On the Shoulder of Martyrs (Black Templars 40K Quest)

+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
Those who do that which they despise in the name of faith are truly blessed.
​

This was the final block of habitation mansions, silent slabs of marble perched precariously on the side of the spire, like the dozens before that your squad had cleared out. Rescued aristocrats trailed behind you, shivering in their ragged finery, only moving at your behest.

Your nearly depleted supplies were a constant, intrusive concern. You knew no fear, the closest thing to it was perhaps an anxiety of failure, but with ammunition so low even a human mob posed a serious threat. The palace guards had offered ammunition and weapons of their own, unfortunately incompatible with Astartes. Even unarmored, your hands were simply too large to hold their weapons properly.

To your surprise, the lead guard had volunteered to accompany your squad on your rescue mission. Their familiarity with the place had proved invaluable in traversing the winding streets with speed.

Emmerich had offered to stay behind at the palace, safeguarding Theobald as he worked at the relay. With them at the palace, four neophytes remained, including yourself. The guards supplemented your force to fourteen, the rescued nobles bringing it to twenty.

Gottfried kicked down a locked door. Movements practiced in thousands of hours of drills, you and your brothers filed into the mansion in formation, covering one another as you plumbed deeper into the building.

"Clear," Bayard said after the mansion had been scoured.

You clicked in affirmation. "Squad, converge. We'll return to the palace."

"Not yet!" cried an elderly man. You regarded his age with curiosity, perhaps envy - elderliness was something you would never experience.

"Why not?" asked the lead guard. "We've got to keep moving before enemy forces make their way up the spire.

"My daughter is here somewhere, I know it!"

You regarded the old noble, noting for the first time how different his fine clothing was from the others. "Why wasn't she with you when we found you?"

"We were separated when we first fled. I took the rest of my daughters to the palace, and when I realized she wasn't there I rushed back for her. Then the fighting started, and the bombing, and I was trapped in that house for days! Please, there's nowhere else. She has to be here!"

You scowled, then opened the private squad vox. "Are you sure the mansion is clear, Bayard?"

"Yes, brother, but I checked for foes, not damsels."

Click. "Find her, brothers."

"Why do you care so much? So what if we miss one human?"

"Once we use words like that, we'll use words like ten humans, or a hundred, or a million. Soon we'll stop caring about them altogether."

"Have we ever started?" Nimrod asked.

You sighed, switched off the vox. You tore down wardrobes and dressers, lifted up beds and ransacked the place in general. You returned to the group of nobles, told the man his daughter was nowhere to be found, reducing him to a kneeling, sobbing mess.

"Oh, Emperor," he cried. "We should never have landed on this planet. A rogue trader stays in the stars, dies there. It was a mistake coming here..."

"Pitiful," spat Bayard in the vox.

You stood over the weeping man, forced him up. "We must go. Enemy forces might be arriving any moment."

You began your journey skywards, the guards at the front and the nobles in the center. You and your brothers covered their backs, eyes peering over the spire's edge, struggling to see past the fog and ash. Distant explosions blossomed in muted flashes of color, the din of war a carried whisper. You spotted a group making their way down the spire.

Binocular in hand, you saw that they bore the blasted markings of the Archenemy, symbols that made your eyes water and your hearts race. They dragged with them a line of prisoners, clothes in tatters and red with blood.

"Mortals," you voxed the guard leader. "Return the nobles to the palace. We've found a force of the Archenemy, prisoners in tow. We'll move in and engage."

"Forgive me, sir," he voxed back, "but I don't think you can take them. Not with just the four of you, not in your state, sir."

The human spoke sense, but Dorn's blood boiled at the thought of letting an enemy go unmolested. "Take them to the palace. Now."

He relented. "As you say, sir. We'll come back for you soon as we can."

"Brothers," you switched to the squad vox. "On me. We'll move to engage the enemy, on my mark."

Click, click, click.

"Wait!" It was the old noble, running past the rest of his protesting aristocrats. "I must go with you! She might be one of those prisoners!"

Your patience wore thin. "Begone, mortal. You will only get in our way."

Whatever his protest might have been, he could not say it as his fellow nobles dragged him off.
​

---
​

The enemy mob was about twenty meters away. It was a rabble of cultists, their clothes as filthy as they were, the reek of murder about them strong and cloying. You counted perhaps twenty of them, all of them holding a long, brass chain linked to the prisoners' collars, who walked behind them. You noted one of the prisoners wore clothing similar in style to the old noble's.

Leading the group was a bloodstained giant, a traitor Astartes with his brazen armor and violent chainaxe. He was unhelmeted, his face a patchwork of cuts and burns, slashed with an insane grin.

You remembered the codices and treatises and training for situations like these. Astartes rarely had to rescue targets, but the Codex was nothing if not comprehensive.

You decided the best plan was to:

[ ] Rescue who you could and perform a fighting retreat.

Only a handful of prisoners could be freed without putting your squad at risk.

[ ] Rescue as many as possible, holding the enemy back.

With the enemy tied up, perhaps half of the prisoners could be freed. There was a definite risk of harm coming to you and your brothers.

[ ] Rescue them all, killing the foe to a man.

Suffering the enemy to live is the greatest shame. Killing them all would allow you time to rescue all the prisoners, but your squad would undoubtedly suffer heavy wounds or perhaps death.​