The Massacre

[Iron Father Ferrum]

This is something I churned out during my spare time at work over the course of about a week or two, featuring my Iron Hands Clan Company. I'm going to post it in chapters one every couple of days even though the whole thing's done to give readers time and point out my inevitable gramma mistakes, missing words (I type TOO fast at times), and proper C&C. Enjoy.

 

THE MASSACRE

 

 

I: Ruminations. Preparations.

 

 

The Astartes cruiser Ferrum slid through the miasmic maelstrom of the Empyrean with an ease that was unthinkable considering the violence of its passage. The Warp was an eternal, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of colors and shapes seeded with flickering beings of ephemeral force that battered themselves uselessly against the powerful Geller Field that surrounded the vessel. Within the confines of the Field and the ship nestled safely therein, the void predators could feel the burning soul-fire of beings within whom was locked the smallest portions of the most brilliant essence they had ever known. Like frenzied sharks they threw themselves against the Geller Field, driven as much by the demands of their uncaring patrons as they were by their own insatiable need to feed.

 

On the observation deck of the Ferrum, Cadmus Mantellar looked out upon the coruscating madness of Warp-space. The left side of his face, long ago replaced with augmetics thanks to the not-so-gentle ministrations of the Eldar, showed no emotion. His flesh-face, however, was pulled downward in a ferocious scowl as he watched the amorphous clouds and half-glimpsed monsters of the Immaterium swirl outside the ship. He crossed his arms, his frown deepening as he pondered the existence of those animal intellects that fought so hard to penetrate the Ferrum’s shields. They were like the lesser hounds of greater hunters. . . but such phantasms were temporary, their minds bestial, their ability to affect real-space limited. So we think. What if...?

 

So lost in thought was he that he completely missed the stomping stride of Gabriel Santar marching up behind him.

 

“Cadmus.” A pause. “Cadmus!”

 

The chief of Clan Shologar started, yanked from his reverie by his old friend’s interruption. He turned, his lips turning up on the right side of his face; the left side, as ever, was frozen in a scowling rictus. He nodded in welcome.

 

“Hello, Gabriel. I apologize; dark thoughts have clouded my mind of late.” Despite the armored steel that formed half of his skull and jaw, his voice remained as it always had been: a deep, basso-profundo that sounded as though it could shake the very ground. The Primarch had once said it was like the voice of Medusa itself – inspiring of awe and fear in equal measure.

 

Santar waved the apology aside with one clawed gauntlet. “So long as you remain focused and clear on the battlefield. We will need you soon.”

 

Mantellar nodded. “The Warmaster cannot hide from us. Fulgrim cannot hide from us.”

 

“That’s why I came to find you. The Primarch has called a meeting, and you are expected.”

 

 

 

Santar and Cadmus were not the last members of the Morlock commanders to enter, and it took only a few moments for the rest of the officers to assemble. There were seven Astartes in the chamber, one for each of the Clans whose Terminator-armored Morlock Veteran companies were gathered in the Ferrum’s holds. Gabriel Santar’s Avernii Clan itself provided three full companies of Morlocks; Cadmus and his Shologar provided another. Looking around the room, Cadmus could see the twinned lightning bolts of the Vurgaan, the spouting volcano of the Jagendi, the stylized wrench of the Kaargul. Cadmus was suddenly self-conscious of the simple skull device, picked out in white marble, that emblazoned the broad pauldron of his own Cataphract-pattern Tactical Dreadnought Armor.

 

Gathered together in the Ferrum’s war room was the leadership, but the vessel itself was carrying a full thousand Terminators, nearly every workable suit available to the 52nd Expedition. Ten full companies of veterans, the clenched fist of the Clans of Medusa, en route to the Istvaan system to bring justice to traitors. Cadmus couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the combat drop to come.

 

Just as each of the Emperor’s Legions had its own area of expertise, so did each Clan of the Iron Hands. Santar’s Avernii were renowned for their expertise in the employment of Terminator suits, while the assault specialists of the Vurgaan were adept at frontal attacks. Clan Shologar were the established masters of naval warfare, having perfected boarding tactics and ship-to-shore attacks. The coming drop pod assault was going to be one of the largest orbital insertions ever attempted in the history of the Imperium, and his heart swelled with pride that he would be helping to plan and lead it.

 

The seven captains stood in silence, waiting for their Primarch to speak. Despite the gathering of post-human warriors able to stand head and shoulders above even their own battle-brothers thanks to the imposing bulk of their Terminator armor, Ferrus Manus stood taller still. He towered above them all, a giant clad in polished ceramite and burnished steel, his liquid-like metal hands reflecting light from the overheads. His features were craggy, weathered by Medusa’s unrelenting climate and the ravages of centuries of war, and Cadmus – all of the Iron Hands, for that matter – took a certain amount of pride in the fact that his Primarch proudly bore scars in place of the perfectly sculpted features of his brothers like Sanguinius and Fulgrim.

 

Fulgrim. Cadmus felt bile rise in his throat. The very thought of the traitor brought his choler to the boiling point, and Cadmus had to clench his fists to keep from growling in hate. The motion, however, did not go unnoticed, the scrape of his armored power-gloves audible in the patient silence that dominated the war room.

 

Ferrus turned to look at Cadmus, and the Clan Chief of the Shologar felt those silver eyes bore into his soul. A slim, grim smile tugged up at Ferrus’ lips.

 

“Brothers, I can feel your hate,” Ferrus said quietly. A whisper of motion went through the small crowd, a communal expression of rage escaping like a small wisp of steam puffing from a tea kettle. “I have called this convocation because the time is coming close. In less than an hour, we will be translating into the Istvaan System, where the Traitor Warmaster and his cat’s paws await our bloody vengeance.” He strode through the cluster of captains to a wall-mounted pict-slate and tapped several keys. A line-and-wire diagram of Istvaan V appeared on the slate. Cadmus and the other Clan Chiefs leaned forward for a better look, not that it was necessary; they’d each studied the terrain of the planet Horus had chosen to make his stand upon and begun formulating assault plans during the weeks of travel through the Warp.

 

Ferrus manipulated the map, zooming in on a twenty-by-twenty-kilometer section of the world’s surface. “We have all studied the terrain of this wasteland, and all have reached the same conclusions. The most likely place for Horus to base his defenses is this abandoned xenoform fortress, which sits on the northern slopes of the Urgall Depression. It is this position that we must assault to cut the heart out of his rebellion, and we alone have not the force to do so.” He paused, letting that fact sink in, before allowing a slow smile to build on his face. “But fear not, brothers, for the Legions of Vulkan and Corax are with us in their full strength!”

 

Cadmus felt his pulse quicken for a moment, for amongst the Salamanders of Vulkan was an old friend and compatriot of his. Captain To’gan and he had fought together during the middling years of the Great Crusade, and Cadmus spared a moment to hope that To’gan would survive the coming bloodbath.

 

“But be warned: even with their strength, this will not be an easy victory. The Sons of Horus, World Eaters, Death Guard, and Emperor’s Children stand united against us. With them stand the Imperial Army units of the Warmaster’s own 63rd Expedition and the Titans of the Legio Mortis. They hold an entrenched position in difficult terrain, and so we must mitigate these advantages.” He turned to his equerry. “Gabriel. Thoughts?”

 

The Avernii nodded. “We come down within their positions. We’ll be surrounded, but if we can place our drop pods properly, we should be able to nullify half of their entrenchments and take most of their heavy artillery as well as the Titans out of the battle.”

 

“Unless these curs have no fear of killing their own troops,” proud Lucan of the Jagendi said.

 

Ferrus nodded at the comment. “We cannot predict such things, no. But we can plan around them.”

 

Cadmus stepped forward. “Lord, with the combined firepower of the fleet we will be facing, will our own vessels be available for orbital fire support?”

 

Ferrus shrugged his massive shoulders. “Again, I do not know.”

 

Cadmus nodded and continued. “If the traitor fleet is not a threat to our landings, then we should precede the assault with a massive bombardment. That should clear landing zones for our drop pods. Priority of fire should also be given to any Titans we can identify from orbit; their destruction will help to even the odds greatly.”

 

“Excellent suggestion,” the Primarch said. He opened his mouth to continue, but a klaxon screamed its harsh alarm as the Ferrum closed on its translation point. Ferrus punched his knuckles together in nervous anticipation. “The hour is upon us, my children. Prepare for battle!”

[Dosjetka]

This is great! I love it! I must say, there is one thing that bothered me (I'll look for it later) but the rest of it is epic! :teehee:

Keep it up!

 

Ludovic

 

EDIT: It would be great if you could describe the atmosphere. What does the bridge of the ship lok like? What does the command room look like? etc... It would add some depth to the story.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Good call on the interior description of the ship, Ludovic. I always felt something was missing from that Chapter, and you've hit the nail on the head. I'll be adjusting it sometime in the near future.

 

 

II: The Fires of Heaven. Descent into Hell.

 

 

Captain Balhaan, commander of the Ferrum, watched with outward dispassion as his vessel – flanked by the emerald green warships of the Salamanders and the midnight-black ships of the Raven Guard – slid into an assault orbit above Istvaan V. The Iron Hands, Salamanders, and Raven Guard had sat, all but idle, in the reaches of the Istvaan System for the better part of a week. Stormbird flights had braved the traitor fleet to pull recon sweeps over the planet, and the data they brought back confirmed much of the Iron Hands’ suppositions. The traitors had fortified the old alien keep and the Urgall Depression. The trenchworks and dug-outs were far too symmetrical to Balhaan’s trained eye, their lines arrow-straight and corners perfectly cemented at a full ninety degrees. They were formidable works, but not as formidable as they could have been. Before achieving flag rank and taking command of the Ferrum, he’d fought with Perturabo’s Iron Warriors on Xanthe III, Kentares IV, and Doorman’s World. Right angles and straight lines looked pretty, but had no place in a proper trench layout.

 

Still, the long wait had bothered him. The Traitor vessels, no doubt flagged from the Brobdignagian bulk of the Vengeful Spirit, had played coy, refusing to break orbit or accept battle. The Raven Guard cruiser Shadowblade had even attempted to play rabbit, with the Ferrum and Serpent of Fire ready to pounce, but the Traitors had refused to give chase. It had been a frustrating week for the Loyalists, and Ferrus had paced up and down the Ferrum’s command deck like a caged Medusan snow lion.

 

Balhaan had been present with the three Primarchs when word had arrived that the other half of their strike force – the Alpha Legion, Iron Warriors, Word Bearers, and Night Lords – were less than six hours away. Ferrus Manus had ordered an immediate attack, and the fleet had boosted forward.

 

And something had gone very, very wrong.

 

The Vengeful Spirit and her consorts had fallen back. They had given way before the Loyalist spearhead, the enemy flotilla remaining well beyond maximum weapons range. The Primarch had refused to brook any further delay when Cadmus Mantellar had voiced his concern about a trap, and so the fleet had pressed on.

 

And now Balhaan was looking down through the broken clouds at the endless ash wastes of Istvaan V. Terrain-mapping auspices had picked out the trenches and earthworks, and thermal sensors had been able to pick out the gargantuan forms of the Legio Mortis’ Titans thanks to the intense heat blooms of their plasma cores. At this range and the scale being actively displayed on the Ferrum’s pict-slates, it was impossible to pick out individual Space Marines or their armored vehicles. Despite that loss, Balhaan knew that below him there were some thirty thousand of his brother Astartes.

 

He shook his head sadly. No. They were not his brothers anymore.

 

“Captain, the fleet is in position,” one of the Legion serfs said. “Awaiting your signal.”

 

Balhaan turned once again to the screen and its flashing images of the surface of Istvaan V. With one last deep breath, he steeled himself to the task ahead. “Primary targets are the earthworks in the Depression. Secondary targets are the Titans – they cannot hide from us. Prepare the bombardment cannons, full power.”

 

“Full power, aye,” the crewman at the fire control station parroted.

 

At his side, Iron Father Diederik spoke for all to hear. “We are the Hands of the Emperor, the bringers of His justice. Think not of what those below once were, only what they are now: an enemy to be destroyed, brought low, forced to bend knee once more to the one true Master of Mankind.” Balhaan looked over at the Iron Father, and Diederik gazed back. “They have risen against the Emperor and betrayed us all, Captain. Now smack them back down.”

 

Balhaan nodded to the fire control officer, his voice calmer than it should have been. “Commence firing – fire at will.”

 

The Ferrum shook slightly as the first volleys of the Battle of Istvaan V were fired.

 

The macro-shells of the cruiser’s bombardment cannons speared down through the atmosphere, the first drops of a rain of hellfire and brimstone. The shells’ protective casings burned away as they entered the atmosphere, but that was their purpose, and the warheads themselves – each the size of a Land Raider – pounded into the earth below.

 

Where each shell struck, the ash-black soil fountained skywards, throwing rockcrete, armored vehicles, and dead Astartes a dozen meters into the air. The bombardment was systematic, carefully planned to smash troop concentrations, heavy weapons emplacements, and communications trenches, and it was working – to a point.

 

The trench system had not been planned out by the siege masters of the Iron Warriors or Imperial Fists, but it had still been constructed with precision and foreknowledge of what it was going to be facing. Fulgrim himself had mapped out the earthworks and personally overseen their construction by Mechanicus engines. Their layout may not have been perfect, but their construction methods were. The trenches had been dug deep, with hundreds of reinforced dugouts and armored overheads built into them. Thirty thousand Astartes weathered the storm in these scattered bunkers, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder into the redoubts.

 

Not all of them were proof from the bombardment, of course. One lance battery from the Ferrum burned through a tank laager and evaporated a whole squadron of World Eater Land Raiders. A macro-cannon shell from the Salamanders battle barge Vesuvian scored a direct hit on the entrance to a dugout, collapsing the ceiling and burying over a hundred Sons of Horus beneath ten feet of rockcrete and hard-pack.

 

After fifteen long, torturous minutes, the bombarding warships shifted their fire, targeting now the massive forms of the Warmaster’s Titans. Void shields flashed and flared as they fought to repel capital-class weaponry. The Dies Irae was the largest target on the battlefield, the great Imperator-class Titan almost visible from orbit, and her void shields strained to keep the holocaust of fire away from the hull of the war-engine. But not all of Dies Irae’s brethren were as lucky.

 

The Warlord Titan Monumentis Bellis was the first to die. She took three hits from the lances of the Shadowblade, and her void shields collapsed as the emitters were overloaded. A volley of cannon rounds smacked the black earth at its feet, the concussive force cutting the Bellis’ legs out from underneath it. War-horns blaring in impotent rage, the Warlord tipped over and fell flat on its face, crushing half a company of Death Guard beneath its bulk.

 

A melta torpedo scored a direct hit on the Bellis’ sister, the Malleus Mechanicum; its shield burst on contact and the torpedo’s main charge impacted on the top of the engine’s skull, decapitating it. The Warlord remained standing, its upper quarter a flaming, smoking wreck.

 

The moderati of the Warhound Corona Canid lost his nerve and tried to make a break for it, ignoring the screams of his princeps as he tried to sprint the scout Titan out of the fire zone. He made it halfway across the Urgall Depression before a stray shell clipped the top of the Warhound’s carapace, blasting the engine to its knees. The Canid tried to rise, but the Molten Rage and Raven’s Claw had both bracketed her. Their lances pulverized the Titan, reducing the once-proud machine to scrap.

 

For thirty long minutes, the warships of three Legions rained fire down upon the Traitor forces. Aboard the Ferrum, Balhaan watched the devastation unfold from orbit. He refused to look away, forcing himself to watch every eye-tearing boil of fire as it wiped his enemies from existence.

 

As the last mushroom cloud from the last impact began to settle to the scorched and blasted earth of the world below him, Balhaan turned to the servitor manning the drop pod tubes.

 

“Roll them out.”

 

 

 

Cadmus braced himself against the grav-harness as the warning klaxon screamed out the final seconds. The timer hit zero, and a lead boot slammed into the Clan Chief’s middle as a mass driver literally spat his drop pod out into the cold void of space.

 

Travelling in a drop pod was not for the faint of heart or the frail of body. The pod shook and rattled as it began to burn its way through Istvaan V’s atmosphere. The friction of grinding through the air at such high speeds turned each pod into a meteor of fire, streaking down to the black earth haloed in flame. Within his pod, Cadmus watched as the intense heat of the atmospheric interface imparted a soft orange glow to the walls.

 

The ride was far from smooth, however. The pod bucked and jumped as cross-winds caught it, and explosions were audible from within as Traitor flak units banged away, trying to blast some of the incoming Loyalists out of the sky. Cadmus heard the scritch and patter of shrapnel ricocheting off of the pod’s armored outer skin, the bang of near-misses, and then the high-pitched mechanical scream of the retro-jets firing. The pod jolted hard as the first-stage jets retarded its descent, slowing them enough that when the second-stage jets fired, the competing inertial forces wouldn’t squeeze them all into a hard-to-identify paste.

 

The pod hit solid ground with enough force to liquefy a normal human, and explosive bolts slammed the ramp-doors open an instant later. Cadmus punched his grav-harness release and bounded out of the pod and into a vision of the End of Days.

 

Drop pods fell from the sky like a rain of fire, countered by the smaller but infinitely more numerous tracers of anti-aircraft fire zipping in the opposite direction. All around him were the lips of trenches and the berms of earthworks, and Traitor Marines were already pouring fire onto the new arrivals from the relative safety of firing steps and bunkers and the flash of ten thousand bolters firing on full automatic lit up the dust and smog like the light of day. Enemy artillery was still struggling to find its range, heavy shellfire churning up the earth like the jaws of some primordial beast. The roar and rumble of battle at its harshest filled the air, deafening in its extremity as Astartes made war upon Astartes.

 

Even though its volume was dampened by his helmet, Cadmus could hear the roar and it was music to his ears.

 

“Death’s Heads! To me!” He waited for no response, charging forward to the nearest trench and leaping down into it feet-first. He landed heavily, the servos of his Terminator armor whining as he hit the flakboard floor panels. The trench, he saw, was filled with Sons of Horus in pearlescent armor, the sea-foam color instantly recognizable.

 

He lashed out, faster than seemed possible in the bulk of his armor, and landed a solid punch to one of the Sons of Horus. His clenched power fist pounded the Traitor’s chest armor and slammed him back into a pack of his fellows, sending the three of them to ground in a tangle. Bolter rounds ricocheted off his pauldron as he spun, backhanding another Son of Horus with his other power fist and taking that one’s head clean off his shoulders.

 

And then the rest of his command squad arrived, pouring over the fire-step in a tide of iron and black. Power fists and lightning claws rose and fell, reaping a bloody tally as more Morlocks joined the fray. Within a minute, that section of trench was clear of enemies – and more drop pods were still coming down as the Salamanders and Raven Guard entered the battle.

 

Cadmus raised his power fists, known as the Hands of Doom, and showed the rich red blood that dripped from their armored bulk. “First blood is ours, but this fight is not yet won! Arius, take your squads over the wall and press on to the next trench. Rasmus, watch his flank. Squads Mercer and Harkon, with me. Men of iron – onwards! For Primarch, Emperor, and Omnissiah!”

 

The Iron Hands gave a great roar and sixty Terminators charged over the rear step and back into the no-man’s land. Bolter fire lashed at them, but they were Iron Hands and would not be stopped. Cadmus ran around the corner into the transit trench, his pounding feet splintering the flakboard as he moved at full sprint up the arrow-straight dugout. Bolt rounds walked a line of craters up his chest armor, obliterating the Legion icon emblazoned there in pure iron, but the fusillade could not counter his momentum.

 

He slammed into the ranks of the Sons of Horus like a Juggernaut, both fists pistoning as he hammered his way into the Traitors who blocked his path. Combat blades snapped under the titanic force of his punches, and chainswords revved and squealed as they fought – unsuccessfully – to cut through the thick ceramite of his Terminator plate. Through it all, Cadmus was a whirlwind of destruction that left most of a score of Sons of Horus lying dead and dismembered at the bottom of the trench.

 

He finished his bloody execution as he drew even with the next trench line, his fury leeching away as he turned the corner and almost ran into Sergeant Arius. The other Iron Hand, his helmet forged in the form of a leering skull of iron and ivory, nodded as his Clan Chief hove into view, but there was no pause in the battle.

 

Assault troops of the World Eaters Legion in the next trench over saw their brothers dying under the fists of the Loyalists. Without orders, they boiled up out of the trench and charged across the fields of fire, screaming incoherently and waving chainaxes as they came. Bolt rounds began to plink off of the armored step of the trench, the berserkers firing wildly as they sprinted forwards. Abandoning the trenches once more, Cadmus and his men ran to meet them.

 

The lines of black and white met with a thunderclap, the World Eaters’ frenzy driving them against the stubborn resolve of the Iron Hands. Cadmus grabbed the haft of a descending chainaxe and hurled it and its owner over his shoulder then closed his fist and drove forward a punch that sheared the head from another of Angron’s sons. He shrugged off a glancing hit to his left arm, disposing of the offender with a back-handed blow. The move left him off-balance and another berserker slammed his axe into his cuirass. The blow knocked the Clan Chief onto his back, and his view of the nightmare hell-scape was eclipsed as the World Eater moved in for the kill.

 

In the blink of an eye, the World Eater was gone, smashed aside by a fist of adamantium. Cadmus looked up and found himself staring into the eyes of his Primarch. Ferrus leaned down and pulled Cadmus upright as easily as lifting a child.

 

“No time to rest, Cadmus,” he chastised. “We are winning this fight!”

 

Cadmus took a moment to look around the battlefield, and saw that Ferrus was correct. To his right, the Raven Guard had swept over the front-line trenches and carried the battle into the Death Guard’s rear area, their assault squads equipped with the new jump packs already in amongst the Imperial Army artillery positions. The left flank was lagging a little behind, the Salamanders taking the time to burn the Traitor strongholds completely clear of the enemy before moving on. Cadmus allowed himself a smile as he spotted the banner of the Salamanders’ 5th Great Company, To’gan’s command, at the side of the black-skinned Vulkan.

 

The other two Legions had already finished landing their heavy equipment, and the battle-roar took on a new tone. Tube artillery added its own grumble to the background, their shells filling the air with freight-train screams as they split the sky. Ripple-salvoed rockets blanketed entire stretches of the defensive line with lethal submunitions, and full squadrons of Predators and Land Raiders poured fire into the Legio Mortis as they tried to take down the Dies Irae and its compatriots.

 

Behind him the air was filled with the pulse and whine of jet engines as Stormbirds, Thunderhawks, and mass conveyances appeared in the cloud-choked skies. They were colored in granite gray, deep purple, midnight blue, and plain iron: the Word Bearers, Alpha Legion, Night Lords, and Iron Warriors had arrived. The Iron Hands punched the air in triumph as the second-wave forces arrived.

 

Rivers of blood poured down the slope of the Urgall Depression, and, unheard by all, the air was filled with the laughter of dark gods.

[Dosjetka]

Good call on the interior description of the ship, Ludovic. I always felt something was missing from that Chapter, and you've hit the nail on the head. I'll be adjusting it sometime in the near future.

Ok! No rush :)

 

I really love this part, though it does lack a bit of description, mostly colour. But otherwise, it's great and I can't wait for the next part! :)

 

Ludovic

 

EDIT: Oh, and if you could describe the main characters a bit more, that would be great B)

[aekold]

It is a great read, especially the second chapter. One point of critisism: A terminator delivering a mule-kick?? I have a hard time imagening that. Terminator armour just seems to unwieldy for that to me.

[Dosjetka]

One point of critisism: A terminator delivering a mule-kick?? I have a hard time imagening that. Terminator armour just seems to unwieldy for that to me.

I knew I had forgotten something <_<

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Short chapter, but there's still more action to come.

 

 

 

III: The Trap Springs. A Father’s Death.

 

 

“Forward, men of iron!” Ferrus yelled and the Iron Hands surged forward once more. By now, their Terminator armored bulks, once glossy black, were coated with a thin film of arterial spray that was rapidly drying into a patina of crimson. The ashen dust of Istvaan V’s barren surface mixed with the super-oxygenated blood of the dead and dying to form small pockets of gory mud, but these were too shallow to slow the charge of the Morlocks.

 

Looking ahead, Cadmus could see a line of shining purple and burnished gold: the Emperor’s Children. They had piled out of their trenches and were barreling headlong to meet the Medusan charge. The two forces met in a cacophony that seemed even louder than before, punctuated by an insane squealing that Cadmus could not identify. He was immersed in enemies, laying out left and right with his powerfists; the Emperor’s Children were fast enough to avoid his tank-crushing blows, but there were so many of them that few of his wild swings failed to connect.

 

But his Clan and kinsmen were taking casualties too, he now saw. Sergeant Lipern was split near in two by a perfectly timed swipe from one of the Phoenix Guard’s halberds, and his old friend Rasmus Belloch went down under a swarm of Emperor’s Children who literally bore his gargantuan weight to the ground by sheer dint of numbers. And there, not fifty meters away, stood Fulgrim upon a plinth of rock. Cadmus growled low in his throat at the sight of the haughty Primarch and the anxious smile upon his face. He smashed aside another figure in purple and gold but halted again in shock at what next confronted his eyes.

 

Storming forward was a band of Emperor’s Children who had adorned their battle plate with patches of human skin stretched wide and stapled to the filigree of their armor. Their mouths were wired open, and he winced in sudden pain as those condemned souls screamed their hatred and loathing in frequencies no human throat should ever have been able to reach. Cadmus knew his eardrum had burst and could feel the slow trickle of blood leaking out of his one good ear. He lurched forward, struggling against the sonic assault, determined to put an end to the abominations before him.

 

And then the very ground erupted around him as waves of hellish screams blasted into his position. The sonic blast lifted him up and tossed him back to the ground like a rag-doll. He scrambled back to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and watched as the Traitors bearing weapons like some fantastical musical instruments poured another salvo of screeches into the massed ranks of the Morlocks. Dark earth and bodies fountained in a spume of blood, dirt, and body parts.

 

His attention was pulled away from the impossible orchestra by a series of titanic booms, and he watched with wide eyes as two avatars of war clashed. Ferrus was wielding a mighty broadsword whose blade was bathed in incandescent flames, while Fulgrim – curse his name! – was deftly countering with the familiar shape of Ferrus’ old warhammer, Forgebreaker. They reached a pause in their duel, and though they were too far for Cadmus to hear their words, he saw the look of shock and horror that stole over the face of Ferrus Manus.

 

Cadmus followed his Primarch’s gaze, looking over his shoulder at the landing zones of the second-wave Legions. As he watched, their massed Astartes began to fire. But the thunder of guns was aimed not at the Traitor Legions of Horus. . . but at the serried ranks of the Salamanders and Raven Guard. Tracers and bolt rounds ripped into the rear-most formations of Loyalists, eye-searing laser beams left vivid purple after-images on the retinas of those watching as they burned into the tanks and dreadnoughts of the landing force. Heavy shellfire from the Iron Warriors’ wire-strewn positions began to fall, ripping ragged but enormous holes in the Loyalist lines.

 

It was all a trap. The thought echoed in Cadmus’ mind over and over again, repeating like a mantra as his brain fought against itself to put order to the chaos that had erupted in his mind. A trap. Eight Legions, Horus controls eight Legions! And then the corollary to that thought bubbled to the surface: two Legions are dying here today.

 

“My lord!” he cried into his vox-bead. “Sire. . .” His voice caught in his throat. Ferrus was on his knees, fingers grasping for the hilt of his sword. Fulgrim stood above him, a saber-like blade of glittering silver held aloft.

 

Time seemed to slow. Cadmus sprang forward, trying to get closer, to intervene, to halt the fall of Fulgrim’s sword or perhaps to take the blow for his Primarch. It felt like he was moving through deep mud, like the air had begun to solidify around him. He shouldered one of the Noise Marines aside, pounded another into the bloody mud at his feet, but he was simply too far away.

 

Purple fire wreathed Fulgrim, blazing like an unholy halo.

 

The gem set in the hilt of his lightning-blade pulsed like the heartbeat of a monstrous god.

 

The sword cut a line of silver as it clove through the air.

 

And the head of Ferrus Manus parted from his body.

 

A banshee-wail filled the air, flattening all of the combatants within a hundred meters of the fallen form of Ferrus Manus, tenth son of the Emperor. Ghostly skeletal hands clutched the living, their touch killing those unlucky enough to receive their caress. In Cadmus’ heart, anger, hate, and shock boiled together and burned him like lye from the inside out.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

IV: Orbital War.

 

Balhaan turned about and gave Iron Father Diederik a playful punch to the pauldron as a swarm of vessels broke warp. They were led by the green and purple-clad battle-barge Alpha, but following on its wake came dozens more warships, their heraldry proudly proclaiming the allegiance of the Alpha Legion, Word Bearers, Iron Warriors, and Night Lords.

 

Diederik smiled, but his enthusiasm was much more muted than that of Captain Balhaan. “Now their fate is sealed,” the Iron Father said, but Balhaan couldn’t hear him. The Ferrum’s captain was already exchanging greetings with the new arrivals over the vox.

 

While he had outwardly repressed his emotions, maintaining the stoic front that was expected from an Iron Hand of his rank, Diederik was inwardly joyous. The arrival of four more full Legions! The flotilla alone was enough to spark a momentary shiver of emotion – it wasn’t fear, to be sure, but certainly something akin to it – at the thought of the firepower and sheer military might that fleet was able to unleash.

 

The new vessels pulled into orbit around Istvaan V, but they were coming in close – uncomfortably close, in many cases – to the ships of the Loyalists already gathered there. They tucked in next to the other ships, but the whisper of suspicion in the back of Diederik’s mind quieted when the other warships began to vomit forth their Stormbirds and other orbital landers. The transports arced away, burning hard for the surface.

 

Yet the whisper wouldn’t go away.

 

Diederik pulled Balhaan away from the voxcaster. “Captain, have we been able to reestablish communications with any of our ground forces?”

 

Balhaan shook his head. “No, there is too much atmospheric disturbance and the scope of the battle apparently isn’t helping anything.”

 

“Try again, Captain,” Diederik said with a frown.

 

“The battle is won! What need is there –”

 

“Just do it, Balhaan,” he said quietly, steel in his voice. The other Astartes scowled, but dialed the vox back to the ground unit’s frequencies.

 

The speaker squealed with static for a moment. Balhaan fiddled with the dial and it unexpectedly cleared up just as an unknown Astartes’ voice screamed “Incoming!” The vox then went completely dead.

 

Motion on the main screen drew both men’s eyes. The Night Lord strike cruiser Covenant of Blood darted around the Raven’s Claw, drawing abeam of the larger vessel, and slammed a full broadside into Corax’s flagship. The Raven’s Claw shuddered, caught with her shields down, as plasma batteries and lance cannons ripped into her flanks.

 

Balhaan’s jaw dropped, but Diederik sprang into action. “Helm, all ahead full – break us free from the pack! Shields up and charge the main batteries!” The Ferrum leapt forward, but the ambush had been well-planned. An Alpha Legion battle-barge registering as the Beta slid smoothly in front of the Ferrum, crossing Balhaan’s ‘T’ and cutting loose with its full broadside.

 

The Beta’s mass drivers smashed explosive rounds into the forward shields of the Ferrum, but the Loyalist cruiser simply shrugged the withering fire off and kept moving forward. Ferrus’ friendship with the Fabricator General and his Legion’s overall tech-savvy meant that the warships of the Iron Hands were upgraded beyond what a stock Astartes-pattern vessel normally came equipped with straight from their orbital yards. As a result, the Ferrum had a 25% speed advantage over ships of comparable mass and had half again the shield strength – two advantages that meant that the Ferrum had a fighting chance in escaping the melee that had suddenly erupted in high orbit of Istvaan V.

 

Iron Father Diederik’s quick action and the Beta’s attack shook Captain Balhaan from his fugue of shock and disbelief. He blinked at the screen, gaining his bearings as his mind began to move the pieces on the chessboard before him.

 

“Helm!” Balhaan barked. “Give me a thirty degree down-angle and a quarter roll. Stand by starboard guns.” Diederik nodded to him, stepping back as the ship’s captain stepped forward to take charge. The Iron Father had been posted to the cruiser as a punishment to Balhaan, not to captain his ship for him.

 

The Ferrum swept forwards, angling down beneath the buttressed form of the Beta and spun ninety degrees along its X-axis, presenting its starboard broadside to the Alpha Legion ship’s underbelly.

 

“Batteries charged, captain!” one of the Legion serfs called.

 

Balhaan clenched his fists. “Fire as you bear!”

 

The Ferrum passed less than a hundred kilometers from the Beta – well within naval knife-range – and as each of her heavy plasma megacannons passed before the battle barge, they cut loose. Angry blue-gold bolts of stellar energy splashed against the Beta’s shields, fighting to penetrate that barrier. Bolt after boiling bolt smashed at the void shields; the shields crackled and spat into the silence of space, but did not fail.

 

And then the Ferrum was past it, moving in closer to Istvaan V as it broke from the wolf-pack of Traitor warships. The ship swung about, drives straining as it accelerated to its full speed as it tried to bring its forward guns to bear.

 

Staring into the master plot, Balhaan frowned. The Vengeful Spirit and her consorts had begun to move forward, driving at their best acceleration to get into the action. The ponderous battleship had begun to fall behind its smaller, swifter escorts, but any one of those vessels was still enough to destroy the Ferrum in a straight-up fight. Storied Astartes cruisers like the Terminus Est and Pride of the Emperor led the charge, and Balhaan and Diederik shared a look as both came to realize that the Loyalist fleet was doomed.

 

The battle had started badly and had only gotten worse. The Raven’s Claw had survived the initial salvos and was struggling to disengage, but the rest of the Raven Guard fleet had not gotten so lucky. The Shadowblade and Dark of Night had been destroyed by that first, dreadful strike, and the cruiser Stormcrow had been boarded by Night Lords from the Umbrea Insidior and seized by the enemy. Nighthawk, one of the Raven Guard’s rapid-strike vessels, had managed to evade the Traitor guns and literally threw itself into the flank of the World Eaters battleship War Hound. The War Hound had been closing on the Raven’s Claw to deliver the deathblow, and her captain hadn’t seen the Nighthawk]/i]’s suicide run begin. Both ships disappeared in a savage explosion that left only a cloud of debris.

 

The Salamanders were faring slightly better. The Molten Rage’s captain had, like Diederik, felt something amiss and raised its shields upon the arrival of the “reinforcements.” The battle-barge had weathered the first exchange well, but was struggling against the combined fire of five other ships, including the Hunter’s Moon, Litany of Grace, and Hardhearted. The Serpent of Fire had succumbed to a torpedo spread from the Omicron, and the Primordial Flame and the Death Guard battleship Reaper had blasted each other to scrap.

 

But for all the damage done to the Loyalists, they were fighting back. The Stormcrow had crippled the Delta with a well-placed lance salvo before she’d been stormed; the Void Raptor had finished the Alpha Legion ship off and then opened a hole in the Traitor formations when she’d cracked the Imperius Gloria’s back with her bombardment cannon. The Molten Rage had killed both the Living Nightmare and Iron Within before starting her blockade run.

 

Balhaan watched as the Salamanders and Raven Guard tried to extricate themselves from the trap. Few of their craft were slipping free, but some were beating the odds and pushing clear. If he didn’t act now, the Ferrum would be left behind and annihilated.

 

The Ferrum charged back into the giant scrum of dueling warships, her drives alight and leaving long plasma flares in their wake. The cruiser’s bombardment cannon spat its fury, stripping the shields from the Hunter’s Moon and allowing the still-struggling Molten Rage to kill the Night Lords destroyer. The Ferrum juked around the Hardhearted, battering at its shields with a snap-shot from its port batteries, then wove between the hulk of the Imperius Gloria and the Pavise. The Iron Warriors barge punched a torpedo barrage into the Ferrum as it passed, and the resulting explosion ripped away half of the cruiser’s starboard broadsides.

 

The flagship of the Salamanders, the Promethean, had so far weathered the storm and was laying down a horrendous amount of fire as it covered the retreat of the crippled Raven’s Claw while simultaneously trying to hold open a corridor for the Molten Rage and Void Raptor. The Raptor emerged from the pack, her shields down and hull leaking atmosphere, but still moving. The Ferrum came abreast of the Molten Rage just as she staggered from a full broadside from the Litany of Grace. The Word Bearer ship poured fire into the Rage, knowing that the Salamander craft was near the end of its endurance.

 

The Ferrum pulled past, port guns spitting vengeance at the Litany, but the distraction came too little, too late. The Litany’s guns found one of the Molten Rage’s magazines, and the Loyalist battleship disappeared in a ball of incandescent fire.

 

The Ferrum sprinted forward, engines pushing with all their might, as the Traitor reinforcements pushed further into the engagement zone. The Terminus Est swept the destroyer Dragon Whelp from space with a single salvo, and the Promethean was caught flat-footed as the Vengeful Spirit charged up its wake. Settled into the battleship’s blind-spot, Horus’ flagship pounded the Promethean without taking any hits in return. The hole, such as it was, was about to close.

 

Aboard the Iron Hands ship, Captain Balhaan watched the slow destruction of the Promethean with a look of grim defiance on his face, Iron Father Diederik a silent presence at his shoulder. The Ferrum was diving arrow-straight towards the dueling battleships and the relative safety beyond them when the sleek purple shape of the Pride of the Emperor interposed itself.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

So. . . do you people like it? Hate it? Good prose, bad? Not a lot of commentary here. . .

 

 

V: Escape. A Clash of Captains.

 

 

Cadmus Mantellar watched Fulgrim’s blade sweep the head from Ferrus Manus’ shoulders. It was a sight that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

 

“NO!” he screamed, his voice raw. A charging Emperor’s Child halted, head tilted back as he listened to the anguished cry escape from the Iron Hand’s vox speakers.

 

Cadmus locked eyes with the purple-armored figure before him. The helmetless cretin had the gall to smile at him and then boldly declared, “Such pain. Simply exquisite.”

 

Rage boiled up, and Cadmus knocked the sublime smile from the Traitor’s face with an open-handed slap from his right power fist. Of course, that slap hit like the swipe of an angry Medusan ghost bear and splattered the Emperor’s Child’s head across the landscape.

 

Cadmus attacked, ending the lives of the Emperor’s Children with each wild swing of his crackling gauntlets, but there seemed to be an unending tide. He was being steadily forced back, forced away from the body of his Primarch. A Phoenix Guard tried to impale him with a halberd; Cadmus snapped the shaft, turned it about, and stabbed the Guardsman through the soft neck-armor of his filigreed power armor with the broken end. Another landed a telling blow, the energized blade cutting into his left pauldron before the force field from his Mechanicus Protectiva molded to his chestplate could stop it. Sergeant Arian was suddenly at his side, his heavy-bladed power sword slicing two Guardsmen in half in rapid succession before he cut loose with his stormbolter, forcing the press back a step.

 

“Cadmus! We must withdraw!” he yelled into the vox, but Cadmus could barely hear him over the thunder of his own heartbeats.

 

“Ferrus! We must get his corpse!”

 

“There’s no time, sir! If we’re leaving, the time is now,” Arian pleaded. “This battle is unwinnable!”

 

Cadmus nodded weakly, his rage spent for the moment, and the two Iron Hands turned about and began fighting their way back towards the landing zones.

 

As they went, they were able to link back up with several other surviving Morlocks. Of the seven of them that Cadmus could see through the swirling melee, he could pick out Malachai and Huertgen from his own Clan; the rest were unidentifiable at the moment.

 

“Form a wedge!” he bellowed in the vox. “Stack on me, we make for the landers!” The Morlocks shuffled into a loose triangle, Cadmus at its point, as they pushed through the Emperor’s Children. The Iron Hands were surrounded on all sides, the ceramite of their armor slowly being chipped away by a relentless storm of bolter rounds, their powerfields flashing angry red and cold blue as they deflected plasma burns and las-beams. Through the fire and flames, the Iron Hands carried on, pushing on through sheer brute force.

 

After a few minutes, they were able to break out of the cordon of Emperor’s Children and for a moment, Cadmus had a clear view of the entire battlefield. On the Loyalist right, the Raven Guard’s lines had collapsed, individual Astartes falling prey to roving bands of blood-spattered World Eaters. Brief bursts of light silhouetted the few surviving jump pack-equipped Raven Guard as the soared over the Traitor lines, fleeing for the dubious safety of a nearby cave. Of Corax, there was no sign.

 

To the left, the Salamanders had been battered fiercely, but they had been able to maintain some semblance of order as they pushed back against the Night Lords and Alpha Legionnaires hemming them in. The banner of the 5th Grand Company was still waving in the air, and Cadmus’ hopes soared.

 

“To’gan!” he hollered into the vox. “To’gan, its Cadmus, come in!”

 

His old friend’s voice replied, the signal cut through with static but still intelligible. “Cadmus? Where are you? Vulkan is wounded and our losses are mounting! We need to withdraw, now!”

 

“Confirmed. I can see your banner – keep moving, we are coming to you.” Cadmus turned back to his brothers and pointed one blood-soaked power fist at the shrinking cluster of green that marked out To’gan and Vulkan’s position. “Brothers, that is our objective! Warriors of iron – in the Emperor’s name!”

 

Roaring their hate, the Iron Hands charged down the slope. The wedge of Terminators sliced into the waiting lines of Sons of Horus, storming the same trenches they’d shed so much blood to take as they cut a path back the way they came. Cadmus lost count of the number of lives he’d ended and his power fists were encrusted with a thick layer of viscera and gore that the crackling powerfields of his gauntlets seemed unable to burn away completely.

 

From time to time, as they wedge pushed through the swarming Traitors, Cadmus could catch a tantalizing glimpse of the Salamander standards. They were getting closer, but the progress was agonizingly slow.

 

The Morlocks slaughtered their way down a lateral communications trench and turned the corner and for a moment, Cadmus’ heart soared. At the end of the trench, he could see Captain To’gan laying about him with an energized hammer, the hand-flamer slaved to his other wrist sputtering fitfully as it spent the last of its promethium in a great gout of flame that burned down a pair of midnight-clad Night Lords.

 

And then the darkening sky was eclipsed, and Cadmus looked up into the frozen, hate-filled rictus of Ezekyle Abaddon. The Justaerin Terminators, their armor painted in the same flat black as the Iron Hands’ own plate, dropped down into the trench, barring the way to To’gan and the Salamanders.

 

Abaddon and Cadmus had met before, briefly. The Iron Hands had last met with the Sons of Horus when they were still the Luna Wolves, and the 52nd Expedition had been fighting on its own for decades. Cadmus had walked away from their short conference impressed with the tactical acumen, integrity, and professionalism the First Captain of the Luna Wolves had exhibited.

 

Now, looking at Abaddon, Cadmus felt nothing but contempt and disgust. The Justaerin had affixed spikes to their Terminator armor and mounted the skulls and helms of slaughtered Astartes upon them. Cadmus could make out the newly-added helmets of Salamanders and Raven Guard, as well as the sea-toned colors of the First Captain’s own Legion, taken from the dead of Istvaan III.

 

Cadmus’ hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, and his power fists closed in mimicry. Abaddon sneered at him, brandishing his long-bladed power sword. Cadmus reached up and pulled off his helmet, dropped it to the floor of the trench, and stepped on it. The servos in his leg armor whined as he pressed down, grinding the helm and massively deforming it.

 

“If I fall here, Traitor, my helmet shall not adorn your trophy racks,” he intoned.

 

Abaddon laughed. “I’ll just have to use your skull, then,” he spat. “Looks like it’ll rust fairly quickly, though.”

 

With a roar to shake the heavens, Cadmus charged and the Morlocks came with him. With a cry to fell gods on their lips, the Justaerin ran to meet them.

 

The two lines of black-clad Terminators met in a clash like the end of the world. Abaddon stabbed forwards with his longsword, seeking to impale Cadmus and end the fight early, but the Iron Hand simply batted the blade out wide and stepped in close to launch a heavy right hook. As fast as he was, Abaddon was just as quick and swayed back so that Cadmus’ punch whistled past centimeters from his face. The First Captain quick-stepped back, trying to open the distance so that he could wield his sword, but Cadmus refused to let him go and stepped with him. He followed up with a combination of short jabs. His energized knuckles bouncing off of the Justaerin’s force field, but they forced him back even further and opened his opponent for another haymaker.

 

Abaddon stepped into the blow, taking a heavy hit to his pauldron. He grabbed a hold of the armored collar of Cadmus’ armor and yanked. Already off-balance from his miscued punch, Cadmus was pulled forwards. He pinwheeled his arms, trying to regain his equilibrium, but Abaddon punched him in the bionic side of his face with the pommel of his sword. One, two, three punches were landed and all Cadmus could hear for a moment was the ring of metal striking metal. He turned his head, staring into Abaddon’s face with his red, bionic eye somehow expressing as much hate as his flesh-eye was.

 

The Justaerin pushed him away roughly, causing him to stumble. Abaddon took advantage of the opening and swung his sword at Cadmus’ head. He brought up his left fist in a desperate parry. The power sword sliced through his gauntlet above the wrist, carving through ceramite, flesh, and bone alike. His left hand dropped to the ground, and blood and machine-oil spat from the stump, splashing onto the blood red Eye of Horus that dominated Abaddon’s chestplate.

 

With a cry of triumph, the Son of Horus lunged forward and impaled Cadmus on his blade. The Iron Hand winced, growling in pain, as his blood began to run out from the wound. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he threw himself forward and swung one last punch. The heavy right cross landed squarely, cracking Abaddon’s chestplate and blasting him off his feet.

 

Grimacing, Cadmus fell to one knee. He reached up and grabbed a hold of the blade with his good hand, and slowly pulled it out. Blood gushed from the wound, running down his chest to pool at his feet, before the Larraman cells could staunch the flow. He struggled to his feet but almost fell again, but was stopped by the steady hand of Malachai.

 

“Commander,” the other Iron Hand said as he steadied his Clan Chief. “The way is open!”

 

Cadmus looked up to see that Malachai was correct. Abaddon, still groggy from Cadmus’ sucker punch, was still trying to climb to his feet; the path to To’gan’s perimeter – and more importantly, the emerald-green Stormbird in which the Salamanders were loading an obviously wounded Vulkan – was clear. Cadmus looked behind him, where Sergeant Arian and an Avernii Morlock were desperately holding off the rest of the Justaerin.

 

“Arian!” Cadmus growled over the vox. “Time to go.”

 

“Go, sir,” Arian responded, the strain in his voice obvious. “I’ll hold them off.”

 

“No – ” he began, but Malachai cut him off.

 

“Don’t let his sacrifice be in vain, brother,” he said as he begun moving forward, half-carrying Cadmus with him. The Clan Chief didn’t struggle and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The pair of Iron Hands struggled the last ten meters to where the Salamanders were making their stand.

 

As Malachai dragged him past To’gan, the two comrades shared a nod; there was no time for any other greeting. The Salamander looked to his honor guard and hollered, “Space Marines! We are leaving!

 

The Morlocks stumbled up the ramp followed by To’gan and his rearguards, who closed it behind them. Cadmus dropped wearily into one of the crash-thrones as Malachai stomped up to the cockpit. Cadmus could hear bolt rounds ricocheting off the exterior of the armored flyer, but those sounds were soon overwhelmed by the whine of the engines spooling up.

 

“Pilot!” To’gan yelled as he ran up the deck. “Get us off the ground!”

 

The ship lurched as a heavy anti-tank round struck its flank, but then the engines reached operating temperature and the gunship shot into the sky.

[Supreme Overlord]

Nice story. The different perspective to the Istvaan massacre from the one in Fulgrim is interesting to read about, and of course, who doesn't like Iron Hands? :lol:

 

A couple of blunders with the itallics in the Orbital War chapter, but that isn't much of a problem.

 

The duel with Abaddon was also a cool way to end the battle, and the way you describe the atmosphere when Gerrus is smitten is exactly as I would imagine a Space Marine to see it. I especially like your description of the space battle in Orbital War, I actually think that is one of the best 40k space battles I have read. Will we get a chapter about a boarding action?

 

Overall, a very cool story. Looking forward to the next installment!

[aekold]

A very nice read I must say. Keep up the good work. Hardly any spelling mistakes, just fix the italics as Supreme Overlord mentioned.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

VI: A Dragon’s Flight. Last Stand. From a Distance.

 

 

Captain To’gan pushed past the other Iron Hand Terminator – he hadn’t yet learned the Astartes’ name – and moved into the Stormbird’s cockpit. Verian, his banner-bearer and one of only seven members of the 5th Company that he’d been able to withdraw from the drop site was at the controls of the aircraft and gunning its engine for all it was worth. Angry crimson las-bolts and swarms of tracers cut in front of the canopy as the Traitor’s flak units tried their very best to complete the massacre they had orchestrated so well. Verian juked the Stormbird, weaving between the streams of hostile fire as he pushed the Stormbird through Istvaan V’s ubiquitous cloud cover.

 

The Stormbird slashed out of the cloud-banks and into open air, the sky a deep and glorious blue and completely untainted by the savagery of the bloodletting that had just occurred below it. The emerald-green bird of prey soared into the heavens, finally outrunning the ferocious anti-aircraft fire, and broke atmosphere.

 

It was, as the saying goes, like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

 

Warships and small craft of the Traitor Legions were everywhere, clogging low orbit as they cut the Loyalist flotilla to pieces. Destroyers and other rapid-strike vessels darted like minnows among sharks, their smaller guns picking at weak spots in void shields or hamstringing larger ships by knocking out their engines. Cruisers and their larger brethren hammered at each other in an orgy of mutual destruction, guns unleashing the kind of destructive power that made what To’gan and Verian had just encountered on the surface look like child’s play.

 

Verian punched the aircraft into the swirling morass of ships, dodging and weaving between and around warships, freighters, and burning hulks alike as he sought to push through the battle zone.

 

“Any Loyalist ship, this is Captain To’gan aboard the Stormbird Green Dragon,” the Salamander officer said. “Requesting a safe zone and pick-up!”

 

Silence and static answered him. Verian looked back at his commander, shook his head, and turned back to the flight controls. To’gan kept trying, but no one was listening. Or else they had their own problems.

 

“Verian, find us a ship to land on,” he said quietly, his red eyes ablaze as they scanned the pict-screens. “Preferably one close to breaking out of this mess.”

 

Verian threw the controls to the right in response, rolling the Stormbird away from the fusillade of a granite-toned strike cruiser. The Green Dragon dipped below the rolling wreck of what used to be the Serpent of Fire, the once-proud cruiser’s hull holed and broken. Verian pulled up as he came around to far side, using the hulk as cover from the Word Bearer ship’s guns. He dodged around a pair of green and purple Alpha Legion battle barges – which, for whatever reason, neglected to fire at them despite blowing straight through their broadsides and well within range of their point-defense turrets – and then opened the throttle and pushed the Stormbird into a high-G burn towards where the last few active Loyalist vessels were still fighting their way clear.

 

The Green Dragon skimmed along the underbelly of the Umbrea Insidior, the Night Lord ship’s PD guns spitting ineffectual fire at them and causing the Cthonia’s battery-fire to hit the other ship. The Insidior’s shields flared in defense and caused much consternation on the bridges of both ships, but that was immaterial to the fleeing Loyalists aboard the Green Dragon.

 

The Stormbird rode up and around the midnight-colored hull and pushed out at an oblique angle from the ship’s port flank, avoiding all of its main guns but rocking as one of the PD turrets scored a glancing hit. Like a sparrow braving a swarm of eagles, the Green Dragon darted past the forward guns of the ice-white Cthonia and bare-metal Father Grim as it arrowed in on the struggling forms of the Ferrum and Molten Rage.

 

“Molten Rage, Molten Rage, this is the Green Dragon,” To’gan tried the vox again, hoping that their close proximity would help cut through the jamming of the vox-net. “Molten Rage, come in!” As if in some morbid response, the Molten Rage exploded, her enginarium decks penetrated by the particle beams of the Litany of Grace.

 

Malachai squeezed into the cockpit behind To’gan and motioned the captain to the co-pilot’s throne. “Make way, Captain,” he said, his voice booming from the Terminator armor’s external vox. “Let me try our codes.”

 

To’gan eased into the other seat to make room for the bulky Morlock to access to vox set. He tuned it to a frequency range higher than most Imperial sets could actually receive, To’gan frowning at him the whole time. Malachai looked down at the Salamander and said, “Raise the Ferrum.”

 

 

 

The Pride of the Emperor’s port gunports blazed, and the Ferrum shook as the broadside hit home. The Ferrum’s void shields flickered dangerously, but stayed up.

 

“Forward guns, everything – cannons and torpedoes, a full spread!” Balhaan snapped at the gunnery officer. The strike cruiser shook as she unleashed every forward-facing weapon she possessed. The Pride rocked, unprepared for the unrelenting fury of the Iron Hands ship and its technologically superior systems.

 

“Captain! Priority signal from the Salamander Stormbird Green Dragon!” Balhaan sneered and was about to say “Not now!” when the com officer added, “They have Cadmus Mantellar and Lord Vulkan aboard!”

 

Diederik stepped off to the com station. “Fight the battle, Captain!” the Iron Father said as he snatched the vox horn. “This is Iron Father Diederik. To whom am I speaking?”

 

The signal was coming in crystal-clear, completely free of jamming and static. “To’gan, Captain of the 5th Company. Diederik, we need somewhere to dock. Lord Vulkan is gravely wounded – we need an Apothecarion!”

 

Diederik looked at the bridge’s pict-screens and shook his head. “We are not going to last much longer, Captain,” he said quietly. “The rest of my Legion’s ships should be arriving in a few days’ time. They are your best bet – the Promethean is dying and the Void Raptor cannot escape in its condition. Find somewhere to hide . . . and pray that my brothers arrive in time.”

 

A gasp ran through the bridge, and Diederik turned away from the vox horn to study the displays closer. The Vengeful Spirit had completed its destruction of the Promethean, the great battleship of the Salamanders losing power and beginning to roll on all three axes; the off-kilter tilt of the ship betrayed its loss of engine and stabilizer control. The Spirit closed in for the kill, guns blazing as they ripped into the battleship’s flank and rear.

 

Balhaan smiled grimly. “Helm, come to new heading – zero-nine-zero, respective! Gunnery – stand by port broadsides!” The Ferrum turned sharply, coming off of its head-on approach to the port side of the Pride of the Emperor and turning so that the two ships passed abeam of each other, their port-side batteries hammering at each other.

 

The Ferrum passed down the flank of the larger battleship and as she nosed past the Pride’s engine nacelles, Balhaan ordered, “Port engines, all back full! Stand by for guns!”

 

The Ferrum’s starboard-side engines kept shoving the lithe cruiser, but her port engines had gone to full reverse and were trying to pull her back. The competing forces swung the warship to port faster than was truly safe for a vessel of such size to attempt. Yet she held together, and now her entire port broadside of heavy plasma cannons was aimed directly at the engines of the Pride of the Emperor . . . and her torpedo tubes and bombardment cannon was staring at the exposed flank of the Vengeful Spirit.

 

Balhaan punched his fist in the air and yelled, “Fire everything!”

 

The Ferrum’s gunnery decks vented their fury, her port guns blasting through the Pride’s weak rear shields and slashing into her engines. Nacelles were stripped away and the ship shuddered as she began spitting reaction mass into space. Plasma containment fields in her generatoriums ruptured under the assault, but failsafes slammed into place and the cruiser, though wounded, was able to start limping away.

 

The Ferrum’s bombardment cannons hammered the Vengeful Spirit’s port shields flat, allowing her dorsal lances to go to work. The tight-focused primary beams carved into the vast battleship’s armor like a hot knife through butter, reducing gunnery crews to ash and exposing whole compartments to the emptiness of space. Her torpedo racks went into rapid-fire, kicking sprint-mode missiles into space. The projectiles crossed the one hundred kilometers between attacker and target in the blink of an eye – and at such close range, they could not be intercepted and could not miss.

 

The warheads hit home like a hammer, physically rocking the Spirit from bridge to keel as new holes were ripped in her sides.

 

The Iron Hands ship continued its turn, sliding up between the two Traitor ships. Her heavy plasma batteries continued their onslaught, melting into the hulls of her enemies with a vengeance.

 

The Vengeful Spirit’s captain reacted first, rolling his ship along its X-axis a full one hundred and eighty degrees, presenting the Ferrum was her full and undamaged broadsides. The Spirit opened fire and returned more than triple the smaller ship’s firepower. With a final explosive pop, the Ferrum’s shield emitters backfired and her void shields collapsed. The Spirit’s guns savaged its opponent, and the Pride of the Emperor joined her consort. Soon, the Ferrum’s outer hull was a flaming mass of broken armor and venting gasses from bow to stern, yet still she plowed forward and attacked with whatever guns she had left. The ice-white form of the Luna Wolves cruiser Cthonia moved in to cross her T, hammering at her nose with its own mass drivers. Adamantium plates crumpled and ripped away, but the Ferrum drove forward regardless.

 

With one last desperate lunge, the Ferrum threw itself into the flank of the Cthonia. No void shield ever built by man could have withstood the impact of an Astartes strike cruiser moving at flank speed.

 

Both ships disappeared in a rapidly-expanding ball of flame. There were no survivors.

 

 

 

The scarred emerald form of the Green Dragon was perched precariously on what remained of the eagle-prowed Shadowblade. Dead in the opening barrages, the Raven Guard cruiser had been broken in two and her hulk forgotten as the remaining Loyalist ships burned hard to escape the trap.

 

From their vantage point amidst the sea of spiraling wreckage, Captain To’gan, Sergeant Verian, and Malachai of the Iron Hands watched the end of the battle. To’gan flinched when the Promethean exploded, but Malachai went unmoved by the eye-tearing explosion that marked the end of the Ferrum’s last stand.

 

The Morlock turned and left the cockpit, siddling sideways back into the crew compartment. Cadmus and Vulkan lay on the Stormbird’s deck, their pooling blood mingling as their super-human bodies struggled to repair themselves. The Primarch, easily half again as large as the Morlock, turned to look at Cadmus.

 

“Iron Hand,” he said, his voice thick with bloody phlegm.

 

Cadmus shifted, struggling to look into the Primarch’s eerie red eyes. “Yes, lord?”

 

“What happened . . . to my brother . . .” He paused to gather himself. “Did you see Ferrus?”

 

Cadmus’ head dipped, his chin resting on his pockmarked cuirass. From his one good eye, a single tear leaked out and left a trail as it passed through the blood and grime that was caked on his skin.

 

“I did, my lord,” he croaked out. “From a distance.”

[Lysimachus]

Damn. Has there been an Iron Hands HH novel yet? If not, you could sell this to GW, it's that good!

[aekold]

It is a great read I must say. I can't wait for you to post the next chapter.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

VII. Epilogue.

 

The Fist of Iron emerged from the warp first, and one by one the rest of the Tenth Legion’s warships followed it. Each ship that came with it was a veteran of a hundred battles, their names known across the Imperium: the battle-barge Ironsides, that had led the attack that destroyed the Craftworld Eandirill; the Brazen Claw, savior of the Battle of the Hamrin Rift; the strike cruisers Adamant Will and Hand of Medusa, the so-called “Terrible Two” that had annihilated the Ork-infested space hulk Monolith of Woe; and the Gauntlet, the cruiser upon which a young Astartes named Cadmus Mantellar had first gone to war in the Emperor’s name.

 

A dozen more ships followed in the wake of that first, storied squadron until the entirety of the war-fleet of the Iron Hands Legion was gathered in the fringes of the Istvaan System. The flotilla pressed on, forming up as they went, scanners alert for any threats or signs of dangers. Their hails, expecting to hear the return call of seven friendly Legions, went unanswered.

 

As they approached Istavaan V, the truth began to dawn upon them. Lower orbital space around the planet was riddled with broken wreckage and the smoldering hulks of burned-out warships. The debris – that is, what parts of it hadn’t succumbed to Istvaan V’s gravity well and gone plunging through the atmosphere on trails of fire – had formed a ring around the world, an artificial halo around the dead world’s crown.

 

Finally, a single vessel began broadcasting on an emergency vox-net. A green Stormbird rose from the sea of drifting hulks and burned towards the Iron Hands fleet.

[UltraHawk]

This is so awesome! I completely immersed myself in that story, there was a point where I had to sneeze and I reached for the spacebar to pause the story like a video. throughout it all my hatred of the traitors kept increasing, especially for Fulgrim( That fething bastard how I hate him!!)

 

Thank you very much I rarely read such a good story.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Well. Thank you for the glowing words, I do aim to please.

[Supreme Overlord]

Fantastic ending. Great story.

 

I hope you will write some more in the future!

[Argon]

Damn. Has there been an Iron Hands HH novel yet? If not, you could sell this to GW, it's that good!

 

I second this.

[Culebras]

You have a great hand at description and your writing is engaging and entertaining, something difficult to learn even by an experienced author. Please keep up the good work.