Blazing Sands

Mathael looked around in dismay, this battle had been especially violent, bodies lay burned and broken on the ground and ashes were picked up by the wind. He squared his shoulders and looked to the sky.
"By the Emperor, you will not get the best of us! We will prevail!"

With a furious roar, he charged the enemy, swinging his sword as he went and cutting down the foul Orks as if they were made of sand. One fell, then another and another as his blade judged the green skinned monsters as unworthy of living another day beneath the Emperor's gaze. Rage overtook him more and more with every strike. Corpses. Bodies and dead dreams lied all around him as they had on...the day of his curse. He would avenge every one of them with rivers of ork blood!

"I WANT TO SEE THIS WHOLE DESERT RED AS MARS WITH ORK BLOOD! THE HELLFIRE BLADE MUST BE RECLAIMED!"

His brothers yelled triumphant cries and thundered over the deserts hills as they broke into the Ork line once more, their charge never losing its flame. A predator rolled over the hill and began tearing apart the Orks, leaving bloody craters in the sand. This pleased Mathael. His cloak flowing around him he smirked and wiped some blood off of his face as he surveyed the battle from the hill. It was his time to join. Bolter blazing he tore through what was left of the Ork lines, slaughtering Orks of all sizes. Seeing one of his brothers fall increased his blood lust yet more, and with rage he sliced the Ork who struck the blow with the strength of a Primarch, the Ork's body exploding with blood as it fell to the ground. The Orks began to realize they had no hope of victory. Though by no means was it a grand assembly, these Crusaders had been so inspire by the zeal of their leader no foe could best them in battle. All he could think of was death. Every time a brother fell it reminded him of Ibelin. Of his accursed failure.

"WE'Z GOTTA GET OUTTA ERE!" The cries of the Orks as they began to take flight sounded above the clamor of battle. Those who retreated were as foolish as those who stayed. As the Red Crusaders knew well from years of desert training, the sands provide no place to hide. The Orks were gunned down and slaughtered as they turned their backs and those who remained were struck down by chainswords until none remained. Mathael stood panting above the corpses of Orks. Anger was exhausting, and not exactly chivalrous. But it got the job done. Stepping down from the corpses on which he stood he went towards the sergeant of one of the many tactical squads that fought beside him. "Casualties, brother Corsus?"

"Brothers Mord, Simon, Tristan and Stewald in my squad, brother."

Tristan was a young one. Mathael had fought beside him when he was but a scout...he should have recognized him as the one he watched fall. Grim times indeed. He turned to survey the rest of his force. He came with three squads of tactical marines, two squads of assault marines and devastators. A good portion of them were dead. And thus, the battles anger was replaced with sorrow. He called the surviving sergeants to him and stepped away from his assembled forces, observing the bodies of the fallen. The sergeants appeared before him. He knew what they would say.

"Sir, where were our reinforcements? We were simply supposed to be the vanguard! The others should have deployed from space already!" Brother Téméraire. Mathael knew he was young and not yet used to the chaos of combat, but understood the frustration himself. And remembered when he had abandoned brothers to their fate..."They were called to more pressing matters and left the planet. I can assure it, as calling them off was my decision. And I assume you trust that, brother?" Mathael took off his helmet as he spoke. The honesty in his eyes was clear. Mathael was just as unhappy with what had to be done as his lower ranking comrades in arms.

"Yes Brother Grail Knight. What is our next mission?"
Mathael was glad for Téméraire's expectance. He could not work with angry sergeants. At least not when their anger was not focused towards the battle,

They could all here the thunderhawks land. The two ships would carry the marines to the next battle. And had Mathael's last request from the fleet with them. A relic he planned to use, the Warhearth. A flamer of great power. He stepped towards the thunderhawks with his men. Out of one of them stepped a Techmarine, Brother Akkidos. "Brother Grail Knight Mathael, I have what you requisitioned." The tech marine walked up to him, did a quick bow, and presented to him the flamer.

With dignity, Mathael took the flamer from his tech brother's hands. "Thank you battle brother. It shall purge many Orks. Ave Imperator." He said as he ran a power armored finger across its top. Three words were engraved on it. Cleanse, Purify, Sanctify. Mathael recognized them as the three holy duties as spoken by Petrus the Pious. He would be making Petrus proud...for soon, he take back his sword. "It is time. Akkidos, man the tank. We have around thirty marines remaining, they will fit in the thunderhawks we have...wait, where's the third?" As Mathael said this Akkidos looked saddened as he spoke. "Shot down brother. Mad Ork ships brought it low."

"Damn them! Those were good men. Brothers, I am of the opinion we need to strike hard and fast. As soon as we load we will set course for the ork encampment at Rathill. Now move out, inform your men and let's go!"

The marines around him did the sign of the Aquila and fanned out to their respective squads, the tech marine to his predator. The only one who hesitated was, of course, Téméraire. "Still feeling doubtful brother?" Mathael said, taking a step closer and observing the marine before him. Téméraire had his helmet off, revealing his concerned face. "I fear we don't have enough battle brothers to take on the encampment. The Orks gather in vast numbers, and we are few." Mathael stifled a laugh and put his helmet back on. "Fear not, young brother. Do you have so little faith? The horde will only grow. Unless we cut the head from the filthy, green body. Am I wrong, Téméraire?" Téméraire was both threatened and comforted. "You are correct, brother Grail Knight. I simply do not with to lose any more brothers." The sergeant said. "I understand that more then you would know, young sergeant. Now go on, rally your squad. Battle and blood await!" With the inspiration of his captain, Téméraire nodded and went about his duties. "Like Gawin..." The captain whispered as he turned away. He trusted his sergeants would say enough, all he had to do now was load for the flight. He looked at his sheathed power sword. Soon...soon he would have one far greater.

Aboard the thunderhawk he was on equal footing with his brothers, no matter the rank. Tactical or Assault. Sergeant or Grail Knight. All had the same bloody fate, it was the past that set the brothers apart. His past was bloodier then others. He was deep in thought, he could remember it all. How the blood splashed on the sand. His brothers scream. The fa-

He was interrupted as the ship rocked. An Ork rokkit must have been lucky, a shock went through the ship. And he heard the low tones of chanting. "Sanctus, Dominus, Imperator in Terra, Sanctus, Dominus, Imperator In Terra." He joined in. His brothers needed the encouragement, faith is always a blessing. It rocked again. He was quite angry at this point. "Who's flying this thing? We should be able to dodge a rocket!" He yelled above the chanting. And a voice replied from the pilot's seat. "Negative sir, it is not so easily dodged. The Orks have a psyker amongst their ranks, and it is causing a heavy toll on our ship."

"All the more need for us to land. Steel yourselves brothers! It is time!"

At the captains orders they began preparations. Picking up their weapons and putting on their helmets. Mathael smiled in anticipation. He may not be as strong as he used to be...that curse took its toll, but he would endure. He flexed his armored arms, enjoying the feeling of his enhanced strength, and the excitement of the coming battle. He would slay many orks. In fact, being in a ship with his men reminded him of...the past. He would avenge that past a hundred times this day and wash it anew with the blood of Xenos.

They had evidently failed to slay whatever Ork scum was bombarding the ship. It landed, kicking up sand that scattered into the waiting Ork horde. The doors opened and they saw the simple ork town, made of sand and mud. And in front of it its inhabitants, ravenous and mad. They clearly had not been as stealthy as they would have preferred.

"What are you waiting for? The Emperor's return? Charge!"

At Mathael's mighty words the assault marines charged into battle. Devastator's took position and began firing at the Ork scum while tactical marines did both. The Predator rolled out of its own transport and shot into the Ork's encampment, destroying their huts and the Orks inside who had been late to the party. Mathael had his own goal in mind, slaying the warboss and taking the blade. And preferably that weirdboy who almost shot down his ship! He had a new weapon to test on these boys first though.

"Eat flame, scum!" His enhanced voice could be heard through the entirety of the new battlefield as he burned down Ork after Ork with the power of his flamer. Green bodies were burnt to a crisp under his slow advance, burning a path in front of him and cutting down those who came to near. He heard another scream, this time not belonging to an Ork. And he saw a body. Something had managed to slice a Space Marine in half, but surely none of the Ork's here had a weapon of such power. Unless...

He could see the boss pole and the sword as it was held aloft. The Ork's foul warboss, the Blood Axe who deemed himself Cuttagob. His hand clenched around his blade in rage, and he swung it at a Ork, cleaving is body near in half...near in half. "Weakness!" He yelled, but it was not directed at the Ork. No, it was he who was weak. He was unworthy of his former power, and he knew it. He had been forsaken by the sacrosanct, unforgiven by the holiest treasure of Sanctus and this was its price.

He took his first wound, a Ork's axe cleaving the armor from the back of his leg before he could smash the beasts skull asunder. Another blow struck his shoulder, and another glanced his arm. He began to approach that battle rage which had come so easily as of late. He attacked with greater vigor and fury, allowing his anger and regret to fuel him, after even the point where his exhaustive blows would tire another marine. His fury was like that of an avenging saint, or of a Daemon.

And then it was gone. Because, as he learned, regret can only fuel a man for so long before it eats him alive. It all faded from him, his strength, his fury, because he saw a brother die. And instead of using his regret to fuel him, he only thought one thing,

Unworthy.

When he had formerly taken on many, he found himself barely able to hold off three Orks as his brothers line grew ever closer to him. Blows struck and clanked off of his armor in greater and greater frequency, and he began to struggle further. An ugly, big ork oozing drool smashed his way to Mathael, and raised a two handed axe with vigor now outweighing that of the Grail Knight. With no time to block the blow, Mathael could only watch as the weapon thundered down onto him.

But then he was saved! With a clank of holy steel the Ork's salvaged war axe was cast from him, along with the rest of his hand. The startled beast turned to see the savior of Mathael, a marine he would least expect to save him. Téméraire. He could hear Téméraire's vox enhanced laugh, and saw the shift in his stance as he saw his captains wounded form. As he prepared to speak an Ork attacked Téméraire from behind, and as he rushed to block it and Mathael tried to come to his aid, a stray ork rocket hit him in the side. Mathael came crashing to the sand, causing dust to fly and had a new hole in his chest armor. He was lucky it didn't hit a heart. Téméraire slew the Ork he was engaging and turned to his master. "Brother Mathael, are you alright? I saw you struggling from my squad, surely a man of your strength can take on more then two Orks." Téméraire extended his hand to help his captain up. There was no malice in his voice.

"Brother Téméraire, while your help is greatly appreciated it is unneeded. There is, and will never be any cause to worry for the safety of your Grail Knight leader. I am swift as a sandstorm and strike as a Flamewyrm." This did not stop Mathael from taking his brothers hand.

Téméraire smiled beneath his helmet. "I believe it will be better if I stick with you for the rest of the battle as it were, sir."

"If you wish to see how a real marine fights, then I shan't stop you." Mathael replied.

This only served to darken Mathael's spirits. If his failures became noticeable the men may lose faith, and who knows if he could be found out, if Téméraire reported his weakness...

His thoughts were interrupted. Turning to catch a flurry of bullets on his pauldron, he unleashed flame onto the incoming Orks, but it tired him. And he watched as Téméraire cut them down with youthful vigor. He cursed. He had to keep up the pace, less his failures be noticed once more. If only he had such vigor, he could- another bullet struck him, bringing him back to the battle at hand. Unleashing flame once more into the horde, he heard a scream.

He turned, and saw Téméraire fall, blood spurting from his neck as a grinning Ork stood in front of him with a bloody dagger. The fourth marine to fall in this battle. Mathael was furious...yet relieved, in a morbid, disgusting way. Téméraire was gone, the only witness to his weakness. His secret was safe. He cursed his black heart, why was he such a...it didn’t matter. Mathael rushed to the side of his dead brother, slaying the Ork who had killed him by slicing his head from his green shoulders. Téméraire was dead. And Mathael didn’t know how to feel.

Fearing Orks would trample the marines body, and feeling like he owed it to him, despite his exhaustion he hoisted the marine onto his shoulders and steeped himself for the coming fight. He charged, and slammed his shoulder pad into the Ork’s surrounding him. And he fought, slaying Ork after Ork to breach the horde and make his way out. But he rides, and he faltered as wound after wound hit him. His mind became clear. The past went behind him.

I will die a worthy death.

That was his only thought as he began to crumble under the fire, his armor malfunctioning and his arm heaving slowly. But as he focused on that, worthy, and forgot his shame, despite his body collapsing around him his spirit soared, and he let loose the roar of a lion. His strength returned, he brutally slaughtered all the Ork’s who stood in his way, defending the body of Téméraire as the emperor defended mankind.

He breached the encirclement of an Orks, and slowly, diligently put down the body of his ally, if not his friend. It hurt him. He had not truly known Téméraire, but he reminded him of something long gone. Someone. His friend. If he was not a son of the emperor, he may have shed a tear. But he was.

"By the lord of the holy sands, by the master of mankind, by who sits on the throne, may your soul be brought to him in glory."

After that traditional prayer, Mathael took of his brother's helmet and placed between his fallen brothers arm and his chest, as Téméraire used to hold it. He signaled over a apothecary, turned, and walked away with vengeance in his eyes. This time no one would stop him. He stepped up to an ork, who barely had time to raise a choppa before he found himself disemboweled. As the ork's corpse fell to its knees, Mathael kicked it over and stepped over it to his next target. The predator's canons boomed and blast mighty holes in the assembled, ramshackle horde and it could not keep taking such casualties. Many orks, including their leaders, began retreating.

Mathael smiled. Blood stained his armor...just the way he liked it. He loved it. Watching his armor turn red in battle with Ork blood was always a pleasure, no matter his curse. Nothing could cheer him up like blade meeting green flesh. Few Orks remained guarding the front of the camp, the rest retreating inside. "Charge! Fight with all your worth brothers!" He cried, the zeal in his voice inspiring his battle brothers as they surged forward against the ailing ork line, and burst through.

The battle at the gates was over, and he could see the camp before him. Shabby huts all around, made of sand and metal, and he knew that Orks were within. They had simply taken more defensive positions. His men didn't lose momentum, charging forth, for their prize had been seen. At the very back of the camp was a large hut, with a huge banner on its roof. A banner decorated with the heads of Red Crusaders, rotting and still dripping blood into the sand. That was where the warboss was, and where Mathael's destiny lay.

"Move forward! Virgil, Drane and Halid, with me! The rest of you, burn every last filthy hut!"

With his cries, the next phase of the assault began. Two squads of tactical marines, plus Halid's assault marines charged behind him. They would slay the warboss.

A greedy pair of red eyes looked down on the battle. Laughing crudely, he imagined the pain he was about to inflict. Jumping down from the sandy roof where he had been hiding, almost slipping on the sand, was Ol' Sandeye, shaman of the tribe. And he had a surprise for the marines. With a chuckle, he unleashed what he called the "Brainbursta!"

A horrific scream came from behind Mathael, but he had no time to look behind him. A psyker had just appeared! But then he realized he could no longer hear the hum of assault packs. Turning around, he saw. The five assault marines that had been with him, including Halid, were dead. Their very heads had exploded into bloody pulps, and that accursed Ork only laughed. Mathael was seething in rage, how dare a ork kill his brothers, not even offering them honorable deaths! He would burst that shamans head!

He charged ahead of his men, it stressed his body and it felt as if it would collapse, but he had to reach that shaman. That scum who laughed as he killed good brothers! Sand began tapping off his armor, strange. There had been no sand storm before. He could barely raise his legs to take a step, and time seemed to slow while the laughing ringed in his head. He could hear his brothers slow, every step they took closer it only got worse. This sandstorm wasn't natural. The weirdboy also had no idea what was going on, it was almost like his magics were coming from somewhere else then usual. He didn't care. He loved seeing the helmetless marines struggling faces get torn by the sand.

Mathael screamed within. He could move no further. And he knew only one way to outlast a dread storm. "Kneel!" He shouted, but not to the Ork. But to his men. As his mind was barraged with a thousand memories he fell to one knee, but not in surrender, in prayer. He jammed his sword in the ground as he did so. His brothers did the same, they were each being barraged. The sand grew in power, hitting their armor with force and causing pain. Every marine was being barraged with guilt as a thousand memories plagued their minds. Such power was more familiar to that of chaos then to the prophets of the WAAAGH, yet it was the Ork's doing all the same.

Mathael's were the worse. Memories he believed and hoped were buried returned, and the more guilt he felt the weaker he became. If he had not his helmet the sand would tear his face, but it only dented his armor. He saw it perfectly. Gawin, his brother, slain by an Ork coward. He felt it, the rage that boiled within. The unfettered fury that wreathed him as he saw the life drain from the face of his greatest friend.

He heard a muffled scream. And a tumble.

One of the men behind him had been defeated by the onslaught. He had no way to know what they faced, if they all fought the onslaught of memories. But they did. And nothing is stronger then an attack both physical and mental.

Gawin was gone. And it was his fault. He should have been at Gawin's side at Ibelin. He should have saved him. But he couldn't, he failed. Gawin...Gawin was always the better brother. Why did he die? Why couldn't it have been he?

Mathael prayed fervently as he faced the attacks. They knew just where to hit him. His guilt consumed him. He left the city he was sworn to defend for petty vengeance! No, it was well earned the Ork's had to die! It was their fault, their fault so many died, their fault Téméraire was dead in the sand! Their fault he faced this now!

Yet he couldn't keep that up. The storm bashed against his armor, shaking his whole body. He remembered it clearly now.

*Mathael was in a field. The dead bodies of his brothers were all around him, every single one cut down. The few Ork's that remained laughed and shuffled toward him, some dragging corpses behind them. He remembered his exact thoughts. Death and shattered brothers were all around him. All because he wanted vengeance for Gawin. He looked up at the Orks, the last man of the assault. And he hated them. He charged with all his might, raised his sword high, and brought it down. The Ork was nearly cleaved in two and spurted blood everywhere. The others looked shocked. Yes, they feared him! They should! I will exterimate their whole race! He thought as he turned to the others. He slammed his sword deep into the next one, and left it. He watched the Ork fall. It was time to be a real man, he would show human superiority without fancy weapons. Bare handed he charged the ork, his gauntlets nearly broken from constant fighting. And he pummeled the beast to death. The final Ork laughed as he charged, ready for the best fight of his life. Mathael punched straight through that one, screaming at the top of his lungs and smashing his head to ooze. But then the adrenaline left as the last Ork fell. He took in the sights all around him and was horrified. The vale of anger left his noble heart and he looked at his hands, caked in blood, his and the enemies. He looked at his armor, broken and red. And he looked at the brothers who would have lived if not for his thirst for vengeance. And he looked to the sky. And he felt the soul drain from him, the power of the grail fade, weakening his body and all he could do was fall to a knee. He was unworthy. He knew it to be so.*

He felt a aching in his chest. Pain or something deeper, he knew not. He suffered. The storm raged stronger, but it had to end soon. He felt like he was going to die this day to some foul magic. He tried to remember, to remember what he lost as he died. He remembered Gawin, his best friend, his brother. And he remembered Gawin's last words.

"Debimus Resistere...Invictus."

But it was the last word that rang through his head, awakening ancient memories. Invictus. Invictus...a old terrain poem translated by Petrus. But deeper then that. Unconquerable, unvanquished...he would not let green scum conquer him!

He stood up with force, rising into the storm. It battered him further, but he didn't care. The ork looked shocked. He really thought the 'umies were done for. Mathael stomped toward him with purpose in his eyes. He would be Invictus. No storm would conquer him! No ork would make him kneel! With superhuman speed his hand clasped around the shamans throat, and he raised the ork high.

"Take a look to the sky, Ork!"

The Ork looked confused, its drool falling onto Mathael's raised arm.

"It's the last time you will!"

The Ork gurgled and almost screamed as its neck was shattered, its limp body dropped to the bloody desert sand. The storm suddenly stopped, and those of his brothers who still lived stood up and prepared to follow him into the hut. Orks began to gather around them after they saw the death of the shaman. Mathael nodded to them, and dutiful as ever they turned to face the horde that would descend upon them with stoic pride. For the emperor.

Mathael kicked down the shabby wood door that was the entrance to the Blood Axe Ork that ruled the tribe. And the warboss was upon him in a instant, trying to wrench his power sword from his hands with a mighty claw.

Mathael let out a grunt, feeling his armor close in to the weight of the claw. Summoning all of his strength he landed a mighty kick to the Ork's chest, with power that would throw a man across a room. It only made the Ork step back. His arms free, Mathael thrusts his sword forward, only for it to be clanked aside by the Ork's claw. With gory glee the Ork swept his giant Choppa in an arc upwards, and with his sword at his side Mathael couldn't stop it. The ork smiled more as Mathael's blood flew onto his chest and a large red tear in his armor appeared right across his chest. Mathael clawed at his chest with one hand, the pain was great, and raised his sword with the other. The ork backed up and reached behind him with a wicked grin. Mathael saw him reaching for a gun.

He couldn't have that. He raised his sword high for a mighty arc, and the Ork raised his claw to stop it. Mathael realized the possibilities before the Ork did. Mathael cleaved straight into the claw, cutting it in half. The Ork screamed. Swiping its choppa erratically and forcing Mathael to step back, before making one last great charge. Mathael had his chance! He stepped to the side and held out his sword, moving fast as lightning. And the Ork kept charging. Straight into an outstretched blade.

"WAAAAG-"

The Ork didn't know what hit him. As soon as his head hit the floor it was crushed by Mathael's boot. But Mathael took no pride in this kill, he was solemn. For he knew what was in that pile across the room. He took off his helmet and held it at his side. What he saw next he had to see with his own eyes.

He reached into the pile, trusting the emperor would lead him to his trophy. And he did. He gripped a hilt, and he knew in his soul what it was. There was no doubt, he had found the Hellfire blade. He pulled it out of the garbage that surrounded it, held it in front of him and looked at it closely. He saw ancient runes emblazoned across the center of the blade that continued all the way across the blade. The hilt was gilded with gold that appeared to be reflecting sunlight when barely any entered the hut.

A name rung in his head as soon as he gazed upon the hollowed blade. It had gone without a true name for to long. The hellfire blade, Hell's tooth, not worthy of such a mighty weapon. The right one rang in his head, the one that was in the hands of an old lieutenant he one fought beside. An old friend who died with it in his hands. Gawin's blade, Caliburn. Its legacy shall carry on in this weapon.

Raising the sword high, he declared, "CALIBURN!"

The sword bursts into flames, wreathing the blade with holy fire. A feeling of warmth came over him. Not the warmth of the flame, but a warmth of the heart. The blades runes blazed with light, and he heard words spoken in his head that came from elsewhere.

"You are worthy."

It was in a voice not heard for thousands of years, the voice of an ancient protector and some would call saint. It was the voice of the weapons creator, Petrus.

Mathael was amazed, taking the weapon in his hands. The flame did not hurt him. He looked at it hard, trying to find what could have made the voice. Perhaps the legends were true. Perhaps it truly was soul-bound to the old chaplain. As he thought that, it seemed to spark stronger for a couple seconds. It was time to rejoin his men.

He stomped out of the hut with purpose. All turned to him, for as he walked he seemed to shine. All saw and feared when he raised his blade to the sky and declared,
"FOR THE EMPEROR! INVICTUS!"

The marines fought the surprised Ork's with greater vigor then ever before, their zeal increased by the holy warmth of the flaming blade. But Mathael would not let them have all the fun. He saw his target. The Ork's were rolling a looted Leman Russ out of a mek garage. He charged it on his own, fully confident in his abilities. An ork tried to stop him as he ran, his blade singed straight through him. He made it to the tank, and with a mighty leap no normal man could muster he was atop it. He picked up his blade, and with both hands on its hilt thrust it down into the tank.

Using the heat of the blade, it carved through the metal and into the tank, and as he drew it in a circle it gave him an entrance. Jumping into the looted tank, he insured not a single ork survived. It was a violent scene. He tore them apart with his new weapon, enjoying the way it singed the flesh as it cut. Climbing out of the tank, now so broken from the inside not even an Ork could work it, he turned to what was left of the army. He raised his blade to the sky. He could see the whole field of battle. Bodies surrounded him, scorched and broken, the sand seemed to carry blood on the winds. As he held it aloft, the blade seemed to burn even brighter with holy fire. More blood was to be shed this day, but by the emperor, he swore not another marine would fall. He would never fail again, not like before. The lost blade was his! A Saint was with him! The Emperor stood beside him! And a fire was in him!