I, Warsmith

[Walter Payton]

I, Warsmith

Iron Within

The sleek white vehicles of the Xenos warriors ghost over the ruins of the wrecked webway gates, their thrusters glowing blue, their anti-grav engines keeping them safe from the spiked tangle of wraithbone shards. Around me, my brothers of the Iron Warriors legion keep up a hail of fire from their bolt guns. We are the Emperor’s Siegmasters, and this Xenos bastion shall feel our wrath.

We were deployed to bring this world, Briarus VIII into compliance seven months ago. A long war of blood and toil, it has taken us nearly six months to reach their fortified stronghold on this plateau, a veritable city of the savages that the Iterators call Exodites. They have been assisted in their pathetic guerrilla campaign by their civilised kin. Our final assault, led by Lord Perturabo, and his henchmen Toramino and Forrix, has broken the walls of their inner sanctum, and now, we advance, to put down the Xenos scum.

It has not been easy, the bastard Eldar will defend to the last breath, and each crashing shrapnel shell heralds another attack, each bend in the collapsed jungle of dying wraithbone another booby trap. But we persevere. That is what we do. We endure.

“Eyes-on! Enemy grav-tank at our twelve!” The bark of my squad spotter echoes over my helmet vox, the enclosed suit of Mk V armour keeping my vital organs safe from the clattering shuriken fire that deflects from my armoured form. I draw my inferno pistol, running behind a ruined wall, vaulting it, and unloading the flaming weapon into the incoming tank. It crashes to the ground, wreathed in fire and smoke Xenos warriors spilling from the escape hatches.

In an instant, my men are on them. Berrossus with his thunder hammer, crackling arcs of lighting smashing Xenos warriors aside, as Persas cuts a swathe through the foul Xenos with his bolter. Gaius, Khatek and Vorath spread out, chainswords whirring and bolt pistols spitting, the mass-reactive rounds detonating skulls and dismembering flailing Xenos warriors as they try to flee. I swing my chainsword in brutal arcs, firing my Inferno pistol point blank into the massed ranks of the enemy warriors. Icarus, my spotter, kills the Eldar leader, a foul psyker creature, with a shot from his bolt pistol. Persas bayonets a wounded Eldar attempting to surrender.

The men of Squad Rommel, the men who bear my name on their shoulder pads, and who follow my banner into a thousand fierce firefights, are ruthless killers, ninety years at the forefront of the Emperor’s crusade to save humanity have honed them into an unbroken blade. They have no compassion, no weakness, and no mercy. I am prouder of them than anything else.

We press on, ever wary of enemy activity.

Persas crumples to the ground, a glowing blue circle visible on his forehead.

“Contact!” I cry, as more deadly accurate laser fire rains on my men. As we scramble into cover, it is then that the Xenos deploy their trap. The very ground explodes, several small discs rising out of the cloying mud to head height, before bursting, blinding us. I fall, clawing at my visor. We hear the dreaded battle-screams of their so-called Howling Banshees, and I grope madly for my weapon. I need not bother.

A new sound, strident and discordant, cuts through the chaos, as my vision returns, amidst flashes and half-seen after images. The incoming Xenos crumple, torn apart by the storm bolter and autocannon fire. I roll over.

Forrix, First Captain, Warsmith, stands over us, with his squad. He is like a god in his terminator armour, his power mace crackling with energy, his armour festooned with cog fetishes, and dedications to Perturabo. Hazard stripes are visible across his armour, each denoting a favoured kill. A skullcap of burnished metal wires and segmented bronze relays combat information straight into his brain. He commands in battle thousands of men, and the respect of thousands more. Behind him, the men of his squad, along with the mighty Fellblade, the Millstone, stand idly, waiting for their next commands.

To look upon them is to see power, to see iron throughout. I promise, as the mighty warrior offers me his hand, that, one day, such power shall be mine…

Iron Without

The Tau is dying. I can see that. One of their so-called Fire Caste, the creature is bleeding to death, its rich, red blood soaking the soil. I sit, my vox crackling and chiming, next to the stricken warrior, and pick up its weapon. The silver globe in the barrel glows softly blue, wisps of vapour flickering away into the cold evening air. Above us, grey skies, flecked with snow, wheel and thunder, lighting flashing around us.

The Xenos shudders, and I reach down with my iron-gloved hands an remove the creatures helmet, throwing the spherical device aside into the snow. The oculus fades slowly. The Tau’s features are wracked with pain, the bleeding slowly draining the beast of its will to live. I look down upon the valiant little thing. Valiant, but weak. A race dedicated to altruism and knowledge. They will learn, one day. A taste of the real galaxy would show them that the denizens of the inky void are not to be bargained with. There is no ‘Greater Good’, only power, and those too weak to take it.

“We are not so different, you and I,” I say to the dying Xenos. If it can hear me, it makes no reply, its vocal cords either destroyed, or its contempt of me so great that it will not reply. “Not so different,” I continue, as the whirring servos of Lupus Ferrum and Mortis Exultant, two Legio Mortis Warhound Titans stride past me, their mega bolters blazing at the retreating enemy, cowering in a fortified human town perhaps two kilometres away. “We both fight for the Greater Good, today. It is perhaps regrettable, then, that our “‘Greater Goods’” are so different.” My retinue, the Ferrum company, stands in a circle around us, Terminators, Sorcerors, Chosen, even my two twin daemonhosts, Loquax and Anti-Loquax stand sentinel. Towering above us, my mighty Warlord Titan, the Iron Duke, stands idle, its Apocalypse Missile Launchers and turbo laser tracking the enemy targets, though they are not firing. Yet.

“Can you guess what my Greater Good is, little thing?” Again the Xenos does not reply. It seems quite taken with Loquax and Anti-Loquax. “My Greatest Good, my only Good, in fact, is me. I am the Greatest Good, I am the only Good.” I certainly look like the Greatest Good. My artificer armour, fashioned by Urtzi Malevolus himself for the price of seventeen thousand Ogryn slaves, is burnished to a silvery sheen. A boltgun of exquisite manufacture is slung at my hip, and a sword, taken from the dead hand of a Captain of the Angels Vindicant, hangs at my side. My ocular implants, stretching across my handsome, sculptural face, under my jet black, hair, whirr, switching between the myriad ocular spectrums. Infra-red, normal, preysight, warp. I continue my blasphemous soliloquy, “as my erstwhile brother, Lorgar of the Word Bearers, once said, the difference between gods and daemons rather depends on where one is standing at the time. But perhaps you need a more general, narrower definition of my Greater Good. That town, on the horizon, is about to be assaulted by Lieutenant Grist, one of my brethren, and his hideous Possessed. Slaves, they are. Our gods are but tools, no more to be worshipped than the boltgun at my hip, nor the armour you wear. But I digress. Our friend Grist seems to fancy himself as a possible successor to me as Lord of this Grand Company. He would remove me by assassination, if he could. But I have his measure, when his men capture the town, that machine above us shall obliterate it.”

I gesture up to the great weapon mounts on the Iron Duke, and the mighty guns.
“Grist shall be quite utterly obliterated. And that, little one, is the purpose of today. Your insignificant little empire means nothing to us. The Imperium will swat you when it so pleases. So you see, my friend, I did fight this battle for the “‘Greater Good’” after all.” I smile at the dying creature. Then I sigh, rise to my feet, and shoot it once with its discarded weapon.

Turning away from the ruined Xenos, I stride towards the hulking mass of the Iron Duke, my retinue following in my wake, and into a door contained within the God-Machine’s leg. An elevator takes us up to the command deck, which is crowded by scurrying attendants and Daemonmancers. The glass observation windows afford us a view of the battlefield, the traitor detachments already assaulting the town, above which a huge Xenos transport hovers. The two Warhounds are already within range with their larger weapons, firing blue bolts of plasma energy from their main guns. Tanks duel in the snows.

“My Lord, the Xenos are attempting to evacuate their men,” hisses a robed heretic tech-priest thing. I nod, then sit in my mighty command throne, carved into the likeness of a cowed Bloodthirster. The deck is a flat, iron mass, my throne the only concession to decoration. Behind me, the priceps and his moderati, long since wired into the machine’s workings, are barely visible, wires, and other arcane implements snaking into their open mouths. Flickering holographics surround us, displaying enemy movements, datafiles of enemy units, casualty ratios and other data. Such a schematic activates in front of my throne, but this displays ammunition, targeting arrays and weapon statuses. It is all I need.

“Tell Lieutenant Grist that he is to prosecute and destroy, and to take his possessed.” The heretic nods, relaying the order to the vox deck. A bark of affirmation is audible across the deck. I see Grist’s Rhinos smash through the outer barricades of the town, and his men disappear into the tangle of streets.
“All units, break off and disengage,” I order across all frequencies bar the Lieutenant’s.

“My lord?” interjects the tech-priest. Anti-Loquax incinerates him for speaking out of turn.

“Gellius, you know our plan?” I enquire of the Princeps. A scrapcode bark replies, which I translate as ‘yes’. The Titan lurches forward, each step sending a rippling shockwave through the snow. Railgun fire from the last surviving Tau armour causes the shields to flare, as their transport banks away. We let it leave. It is of no concern to us.
“You may fire when ready,” I declare.

The Iron Duke shudders as wave after wave of missiles streak from its carapace weapons. The turbolaser rips apart houses, and a series of colossal detonations, each one sending debris high into the air, are visible as the gatling blaster chews through the town center, turning it to mud. Explosions ripple through the settlement, killing the last of the Tau, and my true foes. As the rockets kick up muddy spumes, I switch my vision to warp. The last few dim specks of soul-light in the town are obliterated, flickering and dying. I laugh. The Iron Duke powers down, coming to a rest as the mighty weapons begin to recharge.

The latest threat to my primacy is no more. There will be others, but no man can challenge me. I am Rommel of the Iron Warriors, now known as Ferraleo, the Iron Lion. Let my enemies come, they shall meet the same fate.

From delusion I progress to truth
From light I progress to darkness
From death I arise in immortality
From ignorance I gain knowledge
From temporality, I reach eternality

I, Warsmith

[Brother_Kaelgrim]

Vividly written! I like your narrative style, and its short and sweet in just the right points to make the first person perspective work for you. MORE :D

[Walter Payton]

A short story inspired by Storm of Iron-please C&C

[Walter Payton]

Vividly written! I like your narrative style, and its short and sweet in just the right points to make the first person perspective work for you. MORE :lol:

 

Thanks!

 

I didn't intend to write more than that for the IW, but I will perhaps continue with the series, with I,Dark Apostle, I,Sorceror, I, Noise Marine, I,Daemon Prince and, perhaps, I,Imperator...

[Brother_Kaelgrim]

I,Dreadnought? :huh:

[Walter Payton]

I,Dreadnought? :tu:

 

Already been done, and a a lot better than I could ever manage it

[Walter Payton]

COMMENT OR DIE!

[Gree]

COMMENT OR DIE!

 

Review my story and I'll review yours.

[Walter Payton]

COMMENT OR DIE!

 

Review my story and I'll review yours.

 

Done and done-the link in your sig, yeah?

[Gree]

COMMENT OR DIE!

 

Review my story and I'll review yours.

 

Done and done-the link in your sig, yeah?

 

I was actually talking about All is Dust, my pre-heresy Thousand Sons story, but that works too. (You can review that too if you want)

 

But yes, this story looks good, it's it a one shot?

[Walter Payton]

COMMENT OR DIE!

 

Review my story and I'll review yours.

 

Done and done-the link in your sig, yeah?

 

I was actually talking about All is Dust, my pre-heresy Thousand Sons story, but that works too. (You can review that too if you want)

 

But yes, this story looks good, it's it a one shot?

 

Yes, but it will maybe maybe be the first of many (see above) I am also gonna start an IA for the Ferrum Company, and the men of lord Ferraleo

[Skirax]

Sounds nice. :rolleyes:

[DarKnight]

Excellent story. Inspiring to say the least...