"Mortals?"
Disbelief flickered in the eyes of Charlie and the others as they watched the allied troops suddenly arrive on the battlefield.
That expression rarely appeared on the faces of the towering Space Marines. They were accustomed to being the strongest, most dependable presence on the battlefield, to taking over the line before mortal troops collapsed, opening a breach, and pressing onward.
Yet now, the waves of figures pouring from the ruins, those men and women in ordinary armour carrying standard-issue weapons, were pinning down the pursuing Iron Hands with firepower as fierce as that of any Legion warrior.
Mortal troops still existed on a battlefield this intense.
And not only did they exist, they were charging, firing, and tearing those almost entirely mechanized traitors apart one by one, leaving them strewn across the ground.
Artillery continued to thunder in the distance. Dust swirled through the air, and sunlight pierced the sky, stained grey by thick smoke, casting patches of hazy shadow across the ground.
The mortal soldiers who had come to their aid moved swiftly across the battlefield, advancing in alternating groups from cover to cover, exploiting every usable feature of the ruins to pour precise fire into the Rebel Forces' crumbling lines.
Though their strength, speed, and reflexes fell far short of those of Space Marines, they had clearly fought many battles on this satellite and developed a way of fighting all their own.
They knew how to deal with the more troublesome enemies, where to shoot to cause them real problems, and how to use their numerical advantage and the cover of the terrain to whittle away the enemy's strength.
"My lord."
The officer leading the Ultramar Auxilia approached Charlie and promptly saluted.
His movements were crisp and efficient, without any unnecessary words.
He wore a badly