On Brevis, between the desolate ice plains and the habitable zones, lies a magnificent barrier known as the "Frost-Forbidden Wall."
Five hundred standard years ago, in order to defend against a xenos invasion that nearly annihilated the planet, the then-governor mobilized the entire world. Using incalculable resources, they constructed this massive defensive fortification stretching for thousands of kilometers. Its foundations extend hundreds of meters into the permafrost, and the main structure is composed of reinforced ferrocrete, an alloy framework, and solid ice.
The walls average over a hundred meters in height, and the summit is wide enough for two Leman Russ Battle Tanks to drive side by side. The countless bullet holes and blast marks covering the walls tell the story of the centuries that have passed. Designed as an insurmountable defensive line, it serves as a wall of prohibition, separating the deadly ice plains from human territory. Now, five hundred years later, this ancient wall once again protects the remnants of the human world from an even more ferocious enemy.
...
Beyond the wall stretched an endless, snow-covered wasteland. The gale howled incessantly, whipping up ice shards and reducing visibility to less than a hundred meters. Temperatures remained below -50 degrees Celsius—a lethal environment for an unprotected human within minutes.
But at this moment, green waves surged across the ice field.
Orks are the most tenacious and warlike race in the galaxy. They emerged from stench-filled fungal caves deep within the ice sheet like an endless, noisy, roaring green ocean. The battle cry of "Waaaagh!" echoed across the tundra.
Holding the first line of defense at the Frost-Forbidden Wall was the 31st Astra Militarum Regiment of the Calixis Sector: the "Brontë Longswordsmen." They were the only off-world reinforcements to have arrived on Brevis so far. Hailing from the planet Morven—a world covered in ice and snow year-round—the Morven people are naturally adapted to the cold, adept at fighting in low temperatures, low oxygen, and complex terrain.
A month ago, a full complement of 50,000 Brontë Longswordsmen arrived on Brevis. Now, after weeks of fierce attrition, only a little over 20,000 remained. Ammunition reserves were running low, and supplies from the Brevis Hive itself were pitifully scarce. Aside from a few local Planetary Defense Force units, they received little support, save for limited intelligence from mutant tribes dwelling on the ice plains.
...
Inside a reinforced observation post atop the wall, Commissar Marcus lowered his omni-oculars. He was a typical Morven man, with frost clinging to his gray beard and hair, and blue eyes as calm as a glacial lake. Only those who knew him well understood that beneath this calm lay an iron will and boundless loyalty to the God-Emperor.
An urgent alarm crackled through the vox-communicator: "Green-skin main force gathering in sections C7 and C8! There are too many of them, Commissar—it's a massive Warband, and they've brought heavy armor!"
Marcus didn't waste words. He keyed his vox-link. "All units, prepare for engagement."
On the wall, the Brontë Longswordsmen, clad in heavy blue greatcoats, moved with practiced lethality. Gunners cranked their heavy stubbers and autocannons, aiming the muzzles at the surging green tide.
Outside the wall, the clamor of the Orks grew deafening. The "Boyz" pushed and shoved each other in their eagerness for slaughter, while the "Meks" pounded on their cobbled-together vehicles, creating a cacophony of scrap metal. Several enormous Squiggoths were driven to the front lines, carrying exaggerated rocket launchers and multi-barreled cannons on their backs. There were no supply lines; for the Orks, there was only the charge.
Suddenly, a series of thunderous explosions rocked the base of the wall. Near section C8, the thick ferrocrete bulged outward and buckled. With a deafening roar and a shower of rubble and ice, a massive breach over twenty meters wide appeared.
"Frag! They used specialized explosive Squigs at the foundation!" a veteran yelled.
The moment the breach opened, the Orks' war cry reached a fever pitch. "WAAAAAGH!!!"
Scrap-tanks and "Killa Kans" charged toward the hole, pieced together from junk yet surging forward with impossible momentum. Following closely behind were countless Ork Boyz, brandishing choppas and crude sluggas, their eyes burning with the lust for battle.
Amidst the horde, a tall figure appeared at the breach. He was nearly half again as tall as the other Orks, clad in "Mega-Armour" and wielding a massive power-klaw. His other arm ended in a huge, soot-stained cannon barrel. This was the Warboss, "Shattered Tooth."
"Fire! Bring them down!" officers roared along the line.
Heavy artillery thundered, blasting Boyz and scrap-tanks into scrap. Las-bolts and bolter rounds rained down like a monsoon, sweeping away swathes of green flesh. Hidden mines were detonated, turning the green tide into a red mist. The initial momentum was halted, but there were simply too many of them, and the Orks knew no fear.
As more Orks poured through the breach, the defensive line began to stretch thin. The Longswordsmen's ammunition was being consumed at an unsustainable rate. Commissar Marcus observed the carnage calmly. He knew that once the Orks fully deployed beyond the breach, the line would collapse.
It was time. Someone had to plug the gap to buy time for the heavy support units.
Marcus' voice, amplified by his vox-caster and carrying over the howling wind and explosions, reached every soldier at the front.
"Soldiers! Look at these beasts before you! Their very existence is a foul desecration of the Emperor's Realm! They trample our worlds and slaughter His subjects!"
His voice rose with the power of absolute conviction. "But the Emperor is watching us, right here, on this frozen plain! Our courage, our sacrifice—every charge we make is our faithful response to Him!"
He drew his well-worn power sword. The blue disruption field hissed to life, illuminating his resolute face. "For the Emperor! CHARGE!"
He raised the blade, pointing it directly at the towering Warboss. Marcus was the first to leap from the bunker, sprinting toward the green wave.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" A deafening roar erupted from the defenders. The Brontë Longswordsmen fixed bayonets and gripped their trench shovels. Following that lone blue figure, they launched a suicidal counter-charge.
The scene was tragic and magnificent. Human soldiers in blue uniforms were like moths to a flame, throwing themselves into an overwhelming horde. The Orks were larger and stronger, their crude choppas easily tearing through human bone, but the Longswordsmen displayed terrifying willpower. Despite the casualties, not a single man retreated.
Their sacrifice created the space needed for the remaining heavy weapon teams to reposition. Commissar Marcus moved like the tip of a spear, every swing of his blade accompanied by arcs of electricity and green gore. He hacked through the Boyz, drawing closer and closer to Shattered Tooth.
The Warboss noticed the puny human daring to challenge him. He roared, leveling the massive muzzle of his arm-cannon at Marcus. A terrifying blast of flame erupted from the barrel, instantly engulfing the Commissar before he could dodge.