Here instead.

[Marshal Wilhelm]

Hail Librariumites,

 

This was my entry for last years short story contest on The Great Crusade Forum. I didn't place :D but I still like it ;)

The Great Crusade Forum will be running another fiction contest starting after Games Day UK, at the end of September.

 

Here is a link: Fiction Contest 2010

 

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HERE INSTEAD

 

by Marshal Wilhelm

 

 

 

 

THE SMOKE WAS clearing. The damp valley air kept it around for a long time, but it was definitely clearing. The fierce bombardment had raged for minutes and now was the time to check for progress.

Falx shook his head in disbelief. Rumour was that the rest of his legion was about to join with the Space Wolves and White Scars to eliminate “Overdogg Mashogg”, some Orkish warlord who actually possessed rudimentary levels of cunning. An honour, teaming up with brother Astartes against a worthy foe, shoulder to shoulder… but he was here instead.

Here in an earthworks bunker, slopping around in inches of red mud, water and rotting flesh, doing what Iron Warriors always did: tightening the screws on another nut, waiting for it to crack.

Not much had changed. Casting an experienced eye over the fortress revealed the walls were still intact. Running through the spectra on the magnocs confirmed it. Nearby, Paramerion ran through the cycles on the sonoscope.

‘No change, Sergeant Falx’.

He sighed.

‘Falx to Captain Rabdia.’ His voxbead crackled in response. ‘As before, sir.’

 

 

A PORTION OF the 4th Grand Company had been sent to this world – the 33rd Imperial Army Regiment required assistance. Their fool of a commander, Colonel Sainglend, saw “Fortress Twenty-Seven” as a chance for glory. At least he had had the decency to get himself killed during the mad rush he led.

With the depleted force in a bad position, the locals could launch strikes against the lightly held space port. It was sheer providence that the 4th Grand Company received the order to relieve them, scant hours before they were due to make the journey by Warpspace to rendezvous with the other legions.

Falx’s hearts jumped as the rolling thunder of Imperial artillery roared into life once more. They did every time. He laughed at himself – how many times had he done this before? And still when the big guns spoke, he jumped.

Many times before. Too many. The guns thundered on.

All they had needed to do was wait! The locals had been bested in pitched battle and had fled to this mountain range, giving the Imperials free run of the continent. But that wasn’t enough for Colonel Sainglend, and so he lead them to their deaths. Artillery was only weeks away – super-heavies, moles and other Mechanicum ingenuity. Nothing could stand before those colossi.

Sainglend had run his troops into a vainglorious assault on Fortress Twenty-Seven. He had tried to claim the planetary governorship through martial accomplishment. Just because his army was “Imperial” it didn’t mean victory was automatic! No recon, no skirmishers, no artillery and no sense. They attacked the fortress with little knowledge of the emplacements, minefields and choke points. The smarting locals were only too keen to wreak vengeance upon the belligerent invaders. Falx laughed bitterly: the army had paid for Sainglend’s megalomania.

 

 

AGAIN THE SMOKE cleared, after a while. The stink of dead men lifted a little too. Not much though. There were hundreds of them – twisted, broken and bloody.

Falx marvelled at Fortress Twenty-Seven. They might be arrogant enough to deny the Imperial Truth, but the locals knew how to make the most of terrain and materials. Their angles through all the planes were as good examples as he had seen outside of the Mechanicum, and Falx had seen many.

Running again through the spectra, the magnocs revealed no exploitable fractures. The clicks, whistles and thuds from the sonoscope were picked up by Falx’s autosenses – he guessed Paramerion’s assessment and shook his head. Paramerion confirmed it.

‘No change, Sergeant.’

That bombardment had lasted an hour. The Iron Warriors were seriously under-resourced. They needed more time to make up for the lack of ordnance.

‘Falx to Captain Rabdia.’ The vox was smooth this time. ‘As before, sir.’

The guns roared. Falx’s hearts skipped.

 

 

‘SIEGES ARE NOT complex…’ muttered Falx, as he shadow-executed some phantom whilst gunning his chainsword. Sieges are like a fitness routine – things never really change.

Aye, there were always variances but generally very limited. But the procedures had to be run through. Each one. Every time. Like an automaton.

An Astartes automaton. Bred for glory, but stuck fighting by numbers.

It was monotonous. Every time. Unless the enemy tried to sally out… such a delight! The excitement was always tangible in the officers’ voices over the vox whenever the foe tried it, like an agriworker feeling rain on his sun-aged face after the dry season.

These few locals would not be sallying out though. No such sport, he mused as he continued his shadow-swordsmanship. Their walls were well made and the Iron Warriors guns were few.

They were progressing well, considering – in spite of it all, the Iron Warriors would win through. The firing patterns would be rotated through the program. The walls would break. They always did.

Captain Menaulion always said there was no such thing as an “immovable object” nor any “irresistible force”, despite what the ancient Terran saying implied. The object just needed even more force applied to move it; and a troublesome force just needed a counter-force. Ignorant Terrans.

The vox chimed, and Falx snapped back from his reverie.

“Sergeant Falx,” came Captain Rabdia’s voice.

‘Yes sir,’ Falx responded.

“The seismic scans have detected no potential flaws in the local geology or the fortress walls, and the foundations are too deep for us to reach with present equipment.”

‘Excellent,’ replied Falx, with no noticeable inflection but loaded with sarcasm.

“Yes, but you know the procedure. This is what we do. Iron within…”

‘…Iron without!’ Falx responded.

 

He settled back down into the bunker’s earthen corner. He gazed out at Fortress Twenty-Seven, wishing to be inside those gates. The locals would regret their obstinance…

Falx gunned his chainsword, following his fantasy.

The Iron Warriors would unleash hell on the defiant population. Halls and walkways would run red. They would scream for mercy and receive none…

After a long while, he relaxed his grip on the weapon’s hilt.

But he was here instead…