Author Notes:
For those who knows the references, you're the Chads, and you know it. Now, since its late, and I need to hit the bed soon for hopefully three hours sleep, let's present the...
New Book Cover! https://postimg.cc/YLw1vV3C
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"Let me preach Her name...!" Shouts a devoted servant of the Emperor, a Priest wielding a quite terrifying Eviscerator, as he swings his mighty weapon.
The human cultist, mutated by the wicked sorcery of the Lord of Lies, finds himself torn apart by the crude disruption field that runs through the biting blades of the Priest's Eviscerator. Strangely enough, all the gory parts are flung away from the Priest, granting him the mercy of maintaining an immaculate look amidst the messy urban battlescape.
"... In peace!" The Priest finishes his words before turning to the Cadian soldiers behind him. He takes a deep breath to regain some of his lost stamina before rejoining the battered ranks of the Emperor's Servants.
The enemy he has purged has been the last of this most recent attack wave. For now, he and these brave Cadians have earned themselves a breather.
For an unknown amount of time, they have been trapped and besieged by all manner of attacks, normal and foul spells alike. Casualties are high, with many having gone to the Golden Throne so that others may live for a tad longer. Many of the remaining combatants bear various degrees of injury. And some, having fallen prey to the nefarious Warpflamer that some cultists wield, have been given the Emperor's Mercy by the Priest's very hand. Their sacrifices won't be forgotten, and to each and every one of them that the Priest has sent to the beyond, he will brand their names onto his back.
But right now, the line must hold!
Seeing one Guardswoman who has fallen onto her back due to a missing leg, the Priest holds his Eviscerator in one hand while using the other to pick up the woman's dropped Lasrifle. Stepping closer and handing it over to the Guardswoman, he then props her up to lean against a makeshift barricade.
"Rise up and strike them down, brave defender of man! A mere lack of footing doesn't absolve you from purging the heretics in the name of the Emperor!" The Priest gives the pained Guardswoman a clap on her shoulder, seeing the fire that is still burning in her purple eyes. "That said, blood loss surely will, so... Medic! I need a medic!"
Although the Priest is one to stubbornly meet his foes with gritted teeth and sheer force of will, he is still clear-headed enough to know the limits of the mortal body. A bleeding stump for a limb won't do anyone any good if left untreated.
From the back line, a Combat Medic comes sprinting before sliding to a stop near the injured Guardswoman.
"By the Emperor..." The medic says, eyes going slightly wider as he sees the mangled stump. "The fuck hit you, girl?"
"I don't know...! Gah!" Although her injury is acting up, the Cadian Guardswoman still maintains a tight grip on her Lasrifle, keeping it pointed in the direction where the enemies will surely come from next, just like the many times before. "A Stubber must have gotten mah leg!"
"Can you help her, Corspman?" The Priest asks, taking on a more concerned tone when he sees the medic rummaging through his medical supplies for much too long.
"Well, I got a tourniquet here, but I'm all out on bandages and injections. Damn it, I don't think I will even have enough disinfectant for this!" The medic replies before pulling out a tourniquet anyway. "Screw it. First things first. We can worry about the rest as we go."
Hearing the answer, the Priest is quick to understand that even their medical supplies are running out, not to mention their ammo and ordnance. The Priest pats his tunic before reaching into it and pulling out a Personal Aid Kit, provided to him by the Ministorum.
"Here, use mine kit. This should at least tide you through for a few more patients, Corspman."
Having secured a tourniquet on the Guardswoman and earning a low groan from her, the medic turns to accept the Priest's donation with a nod.
"Thank you, Sir. And for what it's worth, your bravery inspired us all to keep on fighting..." The Corspman says, remembering the Priest's white tunic fluttering in the melee fray with nothing but Eviscerator and faith.
Suffice to say, had the Priest and some more hardier veterans not stuck to their frontline post so stubbornly, this collapsed ruin they have held themselves up in would have been crushed hours ago.
"Do you have any wounds on you, Sir?" The Corpsman asks while simultaneously cleaning and bandaging the wound stump of the Guardswoman.
The Priest gives himself a one over before shaking his head.
"I have no wounds on me but scars. And my scars prove my worth! You're better off saving your supplies for others who more desperately need your care, Corspman."
"I understand, Sir." The Corspman nods before coming up onto a crouching stance to pack his supplies, and the Personal Aid Kit the Priest gave him. "With your permission, Sir, I will leave to attend to the other casualties."
"You may go with the Emperor's blessing, Corpsman!" The Priest nods grandly at the Combat Medic, to which the man makes the Sign of Aquila in respect.
As the footsteps of the medic fade away amidst the grumbles of underground fighting and rusted ventilation fans in the metal ceiling, the Priest turns to look at the now bandaged Guardswoman.
"May I entrust you still with watching over our back?" The Priest asks, taking on a fatherly smile.
"I will uphold this duty until Death claims us all, sir!"
"Then our deaths will be magnificent!" The Priest gives the Guardswoman one last encouraging pat on the shoulder before standing up and moving back to the frontline position once more.
Along the way, the Priest steps over and past corpses of both allies and foes alike. Midway, he stops for a moment to pay respect to the fallen Commissar, who died in his greatest moment of valor. The Commissar is nailed to the wall by a crooked spear, and his torso is left mangled by slugs and fragments from explosions. Yet, per his dying wish, the Commissar's body is left propped up there, still clenching his Chainsword and Bolt Pistol as he stares defiantly at their mortal enemies, inspiring courage to the dwindling Defenders of the Imperium.
"Even in death do you still serve, Commissar. Your devotion brings me to tears." The Priest says with a trembling tone as he salutes the fallen hero.
Afterward, he finally walks among the ranks of the exhausted, yet unbroken Guardsmen once more. Idly, he notes how nine more aren't among the living, and only nine more, not counting himself, are still able to fight. Mayhaps the very next wave will break the citadel that faith, will, and firepower have cast on this very ruin. But as the Priest himself has said:
Their deaths will be magnificent.
But until such a moment has come to pass, some foundational works need to be done. There ain't much time to care for the deceased, but the Priest does help the Cadian survivors close the restless, bloodshot, or dimmed eyes of their comrades, allowing them a moment of peace as they work to scavenge what's left of their munitions and usable gear. These don't amount to much, but every bit counts in the fight against the ceaseless darkness. They would have looted the corpses of the enemies as well if not for the Priest stopping everyone from doing so in fear of booby-traps and tainted sorcery.
Honestly, it's a legitimate concern, considering all that has happened, which has led them to be so trapped and destitute. One can only hope that the main body of the JTF can either dispatch a rescue force or, at the very least, ensure that their sacrifices haven't been in vain.
"Sir..." A Cadian Guardsman suddenly calls out to the Priest. "May I confess something?"
"You may, son of the Imperium." The Priest nods, giving the man an attentive look.
"... I'm tired, Sir. Can't really feel my hands anymore after my brother died in my arms." The Cadian makes it a point by looking at his fingers, stained with dried blood and grime.
"Do you envy your brother, Guardsman?" The Priest suddenly asks.
"Pardon, Sir?"
"Do you envy your brother for reaching the Golden Throne before you?" The Priest reiterates the question.
"... I would be lying if I said no." The man discloses.
"Each person has their worth in life, their duty to finish. Your brother has merely completed his tenure in the world of the living. He is now resting in the Emperor's most holy protection, a fact that we all can only look on with envy, for it's not yet time for us to join your brother in the holiest of gardens. Until our end time has arrived..." The Priest moves to close the outstretched fingers of the Guardsman into a fist before pumping it against the man's heart. "Devotion and faith will temper you. If you ever falter, pray for the Emperor's forgiveness and purge your impurity. Finally, spit in the faces of our mortal enemy! These are the tenets that will keep you going strong, Guardsman. And it's also because of these tenets that we shall never sully the immaculate Golden Throne with our mortal failings, thus helping the Emperor safeguard the flame of human civilization!"
To some, what the Priest says may be a load of bullshit. But since this is Warhammer and all that... These words are more than enough to revitalize the spirit of the exhausted Guardsman and that of others around them.
"Return to your post, Guardsman. There's much to be done." The Priest suggests, seeing that he's indeed not looking at a coward, but a warrior who has already lost much, sans his faith.
The Imperium still has use for such a Guardsman. As for whether his impact will matter or not... It's not the Priest's place to determine someone's worth, only that they're loyal and brave or not.
"I see movement!" Suddenly, a warning comes from a veteran manning an elevated position in the ruins.
The man looks down with a hand pointed out the front. "By the Emperor, it's a whole other Company!"
With barely a Squad still in action, the Priest and the Cadians are hopelessly outnumbered, now that the enemy has finally lost their patience.
"Testudo! They have Testudo!" Someone else shouts an even more frightening fact.
Among the ranks of the disorderly heretic warband, a Testudo APC can be seen rolling over some rubble, struggling as it may be. Even though the Testudo can be considered obsolete by Cadian Regiments, its Autocannon is still more than capable of tearing apart the concealments and covers offered by the ruin the Cadians occupied.
Seeing that the traitors of mankind are forming up a battle line a good distance away, as bold as ever, the Priest sees it all and lets out a derisive snort.
"Pitiful tricks to try and shake our resolve! A mere armored vehicle is not enough to test my devotion to the Emperor!" The Priest revs his Eviscerator. Its spinning blade reignites the dimmed fervor of the Cadians. "Watch me as I will turn that thing into scrap metal! The question is, are you all with me, brave souls of the Imperium!?"
"Say the words, Sir! We will go with you through thick and thin!" The exhausted Guardsman from before shouts his courage, knowing that what's next may very well be his deserved certain doom.
At the very least, he will go out not with shame, but with peace, as he has done everything he could.
"This is a great chance, as any, to prove our worth as Servants of the Emperor! Take this chance while they're still organizing their line and attack with me! Buy time for your brothers and sisters behind you!" The Priest says with all seriousness and zeal. "I will lead the charge!"
To this, the frontline soldiers all nod before taking position around the Priest.
"We're with you, Sir! On your command!"
"Well then..." The Priest raises his Eviscerator high, fully intending on starting the mad dash. "Foul heretics... Up your nogging!"
The moment he starts his battle cry and commits to his first step, something happens. The heads of the cultists explode, one by one, in quick succession and without any fanfare. Then, a hail of red tracers further cut and thinned down the herd of the Company-sized enemy force. Eventually, black objects arc from the sky before impacting the Testudo, which has finally managed to crest the bumpy terrain. The objects explode, cratering the thin protective plating of the Testudo as if they're made of paper and destroying whatever corrupted gears and crew that drive the fallen machine. The sudden, timely intervention that borders on divine intervention causes the Priest and the survivors to awkwardly pause mid-charge, clearly not expecting their finest moments to be delayed.
After one more round of grenades, the cultists break their formation and morale, scurrying back to where they came from.
Although knowing that help may have arrived at last, a Cadian veteran can't help but say something to tide them all through the weird atmosphere.
"Since when can your speech summon saviors so swiftly, Sir?"
The Priest lowers his Eviscerator, humming. "Since forever, but the odds are 50/50 at best."
"Hah! Guess we really won a dice roll, just now. Praise the Emperor!"
"Praise the Emperor!"