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The Rise of the Warmaster

Skirax

By Skirax
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Skirax Venerable Brother

Skirax

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Cypher stepped out from the shadows, the dark crevices of the battlefield unwilling to release him. He smiled from below his hood, surveying the battle below between the Fallen Angels and the Imperial Guardsmen.

Not a battle, Cypher corrected himself, a slaughter, he thought with a sadistic smile.

Blood ran in rivers, the sand below a deep crimson as the tide of Chaos Warriors swept through the Imperial defences, overrunning gun lines and storming bastions. He chuckled as he watched a marine crush a guardsman’s head with his bare fist. He suddenly caught a glimpse of a flash of green in the gathering clouds. He replayed the image in his mind, and froze the image of the flash, and zoomed in on it.

He looked at the image with horror as he saw a dark green ceramite ship with the symbol of a winged sword emblazoned upon it.

‘It’s a trap!’ he screamed as he was clubbed around the back of the head.

 

The marine awoke, his mind cloudy and filled with disturbing images and memories. He looked around, shaking, the cold of the room pressing down on him. In the distance he heard the dripping of a tap. He raised his hand to feel his head, but stopped short when he heard the sound of chains. His head snapped down, his superhuman senses penetrating the dark. The chinking of the chains hit his ears hard, making the ringing effect in them seem to magnify a hundred fold. He screemed, after ten thousand years of freedom, he was chained and restrained. It was not right, it was not something he was used to.

He suddenly became aware of the blood on his chest and the throbbing pain in his head. He groaned, the pain filling him and setting his body afire.

His bare feet froze on the stone floor, small puddles of water collecting around his feet.

He suddenly became aware of a pict screen on the ground before him. Bending down to pick it up, it suddenly sprang to life. On the screen was an ominous servitor, it's head made to resemble an alarmingly horrifying child's doll in the shape of a skull. It was looking off to the left, but as the marine brought the screen closer, the head turned to look at him. Its mouth piece moved along with a voice that clearly not its own. The voice was dry and raspy, and put a fear in him that chilled him to the bone.

'Hello Cypher. I want to play a game...'

Cypher released a faint whimper from his lips. The skull had dark crimson eyes and swirls of a similar colour on its cheeks. The doll was a horrific visage, and it seemed to look deep into his soul.

‘You have no respect for life, spending it as easily as you would Bolter shells. You have spent many lives in your quest, and none of the lives worthless. From a lowly Imperial Guardsman to the highest Grey Knight, you care not for your actions as they affect you as little as possible.

‘But tonight, we shall see how you deal with the opposite end of the barrel, so to speak.’ A bright light lit up, and the room was bathed in illumination. Three figures stood before him, their feet bolted to the floor and chains attached to their spines. Their faces were tortured, a haunted look on their face. ‘These men are survivors of your remorseless attacks. They have seen you murder their comrades and have watched as you butcher helpless victims.

‘After tonight, you will now how it feels to beg and grovel to someone who has your life in their hands.’ Cypher’s eyes widened in fear. ‘Down to your knees, Cypher. Beg for your life. Live or die.

‘Make.

‘Your.

‘Choice.’

And with that, the pict screen clicked off, and Cypher turned to look at the men before him. Each had a Plasma Gun in their hands, each of which were bound to the gun. Cypher fell to his knees, opening his mouth to ask for pity. But his mouth was too dry, and so he licked his lips to bring the words tumbling out.

‘Please, please take pity.’ The words stung him. He had never asked for pity, nor had said please in an unmocking way. ‘I beg you, take mercy.’

‘You took no pity on us, so why should I take pity on you?’ asked one calmly. Cypher turned to look at him, and saw him as a Commissar. Oh, that’s hardly fair, thought Cypher. The man aimed down the sights of his weapon, and pulled the trigger. The plasma core fizzled and popped, and the end spluttered.

This is it, thought Cypher. I’m going to die to scum.

Then the core burst to flames, and the Commissar was lit up with fire as the flames spread along his arm, burning the clothes from his form and taking the hair from his head. He screamed as the bright blue flames ran along his form and turned him to ash in an instant.

The other two cried out in horror, fear and terror creasing their features. They looked at Cypher, hatred filling their eyes. They took aim down their sights, and with sweat on their upper lips, they strained the trigger. Cypher gulped, and looked about the room, seeing a mirror in the upper right corner. Realisation hit his face, and he turned back to the Humans.

‘No you fools,’ he hissed. ‘It’s a trap!’

Woah, déjà vu, thought Cypher.

But the humans were arrogant and stupid. They pulled down hard on the triggers, and they shared the fate of their Commissar, turning to glittering ash in seconds. Some sparks flew from their burning forms, and caught the chains around Cyphers wrists. They melted in an instant, releasing the marine from his bonds. The door at the other end of the room opened, and a beam of light fell across the floor. Cypher stumbled forward, coming into the next room and looking about him.

He saw three men bound to poles, two pikes at the sides of their necks, tips millimetres from flesh. Cypher gulped, and saw the pict screen at his feet come to life. Again, there was the doll from hell, staring at him mockingly.

‘Congratulations. You are still alive.

‘You have always distrusted those around you, Cypher, but now that mistrust is about to be tested. There is a door beyond each captured man, and you must trust one of them that the door they guard is the door to safety. Decision is one thing, but indecision is another all together. If you have not left this room in five minutes, then the bombs in the corner will go off.’ Cyphers head snapped to the closest corner, and saw a frag grenade nested there. A timer was on it, set to 5:00. ‘Mistrust leaves you at a loose end, but trust can bring you ruin. Make the right choice, Cypher, or it shall be you with peices sticking out of you.’

A click, and the screen was dead again. Immediately, the room was full of noise, the ticking of a clock and the screaming of three men. Cypher held his head in his hands, and covered his ears with his hands, trying to drown out the din. He walked towards the door behind the middle one, and touched the handle. He suddenly felt that something far more sinister than a ‘live or die’ decision was here, and he recoiled from the door. He walked quickly to the next door and glanced at the clock.

3:00.

T’zeentch alive! thought Cypher. Had it all gone so quickly. His hearts started beating faster, and his breath caught in his throat. He took his hand closer to the handle and stopped short. Making probably a decision he would later regret, he ran over to the third door, the one he hadn’t tried yet. He breathed deeply, and opened the door and walked into a dark room.

He heard a click behind him, and the man who had ‘guarded’ this door fell down into the floor, which then sealed over him as though he had never been there. Cypher quickly shut the door, glancing a final look at the clock.

0:03.

As the door sealed shut, he heard an almighty boom, and felt around for a light switch. He felt one, and flicked it, igniting the glow globed around the edge of the room. There before him was an Astartes, resplendent in his armour, watching him with contempt. When he spoke, his voice was dry and raspy.

‘Well done, Cypher. You have won the game. But not without cost, nor experience. You now know the value of life, and trust. You should now value the Emperor as you would value your own life. Do you?’

Cypher considered. There had been no mention of the Emperor in the recent events, and he had no idea if he did or not. He decided to give an answer. After consideration, he believed it was the most honest one.

‘Yes.’

‘Then you are free of the daemons that have plagued you,’ The marine pressed a button on his armour and in an instant they were in a different place. The walls were golden, and candles littered the floor.

‘Where are we?’ asked Cypher.

‘Terra,’ answered Constantin Valdor.

To Be Continued....

calgar101 Venerable Brother

calgar101

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It was good but the bit at the end "In the grim darkness of the far future, there are only Saw Games....

" remove it as it detracts from the seriousness of the story. Although i worked out that it had saw influence, its better to hint or let us work it out then directly say so, also the end part was a bit cheesy to say that:P Otheriwse rather good, but why would Cypher be scared of some nail bombs? I'm assuming he is wearing his armour and also if not, he is a space marine, they do not fear such crude weapons for they can deal with the injuries, pain ec rather easily.

Skirax Venerable Brother

Skirax

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The Lord of Angels

Corbulo walked the dusty steps, his footfalls silent as they hit the layer of dust that coated the ancient marble steps. Along the walls of the flight of stairs hung dozens of battle honours and banners, dating from the most recent campaign all the way back to the dark times of the Horus Heresy.

As he thought of that time, anger welled up within him. Despite the fact that he hadn't been present, nor alive for that matter, during those dark times, the pain of Sanguinius and the genetic memory of his titanic clash with Horus reverberated through his bones.

Corbulo sighed, his head bowed. The Dark Times had come once more, he thought with a shudder. One hundred marines, lost to the Black Rage in one instant. The psychic shockwaves had put poor brother Mephiston into an unbreakable coma, and now, at this most inopportune time, new recruits had come to the palace of Angels to prove their place in one of the Imperium’s mightiest of Chapters.

He came to the top of the stairs, pausing for a moment at the banner of Sanguinius, the blood red cloth lined with gold still marked and blemished with the blood of traitors and daemons to this day. He brushed his fingers along its side, feeling all the sorrow and sadness disappear for one instant. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose, taking in all the subtle smells that the Chamber had about it.

He pushed open the golden doors and entered the Chamber of the Angel. In a glass case laid Sanguinius at the centre of the Chamber, his once tanned face now pale with age and time. This preservation case was the only way to keep him and his bones from falling prey to the winds of age, and them falling from his beautiful body.

He fell to his knees before the case, covered his face with his hands, and wept. Now, more than ever, the Primarch was needed. He wept and wept, his sobs coming in ragged streams, tears falling through the cracks between his hands, soaking the floor and forming in a pool around his knees.

‘Oh, blessed Angel! Tell me what to do, for I fear that the burdens that are required of me are too much for me!’ cried Corbulo, his sobs relenting for a moment before coming once again. He heard a faint scratching, but thought nothing of it. When he looked once more at the case, it was devoid of it’s occupant.

Thoughts raced through Corbulo’s mind, flashing images of possibilities. Had a Daemon come, put him under a spell and carried the Primarchs’ broken form away? He dismissed the thought before it had begun. The Chamber was consecrated against the warp’s tainting touch.

‘Then what has happened?’ asked Corbulo aloud.

‘Ask me yourself,’ came a soft voice from behind him. The voice was soft like silk, and ran like water from a stream. He turned to see the speaker, knowing through genetic memory full well who it was.

There stood the Lord of Angels, resplendent once more in his beautifully tanned skin, his relic armour and his marble white wings, spread wide behind him. Where it could possibly be a warp taint, instead of it turning it sour like all things that the warp grants, it had become a sight that pleased the eye and caressed the mind. How such a beautiful sight could exist, Corbulo could not think.

The tears came once more, streaming down his face and dripping from his chin. But, far from the tears of sorrow that he had shed a moment before, these were tears of happiness and pleasure, the Primarch returned once more.

‘The Angel hath come again!’ roared Corbulo, banging his armoured fist against his breast plate. Sanguinius smiled, a halo of golden light surrounding him.

Skirax Venerable Brother

Skirax

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I'm not sure, I think I may put that they use distilled gene-seed from Sanguinius now that he's back, but the old veterans still have the Black Rage and the Red Thirst etc. because the genetic memory is still there, right?

 

As for this new update, this will be the last of the Loyalist Primarchs coming back, then we have the return of the traitors... And I can get back to battle! It's my best writing point :cuss

Skirax Venerable Brother

Skirax

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The Lord of Angels

Corbulo walked the dusty steps, his footfalls silent as they hit the layer of dust that coated the ancient marble steps. Along the walls of the flight of stairs hung dozens of battle honours and banners, dating from the most recent campaign all the way back to the dark times of the Horus Heresy.

As he thought of that time, anger welled up within him. Despite the fact that he hadn't been present, nor alive for that matter, during those dark times, the pain of Sanguinius and the genetic memory of his titanic clash with Horus reverberated through his bones.

Corbulo sighed, his head bowed. The Dark Times had come once more, he thought with a shudder. Two hundred marines, lost to the Black Rage in one instant. The psychic shockwaves had put poor brother Mephiston into an unbreakable coma, and now, at this most inopportune time, new recruits had come to the palace of Angels to prove their place in one of the Imperium’s mightiest of Chapters.

He came to the top of the stairs, pausing for a moment at the banner of Sanguinius, the blood red cloth lined with gold still marked and blemished with the blood of traitors and daemons to this day. He brushed his fingers along its side, feeling all the sorrow and sadness disappear for one instant. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose, taking in all the subtle smells that the Chamber had about it.

He pushed open the golden doors and entered the Chamber of the Angel. In a glass case laid Sanguinius at the centre of the Chamber, his once tanned face now pale with age and time. This preservation case was the only way to keep him and his bones from falling prey to the winds of age, and them falling from his beautiful body.

He fell to his knees before the case, covered his face with his hands, and wept. Now, more than ever, the Primarch was needed. He wept and wept, his sobs coming in ragged streams, tears falling through the cracks between his hands, soaking the floor and forming in a pool around his knees.

‘Oh, blessed Angel! Tell me what to do, for I fear that the burdens that are required of me are too much for me!’ cried Corbulo, his sobs relenting for a moment before coming once again. He heard a faint scratching, but thought nothing of it. When he looked once more at the case, it was devoid of it’s occupant.

Thoughts raced through Corbulo’s mind, flashing images of possibilities. Had a Daemon come, put him under a spell and carried the Primarchs’ broken form away? He dismissed the thought before it had begun. The Chamber was consecrated against the warp’s tainting touch.

‘Then what has happened?’ asked Corbulo aloud.

‘Ask me yourself,’ came a soft voice from behind him. The voice was soft like silk, and ran like water from a stream. He turned to see the speaker, knowing through genetic memory full well who it was.

There stood the Lord of Angels, resplendent once more in his beautifully tanned skin, his relic armour and his marble white wings, spread wide behind him. Where it could possibly be a warp taint, instead of it turning it sour like all things that the warp grants, it had become a sight that pleased the eye and caressed the mind. How such a beautiful sight could exist, Corbulo could not think.

The tears came once more, streaming down his face and dripping from his chin. But, far from the tears of sorrow that he had shed a moment before, these were tears of happiness and pleasure, the Primarch returned once more.

‘The Angel hath come again!’ roared Corbulo, banging his armoured fist against his breast plate. Sanguinius smiled, a halo of golden light surrounding him.

Corbulo bowed his head, breaking his sight from the beautiful figure before him, and regretting it instantly. Sanguinius chuckled, then reached forward and put his finger under his son’s chin, raising it and beaming at Corbulo from high above him. A single tear ran Sanguinius’ eye, and once again Corbulo wept, but like before, not sadness, with a great happiness that filled him and overwhelmed him.

Then a great explosion came from the outer walls of the fortress. Corbulo’s face fell and he looked at Sanguinius helplessly.

As they raced to the outer walls, the explosions came more frequently and far louder, until it became apparent that a full company of artillery was bearing down on the fortress.

Not for the first time, Corbulo wondered how this immense artillery battery had landed and set up without the sensors even being aware of it. He raced past a meditation room, and saw his squad clambering out of the practise cages, donning their axes and pistols in a race to be the first to the action. Most of them had barely got their whole armour on when they saw Corbulo and joined with him in the charge. In the first instances of the action, with their minds preoccupied, they forgot about the majestic figure that ran with them. Then, they stopped, and gaped in awe at the resplendent figure before them, before gathering themselves and bowing low before him. A look of frustration crossed Sanguinius’ beautiful face, the lines and furrows creasing it.

‘Brothers, I am honoured by your respect, but unless you haven’t noticed, there is a siege going on,’ spoke the Angel calmly. There was a hint of frustration in his voice that he couldn’t mask, and the marines heard it also, asking forgiveness and, when the Angel gave it, climbing to their feet and racing forward to join Corbulo in the charge to the outer walls.

 

The scene that lay before them shocked them to the core. Beyond the walls of the Fortress of Angels, a tide of filth stretched as far as the eye could see. Tainted machines roared their guns without conscious help, and mutated shells impacted on the walls of the fort. Daemons surged forward, throwing themselves at the walls as if they could break down the wall. Corrupted armoured personnel carriers roared around the battlefield, their guns never tiring, and twisted Astartes warriors roaring their praises to their patron God, which was evidently Khorne due to the massive Khornate sign painted in the spilt blood of the inhabitants of Baal. The sight raised Corbulo’s choler, and it clearly had the same affect on Sanguinius too, as his chest and shoulder were rising and falling in rapid succession, and the angry side of the Primarch was shining through. The genetic memory of the battle with Horus stirred within him, and threatened to rise to the fore. It was then that Corbulo had an idea.

‘My Lord,’ said Corbulo, the Primarch turning to listen to him. ‘Before you returned, two full companies of our brothers were lost to the Black Rage, a terrible moment in our history, but now it seems to be a blessing in disguise; all of the brothers were armed with Jump Packs and – ‘

‘-we could sally out to meet our foe,’ finished Sanguinius. We spread his wings in agreement and smiled. ‘Fetch these unfortunate men,’ he said, ‘and arm them with the finest assault weapons you can find.’

 

Corbulo ran down the hallways, gathering any additional scouts and initiates, as it had come to the last resort; conscription of initiates. Men who had barely begun the long and arduous training to even prove themselves worthy of the geneseed were now being pushed into service. They ran with him, and after just two minutes of running, 15 scouts, 60 initiates and 10 full Astartes flanked him as they ran to the holding cells of the Death Company.

Corbulo turned the corner as he came to a door marked ‘Iron Cells’ with the inscription, ‘Those who enter rarely leave’. How irrelevant that is in this moment, thought Corbulo. The doors slid open, the darkness that lingered beyond them all-enveloping. A soft scuffling was heard, and Corbulo entered warily. The doors slid closed behind him before he had taken three steps into the room, and the scuffling had louder. He could have sworn it was closer, too.

Then he was pressed to the ground, a knife at his throat and a hot breathing blowing like the desert winds of Baal into his face. The stench of blood was strong, and Corbulo’s nose wrinkled.

‘Who are you?!’ demanded the invisible assailant.

‘I am Corbulo of the Blood Angels, a soldier in your Chapter, and your brother, now let me up!’ he spat, confronting raw anger with steely faith.

The threatening knife retracted slowly, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his neck. Once again, the invisible man spoke.

‘What is it that you want? And how dare you imprison me like this! I am Sanguinius!’ rang out the voice. Corbulo sighed as other voices rang out from the darkness, claiming that they, also, were Sanguinius. A terrible side effect of the Black Rage; the victims thought themselves to be the Primarch.

‘Your homeworld comes under attack!’ cried Corbulo wearily, appealing to their belief that they were the beloved Primarch. Roars came out of the darkness and Corbulo’s ears bled as they were assaulted by scores of gruff, guttural voices. Probably a side effect of being out of touch with their sane brethren for so long, they forgot how to speak properly. ‘Honour and duty calls! Who will answer?’

A chorus of yes’ came out of the blackness and Corbulo smiled.

 

Sanguinius watched as yet more Daemons hurled themselves at the walls. His face was a stoic mask, for he knew that if Corbulo’s plans were to fail, then Baal would fall after ten thousand years of Imperial Rule, and be drenched in the baleful tide of the daemonic, a blemish on the galaxy. He spread his wings wide, a shadow falling over the Daemons as the sun of Baal shone brightly behind him. They looked up and saw the Angel, and they stopped for the moment. Some traitorous human soldiers threw down their weapons and fled. Larger Daemons snarled commands, and the tide of vermin turned upon their erstwhile allies and butchered them. Sanguinius watched in silence as human body parts flew across the milling Daemons. Then he heard a roar of engines behind him, and the stench of burning petroleum fluid tickled his nostrils. He turned to see the source of the smell and sound to see two hundred Astartes armed with Power Axes and Bolt Pistols that hummed with power and clicked as rounds slotted into place. They launched into the air and flew clean over the walls, roars of hatred and vengeance filling the purple skies.

The sight made Sanguinius’ chest swell with pride, the sight of his brothers giving their lives in the name of the continued existence of Baal and the Chapter. He took to the skies with them and sang praises to the Emperor as they Angels of Death crashed into the faltering foe.

Axes crunched bone beneath them and banished Daemons, leaving ethereal wisps of light in their places like the smoke from a fire. Pistols barked and heads exploded and chests split as two hundred rounds hit the foe. As the traitors rallied themselves, the Death Company charged forwards, reacting faster than the warp could handle. Blood flowed in their wake, and fleeing humans were run down in the slaughter. Sanguinius saw a marine leap forward and slap a melta bomb into a vision slit of a tank, while another threw a krak grenade into the midst of a huddled group of humans.

He rose up over the carnage and saw a Bloodthirster do the same. Sanguinius looked on in shock; this was no normal Bloodthirster, this was the one who had broken his legs and slaughtered near five hundred of his brothers on Signus Prime; the same one who he had banished during the Siege of Terra; Ka’Bandha, Lord of All Bloodthirsters. Sanguinius growled with anger, and surged forward to meet his foe.

In a crude copy of the Siege of Terra, the two clashed in a titanic duel, Sanguinius dealing a blow to the Arch Daemon that would have knocked the head from a mortal, but only giving the Daemon a severe headache. Similarly, Ka’Bandha drove his clove hoof into Sanguinius’ midriff, knocking the breath out of the Primarch. The two fought for hours, as the cleansing tide of the Death Company forced back further and further the tide of filth. Ka’Bandha seemed to be failing in combat, and Sanguinius pushed ever harder. He dealt a blow to the Daemon and severed the Bloodthirster’s right arm. As he did so, the whip that he carried in his left hand hurtled through the air and lashed Sanguinius across the cheek. Crimson blood flowed freely down the now pale skin of the Primarch. In a moment of absolute anger, Sanguinius threw himself at the Daemon, putting all of his weight behind himself and throwing Ka’Bandha to the floor. He landed on the Daemon’s broken form, and plunged his stiff right hand into the Daemon’s neck, severing his head and ending the pitiful thing’s existence. He drew his hand back, and Ka’Bandha chuckled. Sanguinius snarled and leant in close to whisper into the thing’s ear.

‘You are filth, and you are ended.’

‘Fool,’ came the surprisingly soft reply. ‘I have beaten you in more ways than you could possibly imagine.’ Then his head fell back Sanguinius passed his hand through the remaining strands of the Daemon’s neck, then held the trophy high, before throwing it to the ground in disgust.

He sighed, looking on as the remaining hundred marines mopped up the few remaining heretics.

 

He looked at the purple sky, realising that there were more of his enemy far above him, but not the daemonic; these were cold hard traitors, and with fire and steel he would cleanse them.

 

Baal would never be the same again.

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