrimmar's northern gate.

One of the guards starts to say what's on all their minds. "What...the..."

[Kuja]

01:40:07

The Hasta launches another pair of hellstrike missiles just before touching down. With precision accuracy, the missiles fly into the pair of guard towers that surmount Orgrimmar's northern gate. Both erupt in fire as the chatter of the sponson-mounted heavy bolters joins the cacophony. Anything that moves dies in moments as the servitor-operated weapons react to the motion and spray bolter fire over it.

The thunderhawk rests lightly on its landing gear and with a whirr of machinery the doors open. "First! Fourth! Move!" Captain Valtis booms, and the squads named punch their harness release and begin to storm out of the vehicle. Valtis himself pauses to set a hand to the shoulder of one man that remains seated. "Remember your first priority," he says over the command channel.

"Don't get dead," deadpans Sergeant Rensius of third squad.

Valtis knocks on the man's helm with his fist and then follows his command squad out. The Ultramarines double-time it towards the gate, fourth squad forming a vanguard for the first. Just inside the gate are parked a series of wooden siege vehicles known to the Horde as demolishers. "Shoot to disable," orders Sergeant Mycas, and a smattering of precision bolter rounds follow that shatter the demolishers' axles and housing, leaving the vehicles a series of wrecks bottomed-out on the reddish dirt of Orgrimmar's roadway.

Behind them, the Hasta lifts off with a roar of its engines and passes overhead on a course towards the southwest.

--------------------------------------

In perfect concordance with its twin, the Pilum sails in to deliver its own cargo of Ultramarines. Unlike the Hasta, the Pilum doesn't both to set down outside the city - Orgrimmar's west entrance consists of a reinforced wooden bridge that would be all too easy to collapse beneath the space marines' armored feet.

So the thunderhawk sails in overhead, sliding between the doubled guard towers that stand to either side of the gate itself. On approach, the thunderhawk fires the twin-linked lascannons beneath its wings, provoking a fiery collapse of the left-hand tower. Like the Hasta, as it touches down the thunderhawk covers the disembarking marines with a spray of fire from its heavy bolters.

Fifth, sixth, and seventh squads pour from the thunderhawk, Evander and Laurentius firing their lascannons into the remaining guard tower so that it, too, catches light.

The ground of the Valley of Spirits is marshy and slightly soft. The trolls that occupy the valley are slow to react to the bizarre intrusion. As the Pilum rises into the air they stare at the armored invaders.

"Are those orcs?" questions Sergeant Brutus of the sixth. "They look more like mutants of some kind."

"It doesn't matter," replies Nereus of the fifth. "You know our orders. The city dies."

A roar of bolter fire follows.

-------------------------------------------------

01:42:39

"Both thunderhawks report attack underway!" calls out one of the crewmen.

Roboute Guilliman squares his shoulders and opens and closes his hands once in preparation. "Magos?" his voice calls out. "At your discretion, please."

"Confirmation. Commence energy transfer," replies the Mechanicus overseer. A humming noise begins to rise even as his voice trails off. "Stabilize internal matrix. Lock focus ring." From the deck around the primarch and the armored men of second squad, the steel ring rises to encircle them at waist height, supported on a number of metal pylons.

Energy crackles softly and a slight haze begins to form, matching the steel ring's diameter.

"Approaching maximum power. Target locked. Transport in five...four...three...two...one..."

Roboute Guilliman inhales.

"Igni-"

With a crackle of power and a sound like a blast of thunder, the eleven figures inside the ring vanish.

"-tion!"

------------------------------------------

Thunder splits the Durotar air. Orcs whirl and duck their heads in shock.

Eleven gigantic figures have appeared outside the main gate of Orgrimmar, in the midst of the Dranosh'ar Blockade - the most heavily fortified area in the entire city.

The ten members of second squad wear the hulking, impossibly broad armor of the cataphractii. In his right hand, each man clutches a double-barreled stormbolter that incorporates a short, underslung chainblade. In his left, each of them carries a close combat weapon: full-size chainswords, power blades, and in the case of Isidoros to the primarch's left, a lightning claw that sizzles with energy.

Roboute Guilliman lifts his own weapons- the iconic Gauntlets of Ultramar, twin power fists easily capable of closing around the torso of a mortal man. Each gauntlet incorporates a wrist-mounted boltgun.

He speaks three words.

"For the Emperor."

Orcs begin to die.

---------------------------------------------

The last of the Ultramarines to deploy at Orgrimmar is Sergeant Rensius' third squad.

As the Pilum soars over the city the thunderhawk opens its bay doors.

The first two out are the sergeant and the black-armored figure of Chaplain Tiburtius, diving out of the transport more than fifty meters above the ground below. The rest of the assault squad follows them out, wind whipping past the Ultramarines as they plummet earthwards. Apart from the chaplain, each man has a bolt pistol and a roaring chainsword at the ready.

Tiburtius activates his crozius with a press of his thumb. The golden aquila surmounting the heavy staff begins to blaze with crimson power. His plasma pistol hums in readiness. With a twitch of his shoulders, the chaplain activates his jump pack, slowing his descent in a halo of fire.

The tauren in the Valley of Wisdom see the armored invaders coming. They see the skull-faced figure in black. Someone shrieks.

One female snaps a long-gun to her shoulder with admirable speed and fires off a shot. The bullet bounces off the power field created by the chaplain's rosarius.

The tauren's act of defiance makes her the first victim. As Tiburtius hits the ground, he levels his plasma pistol and returns fire. The gunslinger vanishes in a blaze of roiling azure energy.

As third squad descends, the chaplain hefts his crozius and bellows, "Ultramarines! You are primus inter pares! Demonstrate why!"

[Kuja]

01:44:02

It is a city assault that would make the XX Primarch envious.

Every corner of Orgrimmar falls under assault from the Ultramarines with pin-point timing. The city has only the barest measure of warning given by the explosions at the guard towers. The Warchief's dictate to ready the place for siege is barely fifteen minutes past.

The Pilum and the Hasta prowl the skies above - Orgrimmar's wind rider patrols and their wyvern mounts are no match for the heavy bolters of the twin thunderhawks. The Hasta makes a shot with its turbo-laser that demolishes one of the two zeppelin towers at the city's central plateau.

Once more Grommash Hold fills with the babble of confused voices.

"SILENCE!" the Warchief bellows. "You gabble on like children! No matter how the Alliance moved so quickly! All of you will fight in the defense of Orgrimmar! We will throw them from the walls and demonstrate our strength!"

He hefts his axe. "LOK'TAR OGAR! FOR THE HORDE!"

--------------------------------------------

The first to engage the Ultramarines as they enter the Valley of Honor are oddly enough not members of the Horde military, but rather gladiators from the Ring of Valor.

Some are soldiers of fortune, seeking glory and wealth. Others are slaves, captured by the overseers of the fighting pits and forced to do battle.

Fourth squad meets the disorganized rabble head-on. Most of the gladiators are tough, hard-bitten veterans of the arena. Despite that, they are no match for the ten Ultramarines, most of whom have a century or more of battlefield experience and carry weapons the likes of which the warriors of Azeroth have never seen.

That doesn't stop an elongated spear of perfect cold from flying through the air and impaling squad member Spyridon at the left side of his chest. The Ultramarine drops back with a grunt.

"Psyker!" Aleci calls out.

"More than one," corrects Jacobus, firing at a diminutive gretchin-like figure playing with fire.

"Enough sandbagging. Go full auto," Mycas growls.

As the boltguns open up in a continuous roar, behind the gun line created by fourth squad Apothecary Gallus breaks off from the first to see to the injured Spyridon. "Hold still. Hold still, damn you," he says, seizing the man by the shoulder. "Anything struck?"

"Primary heart," Spyridon grunts. "Damn thing punched right through the carapace."

"Well, no need to shed tears over a heart. Primarch got you a spare," Gallus replies as he takes hold of the icy spear and pulls it free. Spyridon's enhanced system is already beginning to clot over the injury. Dropping the bloodied spear, Gallus extends a pair of needles from his narthecium and jabs both of them into the injury, pumping the fourth squad marine with adrenaline and a reserve of Larraman cells to further speed the injury's closure.

"Good as new. Walk it off," the apothecary says, giving the back of Spyridon's helm a quick rap with his fingers.

-----------------------------------------------

The Valley of Wisdom burns. Someone has set the longhouse on fire.

Sunwalker Atohmo charges up the hill towards the attackers, looking very much like a maddened bull. His armor glows with a golden light as he readies his halberd, similarly alight with a golden halo.

"An'she! Ishne'alo'porah!" he roars. With all the considerable strength of a Sunwalker, her brings his blade down to split his enemy.

Chaplain Tiburtius intercepts the tauren's attack with his crozius. Energy spits and crackles, sputtering against the two men in a hail of sparks. With a surge of stength the Ultramarine throws back the tauren's halberd, spinning his golden weapon in an arc to bring it down against Atohmo's head. The Sunwalker parries the blow in another shower of sparks.

Their weapons clash twice more before Tiburtius throws the Sunwalker's blade wide, spinning to present his flank to the bull-man and leveling his plasma pistol.

Atohmo hesitates, his eyes narrowing as he stares into the inscrutable skull-faced helm of his opponent.

With a flick of his thumb the chaplain safeties the pistol and holsters it before cocking back his arm and bringing his crozius down in an overhead smash. Only the full strength of the Sunwalker manages to turn the blow aside.

Around the pair, engines roar and bolters chatter as the assault marines of third squad continue to visit destruction upon the Valley of Wisdom. The fire spreads from the longhouse to the storehouses that ring the upper part of the valley. The tauren structures - things of wood and hide - burn well. Soon little will be left but ash.

[LadyTevar]

Nice to see a SunWalker can stand up to a Chaplain.
And good to see the Honor of the Chaplain, leaving this to Melee

[Highlord Laan]

I'm more wondering why there's a Space Marine Chaplin at all, in a Ultramarine regiment from when the Emperor and the Primarchs were still around. There is no established Imperial religion at all at that point, only the Imperial Truth, which stated that all gods were false.

[Vehrec]

And a lot of space marines to this day do not see the emperor as divine-rather the Chaplain is a morale officer, a moral rock and a example to his men who keeps them fighting fit with words and exhortations. Actual services are pretty far down on the Padre's responsibilities.

[Kuja]

Spoiler

My admittedly rather flimsy lore explanation for Tiburtius' presence is that even before the Heresy, the Legions were starting to form the offices that would one day become the chaplains as we know them. The Word Bearers, of course, had the prototypical fire-and-brimstone chaplains, while the Space Wolves already had their wolf-priests and the Iron Hands had their iron-fathers. Dark Angels and Blood Angels took a more secular take on chaplaincy in the form of the redemptors and wardens, respectively. They were expected to inspire and counsel the recruits, advise their captains, and ensure the Legion rules (such as the Edicts of Nikaea) were being followed.

Obviously Guilliman saw something worthwhile in the chaplaincy, since eventually they were added to the Codex Astartes and spread across the many chapters of the Space Marines. Tiburtius is, presumably, one of the primarch's early test runs of men taking up the mantle in a secular fashion to see whether it was worth pursuit.

Of course, the real reason a chaplain is there is authorial fiat. I wanted the 64th to be your generic McMarine company. They have all the basics: command squad, terminator squad, assault squad, devastator squad...and the expected specialists: techmarine, librarian, apothecary, chaplain. And a dreadnought. So, everything you'd see in Generic Spacemarine Force. No Big Damn Special Heros or freaky kitbashed units like some SMs get. This is also one of the reasons I went with the Ultramarines as my guys for the story.

[MondoMage]

01:36:37
The huge thing turns about and Fullthrottle freezes in place, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. After a few moments he slowly moves to raise his hands. "That's a...that's a mighty big gun you have there," he murmurs.

I'm still waiting with baited breath (where exactly did that particular colloquialism come from, anyway?) to see what happened to Mr. Understatement...

I'm not really familiar with either of the War******* genres in anything other than a basic sense, but I'm enjoying this immensely. I'm not usually into curb-stomps, but occasionally you really want the bad guys to get the living (or unliving, as the case may be) snot kicked out of them.

[Highlord Laan]

Spoiler

My admittedly rather flimsy lore explanation for Tiburtius' presence is that even before the Heresy, the Legions were starting to form the offices that would one day become the chaplains as we know them. The Word Bearers, of course, had the prototypical fire-and-brimstone chaplains, while the Space Wolves already had their wolf-priests and the Iron Hands had their iron-fathers. Dark Angels and Blood Angels took a more secular take on chaplaincy in the form of the redemptors and wardens, respectively. They were expected to inspire and counsel the recruits, advise their captains, and ensure the Legion rules (such as the Edicts of Nikaea) were being followed.

Obviously Guilliman saw something worthwhile in the chaplaincy, since eventually they were added to the Codex Astartes and spread across the many chapters of the Space Marines. Tiburtius is, presumably, one of the primarch's early test runs of men taking up the mantle in a secular fashion to see whether it was worth pursuit.

Of course, the real reason a chaplain is there is authorial fiat. I wanted the 64th to be your generic McMarine company. They have all the basics: command squad, terminator squad, assault squad, devastator squad...and the expected specialists: techmarine, librarian, apothecary, chaplain. And a dreadnought. So, everything you'd see in Generic Spacemarine Force. No Big Damn Special Heros or freaky kitbashed units like some SMs get. This is also one of the reasons I went with the Ultramarines as my guys for the story.

That makes sense. In a pre-heresy setting, I guess "Chaplin" would be the ones looking out for the mental health of the company. Listening to the inevitable grievances, squabbles, and friction that happens in any military unit, and taking care of it unless it's bad enough to warrant attention from an officer.

[Kuja]

01:45:19

Low wooden bridges are smashed underfoot as the thirty marines of fifth, sixth, and seventh squads charge into the Valley of Spirits. The marshy valley is not reinforced in any fashion - no one in Orgrimmar ever expected someone to simply sail through the western gate. Although guarded by men in half-plate and bearing spears, the straw and wooden huts of the Darkspear are no obstacle at all for the three squads.

Arrows fly down from above. As they ricochet from the Ultramarines' armor, Makarios of seventh lifts his missile launcher and fires, his weight lurching onto his back foot as the projectile explodes from the barrel, streaking upwards to annihilate one of the cliffside structures where a pair of the daring snipers crouch. The rope bridge that spans the valley snaps as the ropes burn away, collapsing against the far side.

Crescens of fifth squad spies a subtle motion amongst the ongoing battle. A creature that looks like a large, predatory cat slinks beneath the raised floor of one of the huts. Even as he watches the feline slide into the shadowed area, its fur seems to ripple and fade in some manner of chameleonic defense mechanism.

A mere beast? A psychic trick of some kind?

Better safe than sorry, Crescens decides. He levels his bolter. He fires once. The feline dies.

---------------------------------------

In the Valley of Honor, first and fourth squads begin to split. The latter move to attack the forges situated at the eastern end of the valley, while the first continue to press forwards to take the central portion of the bowl-shaped area.

A wide footbridge spans the shallow stream that splits the valley into its northern and southern halves. Captain Valtis' command squad charges across the footbridge and there Alcrayn plants the standard of the 64th in the soil of Orgrimmar in challenge. The orcs respond as expected, armored and half-armored greenskins swarming the knot of azure invaders.

Though taken by surprise by the sudden assault, the orcs charge with the ferocity burnt into them by their race's veneration of glorious combat. Most carry large axes with the expectation that their superior strength will allow them to cut through their foes. Most of them are not afraid of the blue giants - instead they look forward to reaping the benefits of being the one who will cut down an enemy that dares invade Orgrimmar's sacred soil.

First squad, by contrast, does battle as perfectly-ordered team. Captain Lucien Valtis, Champion Severus, and Alcrayn fight in close combat with their power blades, covered by the mid-range meltaguns of the veterans Durante and Renatus, as well as Apothecary Gallus' bolt pistol. The remaining four members of the squad - Viator, Lazarus, Darius, and Aeson - provide long-range cover with their boltguns.

The Valley of Honor soon becomes the site of a massacre. First the orcs must brave the explosive bolter fire laid down by the command squad which focuses primarily upon anything with a ranged weapon. Surviving that they must then dare the flesh-searing wrath of the twin meltaguns, both of which can burn an orc down to little more than bone and armor scraps in moments. The few who can come close enough to employ bladework are matched and overmatched by the three swordsmen.

It gets worse as fourth squad clears out the forges, executing anything that moves and rolling grenades into each building to leave Orgrimmar's smithies a smoking ruin. Then they turn and double-time it back towards first squad, relieving some of the pressure on the veterans.

As fourth squad clears the forges, Captain Valtis takes advantage of their arrival to vox up to the Pilum. A few seconds later, a shot from the thunderhawk's turbo-laser slams into the colosseum on the rise just above the smithies. The famed Ring of Valor is shattered into innumerable burning splinters that rain down upon the eastern end of the valley.

---------------------------------------

Chaplain Tiburtius strikes a blow with his crozius that sunders the breastplate worn by Sunwalker Atohmo. The tauren reels, backpedaling before he stumbles and falls to one knee. A hand goes to his chest as blood begins to stain his fur and armor. He leans upon the butt of his halberd in an attempt to keep himself upright. Every movement causes splitting pain. Even breathing too deeply makes his chest erupt in agony.

He looks up into the ruby eyepieces of Tiburtius' skull-helm. As the chaplain lifts his golden crozius to deliver the coup de gras, the light of the sun reflects from its glinting surface, washing over Atohmo's face.

The tauren lets go of his halberd and shuts his eyes, lifting his palms to the sky. "An'she," is on his lips as the crozius comes down.

He is the last tauren to fall at the Valley of Wisdom. The longhouse, the stores, the open amphitheater where representatives of the tauren people taught the ways of spiritualism and martial excellence to those orcs and trolls that would listen - all of it burns.

Chaplain Tiburtius turns from his fallen foe and moves to rejoin the men of the third.

"Enjoy yourself, Chaplain?" Sergeant Rensius asks in a dry tone.

"I am satisfied by the outcome, yes," the chaplain replies.

The sergant makes a noncommittal noise and switches to the squad channel. "Move out, third. We've got a rendezvous to make."

As the squad moves eastward from the valley of wisdom, some orc attempts to halt their progress. The great portcullis that separates the valley from the shadowed merchant row of Orgrimmar comes crashing down with a great clanging sound.

Rensius stares it down for a moment as if it has somehow offended him. "That's cute," he says.

His jump pack screams to life, followed moments later by those of his squad as the Ultramarines leap impossibly high into the air, aiming for the upper lip of the valley walls. Once in range of the gate's towers, Chaplain Tiburtius fires his plasma pistol through the entryway of the south-side guard room. The superheated plasma sets the wooden floor on fire.

The men of third squad flank the towers, bolt pistols firing rapidly before they move to drop back down into the valleys of the city, moving unimpeded towards the drag.

[Deebles]

01:36:37
I'm still waiting with baited breath (where exactly did that particular colloquialism come from, anyway?) to see what happened to Mr. Understatement...

Abated -> Bated -> Baited (frequent modern day misspelling)

[PainRack]

That makes sense. In a pre-heresy setting, I guess "Chaplin" would be the ones looking out for the mental health of the company. Listening to the inevitable grievances, squabbles, and friction that happens in any military unit, and taking care of it unless it's bad enough to warrant attention from an officer.

We know that Chaplains were used to enforce the Nicea rule prohibiting Librarians, suggesting that they were either wardens to Pyskers then or perhaps some form of enforcer/disciplinarian for the Legion.

[Kuja]

01:46:50

"Varinius," says a deceptively soft, attention-grabbing voice.

Techmarine Varinius turns his head to meet the piercing amethyst gaze of Codicier Avitus. Though his hand rests upon the pommel of his force sword, the librarian has yet to even draw the weapon. Instead he points with his other hand towards a tunnel that burrows through the valley wall. "Sixth squad and I will go this way. Take the fifth and seventh and continue pressing south."

"The psyk-trace?" Varinius questions. Avitus nods. "Courage and Honor, brother."

"Coruage and Honor, brother-techmarine," Avitus replies. The psyker shifts his attention to the sergeant of the sixth and inclines his head slightly. "Et tu, Brute?"

"That joke is ancient, Avitus," growls Sergeant Brutus. The corner of the psyker's mouth trembles slightly as fifth squad moves to break off, heading into the tunnel. Before moving to join them, the librarian looks upwards towards the straw roof of the tallest hut, one that nearly draws even with the top of the valley walls. Avitus lifts his hand, putting the tip of his armored thumb to that of his middle finger and making a snapping motion.

A spark flies upwards from the librarian's gauntlet and settles in amongst the tied straw bales of the roof. Immediately they catch light, and fire begins the process of consuming the upper part of the hut.

That done, Avitus turns away to rejoin the men of sixth squad.

------------------------------------------------------

The Dranosh'ar Blockade stretches all the way from Rocktusk Farm in the west to the sinister landmark known as Skull Rock in the east. It is the host to the better part of the orcs' military, from numerous grunt soldiers to massive, cumbersome siege weapons.

The XIII Primarch and the ten cataphactii of second squad tear a hundred-meter-wide hole through the center of it.

Storm bolters fire once, twice, sometimes three times per second, a volume of fire in all directions. With such a volume of targets the terminators hardly need to aim; they simply point their guns into the general mass of greenskins and squeeze the trigger over and over. Several of them switch over to full auto as the orcs attempt to charge, double barrels roaring continuously. The joints of wooden bolt throwers explode and catch fire. Orcs are gunned down en masse. It is a slaughter that makes the carnage in the valley of honor look restrained.

Thrown weapons and the occasional bullet answer the marines' gunfire, as do a few blasts of psyker energy: bolts of lightning, red fire, green fire, shards of freezing cold. The better part of it glances from the Ultramarines without so much as a mark. Cataphractii-pattern armor incorporates a shield generator that sheaths the men of second squad in shimmering energy, vastly increasing the protection granted to them.

Very few manage to close to melee combat, and the comparative handful that manage this feat are quickly cut down by the blades of the veteran soldiers. Occupied with using his wrist-mounted boltguns to pick targets off the city wall, the primarch almost misses the approach of one armored attacker. A split-second before the orc can take a swipe at him, however, Isidoros' lightning claw swings out to impale the grunt's chest on its long blades. As if the orc weighs nothing, the terminator picks him from his feet and flings him to the ground.

"Advance half," the primarch finally orders. Moving as a group, the eleven armored figures begin to make for the front gate of the city, their steps slow and sure. Their progress is slow, but inexorable as a dozer blade.

---------------------------------------------

A tumult of emotions war within the pale-haired woman's chest.

Alerted by her latent scrying spells, Jaina Proudmoore watches through a shimmering hole of light as the gigantic figures in blue and gold advance through the Horde's defenses with all the difficulty of men swatting flies.

She can hear the echo of their guns, like a cannonade that goes on and on without cease. She can hear the roar of the orcish soldiers and the screams of the dying. She moves a hand and her spells shift to show more of the armored figures tearing through the orcish capitol, demolishing the warriors of the Horde with terrifying efficiency.

She doesn't know how to feel. The increasingly belligerent stance of Hellscream's Horde has left her disillusioned by the promises of the once and former Warchief, but the wholesale slaughter unfolding before her very eyes is like something out of a nightmare.

"Light's grace," she murmurs softly.

"Tae gud fer 'em, I say," barks the gruff voice of General Twinbraid. Newly arrived in Theramore after the destruction of his holdings at Bael Modan, the dwarf's opinion of the ongoing battle is somewhat different from Lady Proudmoore's.

[Kuja]

01:47:39

A lone orc watches the unfolding battle with his one good eye.

'Battle' is a poor word.

He has seen battle like this before. When the orcs first came to Azeroth. When the orcs set upon undefended towns and peoples ill-prepared for war. They had committed acts of slaughter. The had drowned entire villages in blood and fire.

Now, Blademaster Ronakada watches as his own people are put to the sword, watering the rust-red dirt of Orgrimmar with their blood.

It seems an impossibility. Some manner of fevered vision in a seer's nightmare. A hundred - two hundred - three hundred orcs against a mere twenty warriors.

Many of them are fighters the aged blademaster has trained himself. A great deal of them are slain without ever getting close enough to emply the skills he has imparted to them.

As the invaders' strength slowly turns the tide against the warriors of the Horde, then and only then does Blademaster Ronakada himself begin to step forwards, drawing the shimmering length of his curved sword from its sheath. At his back, attached to his mail, a crimson banner of the Horde wafts to and fro with the motion of his body.

Amongst the enemy, he has spied one of particular skill, and as the golden-helmed warrior turns his way, Ronakada lifts his blade and points with with the tip in unmistakable challenge.

"With your permission, Captain Valtis," Severus says over the squad channel.

Lucien Valtis hasn't missed the greenskin's approach. "Granted," he replies.

Severus hefts his sword and shield and steps from the defensive ring of the first squad. At his appoach the orc shifts to reach over his shoulder, gently detaching the Horde banner and carefully taking it from its mounting, ensuring that it does not fall as he moves to plant it in the ground before stepping forwards and taking his blade in a double-handed grip.

The two combatants close to within a triple arms' reach. Severus deactivates his sword's power field to leave the polished steel of the blade glinting in the sunlight as he lifts the weapon to sight along the length of the blade in mirror to the orc's stance.

"Victory or Death," growls Blademaster Ronakada.

Severus Scaeva considers this statement and then nods.

"Victorus aut Mortis," he agrees.

Steel screams.

-------------------------------------------

Sixth squad moves from one tunnel to another, separated by a brief patch of light from above steep canyon walls.

Led by Codicier Avitus, the men of sixth squad descend into the earth beneath the plateau at the center of Orgrimmar. The pale-skinned psyker still rests his hand upon his sheathed weapon, something that he knows annoys the sergeant of the sixth. Despite that, he can feel the force blade trembling in its sheath, reacting to the feedback of his increasing proximity to the psyk-trace emanating from beneath the ground.

This close, the librarian can taste the alien essence of it. It tastes foul, like an overload of the hottest spices upon the tongue. He runs his tongue over his teeth as he fights down the urge to spit. He can smell it - a smell like those selfsame spices dumped en masse into an open flame.

There's a juncture coming up. A tunnel splits off to the south and heads up back to the surface while a second continues to descend. As the Ultramarines approach, Avitus holds up a hand. The squad freezes instantly, boltguns at the ready.

There's a presence nearby, concealed by the juncture of the tunnels. Avitus narrows his glinting amethyst eyes, letting his willpower flow outwards and creep around the edge of the split in the passageways. He spies a half-dozen ambushers - mostly orcs, but a pair of the lanky, tusked creatures as well - crouched in wait, blades at the ready. They are hard to see in the darkness. They hope the Ultramarines will come a bit closer before they spring their trap.

Avitus focuses on the third and sixth of the group. He lifts his hand from the pommel of his blade, holding out both and deliberately imagining a pair of hands closing around the leather breastplates worn by the orcs...

The librarian clenches his hands and jerks both fists to the left. With a series of frightened yelps the two orcs slam into their comrades, pushing the lot of them out into the open. Without needing to be prompted, Sergeant Brutus and his companion Salvitto in the vanguard open fire, quickly gunning down the lot of them as they sprawl before the Ultramarines.

The ambush defeated, the squad continues their descent into the earth.

--------------------------------------------

01:47:57

As the fifth and the seventh finish their sweep of the initial valley, Techmarine Varinius finds himself staring at a sight so odd that for a moment he can hardly believe his eyes.

The far end of the valley is where the marshy ground finally gives way to more solid dirt- solid enough to create a well-packed road that hugs the left-hand valley wall.

To the right, however...to the right is an indentation in the winding valleys of Orgrimmar that has been built up into a number of boxy iron structures and tentlike shelters, interspersed with wagons and bikes in various states of repair. All of it is inhabited by short, green creatures akin to gretchin. Some of them put up a token effort to fight - quickly ended by fifth squad's retribution. The rest cower.

But what really draws Varinius' eye is the lake around which the settlement is built. It is black with petrol, runoff from a metal derrick that continues to pump even now, squirting more ebon fluid as it moves. Above, moored to a platform bolted into the rock face is a large balloon. It appears to be armed with a number of fat, crimson rockets.

Techmarine Varinius looks at the derrick. Then up at the balloon. Then back to the derrick.

He does some quick mental math.

"Crassus," he calls out. The named member of seventh squad - the one aside from Mekarios that carries a missile launcher - breaks off and moves to join his crimson-armored brother. Varinius doesn't wait for him to question, pointing across the lake towards the derrick. "That. Shoot it," he instructs.

Crassus takes a knee to steady himself and levels his weapon without hesitation. With a squeeze of his trigger finger the steel tube bucks, a cylindrical warhead whooshing from the muzzle. It streaks across the lake with precision accuracy, slamming into the base of the derrick. The effect is immediate - and enthusiastic.

The derrick vanishes in a fiery blast as flame streaks across the surface of the water in every direction. Smoke, heat, and shrapnel flies upwards from the blast, buffeting the balloon above. Sure enough, some of the superheated metal shreds the cloth structure of the balloon. It begins to sag immediately, swinging wildly on its moorings. Before long, the basket with its mounted rockets comes close enough to the burning derrick that the unstable goblin warheads detonate.

Screams fill the slums as fire rains down from above. The conflagration continues to spread as oil barrels erupt and fly through the air like deadly missiles. Fuel tanks in the bike depot likewise explode in flame. A panicked mass flight begins.

"Heavy bolters," orders Sergeant Laurentius.

Gregori and Amos level their massive guns and hold the triggers down.

---------------------------------------------

As they push into the main drag, third squad finds themselves confronted by the reinforcements on the way to the valley of honor.

The assault marines fall under attack from axe-weilding orcs in full armor. But this is no wild, frenzied assault such as the one endured by their comrades in first and fourth squads. Rather they are set upon by the disciplined troops of the Kor'kron elite.

His face hidden beneath his horned helm, Overlord Agmar surveys the scene from several ranks back. Holding his axe in one hand, he uses the other to wave his troops forward. "Slay them all!" he commands.

Sergeant Rensius' bolt pistol barks, the projectile streaking through the armored ranks of orcs to strike Agmar just beneath the neck. The commander of the Kor'kron topples.

"I'm giving the orders here," the Ultramarine growls.

[Kuja]

01:48:17

"What are you conspirators planning?" the voice of the Warchief questions sharply.

Activity in Grommash Hold crashes to a halt as Garrosh eyes the delegations of the blood elven and Forsaken races where they stand apart from the orcs, huddled together in hushed conversation. The Warchief notes that they have been joined by several of their compatriots from the Hall of Legend, including a particular pair - one Forsaken and one blood elf - that that are supposed to be acting as advisors to his own strategists.

The fortress has been in an uproar since attack reports started pouring in from every corner of Orgrimmar. Nobody had imagined that such an all-out assault would come so soon after the mysterious attacks at Bilgewater and the Echo Isles. Worse yet, the attempts to magically contact reinforcements from Dragonmaw Port, Stonard, and Warsong Hold have gone unanswered.

Despite this, despite the sound of distant explosions that seem to creep ever nearer, Garrosh Hellscream remains confidant that the warriors of the orcs can turn back the enemy, especially if the numbers reported are anything like accurate. The flying machines that buzz around Orgrimmar's airspace are a thornier issue, but those can wait until the attackers on the ground have been dealt with.

Ambassador Dawnsinger, the head of the Silvermoon delegation steps forward to speak. Garrosh doesn't miss the way her guards close a tight cordon around her cohort, Cecille's deathguard doing likewise around the cleric. "I assure you, Warchief," she says in her musical voice, "our full intent is to carry out your wishes."

"What?" Garrosh replies. "I don't recall issuing orders to either of you."

"Oh, but you did make your intent plain, Warchief," the blood elf replies with a generous tilt of her head. "Your exact words were 'I encourage the blood elves to reinforce their closest allies.' We go now to do so." With a bow, the woman flicks the fingers of one hand and, before Garrosh Hellscream can reply, the spellcasters amongst the group react. The tight-knit lot shimmers and vanishes into thin air.

Garrosh stares into the empty space and snorts in disdain. "Good riddance. Two fewer distractions for the rest of us," he says as he returns his attention to his subordinates. A thought strikes the Warchief and he questions, "where is Malkorok? He should have been back by now."

--------------------------------------

In the first ten seconds of the duel, Severus' blade clashes with Ronakada's no less than fifteen times. It is a breathtakingly fast exchange as orc and Ultramarine cut and parry with phenomenal strength and speed.

Ronakada leaps, spinning as his blade slices out with intent to take Severus' head from his shoulders.

Severus ducks simultaneously, his own blade passing through the space beneath the orc.

The two shuffle back and forth in the Orgrimmar dirt as their blades clash over and over again. That the orcish blademaster can stand against a champion of the Adeptus Astartes seems impossible. Severus is armed and armored in the finest wargear of the XIII Legion, and his skill with a sword is second to none in the entirety of the 64th.

Ronakada, however, is a veteran of more than thirty years. The blademaster is warrior with barely a handful of peers amongst his entire race. The number of warriors amongst the Horde that can match him are vanishingly few. Varok Saurfang, certainly. Garrosh Hellscream, possibly. Eitrigg, Cromush, Mankrik, unlikely.

The two continue to duel as, around them, the war for the valley of honor continues. By now it is all but over, the Ultramarines having weathered the storm and come through the worst of it. First and third squads move to mop up what remains. Melta charges detonate inside the counting house and the traders' hall. The Wyvern's Tail is set alight. Fourth squad continues their sweep of the valley as the first squad pauses, watching their cormade's ongoing battle.

It is as Captain Valtis considers interfering in the duel that the two warriors each strike first and last blood.

Both perform near-identical cuts in a left-to-right motion, rising diagonally. Ronakada's blade shears through Severus' ceramite breastplate with a shriek of metal. In the aftermath, both men take pause as if joined by the same thought.

The very tip of Ronakada's blade is wet with blood.

The first four inches of Severus' weapon are covered in it.

The orc steps slowly backwards, lifting his hand to his chest. His heart is pierced, and blood pumps from the wound to coat his body despite the instinct to stem the flow with his palm. Despite the mortal wound, the blademaster somehow manages to settle to the ground in a seated position, his back to the Horde banner still planted in the dirt. He lays his sword across his crossed legs.

"A good death," he pronounces. His killer nods and lifts his blade in a brief salute before turning his back and moving to rejoin his squad. Behind the departing Ultramarines, Ronakada's eye closes and he leans against his banner, his chin raised as his head falls back against the wooden pole.

[Kuja]

01:48:32

The main entrance to the city of Orgrimmar is a tunnel through the armored curtain wall that covers the mouth of the Valley of Strength.

The tunnel itself makes two sharp turns- first to the right before running for forty meters within the wall, after which a second turn to the left leads into the city proper. This makes it easier for the defenders to trap an attempted invasion within its confines and makes it impossible for an attacker to simply drive straight through the gate. It is tried-and-true design, one that Guilliman suspects would meet with the approval of his brother Dorn.

As second squad slowly presses into the mouth of tunnel, the orcs make use of the structure's advantages and attempt to pin the Ultramarines within the confines of the first turn.

For a brief time it seems to work - the primarch and his cataphractii escort stand shoulder to shoulder as the orcish military presses in. The bolter fire nearly ceases as the men are forced to switch over to chainblades and power blades, ripping and hewing through flesh and armor. Within moments the orcs begin finding it difficult to close with their azure foes as the bodies that cover the stone floor make for difficult footing.

The orcs' chiefest foe is, of course, the primarch himself. Guilliman stands in the vanguard, facing a solid wall of green bodies. In his distinctive armor, the XIII Primarch stands more than three meters tall, his very presence a towering challenge to the orcs, and they naturally gravitate towards him like iron filings to a magnet. He fights back by gently sweeping his arms back and forth as he fires his wrist-mounted bolters into the oncoming foe.

As a result, it is ultimately Hadrian's second, Argentius, that finally breaks the ongoing stalemate. The cataphractii is at the leading edge of the formation, and as the bodies begin to pile up, he begins to take one slow step after another. A moment later, beside him, Isidoros moves forward to support his brother. Hadrian himself follows suit. Guilliman himself forms the anchor of the formation, letting the bladework of second squad naturally push the orcs into his firing sights. Camerinus acts as the fulcrum of the rearguard, the second half of the squad protecting their brethren and their primarch from the orcs that attempt to chase them in from the outer blockade.

Step by step by agonizing step, Roboute Guilliman and the men of second squad work their way down the length of the entry tunnel.

----------------------------------------------

At the other end of Ogrimmar, Sergeant Rensius and the men of third squad are proving themselves to be a handful for the Kor'kron Guard.

With their jump packs, the ten assault marines and the ebon form of Chaplain Tiburtius continually frustrate the orcs' attempts to press their backs to the wall. The main drag of Orgrimmar has a footpath halfway up the western wall, while many of the buildings have second-storey balconies and thick stone roofs, and the assault marines use all of these to their advantage, leaping through the air on jets of flame and landing above the orcs' heads to fire down into the greenskins' ranks with their bolt pistols. Then they leap back down to the floor of the valley to resume their bladework.

"Honorless cowards!" roars one frustrated orc.

With a scream of jets, squad member Aulus comes to land not far from the heckler, spreading his arms. "You want a fair fight, alien? Come here, then."

To his credit, the Kor'kron levels his axe and charges, swinging for all his worth towards the Ultramarine's chest. Enchanted with the essence of a fire spirit, the blade bites into the ceramite of the assault marine's armor, a hard enough strike to make the assault marine shift slightly atop his feet.

"That's it?" Aulus grunts as the orc works to pull his axe from the divot created in the assault marine's chestplate. "Go on, take another."

Chaplain Tiburtius drops from above to put his plasma pistol to the side of the Kor'kron's head and pulls the trigger. As the corpse topples, the chaplain turns his rubied gaze on the third squad member. "Shame on you, Aulus. Never taunt an enemy unless he is stronger than you."

"That would leave precious few opportunities," the assault marine deadpans.

"Consider it a motivation to sharpen your wit," the chaplain shoots back. Aulus doesn't have an answer for that one.

-----------------------------------------

01:48:51

A hail of bolter fire cuts into the Kor'kron ranks as first and furth squads move through the wall that separates the Valley of Honor from the main drag. The suddenness of the attack relieves the pressure being faced by the assault marines of the third, and they take full advantage as they cut through what little remains of the Horde elite.

"I see you followed my advice," Captain Valtis voxes to his sergeant.

"It was good advice," Rensius replies dryly.

"Advice to live by," Valtis agrees.

Joining together, the three squads begin to work their way down the length of the merchant row. Orcs flee before them.

At the same time, at the south end of the drag, a being composed not of flesh but rather of coruscating arcs of energy watches the panic and turns to look at his colleagues. "I believe the time has come to vacate the premises," he recommends.

"Second," says one.

"Thirded," agrees another. "The storage?"

"Take it," says the first. "I think there will be scant few coming to collect."

With a flash of flight, the group vanishes from the building, taking with them their arcane machinery.

[Kuja]

01:49:25

The air grows thick and heated in the caverns beneath Orgrimmar. The taste of that alien psychic essence likewise grows more pronounced, and Avitus finally gives in to the urge to spit into the dust that lines the tunnel floor.

The tunnel opens up into a vast cavern, lit by lanterns hung from the tents that line the walls. A wave of heat washes over the Ultramarines as they step from the tunnel mouth, the scent of fire and brimstone heavy in the air.

The source of it is immediately obvious - the center of the cavern is covered by a multitiered circle ablaze with runes that glow with a fierce emerald light. The boundaries are surrounded by orcs in clothing that ranges from voluminous robes to ornately-made scale armor. All of them lift their hands in arcane ritual, streams of multicolored fire and freezing cold and crackling violet energy flowing into the center to wreathe what looks like some manner of armored machine.

"This is no psyk-trace," murmurs Vitellius. "This is warp-sorcery."

Avitus doesn't disagree. The air shakes with power, and he can see the ephemeral traces of ghostly beings with qualities mimicking such things as wind and fire and shadow swirling around the orcs' bodies, much like the psyk-familiars of the Thousand Sons with him he took his earliest training.

"MORE POWER, YOU WEAKLINGS!" a voice suddenly booms throughout the cavern. "RIP IT FROM THE EARTH IF YOU HAVE TO!"

The huge shape in the center of the circle shifts, and Avitus realizes the armored thing is no machine at all, but an orc: bloated and massive with power until it has swollen to the size of a contemptor dreadnought. Its eyes glow a bright shade of crimson, dark skin cracking around the sockets as if unable to contain the energy poured into the being. It leans its weight on one hand that seems ready to split through its armor, while the other clutches a tremendous axe, blade simmering with tongues of fire.

"The big one's mine," the librarian says.

"The b- damn you, Avitus. Very well," Sergeant Brutus grumbles a moment later. "Gun-line, on my mark."

Sixth squad move into the cavern proper, beginning to spread out and level their bolters. Without warning, the gigantic orc turns, flattened nose sniffing between misshapen tusks. "I CAN SMELL YOU, HUMANS," the thing snarls. With a sudden motion it turns, throwing a handful of its own brethren aside with the sweeping motion of its axe.

Avitus shifts his hand to his sheath and gently pops the hilt of his sword from the lip with his thumb, readying a grip on the handle with his other hand.

"Kill everything," Brutus growls. The men of sixth squad open fire.

With an earth-shaking bellow, Malkorok leaps into the air, axe leaving trails of smoke as the weapon arcs towards Avitus.

The librarian shuts his eyes.

The world around him goes absolutely silent.

Avitus draws his force sword with a rush of motion. The curved-blade niuweidao howls at it leaves the sheath, roiling with azure flame that erupts along the length of the weapon. As the two weapons meet and steel screams, the axe held by the orc grinds to a halt as, impossibly, the inscribed blade cuts a notch into the face of the incoming weapon. Tongues of red and blue flame curl and flicker against one another.

"ONCE I SLAY YOU, HUMAN," Malkorok snarls, pushing hard against the librarian's blade, "I'LL TEAR THE HEART FROM YOU AND FEAST UPON IT."

"You shall go hungry this day, then," Avitus replies in a calm voice. With that, the Ultramarine leans in and shoves. Sparks sputter from the two weapons as Avitus slides his niuweidao from the notch cut into Malkorok's blade. The ox-tail sword - a gift recieved in a trade of weapons with a brother from the V Legion - makes a low keening sound as Avitus sweeps it into an infinity circuit.

With a roar, Malkorok begins to lash out over and over with his axe. The exchange of blows is superhuman - supernatural - in its speed and ferocity. Around them, the cavern erupts in blistering heat and crackling energy as the orcish sorcerors hurl such things as lightning and flame towards the Ultramarines. Sixth squad spreads out, using the tenting around the edge of the cavern and the multiple platforms cut into the floor for cover.

Malkorok bellows in frustration as his axe accumulates more and more damage every time the weapon clashes with the librarian's. With a final blow the head of the axe shatters, shards of steel flying in all directions. The backswing of the same stroke takes off the mutated orc's hand at the wrist. With a snarl of pain Malkorok clutches at the stump, staring down the armored figure. "HOW..." he groans. "WHAT KIND OF BATTLE...COULD GIVE BIRTH TO A WARRIOR SUCH AS YOU...WHEN YOU ARE NOTHING...NOTHING BUT A MERE HUMAN?"

Avitus stares him down and lifts his niuweidao. "Battle like you wouldn't believe," he replies. "Battle like you could never understand."

The librarian makes a great, arcing cut with both hands. Malkorok's head tumbles from his shoulders, the crimson light fading from his eyes. It never hits the ground, as Avitus puts out his hand to grab it by the hair. The librarian wipes his blade clean on the cooling flesh of the orc's corpse and takes the handle in a reverse grip, sliding the force sword back into its sheath.

The cavern has gone quiet around the psyker. The armor worn by sixth squad is blackened and scarred in many places, seared by the flames and sorceries of the orcs. Still, without soldiers to guard them, with so much of their power siphoned into the beastly Malkorok, the spellcasters are little more than prey for the Ultramarines.

Despite that, the psyk-trace...the odd scent lingers. Avitus can see a passageway in one corner of the cavern that leads further into the earth. He purses his lips. "Brutus, have your team ready your melta charges with timers at ten minutes."

The sergeant pauses, wrong-footed. "Where do you want them set, Codicier?"

"Just bring them forward, please."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes beneath his helm, the commander of sixth squad collects his men and has them gather around the librarian, charges primed and ready. Closing his eyes, Avitus stretches out his free hand, fingers spread. With a series of trembling motions, the boxy devices lift from the Ultramarines' hands, flying through the air all about the cavernous chamber, punching themselves into place above the arterial tunnels and adhering to the ceiling. With a twitch of his hand, Avitus sets the timers running.

"I would recommend we leave now," he murmurs.

"Don't have to be psychic for that one," Brutus replies. "Move out, sixth."

[Kuja]

01:50:32

In orbit high above the ongoing battle, the shipmaster of the Bellator watches the last few seconds of the XIII Primarch's mark run out. He turns his head to meet the gaze of the ship's master of ordinance, already fixed upon him in anticipation. He nods once.

"Bombardment cannon, fire one!" his gunner barks. A moment later the strike cruiser trembles as the power of its forward gun is unleashed. In contrast to the earlier punishing volley, this time it is but a single warhead released, streaking away towards the planet below.

"Reorient to secondary beta. Just like we practiced, people," the master of ordinance commands, his vox bead sending his voice out not only to the bridge crew but the crew of the cannon itself. Gears turn and machinery whirrs as the great weapon shifts upon its mounting, the elongated barrels swinging about with slow deliberation to focus upon their next victim.

"Target confirmed. Bombardment cannon, fire!" Once more the strike cruiser lurches as another projectile leaves the cannon's second barrel. Two more adjustments follow in succession, each one punctuated by another shot from the bombardment cannon.

The quartet of warheads speed earthwards, each closing on a different target.

"Stand down, gun crew. Well executed." With a tap of his vox-bead, the master of ordinance folds his arms across his chest to watch the tracking systems as they follow the projectiles in their descent.

"Status on the Lancea?" the shipmaster questions.

"Closing on the nightside continent's western coastline," the sensori replies.

-------------------------------------------

1:53:03

In the Valley of Strength, the defenders of Orgrimmar make their final stand.

The forces of the 64th close in from all angles: the first, third, and fourth squads press in from the mouth of the main drag, while the fifth and the seventh work their way past the Hall of Legends on the opposite side of the valley. At the north wall, Codicier Avitus and the men of sixth squad emerge from the tunnel to the Cleft of Shadow. And from the main gate, the primarch Roboute Guilliman and the cataphractii of second squad bull their way through what few orcs still dare to stand against them.

Amidst the increasing tumult, one orc attempts to rally what forces yet remain.

"Get your snipers up on the roofs!" General Nazgrim snarls, shaking his lead rifleman and then shoving her away. "Anyone that can still hold a weapon, form a shield line! Protect the man to your left!" he roars, moving amongst the warriors. "Gorrok? Gorrok! Get the civilians into the Hold! DON'T ARGUE WITH ME!" he roars as the blood-spattered veteran starts to inhale. "DO IT!"

From the overlook at the western side of the valley, seventh squad takes up firing positions and rains death from above with their heavy weapons. From atop Grommash Hold, one orc returns fire. A crystalline bullet takes flight and it is only the happenstance of a slight turn of the head that saves seventh squad member Amos from losing an eye. The arcane round impacts at the edge of his eyepiece and bursts, leaving the Ultramarine's helm scarred. Shifting his weight, Amos and his partner Gregori lift their heavy bolters and redirect their fire into the upper levels of Grommash Hold. Several of the would-be snipers are killed by the retaliatory barrage, one pitching over the rail to the ground below.

"Stand firm! Stand firm!" Nazgrim yells, hoarse. His troops still outnumber the armored invaders almost four to one, but the dreadful power of those blue giants has the general terrified of the idea that even in open battle - without the element of surprise - that may not be enough for the orcs to overcome their foes. He smothers the fear with rage, burying it beneath his concentration on forming up the line. "Lok'tar Ogar! Hellscream's eyes are upon you all!"

"At all times," a deep voice agrees. General Nazgrim turns to see the mighty figure of the Warchief, his axe clutched in one hand as he descends the great steps of Grommash Hold.

Nazgrim's chest swells with anticipation. Perhaps with the Warchief's leadership there is a chance that maybe, just maybe they can turn the tides.

-----------------------------------------------

As the brown-skinned giant of an orc emerges from the stronghold, Roboute Guilliman activates his vox. "Ultramarines," he commands, "return attacks directed towards you, otherwise cease fire. Hold your current positions."

The sound of battle in the Valley of Strength slowly fades away as the men of the 64th cease to press against the orcs' defensive line. Both sides continue to brandish their weapons, ready for the moment hostilities resume.

As the last echoes of gunfire and melee combat finally cease, the primarch steps forward from amongst the hulking forms of the cataphractii. The motion draws the attention of every orc present, the nearest soldiers edging backwards slightly in the face of the the advancing giant.

Guilliman pays them no mind. He looks past the orcs in the front ranks to lock eyes with the one that commands them all. The primarch lifts one hand, stretching out an armored finger to make his attention plain for all to see.

And then the XIII Primarch speaks. His voice rolls over the entire valley as he gives utterance to a single word. It is a xenos word, one that was included amongst the data on the slate given to him by his father. Guilliman does not know the precise structure of it, but he does not need to. He understands the essence, the concept behind the syllables: an invitation to duel between leaders. A challenge. An insult. It is all of these.

"MAK'GORA!"

[Kuja]

Nazgrim feels his heart leap into his throat at the sound of that dreaded challenge. Instinctively he looks to the Warchief.

Garrosh's face is twisted in rage, his teeth bared. The muscles of his arm knot, sinews standing out as he grips Gorehowl's haft. "You...dare..." he snarls.

"My Warchief-" Nazgrim starts to say, but his warning is silenced as a ferocious roar cuts him off. Garrosh Hellscream answers the human's challenge with the war-cry that is his namesake. With a burst of motion he charges forward, taking Gorehowl in both hands. The soldiers that stand between him and the armored human dive aside as he barrels through their hastily-assembled ranks.

Guilliman seems not to react as the baying orc stampedes towards him. Hellscream leads with his right hand, he notes, and his own right hand slowly curls into a fist to create a solid steel weight with his gauntlet. As the Warchief draws near he judges the position of the great axe to determine where it will land - a rising cut to the neck, he deduces. The obvious choice, really, given the primarch's lack of a helm.

Garrosh draws his weapon back to strike and the head of the axe makes a low, keening sound as air rushes through the notches struck through its steel. As the orc makes his swing the weapon cuts loose with its own trademark howl, sailing in towards the primarch's throat.

With blinding speed the XIII Primarch lifts his left arm, bringing up the vambrace of his left-hand gauntlet to intercept the incoming blow. With a resounding crash of metal Gorehowl grinds to a halt against the guard edge at Guilliman's wrist.

Before the orc can redress, Guilliman drops back with his right foot, raising his fist and hauling off. Garrosh has a split-second to see that gigantic fist before the XIII Primarch brings it forward and slams it into the Warchief's body. The orc doubles over without hesitation as the breath is expelled from his lungs. Gorehowl drops to the ground as Hellscream's body sags, suddenly seeming as if boneless from waist to shoulders.

The Warchief of the Horde topples over backwards to sprawl at the primarch's feet. He twitches once in an attempt to cough and then goes still.

Nazgim watches, shocked to the very core of his being. That a warrior such as Hellscream could be defeated had always seemed to him a thing near-impossible. To see him struck down so...quickly...

His axe slips from his nerveless fingers and falls to the ground. Around him, warriors of the Horde drop to their knees or likewise let their weapons fall in numb shock. With great effort, Nazgrim manages to lift his eyes from the silent form of the Warchief to his killer. The giant's bodyguards still have their weapons raised. He himself makes no move towards the orcs.

On some instinctive level, Nazgrim knows what comes next. He bows his head and shuts his eyes.

"Finish it," orders Roboute Guilliman.

The 64th open fire all at once. Overhead, the Bellator Pilum and Bellator Hasta swing around to bring their turbo-lasers to bear on Grommash Hold.

[VX-145]

Loving this so far. Keep it up!

[Kuja]

01:57:19

In many ways, the destruction of Orgrimmar's central fortress is the last nail in the city's coffin.

However, it is not the end of the assault on the great capitol. Once their grisly business in the Valley of Strength is completed, the Ultramarines draw back through the curtain wall, beginning to spread their ranks to finish the job started by the primarch and the men of second squad.

As they move out from the city proper, Guilliman notices something amiss. "Codicier," he says to catch the attention of the man.

"My lord?" Avitus says, offering a slight bow as he comes to stand before the primarch.

"What is that?" Guilliman asks, pointing an accusatory finger.

Avitus shifts to hold up the huge, misshapen orc head carried in his left hand. "A specimen for study, my lord," he explains. "During the battle-"

"Let it go," Guilliman interrupts. Avitus responds instinctively, letting the grey-skinned head drop to the stone beneath. The primarch nods, lifting his voice. "Nothing is to be taken from this world," he says definitively. "Even the sand will be washed from your armor and jettisoned before we break orbit." As he turns away from the librarian, he adds, "any man caught taking a skull or any other trophy will be summarily transferred to the XII Legion."

At the eastern end of the Dranosh'ar blockade, third squad members Aulus and Sertor glance at one another. Both men subtly move to drop a bit of extraneous baggage amongst the ruins of the blockade.

----------------------------------------------

02:02:43

For the second time in as many years, Orgrimmar burns.

Everything is aflame, from the barracks in the northeast to the goblin slum at the southern end of the city. Thick, black smoke rises high into the sky with the solemn finality of a funeral pyre. Precious little still lives within the ruined orcish capitol. A few desperate souls that happened to hide well enough, or survive well enough to escape the apocalyptic destruction visited upon them by the warriors in blue and white.

But their ordeal has not yet ended.

Deep within the city's central plateau, a muffled rumbling noise heralds a wash of superheated smoke that connect to the tunnels of the Cleft of Shadow. The roof of the plateau buckles and begins to collapse inwards, the wreckage of Orgrimmar's zeppelin towers toppling over into the cavern. The walls tremble and quake as the melta charges destabilize the structure of the plateau.

As the weight of the rock and steel towers strikes the cavern floor, it sets off a continuing chain of quakes as stone gives way and continues to collapse down into the earth. Beneath Orgrimmar lies the Ragefire Chasm, a winding series of caves that burrow deep beneath the earth, many of them brimming with molten lava. It has always been a simmering danger lurking beneath the city, the shifting magma constantly pacified by the efforts of the shaman.

The violence of the collapse undoes years of work in a few minutes. A section of the drag falls into the earth, consumed by the lava floes. In the Valley of Strength, the Orgrimmar Auction House tilts precariously on its foundations and topples into a growing sinkhole. Lava spews up as the weight of the building drops into the growing abyss.

From above, the smoke and the lava makes the ruins of the city look like a gigantic, burning eye.

"Objective Primaris secured," Guilliman voxes. "Move on to the tertiaries. Once the Lancea completes its sweep we rendezvous at Objective Secundus."

The twin thunderhawks lift from amidst the ruins of the Dranosh'ar Blockade, setting course for their next targets.