The Emperor’s Angel of Death

"For... Rynn!"

Kanto's vision blurred from the relentless blows to his head, his world turning red with blood. Yet, he sensed he was close to crushing the beast's neck. Bones cracked and popped as the Ork Warlord's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets, his tongue thrashing in a pool of thick blood. Both strained with all their might to control—or break free from—the other.

"Boss!"

Suddenly, a shrill scream pierced the air. A Grot, waving a banner, appeared on the Ork Warlord's shoulder and hurled a burning handful of ash into Kanto's unprotected eyes.

Kanto didn't want to flinch, but he couldn't suppress the instinct to close his eyes. In that instant, his grip loosened.

"Get outta here!"

The Ork Warlord, terrified, shoved Kanto away, choosing escape over counterattack. Clutching his neck, he scrambled backward.

"Argh! Get out here! You beast! Face me! Don't run! Face me!!!!"

Realizing the blood-soaked fiend was escaping, Kanto flew into a rage. Blinded, he could only swing wildly, roaring like a broken machine.

A cacophony of booming sounds echoed from afar—bolter fire, hurried footsteps, alien wails and screams. Kanto ignored it all, instinctively flailing towards the direction the Ork Warlord might have fled.

"What is--"

A surprised voice spoke, but Kanto's fist lashed out reflexively.

His fist collided with something solid, the force staggering him backward. Angry shouts followed.

"What are you doing!"

"Are you crazy!"

Cortez's urgent voice came from behind.

"Kanto! It's us! Don't attack!"

Kanto froze, blinking hard. As the burning sensation faded, he saw a group of warriors in white Terminator armor. At their head stood one in more ornate armor, helmetless, with an iron halo and a white-crossed banner behind him. He looked irate, hands gripping an ancient power spear that hummed with energy.

Cortez rushed over, heedless of his wounds, panting as he explained:

"Brothers of the White Templars, this is our Chapter Master. There's been a misunderstanding."

Kanto remembered: this emblem belonged to another Chapter of Dorn's sons, the White Templars.

He had attacked allies.

His face flushed with embarrassment, Kanto stepped forward, extending a hand.

"I am Pedro Kanto, Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists. I apologize; my vision was impaired by the Ork."

Seeing his blood-soaked state, Arash softened, lowering the Soul Spear Sorylian had entrusted to him. He grasped Kanto's hand.

"I am Arash, Chapter Master of the White Templars, leading two companies to reinforce Rynn. It seems we arrived in time."

Though they had little prior contact, the arrival of Dorn's sons brought solace to Kanto. He forced a smile, shaking Arash's hand firmly.

"Thanks to you, we have not failed Dorn's blood."

"Brother Kanto, twelve Chapters have come to assist, including the Blood Drinkers, Red Angels, Storm Lords… and some others you'll need to be careful dealing with."

Arash's words were drowned out by a piercing roar. Kanto looked up to see a Thunderhawk skimming the ground, strafing wildly. The gunship was bronze, emblazoned with a crimson bull.

"The Minotaurs?"

Kanto knew of this infamous Chapter. Though he'd never met them, their history included several unpleasant encounters with the Crimson Fists, recorded in the Chapter archives to warn future warriors of their brooding, volatile nature and their service only to power.

But a greater disturbance seized his attention: an immense landing craft, a mountain descending from the sky, touched down in the spaceport's open docking area. Kanto guessed what it must be.

Wooooo--

A deafening metal horn blared as a massive Warlord Titan strode from the landing craft, followed by a pack of Warhounds, like a hunter leading hounds into the forest. These war machines were crimson, with black-and-white symbols on their shoulder and leg armor, and the massive metal skull insignia. Kanto knew this emblem well; he had fought alongside them.

"The Iron Skulls have arrived."

As the forge world nearest to the Loki Sector, Steelport was a kindred spirit to the Crimson Fists, both plagued by the Greenskin empire of Charadon. They had often cooperated, and the Iron Skulls had aided the Crimson Fists in several campaigns. But this was their first time on Rynn.

Clearly, Steelport's Fabricator-General understood the principle of mutual defense. In a way, the Crimson Fists' plight had shielded Steelport. If Rynn fell, Charadon's pyromaniacs would undoubtedly target Steelport next. Thus, whether for self-interest or strategic necessity, Steelport had to ensure Rynn—and the Crimson Fists—stood firm, or they would face the Greenskin tide directly.

The Titans unleashed their fury upon entering the battlefield, engaging the Gargants trying to breach Rynn's walls from long range. The clumsy Ork engines couldn't turn to meet the new threat quickly enough, and were destroyed one by one without resistance. When they finally turned, only two remained, and these were pummeled by human aircraft, soon falling in fiery explosions.

Humanity had finally secured the spaceport. After eighteen months of siege, Rynn's World had been liberated.

That night, everyone celebrated, embracing and weeping with joy. Even the Planetary Governor ordered the warehouses opened, including her personal stores, for unrestricted feasting and drinking!

They had survived!

They had endured!

They had won!

"Damn! Damn! Those blasted humies!"

In the rolling Mountains of Hell, Ork Warlord Urzgog spat blood and cursed everything he saw, struggling to climb the jagged rocks. His jaw was crudely fixed with an iron plate, at least keeping the wind out. His armor was tattered, and he limped, thanks to some short-lived git who'd shot him in the knee!