Harrus was a simple man. But a man who did not hesitate to launch himself into a war in which he was one among billions and battles for what he considered right.
This story is narrated by Harrus himself. Passages recorded directly from his personal...
My order was quickly transmitted through all communication channels, and every member of the Astra Militarum present in the sector joined the counteroffensive that the arrival of the Emperor's angels provided us. A new breath. A new hope.
The group he commanded followed Brother-in-Arms Aragon to the front, providing all the help our insignificant presence could provide. The Emperor's angels were an incomparable force. But a dreadnaught is on a completely different level.
The roar of the machine gun that such an imposing mass of imperial metal produced was capable of overshadowing at intervals the hustle and bustle of the battlefield, even the lasers that we carried in our hands. Bullets the width of my arms catapulted over enemy lines, clearing entire areas of greenskins. Empty shell casings piled up around him, while his metal claws on his left arm tore into pieces any green skin that was stupid enough to get too close. Regardless of its size or the hardness of its armor.
My men and I advanced behind them, covering flanks, taking down the less armored enemies. Although it takes the average Ork several shots to even fall down, even when part of their skull is exposed to the elements, the smell of gunpowder, and the heat of war.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly for our progress. Until that thing showed up.
The first thing we heard was a roar. Then the earth shook at our feet. I remember not being able to believe it when I saw it, but more than one of my senses confirmed that that thing was not a hallucination of my brain.
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He was a monster. One who surpassed the Brother in Arms himself in height. One that launched itself at the dreadnaoght with indescribable ferocity, and that did not falter even when the enormous bullets from Aragon's machine gun hit the metal arm that it carried as its right limb. If this ork wasn't the leader of the horde, I don't know what else could be.
The confrontation of those two seemed to have stopped the battle around us, although I know perfectly well that was not the case, something I will regret for the rest of my life. Seeing those two beasts clash so savagely simply froze me the instant I saw them.
The approximately five-meter-tall ork fired six powerful shots from a weapon that he discarded as soon as he ran out of ammunition. One, that made my blood run cold as soon as I identified it. It was a bolter. A boltgun that once belonged to the Emperor's angels. How he was made of was a question that would make the blood of every imperial force present boil. However, that gave context to the phrase of the Black Shield Nullus, when he explained to the apothecary that the Astarte in white was the last survivor of his unit. And it was not the first time that this group of greenskins took possession of our technology.
However, that was the least of the brother-in-arms' problems, because as soon as the huge ork closed the distance between them, his metal right hand raised a huge sword, or a chaotic attempt at a sword, full of spikes and parts. sharp blades that didn't seem to make any sense, but would be capable of killing any Astarte if wielded by something with the necessary force. And this monster, it was that something.
