D-Day, 10:05 Local

Battlegroup Vanguard – 88th Aurean Dragoons

Lieutenant-Commissar Glyndwyr’s pathfinders executed a textbook breach of the Aerodrome’s command bunker. 

With explosive satchels they blew open a weakened exterior wall, avoiding the fatal funnel of the front door. While the dust was still settling from the explosion two flame-troopers filled the inside with blazing promethium. And as the traitors inside displaced from the flames they were met with a dozen hand grenades, which blew puffs of the still-ablaze promethium gel out like bubbles from a volcano. 

This would have been enough to kill a platoon of men. Unfortunately they were not facing men. They were facing the apostates of the Emperor’s Children. So Glyndwyr gave the order he knew his men dreaded:

“Fix bayonets,” he roared as he drew his master-crafted Carthaen powerblade Dawnbreaker.

His pathfinders slashed out their Aurean sword-bayonets and locked them to the muzzles of their L39 las rifles. He admired their courage; charging into a flaming building to engage Heretic Astartes in close combat was seemingly suicidal. But the Aureans had centuries of experience fighting the Traitor Legions. They knew the cost of letting the Ruinous Powers take Sangua Terra. 

And as a few looked to Glyndwyr’s sidearm, he imagined they also knew the cost of not following his orders. 

Glyndwyr nodded to his squad. He grabbed two by the webbing, shaking their gear tight and looking deep into the black glass of each’s combat helm before regarding the rest of the squad.

“Your names are already on the Hallowed Wall,” he shouted in Aurean out of respect. “Let’s earn that honor. Let’s write our stories. Let’s give those bastards steel.” 

Glyndwyr switched back to Gothic. “Fireteam Alpha forms a palisade push. Bravo, fan out and secure.” He pulled his plasma pistol and turned to the burning entrance. “I’ll see you on the other side!” 

He leapt through billowing black smoke into hell itself. The inside of the bunker was a raging inferno. Shards of frag had embedded into the flaming walls, melting into black teeth that grinned maliciously in the light of the lit promethium. 

He was met by three Emperor’s Children: all in power armor scarred and torn by their assault. They drew their chainswords and combat knives, and charged him in profane screams of excitement and rage. Glyndwyr shot the closest in the face with his plasma pistol: a bright red flash in the flickering light of the flames that faded to find a charged mass of pink and black fall in a clumsy collapse of suddenly-lifeless limbs.

Glyndwyr knew he’d only get one shot off. The second legionnaire bore down on him, swinging a chainsword nearly the size of the commissar down onto his head. 

In response, Glyndwyr raised his blade into Vaugh-gahl: the Eagle’s stance. A lifetime of painful training in the Carthaen sword arts meant that he had seen almost everything one could see in a duel. This was no exception, and as a young and underfed orphan at the Schola Progenium he often duelled stronger boys with edged weapons. He knew how to turn a bigger opponent’s strength against him.

He met the chainsword in a parry, feeling the force of what felt like a speeding car slam into his blade. Gwendlyn let the force guide Dawnbreaker, coaxing his foe’s strength and bidding its path into a swirling riposte that circled back down onto the Chaos Space marine. Gwendlyr’s blade slashed through the Marine’s thick arms – literally disarming him in a flash of crackling light and sparks. 

The armless Traitor Marine looked at him confused. Glyndwyr planted his feet and charged his foe, returning the expression by thrusting Dawnbreaker through the Traitor’s two hearts. He leapt onto its body as it fell, standing triumphant on top of his gigantic foe and drawing his blade out in a fountain of gore. 

The last Astartes charged Glyndwhyr with his hooked combat knife. But his charge was cut short by six pathfinders who speared him from the side and thrust him into a nearby wall. As they unloaded their mags at point-blank range, the remaining fireteam joined them – screaming obscenities and mag-dumping their las rifles in a mad hurricane of las bolts and rage. 

Glyndwyr gave himself a moment to proudly regard his squad’s kill before he completed their mission. Moving to the large cogitator at the end of the room, he slapped a series of quick commands and deactivated a large red warning rune that rose in response. 

“Hunter 1-1 to all stations,” Glyndwyr announced into his helmet’s voxbead after keying the command channel. “I pass Clear Skies.”

“Excellent work, Hunter 1-1,” responded the vox. “Fortress this is Vanguard Actual. The last enemy anti-air is down.”

“The skies are ours. Bring the rain.”