Gusts of wind blew against stoic figures clad in pearl white, with a wolf’s head marked on their pauldrons in stark black. The huge Legionnaires slowly made their way through the foggy mountain pass with the scrapes of ceramite upon rock. The stench of Orks was heavy in the air, and already the unearthly shrieks of weapon discharges could be heard along with guttural war cries, clearly Orkish in origin. The hand of Hastur Sejanus snapped out, signalling the Luna Wolves to halt. Sergeant Qinus Judon and his squad stopped in their tracks, and around them, other squads of the Fourth Company did the same.

Vologrim silently pointed his bolter at the other end of the misty pass, eyeing his visor display apprehensively. To his sides the rest of the squad mirrored his action. They even saw the black-armoured elite of the first company halt and hoist their weapons. “They’ll be here in a moment.” Grumbled Fero Likre, the marine standing to his right. “I call popping the first one to rear its head.”

The astartes to Vologrim’s left laughed quietly to himself for a moment. “You’ll probably miss!”

“Even you can’t miss them, Synalt.”

Synalt never had the chance to retort, for as they spoke the roaring creatures struck them like a storm and the first ork appeared through the mist, large and bristling with muscle. There was a single, loud bang and a bolt round scuttled the contents of its head. More arrived, stampeding towards the array of glistening white figures like a tide of screaming green slabs of muscle and crude iron. Around Vologrim the true fury of the Legion came to light, loud colourful bangs followed by bolt shells whizzing through the mist and finding their targets in a haze of gore. Each Luna Wolf cried out with such fury even the bellowing horde was drowned out, and the name they howled echoed over the snow canopied mountain peaks.

“Lupercal!”

Racton Turakul already had his chainsword out, the screech of the whirring teeth barely audible within the blizzard of bursting shrapnel. He was slightly shorter than the other astartes, but within him the fires of Cthonia’s core burned bright and hot, fueling his spirit with the desire to kill and be unmatched in his fury. His record was enough already to prove so, but he clearly didn’t agree as he ran to meet the approaching horde. Others did the same. Fero Likre clapped Vologrim playfully over the shoulder after he tossed aside his spent bolter. “Care to join me?” Without waiting for a response he drew his toothed blade and followed Racton with a gleeful yell to mirror those of the orks.

Synalt Harrim and Halus Gerradon stood with him still, firing their bolter on full auto at the steadily approaching xenos, a gory mist hanging over them as one by one they fell and burst. “We’ll have to join our hotheaded friends soon, brothers.” Said Synalt as he reloaded his bolter. There was truth in his words, around them most of of the squad had met the orks head first, and several of the other squads were all in the thick of the fighting already. Halus nodded as he too began to reload. “Even Judon is among them, let’s go.”

Vologrim began to advance, now firing his bolter in single, aimed shots. Several orks were thrown back, spraying meaty chunks and being torn apart by each concussive round almost comically for how muscular they seemed. The earth blew up around, tiny splinters of rock and dust flying into the air. He felt something score him over the pauldron, spinning him over his heel but failing to pierce his armour and damage him. He righted himself immediately, sparing a glance to his side to see the the gouge running over his shoulder plate. In a haze of fury he set his sights on the offender and fired, his bolt round spearing the ork’s throat and bursting, toppling its head and jetting blood in its wake.

Halus was next to him in an instant, his bolter stowed away and his chainsword wielded in two hands. Two orks fell, carved down with singular strokes through the neck. Around him the rest of their brothers slew in a similar fashion, each one of them strung together by bonds sturdier than ceramite. They had known each other since their days on Cthonia. Now their brotherhood was cemented by Horus’ geneseed, and gone were the days when they would barely get by. They sliced through their foes and painted their armour with trailing specks of blood and strings of loose meat.

Vologrim’s bolter was torn from his hands as a particularly large one struck the barrel with a huge machete. He palmed for the hilt of his blade and stepped aside as the ork lunged and swung again, but getting caught by its mass and being cast into the ground. With a victorious yell the ork raised his crude blade for a final swing, but Vologrim rolled aside and drew his roaring blade in one fluid motion, hewing the creature’s knee and driving the spinning teeth through its neck as it stumbled and fell. He felt a metal hand touch his shoulder as he rose from the ground and spun with his blade to strike his attacker, but instead came face to face with Racton’s blood-smeared helmet.

His brother threw his head back in laughter as he helped him up and slapped his arm. “Do I look that much like an ork to you?”

Vologrim released a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding and joined his brother in laughter, the two huge, gore-stained, white armoured masters of war sharing a brief moment of respite as around them the Luna Wolves drove the orks further and further back. “Enough of this, unless you want to be left behind!” Said Vologrim at last. Most of the company had already carved their way through half the orks.

At this Racton turned and ran to catch up. “Let’s see if we can beat Abaddon and Ekaddon to the warboss.”

Vologrim shook his head and smiled, but also dashed to join the rest of his brothers in the carnage with a chuckle. “They’re probably already there.”

They didn’t have a chance to talk again before they were knee-deep in dying orks. The battle continued for a while, the rhythmic up and down motions of cleaving orks growing almost monotonous until they caught a glimpse of the Nobs. Vologrim saw a Catulan Reaver fly into the air, catching hold of a huge, armoured nob’s neck with his legs and plunging his knife through the monster’s eyes. He heard a brief, familiar yell and tore his gaze from the Reaver to see a Nob towering over a wounded Fero, bright crimson leaking from a gash in his brother’s side.

“Lupercal!” He snarled, gripping his blade in both hands and cutting through a dozen orks to reach his fallen brother. He saw Synalt ran at a blurring speed, his blade raking over the beast’s exposed side. Halus and Racton were also there within seconds, echoing the war cry and tearing into the ork with a flurry of strokes fuelled by panic and fury. The huge ork was taken by surprise, roaring in pain and swinging his large axe in a flimsy attempt to strike the smaller warriors.

By the time Vologrim reached Fero three orks were upon him, pummeling and slicing into him. He angled his shoulder to face forward and slammed into two greenskins, sending both of them stumbling to the ground. The third ork raised a mace and swung at his head with a howl, but he ducked under the blow and lashed upward, the arc of his blow slitting open his attacker from the waist up. He spun around, severing the head from another greenskin in one blow and coating his armour with an arterial spray. The last one thrust a spear at him, only missing by a hair length as he stepped aside without a second to spare. With one hand he grabbed onto the spear shaft and pulled the beast towards him, thrusting his chainsword into his chest with the other hand. He sawed his way through the muscular mass of the screaming savage until the crossguard slammed into its ribs, and ripped the sputtering blade out as he swiftly turned, leaving the ork to clutch the gaping hole in its torso and collapse in a bloody heap.

He dropped spear and ran towards Fero, his twin hearts beating faster than ever as he looked upon his friend and brother. Fero pushed himself from the ground, blood streaming from seven crisscrossing clefts in his armour and from a cut ranging across his face. His helmet lay beaten to a state of uselessness on the ground beside him. Vologrim kneeled, grasping his hand and hauling him to his feet.

When Fero found his footing he grunted and grabbed his chainsword again. “How are your humours?”

Vologrim shook his head and laughed. “My humours? Almost sanguine, I was hoping they’d beat your words out.”

As Fero smiled in response a cry of victory thundered around them. “You’re alive!” Yelled Synalt as slammed into them from behind and embraced them. From over his shoulders Vologrim could see the Racton and Halus hastening towards them, and a large, headless Nob slumped over the rocks. Around them the greenskins were broken, and the Luna Wolves surged forward to finish off their scattered foe.

“I saw Abaddon crush the warboss beneath his foot.” Said Halus, clearly catching his breath. “Then we won.” Said Vologrim. “A shame Racton couldn’t beat him to it.”

“If Fero was a wasn’t so sloppy with the Nob I would’ve done it.” Racton laughed, lightly nudging his bloodied brother.

Before long the merry brothers joined the rest of their squad, their armour tinged with pink and splotches of red. Stormbirds descended from the sky and extended their ramps, allowing the victorious legionnaires to board them. Vologrim would look back on this battle as well as many others with pleasure, for not a single brother from that time remained.