Eternus Contemno

[Supreme Overlord]

Hi all,

 

This is the prologue to what will be (hopefully) many short stories on everyone's favourite rabble-rousing, Imperial-killing religous fanatics, the Word Bearers!

 

Feel free to comment or criticize, and point out any mistakes. My writing skills will be all the better for it.

 

Enjoy.

 

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Eternus Contemno

 

"There is no hope in opposing the inevitable."

-Eliphas the Inheritor, former Word Bearers Dark Apostle.

 

-PROLOGUE-

 

The city burned as though it had been swallowed by Hell itself. Clouds of embers swarmed frenziedly through the air, intermingling with the exceedingly thick plumes of black smoke rising from every burning building and every scorching wreck. The buildings, once proud and tall symbols of faith decorated with Imperial iconography and Holy Scriptures had been set alight by the all-consuming flames of treachery. For many long hours the fires had burned, and so dense was the smoking conflagration that the once moderately orange sky had been stained a deep, volatile red.

 

Statues of the God-Emperor had been desecrated and torn to the ground, the hatred of His enemies clearly evident by the curses graphitised and carved into every wall that had not been engulfed by the raging inferno. Makeshift barricades stretched across the width of many streets, constructed out of destroyed vehicles, household furniture and even the recently deceased. Pieces of rubble littered every road and every alleyway, appearing in a frequency matched only by the innumerable bodies of the dead.

 

The vast majority of the corpses were wearing full-length cloaks, of a colour that matched the blackness of the smoke. Most of these cloaked corpses had entire sections of their body removed—legs, arms, heads—and some were so horrifically ravaged that they were it not for the human-sized apparel, they would be completely unrecognizable as once being people of this city. The cloaked bodies grasped crude weapons in their lifeless fingertips—tire irons, clubs, staffs, hammers and other common objects. Some were even equipped with lasguns and laspistols, unusual in that weaponry was forbidden to the civilian populace of this world. More unusual was the brand that each cloaked corpse bore on their forehead—a menacing eight-pointed star.

 

The legion of corpses increased in number as the monolithic Cathedral of Saint Gordion loomed closer. Towering above the other buildings by many lengths, the Cathedral was situated upon an artificially created plateau of ancient rock. Thousands of steps had been delicately carved into the man-made mesa, creating an impressively altitudinous hill of solid concrete, with the Cathedral at its peak. Ruined by the rampage of the numberless denizens of the city, and further destroyed by battle, the Cathedral’s ceiling had collapsed into itself, and was now scattered across the steps and the interior.

 

Hundreds more bodies of the cloaked populace gathered in a great heap at the foot of the steps, piled several metres high around two large, armoured figures. Numerous empty magazines and many more shell casings were at the armoured figures’ feet, drenched in the inch-thick pool of blood forming beneath the mound of death, creating a chilling image akin to an altar adorned with trinkets and human sacrifices, with the two largest offerings at its centre.

 

The two warrior’s armour was painted in green and white, in a striking quartered pattern. The symbol on their left shoulder was that of the Dark Sons Space Marine Chapter, but was barely visible beneath the multiple layers of blood viciously splashed across the Marine’s severely damaged power armour.

 

The trail of dismembered corpses continued up the steps to the Cathedral. Streams of blood and bile flowed freely down the steps in a sickening fashion, staining the cream-coloured stone and creating a natural moat of reddish liquid and removed body parts. The green and white armoured limbs of what was once a Space Marine stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of red, just as the decapitated head of the very same Marine lay unceremonially discarded on one of the bloodied steps.

 

Several hundred steps up the artificial plateau, past multitudinous horrifically ravaged carcasses, a pile of cloaked bodies were arranged in a defensive fashion around three more dead Astartes. The heavy bolter of one Marine was still leaning precariously on the desperately constructed barricade—just as its former operator leant lifelessly over the powerful weapon. One Marine was half-buried under scores of fallen enemies, his helmet forcibly torn off and his jugular torn out; while the other was surrounded by severely burnt and shredded corpses, no doubt dying by his own fragmentation grenade as to not allow his enemies the satisfaction of killing yet another of the Emperor’s finest.

 

The stone mountain became less and less visible as the Cathedral drew nearer, becoming covered in a cadaverous carpet of mangled flesh. Scattered across the highest footfalls and before the massive arched doorway of the Imperial Cathedral were mountains of corpses several metres high. On the tallest of the death-piles, a Dark Sons Marine lay face down, still clutching a combat knife in each hand. Sharp objects of all kinds protruded from the exposed pipes and neck of the Astartes’ armour. The Marine had been stripped of all equipment, his remaining ammunition and grenades being used by his honourless enemy against the other Dark Sons.

 

Gunfire erupted from inside the Cathedral—the barking thuds of a boltgun mixing with the sounds of overwhelming lasfire and the horrifying screams of the dying. Amongst recently destroyed Ecclesiarchal benches and abundant chunks of rubble, hundreds of the dead created cover for those few still alive.

 

Two Dark Sons fired their boltguns ceaselessly into the advancing horde, their backs literally pressed against the furthermost wall of the vast Cathedral; a gargantuan tapestry depicting the Emperor behind them.

 

“Death is all that awaits you here, heretics!” roared one Space Marine, relishing every moment his divine weapon delivered bloody vengeance upon his incalculable foes. The Dark Son had removed his helmet, so he could better hear the death throes of the enemy.

 

“For our Brothers that have died here today!” shouted the other Space Marine, who also had his helmet removed. Both Marines were on their last magazine of ammunition, and made sure every shot hit its target.

 

Lumps of torn meat and fragments of bone flew across the Cathedral as wave after wave of attackers were mercilessly gunned down. With only a few more rounds left, the Dark Sons drew their combat knives with their left arms as they continued to fire at the hip with their right. As the last shell casings hit the bloodstained floor, both Astartes dropped their bolters and braced themselves, close combat weapons in hand.

 

“It is an honour to die by your side, Brother-Sergeant!” said Jakov, the younger of the two.

 

“We may yet still live,” answered Darijo, Brother-Sergeant of Squad Trucido, Fourth Company. “Kill them all!”

 

The final group of cultists suicidally launched themselves at the Dark Sons, determined to slaughter the last of the Astartes. Bellowing litanies of hate, the Space Marines counter charged, barrelling into the enemy ranks like two massive battering rams, sending the first rank of cultists reeling backwards.

 

Hacking with all his impressive might to his left and right, blood and viscera splashing across his bare face, Darijo fell upon the horde like a madman. He quickly lost sight of Jakov as more cultists threw themselves into the melee. Darijo massacred three heretics in one catastrophic strike, splitting their bones as easily as he cut their flesh. Using his momentum, he continued to swing around and smashed the back of his massive knife into one cultist’s skull, shattering bones by the sheer force of the impact. Crude makeshift weapons battered and scratched against Darijo’s power armour, mostly doing nothing to halt the Dark Son’s bloody rampage. He knew that eventually one would find its mark.

 

This thought spurring him on, the Sergeant swung faster and harder with his combat knife than he ever had before, splitting skulls and rending flesh with every swipe. Sharp objects began to puncture through the soft armour behind his knees, and continued to push into his superhuman flesh. Falling further into a blind rage, the Dark Son spun around, flailing his arms wildly to knock back the swarming horde of cultists clawing at the Astartes’ back. More and more enemies fell by the Dark Son’s hand, but he was eventually forced onto his knees by the combined weight of the enemies literally piling on top of him and the intense pain in his legs.

 

A massive club bludgeoned Darijo’s left hand, forcing him to drop his combat knife. He returned the blow with a right hook to the cultist’s ribcage, and splintering bones beneath his knuckles. More hits from the crude weaponry smashed into Darijo’s head, bringing with it a wave of pain and concussion and causing him to keel over. The concussion was eased by his superhuman organs, but even his enhanced physiology could not cope with the rapid rate he lost his blood.

 

In a final act of defiance, Darijo roared his hatred to the enemy and backhanded one cultist in the face with a barbaric swing of his right arm, crushing the man’s skull with ease. Throwing his left fist upwards, he pulverized the jaw of another heathen, cleaving its head in two. Rising to his full height and spinning around on his toes, Darijo elbowed the last heretic in the chest, causing the heathen to launch into the air and fly several metres backwards. Using the last reserves of his energy to stagger over to the stunned cultist, the Space marine fell to his knees, staring furiously into his enemy’s eyes.

 

“And now you pay the price of treachery,” said Darijo coldly, slamming his armoured fist into the cultists’ head, causing it to burst across the ground like a balloon filled with brains.

 

In an instant, the horde of cultists had disappeared.

 

His last enemy destroyed, his squad dead, and his location still unknown to Command, Darijo allowed himself to fall into the dark embrace of oblivion. The Dark Son’s head lowered gently onto the bloodstained ground, and his limbs gave way under his own weight as life slowly began to drain out of his superhuman body. His entire frame ached with pain, the feeling made no better by the overpowering stench of death.

 

Just as the light of the world began to fade from few, Darijo felt a chill crawl over his spine. An altogether unnatural chill.

 

Raising his head weakly, the Dark Son stared at the Cathedral’s entrance in surprise, where a shadowy silhouette roughly resembling the outline of an Astartes stood. The

Sergeant’s vision was barely in focus, and he struggled to keep his eyes from fading out completely. He could not tell what colour the figure’s armour was, but could see it was holding a crackling power sword in its left hand.

 

“Brother?” asked Darijo cautiously, still not certain if the Astartes he could see was a Dark Son or not.

 

Rather than answering Darijo, the other Space Marine began to stride slowly and confidently towards the badly injured Dark Son, its power sword in hand. As the Marine drew closer, Darijo could begin to see it more clearly through his blurry vision.

 

Two huge, menacing, steel horns protruded from the Astartes’ helmet, which was of an ancient, possibly pre-Heresy design that the Dark Son did not recognize. Two glowing green eyes stared out from the archaic helm. The hulking power armour of the Marine was a menacing shade of red, bordered by a metallic trim adorned with studs and spikes. The icon on its left shoulder was of a leering demonic face surrounded by hellish flames, and the mark on its chest plate was of the all-too-familiar eight-pointed star. This was no Imperial Space Marine. This was a...

 

“Chaos...Marine...” gasped Darijo. The other Marine stopped a few short feet from the Dark Son, looming over him threateningly.

 

“I see that even when exterminating the populace of an entire city, the Emperor’s lapdogs still wish to utter their blasphemous words,” remarked the Word Bearer, clearly displeased that Darijo still drew breath.

 

“A heretic...” answered Darijo, barely strong enough to speak, “speaking of blasphemy? Truly, I have gone mad...”

 

“You were mad long before you set foot on Galicius, Darijo,” the Word Bearer declared.

 

“You know my...”

 

“I know more than you could possibly imagine, slave.” The Chaos Marine pointed its power sword accusingly at the head of the Dark Son. “As much as I am enjoying our conversation, I must make haste. You have delayed us enough already.”

 

Darijo could no longer talk, his mouth filling with more blood. Instead, he spat in disgust on the boot of the traitor. The Word Bearer glanced at the spittle resting in his foot, before turning back to the Imperial.

 

“Enjoy everlasting death, Dark Son.” The power sword moved back, ready to strike. “The rest of your Chapter will join you soon enough.”

 

Darijo felt nothing as the electrified blade pushed into his skull.