Vermillion Crusade

[Monstra Sumus]

11

 

Lexmar Prime had been brought back into the folds of the Imperium, but it would feel the scars left by the Knights for a thousand years.

The palace had been brought down upon the heads of the traitors to the Imperial rule and the rebel forces had been utterly crushed. Those remaining loyal to the Imperial forces crawled from their holes and scrambled from the dark of the world to stand upon the blood and corpse strewn streets. They breathed in the copper tasting air, thick with smoke and death. Several days had passed since the battle, no, the massacre. Clean up operations had been tasked to the reinforcing Guard from Lexmar Secundus and a strict curfew had been imposed by the returning governance office.

 

The capitol city of Lexmar Prime lit the skyline with her fires. Two Guardsmen scrambled along one of the deserted high streets, rubble and twisted metal making their journey difficult. The first crested a tumbled building spread across the road, the second stumbling back down the pile of rockcrete.

 

' Frak it! '

 

Lesker dropped himself down onto the slab of building he'd fallen onto, rubbing the life back into his numb knee. The first one turned, clutching his auto rifle between thick gloves, he chuckled to himself and took a step back down.

 

' I suppose we can take five minutes rest, you got a Lho? '

 

Lesker delved his fingers into the top pocket of his great coat and fiddled for a moment before pulling a battered pack of smoke sticks out. He tossed them up over his shoulder.

 

' Cheers. '

 

Demeter stooped to grab the pack and straightened himself, sliding one out of the pack and snapping the small plastic strip upon the front of it. The Lho-stick sparked and he sucked on the other end of it, puffing out blue clouds from around the cigarette. He dropped the pack into his pocket and patted it. He looked down at Lesker as the man whistled in appreciation of the destruction around them.

 

' Them Astartes didn't leave much left to even piss on did they, eh? '

 

Demeter nodded and sucked on the smoke stick again, picking his way back down the rubble to sit beside Lesker.

 

' Well, that's what happens if your regiment turns its back on the Emperor like this. You don't get a commissariat prat shooting you in the back, you get annihilated. '

 

Lesker folded his arms over his lasgun, working his fingers over the pitted wooden stock.

 

' I didn't even think them Space Marines was real. I thought they was just something the on High made up to keep the piss in us. Guess I was wrong about that. I mean, angels and daemons and all that were just cooked up by the church to keep the masses in line, well that's what my 'pa always used to say. '

 

Demeter looked down at his six year companion and raised an eyebrow.

 

' That before or after they carted his arse off for speaking heresy? You're lucky I hate you so much, or I'd have shot you for that. The Astartes are real and they do bring the wrath of the Emperor with them...all you have to do is look on the parade yard outside the palace. '

 

He shuddered at the thought of what he'd seen, he wouldn't be able to sleep for that night, he doubted he'd ever forget the carnage.

Leskers vox unit crackled into life, picking up a broad wave transmission. He thumbed the tuning tool upon the side of the speaker unit attached to his combat webbing and sought to clear the source.

 

++....this day....fires and war....Emperor willing....++

 

Demeter leant forward, ushering Lesker to hurry up clearing the signal. The second man frowned at the first and continued scrubbing the line until with a grunt he was receiving the message with only the barest cut of static.

 

++ He smiles upon this field of battle, brothers. We have performed his work. I lament at the destruction of sacred human souls, but to turn from his Light is to condemn one's self. Let it be known, that we, the Knights Vermillion have preserved those worthy of His love and strengthened their faith. ++

 

Lesker fixed his eyes with Demeter as a sound cut through the silence of the street around them. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Both men knew that to be the sound of armour shod feet. The Guardsmen scrambled up over the lip of the fallen building and their breath caught in their throats at what they saw.

 

The armoured might of the Adeptus Astartes marched along in unison, black and red armour glistening under the glow of the sun. The head of the procession was a wash of silver and black, hulking giants in dreadnought armour smashed rubble aside with their crackling power fists. The leader of this band of brothers was not difficult to pick out, a tall banner, bearing the impaled body of the rogue commander bopped up and down, a red gauntlet clutching a black sword upon the fluttering cloth. The brother holding it aloft marched behind the obvious master of the Chapter, two others of this honour guard clutching the poles to a palanquin that stretched above the two figures beneath it. Clad in a high gorget which obscured fully half of the black helmet, the bone embossed shoulder guards which glittered with ruby blood drops and taloned gauntlets, the Chapter master was a sight to behold. A great shawl of chainmail was wrapped around his form, the bulk of a jump pack strapped to his broad shoulders. A fearsome axe with a glowing white blade was clutched in one hand, in the other was a pistol of monstrous proportions. The ground seemed to blacken and smoulder beneath his tread, a constant wash of steam and smoke boiling up from within the creases of his armour plating. The harsh red glare of his helmet visors forced home the dread one would feel to face such a warrior upon the field of battle.

 

++ Lift up your hearts and remember, though our work is bloody, our nature savage, it brings justice for the innocent. We go to accept the offering of the peoples, we go to be humbled by their gesture. We do not ask for such a reward, but it may preserve our humanity and bring us clarity of purpose. ++

 

Demeter let the Lho stick fall from his lips, Lesker perched upon the edge of the rubble with held breath.

 

Thralls and robed figures trailed between the hulking brutes, oil soaked cloths and burning braziers were applied to the armours of the venerable warriors, removing the grit and stains of war. Each brother that received such attention bowed to the servants before resuming their stoic positions in the march, bolt guns clamped to their massively wide chests. Shields as large as a door were strapped to the backs of almost every Marine, long swords were positioned upon the right hip of each warrior, their baroque armour must have been millennia old, decked in seals of purity, litanies of faith and moment. Great swathes of chainmail decked the brotherhood, an array of trinkets and fetishes adorned each warrior, identifying them as individual in such a uniform formation.

 

The second figure beneath the palanquin was a visage of death. His armour midnight black and built in such a way as to offend courage itself. Curving plates were studded with iron spikes, the fingers upon the long gauntlets ended in razor sharp claws. Skulls were chained and bound to the warriors waist, blood smeared Aquila's carved into the very bone. A giant steel shod book was also chained to the black armour, jostling for position with an ornate pistol which gave off a sickly green glow from the ribbed power coils upon its barrel. Clutched in one hand was a weapon of pure power, two scything wings of gold and steel attached to a iron studded shaft, a halo of blue power arcing in fitful streaks across the head of the maul. By his gestures, it was this terrifying skull faced warrior who delivered the sermon over the vox network.

 

Demeter tried to count the Angels of Death as they marched past but it was hopeless, his count became jumbled after the first hundred. Such a sight shocked him to the depths of his soul. The size of them was magnificent and horrifying. He'd always assumed to legends to be full of grandeur and misinformation. If anything, the legends were lacking, these were not the Emperors defenders of humanity, no, these were living weapons, each capable of subduing an entire nation under his heel.

 

They watched for a time, awed and barely noticing the drone that filled the air. It was the sound of voices, deep and thunderous. Hundreds of them joined together in union and it almost rumbled the ground beneath their feet. Each of the Space Marines were bellowing at the top of their super enhanced lungs, their projected voices loud with their praise to the Emperor and a mighty being called Sanguinius. Lesker tried to say something but his words were swallowed by the behemoth that followed at the rear of the procession.

 

The ground shuddered under the mighty footfalls of the war machine. Its armoured form resplendent with banners and chains, icons and skulls. The front of the Dreadnought was wrought into the form of a screaming eagle, wings spread out to form the shoulder armour. A shield was clamped to the left side of the sarcophagus, a sword chained the to right. The left arm ended in a huge fist, the mechanical fingers clanking together in reflex movements. The right arm belched steam from the twin barrels of the scorched radiation weapon, its yawning maw too forged to resembled the double eagle of the Emperor. It came with its own precession, twin mounted shoulder speakers blaring its own liturgy. Two thralls in red robes bore twin banners behind the behemoth, depicting a magnificent warrior with wings, baring his golden sword aloft. Behind these banner bearers were a train of savants and worshippers, baring the holy weapon shells and gas canisters the warrior-machine would require for combat. Amidst the sea of serfs was a techno-mage, his power armour completely encompassing his form in locked bands of red ceramite. Instead of the eagle upon his chest he bore a skull bossed cog symbol. Metal spiders legs swayed and juddered from the huge power pack between his shoulders and every second step was accented with a clang as his chain axe staff slammed down into the rockcrete of the road.

 

The procession faltered slightly as the vanguard of Terminators took a moment to savage their way through a fallen column. The mighty dreadnought threw up its fist, crunching the fingers together in impatience. A burst of static broke over the chanting and a heavily synthesised voice boomed down the street.

 

++ Warning before stopping young Uron! I will surely kill those brothers before me, for I shall step upon them before I have noticed them! Onwards, I cry, onwards! ++

 

There was a break of laughter down the line of the Astartes and Demeter was shocked to the bone that such death knights could find humour within themselves.

There was an almighty crack of thunder and a puff of dust from the unseen head of the procession and the march resumed.

 

' Magnificent isn't it? '

 

The new voice was deep, earthy and right next to Demeter's ear. He yelped in shock and almost dropped his auto rifle, Lesker scrambled upwards to bring his lasgun to bare on the intruder to their moment. His fingers faltered and his eyes rose up to meet the dark red ones of the new comer. The warrior was about a foot taller than either man, thick combat fatigues obscured his muscular legs, iron shod boots propping his form upon the raised rubble. An un-hooded chainmail coif obscured his neck, pooled in folds about his shoulders. Bulky carapace armour of black, trimmed in red protected his shoulders and upper chest from blade and ballistic. A pair of multi-purpose vision goggles were pushed up upon the top of his head, forcing his rich blonde hair back over his head. A ragged cloak of tattered urban camo was slung over his shoulders and between his gloved hands was clutched an immense shotgun.

 

Lesker stammered with words, but Demeter nodded, unable to speak.

 

The Astartes scout auxiliary smiled, revealing sharp fangs and razor sharp teeth. He had crept up upon the two guardsmen unseen and unheard. Lesker caught a flicker of movement and when he focused his attention, four other scouts were picking their way up the rubble with the ease of an acrobat. Demeter could feel his leg begin to tremor, the hairs upon the back of his neck raising. Lesker voiced his thoughts, his voice barely audible and broken.

 

' You're not human....'

 

The Astartes laughed, the sound short and bark like. He turned to survey the end of the march and then turned back to the two mortals.

 

' Nay, brave Guardsmen, we are not. '

[Monstra Sumus]

Shameless bump of my own thread.

 

Just to let you know, Chapter 11 ( above post ) is now completed!

 

Comments welcome!

[Monstra Sumus]

12

 

 

' We thank you, the People of Lexmar, for this great honour you do to us. '

 

Uron Malefictus, Chapter Master of the Knights Vermillion, bowed to the human. Even upon bended knee's he was as a giant to a child in comparison to the newly instated governor. The human, decked in his purple sash held a chalice clutched within his hands, a broad, if forced, smile upon his face. The pacification of the rebel forces had been swift and brutal and although the Astartes had reduced most of the capitol city to rubble, the ruling parties were grateful. They had offered to erect monuments or bedeck the Marines armour in precious jewels, but all had been refused except one thing. The offer of Blood.

 

Each civilian, each citizen of the world left alive donated a vial of blood, finding whatever serf or servant of the noble Astartes.

 

The procession of warriors had stopped on the parade ground before the palace, the huge Thunderhawk gunships awaiting to carry them back to the Dominator which waited in orbit. The huge form of Brother Tyrus had proceeded to clamber into the first of the gunboats, clamping his huge armoured form into his magnetic throne. The techmarine and the Dreadnoughts personal entourage secured themselves in around him, awaiting the command squad to mount up.

 

Uron, the Red Death lifted his clawed gauntlets to his head, popping the seals upon the black death mask upon his helmet. The mouth grille was a screaming mouth, needle sharp teeth glinting in gold. The eyes ghosted a red glare from within them and covering the lower half of the mask was a port cullis armoured plate. There was a puff of condensation and he lifted the helm clear of his features.

 

The human swallowed down the slab of fear in his throat and something primal whispered into the back of his mind, that the last thing he should do, is run.

 

The Chapter Master resembled the devil. His skin was like parchment, his hair had long ago deserted his skull. The colour of his eyes were like staring into hell itself, swirling pits of every shade of red and blood. He parted the thin lines of his lips to reveal every single tooth, each one had been filed into sharp fangs. There were thick black words tattooed upon his skin, scrolling litanies which disappeared down beneath the collar of his gorget.

 

He lifted his hands forward and received the chalice from the governor.

 

' To the Emperor and His people. '

 

His voice was like the earth splitting, a rumble of thunder in the heavens or to some, the snarl of daemons. He offered a smile which made the human shudder, then tipped the cold rim of the chalice to his lips and swallowed down the hot, sticky blood. After a long moment he handed the chalice back and whispered a small prayer of thanks, then rose. The bulk of his jump pack should have hindered the deft movement but after centuries, Uron had even made such a movement graceful.

 

He fixed his helm back in place and turned his shoulder to the human, his vox unit rasping into life.

 

++ Should you ever require our assistance again, you know the price. ++

 

Uron turned into his awaiting command Astartes and marched into the gunship in silence.

The Knights Vermillion gunships roared into the stratosphere and out into the horizon of blackness and void.

 

The rumble of the engines punished each warriors hearing, until Chaplain Grakar decided to break the sound.

 

++ M'lord. I implore you to atomise the city from orbit. ++

 

There was a burst of noise from the rest of the Marines in the lead gunship, some crying out in opposition, some declaring their support. Brother Tyrus forced a burst of static through the vox link, demanding silence while he spoke. The dreadnoughts heavy voice boomed in the confined space of the gunship.

 

++ Folly, I say. Master Grakar you are short minded and still young. You are too full of fire and fury to realise the scale of what it is we crusade for. ++

 

Uron turned his head.

 

++ Why, Brother Grakar, would you have me destroy those who we have just liberated? ++

 

The Chaplain ignored the Veteran Brother and addressed his Master.

 

++ Heresy took root, deep into the population. I feel it will strike again, and soon. We must crush any trace of it from the surface of the planet. Starting with the city. ++

 

Tyrus reared up in his harness, the groan of steel screeching in the troop hold.

 

++ Starting with the city?! You have truly lost yourself in madness Grakar! You mean to bathe the Lexmarians in fire because of one rebellion?! ++

 

++ ENOUGH. ++

 

The voice destroyed any rebuke upon the Marines lips.

Uron turned to look between the command squad and a rumbling snarl hissed from his vox grille.

 

++ I understand what Grakar is asking, but I will not condone such destruction unless absolutely necessary. This fortress will dock at the Gandhra Station to re-arm and re-fuel. We shall pass back this way and I will establish a link with the surface. If I discover that even a morsel of heresy has taken route once more, I shall ruin the planet of all life. Now speak no more of this. In fact, as it is, you will all pray in silence until we are docked. Begin. ++

 

Each Brother held their words and turned inwards into their minds to recite various different prayers or mantra's.

 

The Chaplain curled his lip behind his visor as he gazed upon the Chapter Master. It appeared the Knights core was becoming soft. Such a pity.

[Monstra Sumus]

13

 

Indrik stood watching the slumbering form of the Dreadnought sarcophagus, his eyes fixed upon the frost covered chains that bound it. His helmet was clamped to his belt and his arms were folded across his broad chest, his taloned fingertips brushing lightly against the winged skull there. His short forked beard was brittle with ice flecks and his skin was dusted with glittering crystals of cold. He was alone with the possessed, discounting the presence of the Sentinels, who hadn't moved since securing their guardian posts either side of the chained machine. The grey warriors stood in identical positions, their gauntlets upon the pommels of their zweihanded power blades. He studied them for a moment, these men whose sole devotion was to persecute the Psyker. They wore no markings denoting them part of the Vermillion brotherhood, except that of the Death company cross upon their right shoulder. Every other inch of their grey armour was bossed with prayers and blessings of faith. They were utterly driven men without any sense of the word compassion. They were ruthless killers and the Knights needed them.

 

Indrik gazed at the broad chest plate of the first Sentinel, it was bare except for a bronze bolt and a name embossed upon it in curled Gothic.

 

' Saul '

 

He flicked his eyes to the second one and read the name there, realising these men were not just blades, but something else entirely.

 

' Peytr '

 

Indrik recalled a memory long lost in the dusted libraries of his memory bank, from the time of his inception into the Chapter. There was a young boy from his village named Peytr and he had a twin brother named Saul. He knew he was most likely just speculating but was it possible for them to be those twins? He knew it was rare for twins to be incepted into the recruiting process, both must have shown remarkable combat skills. Yet, what was more perplexing was the impossible chance of the both of them retaining the Pariah gene. Two null-warriors born to the same mother and both accepting the Gene-seed? Indrik felt a touch of destiny upon the men before him.

 

' Magnificent, aren't they? '

 

Came the whisper from behind him. If he had been anyone other than a Space Marine he would have surely felt fear or shock. As it was, he simply turned to regard the new comer. The yawning portal behind the new visitor ground shut with the cacophony of chains and gears. The huge stone door rumbled back into place, completing the binding runes once more.

 

' Yes, Lord Judaiz. Truly the pinnacle of what it means to be a warrior. '

 

Lord Judaiz stepped up beside the Chaplain and the room suddenly seemed a little more darker. He was the head of the Sentinel Order, an ambitious man who according to the hear say of the upper echelons had his eyes on becoming the next Chapter Master. They controlled the fortress here upon the world of Armacia, operating a gulag of anti-psychic defence for the sector. If the Sentinels did not wish for the planets of the Knights Vermillion to be found, they would make it so. Armacia was a dead planet, a nuclear wasteland scoured uninhabitable by its proximity to the star it orbited. The Knights Vermillion retained their fortress monastery upon this barren rock, in the shell of a star ship that jutted from the planets crust like a mighty mountain. It was a vessel from before Old Night, dwarfing even the Grand Cruisers of the Imperial Navy. It was a home ship from the early days of Terra's space expansion. It had taken the first Knights of the Chapter many centuries to make it habitable enough for Space Marines but it now provided the most secure defensive point in the entire system. The chamber they were stood in was carved into the very rock of the planet itself.

 

' I hope to find more of our blessed brothers in the next Choosing. It has been too long and the mantle must be passed onto new blood, don't you think Lord Indrik? '

 

Indrik's red eyes narrowed for a brief fraction, he could smell the undertone in Judaiz words and it was sour to his senses. So blatant in his goals this one was and it disturbed the Chaplain to see such obvious power mongering.

 

' I think the Chapter prevails because it works together, brother shoulder to shoulder with brother. Sentinel and Knight stood together to face the darkness of wytchery. '

 

Judaiz spread a feral smile across his aquiline features. His nose was an eagles beak, hooked and sharp, his eyes were shrewd and calculating. His smile that of a vipers. He took several steps forward and unsheathed the blade at his hip, the blade instantly illuminating the room with a blinding white light, purple arcs of energy dancing along the blade. It was like staring into the sun. The Lord Sentinel lifted the weapon and dug its point into the ceramite of the Dreadnoughts front, a hissing filled the chamber and globs of molten armour splashed to the ground, freezing like candle wax.

 

' I agree, yet, were would the Chapter be if my honoured ancestor hadn't been there the moment the darkness swallowed the Chapter? Where would we all be if he hadn't struck down Luxor when he turned from the Light? '

 

Indrik's jaw tightened. He could almost feel Judaiz ego suffocating the air from the chamber. He understood the Sentinels point of opinion and the questions asked but they were about as subtle as a bolt round to the face and Indrik believe Judaiz was not adverse to doing such an action when it came to the shift of power. They could all feel it in the air, the Chapter Master was slipping in his control and it was only a matter of months at best before someone challenged him for the right of successor ship.

 

' What Luxor did pulled our brothers into darkness and damnation yes, but you can-'

 

Judaiz spun on the spot, the tip of his blade screeching along the Dreadnought and leaving a deep gouge in the frontal decoration. The blade stopped before the Chaplain, pointed like a marker for his hearts before Judaiz sheathed the mighty weapon. Indrik's hands curled into fists at his sides, his hand straying to his Crozius Arcanum.

 

' What Luxor did would have been the end of us all. You surely know the history, Chaplain? You teach it to the younglings! The first Librarian amongst our ranks and he plunges us into civil war. Badab was a disaster for us. We didn't even make it to the war because of Luxor's machinations.....tell me the story Indrik. I beg thee. '

 

Indrik bared his teeth for a moment, the gesture clear before clearing his throat.

 

' Grandeur is not needed here, you know what happened. Luxor commanded our Chapters fighting forces alongside Malefictus, we were summoned to war and we departed in the mighty battle barges. The Dominator heading the fleet. Luxor's Bravery turned upon us exiting the warp to recalibrate our jump drives. We lost The Retribution and a quarter of the Chapters fighting strength. The Dominator was engaged in boarding actions by Luxor's Bravery and the blood toll was terrible. Luxor had triggered the death rage buried deep inside of us, turning fully a third of the chapter on what forces we had left. By the time it was ended and Uron had launched a counter attack upon the Bravery we had lost over half the Chapters fighting strength. Your ancestor, the First Sentinel slew Luxor after he had wounded Uron to the brink of death. We have been rebuilding our numbers since that war and scouring any trace of psychic activity from our brothers since. '

 

Judaiz was gloating by the end of the speech, his smile wicked and cruel. He stepped past Indrik and pressed his palm into the activation rune for the large stone door sealing the chamber, as it began to rumble aside he turned his head to glance at the Chaplain over his shoulder.

 

' Remember that the only reason this Chapter survived is because of us. Uron would do well to remember that as well. It is high time a new Malefictus was crowned head of our brothers, a new Uron with the clarity to know what this Chapter needs. '

 

Indrik turned to glare at the Lord Sentinel, his lip raised in a sneer and he spat his question.

 

' And that is what exactly? '

 

Judaiz stepped through the portal and smirked.

 

' Me. '

 

Then he was away from the chamber, the door grinding back into position. Indrik turned back to the Dreadnought and the Sentinels, still silently guarding the Psyker Machine. It seemed the Knights Vermillion was about to be consumed in the darkness once again and soon.

[Monstra Sumus]

Chapter 13 is up and finished now! Shiz be hitting the fan for the KV. <_<

[Monstra Sumus]

14

 

Scatos eyes were popping out of his skull, his face was pale and his mouth was downcast. He could not believe what he was seeing, he would not believe it. The images broke his small mind and shattered the fixation that the stars were merely the Emperors light. The stars were swirling giants of fire and he could see other planets, worlds that looked like Athena. When the Astartes had marched him and the other three aspirants upon the huge flying ship, with its massive yawning innards which swallowed the humans. Lord Valoran seemed at home, a smile across his misshapen but handsome features. This must be common place for him, Scato thought and it truly warped his perspective of the mighty warriors who protected his peoples. The legends were true, they did come from the stars. He couldn't help but stare around the inside of huge vessel, its engines destroying all sound inside the hold. Mikahil stared out of the porthole, his brows low set, his teeth bared. He seemed to be having a hard enough time dealing with what he saw.

 

However for the other two, that wasn't the case. Drummel was shouting animatedly at Lord Captain Valoran, spitting out questions until his voice became a garble of words all mashed together. Srala, a boy from one of the desert tribes was slack jaw and trying to stare out of everyone's viewing ports, speaking in his odd barbarian tongue.

Mikahil turned and sneered at the sand dweller, shifting to block his port hole, his eyes fixed down towards the surface of Athena and the blue haze that surrounded her.

 

Drummel Viskos squealed loudly and almost jumped out of his harness. They all spun to see what he was pointing wildly at and their faces were again smashed with shock. Valoran laughed, his deep voice wrestling the roar of the engines for supremacy. Scato felt his chest tighten and he found it hard to breath. The thing they were staring at was epic, vastly impressive and further destroyed his rather primitive view of the Astartes. It was a city, colossal and black, a huge blood red eagle spread across the impossibly massive ramming prow. Millions of tiny flecks of light glittered along its gargantuan length and when he squinted he could just make out scores of tiny space ships gliding in formation around it, like a shoal of fish around a massive torca in the toxic oceans of Athena. There was a humming that built in the air and the craft they were in began to vibrate. The vibration became a keening so vicious it nearly made their ears bleed. Scato clasped his hands to his head and stared as a massive circular opening upon the top of the ship began to glow with a bright red light. In the moment before it was painful to continue staring all sound was ripped away from the singular roar of the discharge. It was so deafening loud inside the craft that all hearing was silenced, his vision struck white from the glare of the weapon.

 

He blinked furiously and once his vision had returned he could see, what must have been millions of miles in the distance a flash that rivalled the massive star they had seen upon leaving Athena. He turned his head up in the viewing portal and he lost his breath once more. There were four other of the massive vessels arrayed in a formation above them and the craft he resided in was on an intercept course with the nearest above them, heading forward to a huge black opening that winked with distant lights.

 

He heard a clamour of noise behind him and strained round to see. Valoran had disengaged his harness lock and rose to a stand in the central corridor between benches. He gripped the overhead rails and pulled himself up the fuselage.

 

" HARKEN! Young aspirants! We make ready to dock with The Errant. You will keep silent at all times unless spoken to, understand. "

 

It wasn't even a question, but he did not doubt that once inside the mighty structure above them that they would all lose their speech.

 

His head began to swim the closer they got to the insanely vast ship and his vision greyed slightly. He could tell he was on the verge of passing out and he knew it was simply from the shock of what he was experiencing. He realised this ship was larger than any city-state upon Athena, and if this was a ship for the Astartes like the ships back on Athena were for his people, then he was truly terrified by the sheer scale of what else must be among the stars.

[Monstra Sumus]

15

 

 

The cacophony of noise filled the air alongside gun smoke and misted blood. The crack of bolters, the thud of ballistics and the whine of rail guns. Vision was permanently scarred by blue streaks and muzzle flash. The high pitched whine of las guns flickered into the fray, slicing neat, smouldering holes into plastech armour and bubbling the blue flesh beneath. The Thunderhawk had become somewhat of a rally point for the scattered elements of the 130th Athenian Rifles, who used its vast bulk to shield their firing positions from the Crisis Suits weaving between the heavy weapons fire. Private Hesiod squeezed the firing stud of the auto rifle in his hands, sending kickbacks of death into whatever targets presented itself. The non-com to his left was screaming something into the fire fight, the waves of ash and grit muffling the words beneath the constant sound of war. Hesiod ran empty, his finger drawing the stud until it clicked, slamming the breach home empty. He promptly threw himself flat in the trench and thrust his hand into his flak jacket to retrieve another magazine. It took two attempts but he slotted the mag home in the gun fix and slapped it to lock it in place. He tugged on the load rod before rising once more to sight a target.

 

The non-com was screaming again. Hesiod narrowed his eyes and pushed his eye to the sight, the plastic of his protective visor thunking upon the steel of his rifle. His breathe came hard and ragged in his re-breather, sucking down barely purified air. A thunder crack split the heavens and something lanced down on a torrent of fire into the enemy trench lines. He couldn't tell, nor did he care what it was that caused the discord amongst the Tau, all he cared about was sighting a Tau and squeezing the trigger. The trooper to his right spun away from the firing step, a hole punched through his chest in a welter of bone fragments and sizzled flesh. The gap in the line was filled by another, a man who'd lost his re-breather mask and fought with a ragged strip of fabric tied about his face. A shout from his left caused him to break his line of sight, it wasn't the words shouted because the haze of noise obscured the orders, it was the tone of it. Hesiod felt his bowels loosen, his stomach tight for a moment before letting loose a wash of fear into his system. One of the remaining enemy battle suits that hadn't been shredded by heavy weapons fire descended into the trench on contrails of flaming plasma. It's cloven struts slammed into the blood soaked slurry of ash and innards. Las bolts scoured its armour black and bullets ringed and sparked against it's frame. It silently turned its guns to face down the trench and there was a terrible moment where Hesiod could see nothing but the heat ringed muzzle of the enemies repeater lasers. Then it opened fire.

 

The non-com fell apart. The laser fire shredded him with such ferocity his body literally crumbled into misted, charred flesh. Three men stationed around the non-com were riddled by the sweep of punishing fire. The comm. trooper went up in a ball of flame as the laser streams punched through the minuscule power pack in his vox unit. The Imperial charge had retaken the forward trenches the Tau had claimed. The Astartes and his contingent of Scouts had broken the pathfinder line and descended underground, now the Imperial men and women of the Athenian Rifles fought to hold the trench the shrine was located in. The crisis suit had come to test their strength. It spurted unceasing sheets of laser death into the ranks of men and women, punching and cutting holes through faces, arms, legs and chests. Hesiod flung himself down, the man to his left coming apart like wet paper to gush watery steaming blood down Hesiod's visor. His heart was thundering between his ears, the sound threatening to overwhelm him. Another noise penetrated the screams of his soul, a high pitched whine. He knew that sound, it was a particular whine, it was the start up sequence of a nuclear cell. Hesiod flung his head around to see the Trooper who'd stepped up to his right before the suit entered the trench. The man casually stood, feet planted apart in the centre of the trench and checked the read out display bolted to the side of the long body of his melta gun. The suit seemed to be more intent with picking off fleeing guardsmen and hadn't reacted to the threat before it, the thing twisted gracefully upon its axis to face away from Hesiod and the other trooper. It began punishing the other half of the trench line. The trooper hefted the weapon, braced himself and fired. There was almost no sound from the gun but it still gave the impression that it was deafening, rupturing blood vessels in the air with frequencies you could not detect. The gun nozzle suddenly glowed cherry red and then a vibrant beam of white radiation erupted from the weapon, it cut, like a straight line into the crisis suits unprotected flank and flashed the armour to steam and particles. The giant suit seemed to shudder before it capsized into the trench wall, sending up a plume of smoke and dirt.

 

Hesiod instantly felt sick. Being exposed to the radiation levels from such an intense beam was hazardous to his genetic makeup. He could taste metal in his throat as he pushed himself up to his feet. The trooper who'd fired adjusted something on the side of the weapons dials before turning to fire a strafing beam out over the trench top. The beam cut its way in a staggered line, scything down plastech armoured Tau warriors who'd used the distraction of the suit to advance upon the trench, or so Hesiod presumed. The first of the two Devil-Fish transports that had brought the Tau towards the trench was nose down, obscuring the enemies line from sight, it puffed huge plumes of oily black smoke into the sky. The second was strafing the line with its beam weapons, disgorging troops as it passed by on its hover bed. The fire warriors would step from the hatches in the side of the transport to land in crouched firing positions. The cutting beam of the melta found the flank of the transport and focused upon the upper left grav-engine. It erupted in a reactive chemical explosion, sending the transport veering off course. Hesiod raised his auto rifle and began to fire bursts at the fire warriors.

 

The Tau broke and ran. Directly at the Imperial line.

 

Hesiod was a hit by confusion. Why would the warriors with superior firing range give up their advantage? Unknown to Hesiod, due to their non-com and their vox trooper having been obliterated, a new foe had joined the fight. The streaks of flame that had descended upon the Tau lines were not another barrage of artillery as he had first expected. A high bass note filled the air from behind him and a ragged cheer erupted from the line of troopers, the Thunderhawk was back online. It fired it's retro thrusters upon it's bow, sending it rocking backwards out of the pit it had created with it's crash. Soil rained down upon the men as the massive gunship lurched to the right before slamming back into the earth. Upright this time, lights flickered on down its length and exhaust ports flushed clouds of gas and steam down its flanks. Then someone cried out in terror. Hesiod snapped his head back to see something lumber from behind the down Devil-Fish and almost lazily hack a fire warrior in half, the torso spiralling away in a spray of gore. The beast gripped the side of the transport and thrust it forward, the entire vehicle rolling and giving the Imperial line full view of what awaited them.

 

The tide of beasts strode forward, huge calibre guns kicking in their meaty fists, their bellows heralding their savage advance as they hacked and bludgeoned into the routed Tau. The trooper to Hesiod's right opened fire again, cutting down the first of the huge green brutes in a welter of super heated flesh. It roared as it died, as if it was offended by being killed at such range. The remaining men of Hesiod's unit all gripped their terror and shoved it under the years of rigorous training. Sheet fire began to lash out like viper strikes at the approaching brutes, las fire and auto guns strafing and streaking surface wounds, leading the stubbers and grenade launchers to targets. There was a thunder crack and the ground shook. A great gout of flame spread across the advancing Orks, igniting a number of them in bright pillars of chemical fire. Then heavy red lances of light punched into the first lumbering vehicles that crested the opposite trench, causing them to shatter and explode.

 

Another set of explosions tore into the ranks of green monsters, a sonic boom cutting through everyone's hearing. Missiles rained from the heavens and spread their wash of death amongst the Ork. Lance fire peppered the ground, connecting the second gunship with the floor in bursts of red death. The grind of rotary cannons flared up and the buzz of thousands of bullets streaking the ground was a beautiful sight to Hesiod. In the brutal alpha strike from the Thunderhawks, Hesiod and the others of the first gun trench failed to notice the steady retreat of the Imperial forces, the rest of the lines had bled backwards to the artillery positions, the command echelon deciding the fate of Hesiod's unit. They were ordered to die honourable deaths to slow the horde, even though they didn't know it.

 

The airborne gunship came back for another pass while the grounded one spat chemical death into the earth. The remaining Fire Warriors had been obliterated between the trench and the advancing Orks, who were now the target of the punishing onslaught. Yet, it seemed to do little to slow the tide of green racing forwards.

 

"Bastards!"

 

The trooper to his right snarled through his ragged face scarf. Hesiod turned his head to where the man was looking. They had been abandoned.

 

The thick shapes of Leman Russ assault tanks disappeared through the wash of smoke and dust towards the huge Mechanicum bastion in the distance. The Athenian Rifles had withdrawn in the face of the horde to the protective walls of the bastion to re arm and dig in, leaving their front rank for dead. Hesiod realized his life was worth nothing more than for some young officer to retreat all that much quicker while he paid for yards in blood. Anger bubbled inside him, rage and hatred. The firing line stopped, only random beams of las fire and tracer rounds cutting into the Ork. Most troopers were rooted to the spot, fear, real fear and terror swallowing their tactical minds. They had been left to die, to be butchered by the xenos. Hesiod was having none of it.

 

 

"Right, you slack jawed fraks! Form firing line, spread Teuton!"

 

The sudden shock of orders where there had been none for a long time snapped soldiers from their personal dooms. They rushed forwards, the Thunderhawks war cries rallying their courage. They formed into two ragged lines upon the firing step, guns poised and braced. Hesiod stamped forward down the line, he thrust his rifle at a weapon less trooper and shoved the man onto the step. He wasn't going to die like a dog for some Athenian highborn. No, he was going to die like a frak damned hero of the Imperium. He went to drawn his side arm, but his boot clashed against something in the mud. He stooped to discover a bolter. The weapon, obviously having belonged to the regiments commissar lay discarded. Hesiod snatched it up and checked the breach, then the ammo count. He grinned savagely and took to the firing step beside the trooper with the melta.

 

"First fire, ready!"

 

The whine of las guns charged to full capacity filled the ears. The Orks were close enough now that Hesiod could see the bulging veins in the foremost creatures neck. He smiled viciously.

 

"FIRE!"

 

The sheet of red and orange beams, inter cut by green washed into the Orks. Beasts went down, trumpeting and roaring as they died. Smaller creatures that loped between the Orkish advance were pitched off their feet.

 

"Second fire, ready!"

 

The second line picked targets and the first line dropped down to re charge their las weapons.

 

"FIRE!"

 

Hesiod screamed into the air as the Thunderhawks opened up again, the second gunship having strafed one last time before coming to land behind the trench, its guns still ablaze. The assault ramp began to grind open.

The second torrent of fire from the Teuton firing position was where the effectiveness came from. The sheet of las fire that proceeded this burst of destruction was merely a distraction and a buffer, now the real slaughter work began. At once, the heavy stubbers to either side of the trench spun into action, every auto rifle spat lead death in continuous fire, melta beams speared out, cutting like surgeons. Two flamers roared and spat boiling promethium into the killing ground, setting Orks alight.

 

He braced the bolter in his hands and pulled the trigger. The kick back of the weapon winded him, but he felt elation none the less. It was a battle craze, the content humour of a man who knew death was inescapable. They would make the enemy pay for their deaths. The bolter kicked again, the crack of the bolts adding to the wave of fire.

 

"First fire, fire at will!"

 

The re armed troopers of the first gun line sprang up to pump beam after beam into the enemy. The world became filled with shredding death and Hesiod knew that when the Orks reached their line, the frustration at being denied their killing thus far, would send the xenos into berserk rage.

 

The assault ramp was down.

 

"Squad Tacticus! Compliment the Guardsmen!"

 

The voice sent a cold creep up Hesiod's spine. The voice was clipped, distorted and clinical. Cold, helmet bound. He half turned to see armoured giants striding into the trench. Some of the soldiers stopped firing, simply too shocked by the arrival of Astartes. Coming to terms with potential salvation. Hesiod wandered why these brave angels would seek the same fate that awaited the guardsmen, then realized he'd stopped firing. He renewed his assault of the enemy with vigour, as did the rest of the troopers. Their blanket of fire became all that more intense as the fury of eight bolters, a plasma rifle and a heavy bolter were added to the fray. The plasma gun spat sizzling bolts of lightning into the faces of Orks, toppling them as their faces bubbled to gas. The heavy bolter began its chattering report of fire, thrusting the mini rockets out on their firing paths and into Ork flesh at double the rate of the standard bolters. The Ork advance faltered for a moment, shredded in the sheer volume of weapons fire from the small Imperial force. The Thunderhawks close range heavy bolters joined the battle, auto targeting servitors spraying lines of stuttered fire across the killing field.

 

Then the Orks charged. The Astartes stopped firing, only the heavy bolter continuing his punishing barrage. Each armoured giant stowed their ranged weapons by mag-locking them to their belted waists. The sound that followed was like a whisper in the rage around them. Blades were bared, short fighting blades, superior for close quarters combat. Combat shields were unhooked from where they hung upon power packs and suddenly at the lip of the trench was a shield wall. The Astartes, their ceramite armour decked in chain mail tabards, their heads helmed with portcullis fronts all faced the enemy. Then the Orks hit the trench and the butcher work began.

 

Screams and grunts filled the air. The Astartes stepped back just as the first berserker's met them, robbing the Orks of their initial power, their momentum drained.

 

"STEP!"

 

The Space Marines moved as one, smashing their shields into tusked faces and stabbing and hacking with their short blades. The xeno's fell. Orks bellowed as they dropped into the trench to be met with defiance. Fear and terror had vanished and now a fury only human kind possessed was born. Mortal men were battering Orks about the face with rifle butts or plunging combat blades into groins and knees. The huge brutes would crush and cleave into the humans but they would not break. The Orks seemed to intensify their assault.

 

Hesiod dodged a cleaver, the huge weapon, as big as him, slammed into the soil. He fired the bolter point blank into the leering face of the brutish Ork and watched it's head blow out in chunks. The creature toppled backwards to reveal a gaggle of small green creatures, the height of Hesiod's shoulder, advancing in a pack upon the closest troopers. He was about to engage when the sergeant from the Astartes squad waded amongst them, kicking and slamming with his shield, his power axe cleaving steaming wounds into their gretchin creatures. A furious minute passed, a minute of death and hacking. Then it was over. The Orks lay dead. Hesiod was smashed with a sudden fatigue and stumbled, gripping the wall of the trench for balance. He took in the scene. The dead were everywhere, guts and innards, gore, bones and jellied brains coated everything and standing in the sea of cloven corpses was a line of Astartes, blood smeared and undaunted.

 

Less than half of Hesiod's unit remained. Sixty five men and women had been slaughtered in less than a minute. He turned his weary eyes to stare blankly across the killing field past the trench. The Ork advance had stopped when the Teuton firing pattern had pummelled the vanguard to nothing. Leaving the remaining rabble of the vanguard to crash into the Imperial trench. Hesiod fixed his eyes upon a towering figure in the centre of the green sea before him. The attack they had just weathered was insignificant to what was coming towards them. He yawned. Utterly uncaring at the death that was swiftly approaching in the shape of the Ork horde. That was when he noticed the Astartes begin the retreat back to the grounded Thunderhawks. Hesiod frowned and followed a flurry of movement to his right.

 

Appearing from the curve of the trench line was another armoured giant, followed by four tabarded scouts. One was unconscious and carried upon the shoulders of his brother, two carried between them a huge metal crate, the strain on their super human features evident. The new sergeant seemed to regard the Ork horde for a moment before laughing and shaking his head. He swept past Hesiod, the sound of clinking chain following in his wake. The small contingent climbed from the trench and approached the other Space Marines. The two sergeants clasped gauntlets, the scouts slammed fists against their carapace armour in echo of the larger Astartes. Hesiod found himself climbing from the trench and approaching the Astartes. Gunfire had picked up once more from the remains of the Imperial Guard, complimented by the Thunderhawks.

 

"Sergeant Tiberius, praise the Emperor you are unscathed."

 

"Praise him well, Haethe, for I bring history to our Chapter. "

 

"Acknowledged, let us return to the Errant before this xenos invasion draws closer. Presae is lost, Chapter orders are to withdraw and bolster the fleet. Achilles and Tybalt intend to meet the Ork hulk and destroy it."

 

"I need transport back to Armacia once we have docked with the Errant. I want to see this one personally to the Chaplaincy, brother."

 

"I shall inform Tybalt when we are within communiqué range to have a rapid transport ready for you, brother. Come, let us leave this place."

 

"But, what about us?"

 

Both Astartes turned as one, looking down upon this blood stained and ragged human soldier who dared interrupt their words. The Trooper stared at them with wide eyes through his visor, his voice heavy through his re-breather.

 

"You can't just abandon us to die like our officers! You're Space Marines!"

 

Sergeant Haethe furrowed his brow beneath his helm and opened a closed vox to Tiberius.

 

Hesiod could feel a muscle in his leg spasm as an odd mix of fear and adrenaline rushed inside him. Confronting the Orks in close combat hadn't raised as much trepidation in him as talking to the faceless giants before him did. They seemed silent for a moment before they both nodded. The new contingent of Astartes filed up into the first Thunderhawk, the second unit marching into the second. The sergeant of the tactical squad spoke once to Hesiod before boarding the Thunderhawk himself.

 

The Hesiod was screaming at his men, shouting and kicking at them.

 

"Into the bastard Thunderhawks now! Move it you dogs, move it!"

 

They didn't need to be told twice. Men scrambled for the haven offered by the troop holds of the Thunderhawks that still poured fire into the advancing Ork horde. Hesiod raced up the open ramp of the nearest gunship and all but flung himself into the grav bench between the unmasked melta gunner and a towering, muscle bound Scout who regarded Hesiod with crimson red eyes. The men of the Athenian Rifles had stood their ground, ready to die, accepting their death and making it glorious and worthy of fighting for the Emperor of Mankind. Yet, now salvation reared its head and their valiant stand was forgotten, reality crashed back into their souls and so, shaken and wretched, they pulled at each other to get inside.

 

The two gunships shuddered into life, their engines roaring and blackening the earth behind them as they began to lift off. Rockets and beam weapons stabbed out at the craft as they rose above the Ork swarm. The first Thunderhawk sputtered smoke from a ragged tear in its fuselage, the second releasing one last torrent of fire into the greenskins before both gunships roared up into the sky and towards the waiting fleet beyond.

 

Hesiod sank into the grav bench, hugging the harness about him as his world shuddered violently and he was deafened by the roar of the engines. The guardsmen grinned stupidly and cheered each other and their saviours, unaware of the fate the Astartes of the Knights Vermillion had in store for the Troopers of the 130th Athenian Rifles.

[Dosjetka]

I'll have to go through this again, as I know I thoroughly enjoyed it last time I rad through it (which was a year ago).

 

Ludovic

[Monstra Sumus]

Hehe thanks bro. It's been a while but I still got the torch for it.

[Monstra Sumus]

16

 

The Thunder Hawk shuddered, the sound inside the troop hold a roar of engines. The grav harness that held Brother Virgil steady clattered against the wing bossed front plate of his cuirass. He stared through the dark blue visor plates of his helmet, not entirely focused upon the world before him. His mind was turned inwards, the glow of his tactical HUD setting a green flare up his pale face. He couldn't tear his thoughts from the savagery his brothers had committed. He had known that the Death Company were little more than mindless beasts, so locked in their own torment that not even the other Knights could approach them. They had to be deployed separately upon the battlefield to prevent in-Chapter casualties.

Virgil was fresh from the Chapters rigorous training regime. Having completed his decade of Squire training he had been released from Brother Sergeant Tiberius to make the journey back to Athena. From there he remembered the silent and terror gripping journey to the mysterious Chapter Bastion upon Armacia, the dead planet closest to the home systems star. It was his first time inside the immense goliath of a ship that the Astartes had converted into a fortress, buried in the crust of the planet. His Scout training and the introduction of the various chemical enhancements and gene organs had been carried out aboard the Dominator. The Black Carapace, required for his interaction with the hallowed Power Armour was inserted beneath his skin within the Mechanicum vaults inside the Armacian ship-bastion.

 

He remembered those dark hallways and shiver inducing techno mages, their cold, clinical touch and the cloying smog of incense in the air. This was his first campaign. His first chance to wield his sword in combat alongside the Chapter. He just hadn't predicted the Astartes he revered would be so blood hungry. To look at them now, he would never have imagined they were howling, ravenous beasts merely hours before. He focused his eyes through his helmet to fix upon the brother directly opposite him. The man had both blood covered gauntlets clasped before him as if in prayer. He held a small icon upon a chain, hidden between his palms and from the movements of his head he was muttering to himself within the confines of his helm.

 

Virgil could feel a twist in his stomach. It had been there ever since the combat had begun. His throat had dried up and his hands had begun to shake. He had dismissed the weakness, putting it down to seeing such a grim business conducted by those he'd been convinced to venerate. He shook his head slowly as he watched the brother praying. What could he be praying for? Virgil was suddenly disgusted with himself and his Chapter. They deserved to be damned.

 

++ Brother Argon does not pray. ++

 

The voice cut into his helmet, the voice warped by the vox static. Virgil saw the bead had come from his unit sergeant, Kastus. He turned his head to see Kastus sat two men down from Argon.

 

++ He centres himself, Virgil. It is something we all must do. You shall too one day, when you feel the call. ++

 

Virgil, who did not wear a chain mail tabard turned his black torso towards his sergeant, the red trim chipped and exposing the metallic sheen of the ceramite beneath. Virgil was entitled to his tabard upon the return to the Dominator, now that he had been baptised in the fires of war.

 

++ What call? ++

 

Virgil snapped, his teeth feeling too large for his mouth in that moment. He felt hot and cloyed inside his helmet and lifted his hands to disengage the locks keeping it in place. He wrenched the armour from his head, revealing a boyishly handsome face, high cheekbones accenting piercing red eyes. A short crop of blonde hair was smoothed back over his head with oils and wax.

 

++ I shall ignore your humours this one time Virgil as you are on a learning curve. ++

 

Kastus lifted his own blood stained gauntlets and removed his helm, revealing a face much the same as Virgil's, yet a ragged puckered scar distorted his upper lip and left cheek. It gave the sergeant the appearance of a constant sneer and revealed pink gum and a long silver plated fang.

 

"The call of our Chapters legacy Virgil, surely you remember the fate of blessed Sanguinius. "

 

Virgil bowed his head slightly, taking his eyes from his sergeant, who continued to bore his eyes into the top of Virgil's blonde hair. Virgil nodded, his bitterness subsiding as he thoughts came unbidden to his mind's eye. The epic confrontation of their beloved father against his traitor brother and the death echo that each of them felt. Some of the Templari claimed the Knights Vermillion felt the thirst for vengeance even worse than their father Chapter, the Blood Angels. Not from some sense of pious justice, but from the degraded state of their genetic strain.

 

"Each of us can control the blessing inside us, but each of us have different levels of control, Virgil."

 

He pointed towards Argon and then two men down to Brother Kadon, who gripped his grav harness as if it was a life line, his helmet covered head pushed back and titled upwards so he was staring at the metal roofing above his head.

 

" Argon remembers his sword mantra's from his days upon Athena, it helps to bring his rage back to balance. Kadon shuts his connection to his armour out from his immediate control, allowing his body to wear itself out. Each of us deal with our legacy in our own private way. You will too, when you feel the call of our blood. "

 

Virgil turned from regarding brother Kadon and fixed his light red eyes into the sergeants deep crimson ones. His features had lost the sharpness from before and he offered his palms flat side up to his sergeant.

 

"I apologise for my lack of restraint m'lord. I was never appraised of how badly it affects our brothers, I had heard rumours but I am struggling to accept what is in store for myself."

 

Kastus nodded sagely and waved off Virgils expression of repentance. He cast his eyes down the assembled brothers inside the troop hold, all ten of his Knights had come from the Lexmar incident unscathed. He offered a silent thanks to the Emperor for such a blessing. Then he looked back to Virgil, studying the young Marines face. He felt the slightest tug of a smile begin to pull his lips as he remembered back to his first campaign, six decades back against the Ork. He regarded Virgil thoughtfully before speaking again.

 

"You shall report to the reclusiarchum for four hours of supplication to the shrine of Sanguinius and our Great Father. I shall meet you there after your allotted genuflection time and we shall discuss more on this matter."

 

Virgil bowed his head once more, a lock of his oiled hair coming free to swing down his features. He thanked his sergeant and settled back into his grav harness, holding his armoured fingers upon his thighs. His mind turned inwards once more to thoughts of himself tearing and rending flesh in a way such as his brothers and he frowned.

 

"Virgil."

 

The voice of Kastus came again and Virgil turned his head, expecting the lecture to continue.

 

"Congratulations on earning your tabard. "

 

Virgil couldn't help the smile that came unbidden to his lips, revealing his pearl white fangs. The punishment within the Templari sanctum seemed less bothersome after the sergeants praise. He lifted his head as the loud hailer within the compartment announced their approach to the Dominators docking bay.

 

The fleet of black and red Thunder Hawks glided into the open bays along the huge space bound fortress. The might of the First, Second and Tenth company returning from their liberation of the Lexmar system.

[Monstra Sumus]

17

 

 

Scato could barely breathe. His skin was on fire, crawling, itching and damp. His palms were clammy and his mouth was dry. He gripped the cracked and faded leather padding of the seat he'd been ordered to remain in. Valoran, the towering warrior who had conveyed them to this giant star spanning fortress had gone, deep into the depths of the vaulted archways and hissing corridors. The room the young men had been deposited in was huge, bigger than any state chamber back on Athena, not even Ser Bardus, who over ruled Trojas in the Astartes stead, owned such a room. His strained eyes took in the deep shadows pooling at the apex of the archways lining the room at regular intervals. The shadows seemed to squirm and move and more than once his frightened brain convinced him that tiny red eyes were watching him. His once small mind had been rudely and instantly broadened to the fact he was very insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. He could see similarities in the architecture of the room to the bastion he had served his squire-hood in back on his home world below. It felt oddly familiar yet entirely alien.

 

Mikahil was scowling again, it seemed to be a permanent fixture upon his heavy brow. His small eyes held a cruel glint as he scanned the room and the others around him. They had been conveyed from the gargantuan bulk of the Thunder Hawk to this holding area. The men they had passed were either barded in red trimmed black body suits and strange visors, shouting and bawling in a strange tongue at each other, going about things Mikahil had no understanding of. He passed the hulking, silent knights of the Astartes, stomping their armoured forms down twists and turns in the mind numbingly vast hallways. Creatures, half man and half made of steel and brass seemed to glide along the floor, robed in deep crimson hoods, long snakes of iron snapping and clicking at the young men. Valoran had said something in his strange language and the creatures shambled on, casting longing gazes at the youths with cold, glittering eyes.

 

Mikahil shuddered at the recent memory, his scalp crawled under his hair and he scratched at it profusely. His eyes tracked back along the room, pulled from the deep shadows above him by motion to his right. Drummel Viskos, a low born, peasant, scum. The boy, skinny and gaunt compared to his perfect breeding was ungainly to his eyes and shouldn't even be speaking in his presence. He couldn't help the grunt that escaped his long thin lips as the boy came past, he curled his lip in a smirk as he thrust his supple booted foot forward, tripping the peon in a tangle of limbs.

 

Drummel wouldn't let the highborn scorn detract from the utter and overwhelming excitement and elation he felt. He could trip him all day, pummel him, whip him and bash his head in, it mattered not. This place, these people, he was among the stars! In the night sky, beside the glowing orb of the Great Fathers eye upon a floating city made of metal. His breathing came light and fast as he scrambled back into a standing position, he simply grinned in response to the nobles scowls, drawing a hiss of insults from the larger boy. He was touching everything, be it a chipped floor tile or a stained leather chair, one of four rows along the walls. He came past one of the two highborn and placed his hands against the cool metal of the wall, leaning forward to push his face against it. He grinned with a slack jaw and made a happy sigh as closed his eyes, this place, it felt beyond amazing.

 

"Nothing on Athena can compare to this, good riddance I say." He mumbled along the cold steel.

 

"Hold your filth, peasant."

 

There was a touch of breeze against his neck, the very faintest of feelings.

 

He spun, ducking low as the brutes fist crashed into the metal where his face had been pressed. The strike exacted a yowl of pain from the larger boy but Drummel was trusting his instincts from this point on. His hand jabbed out, extended fingers catching the other in the hollow of his throat. Mikahil reeled backwards, clutching at his throat as he sucked in air. The other highborn, the one with the injured arm was up out of his seat and shouting, pleading with them. The sand dweller just simply watched from his solitary corner of the room. Drummel flicked his hand down to a familiar spot upon his ankle, feeling his fingers curl tightly around the slim wrapped handle of a stiletto. It came free from his boot, metal flashing almost as much as the intent in the lowborn's eyes.

 

"Enough."

 

The voice boomed around the room, crashing between the archways and stopping them all in their motions. Mikahil glared about him with a strained face, rubbing his throat. Scato checked himself, turning in shock to face the speaker. Drummel kept himself low, his fingers flexing around the knife. Srala, the sand dweller simply watched, a tight small smile playing his dark lips.

 

"There will be none of this under my tutelage. The blade, now."

 

The voice suddenly became stark reality as a figure detached itself from the deep shadows in the corner of the wide room. The man they now looked at was different to the handsome might of Valoran, the Astartes they liaised with back upon the planet. Where Valoran was broad and powerful this man was sleek and ghostly, like a phantom. His body was snug within a skin tight black body glove, it highlighted the curves and ripples of his body beneath. Plating his shoulders and chest were interlocking plates of crimson armour, scorched and gouged along the shoulders, a small chipped crater above where the youth's presumed his heart would be. His features were dagger sharp, his eyes two slits of red, missing nothing. His hair was a ragged mop of black strands, a thick black leather strap with strange viewing glasses pushing the mane of hair up from his face. The man held out an arm, the muscles under his skin moving like pistons, his gloved fingers came forward, palm up.

Drummel flickered his quick eyes from this phantom to the highborn staring hatred right into him. He made his choice and surrendered the thin blade into the others hand. As he stood, he came to fully appreciate just how talented this new comer was. Drummel had grown up in the under city of Trojas, in the dark alleys and stinking meat houses away from the protected boulevards of the highborn. Down there, men made their own laws and every day was a blessing if you awoke still breathing. His ability to notice the unnoticeable had been shaken. This man, bigger than all of them and wearing armour at that, had managed to evade their senses entirely.

The man curled his fingers around the dagger, stowing it within one of the many large black boxes secured to his wide kidney belt. He passed his blood red eyes over the assembled boys and gestured to the row of seating directly opposite him. Drummel and Srala moved quick, Scato hesitated and Mikahil glared.

 

"Sit."

 

The phantom insisted. So did the hand he laid upon gnarled wood carved grip extending from one of the odd shaped boxes upon his belt. Mikahil considered his options and chose to seat himself away from the others. Scato let out a held breathe and eased himself alongside the low born. The phantom before them nodded and placed both hands upon his strong hips.

 

" I am Squire Gellus, tasked by Master Tiberius to put you in your place. I am now in command of you and all of your thoughts and actions. For all intent and purpose, you are mine. "

 

The boys kept silent, all except Mikahil, who stood, defiance in his eyes.

 

"I am of house Kanatch, I demand to be afforded station above such...lesser people."

 

He turned to gesture towards the others and when he looked back, all he saw was red. The Squire, this Gellus, had crossed the space between them in the blink of an eye, Mikahil could feel the skin of the man's nose pressing against his own. His voice was low, dangerous.

 

"You will sit, child and you will know your place amongst the equals beside you."

 

Mikahil opened his mouth, the words never came. He was suddenly twisted, finding himself facing the floor, his arms hauled up behind his back, pulled into an unnatural position. The pain was blinding and he struggled to breathe. In the space of second he had been completely disabled.

 

"This is not Athena, boy. You are lower than the warp rats infesting the engineering deck, boy. I afford them more credit than you. It seems even after enduring the trials set before you, you cannot count these boys as your brothers. I pity you. "

 

He was released, crashing into the black and white checker tiles beneath him. His head reeling.

 

Squire Gellus stood before them as Mikahil peeled himself from the floor and threw himself down once more into his seat, sucking breath into his punished lungs. The man's eyes were hard, calculating and full of contempt.

"You are no longer highborn, you are no longer lowborn, nor a sand rat. You are all aspirants, chosen by Lord Valoran for the chance to become something more than a mere Athenian. You have the chance to become as mighty as those you honour and worship. You have the chance, to become Astartes."

 

That held them, sure enough. Valoran had only ever taught them they would become warriors to serve the Knights Vermillion, the men of the Athenian guard. They assumed they would travel with the Knights, helping them vanquish their mythical enemies. To be appraised that they would in fact become Astartes, become like Valoran, silenced them and entirely chilled them to their soul.

 

Gellus curled his lip at their collective faces, revealing sharp, ivory fangs. His voice was little more than a savage growl.

 

"Yet first, you have to prove your worthy to pick the Ork crud from my boot."

[Monstra Sumus]

18

 

It had been months since the Dominator left orbit above the commercial world of Lexmar Prime. The huge space bound fortress rumbled its way through real space, those aboard the old leviathan enjoying the brief respite from either liberation actions or assassination detail for the Ultima fleet. The Dominator had docked with the hexathedral station hanging in fixed orbit over the dead world of Tesla Prime. Like a swarm of insects the mechanicum engineers and tech priests descended upon the ancient war ship to replace blown components and even one of the gargantuan plasma drives that powered the vast craft. Uron Malefictus, Chapter Master, spent those months looking inwards at his Chapter.

 

As mighty as they believed themselves to be, their strength lay in their numbers and numbers is something they did not have. At the height of the Badab war, Imperial forces had deployed several Astartes Chapters, dedicating the entire fighting forces to descend upon the Lamenter and Astral Claw rebellion. The Knights never made it thus far to engage, not far from the Dominators current position the Chapters singular Librarian, given charge of fully half the Chapter succumbed to the temptations of the Warp. None know what enticed him to twist the minds of his brothers so that they became slavering and ravaged beasts but from that point on the gene-seed was ruined beyond genetic repair.

 

Uron remembered those days as the Chapter dropped out of warp space into the blackness between stars to punish itself with treachery and blood. He had slain many of his brothers, furious in their blood lust. The weight hung heavy upon him and so did the fact that victory was not his. He had led the final push into the other battle barge while the strike cruisers engaged each other around the two huge hulks. A tide of feral and twisted marines swarmed the corridors as the First Company and the Chapter command had cleaved their way to the heart of the ship. They found Luxor, his body bloated and his soul sold. Icons daubed the walls in fecal matter and clotted blood, flies and wriggling, fat worms and maggots were crushed under foot. Two great wings, like those of a sand-roach had cracked open the rear of the Librarians armour. He burbled a laugh at Uron and fixed his multifaceted eyes upon the Chapter Master. He had raised his staff.

 

Uron had almost died that day, he should have died that day. He had lost a heart, a lung and almost half his torso, his left side punched out and shattered the portable reactor upon his back. His suit had slammed lifeless to the floor as cold green wytch light ghosted around the wound. In his last moments of consciousness he'd seen the newly honour Chapter Champion Serbus draw his blade, Uron remembered a touch of cold, so frozen that crystals formed in the air and he watched Serbus slay Luxor. Something he could not have done. He had survived and formed the Templari to safeguard the Chapter. The ever vigilant Chaplains who nurtured the young warriors recruited into the Chapters ranks. No matter how fast they harvested aspirants, the cycle rate of those who could handle the volatile gene-seed was far from high. As a result the Chapter had been reduced to four functioning Companies. The First, Second, Eight and Tenth. All other Chapters had been cannibalised to bolster the other companies to near full strength, the Company commanders returned to the Athena system to begin rebuilding from the ground up.

 

Their founding lay back in the Age of Apostasy, those dark and savage days where the Ecclesiarchy had ruled with an iron fist, bringing fire and death to so many of the Imperial worlds. They had been created in secret, an experimentation of heretical proportions involving the mighty gene-seed of the Blood Angels and the noble Imperial Fists. Uron did not know what madness had gripped the Cardinal, whatever be his name, and the Mechanicum bioengineers but they had tried to stabilise the inherent flaws. The Astartes of Dorn hadn't survived the diabolical experiments and his life perished so that ultimately the gene of Dorn diluted out of the Knights genetic makeup. Two Blood Angels, both having been exiled from their Chapter upon penitent crusades fared more than the Fist. The unsanctioned creation of an Astartes Chapter did not go unnoticed and it drew down the gaze of the Inquisition. A sizable force intercepted the Cardinals smaller fleet and lay siege to the crafts, gaining entry into the Mechanicum bio-ship. The Inquisition encountered inner turmoil as the surviving Blood Angel led a force of freshly created Space Marines in battle against their creators.

 

With the Cardinal put to death and the Mechanicus heretics executed the Inquisition turned its attentions to the Space Marines. Two Lords reviewed the super human warriors, one Lord, Bathor, pushed for their destruction, deeming them to be unclean. The second Lord, Adrianus, had their minds searched and their bodies studied extensively before pulling rank upon Bathor and declaring the Chapter sanctioned and ready for Imperial use. From that moment, the surviving Blood Angel had been told his penitent crusade was worth nought and he was now the Master of this new Chapter. Their creation had been a vermillion level breach of Imperial law and he was a crusading knight no matter what the Inquisitor said, so naturally, the Knights Vermillion were formed. This Blood Angel, the first Uron Malefictus in a long line of the same name led the Chapter into the stars to find the blasted and sparse Athena system deep in the star clusters dubbed the Dominion of Storms.

 

The Chapter Master decided after those long months sailing the Imperial lines of the Warp that the First and Second companies would return home to Armacia, their fortress world orbiting the Athenian star. Yet first, he must stay true to his word and return to Lexmar Prime and inquire as to the health and state of the population. It would come to grieve the Chapter Master upon his return to the Lexmar system to discover the planet once more rooted firmly in the seat of heresy. It's cities a flame, its populace turned upon one another again and vile, gibbering creatures capering the surface, summoned into being by hidden cults dedicated to the ruinous powers beneath the hives. Not for the first time Uron cursed the name of Luxor and the power of psykers as he ordered the battle fortress to lay waste to the planet below. Gigantic mass reactive shells slammed into the planets crust, breaking its shell and spilling the worlds molten life blood. Searing lances of energy set the very air on fire, scouring deep craters in the earth, leaving nothing alive. The assault continued until the seas had boiled, the towering cities were levelled and not even germ life flourished on the surface.

 

Uron despaired at the loss of life. Templari Chaplain Grakar bared his teeth in a satisfied grin as he watched the planet burn from the bridge of the Dominator.

[Monstra Sumus]

19

 

Sergeant Haethe snarled as he rammed his fist forward, crushing the spiked knuckles of his gauntlet into the slavering yellow fanged maw before him. The beast reeled backwards with a trumpeting bellow. He thrust his other hand forward and barked off two rounds from his bolt pistol, bursting the Orks head like ripe fruit. All around him the men of the 8th and a contingent of the 10th pummelled into the greenskin menace aboard the free booters own ship. The Tau had been suffering under the suffocating press of Ork and so had driven them by any means necessary into the nearest Imperial occupied system that wasn't Ultramar. The Ork flotilla had pushed into the system and engaged the Spear of Athena before the home fleet could muster. The mighty strike cruiser had been gutted and destroyed, her souls condemned and left to tumble through the void as the battle raged on around her. Sister ship to the Spear, the Errant, pushed away from its mooring station above the second planet in the system packed full to the bulk heads with warriors of the Astartes and men of the 130th.

The Errant engaged.

 

Haethe curled his fingers around the hilt of chainblade, ceramite clacking together as he wrenched the brutal weapon from its hip sheathe. He pushed back the second Ork before him with a punishing barrage from his pistol before flipping off the safety guard on his blade and clutching the rotor peddle. The machine roared into life, razor edge teeth becoming a whirring blur as he stepped back into the press of bodies in the crude docking bay.

Chunks of meat and a sheet of watery ichor sprayed up his front, filling his fanged mouth with a bitter acidic taste. He laughed, the sound short and lost beneath the grunts and gunfire. He rammed the tip of the chainsword into the gut of the Ork before him, churning out its innards and ramming the barrel of his bolt pistol into the face of another, shattering its teeth and blasting out its skull in a clap of firepower. The blood tasted good.

 

Beside him Lord Valoran, Knight-Captain of the Tenth, spun his power sword in punishing arcs. The blade, glowing white hot and as bright as a star, carved limbs from greenskins all around him. His chain clad armour was heavy with gore, his thick adamantine scale cloak following in his wake like a star trail, his plumed helmet forming a rallying point for the men of the invading forces. The air was filled with a terrible, chaotic sound. The screaming of men, the bark of bolters, the snap and whine of lasguns, the rattle and chatter of Ork weaponry. The grunts and snarls, shouts and cries and above all, only privy unto the Astartes, was the sound of the blood. Rushing and pumping, flooding and loud, it called to the curse within them, luring their thirst to the fore.

 

Valoran brought his helmet slamming forward into the Nobs face, cracking its tusks and blinding it on the left side. His own face collided with the combat screen inside his helm, the green glow flickering and several of the mini screens fading out of synch, he could feel and taste blood trickling from his nose. The move had been reckless but his blade had been trapped by the body of another greenskin, so he used his head, literally. The brute staggered forward once more, bellowing flecks of slimey blood into Valorans face plate. Valoran roared back and levelled his long blade, the white sheen sending tendrils of energy snapping around him. They charged each other in the press of bodies.

 

Private Hesiod and the thirty troopers left to his command provided support fire for the towering warriors of the Knights. Arrayed in clusters of five men, with autogun and lasrifle they scythed down gretchin creatures and lesser Orks. Filling their heads with Imperial death until their tiny brains registered the punishment. Hesiod worked the trigger of the bolter he'd obtained back on Presae and sent screaming rockets into whatever chest or head he sighted along the weapon. The men and women of the 130th, those not still planet side, had adopted Hesiod as their acting officer and it scared him, probably more so than the fact not one hour after retreating from the surface of the planet he was engaged in boarding actions against the Ork ship. The Thunderhawks had split, the gunship bearing the Scouts and Sergeant Tiberius and the item they carried had veered off away from the pitched battle in space, the one carrying them and Sergeant Haethe's squad banked to join the fleet of gunships disgorging from the mighty warships and speeding towards the Ork cruiser.

 

Valoran saw two icons flash orange, then red and settling on a thick grey in the top left of his visor. He snarled into his vox grille as he brought his blade shimmering down, cleaving the Nobs head in twain, the blade biting down into its chest and shearing its thick crude armour. He wrenched the blade backwards and stepped backwards, letting two Astartes behind him bearing combat blades and shields fill the breach and begin their assault on the enemy. He jabbed his vox bead.

 

++Brother Tybalt! What is your status? Have you secured your objective?"++

 

In the vast bowels of the ship, beneath the layers of machinery and metal that separated the battle above from the gritty corridors of the Orkish engine bays, Knight-Captain Tybalt brought the hissing structure of his power fist up into the Orks chin, obliterating its face with the closed fist. His bionics whirred and clicked as he focused upon the huge bank of computers ahead of him in the corridor, his right eye a gleaming red lens set into the polished chrome of his face. He snarled an order to his men around him and three of the ten Astartes thundered their jump packs into life, searing molten patches of decking as they were born aloft on twin trails of fire. Bursts of vivid green plasma popped Ork mechanics, sending their now flaming corpses to splash along the decking. Tybalt pulled his fist back, locking the talon fingers into position, the glare of the power field reflected from his half face. He barged forward, slamming one greenskin against the vast rumbling turbine beside him, crushing its chest with his combat shield, his fist pulverised the groin of the Ork lunging at him. His men either side of him hacked into the seething mass of Orks with chain blades and power weapons, each one keeping his shield consciously protecting the teleport beacon upon their belts.

 

Three of Tybalts squad crashed back onto the decking, buckling the metal beneath and sending greenskins tumbling. The first to land embedded his axe into the leering face of the largest Ork mechanic, splitting the creature almost in two. His brothers engaged in close melee with the towering brutes in crude piston powered suits of armour, their claws clashing and parried by Astartes blades. Arias hauled his arm back, releasing his axe from the corpse and slamming it sideways into the gut of a Mega Nob, shearing its innards out in a spout of organs. He rammed his plasma pistol upwards into its jagged helm and let the poisonous green coils discharge their deadly load. The Nob crumpled, aflame. Arias rammed his pistol against his thigh, letting the magnetic plates lock together, he clutched his axe as his brothers protected him. His free gauntlet found the thick cylinder at his hip. He pulled the object free and twisted the activation lever then slammed it down onto the massive control centre for the Ork engines. The melta bomb began to tick over as Arias confirmed their objective to the Knight-Captain.

 

Tybalt dealt the Mega Nob before him a brutal uppercut, devastating its head and shoulders before he responded to Knight-Captain Valoran. He sent another coded vox and twisted a dial upon the teleport beacon on his hip. He ordered the rest of his men to comply and five moments later they disappeared in a crack of purple energy.

 

Valoran grinned savagely beneath his helm as he brought his blade arcing down above the shields of his brothers, shearing the snout and jaw off the first Ork he saw. He heard the crump of detonations beneath his feet and relished in the secondary explosions that gutted the ship. The vast turbines powering the cruiser stuttered and died, washing the lower decks with searing blasts of flame. Every Ork in the bottom of the ship perished as the ship floundered in space. Valoran stepped back, ordering his brothers to form a shield wall across the wide corridor. The sound of ceramite clacking together echoed above the roar of the Orkish wave. Valoran deactivated his sword, the white hot glow evaporating to reveal an inscribed blade, free of gore. He laid the weapon against his shoulder and tapped his vox bead.

 

++Brother Gyr, you may release our brothers, engines have been pacified and we are withdrawing back to our extraction point. May the Emperor guide their souls.++

 

He shut of the link and ordered the forces underneath him to withdraw back into the gunships, the brothers of the Eights forming a steady line of blade and shield that the Orks broke themselves upon. The Thunderhawks released from the hull of the cruiser spread away from the vessel, leaving areas of the ship unpressurised, greenskins writhing and dying in space as they were sucked through the breaching holes. All but two of the Thunderhawks returned back towards the Errant and the rest of the Knights Vermillion fleet, those that stayed behind finally released their troop holds into the confines of the Ork ship. Templar Gyr, terrifying in his baroque suit of terminator armour, skull faced and snarling advanced amongst a tide of black clad warriors. Each warrior bore a skull painted upon his helm, his hands bearing no weapons except vicious talons built into each gauntlet. The Chaplain of the Templari led the hallowed Death Company on a campaign of butchery within the innards of the enemy ship. They would not stop till every Ork had perished, the corridors awash with blood and death.

[Dosjetka]

I'm impressed that you got so far without any comments. This is all going to be printed out for reading during the next week. If you have an update on store, do add it, please :)

 

Ludovic

[Monstra Sumus]

20

 

The Thunderhawk banked away from the Errant, arcing wide to avoid any stray laser shot or ballistic flung from the battle far behind them. The giant strike cruiser ghosted into the battle on its plasma drives, prow lances stabbing out to disintergrate an Ork vessel. Thunderbolt squadrons deployed from landing bays along its flanks and a vicious dog fight commenced in the open space between the giant ships. The Thunderhawks pilot waited for the magos to annoit a console before punching a code through the runic device before him. He set the formiddable gunship on its course and eased back into his harness. The third occupant of the cockpit was not part of the flight deck and he bowed in deference to the pilot and offered his thanks before disembarking the command pulpit and taking the short ladder down to the main body of the ship.

 

Sergeant Tiberius curled his ceramite clad fingers into a fist, the small clacking sound lost amongst the roar of the power house engines. He grit his teeth at his tactical display, the interior of the ship over laid with a green tint, thermal displays and a range finder. His read out reminded him that being crippled of body is better than being corrupt of mind. He took a silent moment to contemplate that small creed before giving a gruff snort. He pressed on into the troop hold, thumbing an entry rune on the door before him, which hissed open with a puff of coolant fumes. He crossed the threshold and took stock of the image presented to him. The old and battered crate containing the artefact was maglocked to the deck, two of his scouts guarding it silently. On the opposite side, his favourite, young Scaran, had been hoisted and clamped to one of the troop benches where he thrashed at his bindings. He snarled into the room, eyes roving and teeth sticky with the drying blood of the dead Eldar. The scount opposite him, Gellus, watched his brother with cold eyes.

 

Tiberius crossed to the restless scion and knelt before him, servos whining as they compensated for the weight shift in the artificial gravity. He studied the scouts face from inside his helmet, noting the torn and shredded gums where the youths fangs had errupted in size. The screeching, snarling visage of rage snapped barely an inch from Tiberius' visor. The mouth desperately seeking what was beneath, to rend and tear. Tiberius lowered a hand to the side of his armour, unclamping the bolter pistol that was held there. He slid it from its holding and lifted the stocky weapon, pushing the cold barrel against the youths forehead. The cold metal made a thud as it connected with the scouts skull. Tiberius started intently, watching, judging. The red eyes with sunbursts of gold and cruel slashes of black, stared back into his. It was there, beneath the vision of savagery that the Sergeant saw the gleam of terror, the discord of the helpless. He decided not to squeeze the trigger, instead he stood, half turned then backhanded the youth into unconciousness.

 

He turned to the scout who sat watching the exchange. He holstered the pistol and gestured to the slouched Scaran.

 

++ He is no longer your brother, Squire Gellus. He has transcended to a place we do not embrace. He is now the charge of the Templarii and will be given unto their hands. His fate is in the hands of Blessed Sanguinius. May the Emperor have mercy upon his young soul. ++

 

Tiberius turned away, casting his long shadow across the face of Squire Gellus. The scout, sat with his hands upon his knee's, hadn't removed his intense glare from his brother scout. He stared, unmoving, hardly breathing. He barely even blinked. For inside him, something coiled and squirmed and writhed. Something could feel the rage boiling inside his brother. Something wanted to wake up and be free to rend and maim and kill. He swallowed a mouthful of thick spit, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. His fingers moved from his knee and found the hilt of his combat knife, playing across in the inlaid skull upon the pommel. It brought him reasurance. He lowered his gaze from his brother and drew the blade, placing it flat down upon his outstretched palm. The blade was long, almost a foot and a half of folded steel sharp enough to almost split an enemy on the molecular level. It could when the activation stud below the small hand guard was pushed, sending a shock of energy through the hidden relays within the steel and vibrating the edge of the knife beyond even the ability of a Space Marine to track. Then he lifted his eyes and stared into the ones staring at him. Red, black and gold. Those eyes looked into his soul and there they discovered a kinship. Scaran began to thrash against his harness once more.

[Monstra Sumus]

21

 

Indrik sat for long hours pondering the current state of affairs upon the surface of Athena. The planet was crumbling around them, the dust storms more fierce than ever, the religious war between those who manned the bastion walls and those who dwelt in the mountains and sands seemed to be coming to a monumental clashing point. Exposure was the real killer though and with an Ork swarm so close to the Knights primary recruiting world, the future was on the tip of a knife, ready to fall either way and be cut to ribbons. The Templarii Chaplain tapped his finger tips upon the dark desk before him. The Chapter was in a sorry state, barely even worthy of the name. For all their granduer and flamboyancy, the Knights Vermillion were dying. The gene-seed was flawed and becoming ever more unstable as the generations passed. The older marines held control over their thirst and rarely did they succomb to fits of supernatural rage, but the young? Those newly inducted into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes? The thirst was nigh on unquenchable and the Folly would soon be full to bursting with rage-blind brutes.

 

He moved his armoured finger tip back and forth, the talon tip shaving into the gnarled wood. He scratched as he thought, letting his mind toil with the burden of enlightenment and politics. He was unaware of what his image his finger began to form in the wood, instead his attentions were inwards, settling on the very worrying fact that the Chapter was run via a political hierarchy in the absence of the 1st Company and their venerable Master. It had narrowed down to himself, Lord Judaiz of the Sentinel brothers and Forge Master Ardakas. Officially, command fell to Lord Templar Alabaster but he stayed willfully ignorant of the decisions made, only caring enough to turn his attention to the workings of the Chapter when the other three had come to an agreement. Uron Malefictus had been gone for the past century, leaving the care of the Chapter to Athena. Armacia was but a silent guardian, a skeleton crew of Marines and Techpriests over saw the formidable fortress close to the sun. Indrik had no inclination of where the 1st and 2nd companies were, Uron had announced a Crusade one feast day and embarked upon the Dominator with fully half the Chapters strength. Indrik knew it was to be as far away from the political squabbling as possible. The man, this Marine, this Master of theirs had seen too much in his long life and sought the abyss of death in the Emperors service. Their system was small, shut off and silent to the rest of the Imperium save Administratum contact every fifty years to levy a tithe from whatever minerals the Mechanicum mined upon Presae.

 

The Knights were standing on the brink of disaster, a dark maw opening the ground before them, sucking them down one by one into the horror that awaits in the dark. Dissent, division and now possesion. Malefictus should be here. Not galavanting across the stars pretending to be one of the Founding Chapters. He should be here, to see to the state of the Chapter, to see how low it had fallen. It would not be long before the ever watchful eye of the Imperium turned inwards from the Crusades on the Eastern front and landed firmly upon the tiny system of Athena. What then, could happen to his brothers? To his Chapter, his family? He did not know and dread to think how the eyes of those on Holy Terra would condemn him. He blinked and gazed down at the symbol carved upon the desk. He had clarity of purpose then, in that moment and stood, the stone chair grinding back across the metal decking beneath his feet. The black armoured figure strode from his chambers, leaving a resplendant aquilla bright on the dark wood.

 

~

 

'Speak.'

 

The Lord Templar's voice growled out from his admantine teeth. The huge terminator chaplain stood gazing at the arched window of stained glass in the Reclusiam. The giant winged form of Sanguinius held aloft by the golden light of the Emperor above a lake of blood. Below it was the broken blade of the first Uron, the Blood Angel who provided to seed of their creation and led them to freedom from religious control. The power blade, blade and warped was suspended via anti-grav studs upon the stone altar beneath it, giving the illusion of the blade levitating beneath Sanguinius. Lord Alabaster was often found here, gazing at the sword with his ruby bionics. One could only guess what assailed the mind within that metal frame.

 

'My lord, I have meditated upon our currect predicament and believe I have come to a solid course of action.'

 

Alabaster cocked his head, turning his giant frame to face the smaller Chaplain.

 

'Pray tell me, Brother Indrik, your revelation under His guidance.'

 

The younger Templari knelt before his superior, watching as the fearsome mechanical visage of Alabaster blotted out the broken blade of their Chapter and the effigy of their Primarch superior. The ruby eyes became two pits of inferno in the darkness of shadow. The candle light flickered as a door ghosted open and closed deep in the shadows of the vault, a robed supplicant of the Chapter baring a shrouded item towards the pair of Templar chaplains.

 

'With the power invested in me by the Templarii order of Brethren and by extension the Ecclisarchy, my misguided light has become true. I have been afforded the clarity of vision to see there is only one course of action concerning the possesion of our most Beloved Typhot. This, is my solution.'

 

With a sweeping gesture of his hand, the supplicant pulled the shroud from the item they carried with a flourish, revealing an ancient weapon. The gleam of the barrel was inscribed with litanies and prayer, the muzzle was wrought of bronze into the shape of a screaming eagle's beak. Fluted wings arched to contain the bulky circular canister that powered the formidable gun.

 

'I ask for sanction to use the Touch of Uron to cleanse our Chapter of taint. It should lay with us, the protectors of our Brethren. This is not the domain of the Sentinel Order. Be he Psyker, Typhot is still our brother, most revered. He should be afforded a clean death in light of his duties these past centuries.'

 

The silence that lasted was palpable, it was pregnant. Indrik dared not raise his gaze into the pits of hell that regarded him and his proposal. He sowed his own dissent with his words against their Sentinel brethren, yet it was to counter the moves made by Lord Judaiz in his game of power. Indrik would not let the Chapter become the property of bueracratic machination. They were Space Marines, His Angels of Death, they would not become lesser men of the Imperium prone to squabbles of ownership. He would die before he let it happen.

 

'It is sanctioned. Go forth and touch our brother and release him to the Emperors forgiving love.'

 

The giant turned away, back to the broken blade. Indrik stood and bowed low in supplication to the shrine and its keeper before accepting the offered relic from the servant. He flicked the activation stud to prime the weapons ignition system and felt a shudder of reverence pass through him as the ancient weapon hummed into life, status lights blinking. He bowed once more to the shrine before removing himself from its sanctity and stalking the corridors of the Fortress ship. Down he went, ever down, passing brothers who knelt to him, genuflecting towards the powerful weapon he carried within his taloned hands. The Templar stalked the arched hallways, each step accompanied by chanted words, the servant dashing oils upon the chaplain and his weapon, blessing their actions in His name.

 

He came, eventually, to the stone chamber. He stretched out his hand, allowing the servant to remove his gauntlet with the proper ritual. He extended his now naked hand into the gene cogitator built into the stone wall and allowed it to extract a drop of his blood. A chime accompained a green flashing light and the stone door began to grumble and grind out of view to reveal the darkness within. He stepped over the threshold, bidding the servant stay outside of the protective runes. The Chaplain was greeted with the icy touch he had endured before, crystals began to form upon his black armour. The two Sentinel brothers lifted their double handed power blades and removed themselves from their posts beside the suspended sarcophygus. He nodded his head in respect to them, despite their high status, he still held authority here. The chained giant before him lay silent in the cold, the alien runes carved into the ceramite were dull, no warp energy played across them. The vox unit crackled once, barely a whisper of static before one word, garbled and exhausted hissed out.

 

++ ...please...++

 

Indrik bowed low, clutching the metla gun to his broad armoured chest. He stood, straighter than he had done in many a long years and summoned all the power of his voice.

 

'Honoured Brother Typhot, he of many victories. He of many glorious deeds and glorious actions. He who stood firm where others have fallen, he who brought fire and righteous fury upon the Emperors enemies, refusing to accept death, I salute you. I honour you. I hold you in all reverence and I condemn you to die.'

 

He thumbed the trigger guard up, braced his armour shot feet and raised the gun high. With a whisper prayer he squeezed the trigger and the icy cold was replaced with incinerating heat. The shimmering haze of radiation shot forward in an intense beam, striking the surface of the armoured coffin, bubbling the armour. He squeezed the trigger again, the armour plating running like molten slag, dripping to hiss and dance across the sigil strewn floor. He squeezed the trigger again and again, carrying out the execution with unmoving conviction. Brother Typhot had been possesed, rendering him unto the Heretics nature, but he would die, not as a heretic, but as a hero of the Chapter. Remembered for his deeds, not his disgrace.

 

When it was done, all that remained was a hollow shell, cored and left open to the heat and moisture that filled the air. Indrik had grit his fangs when the writihing dessicated body of Typhot had been revealed, suspended within by fluids and a network of machinery. All had flashed away to gas under the punishment of the melta beam. No longer did his Chapter brother suffer. Indrik bowed low once more before turning from the stone chamber and back into the fortress. He knew he was doing the Emperors work and taking the first steps to cleansing the Chapter of it's growing taint but deep down, in the recesses of his mind where the darkness dwelt, he questioned. He questioned because despite this being the correct course of action, it did not feel right.