My Brothers Keeper

[Captain Juan Juarez]

He could feel them; out there in the light he could feel the essence of them, burning so brightly admist the hordes of lesser minions like a star amid candles.

 

We will go to them, he thinks as the thought is echoed by a thousand other voices in his mind.

 

With the whine of age-old servos he stands, hand clasping the haft of the spear that sits beside the carved rock he had made his throne as his eyes come alive with a silver light, a light that begins to burn along the leaf-shaped blade of the spear.

 

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

The die in droves beneath Geddon, the powered edge carving flesh and flak-armour as effortlessly as it bats away those few las-bolts that come his way. With a flourish the Dreadknight takes the hand and head from a cowering Guardsman, his eyes seraching the sky knowingly for the first star to fall.

 

Contempt drains from his face to be replaced by calm focus as the first abhuman monstrosities lumber into the fray, supporting the beleagured Guard regiment with brawn where firepower has held no sway. Old hatreds come to the fore, mantras as supposedly buried as the past rise to the forefront of his mind as the great sword Geddon cleaves the arm from an Ogryn, the return stroke lodging the deep into its side.

 

With a mindless roar the rest of the Ogryn squad swamp the Dreadknight, heavy blows pushing him this way and that even as they fail to crack his ancient ceramite. Those few Marines at his back standing off and pouring bolter fire deep into the swirling melee, the iron grills of their helmets as emotionless as that of the sigil a few still carry at their shoulder; the sigil that marks them as sons of Peraturbo.

 

With a savage flick of his wrist the Dreadknight twists his blade, ripping open the abdomen pf the Ogryn before batting away the clumsy swing of a cleaver. The counter-punch barely dazes the huge beast, ceramite no match for brute stupidity until a sword all but cleaves the head from the beast. Only now does the Knight acknowledge the lessening of pressure around him, seeing the final few Orgryns put down by massed firepower thought they have the bodies or more than one Iron Warrior scattered around them.

 

The first thunderclap sounds as the first star falls to earth, bringing the precious cargo so sought after by he who was once Sigismund; half a dozen drop pods all in the shiny yellow livery of the Imperial Fists breach the fortress walls with ease, slamming down in the courtyard and disgorging their cargo of righteous and deadly foes to reap Imperial venegance upon their ancient enemies.

 

The Dreadknight does not wait to bully the Iron Warriors around him into follwing, his sword leads the way as he snarls out a single word, "Brothers!" before plunging into the mass of a single squad. Chainswords ring against his armour as his sword cleaves a helmet to the bone, chipping away ancient black paint as a bolt-round finds the seem under his arm and punches into flesh, staggering him out of the way of another chainsword strike.

 

As his body begins to compensate for his wound the Dreadknight spins in place, dropping low under a volley of bolter fire before lancing the fanged tip of his blade into the groin plate of Marine, the baldes plunging in and through to the otherside. Without a conscious thought the Dreadknight realses the hilt of his sword, watching the Marine ipaled by it topple back to lay there ith the blade quivering above him as the dreadknight opens fire with a newly-liberated bolter.

 

The Iron Warriors close in around him, eternal hatreds overcoming the cold logic of firepower as they move to assault the Imperial Fists with the Dreadknight prowling in their wake, the wound in his arm beginning to tingle as he eyes the leader of the Fists with eyes that radiate a cold furiousness. As the first clash is renewed the Dreadknight begins his own charge, barging through those Iron Warriors to slow to leave his path, Geddon slicing both traitor and loyalist in its eagerness to tast the blood of the Captain of Fists.

 

As his first blow is blocked by the blade of an axe, the Dreadknight hears a single word whispered on the wind, Brothers.

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

For the first time in ten years he feels the sunlight beat against his ancient armour; armour so old and worn that it no longers bears the heraldry of a Chapter long forgotten. With a quickness that belies the receding whine of servos he begins to run through the long corridors of the fortress, the sunlight streaming through high windows to cast a long and shifting shadow behind him.

 

It does not take long to come across the first carnage of the wide spread battlefield; corpses of whole companies strewn about like ragdolls with the odd traitor Marine left to lay under the sun as a testament to the power of any Marine clad in armour. The walls of the fortress are visable already as he picks up his pace, eyes searching knowingly for his quarry even as his mind digests the pockmarked state of the walls and the way the huge old gates hang limply on their hinges.

 

They do not even know what they fight for, he thinks, feeling the echo of a curse pushing to the front of his mind. So many years have been lost, so much knowledge and they fight like animals amidst a place burdened by the weight of history. And they do not know.

 

With a surge of hate, he leaps from the high wall he stands upon his force-spear singing loudly as he lands heavily between the two opposing forces. With his spear-blade describing and arc he takes the head from an Iron Warrior with effortless grace before looking to face the Captain of Fists and his own foe.

 

Brothers, he says, the word echoing around their minds like the tolling of a bell.

 

With a savage flourish of bladecraft the Dreadknight takes the hands and forearms from the distracted Imperial Fist, his own curiosity given voice in a voice rough from growling and snarling, "What are you?"

 

The mysterious Marine cocks his head to one side as if contemplating such a meaningful question, bring the haft of his spear to rest upon the ground as his lips move for the first time.

 

"I am Legion," he says in a voice ancient yet cracking from disuse, his spear now lifted to point at the Dreadknight as it crackles with a silver energy once again mirrored in his eyes.

 

Like the sound of an angelic choir a melodic horde of voices sound out across the battleground, stunning all those present.

 

I am Legion, for We are many.

[KEEPER]

Pretty cool. Clean up a few grammer and spelling mistake and it'll be golden.

 

Looking forward to the next addition

[Brother Augustine]

Wow. Why do I get the feeling that the Dreadknight is screwed? Keep up the good work comrade.