Duty’s End

Robin Cruddace

The world turned black.

His vision returned moments later. The Space Marine had not been unconscious for long – he could tell that from the debris still falling from the explosion. There was an elusive thought at the back of his brain, a question that refused to surface, but then he took his first breath of air and pain stabbed through his chest. With an effort, he picked himself up from the blood-slicked mud and almost fell as his body doubled over in agony.

Something is wrong. You are of the Adeptus Astartes and should not have felt pain like that, not unless…

With a thought, he activated his auto-senses’ medicae augurs. A multitude of red lights flashed in front of his eyes, warning him that the damage to his body was severe. His secondary heart had stopped beating, his Larraman’s organ was failing and massive internal bleeding had been detected. The warning sigils continued to flash urgently for a few seconds, but then the Space Marine blink-clicked the display away. He didn’t need an Apothecary to interpret the extent of the damage. He was losing blood quickly, his genhanced body unable to stem the tide. He was dying, and fast. The knowledge brought with it a calming peace, and then the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind suddenly swam into clarity.

What is your name?

He looked down at his body, the coating of mud and blood not quite obscuring the red and yellow of his battle-scarred power armour. Howling Griffon, Scion of Guilliman, Angel of Death. He was all these things, but they were titles, not names. The Space Marine surveyed the mist-wreathed battlefield, unsure of where exactly he was. A great battle had certainly been fought here, for he could see several other armoured figures lying dead in the churned mud. They were his battle-brothers. He could name each and every one of them and recall fighting at their side on a hundred worlds.

So why can’t you remember your name?

A shape loomed on the edge of his vision, pushing through the pall shrouding the battlefield. The figure resolved into an over-muscled, green-skinned brute, the unmistakable sight of an ork. Several others lumbered up behind the first, and as soon as they caught sight of the Space Marine they bellowed deep-throated war cries and charged.

The sight of the orks jogged something in his brain, a memory of his captain issuing orders. ‘Hold the line’, he had said simply. ‘Secure the beachhead until the company reaches your position. The greenskins must not break through.’

Thoughts of his name were put aside for a time. The enemy was upon him and he had a duty to perform.

He moved without thinking, bringing his bolter up in a smooth arc and drawing a bead on the shape at the lead of the mob. He pulled the trigger and the weapon roared. The Space Marine could see the bolt-round fly towards its target, see the infinitesimal delay between punching through the ork’s skull and blowing it apart from the inside. The headless corpse toppled forwards, a red mist hanging in the air as the body pitched into the mud. He was already tracking his bolter to the right, aiming at the next alien savage. The bolter barked again and again, each shot a hammer blow that punched another shape from its feet. Four more orks fell in quick succession, yet three more came on, iron-shod boots trampling the slain deeper into the blood-soaked muck.

The Howling Griffon drew a careful bead on the nearest ork, lining his bolter’s sights between the alien’s eyes before pulling the trigger. He heard a click. It was a small sound, but echoed loudly in his ears. He was dimly aware of a meter flashing zero on his helmet’s lens, a peripheral image that brought unbidden a flash of an ancient memory: a grizzled sergeant chastising him as a recruit for making just such an error.

How can you remember that but not your name?

A roar snapped his attention back to the now, the first greenskin mere strides from him, weapon raised. Though his body burned with pain, the Space Marine moved on instinct, stepping to the side and smashing the butt of his bolter’s grip into the greenskin’s throat. The blow crunched through cartilage back to the ork’s spine and the alien was dead before its body hit the ground. The move was muscle-memory, born of years of training. The same reflexes saved him as the second ork swung its axe.

The Howling Griffon dropped his empty bolter and caught the haft of the weapon in his open palm. The impact almost broke his arm, but the axe came to a shuddering halt and the Space Marine smashed his other fist into the ork’s jaw. Teeth broke with the impact and the ork’s head snapped back violently. It was a punch that would have pulped a man’s head, but the ork was tough and recovered quickly. The alien roared fury into the Space Marine’s face, bloody drool spattering against his helmet. The deafening noise was cut off with a rasping gurgle when the Howling Griffon unsheathed his combat blade and rammed it into his foe’s throat. With a grunt, he kicked the corpse off his knife, but not in time to block the last ork’s arcing punch.

The Howling Griffon was knocked flying and landed hard on his back, pain lancing through his battered body once more. The ork, the biggest and ugliest one yet, looked down at its stricken prey and grinned as it advanced, the jaws of the great mechanical shears it had in place of an arm snapping open and shut in hungry anticipation. The Space Marine had lost his knife and tried to rise and draw his pistol. The ork’s boot smashed down on his breastplate, pinning him to the floor as the metal pincers clamped shut around his gun arm, cleaving through ceramite, flesh and bone in one piston-driven instant. The Howling Griffon was beyond pain now, on the brink of death, his vision growing dim. The ork loomed over him and raised its gleaming claw to finish the kill.

The death blow never came. The ork jerked backwards without warning, a fist-sized hole punching through its chest. One shot, then another. The third blew the hulking brute backwards and as the Space Marine tilted his head, he caught sight of gold and crimson figures striding towards him, smoking bolters searching the distance for more foes to slay. They were calling out to him. It was his name, he was sure, but he could not make it out, muffled as it was over the echoing thump of his very last heartbeat in his ears. It didn’t matter anyway. His name, whatever it was, would be added to the Chapter’s roll of honour. He was a Space Marine, a Howling Griffon, and he had done his duty.

The world turned black for the last time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robin Cruddace writes rules for Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000. ‘Duty’s End’ is his first short story.

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