Upon the surface of Raknor, the atmosphere was a flaring cacophony of laser fire and plasma, ceaselessly reaping the lives of the swarming Tyranids. In turn, luminous green bio-streaks erupted from the xenos ranks, scything through the ranks of the Planetary Defence Forces.
Since the shadow of the Hive Fleet first fell upon the system, the entire world had been locked in a desperate struggle for survival.
Civilians labored under the lash of necessity, aiding in the transport of munitions to the front. Meanwhile, the PDF batteries maintained a continuous thunder, utilizing every scrap of the planet's formidable surface-to-orbit weaponry to strike at the bio-ships infesting the local void.
But the foe was legion.
The Hive Ships vomited forth dense clusters of Mycetic Spores, while smaller bio-vessels pierced the atmosphere in daring atmospheric insertions. As the brutality of ground warfare commenced, the planet's massive defensive bastions began to fall like dominoes.
Mawlocs and Trygons burrowed beneath bunkers, breaching reinforced permacrete and tearing gaps in the curtain walls. Through these jagged wounds, gaunt-forms, Hormagaunts and Termagants, flooded into the heart of the military strongholds.
A symphony of slaughter played out across the globe.
By design, the grand defense arrays were situated in isolated complexes, a tactical measure intended to force the enemy to disperse their orbital bombardments. Now, that doctrine proved a fatal flaw. Lacking sufficient garrison strength to repel a dedicated ground assault, these titan-grade turrets were overrun from below.
The silencing of these arrays allowed the Tyranid bio-fleet to draw closer, closing the noose around the planet.
No soul on Raknor would ever forget that day: when the sky was blotted out by a localized "shadow," cast by the sheer density of incoming Tyranid spores. Genestealer cults, having remained dormant for years, rose to sabotage the void shield generators of the fortresses and Hive cities.
Gargoyles swirled in the heavens like soot caught in a gale, their numbers occluding the sun. Below, every remaining weapon battery fired until their barrels glowed white-hot. Tyranid war-beasts shrieked as they circled the spires of the Hives. Harridans dived from the clouds, swatting Valkyrie gunships and heavy transports from the air like bothersome insects, while bio-bombs leveled smaller weapon emplacements in bursts of corrosive slime.
Guided by the psychic resonance of specialized synapse creatures, the Gargoyles harried every living thing. Blood and the cacophony of the dying filled every intersection, every thoroughfare.
In the grinding attrition of day-after-day combat, the familiar faces of kin, friends, and brothers-in-arms vanished into the maws of the Great Devourer. Raknor, once a world of billions, had been bled dry; only a few hundred million souls remained.
On the northern continent, the Fortress of Tourena stood as the final redoubt.
Within its armored heart, General Vonlense, Commander-in-Chief of the planetary PDF, stood amidst the ruins of his command. An old man who had survived a lifetime of war, he now felt the cold weight of despair settle deep within his marrow.
Standing in the Astra Militarum command sanctum, he watched the flickering monitors. The perimeter defenses were collapsing. A bio-titan, a Hierophant, was lashing the fortress's void shields with twin bio-cannons, each impact shuddering the very foundations of the world.
When the first wave of the invasion struck, Vonlense had sensed the looming catastrophe. He had immediately diverted his entire personal honor guard to secure the deep-core power arrays and void shield projectors. At the cost of thousands of lives, they had purged the Genestealer saboteurs to the last wretch.
Following that, he had established a defensive perimeter and begun the grim process of processing refugees.
Vonlense gazed at the towering bio-titan on the screen, his heart bitter. Though he spoke to his men of the Emperor's deliverance, of the Angels of Death coming to save them, he and his high command knew the truth. No help was coming.
The gargantuan defense array on the ridge flanking the fortress had long been silenced, its barrels twisted and cold. Yet, through the long-range pict-thiefs, one could still see the Tyranid bio-ships clogging the void like a plague of locusts. With such horrors presiding over the planet, the arrival of reinforcements was a mathematical impossibility.
Ripper swarms were now pouring into the outer trench lines. Though the feed was silent, Vonlens could almost hear the wet tear of flesh and the panicked screams of his soldiers.
"Report! The frontline commander requests permission to withdraw to the inner keep. They are being overrun!" a subaltern's voice broke the silence.
Vonlense shook his head slowly, a gesture of weary finality.
"Tell them to hold. They must hold at all costs. Tell them reinforcements are imminent, that we have no ground left to give. If we cannot hold until 'deliverance' arrives, the fortress falls regardless."
"As you command, General!" The guard saluted and hurried away.
Vonlense sank into the wide, high-backed chair of his office. He watched the slaughter on the screens for a moment longer, then reached into a drawer and withdrew a heavy bolt pistol.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A precise volley of bolts shattered the monitors, plunging the room into relative darkness. The old man swapped the magazine with practiced ease, a thin, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
"It seems I haven't quite gone to seed yet."
Holstering the pistol at his hip, he straightened his uniform with meticulous care. He reached for his officer's cap, settling it firmly upon his head. As he reached the door, he hesitated, then turned into a small side-chamber, his private arming room.
Mounted upon the wall was a massive chainsword.
Looking at the weapon, far larger than any standard human-grade blade, Vonlense smiled with a sudden, sharp nostalgia. It was a relic gifted to him by one of the Emperor's Angels during a rescue mission in his youth.
He remembered the warrior: clad in crimson power armor, his voice a thunder of majesty and nobility. Even after losing an arm to an Ork choppa, the Astartes had fought on, shattering xenos skulls with his remaining fist. Vonlense, his own lasgun spent and lacking the time to fix bayonets, had scooped up the fallen chainsword from beside the Angel's severed limb.
To the young Vonlense, the Astartes-pattern blade was a heavy, two-handed burden. Yet, in the madness of the melee, he had swung it with desperate strength, accidentally decapitating an Ork Nob that had sought to strike the Angel from behind.
After the smoke cleared, the Space Marine had gifted him the blade.
Wrenching himself from the memory, Vonlense carefully unhooked the weapon. He thumbed the activation stud. The monomolecular teeth roared to life with a predatory snarl. Satisfied, he sheathed the motor and slung the massive sword across his back.
He could not remember the last time he had wielded it.
Even if there was no hope, he would not be taken like a lamb to the slaughter. He would fight to the last breath, and then his soul would take its place before the Golden Throne, having offered the Emperor every last drop of his strength.
Despite the rejuvenating treatments of his rank, the General's posture had become stooped with age and the weight of command. But today, he pulled his shoulders back, the chainsword at his back acting as a spine of cold steel. His face shone with a strange light; he looked not like a man facing his execution, but like a servant called to the Emperor's side, proud and resolute.
As he passed a statuette of the Emperor in the corridor, Vonlense did not bow his head in prayer for the first time in his life. Instead, he held his chin high, looking at the stone visage as a child might look to a father, seeking approval.
Having met the Emperor's gaze, the old man strode toward the breach. His raspy voice echoed through the permacrete halls.
"The Emperor Protects. Let us go to Him."
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