The Time of Ending (Chapter Nineteen up)

[Skirax]

As Dorn snapped out of his reverie, he looked upon the faces of millions and millions of Imperial soldiers, their breaths held for him to speak the words, the words they knew would damn their souls.

Dorn himself could barely force them out, they tasted so bad. Like acid from the stomach of a Tyranid Lictor, they caused his tongue to turn dry, and his mouth to lose all salivation, running as dusty as the Atlantik Wastes on Terra.

Terra.

His homeworld. The one place he had ever loved.

The planet that now hung in space below them.

He turned around, seeing the faces of the Primarchs that would stand with him in this time; Sanguinius, his pale face reflecting the green holo-screen that glared above them, like an eye of a great God, judging them for their hypocrisy; Jaghatai, his braided beard singed at the ends from when he had fought against the Word Bearer's strike force on Peridus, not far north of Terra in a fighting retreat.

For a brief second, Dorn thought back to that battle, and the many soldiers who had given their lives that the lucky few civilians who survived the Planetstrike could evacuate. He thought of the once verdant agri-world now burning as alters of the Pantheon of the Gods jutted like horns across the planet, rising into the atmosphere and puncturing the clouds.

Jaghatai nodded at Dorn, and he continued looking across at his Brothers; Ferrus, Vulkan and Corax, all fighting together since their recovery on Istvaan V. Their grave faces spoke louder than words, and they themselves felt the heavy weight resting on all of their souls.

And at the last, he saw the Lion.

That brave warrior who had faced treachery from his own sons, whose Legion had been torn apart a thousand fold in the war that, to them, seemed like moments ago.

Dorn still heard the screams of the dying Astartes.

He turned back to the dais. His voice, rumbling and deep, resounded across the hall; the microphone may as well have not existed.

"Brothers," he began. "Times have changed in the last five years. You are the last of all of His servants. His loyal sons. A billion men, whose souls shine brighter than those of martyrs. And now..." he choked, the words jamming in his throat. He cleared his throat, and spoke again. "And now, we must descend like righteous angels on His throne, on His land, and cleanse that which has been made corrupt. The fools who ran the Imperium into the ground, and the heathens who march beneath them, stand side by side with the foulest of being on the land which we once called Earth.

Well, Earth is dead. It stands trampled by the boots of heretics, and traitors and daemons spawned by the Star Child.

Brothers, let us take back what is ours.

Begin the invasion of Terra."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

++The end draws near++

[astartes88]

interesting

[TrashMan]

Thanks calgar101, but antique_nova may have a point of a length of his sword. Hmm, Isha, eh? Well, I'll have him find her, but maybe not in the way you all think.

 

 

The Emperor is awesome. Only a godess is good enough for him!

 

Aslo, Asuryan should be coming back. It's hinted that he might. He and the Emprah would be drinking buddies.

[Vazzy]

Pretty frigging awesome. I am now inspired to post my Dark Angels story.

Keep up the good work broski!

[Skirax]

Okay, I realise I haven't posted in forever but I'm trying to get back to writing, so here's the last "preview" before a full chapter, hopefully within the the next week.

 

Dusty winds swept the plains. A sun, unforgiving and uncaring, beat down on the sand. In the distance, a haze masked what was left of a city. All around, the ground was cracked and pitted. Here and there, bones poked out from the dust, their surfaces now faded and dry, the same colour as the desert around them.

As he stood on the planet, the one he had once called his home, the rock that had been his once, a single thought crossed his mind.

This planet is dead...

When he had last stepped foot on this planet, there had been trees, planets, wild endless fields of grass that would stretch the horizon. There had been vast lakes of deep blue water, some even as deep as 20 foot.

He smiled, remembering that when he was young he had considered the lakes to be endless, and the grass to be eternal, before he had witnessed the landscapes of planets like Laer and Murder.

The smile faded soon. He looked down, seeing the cracked earth, the crevasses that cut into the dirt, praying for a bud or seed to poke it's head out of the Sud Merican desert.

It did not.

There were no plants on Terra anymore.

Terra was dead.

 

The skies roared as Drop Pods tore through them like meteors, falling stars that were aimed at the planet without mercy.

Their hulls glowed deep red with atmospheric heat, the doors clattering and the motors whining as the winds clawed at them, trying desperately to get them open.

As one, a thousand Pods smashed into the side of makeshift Fortress, bringing the wall down with them. Dust clouds as vast as cities reared into the skies, consuming the east wing of the Fortress, covering the defenders in ash and sand, transforming them into ghosts that stalked the ruins.

As the Pods crashed open, all bearing the Fist of Dorn, the Assault Cannons inside opened fire, and tore the defenders to shreds.

The Invasion had begun.

[calgar101]

I take it this is the Imperial Fists assaulting Terra and Dorn's memory of what Terra once was? Remember even in 30k Terra was more of a hive world than anything else. Also I don't think Rogal ever visited Laer or Murder.

 

Welcome back.

[Skirax]

I take it this is the Imperial Fists assaulting Terra and Dorn's memory of what Terra once was? Remember even in 30k Terra was more of a hive world than anything else. Also I don't think Rogal ever visited Laer or Murder.

 

Welcome back.

First of all, thank you Calgar :D second, I know it was a Hive World, but there are mentions in Nemesis and Tales of Heresy of parts of Terra covered in Ice, Forest, etc. and as for Dorn visiting Laer or Murder, I never said a) it was Dorn or :D he'd actually been there :D

[calgar101]

That is why I said more of a hive world and not that it was a hive world :thanks: True you didn't but it sounds like you were implying he had been.. That is if it is Dorn at all. :thanks:

[modernangelofdeath]

as far as i can tell, only Fulgrim has been on both of those worlds, unless the emperor can see what his sons see?

[Skirax]

You're thinking too close-minded, fools! :cuss

[modernangelofdeath]

You're thinking too close-minded, fools! :wub:

Horus? or Lorgar thinking back to when Cochlis was called Terra?

[Skirax]

Does it not strike you guys to think outside the box? :tu:

[Skirax]

It's been a long time. How the website has changed and how I too have changed.

 

I doubt anyone still reads the tripe I write. I am beyond humbled though that this post alone is in the top 10 most read threads in the Librarium sorry, the Black Library now, so factor in this thread, the Rise of the Warmaster and the Return of the Warmaster, and you guys have probably made this series the most viewed in the Black Library.

 

As for why I have been so long gone; I won't make excuses; I owe you guys so much. Needless to say there's been too much drama in my life so give this justice. But I'm back now, and there will be new stories. There will be. 

 

Beginning now. 

 

+++++++

 

Chapter Eighteen; The Blood of Traitors

 

Dusty winds swept the plains. A sun, unforgiving and uncaring, beat down on the sand. In the distance, a haze masked what was left of a city. All around, the ground was cracked and pitted. Here and there, bones poked out from the dust, their surfaces now faded and dry, the same colour as the desert around them.
As he stood on the planet, the one he had once called his home, the rock that had been his once, a single thought crossed his mind.
This planet is dead...
When he had last stepped foot on this planet, there had been trees, planets, wild endless fields of grass that would stretch the horizon. There had been vast lakes of deep blue water, some even as deep as 20 foot.
He smiled, remembering that when he was young he had considered the lakes to be endless, and the grass to be eternal, before he had witnessed the landscapes of planets like Laer and Murder.
The smile faded soon. He looked down, seeing the cracked earth, the crevasses that cut into the dirt, praying for a bud or seed to poke it's head out of the Sud Merican desert.
It did not.
There were no plants on Terra anymore.
Terra was dead.

The skies roared as Drop Pods tore through them like meteors, falling stars that were aimed at the planet without mercy.
Their hulls glowed deep red with atmospheric heat, the doors clattering and the motors whining as the winds clawed at them, trying desperately to get them open.
As one, a thousand Pods smashed into the side of makeshift Fortress, bringing the wall down with them. Dust clouds as vast as cities reared into the skies, consuming the east wing of the Fortress, covering the defenders in ash and sand, transforming them into ghosts that stalked the ruins.
As the Pods crashed open, all bearing the Fist of Dorn, the Assault Cannons inside opened fire, and tore the defenders to shreds.
The Invasion had begun.

 

The first wave of Drop Pods opened like blossoming flowers, bright yellow and copper, spitting their own deadly pollen at the defenders of Terra; countless cultists died as assault cannons and deathwind launchers blew chunks of traitor formations to shreds, whole companies disappearing under a hail of fire. A thunderous roar cannoned its way across Terra, faint whispers reaching even the orbital plates; when the screams of cannon and cultist, deathwind and damned finally died, a great landing zone ten thousand kilometres across lay empty save for the ripped bodies and bloodied corpses that littered the already crimson stained sands.

The defenders left alive surged forwards like a great ocean, waves of deluded cultists and tsunamis of traitor Astartes, all pitch black but for the bone-white claw on each Astartes' helmet; as the traitors surged forth, the air began to crackle and spark, spit and groan, as if it were being wrenched open, before an almighty howl thundered across the desert and, where before there was nothing but dead bodies, there now stood over four thousand Terminators and, at their very front, a god made flesh; Rogal Dorn.

"Fire!" cried Dorn and, for the third time, a thunderous roar echoed across Terra as four thousand barrels screamed in unison; traitors exploded and battle formations fell apart as bolt after deadly bolt tore another cultist into bloody chunks. Not a single shot missed. Muzzles flared. Hammers fell. 

Traitors died.

But still the endless wave of traitors came; ululating Noise Marines, once the servile curs of Slaanesh, now the advance guard of Suroh's mightiest army opened fire with focussed sonic waves, making the attacker's ears and eyes burst like damns trying to hold back oceans, and waterfalls of blood cascaded down their now twisted faces. Plague Marines, their once bloated stomachs now shrunk and reformed, unleashed controlled bursts of fire while Thousand Sons, their bodies restored by the mighty Star Child added psychic bolts of focussed death to the relentless torrent of fire. Berzerkers, their chainaxes screaming for souls, sprinted forwards on legs that never knew rest anymore. 

The tsunami struck, and all hell broke loose; chainfists whirred and plunged into thick rebel plates, while flayer whips cracked and wrapped themselves around heads. At point blank, storm bolters bellowed and rebel heads exploded while plasma guns belched great bulbous discharges, punching into the Terminator armour with ease. 

War was at the Imperial Palace's gate once more.

 

Justarin roared and cracked a traitor's head open with a thunderous crash from his fist. The powered gauntlet made short work of even the thickly reinforced ceramite.

He swung his head, locking onto another target, and picked up the dead traitor, using it like a flail and threw it point blank at the weakling human cultist. The little man died under the weight in an instant. 

He threw his head back and screamed; today was a good day to be an Imperial Fist, even if it was the darkest day he had ever known. 

A short stabbing pain in his leg brought him back to earth and he glimpsed a dancing daemonette drawing another throwing blade. He brought his bolter up and blew the abomination's head from its shoulders.

He sprinted forwards towards a charging group of Berzerkers, barrelling into them and stomping one's head into pulp. 

A second swung his chainaxe and caught Justarin in the side of his midriff, pain flaring through his body. Roaring he swung his fist and, through shear instinct, connected square in the Berzerker's chest, sending him flying back into the swirling melee around him. 

The third Berzerker scored a lucky hit right between Justarin's head and chest, and he faltered as he felt his throat rip open, his lifeblood tumbling out, staining his glorious armour a sick crimson, and his screams caught in his chest, falling from his throat with his blood. He looked up and saw the snarling Berzerker's eyes wide with glee; this bastard truly was mad. 

Snarling himself, Justarin gave a silent roar and squeezed his bolter's trigger, blowing open the traitor's stomach from point blank range. The rebel was thrown back, his chainaxe still stuck in Justarin's neck. 

With a groan, Justarin stumbled forward two steps and pitched forwards, collapsing on the dirty sand.

 

Grymn howled to the Allfather, and swung his frost axe in a wide arc, decapitating two Thousand Son marines as he did, connecting with the armoured bulk of a Plague Marine Terminator, who simply rocked slightly before raising his massive scythe.

These traitor-kin may have lost their Gods, thought Grymn, but they certainly haven't lost their taint-blades. 

He snarled, and wrenched his axe out from the rebel's body, bringing it up barely in time to catch the scythe's biting edge mere inches from his skin; he threw his weight behind the axe, and knocked the Terminator backwards a step, releasing the mag-lock on his combi-melta and searing the traitor-kin's face from his skull. The massive body fell to the ground with a earth-shattering crash. 

Great Wolf Ragnar was right, he thought. This battle wasn't easy. 

Indicator signs on his neck told him that the attackers had actually lost ground, not taking it. 

If only Russ himself trod this ground.

Of his thousand brothers, two hundred lay dead and another thirty had been put out of action, while the number of enemies that had been slain was countless. 

That's one thing, then. 

 

Datir licked his lips and bit into the traitor's neck. 

The blood tasted so sweet.

So delicious.

He gulped down, his thirst slaking with each mouthful.

So delicious. 

More.

An enemy. Not two steps away. 

A lunge brought him to the rebel's face, and his lightning claw was buried wrist-deep before the traitor could blink.

Datir sunk his canines into the traitor's neck before he could fall.

Even sweeter.

Much sweeter.

More.

[Skirax]

Just tallied the views for The Return, The Rise and The Time, and their views tally to 14,968 - save for Fluff Competition by Brother Tyler, this is the most viewed series in the entire Black Library. You do me proud, loyal readers. 

[Skirax]

Any thoughts from anybody? 

[Vazzy]

It's been ages since I looked at this(and I wince at my use of broski) but its still quite good skirax.

[Dosjetka]

Woooow. This is a real blast from the past. Will have to go back and re-read it all. Good to see you around though, Skirax :tu:

[Wulfkry]

at last this has been updated keep up the good work skirax

[Skirax]

Chapter Nineteen; Inside The Traitor's Sanctum

 

 

The bolter bucked in Halek's gauntleted hands, the heavy weapon roaring as he pumped bullet after bullet into the oncoming horde; cultists exploded in wet, crimson chunks as arms were torn from bodies and stomachs ruptured, rank after rank of the degenerates falling to the massed fire he and his squadmates poured from their weapons. To his left, he heard the relentless bark of Farzor's heavy bolter, and the faint sound of his laughter over the weapon was gratingly out of place; to his right, the whine of Marok's plasma gun as it recharged made his skin stand on end. This didn't seem right. Any of it. The looks on these men - his brothers he reminded himself - were too... joyous. He understood that these men deserved to die, and to bring the Emperor's swift judgement to them was only right and just, but to take pride in it seemed too... 

 

Like the enemy...

 

The thought crept into his head unbidden and it sent waves of cold fear down his spine and, for a moment, his finger relaxed and his bolter fell silent. A red rune blipped up on his helmet display, and he blink-clicked it. His sergeants voice warmed his skin, just for a moment.

 

"Brother Halek, why the sudden silence?" came the deep rumbling, iron hard voice of Sergeant Kralev. 

 

Halek stood silent for a second before squeezing the trigger once more. Kralev snorted. "Good."

 

He took a step forward and leant against the Aquila battlements that lined the crest of Limenjara hill, resting his elbows on the firing slit, staring down the sights, and switched to focus fire mode; he targeted the one cultist he could see carrying a flamer weapon; the length of the weapon was rusted and orange, the muzzle guard glowing a cold blue. Halek could see the peak of the tanker poking over the cultist's head, and his lips tightened as he drew in on the tiny section of the tanker he could see, his grip on the trigger tightening until he could feel the weapon's catch. A flickering yellow circle on his display turned green, and he squeezed. 

 

A deafening boom followed by a flash lit up his vision, and he pulled away from the gun, peering over the edge of the battle line. Where before there was a horde of charging, screaming cultists, now there was a flaming crater, fire clinging to some of the retreating rebels. A smile crept across his face, but only for a second; then his face was as blank and cold as the steel of his left hand.

 

As the men around him cheered, a screech, so powerful and sharp it snapped Halek’s head back ripped across the battlements. Halek’s head felt like it was caught in a servo-arm’s vice grip, the pressure in his skull mounting with every second. He fell to his knees, his hands wrapped around the side of his head, pain lancing through every fibre of his body. The battle plates of his armour trembled, and a pained cry escaped from his mouth, flecks of blood spattering against the inside of his helmet grill. Despite his brain rattling around inside his head, he knew the style of weaponry that would only do this damage to a Legionary and still leave them standing.

 

Sonic.

 

Chancing a look through the slits of the Aquila lines, his suspicions were confirmed; Noise Marines of the Emperor’s Children. He growled, ignoring the horrendous pain it sent into his head; these were the same bastards who had killed the very first bearer of his geneseed. He didn’t need the scripts of the re-doctrination of the Legion Reform to tell him this; he felt it within his blood, deep inside his chest.

 

He struggled back to his feet, and leant against the Aquila lines, struggling to allow his physiology to readjust his balance. He forced his pained eyes to focus on the advancing Emperor’s Children. He tried his very hardest to gauge the distance between them and the battle lines; fifty- no, forty feet, at best. Too far to do any real damage with their guns, despite the heavy guns wielded by Farzor and Marok; they’d be upon us before we could reload, he realised.

 

Kralev must have had the same thought, because as he turned to look at his sergeant, the grizzled veteran threw his Thunder Hammer to the air, his warcry echoing through the vox network, the headache caused by the sonic weaponry already fading. Halek joined him, and in an instant the entire Iron Hands battle line was vaulting the Aquila lines, throwing themselves down the hillside and into the marching Emperor’s Children.

 

The charge was not without casualties; a few Noise Marines raised their heretical weaponry and snapped off some focussed sonic blasts; he watched Farzor’s left leg fall away as a blast lanced through his thigh, and Marok fell as his torso was eviscerated, but before any more shots could be fired, they were upon them.

 

The crash of ceramite on ceramite was thunderous, and the bones rattled within Halek’s skull.

 

There was a Emperor’s Children before him, and without even thinking about it, his left hand was pounding into the elongated lower face of the Marine. The traitor screamed in pain, but the light in his eyes betrayed the pleasure he felt at every strike. Halek grew angrier as the Marine just stood there, taking the punishment, blood spilling from the wounds in his face, screams of pain and pleasure falling from his lips, until the light left his eyes and he fell back.

 

Halek stood there for a second, anger and shock rooting him to the spot.

 

Then a chainsword came down onto his shoulder, throwing him to the side as a traitor fell upon him.

 

 

 

Deep inside his fortress in the Easter Wing of the Emperor’s Palace, Suroh watched the reels of the dead blur along the data pict with the same reaction he’d watch a worm crawl along the dirt with. As the casualties rocketed and the list blurred into a single green block, Suroh dropped the pict onto his planning table and moved down the corridors. Perturabo had masterfully interlaced the powers of the Warp with the drab steel of this fortress in such a way that the walls themselves writhed with shadows and twisted faces, the odd deamon lurching out at Suroh as he walked.

 

He moved into a wide open space that was a flurry of movement; a bank of data screens was attended by a score of Dark Mechanicum adjutants, each screen showing the details of a battery of artillery guns as they pounded the interior battlements of the Emperor’s Palace. They may have taken the exterior Palace and the curtain wall, but the interior was just as heavily defended, and now the Loyal legions had returned to Terra to pin him in. It was all or nothing now.

 

He paced the length of the space, never looking from the door on the other side, guarded by two of Perturabo’s ancient Iron Circle, even as servants came to him with data picts. One even had the tenacity to stand in front of him, perhaps hoping for a moment of attention from the future Emperor. He never broke step, crushing the man with his bulk.

 

He came the door and the Iron Circle guards trained their guns on him as he stepped through into Perturabo’s cold sanctum.

 

The Lord of Iron, in all his Daemonic glory, was bent over a surface littered with Palace blueprints, scratched over with firing lines, trench plans and minefields the size of continents.

 

On the other side of the chamber, an unlikely companion; Lorgar, also resplendent in his Daemon form, had a third-dimensional plan of Terra glowing a faint brown before him; across the southern hemisphere burned massive funeral pyres the size of cities, around which were camps of cultists and Chaos Shrines all dedicated to the Star Child, and faint, tiny blips of black swarmed around each.

 

Daemons of the Star Child, as black as the hole at the centre of the Eye of Terror.

 

The two turned to him as he entered, and they raised their heads to him.

 

The three stared at each other for a long time, before a smile slowly crept across their faces.

 

 

[Simoleo-Brother marine]

This is brilliant Skirax, keep up the good work!

 

So great to see you're back writing this.

 

[Skirax]

Thanks Simoleo, it's great to see I still have some fans

[Skirax]

Well I would personally like to continue this but I'm not sure if I should... 

[Wulfkry]

cant leave us hanging after all this time...

[Skirax]

cant leave us hanging after all this time...

Haha, fair enough Wulfkry, I'll get writing ;)