Iron Man: Challenge 4 Enteries

[Ferrata]

Vote for your favourite three articles (in any order). Please PM Ferrata with the title as follows:

 

Iron Man 4 Voting (or if you are lazy IM4)

 

Entry 1: The Conquerors and the Crucible

Entry 2: Duty

Entry 3: Waiting

Entry 4: The Night Talons

Entry 5: Checkmate

Entry 6: Perish the Weak

Entry 7: Spearhead

Entry 8: The Heart of the Sword

 

Quick note to all those who submitted stoires without titles, I've made ones up for them. If you don't like them, then PM a better one :P

[Ferrata]

The Conquerors and the Crucible

 

Cold winds knifed down the narrow valley. Dust and sand soared through, scarring paint and exposed flesh. The darkness was all encompassing. So was the howling.

 

The moons were bright. Teret and Tarask, one red, one blue. Someone had mentioned the phenomena that allowed the two bodies their unique appearance, but for the life of him, Brother Nalol couldn’t remember. There was so much pain.

 

Twisting his head as far as he could to the side, Nalol could only just barely see the stump of his right arm. He knew that his left arm was in a similar pathetic state, victims of vicious anti-coagulant toxins, utilized by those light-damned xenos.

 

An involuntary cough wracked him, spraying phlegm across his HUD, obscuring the useless target reticule, even now, after the battle’s end, tracking for targets across the void canvas; space. Though he willed as hard as he could to reach back to his lines, so that his progenoids may yet be taken, and Emperor above he had tried, scrabbling laboriously at the dirt with his stumps, he could not move. There was too much. The morphia had run dry, so had the blood stocks. The fusion generator was offline, the reserve power continued on, displaying increasingly alarming medical diagnostics in front of his eyes. He could not turn off the emergency generator. Voice activated protocols did not recognize his voice, roughened by shrapnel tearing into his larynx.

 

Tears flowed unceasingly, futilely trying to wash away the shards of glass impaling his cornea and the fragments of ceramite, blood, and dirt that formed a rough layer over his face. Nalol feared nothing, he was a son of the Astartes, of the geneline of Rogal Dorn himself! He was resigned to death in his current predicament but still he extended the mangled remnants of his arms and still he made his way, inch by inch. He would fulfil his last duty Nalol decided, before allowing himself to pass away to the Emperor’s side. He would return his geneseed to the Chapter.

 

Suddenly, a crackling, a sudden bonfire. Explosions lit up the sky, chasing back the hungering void with blessed promethium. Bolters and lasguns whined as a wave of death scythed out over his position. The vast silence that had filled the battle zone was filled with the sudden war cries of Imperial Guardsmen and Space Marines. With a momentous, herculean effort, Nalol flipped his body so that he laid on the ground spread eagled, the better to see his brothers in action.

 

Five leviathans, in forest green ceramite plate and matte black bolters led a massed infantry charge of Guardsmen. Artillery sang out in perfect chorus, thundering their charges at the enemy, bringing crescendos of white hot flame and spinning grey steel upon the earth. Nalol spotted his salvation, one of the emerald leviathans carried a reductor. He would help Nalol accomplish his duty.

He tried to keep his eye open, trying to spot the surgeon. Where was he?

 

Nalol cried out in pain as massive hands flipped him back onto his sides. He slid unwillingly on the trail of blood his arms had left before his movement was arrested by another, this time green, hand.

A strong, voice spoke out, high pitched, but marshal.

 

“Severe injuries to the spinal cord. Both legs crushed. Left arm taken off at the elbow, right arm taken off at the shoulder.” The Surgeon removed Nalol’s helmet and peered in “Right eye gone, left eye virtually blinded. Ears shredded and tongue almost detached.”

 

The surgeon took a step back and glanced at the other green giant, materializing out of nowhere.

 

“What is the prognosis Variens?” rumbled the dour looking warrior.

 

“I think Nalol will survive. Along with that list I suspect slight memory loss, no doubt from some venom those malefic eldar utilize. But Nalol is a strong, Sergeant.”

 

The Sergeant knocked the Apothecary down swiftly with a flying tackle as a searing lance of nothing streaked past their position. Dark lance.

 

“Variens, take Nalol back to our lines and stabilize him. I think he’s passed the test of endurance. Write up a recommendation to Captain Teniban. I think the lad’s enjoyed the right of becoming a full member of second company.”

 

Racking the slide of his bolter as he remained prone on top of Variens, the Sergeant lifted himself slightly to a fighting crouch. A small dagger glowed with barely restrained disruption fields, clenched tightly in the Sergeant’s left fist.

 

“Conquerors. Our hour is at hand. We have destroyed their torture skimmers. We have annihilated their fleet. We have mined their portals and we have cornered them. Forward into the crucible Brothers, forward!”

 

Imperial cheers renewed as the Sergeant began running again. Nalol blinked, uncaring of the deep pain it caused him. He had been chosen! He could now become a full member of second company, the Krakens, the Death Dealers! He was now a recognized Brother of the Conquerors!

 

He turned to stare at Variens. The surgeon had removed his helm and begun to apply antiseptic along with blood transfusions to the wound. A smile split the smooth face hovering over Nalol as a narrowing tunnel of pitch darkness began to enfold him.

 

Variens withdrew the morphia vial and carefully placed it back into the packaging compartment encased within his reductor. It had been a close run thing but Nalol was resilient and was approaching a stable condition, stable enough to be manhandled back to his field ward.

Behind him, victory cries of the Conquerors sounded.

[Ferrata]

Duty

Chapter I

To know one's place is to know the path to salvation.

 

The truck doesn't stop, and neither does the rain. The first is as inevitable as the last, yet both seem to grate on my nerves like the absence of gunfire. I can't even hear my own sodden footsteps over the downpour's heavy tattoo. Soles worn thin from the long campaign make every step on the broken, shrapnel-strewn concrete an individual test of faith.

 

Another truck passes. A car. A bus full of grubby faces packed against the windows; some stare silently at me till as they, too, fade into the grey anonymity of water. A third truck passes, and this time the red glare of brake lights shine down upon me like the Emperor's eyes, shining salvation. I look into a mirror, hoping to make some contact, but the driver stares straight ahead. The truck is a bazaar; warped furniture and blackened knicknacks greet me silently as I climb up. It's impossible to tell whether these sad furninshings were packed away lovingly or opportunistically scavenged, but at this point, it doesn't matter. Any value they may have had is gone: washed away in the sooty rain. There is a bed; little more than a muddy sponge, it's the softest thing I've seen in days. I lie upon it and let the truck rock me to sleep.

 

I awaken under the watchful gaze of a tall wardrobe, haloed by the sun and curiously still. The truck has stopped. It seems to be late afternoon, which fails to tell me anything about how long I have slept. With a wince at feet quite tender, I hop to the ground and stretch. Some distance off, plumes of smoke surmount the the sky like banners. Closer inspection and the liberal use of field binoculars reveal a junkyard of wrecked tanks across the field, a lone banner hunkering among them as if in a trench. The three-hundred and fifth. A part of me is glad that the war is going as badly for others as it did for us. I'll settle for vindication even if victory is out of reach.

 

I make my way to my erstwhile drive, sitting by the side of the road among what might be his family. They pass a cantina between them, too weary for words. A bus sits idles quietly nearby, other refugees in scattered groups avoiding forsaking its shade for the welcome warmth of the sun. I dig a handful of starch rations out of my pack, and the driver takes them as silently as they are proferred. It's a lot of food--enough to keep his family going for days. They look like they need it. Something tells me I won't need it much longer. I stretch again, a blasphemous prayer to the sun, then shoulder my pack and set off towards my duty.

 

Distance is easier to cross with your eyes than your feet. Seldom is this more true than when crossing a field which has been churned by artillery before being beaten by rain to a frothy sea. Waves of mud, the edges of shell craters which have melded together like a cheese with too many holes, jut from the ground. Some rise as higher than my head. Bodies and parts jut forth from the mire, and the sucking mud beckons for me to join them. My kit wears me down, dragging me through the filth like a guilty conscience. I cannot bring myself to drop it.

 

The sun has set by the time I reach the edge of the wreckage. I can no longer see the three-oh-five. Any hope of finding an officer--anyone, really--in this barren wasteland has long since dissolved into doubt and despair. On the verge of consigning my toil to the realm of vanity, of collapsing into the mud and calling it an end, I instead find myself frozen in place by a deep basso challenge: "Halt. Identify yourself."

 

My response is automatic. "Corporal Venner. Third Infantry. Second Company. Ninth Squad." I don't bother to reach for my gun. Either my interrogator is friendly, or I'm already dead. I might be dead anyway, and that would just be the way of things. I wait.

 

"I cannot see your markings, Corporal." The voice is flat, emotionless. It is clearly coming through a vox, though it is so low that it seems pervasive, directionless. I try to glance around without moving, but it is dark and I cannot spot its owner.

 

"It's...covered with mud, I suspect." I risk a glance. "Yeah, just mud. Let me get that." I reach towards the epulet to brush off the dirt caked over what might well be my best hope of survival.

 

"Don't." It isn't a command to be ignored. My hand freezes. The gun, damnit. My lasgun is over that shoulder. What a stupid reason to die. I close my eyes with a sigh.

 

The footsteps behind me are quick and purposeful, almost silent but for the squelching of the mud. I complete about half a turn before a massive gauntlet, bigger than my head and blacker than the night, grabs the barrel of the gun and crushes it like an empty can. I am rigid with terror as the gauntlet gently brushes the mud from my shoulder.

 

"...Very well, corporal. Follow me. You will have to acquire a new weapon."

 

The marine has turned and started away by the time my shock fades. I bequeath the ruined lasgun to the mud and follow. The marine's long, purposeful strides set a pace that I struggle to match, navigating the corpse of the armoured company with enviable ease. I am thoroughly bereft of breath by the time he halts. Our destination, it would seem, is a small clearing. The ground is clear of wreckage, covered instead with freshly-turned earth and nine modest markers that jut obliquely from the quickly-freezing mud. The marine halts for a moment, then moves towards a shape, looming darkly at the edge of the clearing. Though I'd seen them from a distance and learned about them in basic, nothing had really prepared me for how imposing a Rhino fails to be in person. An ugly beast, apprently constructed from little more than treads and unfortunate angles, it squats in the mud like a stray dog. From somewhere, the marine procures a small gadget, and profers it to me.

 

"This device is necessary for the vehicle's operation. Its counterpart in this Rhino has failed. You will replace it. There is a panel underneath from which the valve can be accessed. I will instruct you, but you will have to repeate the catechisms as I tell you them. My eyes fall involuntarily to the ground, into which the Rhino has sunk deeply. The marine anticipates my objection.

 

"I will suspend the vehicle above you. If I need to rest, I will alert you." He pauses briefly, then adds, "Work quickly, though. It is quite heavy.

 

The marine's knowledge of the vehicle's workings proved sufficient. The catechisms were said, the panel replaced, and I escaped from beneath that massive bulk miraculously unharmed. We both rested briefly. My arms hurt just from thinking about the strain his had been under. The air was refreshingly cold, mostly free of smoke, and the mud, once the sticky bane of infantrymen, had settled into a frozen, packed surface.

 

"Guardsman, go collect us some fuel"

 

I hesistate, wanting to ask what sort of fuel such a vehicle would use and where I might find some, but I remember quickly that the Rhino is made to run on just about anything, from prometheum to wood alcohol. All praise the Omnissiah! The marine surprises me again as I turn to leave.

 

"Remember, guardsman, you are still unarmed. That is not acceptable." His voice, for the first time, has a tone--admonishment. Suitably chastised, I head into the field of junk.

 

This foray turns out to be the high-point of the evening. The night air is freezing, but a healthy dose of adrenaline makes it seem merely brisk. My first trip reveals both a ten-litre can and the corpse of an officer (quite possibly the company commander judging by the quantity of gold brocade on his non-regulation coat.) He lays in the half-frozen mud, almost picturesque. One arm juts from the ground, clutching a laspistol in its rigid claw. His head is tilted up and his eyes stare out from their sunken pits, almost sighting along the barrel. His mouth hangs open, as if shouting a challenge at some invisible foe. The fingers are cold, nearly frozen, and it takes some effort to pry the pistol from their grip. A quick search reveals the coat to be ruined, but a buckled sash, festooned with power packs and grenades in elaborate pouches and--Emperor be praised!--a sword, long and curved and gleaming. I chuckle as I adjust the sash across my chest, and my pack over the top of it. The holster fits nicely at my belt. I envision my squadmates' reactions to this plundered finery, the sarge's disapproving glare, Gerald would undoubtedly have a clever witicism, but such thoughts quickly sober me.

 

Finding fuel proves easy enough, many of the company's tanks were knocked out but not set aflame, and their tanks prove pilferable. I make several trips, each time careful to avoid the marine who kneels by his graves and appears to be praying. He takes no note of me, anyway. I fill the Rhino's tank, as well as its reserve, then fill my can one last time, just in case. On my final return, I find the marine standing, inspecting the Rhino with his helmet off. He treats me to a brief perusal, my ill-gotten gear no doubt catalogued in the depths of the marine's near-perfect memory. His the marine's brow wrinkles, though whether in humour or disapprovalI cannot tell. He replaces his helmet, then takes the can from me and stows it in the passenger compartment, which I note is both quite bare and very clean. A rack of bolters is attached to one wall of the transports, and I eye them longingly. The marine does not offer one, or even appear to notice.

 

Getting the Rhino going takes some time. The mud is, by now, quite frozen, and the vehicle had sunk quite deep. After some unsuccessful grinding of treads, the marine summons me to the driving compartment and quietly instructs me in the vehicle's operation, pointing out the foot-operated throttle and the workings of the steering yoke. I am fortunate to have had experience driving Chimaeras, and I can guess at a few of the other controls that are not included in the marine's overview. This tutorial takes a minute or so, then which the marine climbs out of the pilot's chair and instructs me to sit there and wait for instructions. I do. The Rhino, active though not motile, purrs contentedly, its powerful engine sending pleasant vibrations through the seat. A handful of seconds pass before the marine's voice booms through the cockpit.

 

"I will push on the back. Press the throttle now." The Rhino groans and complains, and I feel the vehicle rock forward as the Marine shoves it. Unexpectedly, it leaps over the edge of its imprisoning pit and lurches foward, almost into another wreck. I twist on the yoke and the vehicle turns aside just in time. I allow it to come to rest as soon as I am confident that it has freed itself entirely. I sighs, and turns to see the marine standing behind me, having boarded silently while I drove.

 

"Acceptable, guardsmen. I will take over." We switch places, the marine settling into the pilot's chair while I retreat to the passenger compartment and fall promptly asleep on a thin, hard bench.

[Ferrata]

Waiting

 

Across the plains it was silent. The brown dry grass never moved, the desolate trees never stirred. The Stars intense rays beat down upon this planet, eager to burn anything alive. And yet they didn't move. 10 of them, there were; each one lugging a weapon that they chose. Each with one purpose and one purpose alone: find the enemy and report its position. Nothing more; nothing else - anything less would get them all killed for failure. It was a tough life, but some of these men had to do it.

 

One of the men turned to a second sitting beside him.

"This is taking too long" he muttered.

"This is what being a scout is like, Tiberius" replied the second, "get used to it."

"That is something I cannot do" groaned Tiberius, hefting his sniper rifle back into position from where he sat. All 10 men had concealed themselves deep within the edges of the forest that lay South of where they first arrived. They had arrived via Thunderhawk, exiting from the ship as fast as they could without causing a stir to the silent landscape. Their Company Master Geriko was relying on them and them alone, to gather up the required information needed for the upcoming battle, against this foul race that the 6th had been hunting for the last century. Such extremes aren't usually taken so likely for the Phantoms Astartes, but for this occasion it was almost encouraged: the enemy was the Tau, the mortal enemies of the Phantoms; and Captain Geriko was leading the hunt, and he never let go of an opportunity to prove his worth.

 

Tiberius shuffled in his position. He was slowly developing leg pains from sitting in the same position for six hours under the blistering heat that bore down upon him and the other scouts. The scout next to him, sergeant Turion, took a quick drink from his canteen.

"Call in guys" he called, trying to keep his voice low.

"Jerome reporting"

"Krasak reporting"

"Richard reporting" came the calls from Turion's right hand side.

"Trusk reporting"

"Sahrus reporting"

"Grimshaw reporting"

"Forro reporting" came the calls from Turion's left.

"Brock standing by" came a faint voice from above. The scout was positioned in one of the trees high above, offering a better range to spot what the scouts were looking for. Turion chose Brock to take high cover purely because of his extremely keen eyesight, which he had used to great effect before. Turion scanned the horizon. Nothing. Tiberius shuffled again next to him. He could tell he was getting tired of waiting; they all were. Waiting was something a scout should be able to do if needs be, but this, he thought, was dragging on too long. By now the Tau would have shown their ugly helmed faces to their eyes, giving the scouts everything they need, before they can shrink away into the shadows and report back to the drop-off site.

 

 

Hours passed, and still nothing. Turion was getting restless, but not as bad as Tiberius, who was slowly edging towards sleeping. He couldn't do that, Turion thought, not while he's on a mission, especially one that had become so important in such little time. Tiberius rolled until he was lying against a rock.

"This is pointless. If we wait any longer then night will fall, then those Tau will have darkness as cover. We can't afford that."

Turion was about to offer his argument, but several things caught his eye all at once. Jerome was running back from the right hand side; Brock repositioned himself to allow him a chance to shoot; and in the distance the faint outline of a vehicle could be made out.

"Brock, give us a heads-up on the objects to the North-East, pronto"

"Roger" came the swift reply. Trusk, Sahrus, Grimshaw and Forro had gathered in now from the left hand side of Turion, eager to find out what news Jerome had brought.

"Multiple contacts sir" came Brock's voice again. " We've got a few Gunships and lots of Fire Warriors. Battlesuits are in the mix too... and the Commander is among the mass." The last sentence caught the attention of all 10 men. That was what they were looking for. The mood around them already improved. Tiberius looked pleased.

"Well it's about time" he muttered, "I've been waiting for too long" A general round nods came from the others. "I hope I never experience that again."

Turion grinned. "Well Tiberius, you'll have to get used to it. I've stood for much longer in much harsher conditions, so this is nothing."

"Yes but you're a sergeant and a veteran. You have more experience" Tiberius replied.

"Indeed I do. And that is something you currently lack scout"

Tiberius went silent; out-worded by his sergeant, which even he dare not try to do back. Turion nodded.

"Left flank join the right flank, spread out between them. Brock, keep us updated on their distance. Everyone stay on your guard and in cover. If we fail now, the battle could be lost…”

[Ferrata]

The Night Talons

The Emperor's Silent Angels

Brother-slaughterer Rhogar snarled and and launched himself forwards. He spun around a street corner, his bolt pistol kicking as he fired upon the surprised Thracian Guard. He disappeared around the corner before they could react. Their screams echoed behind him as his brothers fell upon them, but he was already on to new foes. Four guardsmen ahead occupied a makeshift barricade. Rhogar rolled behind a pillar for cover, and slammed a new magazine into his bolt pistol, while enemy lasfire hammered on the other side. He rolled out and discharged a few bolts whilst charging forwards, and leapt the barricade the barricade at a run, sword flashing. Hacking at the neck of the closest Guard, he swept his blade in a lethal arc that sent the head spinning. He plunged his sabre into one's chest with savage fury, then twisted. He drew his sabre across the last one's throat, a snarl plastered to his face, then bounded down the street in search of more bloodshed: However, immediately around the next corner he was met with a salvo of lasfire that sent him diving for cover. A fellow legionnaire pinned into cover with him barked through a grotesque rebreather, “Twenty or so behind a blockade, Brother-slaughterer!”

“We'll hold here until our brothers come. Try to kill them from cover,” Came Rhogar's shouted reply. He managed a few shots at the defenders before he was forced back into. Suddenly the Guards turned at the sound of a bestial roar, and began to fire. “Slay them!” He screamed through his vox amplifier, before vaulting over the blockade. His brothers had closed in from in the other side, and they had caught the Thracians in a death trap. He slew three men with swift slashes, before spinning right into the center of the melee. He danced onwards, hacking and slashing, his sabre sweeping about him faster than the eye could follow. He spotted a guard with raised pistol, a moment before he was hit in the right arm by the lasfire, which caused him to drop his sabre. He lunged and struck the guard in the face, then spun, grinning liplessly, and slammed his same gauntleted fist into the face of another oncoming guard. Turning back to the first, he grabbed the guard's throat. “Die,” He said, and twisted his hand. The guard's throat came away in an explosion of crimson, and he shuddered for a few moments before his synapses finally collapsed. Rhogar wrenched a chainsword from the dead Guard's hands, and turned in search of new prey.

His vicious smile slipped away immediately at the sight of the armoured space marine in front of him. The marine's scimitar flashed forwards, and struck Rhogar's head from his shoulders. He had spun away before Rhogar's head even hit the ground. The marine was clad in midnight-blue, his heraldry a black raven, and as he continued to cut down the Black Legionnaires, his sword flashing, he made not a sound. He was a Night Talon, and he would cut down many more a traitor that day.

[Ferrata]

Checkmate

 

The Governor stepped into the sleek craft, his face blank. The records indicated that the Inquisitorial ship had docked a week ago and yet the Inquisitor had only asked for his presence today. How much did the Inquisitor suspect? Had he noticed the Arbites missing from the capital? The late disappearance of the last head of the Imperial Cult on this planet? The stacked arms in the hands of certain PDF officers? The man had had a week to probe and the eyes of the Inquisition were sharp. It was no coincidence that the man had appeared merely a week before he planned to secede from the Imperium. He would have to be careful.

 

Escorted by an impassive warrior whose biceps matched the size of his head, the governor entered a dark chamber. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and spot the stout figure sitting at a table some meters away from the entrance. The man was bald and fairly tanned. His blue eyes examined the Governor closely, as if his appearance would be an indicator of heresy. His clothing was workmanlike, subtle touches identifying him as a man of power. Around his neck hung a simple chain, an Inquisitional symbol hanging from it. The small device glinted dully from the light coming from the doorway, its true power hidden.

 

In front of the Inquisitor lay a chess board. The pieces and board seemed to have been carved from rock, each piece a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The Governor knew little of this ancient game but enough to see that the Inquisitor, playing white, was in an extremely strong position with little threat to his pieces but lots of avenues to attack the white. The Governor watched as a black piece moved itself across the board, unaided by any visible forces. Taking his attention from the Governor for a moment, the Inquisitor moved a white knight to counter the black rook's attacking move.

 

On the world below, a solitary figure walked across the night streets. The PDF barracks lay in front of the diminutive man. Scanning the area for enemies, the abhuman disappeared over the wall. Minutes later, the figure reappeared back over the barrier before running down the street as fast as his stubby legs would take him. The barracks exploded in flame. Among the dead was a certain Colonel...

 

"Welcome Governor," pronounced the Inquisitor, not bothering to stand to greet his guest. His eyes bored into the other man's, as if examining his very soul. The black queen moved to take the recently moved white knight. The Inquisitor seemed to take his time considering his options, before reaching out to threaten the black king with rook, taking a pawn in the process.

 

As the small figure rounded the corner, he found himself face to face with a Chimera. "Oh, feth," was all that was heard as the Chimera continued on its journey to the burning barracks. As it turned the corner, the small figure sat up from the road. He coughed up blood and grimaced in the darkness. Taking a small device from his belt, the abhuman awaited extraction from the hostile city.

 

Meanwhile, the Holy Father slept. His predecessor had met a mysterious fate, mainly as a result of the current Holy Father's machinations. As it often is, the betrayer fears betrayal the most and guards were posted constantly to guard the man. Yet none of them could stop a true man of faith. A ragged priest walked into the bedchamber, blood glistening on the hammer held in his hand. He was followed by a man wearing the typical garb of the Arbites. The priest gestured to the other man to stand guard outside. He now turned his full attention to the man in front of him. The Holy Father awoke and heard one word before dying. "Repent."

 

Silence sat uncomfortably for the Governor, yet he would not let himself break it. He would not play the Inquisitor's games. Seemingly satisfied with the situation in the game lying in front of him, the Inquisitor broke the silence. His deep voice rolled over the Governor, its tone bleak and non-emotional.

 

"I know of your plans for this world. Every single conspiracy, every whispered promise and every detail. The Imperium does not need another battle, Governor. I am willing to let you and your conspirators live, provided that this world remains the Emperor's. The slightest hint of rebellion will bring down the wrath of the Emperor upon you. The armies of the Imperium shall march upon Girant's soil and none shall be safe from them if heresy is discovered."

 

The Governor stared back at the Inquisitor. He knew. There was no response to such accusations. So he did not respond. Denial would merely make him look foolish. The Inquisitor's tone hardened while the volume of his speech dropped as he continued.

 

“You have a day to confer with your conspirators. I expect your decision to be communicated directly to me. Your choice, Governor. Damnation or salvation for this world of yours. ”

 

The Governor nodded brusquely and retreated out of the chamber, like a whipped cur running from its master. He had not said one word in the exchange. Behind him in the room, the black queen silently moved back to support the threatened king. The Inquisitor almost smiled as he watched the piece eerily glide across the smooth black and white squares. Everything was to plan...

 

 

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“So Governor, do you acquiesce to my proposal?” inquired the Inquisitor. He faced towards the door from which the governor had entered. The stout figure did not rise from the board, seemingly fully occupied with the game in front of him. In his long fingers he rolled a white bishop between thumb and forefinger, considering his next move. The Governor fiddled with the rings encasing his thin fingers, which contained the only hope of his planet breaking free of the Imperium’s puritanical control. Twisting the sapphire that crowned the smallest ring, the Governor covertly levelled it at the Inquisitor’s face. This ancient weapon had been passed down through his family for centuries, being used in the fights among the noble families. Many a competing family patriarch found himself killed in his moment of triumph by the concealed weapon. The Inquisitor's bodyguard had not even bothered to screen him, merely checking for obvious sidearms or weapons. And now the man himself sat in front of him, seemingly oblivious to his imminent death.

 

"This world wants freedom," the Governor whispered as he fired the miniature weapon into the face of the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor fell to the floor, the toxins taking effect within seconds as he gasped his last. The bishop that the Inquisitor had been playing with hit the floor with a clink rolling away from the table and the corpse beside it. The lean man sighed and relaxed, tension visibly disappearing from his lean frame. Perhaps his world would yet be free of the Imperium. All that had to be done was to dispose of the remaining fools that still believed in the festering corpse on the Golden Throne. Then true freedom would be his and the benefits associated with it. He made to leave before the Inquisitor's companions could discover the situation.

 

Click

 

The Governor froze as he heard the noise behind him. He turned to see the Inquisitor standing above himself. A double! The standing Inquisitor straightened from the board, his hand having just placed the white queen nearer to the enemy king. The Governor turned once again and frantically made for the door. His only weapon had been used and he needed to get out. As he took his second step, the airlock snapped shut, mere centimetres before his fingers. Then the Inquisitor spoke, anger evident in every word.

 

“This world could have been saved. Blood did not need to be spilt. But you have chosen this route. I will carry out sentence as necessary.”

 

The Inquisitor now spoke with a sonorous tone, the hatred crackling in his delivery like a whip. His eyes burned into the Governor’s desperate gaze.

 

“By the power invested in me as an Inquisitor of the Emperor’s Imperium, I charge Governor Narif Silas Tarkin of Girant. Of consorting with heretics and traitors of the worst kind, I judge you guilty. Of harming the Emperor’s Servants, I find you guilty of three counts. Of conspiring against the Emperor and the High Lords, I judge you guilty. Of defying Imperial Authorities, I judge you guilty. The sentence is death. The method of execution is to be painful, to better cleanse the sin from the guilty. Time of execution is to be immediate.”

 

He opened his palm, revealing the bishop that had been dropped by the double. Reaching over the board, the Inquisitor placed it so there was a direct line to the black king. The Governor knew enough about the game to see it was checkmate, the black player could not make another move to save his king. The Governor gasped as the fallen double rose from the ground, sloughing off the clothing that had concealed its form. A lithe figure clad in a clinging black body suit stood languidly at the Inquisitor’s side. The only thing that remained the same between the two figures was the head. As the horrified Governor watched, it twisted and morphed before his eyes, the lines of the face changing to a more effeminate configuaration. The eyes turned purple as the double drew a short dagger.

 

“May the Emperor have mercy upon your soul, Governor Tarkin,” said the Inquisitor formally, not really sounding like he agreed with what he said. “For we shall not. M’Kerla, his death is to be painful. You may have six hours."

 

M'kerla nodded and started forward, her steps light and her eyes bright. The Governor sagged against the door, the last vestiges of his composure beginning to slip. A kiss on his lips startled his eyes open to the unearthly purple gaze. A sigh emitted from him as the dagger found his hamstring, the pain washing over him like a tsunami. The last words the Governor heard were from the Inquisitor's disdainful mouth.

 

"It was a simple choice."

[Ferrata]

Perish the Weak

 

The gilded architecture of the Convent of the Bleeding Heart on the agri-world of Challa IV glinted in the midday sun. Squads of Adepta Sororitas marched along its battlements, weapons ever ready. Suspicious reports had filtered in from the surrounding area; nothing conclusive or definite, but patrols had been doubled within the Convent’s walls nonetheless. Despite this increased martial presence, however, the Convent seemed serene, a sanctuary for the faithful in a galaxy of darkness. Priests of all ranks scurried from hall to hall, worshipers of the Emperor prayed in the Chapel in the center of the Keep, and young children were schooled on matters of faith.

 

Such peace belies that which the veneer of normalcy attempts to hide, whatever that may be. The prize. Such peace similarly is at odds with what events approach.

 

A spike showed on an augury reading, in a cramped sensorium chamber deep within the Convent. The attendant dismissed it as an anomaly; such things occurred, especially considering the scene unfolding below, in the dungeons… the man shuddered. He had been given the barest of details, but the idea of such a… thing within the convent itself was horrifying.

 

Another spike. Sharper. On all fields and arrays.

 

And again, yet stronger.

 

The attendant stared for a moment, and dived across the cramped station to an activation pad. Upon the pressing of the rune, servitors in the belfry yank jerkily on weathered ropes, and the bells begin to clamor in alarm.

 

So it begins. Perish the weak, thought Zebulon Shrike, Raptor Lord, and dove from the Thunderhawk a half-mile above the Convent. His Raptor squads took his lead, diving from their transports into a power-armored free-fall. Their forms reached terminal velocity quickly, keeping pace with the now-diving Thunderhawks, and suddenly the ancient turbines of their jump packs burst to furious, screaming life. Already the Thunderhawks were unleashing volley after volley of fire to cover their assault. Zebulon and several other Raptors whooped and laughed wildly as the thrill of the hunt filled them again.

 

Their descent did not go unchallenged, however; rows of flak batteries folded out of the ancient spires of the Convent and fired at will. Despite evasive tactics taken at lightning speeds, their power armor and the more formidable armor of the Thunderhawks, a few of Zebulon’s brethren fell in the hail of fire. Anzion took a shell to the chestplate, spiraling wildly as the gaping wound sprayed blood; Calsan was hit in the left pauldron, and spun out of control as he fought to regain his course; even one of the gunships was knocked awry, fire raking its hull. But they were close; Zebulon saw the muzzle flares and heard the barking reports of bolter fire. With a mumbled prayer to the Chaos Gods, he slid his finely-serrated lightning claws from their sheaths. He emitted a keening howl that his brethren also took up, and at maximum output from his speakers, it caused the figures below to cringe and falter.

 

Right on target, and preceded by a barrage of frag grenades and cannon blasts, the Raptors slammed into position along the battlements. Ancient stone crumbled under ceramite talons as the Astartes hit the ground at a run and sprinted headlong into the defenders. Chainsword roared, bolt pistol made thunderclaps, and flamers hissed as the Raptors made their bloody intentions known.

 

Zebulon roared as combat stimms flooded his system and forced his enhanced physique into overdrive. He ducked a sluggish power maul and slashed its wielder in two, knocked Sisters sprawling with kicks of his stylized talon-boots, parried swords and bolter stocks with unerring ease perfected over ten thousand years of war. He felt the old, familiar rage building, and clamped down upon it. The time would come, but for now he needed focus. With focus, the fanatics surrounding him didn’t have a prayer, he thought ironically, grinning beneath his bestial helm. He plunged his claws into the gorget of a scarred Sister with a pair of chainswords, the light leaving her eyes with her last gasping breath.

 

Unfortunately, the battle at large was not going so well as Zebulon had it. The numerically superior defending force was beginning to overwhelm them; Rolstak had fallen, his head a smoking ruin from the neck up courtesy of a plasma pistol discharge. The Thunderhaws still flew and were plastering the defense turrets with fire, but could only do so much.

 

Then the first Demolisher shell hit, and a huge chunk of the western wall was blown apart. The concussive force forced many nearby Sisters to their knees, and the Raptors were quick to capitalize on their imbalance, shearing heads and lopping limbs from bodies with chainsword and chainaxe.

 

More Vindicators approached, blasting the western wall into dust, and Rhinos sped up to force themselves through the breaches. Marines from the Hakanor’s Reavers contingent of Zebulon’s warband poured out of the vehicles into perfect firing positions, taking targets of opportunity from amongst the defenders. Each Astartes was far superior to each Sororita, and as the numbers of Zebulon’s engaging forces grew, his chances for victory increased exponentially.

 

Zebulon took a moment to observe the rents and cracks that formed on the armor and vehicles of the Reavers; constantly shifting and changing, the cracks filled with lava and then closed up, only to be criss-crossed with new crevasses.

 

Upon the hull of a Vindicator tank, like a general riding a chariot, rode a figure in blue Terminator armor, tinged with gold; his deep scarlet helmet was aglow with sorcerous green eyes. A miasma of bizarre power radiated from the figure like a robe, and shots aimed at him did not even reach his armor through that cloud of warp-matter. He stepped regally from the Vindicator and, with a wave of a writhing, two-bladed scythe, sent spiraling bolts of sickly yellow fire spraying outwards. Some of it engulfed Sisters in flame, others brought trees to embers, and still others vaporized ancient rockrete blocks.

 

“You know how to make an entrance, Sindaroth” yelled Zebulon, carving through a crowd of screaming priests. “Any hints on where the objective lies?”

 

The sorcerer of the Scourged shook his head but was interrupted from any further remarks by a great slamming noise. Zebulon turned to look, and saw something that would have been terrifying had the mundane had anything for him to fear anymore.

 

The doors of the Chapel were literally blasted off their hinges. A crowd of unkempt figures poured out, hooded and masked with barely enough cloth to be considered clothed; they held massive chainsaws high above their heads and roared in fury. As they drew closer, Zebulon couldn’t help but wonder if they would collapse from blood loss before they reached his lines; Imperial fanatics were such fools. Their skin was raw and scarred, host to all manner of devotional mutilations- parchment skewered through taut skin, spiked chains wrapped around limbs, still-bloody scarification of various holy symbols, and other bizarre modifications of the flesh.

 

His thoughts were abruptly proven wrong as, despite volleys of fire from the Reavers, the berserk Repentia, as they were called, drove on despite all but the most crippling wounds. They would certainly hit the Reavers’ formation, and his force would be lacking in fire support. With no other option open and his blood singing for combat, Zebulon dove into the mass of crazed penitents, ducking and parrying blow after nearly mortal blow. He lashed out delicately with his claws, and spinning dervish of lightning and blades in the center of that mass of cloth, flesh, and screaming eviscerator.

 

Now was the time. He reveled in the combat, losing himself in the duck, dodge, slash, thrust, parry, and feint. Blood hissed on his runed claws and armor as fields of power boiled it away. The ancient surgeries enacted upon him in ages past, when he still called himself a World Eater instead of a member of the elite Raptors, began to take effect. The rage rose up like a tide of blood in his ears and his vision, as limbs flew around him and blood formed a pool at his feet. The slaughter was all…

 

Suddenly he caught a glancing blow from an eviscerator to the chest. Despite being off target, the massive momentum behind the blade threw him out of the meelee. He rolled, caught his feet, and immediately assumed a fighting stance.

 

All around him, the battle seemed to be turning awry. Sisters of Battle were shrugging off mortal blows and striking down Astartes, warriors many times their superior, with uncanny blows and shots. Zebulon could swear he saw light flicker around their eyes, even forming coruscating halos just out of sight’s purview around their heads. The power of their faith was deadly, and his forces were quickly losing their essential momentum. And now he had been caught a blow by some crazed whore with a sword too large for her to wield.

 

And now there was a warrior before him. A tall, regal woman in long robes and baroque, intricate armor. She bore a glowing flail and a smoking bolter, the latter of which she cast aside in favor of a two-handed grip on her hand weapon. A nimbus of light, not nearly as ethereal as that of her Sisters, played around the short white hair of this warrior, this Canoness.

 

“Meet your death, heretic, traitor, scum!” she spat. “I am Canoness Marian, and you shall defile this place no longer!”

 

“It is your own death that approaches, wench of the False Church,” replied Zebulon with even greater vehemence. His claws buzzed angrily, demanding the blood of this enemy.

 

They met in a shower of sparks, the flail parried by Zebulon’s claws. He twisted the weapon’s chain around one claw and thrust with the other, but the woman was too quick; his vision filled with stars as her gauntlet cracked into his faceplate. Instinctively he dove backwards, allowing his turbines to push him further back; this saved his life as the flail passed within an inch of his face, by his clearing vision.

 

He replied with a flurry of slashes, but the Canoness moved deftly, sidestepping his blows. She laughed contemptuously.

 

“What aid does your craven pantheon grant you now, filth? I will smite you in the Emperor’s name this day. None live that oppose His will!”

 

“Zealot you may be, but my death, never,” he replied levelly, checking his rage, and used a carefully timed blast from his left turbine to propel a slash just a little further; his ancient claws opened only shallow rents in the woman’s armor but he was rewarded with a flash of shock and agony on her face. She grimaced and appeared to shove the pain down, letting loose a series of wild blows to buy herself time to recover, using her off hand to balance and add momentum to her blows.

 

Again Zebulon was forced to take in the wider battle despite his preoccupied state. He was not pleased with what he saw. The Repentia had made a massacre of many of the Reavers and had torn open a Vindicator before the daemonic occupant’s departure had ripped their souls from their bodies. More of his Raptor brethren lay dead than he had planned for. His attack was faltering, he needed to end this leader of these vaunted warrior-nuns.

 

He was rewarded for his lack of focus with a harsh blow to the leg; the flail slammed into his thigh armor and buckled it. Shards of ceramite and plasteel drove into his leg, piercing his enhanced bone structure, and he cried out in pain. The Canoness was emboldened by this and dove at him, but he blasted backwards with his jump turbines and ordered the machine to go into hover mode.

 

He attempted to rise above the Canoness and gain the advantage of height, but she, too, began to float, though without the aid of a jump pack. He snarled, she remained serene, hefting her flail.

 

“Let us see who is best at fighting aloft, then, Sororitas harlot,” he cursed. “By this day’s end I shall wear your skin as a cloak!”

 

Deep underneath the convent, as battle raged above, a less physical but altogether more dangerous conflict was fought out below.

 

Inquisitor Gelforst of the Ordo Hereticus sweated with the mental strain as he focused his mind against that of the being clamped to the worktable before him. His choir of penitent psykers, too, was engrossed in its work, suppressing the massive energies straining against it.

 

Setting aside his deactivated null rod, Gelforst drew his force sword. He had prepared for this event for decades, and nothing- not even the battle above- would stop him now. A radical Horusian, Gelforst believed in using the power of the Warp against the vile things that resided there. He had fought and schemed to bring a live specimen into his custody, and those efforts would not be wasted.

 

Besides, when his own psychic powers were bolstered by those of this creature, no mortal could stand against his power as he carried out the Emperor’s will, not even the dread Legions of Chaos. He would draw its essence into his blade, by arts forbidden to any citizen of the Imperium; forbidden only due to lack of understanding. Such power was not tainted in and of itself, and in the hands of the pure were a weapon against the abominable like little else.

 

He began to say the ritual words, which burned his throat as they came. He had memorized them with great care, for mistakes in such incantations could prove fatal. The creature on the table spasmed and cried out, and psychic shockwaves rippled through the room as incandescent energy. The psychic choir as one moaned with pain, but Gelforst cared not, bearing his own psychic pain with grim stoicity.

 

Above, a Vindicator tossed a shell towards the walls, its daemonic occupant not caring that all the defenders on that wall were dead; it simply reveled in the destruction caused by the mighty explosive blast. The shockwave from the potent explosion rippled down through the convent, deep down into the underground caverns and dungeons below.

 

Dust and plaster rained from the ceiling in a shower, but none noticed, such was their concentration. Then a boulder fell down and smashed into the frail skull of a psyker among the choir. His concentration broken by the impact, he clutched his head and howled.

 

Gelforst sensed a shift in the psychic repression occurring, and gasped in horror as he turned to see the psyker twitching in a psychic seizure as foul forces forced their way into his head. The psyker began to warp and change in form, and Gelforst knew they were doomed.

 

The creature on the table, now only restrained by fading psychic power and leather straps, sat up, tearing through the restraints, physical and otherwise, with inhuman ease. The creature smiled and let out a thin, cruel cackle as it gathered its energy.

 

At the surface, Zebulon and the Canoness still fought in midair. Her power flail met his claws with stunning force, but she could not find a mark. Likewise, his ten thousand years of experience could not get past her blinding faith and inhuman speed; he cursed the penchant of these frail humans’ faith to do whatever it did to make them greater than the sum of their parts. He felt the old, familiar rage filling him again, and sought to keep it under control. Anger comes before mistakes. He must not fail.

 

“Your Emperor betrayed us all! He saw us becoming strong and attempted to damn us to his own weakness,” Zebulon recalled the Emperor forbidding the Berzerker-Surgeons’ work. “He betrayed Angron from the first, leaving the brothers he fought alongside to die!” he remembered the stories that had first poisoned his heart against the Emperor, those of Angron’s fellow gladiators fighting for freedom being left to die as the Emperor forcibly took his son away from them.

 

“You speak nothing but lies, my ears are closed to such heresy!” the woman screeched between swings.

 

Before Zebulon could respond, the earth in the courtyard exploded, sending Marine and Sister flying backward. Many Sororitas were crushed by the flying debris, and some Astartes. A slim figure rose from the rubble; its head was enlarged, brain seeming to attempt to explode from its cranium. Its eyes glowed with balefire; a ragged scar in the form of a Star of Chaos was prominently red against pale flesh. It wore a trenchcoat, ragged pants and little else.

 

So this was the power that lay beneath the convent, realized Zebulon. A rogue psyker.

 

His foe was momentarily distracted by the appearance of the psyker. Her eyes filled with horror where there had been only religious fervor before. Zebulon dove, and she turned, a soldier to the last; but her parry was too slow and Zebulon tore her apart with ease, and cast the bloody mess to the ground.

 

Slowly, he descended to the ground, glorifying in his victory; his jump pack burnt the ground below to brimstone. He powered it down and strode purposefully toward the psyker. Madness shone in the creature’s eyes and power crackled around it like a void shield. Zebulon could feel the hungry things in the Warp salivating to enter the mind of the psyker, yet shying away from the raw power of the being.

 

The creature looked towards him, directly into his eyes and into his soul, and Zebulon prayed to the Gods that he would survive this encounter. Sub-vocally, he opened a channel to the sorcerer Sindaroth, though he knew the rogue psyker would know of his commands nonetheless.

 

“Summon our Dark Mechanicus allies. Request that they aid our forces in killing the remaining Sororitas, but ensure that they do not engage the psyker. He is mine to deal with,” Zebulon whispered. He felt a psychic surge of assent, and within moments he felt the air grow greasy and charged as the Obliterator Cult tore its way into the realspace of the Chapel. The roar of their guns and the strange, guttural cries from their throats combined with the overall din of battle, but Zebulon felt as if the Convent were dead silent and he were alone under the presence of the psyker’s baleful stare.

 

He held his arms out to the side, and allowed his claws to retract; a gesture of peace he was not used to expressing. The claws rasped angrily as their violent natures were forced down into Zebulon’s psyche. He knew that the weapons would not avail him here.

 

“Ah, so my dreams were true, then,” he spoke, choosing his words carefully. “A true boon from the Gods. See the martial might of my armies? Wonder in your own power, which I see,” and he pointed to the Chaos star scarred onto the chest of the witch, “you have brought into the true fold? I have freed you, have I not? Imagine what we can accomplish together.”

 

The creature regarded him with a blank stare, though he could feel malevolence around them like a shroud.

 

“What can you give me that I could not take myself? I am a fount of might; I could slaughter you and your forces at a whim; I could even twist them to my will. As we said in the hives I once called home, why bother with the middleman?”

 

Inwardly Zebulon felt a growing unease, but forced it down. A moment of weakness could not be afforded here.

 

“Because no matter how powerful you are, I have the Gods on my side. Should you join me, our gains, our spoils, our might shall be vast beyond imagining. I shall gain the redemption I have fought ten thousand years to attain and you shall bask, nay, drown, in the glory of it,” he said, referring to his vision of daemonhood.

 

Suddenly, to his left, there was movement. A figure dressed in bloodied Inquisitorial garb fumbled weakly for a long wand-like object, obsidian and engraved with runes. The witch’s eyes glowed, and the Inquisitor was slammed against a wall. Light arced from the psyker to the Inquisitor, but it did not consume; instead it went into his eyes like water to a drain.

 

“Gelforst… fool. You thought to use me? Your ambition outweighs your ability, and now you are my plaything. Let us break your mind… yes,” the witch cooed. Zebulon could only watch as the light poured into the robed form, and the face contorted into incredible mental agony.

 

“How many innocents have you killed, Inquisitor? Oh, I know, all necessary deaths, but hear their screams, their crying, their moans and their weeping. Feel their blood as the ocean of it rises around you, smell the corpses on the pyre, taste the ash of their human forms on your tongue, all done in the name of your so-called purity,” the witch spat.

 

With the psyker’s attention fixed on the Inquisitor, the sorcerer Sindaroth inched towards the null rod. If he could get to it, he could use it to chain this beast, this psychic monstrosity…

 

“Surely, you could have spared one, two, maybe a dozen of your ‘acceptable losses’? Perhaps the boy?” the psyker dragged up a nightmare memory from Gelforst’s past. “Yes, what did the boy do? What an innocent, perfect, devoted child. And look what you did to him, Gelforst…”

 

Sindaroth’s hands closed around the null rod, and his fingers crept up to the activation rune. He felt a thrill of triumph… and suddenly he could feel the witch’s eyes upon him. The rogue psyker whipped around to face him, the light abruptly tearing away from Gelforst, who slumped to the ground a smoking corpse. Sindaroth moaned as the massive psychic presence, like the heat of a sun and the eye of a god, regarded him. He threw up a psychic shield but it shattered like glass as the witch made a backhanding gesture; Sindaroth flew some twelve yards away, and began crawling backwards away from the approaching psyker.

 

“You cost me my toy,” the witch said, gesturing behind him at Gelforst’s corpse. Sindaroth whimpered pathetically as the creature continued. “My, don’t we have some interesting powers. You hear lies and form from them prophecy. Very interesting,” the psyker grinned. “I suspect your soul will be most satisfying to consume,” it said softly and raised its arms. Crimson fire engulfed the psyker and its mouth distended and opened impossibly wide…

 

Suddenly the balefire faded from its eyes and it slumped to the ground in a heap. It cried out in anger and pain, clutching its head. As it did so, it saw right into the helmeted face of one of Hakanor’s Reavers, who held the null rod aloft like a talisman.

 

“How… how in the warp…” it began, then trailed off. “Wait… the chances of that are-“

 

“One in a trillion. Brother Ysocr here is a null; one might call it divine providence that he was brought into my service. Not of massive strength, of course, but enough to hide from your psychic senses… and do me a great favor,” Zebulon grinned smugly. “Now I think we shall begin negotiations in earnest, if you don’t mind.”

 

“What? Oh, yes,” the witch said, “you want me to join you. Well I’d intended to do so eventually, for you are marked by the Gods. You have some very powerful allies in them, Zebulon Hellshrike,” the creature said, and pointed to its chest. “And as you can imagine, I am fully willing to accommodate their visions… and yours. After all, who am I to deny a future Prince of the Warp?”

 

Zebulon’s breath caught. “You have… seen it?”

 

”I have seen many things, Zebulon. The doom of Mankind and his salvation in Chaos. The triumph or fall of the False Emperor. The struggle of the myriad races. But most of all, I have seen the strong prevail….”

 

”And the weak perish,” Zebulon finished, recalling the maxim of his warband. “Perish the weak.”

[Ferrata]

Spearhead

 

The Thunderhawk gunship raced across the barren landscape of Raj IV. Sergeant Varian sat in a firm passenger seat surveying the landscape. The tight interior was crowded with brother Astartes. Varian realized he didn’t like small enclosed areas, he preferred the open sky. The sky was the one thing that no one could control and he truly loved it.

 

“Brother-Sergeant, are you alright?”

 

“Yes Brother Leon, I am just preparing for the upcoming battle.” Varian thought about the coming predicament. The Eldar had arrived on the planet two weeks ago and had quickly set up a base of operations. The local Governor-Militant, Alexander Decimus had quickly called for aid when the Planet Defense Force had failed to halt the Eldar. The Blood Angels quickly responded with their 4th Company, led by Captain Nero.

 

Initially things went according to plan with the Angels landing and quickly setting up a perimeter, but that all changed with the Eldar assault. The marines had fended off the Xenos but not without heavy casualties. Many marines lay dead and wounded, including Captain Nero who received grievous injuries from an exploding Rhino.

 

Varian was granted temporary command of the remaining forces and he ordered a counter attack, a spearhead to pierce the heart of the Eldar.

 

“Sergeant, we are receiving a transmission from the Scout Squad Davius.”

 

“Patch it through”

 

A moment later, the static ceased and Davius said “Special Report to Sergeant Varian.”

 

“This is Sergeant Varian, what have you discovered?”

 

“The Eldar forces are concentrated at sector 209 and have erected defenses. There are two main points of entry, one through the eastern river and the other through the southern trenches.”

 

“Good work brother, relocate to sector 212 to provide fire support”

 

The pilot announced “Sir, we have visual contact with the enemy.”

 

Varian picked up the intercom and spoke “Fellow Blood Angels, today we attack the wretched Eldar and avenge our fallen brethren. Today we cleanse this world of this scum. Today we make our revered primarch proud. May the Emperor guide your weapons and drive them to the heart of the enemy.” Varian strode to the shutter and pulled it open. “On my signal men.” Varian surveyed the field and said “Brother Dagnar, take Devastator Squads Bellefus and Lorean to the southern trenches to provide heavy support. Squad Taranous will assist you. Brother Payam, lead Squads Alekon, Brutus, and Kenol to the eastern riverside. Squad Roland will accompany me, we shall strike from the skies. The rest of you, provide support where ever needed.” Varian activated his Power Mace. “For the Fallen Angel! Charge!”

 

The battle was not going well, the Eldar had reacted quickly enough to create a problem. The enemy outnumbered the marines and currently was slowly pushing them back. Varian and his men were pushed into the center of the Eldar camp and were being assailed from all side. To make matters worse, the Eldar Reapers were creating havoc everywhere. Varian smashed a Banshee in the face and shield bashed another. The men were getting overwhelmed.

 

“Sir, the we need to stop those Reapers, they are halting the other squads from entering the fray!”

 

“Agreed, take five men and follow me.” The sergeant activated his jump pack and bounded towards the nearest rooftop, his men closed in behind. “You two provide cover fire.” The rest of the men followed Varian towards the tower that hosted the Reapers. The enemy noticed the marines and turned to fire towards them, but they were to late. Chainswords hummed to life and bolters spat death as the attackers ploughed through the Reapers. Varian rammed the mace into the nearest Xenos, crushing ribs and internal organs. Another lunged towards him in hopes of knocking him down but a swift bat to the head ended that threat. Ahead, Varian saw one Reaper holding his own against Brother Stratos. This one sported ornate amour and brandished a deadly spear. “The Eldar commander.” The Eldar has pushed Stratos towards the wall and was gaining the upper hand. Varian ran towards the enemy but was to late. The enemy commander feinted to the left and came hard on the right. Stratos fell for the dupe and was cut down.

 

The Eldar turned to see Varian and said “Foolish marine, you are committing a terrible mistake.”

 

“Quiet scum, you will pay for your crimes!”

 

“Crimes? Fool! You are playing with forces that you do not see.”

 

“I have had enough!” Varian lunged at the Autarch with speed that defied his massive bulk swinging his mace in a wide arc. The Xenos ducked and retaliated with fierce, quick jabs putting him of the Varian on the defense. Varian raised his combat shield to defend the strikes but one breached his defenses and hit him in his shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Varian renewed his attack on his foe first by feinting to the right and then coming from the bottom. The Eldar leaned backwards and was just inches away from death. Varian reversed his swing downwards and the Autarch blocked the blow with his spear. The mace broke the spear in half and rendered the weapon useless.

 

Suddenly the ground began to shake. A voice boomed from everywhere “ Foolish mortals, you have made a grave mistake! Actually, I should thank you for freeing me from this prison. The amount of death and blood spilt on this planet had fed me enough!” A red mist blanketed the ground below the tower. A massive form stood in the middle. It had skin the color of blood and massive wings. Its face was dog like and it hefted a huge axe. “Now you all will die! Hahahahahahah!”

 

Varian looked in horror as he saw the Bloodthirster tear through the ranks of marine and Eldar alike. It axe cut through anything in its path. Varian looked at the Autarch and saw the same expression on his face.

 

The Autarch looked at him and yelled, “We must temporarily band together to stop this creature. It is our only way of survival!” Varian reluctantly agreed. The Eldar was right, but even he doubted that their combined forces could stop this menace.

 

“Men, ignore the Eldar we have a greater priority. We must kill the Bloodthirster. We have temporarily joined forces with the Eldar to confront this menace. Devastator Squads, on my command unleash hell on that thing. “ The Autarch relayed similar commands to his troops and the two forces worked in cohesion to overcome the greater evil.

 

The Eldar Autarch ran towards the massive daemon, its massive form easily overpowering all opposition. A trail of broken bodies and groaning men surrounded the daemon. It seemed to relish the sound of pain and the smell of blood.

 

The Autarch unleashed the fury of his reaper canon at the fiend. The daemon lurched forward and quickly turned around to find the source. Its eyes narrowed on the Autarch. It bellowed a mighty war cry and charged right towards the Eldar.

 

Sergeant Varian looked upon from the tower. The Bloodthirster had reached the Autarch and began its assault. Varian activated his jump pack and flew towards the beast. The Autarch quickly dodged the beast’s move, too quick for the best. He moved all around the beast, too fast for the beast to hit him. The Eldar ran through the beast legs, slicing the back of its calf with his word. The daemon bent over slightly and turned and received a blow to its face by Sergeant Varian’s power mace. The daemon fell over. “You will pay for that you runt!”

 

It flew after Varian, eager for its revenge. Varian led the daemon to towards the trenches. He landed and started in a full sprint with the greater daemon doing the same. “On my mark Devastators. Now!” Varian quickly flew upwards and the Bloodthirster was hit with a full volley of plasma and bolter fire. The daemon fell backwards and continued to receive the heavy punishment. It screamed and desperately tried to get away but it was to late.

 

 

“I thank you for the help Sergeant”

 

“ As do I Eldar. As a token of my gratitude, you may leave this planet before reinforcements arrive. But remember this, next time we meet we shall be enemies.”

 

“I would have it no other way.”

[Ferrata]

The Heart of the Sword

 

The holo-map stared at him, mocking him. His eyes had become bloodshot as the lights danced around in front of him. The situation was dire indeed. The Chaos fleet had vomited from the Eye of Terror, slaughtering their way through the Imperium’s defences. By all calculations they would be making planet fall upon Cadia in little under sixty-three hours, and if Cadia fell the Empire of Man would be on its knees. Foul beasts would pour forth and pillage, burn and wreck havoc across the Imperium. It wouldn’t be long before they were making siege upon Terra again, and bar Him striding from his golden throne and taking to battle Himself, all would be lost. If Cadia fell, the Imperium fell.

 

One of the greatest tacticians known to man keyed in his orders, it was the hundredth time he had done so in the past few hours. Ever since the call for aid had reached his ears he had been in his personal planning room. Variation after variation of battle plans had been hypothesised on the map and each time the machine spirit spoke the same two words. Its mono-tone voice uncaring for the meaning of the words, the number of people that would be slaughtered if it was to come true; Cadia Lost. He had known his hand would be forced, his fate decided before he had even looked at the map. With his head lowered, a single tear ran down the cheek of Rogal Dorn. The Imperial Fists would go to war and few would return.

 

He rose from his chair, his thick, furred cloak sweeping behind him like a faithful servant. Splashing water from a small bowl over his face to freshen his features, it would not be for the Primarch of the greatest chapter of Space Marines to look tired or worn. Striding down the corridor he looked every bit the god of men his father had intended him to be. His mere presence was enough to in vigour men to great feats, his aura enough to refill the heart of any man. Each individual step was a leap to a normal man, each movement perfectly judged to induce nothing but confidence in the men around him. His charisma wrapped around the Phalanx like a cloud of smoke, leaving no corner untouched. Injured men forgot the pain of their wounds to catch a glimpse of their Primarch, their leader, their general.

 

Dorn stepped into the command room, his captains already gathered for his council. They too had been rigorously pushing the holo-map to its limit in an attempt to find a more hopeful outcome. They snapped to attention as he approached them, waiting for his silver tongue to spill its words of honey into their hearts. Dorn could inspire men to the greatest feats; he could make ten marines strike at the force of a hundred; now he would need their strength.

 

Their eyes pierced his own, searching deep into his soul. He couldn’t bring himself to issue the commands, he couldn’t do this to them, to his men. Alone, he would have accepted the challenge without question, but to take his brothers forced him to think again. He would have single-handedly assaulted the Chaos fleet, but to throw his men into certain doom troubled him. They had prevailed against the odds before, the Emperor’s Palace during the Siege of Terra, in the trenches of the Iron Cage and now, in the twisted corridors of the traitor’s armada. He knew to ask any man to join him was to already have them along before he had finished the sentence; each would gladly follow him into battle. No matter the problems, no matter the numbers, no marine would falter in the face of death. They were his Imperial Fists, stubborn to perfection.

 

‘Captains, brothers, friends. Today we make a stand. Today we strike out at the enemy. Today we will taste battle. Brother-Captain Petur, you have control of the Phalanx and will remain chasing the damn Eldar. Tymon, Skah, grab as many men as can be spared, be they of your companies or that of others.’

 

**

 

The great muster hall of the Phalanx heaved with men, three hundred battle brothers stood ready for war. Dorn paced through them, sharing jokes with veterans he had fought with before, and giving words of encouragement to newer brothers. Finally reaching the front of his vast hose, he climbed upon the podium so all could see him. The past four hours had been hard, how would he tell the troops that many of them would die today. Clearing his throat, he glanced upwards, if seeking the advice of his father.

 

‘My brothers, the Great Enemy has Cadia on a plate, he only needs to strike out to capture it. He has been here before, and this time he takes a little more caution and ports his fleet in the Pellenos Belt, preparing his men for war. Unlucky for him we are within striking distance. He feels safe, secure, but we will show him the wrath of the Imperium. Our mission is simple; we attack and cripple his fleet. In doing so, his so called Black Crusade will be pushed back and we will live to fight another day. This mission is dangerous, and many of us will not return to drink in victory, but it is our duty as warriors of the Emperor to fight regardless of ourselves. I would not ask for any of you to lay down your lives for the Chapter, no, for the Imperium, for I know you will do anyway. This mission is impossible for any mortal man, but we are not mortal men. Success would be improbable for all the other chapters of Space Marines, but we are not them. Success in this mission is vital and we are the Imperial Fists and it is our mission.’

 

A huge cheer erupted from the floor; Dorn was almost deafened by the roar. As he strode through his men, clasping hands with many, he knew he had made the right call. They would not fail him.

 

**

 

It had come down to this, one bridge, one corridor, one ship. They had already struck a deep wound into the Chaos fleet but this one assault would multiply the destruction ten-fold. To cripple the flag ship of the armada would not only be a physical blow but destroy the enemy’s morale. Behind them lay a wake of carnage, vessels bloodied in high anchor. Unfortunately along with the countless dead of the enemy slept two-hundred and forty-three Imperial Fists, lost to the Imperium. Each brother still alive mourned their losses, but mourned the fact they could not retrieve the bodies of their comrades more. On the bridge of the Sword of Sacrilege it would be decided if their sacrifice was worth the pain of their loss.

 

Dorn look down at himself, he didn’t see the noble son of the Emperor instead of blood-soaked soldier in a situation far out of his control. Gathered around him stood seventeen brave warriors, even the youngest with the look of ancient veterans. He nodded to Captain Skah, a survivor of the Iron Cage who now had gashes all across his face where his blood had quickly clotted. Veteran-Brother Zian caught his eye, Zian who had slain the Daemon Prince G’Unn’Hana, missing his right arm and along with it the ancient battle sword Divinity. Newly promoted battle brothers, Abele and Kwame, crouched the other side of the corridor attempting to give emergency treatment to Brother Geraud, who’s even heightened immune system could not deal with the extent of his wounds.

 

The chattering of heavy automatic weapons shook Dorn back from the eyes of his children. The traitors had retreated to the bridge and had set up firing lines, weapon platforms and traps for his men to fall prey to. The withdrawal had already cost the lives of nine Imperial Fists, and by the looks of Geraud it wouldn’t be long before that number reached ten.

 

‘Brother Abele, Brother Salal, frags...now!’ he bellowed from his lungs. Almost instantly two grenades were bouncing their way down the corridor towards the embankment. Dorn counted down the fuses in his head, three...two..., pushing his might round the corner he was in full sprint before the others had even realised what he was doing. As two explosions ripped down the other end of the corridor his storm bolter was spitting out bolts towards the enemy, just to make sure they kept their heads down over to inflict any damage. Four paces away from the sandbag wall he dropped his gun to his side and drew his sword, the large blade flickering into life as he thumbed the activation rune.

 

The combat was over quick, the six traitors lay dead behind their still hot guns. Dorn’s quick strokes had decapitated two, destroyed both hearts of another and almost obliterated a fourth. The other two had been incapacitated by numerous quick slashes across their chests, their armour offering little protection from the precise aim of the Primarch. As his small group of brothers approached down the corridor, Dorn flicked them a quick smile.

 

‘That wasn’t too hard now was it?’

 

Heavy fire cracked against the wall and around the door frame, obviously those guarding the bridge realising their last line of defence had been destroyed. Zian peered around the corner, a couple of stray bullets pinging of his helmet.

 

‘How many brother?’

 

‘Too many, milord.’

 

‘I said how many?’

 

‘I counted at least three dozen, but who knows how many are hidden within the depths of that room.’

 

He knew his men would be cut down by the sheer mass of fire as they raced through the door, but the ship had been built well, designed to repel all assaults made against it. Sixteen able marines, not one of them without some wound which would require a week or two of rest to fully repair. Seventeen, including him, against at least thirty-six...the odds were not in the favour of the Emperor’s Praetorians today. The odds had been against them all the way through but they had pulled through. They had fought their way to the heart of the enemy fleet, to the heart of the flagship itself, to the heart of the sword.

 

‘Place Brother Geraud behind the guns, he will be our rearguard. ‘

 

Realisation spread across the faces of his men, this mission was to become their final one. They would die in the next five minutes, none doubted that. Even the great Dorn could not withstand the bloodshed that was about to hit them. Geraud attempted to argue his way into assault, not wanting to be left out of this glorious moment. He knew his legs could not carry him anymore but to miss this would be a mark of shame he would bare forever.

 

‘Brothers, you know I am not one for words...’

 

A quiet chuckle was shared by the marines, the irony of their Primachs words not failing any of them.

 

‘It has been my honour to serve amongst you, to guide you in life, to lead you into battle and now join you in death. Today our victory has cost the lives of many, too many if I am to be honest. I would have happily given my life to replace any of those who have already fallen but my life is not mine to give. ‘

 

His eyes began watering up, the end was in sight and all he could think about was how would his chapter do without him. Those he had left in charge were capable, excelling at all that was required of masters of a chapter, but it would be a sad day indeed when Rogal Dorn would not sit at the head of the Imperial Fists. As the first tears ran down his face, he stared deeply at each of the warriors around him.

 

‘With me my brothers, now we teach our enemies the meaning of fury. To the glory to Him on Earth!’

 

As Brother Geraud watched his General disappear into the command bridge, followed by all those who had came this far, he wept. Out of the corner of his watery eye, he saw movement. Starting up the auto cannon, he was damn sure he wasn’t going to be the last one to see Rogal Dorn alive.