The Blood of Innocence

[Ufthak]

Hey Folks!

 

It's been a while. A year has passed since I finished my "short" story about Pre-Heresy Imperial Fists, "Through smoke and fire, through shot and shell", here in this forum. It was great fun writing it and the C&C was very helpful.

 

Now, after a busy year involving teacher training and a three-month stay in India, I felt like writing a follow-up to my first story. I INTEND to keep this one shorter, but knowing myself I may get carried away.

 

In any case, like in my last story I intend to stick to the format of the Horus Heresy series. The story is set during the last years of the Great Crusade.

 

Here's the prologue and Chapter 1. Please do let me know what you think of it, and also point out spelling and typing mistakes :) Again I ask you guys not to be too scathing with your comments, since I'm only an amateur!

 

Well, here goes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Blood of Innocence

Dramatis Personae

 

The Imperial Fists Astartes Legion:

Pavlos Mayer – Captain, 2nd Company, 1st „Templar“ Grand Company

Loric Amboss – Senior Sergeant, Anvil Terminator Squad

Hanas „Church“ Churchendal – Sergeant, Pugnus Tactical Squad

 

The Word Bearers Astartes Legion:

Sor Salbek – Chaplain, 1st Company, Bloody Sword Chapter

Balbacon – Librarian, 1st Company, Bloody Sword Chapter

Videk Tal, Librarian, 3rd Company, Flaming Word Chapter

 

The World Eaters Astartes Legion:

Holske – Captain, 19th Assault Company

Calras Dom – Sergeant, Dom Assault Squad

Crew of the Mors cum Surriso:

Laarom Leuwen – Ship-Captain

Other Imperials:

Ignatius Tiretã – Iterator

Leksandr Simyonisk – Liason officer, Urslavik contingent

 

Non-Imperials:

Bhar-at-Riksh – trainee priest, Sendho priesthood

 

 

 

Hanas Churchendal stopped his crackling power fist mid-swing. Something at the far back of his mind, something he had almost forgotten - something human - made him clench his muscles, hold back the blow. Something gripped his heart; inflicted pain, a strange pain he had last felt many years back.

This is not right. This goes too far.

With a snarl, Church switched off and lowered his fist.

A flash of white and blue; the singing of a chainaxe; the cackle of insane laughter; the screams of dying children; and the death of innocence.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Pavlos Mayer staggered as his power sword clashed with the multiple blades of power claws. A hiss and a crackle emitted as the arcs of electricity intermingled. Mayer grunted as he retreated two steps and took up a defensive fighting stance.

 

„Getting tired, are we?“ the deep, calm voice of Loris Amboss enquired through the visor of his huge, hulking Cataphractii tactical dreadought armour.

 

The terminator sergeant launched a further series of gruelling blows. Mayer parried the lightning attacks with difficulty, retreating a further two steps. He could all too well imagine Loric's lop-sided grin behind the armour's visor.

 

The sergeat ceased his attacks and went into a defensive stance, lightning arcing around his power claws.

„Come on then.“

 

Mayer felt sweat being drawn out of his system and gave a brief shudder as his MkIV armour recycled it and pumped it back. His hearts beat furiously, and with every second heartbeat a sharp pain stabbed into his chest. It was now three months since a huge, hulking Mons Sanctus Gene Guard had rammed its red blade into Mayer's chest on 219-58, and despite the apothecaries' best efforts it had not yet fully healed.

 

Mayer launched himself forward, feigning a right-hand blow before switching and cutting left, but but the terminator sergeant reacted in a flash, parrying the power sword with one set of claws while at the same time swinging the other. A screeching sound rang through the air and Mayer was knocked back. Warning runes on the inside of his visor lens indicated superficial damage to his right pauldron. Before he could recover, a savage backhand slam brought Mayer crashing to the ground.

 

„Do you yield?“ Amboss' deep voice asked metallically through the visor.

 

Mayer grinned; it was a rhetorical question, which could only be answered in one way.

 

„Imperial Fists never yield!“ Mayer roared, jumping from the ground and igniting his sword in one swift movement.

 

He assaulted the terminator with a flurry of blows which forced Amboss back one step at a time. Slowly but surely he forced Amboss into the defensive, each blow harder and faster than the last. Mayer grasped his sword with both hands and swung it to land the winning blow.

 

To his great surprise, the terminator sergeant deftly sidestepped the blow. Before Mayer could even ask himself how someone in such a heavy and huge suit of armour could so swiftly evade his attack, a sharp screeching sound announced a set of power claws cutting into Mayer's chestplate, knocking him back.

 

Mayer quickly regained his posture. He felt no pain, and the readings on his lens said he had suffered no wounds, but warning runes announced heavy damage to his chestplate with a loss of 16% suit integrity. If Amboss had wanted to, he could have skewered Mayer through and through. The fight was over.

Mayer switched off his two-handed power sword and threw it down at Amboss' feet.

„You win.“

 

„Again“ added the sergeant with a chuckle. „How in the name of Terra can you hope ever to beat Efried at the next duel when you can't even beat me?“

 

Mayer conceded that his prowess with the sword had waned somewhat since he had taken the chest wound, and that, accordingly, he would probably once again fail to beat Efried, the Captain of the 3rd Grand Company. It was Mayer's silent wish to cross blades with the great Sigismund himself, the only undefeated swordschampion in the Legion. Not that he could ever hope to beat him. Mayer liked to wonder who would win if Sigismund ever duelled Lucius, the champion of the Emperor's Children. Now that would be a fight to behold!

 

But before he could duel Sigismund other swordsmen stood on the path; Mayer had challenged and beaten all, until he had met Captain Efried. Mayer had vowed to vanquish him one day, but that day now seemed far off. He could not even beat his own senior sergeant.

 

Loric Amboss disengaged his power claws and, with a click, slid the left one off his gauntlet. He laid it on the floor of the training chamber and reverently picked up Mayer's sword, offering it back hilt-first. Mayer accepted it with a slight bow.

 

With a soft hiss-click Amboss took off the helmet of his tactical dreadnought armour, revealing a terribly scarred,

ugly, bald head with remarkably benign eyes and leathery skin.

 

„Your strength will return, old friend. Give it time and give it patience.“

 

Mayer took off his black MkIV helm and sighed.

 

„I have the strength and I have the finesse, Loric. It's the pain that numbs me, makes me weak, and slow. And it won't cease.“

 

Amboss gave a reassuring, if slightly lopsided, smile.

 

„You will need to accept that the pain is there. Perhaps it is there for a reason. What does not destroy us makes stronger. Learn to recognise the pain not as a numbing enemy, but as a force that drives you.“

 

Mayer contemplated his battle-brother's advice for a moment.

 

„I will remember your words, Loric.“

 

 

 

Depot 333-2B34 was an unremarkable, small space station housing merely a few hundred technicians and servitors. It was like a million others, scattered throughout Imperial Space. It was these depots that were crucial for the regular supply of the Imperium's vast armies, ever expanding the reign of man on the Emperor's glorious Great Crusade. On rare occasions, these stations were used as temporary lodgings by Imperial troops.

 

Mayer, in simple off-white training fatigues, sat cross-legged on the cold metal floor of his spartan quarters. There wasn't much by way of personal belongings. Aside from his wargear, Mayer had two tomes on his bedside table – De Ira, by a philospher of ancient Terra by the name of Zenickar, and his favourite, Fomm Krieg, by Klohsowits, a soldier from Mayer's home region on Terra, Jermani. Unlike the Thousand Sons and Emperor's Children, who kept libraries of literature, Mayer only regularly read from these wonderful tomes. De Ira had indeed been declared a masterpiece by the Imperial Fists Primarch, Rogal Dorn.

 

Mayer rested his left hand on his ankle, then placed his right in his left. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

 

Focus on the pain.

 

Pain seared through his chest with every second heartbeat. The throb was sometimes so painful it took Mayer's breath away. The pain tore Mayer from his meditation, broke his concentration.

 

Breathe! Stay focused!

He forced his lungs to obey, and sucked in the cool air.

 

Had 219-58 crippled him? Would he forever bear the wound sustained there?

 

Mayer's company had suffered many casualties in the pacification of 219-58, some months past. Now the Astartes were using the depot to rest and refit. They were to stay there until replacements, sent from 1st „Templar“ Grand Company command, reached them.

 

Life on the depot was dull and dreary, and ever since the squad of Raven Guard that had accompanied them had left the warriors had been bored. Most of the time, the warriors trained and drilled, or spent their time in meditation. Mayer had copied excerpts from De Ira and distributed them among his warriors. He had ordered the leader of Imbard devastator squad, Markos Demmerung, specifically, to read it. As competent as the sergeant was, he definitely needed to learn a thing or two on controlling anger.

 

Mayer took another deep breath.

 

Focus. Use the pain.

He groaned as he felt torturing spasms wrack his chest, numbing his arms and pressing his three lungs.

It's no use!

 

Mayer snarled in frustration and smashed his clenched fist against his chest with all his might, willing the pain to be knocked out. He had miscalculated the force of his own blow, and fell backward onto the floor, gasping. The punch had knocked all the air out of his lungs and left a searing ache on the place of impact.

 

Mayer lay still, panting, assessing the pain. Where he had punched himself, his chest hurt, but the searing pain inside now only throbbed dully in the background of the pain he had just caused to himself.

He felt exhilarated.

 

Mayer sat up slowly, clenching his fist once more. He stared at it for a moment. Then he smashed it into his face with all his might.

 

His head crashed hard against the metal floor, further denting it. For a moment, Mayer only saw stars. The blow would have easily killed a mortal. It had almost knocked him out. His face burned and tingled, blood flooded his mouth.

 

He felt energized.

 

With a leap, Mayer jumped up from the floor. The pain in his chest throbbed dully. His breathing came hard and fast.

Pain...

 

He smashed his fist into his face. Again. And again.

 

Every blow brought on pain, but every blow woke Mayer up more, energized him.

 

Pain is GOOD.

[Legio Draconis]

Bloody hell chap, its good to have you back. Can't wait or more.

[Sons of Horus]

this is great! loved the first story and this looks exciting too :P

[Ufthak]

Thank you for the kind words, faithful Legio Draconis and Sons of Horus! :tu: Good to have you back as readers!

 

The story will be quite different from my first, but I hope to get it right and that my portrayal of the Imperial Fists - and other Astartes - is satisfactory!

 

In any case, here is Chapter 2. Please lemme know what you think! ;)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

The holo-image of an Astartes, clad in the MkIV armour and skull-shaped helmet of a chaplain, faded, and the astropath wired to the holo-dish gently sighed as he withdrew from the warp.

 

What the chaplain had said had been music in the Imperial Fists' ears. Not because the chaplain was a Word Bearer and therefore a great orator. Because he had just given Mayer and his company an excuse to leave the station.

 

Mayer turned to his assembled sergeants.

 

„Any questions?“

 

Silence.

 

„Then prepare your squads. Be ready to board the Mors cum Surriso within the hour. Assembly point is the main cargo dock. Dismissed.“

 

 

 

Mayer watched the serried ranks of his company, some seventy strong, march up the ramp into the belly of the Mors cum Surriso. The warriors marched in perfect unison, the thunderous footfall of their boots echoing through the cargo bay. Mayer watched with pride. The company was the very image of the perfectly drilled, perfectly disciplined warrior according to the teachings of the old Prussic Junkerschule. Few formations, not even the Emperor’s Children, could boast such discipline, such dedication, such toughness of mind.

 

Still, the company was understrength, and replacements would invariably dilute its efficiency. While Astartes units never had the turnover of Imperial Army formations, every dead Astartes warrior was a heavy loss, an investment of decades of time and resources, all gone.

 

Following the serried ranks followed the two hallowed company dreadnoughts, Ancient Hohenstaufen and Brother Theoderic, with thundering footfalls. Theoderic had, until recently, been Mayer’s senior sergeant and best comrade, yet wounds sustained on 219-58 had crippled him to near-death. He now served the Imperium again, entombed within the mighty dreadnought walker.

 

Last of all, Loric Amboss and the company terminator squad plodded up the ramp. The squad had been filled up with the most experienced and senior battle-brothers from the company tactical squads, now wearing the brutish tactical dreadnought armour of their fallen brethren who had recently given their lives. The large black plumes atop their suits billowed lazily in the draught of the air venting systems of the station.

 

A fine company, but many fine warriors were absent from the scene. Apothecary Hildebrand was still recuperating from severe battle wounds that had blessed him with bionic replacements for both his legs, an arm, the hand of the other arm, and an eye. Chaplain Komnenos was still in stasis, awaiting proper treatment on the brink of death, as was Brother Isidor. Many other good warriors, like Donar, Srabion and Maric, were dead.

 

Others again had taken scars that would never heal. Hanas “Church” Churchendal, leader of Pugnus Tactical Squad, had been changed forever by his hellish encounter with a psyker-witch on 219-58. Apart from his extensive physical wounds, he was no longer the same in soul and spirit. Gone was the cheerful, haughty warrior from the Alpine Region. Church hardly spoke now, and when he did only in a deep, low growl.

Morale had been low recently. The prospect of going on an operation again lifted the company’s spirits. And they would even be meeting fellow battle-brothers from other Legions.

 

The objective was a world code-named 335-23, which the locals named Ghe, which meant “Earth” in their language. The 335th Expedition Fleet had liberated the world peacefully a few years back, with all the world’s major state conglomerates voicing their full support of the Imperium.

 

Only one obstacle remained. Despite their best efforts, the work of the iterators, propaganda departments and Imperial schooling had not been able to eradicate the stain of religion. While many of the world’s citizens had readily embraced secularism and enlightenment, the vast majority still clung to their ancient traditions and beliefs.

Things had started turning ugly when the Imperial governor had started forcing the disbandment of religious institutions and forbidding the worship of false gods at gunpoint. Mass demonstrations and unrest had followed, and the situation had slowly started spiralling out of control. The governor had requested Astartes assistance to solve the problem.

 

Preferring a peaceful solution, he had requested the help of a master orator – a Chaplain of the Word Bearer Astartes Legion. The Legion that carried the Emperor’s light and whose preachers could sway entire populations to embrace the Imperial Truth.

 

A Chaplain by the name of Sor Salbek had answered the call. Sor Salbek had been attached to a small contingent of World Eater Astartes warriors travelling to a rendezvous-point with the 378th Expedition Fleet when the call for assistance reached them. The Captain commanding the World Eater contingent had agreed to travel to Ghe and lend assistance.

 

And now Sor Salbek had sent for Mayer’s company. The whole affair seemed strange to Mayer – surely a Word Bearer Chaplain and a contingent of World Eaters were enough to quell the unrest swiftly? Why send for the Imperial Fists?

 

 

 

The ramp of the warhawk-pattern transport opened with a hiss of inrushing air and slowly lowered with a low whine. Bathed in red light of the warhawk’s transport compartment stood three tall, broad figures, every inch of their stone-grey power armour covered in script. Paper scrolls were attached to the suits of MkIV armour with wax seals.

 

Slow and purposefully, Chaplain Sor Salbek of the Word Bearers Legion descended the ramp. A short staff holding an open book protruded from his power pack, the pages shivering in the light gust of wind from the cargo bay’s air venting systems. Behind him, two further Word Bearers followed. Their MkIV helmets were covered by the strange-looking psychic hoods.

 

Librarians.

 

Mayer had rarely seen a psychic hood before, since the Imperial Fists eschewed librarians amongst their ranks.

Behind the filters of his helmet, Mayer wrinkled his nose. The librarians had the stink of the warp about them.

 

Sor Salbek stopped a few paces from Mayer and gazed at the perfect ranks of warriors behind him. The he removed his skull-helm with a soft hiss-click, revealing a handsome, angular face with dark eyes and short-cut brown hair. He made the sign of the Aquila and gave Mayer a slight bow.

 

“Captain Mayer, it is an honour.”

 

Mayer held his clenched fist to his chest.

 

“The honour is mine, to welcome a chaplain of our noble, fellow legion upon our ship.”

 

The Chaplain smiled and gestured to his two companions.

 

“This is librarian Balbacon of the Bloody Sword Chapter, and Videk Tal, of the Flaming Word. They accompany me on my attachment to the World Eater contingent.”

 

The librarians both gave slight bows, which Mayer returned. He noticed the strange Chapter marks on their helmets – Sor Salbek and Balbacon both had a tiny image of a sword dripping with blood on the foreheads, while Videk Tal had a burning scroll.

 

“Brothers, please join me in our conference Chamber.”

 

 

 

The conference Chamber was a circular room with a large, bowl-shaped holo-caster at its centre. Currently, there was no astropath wired to the holo-caster, since there was no need. Ship-Captain Laarom Leuwen and Astropath Nisei were already waiting in the Chamber. The Word Bearers and the senior Imperial Fists assembled in the Chamber, forming a circle.

 

“Venerable Chaplain, this is Ship-Captain Leuwen, and Astropath Nisei of the Mors. They will be listening in today” Mayer said.

 

Sor Salbek smiled and nodded to the two mortals. Mayer thought he noticed an ever so sloght flicker of irritation pass across the Chaplain’s face, though it was gone after a moment.

 

The Chaplain turned to Mayer. “I thank you for your welcome, and for having answered my request. We have a delicate situation here, and I require your help.”

 

Mayer nodded. “Fill us in.”

 

The Chaplain stepped forward and started pacing along the circle of assembled warriors.

 

“The planetary governor of Ghe has requested our aid in preventing an armed insurrection here. The repression of the local belief has not sat well with the population, and also high, influential circles have voiced their displeasure. Most notably, the Sendho priesthood – a very large and influential clerical order – have proved worthy adversaries. For the simple folk, the priesthood represents the medium between them and their pantheon of gods.”

 

He paused, slowly continuing to pace. The footfall of his ceramite boots echoed through the Chamber.

 

“Now, we have an opportunity. In eleven terran days, the yearly midsummer ritual, Deviagraha, will take place. The Sendho priesthood will conduct the ritual, which will involve worship and appeasement of their local deities. The ritual is a central part not only of the religion, but of the local’s culture.”

 

The Chaplain stopped pacing and gazed around the Chamber, playfully running his fingers along the shaft of his Crozius in a drumming fashion.

 

“As you know, my companions and I are travelling with the 19th Assault Company of the World Eaters Legion. As Chaplain, I am subordinate to its commander, Captain Holske. Holske intends to quickly and efficiently end this unrest by striking at the heart of our enemy in the only way the World Eaters know – by charging in an slaughtering the priesthood during the ritual.”

 

He resumed pacing again, resting the Crozius, a beautiful weapon with head in the shape of a skull, on his pauldron.

 

“While it is doubtless a brutal and efficient way to deal with the problem, it by no means guarantees peace. The governor has asked us to resolve this peacefully, and I intend to try just that. My intention is we take part in the ritual as observers. It is my wish to observe the mechanics of a religious society, and to assess whether there is potential for a adaptation.”

 

“An adaptation?” Loric Amboss asked.

 

“An adaptation of the local belief to the Imperial Truth” the Word Bearer answered. “More often than not, the beliefs of a culture can be used to convey the Imperial Truth more efficiently, even if they seem to contradict themselves initially. I will assess whether there is potential. If there is, then I will put forward a request to Colchis to send a delegation and aid me in the enlightenment of these blinded locals.”

 

“And if not?” Church growled.

 

“If not, then I will give Captain Holske the go-code.”

 

“And slaughter the priesthood?”

 

The Chaplain stopped pacing and gazed at Church. “Without their priesthood, and without their ritual completed, the people will have lost the medium to their gods. It will turn ugly, but they will be leaderless, desperate, and swiftly defeated. But it could also mean a lot of blood spilt needlessly.”

 

Mayer stepped forward. “I don’t see where we come into this plan.”

 

The Chaplain smiled. “As stated, I am subordinate to Captain Holske. He holds my plan in contempt and will not go through with it. If, however, you are present as well and support me in my intentions, then Holske will have no choice but to go along with it.”

 

The Chaplain paused for a moment, before gazing around at the assembled sergeants.

 

“For this reason, I need your help. I am sorry to disappoint you: I am not offering you combat. Still, it is for the good of the Imperium and for peace amongst mankind. It is a chance to avoid bloodshed, and also to learn much for the future. Without you, the World Eaters will make that impossible. Will the Legio Septima aid me?”

 

Silence filled the room for a moment, before Captain Mayer stepped forward.

 

“Aye, the Imperial Fists will support you. For the Emperor.”

[Sons of Horus]

Why do I have a feeling it's a trap ;) nice update

[Ufthak]

C'mon, not EVERYTHING the Word Bearers do has got to be a trap, does it? (Erm...*cough cough*) :P

 

Anyways, here's Chapter 3 up. I think it turned out quite well, though it was a challenge portraying a Legion of Astartes I've never written about before. What do you think? Constructive criticism is asked for ;)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Church grunted in surprise as the combat training pole whizzed past his face with incredible speed. Before he could react, it had swung back and smashed into the side of his head with enough force to send him rolling across the floor.

 

Church spat blood, and the left side of his face – the white side – throbbed with pain. He glanced at his adversary. The World Eater, named Calras Dom, sneered.

 

“Get up.”

 

Both Astartes wore nothing but a loincloth, their naked muscle packs glistening with sweat. The training cage was a mess, the bars bent and twisted, the ground dented. The smell of old sweat and blood hung in the training chambers like a cloud.

 

Church leapt up and took the remains of his combat training pole, recently smashed in two by Dom, in both hands. Church prided himself in being one of the best warriors 2nd Company had to offer and, especially with a boltgun, he was unchallenged. He was a veteran of many wars, and his body showed it. Countless scars criss-crossed his body, most notably a long one across his side, where a freak alien creature had almost torn his guts out some fifteen terran years previously. And, of course, his face. His encounter with the psyker-witch had melted his face, and, despite the apothecarii’s best efforts, his skin was hideously scarred, his left eye a bionic replacement, and his mouth permanently lop-sided, baring teeth. When the incident had happened, Church had previously painted his face in the coat of arms of his native hive, Bauzan hive in the Tirol region of the Alps – red and white halved vertically. The psychic attacks had burned the paint into his skin permanently.

 

Still, Church realised his appearance was harmless when compared to Dom. The World Eater’s body was covered in scars, many of which Church had the impression had been self-inflicted, including the Legions’ symbol of a World being devoured, cut into the skin of Dom’s chest. Dom’s ugly, brutish face appeared heavily disfigured – his nose was broken and lop-sided, his lips split, and many teeth had been replaced with razor-sharp adamantium versions. Part of the World Eaters’ left hand was bionic, as was part of his left shoulder. Strange cables and tiny apparatus protruded from the warriors’ cranium, and periodically they would whiz and whirr, seemingly for no reason at all.

 

But worst of all were the eyes. The World Eater’s eyes were a beautiful blue-green with a ring of orange around the iris, and whenever the strange apparatus on the cranium activated, the eyes seemed to bulge. A grin spread across the World Eater’s lips, and he would lick his lips in a fashion that made Church’s skin crawl. Church tried to avoid looking into those frenzied, mad eyes, even though Astartes close combat training dictated you should always watch the enemy’s eyes to anticipate his next move.

 

With a snarl the World Eater launched himself forward, Church had no time to react before he suddenly found himself staggering back, his ears ringing, stars dancing before his eyes and blood streaming down the side of his face.

 

Dom laughed and threw aside his now broken combat pole. Church had never seen one of the sturdy combat poles broken over an opponent’s body. Before Church could recover, the World Eater had already launched another attack and pummelled his fists into Church’s side.

 

Church flew across the cage and landed heavily on the metal floor, denting it.

 

“Pathetic” the World Eater snarled. “Terra knows why we need YOU to help us with this job.” His eyes bulged again, and, with a lithe leap, he jumped to the floor, landing on all fours, like a predator ready to strike. His crazed eyes seemed to dart here and there in a manic fashion. His tongue flicked out from between his ruined lips and licked up a few droplets of Church’s blood that had flecked the floor.

 

“You taste sssssour. Of weakness.”

 

Church groaned and held up his hand to acknowledge his defeat.

 

 

 

Mayer watched Church get beaten to a pulp with mild dismay. The World Eater was good, very good, though Mayer also felt disgusted by him. So feral, so frenzied. So unstable.

 

With a week to go until the ritual, the Imperial Fists had taken the opportunity to meet the World Eater contingent, and within an hour of meeting tension had sprung up, with challenges flying back and forth.

 

A deep voice growled behind him like the engine of a Malcador tank. “Weaklings. How the Emperor could choose the VII Legion as his praetorians is beyond reason.”

 

Mayer turned. Clad in customised, brutish power armour of a pattern Mayer had never seen before, which was covered in adamantium studs, Captain Holske strode up to him. Every single movement of the World Eater seemed flexed, as if relaxation was something the warrior simply did not know. The white and blue power armour shone in the neon lights of the training chambers of the World Eaters’ ship, the Flux Rubis.

 

“I wager not even you could beat my sergeant” Holske sneered.

 

That was enough. Mayer had been baited throughout the last few days by various World Eaters, and this was the last straw.

 

“I accept the challenge.”

 

 

 

In a swordfight, Mayer might have easily defeated the World Eater. But combat training poles were an entirely different matter.

 

Dom leered at Mayer, deftly twirling the pole between his hands. Then he attacked.

 

Attack, always attack, that was the way of the World Eater. Pure aggression, all channelled in one direction, at one target. Mayer’s heart beat painfully, sending spasms through his body. His reaction came a fraction of a second too late.

 

As if the World Eater had smelled Mayer’s weakness, he smashed the pole past Mayer’s clumsy, tardy parry and into the soft skin just below his sternum. Pain spread from there like an explosion, knocking the wind from his lungs and forcing him back. Mayer gasped in pain.

 

Before he could react, another blow to the side of his head felled him to the ground.

 

The pain from the blows entered him, wracked his body.

 

The World Eater laughed.

 

“And YOU are the Captain?”

 

Suddenly, Dom found himself flying across the cage. He crashed against the bars, further denting them, and landed heavily on his knees. A look of surprise passed over his face, and for a moment, the warrior looked like a small, innocent child. A moment later, the innocent expression of surprise vanished, and was replaced by a frenzied grin.

 

Mayer, back on his feet in a defensive combat stance and a calm expression on his face, beckoned to the World Eater in a taunting gesture. He felt energised. The pain from Dom’s blows had numbed the sting in his heart and dispelled the weakness. He felt stronger than he had in a long time.

 

Pain is GOOD.

 

Calras Dom sprang from his stooping stance with a roar, his pole whizzing through the air with incredible speed. Mayer brought his own up and smashed the blow aside.

 

The World Eater landed heavily and rolled around Mayer before immediately jumping again, swinging his weapon. Mayer was too slow to parry it again and felt a sharp pain erupt in his ankle.

 

YES.

 

Mayer immediately retaliated. The World Eater did not see the blow coming and staggered as the pole connected with his chest.

 

Both opponents roared and launched themselves forward. The blows came so fast Holske and Church could barely make out the movement of the weapons. With loud cracks, the poles connected with each other multiple times per second.

 

The World Eater laughed in his frenzy while Mayer roared out his feeling of being energised. Spit and blood flew through the air.

 

With a loud cracking sound both poles broke at once, splinters flying and embedding themselves in the skin of the contestants.

 

For a moment, both warriors stood immobile. Mayer regulated his breathing calmly and resumed a combat stance.

 

Dom looked at the broken remnants of his combat pole for a moment with a look of bewilderment. Then, suddenly, the World Eater seemed to turn a deep red within a matter of seconds. His limbs started shaking, his fists, clenched. The apparatus on Dom’s cranium whirred. One eye opened so wide it looked like it would pop out any moment, the other closed to a tiny slit. The wide-open ye danced freakishly in its socket. The mouth, dripping spit, opened so wide Mayer could see down the warrior’s throat.

 

“Oh no” Mayer groaned.

 

“Sh*t” Holske growled.

 

The next moment, the World Eater flew at him. Mayer smashed his now shortened pole into the oncoming berserker.

 

To no avail. Dom didn’t seem to notice it. He carried on and wrapped his arms around Mayer, smashing them both to the ground. With a snarl he sank his teeth deep into Mayer’s shoulder. Mayer roared as he felt blood run down his back. The World Eater tore his jaws free, taking some skin with it, before sinking his teeth in again.

 

Then, suddenly, Dom was wrenched off Mayer in a savage tug, and flew across the cage, landing heavily on his face. A white, power-armoured boot pinned the thrashing warrior to the floor.

 

“I guess we’ll call it a draw” Holske growled through the howls of the frenzied berserker.

 

 

 

Bhar-at-Riksh was young. At the tender age of nineteen, he was one of the youngest trainee priests of the Sendho priesthood. He had served the priesthood all his life, and merit, hard work and devotion had propelled him further than any of his age. Most trainee priests were at least five years older.

 

Bhar knew that some of his mentors considered him talented, gifted, even a genius. He didn’t view himself in such positive light, nor did he have any high ambitions. His sole wish was to serve the priesthood with all the devotion he could muster.

 

This, along with his affinity with languages had now earned him this special assignment. He watched, curious and with a distinct feeling of unease, as the three huge, grey-armoured warriors strode around the amphitheatre. Two of them seemed to stride in a meditative trance, whispering strange words through the grilles of their brutal-looking helms, while the third, the one with the skull-helm, paced around the stone stage at the centre, stopping at certain points, seemingly checking the ground, then continuing. Now and then, he would grasp his book and read from it.

 

Bhar felt uneasy about the two warriors in trance. But the friendly one with the skull-helm frightened him.

The ritual was still days away, and yet the three warriors from the skies had insisted of inspecting the site where it would take place. Apparently out of academic interest. The site was a huge amphitheatre, with enough space to hold over 400,000 people. In part, it was a beautiful wonder of nature: situated at the top of a low mountain, of dazzling white stone. As if nature had planned it in this way, not only the proportions of the mountain were absolutely perfect, but the amphitheatre seemed to have been carved out by the hand of some huge, wondrous artist. All the angles were perfect and the acoustics were fantastic – even a whisper could be heard as far back as the last row. Only the stone steps, the huge podium and the altar were man-cut. Legend had it that the Gods themselves had chosen and carved this place. As such, it was the most holy place on Ghe.

 

And, once every year, the midsummer ritual, the Deviagraha, took place here. The most important, and most wondrous, festival of the whole year. The day the Gods themselves came to Ghe an d wandered amongst them, the day the Gods spoke to them. The holiest day.

 

Only that this time, there would be guests. The strange, frightening, almost inhuman warriors of the Imperium would be watching.

 

The Sendho priesthood had allowed the – what were they called? Astartes, that was it – to take part as a sign of goodwill. No one wanted war. A peaceful solution had to be found. If these warriors were the representatives of the Emperor, then surely they would be convinced that the ritual was good, righteous and necessary. They would be convinced that without the Gods, there was nothing. The priesthood wanted to make sure they understood. To make sure they recognised the Gods and felt their light, and their love.

 

As one of the most talented young trainee priests, Bhar had learnt Imperial Gothic within a few months of the arrival of the Imperium. As such, he had been given this special assignment: he was to accompany the Astartes and be their guide. Their guide not only to Ghe, but also their guide along the path of understanding, and hopefully also their guide onto the righteous path in veneration of the Gods.

 

The more Bhar watched the three warriors pacing the site, the more he had doubts that he would be successful.

 

He watched as the skull-helmed one paced along the edge of the vast circular podium. Every twenty paces or so, he would stop at a specific point of the circle, open his book, and murmur something in a language Bhar did not understand, but which made him feel uneasy.

 

Eight stops. The skull-helmed warrior had stopped at eight points of the circle, each point an equal distance from the one before and the one after.

 

Though it was warm a warm summer evening, Bhar-at-Riksh shuddered.

[Legio Draconis]

Brilliant as usual Ufthak. Ok now for some C&C that you asked for. Your dialouge is well paced and helps you bond with the charecters but you need to add a few more paragrahps on describing where and when these chapters are set. A bit of time setting the scene and you are on to a winner here.

[Sons of Horus]

What I really like about the way you write is that you can make the story feel like an actual HH novel. I only saw a few typos like "ye" should be "eye".

 

I knew it ;) eight pointed staaaar

[Pulse]

Absolutely loved reading through the two chapters so far, excellent stuff. The descriptions of the World Eater, Dom, was great.

[Ufthak]

Thanks for the crits & comments guys ;)

 

@Legio Draconis:

Thanks man :)

Since the timeline and the setting is very simple (nowhere near as complex my last story) I think they quite easily explain themselves through context. If it starts getting more complex then I'll definitely take your advice into account! ;)

 

@Pulse & Sons of Horus:

Thanx guys!

 

In any case, here's the next part up - it's part 1 of Chapter 4. Hoping to get the rest of the chapter done over the weekend!

 

What do you think of it?

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Midsummer day. Deviagraha.

 

Mayer took off his helmet and breathed in the clear, fresh mountain air. He sucked it in, let it fill all three of his lungs. It tasted clean, wonderfully young and fresh, so much better than the recycled air of a space station or the Mors cum Surriso. He analysed the different scents and tastes – the sweet, beguiling hint of a small, silver mountain flower growing between the rocks, the hard, gritty taste of the white rocks; a vague waft of salt from the not too distant sea.

 

Mayer’s heartbeat stung painfully, but he breathed without hindrance. Hours of mind-training, hours spent in pain, fighting it, mastering it, using it, had made Mayer strong. And stronger.

 

The mountain scenery all around was breathtaking. Mayer had fought in countless war zones and seen virtually every environment imaginable, but the beauty of the snow-peaked giants of rock still took his breath away.

 

As a neophyte, his mentors had told him stories about ancient ages long past, stories that sounded more like myths and legends. The stories told that the bleak, low grey Alpine region of Terra, where Mayer had grown up, had once been a towering mountain range, covered in snow so white it could dazzle your eyes, and forests fecund and green full of wondrous animals. Mayer had been shown a distorted pict-feed, damaged and grainy, reportedly dating back to M2 or M3, showing the snowy peaks in their splendour.

 

Seeing the mountain ranges of Ghe reminded him of them. The idea that Terra had once been so beautiful briefly stirred something deep inside him. The next moment, it was gone.

 

He opened a vox-channel to Loric Amboss.

 

“Loric, status.”

 

Amboss’ deep, calm voice ground through the vox. “Nothing suspicious so far, Captain.”

 

“Acknowledged. Keep your eyes open.”

 

Mayer turned and glanced up the mountain. Situated in the middle of a vast plateau of black rock, the chalk-white mountain rose gently from the plain. The plateau itself was situated in the middle of the vast mountain range, a long chain of high peaks, all covered in snow even though it was summer. Mayer realised why the mountain was special to the locals: white on black, with perfect proportions, surrounded by this beautiful range.

 

Looking at it, he himself could hardly believe the mountain was a product of nature.

Hewn into the mountain side, a long chain of steps snaked its way up the mountain. The steps were lined with poles, which in turn were decorated with flowers, tree-branches, leaves and occasionally, the head of recently slaughtered livestock.

 

The foot of the steps was linked to a long, perfectly straight road that led all the way across the plateau to Uttoyam, the next major city. As the afternoon had progressed into evening, lights had come on in the city, like a cluster of stars only a few miles away.

 

Lining the long road was a vast maze of tents, fireplaces and shacks housing the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims, all come from all over Ghe to take part in the holiest feast of the year.

 

Mayer, Holske and their Astartes had lined up in ranks by the foot of the steps, awaiting the begin of the ritual. The pilgrims kept their distance to the off-world warriors and eyed them suspiciously and fearfully.

Rightly so, Mayer thought. After all, the “Daemons from the Sky” had come to judge them.

 

Mayer had decided to take precautions to pre-empt any attack. He had positioned his master sniper, Lars von Bingen, and his team on a nearby hill overlooking the tent city, and Loric Amboss and his terminators were patrolling the skirts of the maze.

 

Where are those damned Word Bearers, Mayer thought. Sor Salbek and his companions had been invited to talks with the high priests of the Sendho priesthood and had been gone for hours while the final preparations for the ritual took place. Mayer and Holske had been left standing at the foot of the mountain , waiting for something to happen. While Mayer had taken this as an opportunity to drill the company’s discipline – standing still for hours on end without moving so much as an eyelid - The World Eater Captain and his warriors had got bored very soon.

 

“We’re wasting our time” Holske remarked to Mayer. “All of this is a waste of time. My company should be en route to the 378th Expedition Fleet, not watching these blinded idiots. We should just have set an example by the one way everyone understands: in blood.”

 

Mayer remained silent. He wasn’t in the mood for arguing with the World Eater.

 

Holske slowly lifted his chainaxe skyward and briefly let it whine.

 

“Let a few heads roll, spill some blood, kill, kill, kill, and people won’t doubt you. Ever again. It’s far simpler than this whole affair. And more fun.”

 

FUN?

 

Before Holske could continue, Lars von Bingen’s voice came quietly through the vox.

 

“Eye 1 here. We have visual on a string of lights approaching along the road. Range three point four five kilometres. It’s the procession, Captain.”

 

 

 

With thudding footfalls, the Astartes ascended the steps up the holy mountain. To Church it seemed strange, almost eerie, to be part of such a long procession of mortals, to take part in their strange, heathen rituals.

 

Preceding the Astartes was a large group of men in flowing, red robes lined with gold, some of them carrying large, gold crowns on their heads, their oiled, black locks flowing over their shoulders or closely plaited together – the Sendho priesthood. At the very forefront strode the High Priest, an old man with a long, black beard, wearing a huge crown of gold and gems which reached into the evening sky almost a metre high. The priests chanted a droning, monotonous yet almost meditative prayer, to which there seemed to be no end.

 

“They are reciting verses from the sacred songs, left to us mortals by the gods” the young trainee priest, Bhar-at-Riksh, remarked in an unsteady voice.

 

Behind the priesthood followed the most important guests: kings, governors, politicians, many carried in small thrones by servants and escorted by bodyguards.

 

Church noted that the bodyguards were armed with staves and curved swords. Bhar had said that men who followed the profession of the warrior were allowed to bring close combat weapons to the ritual – an ancient right of the warrior. Hence, all the Astartes warriors present – some forty men from Mayer’s company and twenty from Holske’s, plus the Word Bearers – had been allowed to bring combat blades, chainswords and chainaxes.

 

Behind the Astartes followed thousands upon thousands of pilgrims, a great mass of humanity snaking its way up the mountain. Every single pilgrim was dressed in very simple, three-cloth black garments, lined with either orange or green.

 

Church regarded their eyes, their body posture, with interest: such devotion, such childlike innocence. Church could not understand how someone could so utterly and totally give their lives and their devotion to false gods, to a lie, to some ancient demagogue’s figment of imagination. The power of the zealous mass filled him with unease.

 

The sky had turned a beautiful, evening dark blue, the clouds tinged with orange, the snowy peaks glowed a warm pink as the sun’s last rays touched them. Even Church could not deny the beauty, nor the strange, excited feeling of anticipation among the pilgrim.

 

The steps were now, in addition to the poles with flowers and plants, lined with servants of the priesthood bearing torches or strange, brass braziers. Aromatic oils, resins or herbs burned in the braziers, filling the fresh yet warm summer air with a myriad of wonderful scents.

 

However heathen, however blind, however false, Church realised that this ritual, this day, was of vast importance to these people.

 

Church dispelled these distractions with a quick shake of his head, before voxing to his squad.

 

“Eyes open and ready, brothers.”

[Legio Draconis]

Your not working fast enough for me brother. Get er done. Great as usual, now what are those pesky word bearers up to?

[Ufthak]

Sorry for the slow pace, but life's busy at the moment! I'll do my best to get the next part done tomorrow :lol:

[Ufthak]

Alright guys!

 

As promised, here's the next part up :mellow: It's still not the entirety of Chapter 4, but still.

 

Any C&C would be very welcome! Please point out any typing mistakes, as I like to give a clean picture ;)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The Deviagraha” Bhar breathed.

Mayer glanced around. The huge amphitheatre was now filled with a vast mass of black-clad pilgrims, standing on the white steps radiating away from the sanctum with the podium and altar. The Astartes were grouped by squads among the crowd, behind the other guests of honour situated at the foremost steps.

 

Mayer took in the gleaming white and blue of Holske’s World Eater squads, as well as his own yellow-clad warriors.

 

To his immediate left stood Sor Salbek with his librarians, the young trainee priest, and Captain Holske. The Chaplain had removed his skull-helm, his eyes fixed on the spectacle enfolding on the sanctum. Mayer didn’t like the glint in the Chaplain’s eyes.

 

Bhar-at-Riksh glanced uneasily at the Astartes officers and spoke.

 

“My Lords.”

 

Sweat was running down the side of his face. His Imperial Gothic was heavily accented but otherwise nigh impeccable.

 

“In the name of the Sendho priesthood and all the people assembled here today, I bid you welcome to the Deviagraha. It is an honour to have you here today, and I am sure you will leave this place more learned and enlightened men.”

 

Sor Salbek looked down at the young man with a smile.

 

“Thank you, venerable priest. We will listen diligently to all you have to tell us about your customs and your religion.”

 

Bhar seemed calmed a little by the Chaplain’s words.

 

“The Deviagraha is the midsummer feast. In this feast, we celebrate the end of an old year and the start of a new one. It is the day the Gods themselves come to Ghe, speak to us and bless us. So it has always been as far as recorded history goes back. When the Gods come to us, they must see our devotion, our worship, and deem it worthy.”

 

“Who cares?” snorted Holske.

 

Bhar uneasily glanced at Holske, disconcerted by the interruption.

 

“Please continue, venerable priest” the Chaplain said.

 

Bhar continued. “The ritual is divided into four main parts. Thanksgiving, Appeasement and Veneration, Possession, and the final Prayer by the High Priest.”

 

“Possession?” asked Sor Salbek with interest.

 

Bhar-at-Riksh gave a brief, warm smile. “You will see, my Lords.”

 

He gestured to the sanctum.

 

“It begins.”

 

 

 

Church looked down to the sanctum, where the ritual was unfolding. Twelve priests of the Sendho priesthood stood in a semicircle on the podium, facing the altar, where the High Priest stood, eyes closed as if in meditation.

 

Countless torches and candles, as well as a huge roaring fire behind the altar, illuminated the scene. Seated on the white stone ground around the podium were a good fifty men, all clad in a mere black loincloth, with a variety of drums.

 

By some unspoken command, suddenly all the drummers gave their drums a single, furious beat that echoed through the amphitheatre. At the same moment, the High Priest’s eyes opened and his arms shot up into the air, palms open. The crowd suddenly went very quiet.

 

After a moment, the drums slowly started again, an increasing rhythm that grew in volume. After a few seconds, the drums abruptly stopped, and the crowd seemed to exhale collectively, the pilgrims’ eyes wide open.

 

With a voice like thunder that awed even Church, the High Priest lowered his arms and started a deep, sonorous chant. It carried all the way up the amphitheatre, reverberating through the air.

 

“He is reciting from the sacred songs, calling upon the Gods to hear us and come to us” Bhar breathed.

 

After a few verses, all the drummers suddenly gave a collective beat, before the High Priest continued with the next set of verses. The interplay between the Priests’ chanting and the drums had something entrancing and almost beautiful.

 

After some two hundred verses, the High Priest suddenly boomed out a single, one-syllable word and threw his arms to the heavens, and a split second later the entire crowd, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims, all threw their arms to the skies and repeatedly shouted out the word. The sudden cacophony made the World Eaters and the Word Bearers flinch, and Holske instinctively reched for the handle of his chainaxe at his side, growling. The Imperial Fists stood stoic and immobile, but Church knew that beneath their helmets, they too had been awed by the sudden surge of the crowd.

 

After a few moments of ecstatic chanting, the High Priest suddenly lowered his arms in a quick motion, and the crowd abruptly fell silent.

 

Church was impressed how well the High Priest controlled the huge mass of hundreds of thousands of people.

 

“The Calling is complete” Bhar said as he turned to the Astartes, tears in his eyes. “Now comes the First Part: Thanksgiving.”

 

 

 

Suddenly, a portal concealed in the rock floor beside the podium opened, stone grinding upon stone. It was large, perhaps three by three metres, and steps led down into seeming darkness.

 

From it ascended a tall, strong man, also merely clad in a black loincloth. Upon his shoulders, he carried a huge wicker basket, which contained a peaked mound of what looked like corn or grain.

 

The drumming resumed in a slow, purposeful pace as the man slowly strode around the podium. He was followed immediately by two further men, these carrying a large, open chest between them. From his viewpoint, Mayer thought he could espy different kinds of ores, including aurum, lithium, platinum, ferrum, and many others. He could see the strain on the men’s faces as the slowly and carefully carried the chest after the first man.

 

Next, a woman came, clad in a simple, black, one-piece cloth. At each hand she held a chain of six young children, who seemed to look about themselves with large, excited eyes. Behind the children followed a man carrying a small leather bag.

 

Mayer was surprised to see a huge animal, some kind of livestock vaguely resembling a grox, exiting the portal with a loud bay, led by another man. The animal’s horns were adorned with flowers and leaves, and its flanks were painted in strange letters and symbols in a wide array of colours.

 

More and more men and women came up through the portal, carrying many different things, and all lined up around the podium, parallel to the drummers who seemed entranced in their rhythmic beat.

 

Sor Salbek turned to Bhar.

 

“What is happening?”

 

The young priest explained. “The High Priest is about to bless the offerings to the Gods. We believe that when the Gods give you life, and all you need to live, then you should give some of it back, as a sign of thanks. Watch.”

 

The twelve priests moved behind the altar, facing the crowd, laid their open palms upon their chests, closed their eyes and began a gentle, mesmerising chant. With all the offerings assembled around the podium, the High Priest gestured to the first: the man with the basket of grain. The man slowly walked up toward the altar.

 

“In the last year, our people had enough to eat. The harvests were good, and few starved. For that, we thank the Gods by giving back some of the grain with which they blessed us” Bhar explained.

 

Mayer watched as the High Priest placed his hands upon the basket, murmuring something under his breath, before having the man place the grain upon the ground by the altar. The same happened with all the offerings: the ore, the livestock, fruit, vegetables.

 

When the woman with the children ascended the podium, Sor Salbek asked: “Will the children be offered up to the Gods?”

 

Bhar hurried to explain.

 

“Only symbolically. Of course we do not kill them! We merely shave them – the first shave of their life. The hair will be offered up to the Gods as a gesture of thanks for the children which they have given us.”

 

Though Mayer wasn’t sure, we thought he saw a slight flicker of disappointment upon the Chaplain’s face. The next moment, he wasn’t sure whether he had really seen it or imagined it. He turned his attention back toward the altar, where the children were being shaved by the man carrying the leather case, which apparently contained shaving tools. Some of the children were crying, but the High Priest ignored them, taking the tufts of black hair in his hands before reverently placing them beside the other offerings.

 

Last of all, a woman wearing, in contrast to the other pilgrims, a white piece of cloth, slowly ascended the podium. She had her eyes closed and held both hands clasped gently around a large, white flower, pressed to her breast. As she ascended, the drumming slowed further and quietened down somewhat.

 

“What is she offering? An abundance of white flowers?” Holske snorted.

 

Bhar explained. “The white flower, indeed, the colour white, is a symbol of peace. In the last year, no wars wracked our world. A year of total peace – it is something very rare, and therefore something very special. You are witnessing something wonderful today: we are thanking the Gods for blessing us with peace.”

 

Holske sneered in contempt. Bhar looked slightly unsettled, but continued.

 

“The Thanksgiving is complete.”

[Legio Draconis]

Bloody good show brother, Take however long you like to finish this I will await each piece with baited breath. Real life should always take precedent over the tinterwebs.

[Ufthak]

I agree with you Draconis ;) thanks for the comment!

 

Anyways, here's the next part up. PLease let me know if it's good/bad, intersting/boring etc. I know it's not the typical action-packed rapid-fire-bolter stuff you usually find, and I'm intrigued what everyone thinks of this more peaceful story. Please tell me what could be done better and what could be worked on, ok?

 

Thanx!

 

 

 

In any case, here's the next part of Chapter 4 up!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As the crowd settled down again, Sor Salbek asked:

 

“You said the second part was Appeasement and Veneration. How is that done, and what is its purpose?”

The young priest answered enthusiastically.

 

“It is a very important part of the ritual. After having thanked the Gods for what they have given us, we now offer our prayers to them. We worship and venerate them, and call to them to come to us. We ask them for guidance, for help. Any questions we have, any wishes, any sorrows, we tell the Gods now.”

 

Mayer watched as the twelve priests took each other by their hands, forming a chain, with the High priest in the very middle, all facing the crowd. The drummers had started a slow, purposeful beat that reverberated through the amphitheatre. The crowd of pilgrims silently whispered to each other as they excitedly awaited what would happen next.

 

“How does the priesthood manage to convey the wishes of the entire population to the Gods? How do they even know?” Mayer asked. The whole affair suddenly seemed very absurd.

 

Bhar-at-Riksh answered quickly, a fire in his eyes.

 

“Throughout the year, the priests collect the wishes, problems, sorrows, doubts, everything that the people bring to them. In this way, at the end of the year, the priests evaluate the populations’ most pressing needs. These are then brought before the Gods – today. For any smaller matters, the individual may ask the Gods for help personally.”

 

“Personally? Without the priests, you mean?”

 

“Of course. Anyone may speak to the Gods. And, often, the Gods send their aid.”

 

Mayer snorted. It all seemed a little inconsistent to him.

 

“What use are the priests, then, if any beggar can speak to the Gods?”

 

“The priests are individuals, chosen by the Gods, as a medium between our people and them. The priests have a better understanding of the messages the Gods send us. Many people are blind to the messages the Gods send them in everyday life. The priests help the people see and understand. Also, the Sendho are the Keepers of the Sacred Songs, and the givers of hope.”

 

Mayer didn’t feel like asking further questions. He turned his attention back to the sanctum, where the priests had closed their eyes and started a low, deep hum which swayed, grew and decreased in volume to the beat of the drums. Mayer could not decipher any real words, only sounds.

 

Suddenly, the drums started a furious beat, and the priests, all together, started singing. It was ethereal, unreal singing unlike any Mayer had ever heard. Deep, humming sounds, accompanied by strange clicks and stops, all flowed together as if forming one, endless word. There seemed to be no real melody, no real rhythm, and yet everything seemed to flow together in utter perfection. It was entrancing.

 

“What are they doing?” the librarian Balbacon asked.

 

“They are performing the song of appeasement and prayer” Bhar answered. “Using the holy music from the sacred songs, they sing to the Gods of our worship, our dedication, our wishes and needs.”

 

Balbacon turned to Sor Salbek and whispered, barely audible over the song of the priests: “The walls to the Ether are bending and thinning. The song seems to be stretching the veil between us and the Warp.”

 

“Psykers?” Sor Salbek asked.

 

“None that we can detect” the other librarian, Videk Tal, answered.

 

“Psy-kers?” asked Bhar-at-Riksh.

 

The Word Bearers ignored him.

 

“The Warp is reacting to the song of desire, to the wishes of men” Sor Salbek murmured, a strange smile on his lips. “Interesting.”

 

“What does that mean?” growled Holske.

 

“Nothing of import, Captain” answered the Chaplain. “Merely a phenomenon we have encountered oft before.”

 

Mayer felt uneasy. The Warp was something utterly incomprehensible, something beyond the scope of vision of mortal beings. A dread realm with seemingly arbitrary eddies and currents that could dash starships to pieces, swallow them whole. That the walls to that strange dimension were thinning due to the mad raving songs of a few old men, venerating false gods, unnerved him. Still, he kept his counsel.

 

The strange, entrancing song went on for what seemed like an age, and at the same time a mere moment. It seemed to grip the mass of pilgrims, all staring wide-eyed at the group of chanting priests. Mayer was surprised how much it affected him, beguiled him. The song was otherworldly, enchanting, menacing, beautiful, soothing, and wondrous. Mayer was an Astartes, an Imperial Fist at that, and he would never have thought something so simple, born of mortals, could affect him. Precisely this was the reason he felt more and more uneasy, and wanted to be done with it.

 

Evidently, even the World Eaters felt it. Holske shifted his weight, turned to the Chaplain and growled: “This is a waste of time and resources. It is pointless, stupid, and heathen at that, and goes against the Imperial Truth. There is nothing to be gleaned here. I suggest we kill them all and be done with it!”

 

“Kill…us all?” the young priest stammered.

 

Sor Salbek laid his large gauntleted hand on the young man’s shoulder and said in a gentle voice:

“Ignore him. He is a warrior, a killing machine. It is all he understands. Be patient with him.”

 

Bhar glanced at the huge World Eater, who was fingering the hilt of his chainaxe, and didn’t look totally convinced at all.

 

“Venerable Priest” the Chaplain’s voice lilted, “This warrior cannot understand. It is his nature to destroy. Pay him no heed. No one here is in any danger. We are all here to learn and understand your customs, to find a peaceful solution. Peace, my friend.”

 

Mayer smirked behind his helmet grille. The Chaplain was good, very good. He watched, slightly amused, as the young priest’s featured relaxed, and he nodded, turning back to the spectacle below.

Suddenly, the pitch, volume and speed of the chanting and drumming grew in intensity, as if speeding to a grand eruption.

 

Then, in a flash, it was finished.

 

For a moment, no one moved. Then a collective sigh went through the amphitheatre as the entrancement left the pilgrims. Mayer felt the strange unease slowly ebb away with relief.

 

“The second part is complete” Bhar-at-Riksh. “Now, my Lords, follows the most important, the most wondrous part: the Possession. The Gods come to us!”

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Wow, a really good story! I found this, then read through your other one. Great work! Im really impressed.

[Ufthak]

Thanx for the kind words, Bohemond!

 

Did you actually read through the whole other story? That's quite a feat since it filled 80 pages on Word :P

 

 

Unfortunately, the way it currently looks I will have to postpone the next part of the story for a couple of weeks - climate change means apples are ripe earlier this year, so the apple-picking starts in a couple of days. Until the first batch is done, I'll be in a mountain village without internet, so the story'll have to wait.

Sorry guys!!!

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Noooo!

 

Yea, I read through it in one sitting it was so gripping!

 

Although, too many Astartes died I feel, but, apart from that it was great. I cannot wait to see where you take this tale.

[Ufthak]

Alright guys. After almost a month the apple-picking is finally finished. Can't see any more of teh bloody fruit. In the grim darkness of the Tyrolean Alps, there are only apples.

 

Sorry that wrok kept me from giving you the next part of my story, now I can finally continue. I hope this break didn't kill all interest. In any case, here's the next part up, please let me know what you think, I'd really appreciate any comments!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A strange quietness hat settled in amongst the vast crowd of pilgrims. Church turned and gazed up the amphitheatre with a hint of unease. How so many thousands of people could be so captured, so taken in by this ritual was almost disturbing. And yet, also awe-inspiring.

 

Church glanced around at the rest of the Astartes. Most watched the spectacle enfolding on the podium, but here and there a World Eater would glance over his shoulder into the crowd. The vast mass of unarmed civilians presented a threat somewhere on the level between minimal and negligible, but to have such a mass behind your back was unnerving. Especially if that mass was filled with a strange, potent fervour of religious faith.

 

Church shook his head and turned his attention back to the podium.

 

 

 

The drums had started up again, a slow, yet regular rhythm. Mayer watched as a group of mortals, children, judging by their size, approached the podium from the side entrance. It seemed one, the lead one, was male, while the others were female. They were all clad in brightly coloured, gold-embroidered, ankle-length clothes, and their skin was painted with beautiful, twisting lines and forms. They all wore gold crowns festooned with feathers and plumes in a myriad of colours.

 

They entered in a long line, walking parallel to the drummers. When they had filled the length of the podium’s circumference, they, as one, started a dance. It was entrancing, the way they moved to the sound of the drums, in perfect unison.

 

Bhar explained. “The children’s dance is part of the summoning process. The drums, the dance, and the litanies from the sacred songs call the Gods to us.”

 

The High Priest suddenly lifted his arms and boomed something in his deep voice. That same moment, a lithe, bright blue figure jumped onto the podium.

 

The crowd erupted.

 

“What’s happening?” Holske snarled, slightly unnerved.

 

Bhar-at-Riksh shouted, joyously, over the din. “Behold, the Lord Baruna!”

 

The figure appeared to be another priest, clad only in a bright red-and-gold loincloth, and otherwise laden with all sorts of jewels and gems that sparkled in the firelight. His skin was painted a sky blue, and beautiful red lines and forms covered his face.

 

The figure suddenly started a strange, otherworldly dance to the drums. The crowd cheered and cried. The figure’s movements were jerky and yet also fluid, entranced and yet controlled.

 

Sor Salbek leaned to the young priest and asked: “The Lord Baruna – who or what is he?”

 

Bhar enthusiastically answered back over the din. “He is the Lord. The highest of our Pantheon. The Father and creator of all, the Guardian of time, the maintainer of life. It is through his song that everything exists. He the most high, the most revered!”

 

“And you use a priest as a vessel for the God to come to this earth?”

 

Bhar nodded. “Yes, yes, exactly!”

 

Mayer glanced at Sor Salbek. The Chaplain was gazing at the dancing God with…contempt? No, that wasn’t it…and yet Mayer got the feeling the Word Bearer regarded the ritual as a farce – as if he knew better.

 

But Mayer got the strange feeling it wasn’t contempt bred from the Imperial Truth. It was contempt bred from knowing…something else. The Chaplain’s smile hid something behind it that sent a quiver of unease down Mayer’s spine.

 

The blue priest danced for quite a while before suddenly moving toward the High Priest.

 

“Now follows the second part of each possession. When the Gods have fully taken possession of the priest acting as a vessel, then they perform a ritual. The Lord Baruna always graces the High Priest with a vision, which will help our people plan our lives in the new year.” Bhar explained.

 

The blue figure danced around the High Priest, who had dropped to his knees. Then, suddenly, he laid a hand on the High Priests’ head, and the drums suddenly slowed down. Both men swayed slightly, their eyes closed.

 

After a while, the High Priest let out a moan and keeled over. The drums stopped, the children stopped dancing.

The blue priest dropped to his knees, and some of the other priests rushed over to support them both.

 

“The possession by Lord Baruna is complete. The High Priests has received a vision.” Bhar beathed.

 

Mayer watched as the High Priest was gently lifted up and steadied between the other priests until he could stand on his own. The blue priest had been sat down at the edge of the podium, where he now reclined, upright and unmoving, his eyes closed.

 

The drums started up again, slowly, the children resuming their dance.

 

“What was this?” spat Holske. “Word Bearer, my patience is wearing thin!”

 

Sor Salbek merely held up a hand without looking at him. “So, this was your God-Father. You mentioned a pantheon, so which God comes next?” he asked the trainee priest.

 

Bhar pointed enthusiastically down to the side entrance. “It is the Lady Ghe, the most beloved of all!”

 

A heartbreaking, collective sigh went through the crowd, and Mayer looked down toward the podium. Six figures had entered. Five of them were men, clad in the same black loincloths of devotion. All were tall, strong and muscular, to the extent that the threat assessment of Mayer’s helmet sensorium went up from “negligible” to “minimal”. The sixth was a slender, very feminine woman. She was entirely naked, except for sparkling jewels that seemed to snake their way around her limbs like ivy. She, too, wore a huge gold crown, and her skin was painted in intertwisting forms of green and blue. Her long, black locks flowed down her shoulder. In an earlier life, Mayer may have called her beautiful, attractive, DIVINE.

 

“Behold Lady Ghe, the Giver of life and love! She who renders everything fertile – our crops, our beasts, and our people! The Goddess of ecstasy and love, of health and life!” Bhar said, tears of joy streaming down his face.

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Is she Slaanesh??

 

Anyways, really good, glad to see you are back.

[Ufthak]

I apologise for having been absent again for so long, but new work has kept me from writing. It's ironic that the summer is the time of the year I seem to have to work most!

 

In any case, to all of you who are still interested, I have managed to write the next few parts of the story. It's almost finished, with only about 20% still to do.

 

As usual, please please let me know what you think of it, I'd really appreciate any and all comments, good or bad! :D

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The priestess’ movements were beguiling. She seemed to flow, rather than dance, across the white stone floor, her limbs one, constant movement. The drums beat a surreal rhythm to her dance, while the priests made way on the podium for Lady Ghe’s dance.

 

The mass of pilgrims sighed collectively, ripples of movement going through the writhing mass like waves, the arms outstretched to the Lady. Mayer could see she was truly loved by all.

 

He glanced at the Chaplain. Sor Salbek’s eyes seemed to glow, and a smile played over his lips, but the movement of his eyebrows betrayed something different. As if the Chaplain had only just realised something…Mayer couldn’t quite place it – as if Sor Salbek had realised a missed potential, a missed opportunity?

 

It didn’t make sense, but when the Chaplain turned to the Librarian Videk Tal and the two gave each other a long stare, Mayer felt unnerved. The Word Bearers were clearly hiding something, and Mayer felt increasingly uncomfortable.

 

The Lady’s dance went on for a while, the drums beating to he rhythmic dance. Then, quite suddenly, she froze, one arm outstretched to the night sky, the other hand’s palm pressed to the white stone floor, forming a perfect line skyward. At the same moment, the drums stopped and the children dancers froze.

 

Bhar-at-Riksh turned to the assembled Astartes and exclaimed: “The Sowing ceremony! Now comes the sowing ceremony!”

 

“Sowing ceremony?” Mayer asked, in absence of Sor Salbek, who still had the same strange look on his face.

 

“Lady Ghe will now, hopefully, bless our lives with health for the coming year, with a good harvest, good livestock and many children! Watch, my Lords!”

 

The crowd had gone eerily quiet, all staring down at the Podium, eyes wide open. This part of the ceremony seemed particularly important.

 

The drums started up again, slow and quietly, and with them, the priestess awoke from her freeze and slowly, beguilingly, danced around her five companions, who stood at the side of the Podium. All five of them flexed their muscles and stood upright as she wove in and out between them, running her hands over their strong limbs, sometimes briefly pressing her body against theirs before breaking again and dancing to the next.

 

Suddenly, she cupped one of the man’s faces in her hands and pulled him from the group. The crowd erupted, the cheering echoing through the amphitheatre. The drums sped up as Lady Ghe lifted the heavy gold crown from her head and gently placed it on the altar, before turning her attention to the man she had chosen. She danced around him, running her hands over his body, before finally embracing him. The crowd sighed to the embrace.

 

Then, in a sudden movement, the Lady turned and walked to the altar, lifted her arms to the skies and shouted a cry of power. Her voice, loud, deep and clear, yet at the same time fresh and young, echoed through the amphitheatre. She then turned to the altar, placed her hands on the corners and bent over it, her body gently moving in rhythm with the drums.

 

The man whom she had chosen removed his black loincloth, now standing entirely naked. He slowly walked up to the gently convulsing figure of the priestess and stood behind her. In a deep voice he boomed a few words, to which the crowd cheered.

 

“What is he saying?” Mayer asked.

 

“He is thanking the Lady Ghe that he may be the Chosen to plant the seed for luck, prosperity and good harvest in the coming year.”

 

Something clicked in Mayer’s mind as he watched the man grasp Lady Ghe by the hips. Memories from an earlier life very briefly flooded Mayer’s mind before dissipating. The man and the priestess both convulsed in ecstasy as they both moved rhythmically to the sound of the drums.

 

Sor Salbek was pulled from his strange, self-induced trance by Captain Holske grabbing his wrist.

 

“Chaplain!” the World Eater growled. “I have been more than lenient, but this, this is not only disgusting, it is also primitive and pagan. I say kill them now!”

 

Sor Salbek, clearly annoyed, reached up to his collar armour, activating a secure vox channel so only the Astartes could hear.

 

“Patience, Holske. We need more proof; this is not enough. Not yet.”

 

Holske snarled and let go of the Chaplain.

 

The crowd raved. The children danced. The drums beat furiously, their rhythm increasing, seemingly speeding toward some unseen end. The couple at the altar seemed to gather speed with the drums, their bodies convulsing and glistening.

 

Suddenly, Lady Ghe arched her back, her face skyward, her mouth wide open. The man seemed to spasm, exhaling heavily. A few heartbeats later, the drums all stuck one, colossal beat, and then fell still, and the couple gently collapsed to the floor, arm in arm.

 

The mass of pilgrims cheered their voices hoarse.

 

“The seed has been sown” the young priest said, tears streaming down his face and a wistful, almost pained look upon his face. “Lady Ghe will now bless the very World named after her, and from this seed prosperity will grow.”

 

He gestured to the beautiful form of the priestess, now sitting beside the blue priest. “If she bears children from this union, then the year will be exceptionally good.”

 

 

 

The Possession went on. More priests and priestesses entered and were “possessed” by the Gods. Mayer could sense the World Eater fury building up behind the grilles of their strange, studded helmets. He espied one World Eater not wearing a helm whose eyes were bulging, blood streaming from his lower lip were his teeth were biting it. His tongue flicked out to lick the blood.

 

Mayer felt uneasy. Something was wrong about the Word Bearers; the World Eaters wanted to see blood; and the whole ritual itself did not sit well with Mayer, either. He suddenly had the feeling that coming here had been a bad idea.

 

His attention was suddenly drawn by a priest entering the scene wearing a snarling, black iron facemask, crowned with jagged black spikes. His body was painted red and black, and jagged black armour adorned parts of his limbs. A large, black pelt of some animal adorned his shoulders, and his black armour was lined with an intricate, gold trim.

 

“Who is this, then?” he asked Bhar.

 

The young priest had a very serious, awed expression on his face.

 

“Herno” he said. “The Master of War. He who destroys so that new may arise. He who keeps and breaks the peace. He who drinks blood. The Protector and Destroyer, and the master of Duality”.

 

 

 

Master of War. Warmaster.

 

It seemed strange to see this pathetic monstrosity and think of noble Horus Lupercal, the Warmaster.

 

Mayer uneasily glanced at Sor Salbek. A strange, unfriendly smile played over the Chaplain’s lips as he turned to Bhar-at-Riksh.

 

“Explain. Why do you venerate a God of War? Do you ask for strength and proficiency in battle?”

 

“The opposite.” Bhar explained. “Every year, during the Deviagraha, we appease the Master of War’s appetite, so that he blesses us all with a further year of peace. I can proudly tell you, my Lords, that in twenty-seven years, Ghe has known no war.”

 

Mayer watched as Lord Herno knelt down in the middle of the podium, while the four remaining men who had accompanied Lady Ghe walked up to him. Herno bellowed deafeningly, arms outstretched toward the sky. The mass of pilgrims a collective breath.

 

The four muscle-packed men all suddenly drew long, curved knives from thin belts at their sides, and Herno followed suit with a short sword from his back. He then tore off his black facemask, revealing a raged face, painted red and black in jagged patterns.

 

With the drums beating a steady rhythm, suddenly all four of the men sliced the daggers over their bodies, cutting shallow wounds. Blood streamed from the thin lines down their bodies.

 

Mayer threw a glance at the World Eaters. Holske and his men seemed mesmerised by the sight and seemed to be sniffing the air, as if hoping to smell the blood. Holske had his hand clasped firmly around the handle of his weapon. Mayer’s muscles tensed as he saw it.

 

Almost more unnerving were the two librarians. They seemed strangely hunched, and their helmeted heads seemed to twitch slightly, their psychic hoods emitting small sparks.

 

Lord Herno suddenly stood up, snarled and dragged his short sword over his body, before turning to one of the four men and starting to lick the blood from the man’s body.

 

Disgusting, Mayer thought. This is nowhere near the Imperial Truth! This is hopeless paganism!

The vox suddenly crackled. It was Sor Salbek on a secure channel.

 

“Brothers, stand by. On my word, we move. You know your orders.”

 

A series of clicks, accompanied by a few growls from the World Eaters, acknowledged.

 

Sor Salbek turned from the spectacle below, where Herno was drinking the blood of the four men, to Bhar-at-Riksh.

“Tell me” he asked the priest. “Don’t you think Lord Herno feels insulted by a few drops of blood spilt once a year? Does he not crave more blood? He is

he who drinks blood – blood for the Blood God.”

 

Mayer felt a strange, irrational shock pass through his body as Sor Salbek said those last few words. Something was not right.

 

The young priest seemed to have felt it, too, and answered with a stammering voice.

 

“W-we have h-had twenty-seven y-y-years of peace! Lord Herno w-was always appeased!”

 

Sor Salbek leant down toward the priest.

 

“The Imperium finds you, your people and your priesthood guilty. Your practises are in no way compatible with the absolute, Imperial Truth.”

 

The young priests’ eyes widened in shock.

 

“N-no…”

 

“I think your Lord Herno is half starved. Tonight, we shall feed him with blood aplenty.”

 

 

 

Sor Salbek turned around and bellowed.

 

“To battle, brothers! Slay them in the name of the Emperor!”

 

As one, Mayer’s Imperial Fists unsheathed their combat blades and pulled out their chainswords. Mayer drew his two-handed power sword, and Loric Amboss lit his lightning claws. With a roar, the World Eaters drew their chainaxes and chainswords. Sergeant Calras Dom, wielding a chainaxe in each hand, arched his back to the skies and let out a series of animal-like snarls, followed by a deafening roar.

 

“SLAAAAAAAUGHTER THEM!”

 

Some ten World Eaters leapt forwards, down the steps and into the crowd of lords.

 

The crowd panicked. The seething mass of pilgrims screamed in terror, people attempting to run and being trampled underfoot. The sound of chain weapons grinding through flesh intermingled with the frenzied screaming.

 

Mayer gave orders to his squads through the vox.

 

“Converge, brothers. Kill the priests and the lords!”

 

Massive yellow-armoured figures pushed aside the feeing masses and swiftly cut down the red-robed priests, limbs and bowels spilling over the floor. Yet the precise, ordered killing done by the Imperial Fists was entirely overshadowed by the mindless slaughter wreaked by the World Eaters.

 

The first World Eater to reach the podium reduced Lord Herno to a bloody pulp. Two more World Eaters lacerated and disembowelled the four men. Blood spurted from severed limbs and drenched the white and blue armour of the Astartes red. Streams of gore threw patterns over the white floor of the podium.

 

Another World Eater swiftly lopped the head off the startled Lady Ghe with his chainsword. The head sailed through the air, twirling the black locks around before landing amongst the frenzied mass of people. Before the beautiful priestess’ body could drop, it had been reduced to clumps of meat by the teeth of the sword.

 

Lord Baruna, the blue-coloured priest, sprang up and attempted to grab the World Eater’s arm, but the Astartes, laughing madly, charged his shoulder into the thin man, the adamantine studs and the massive impact pulverising the man’s bones.

 

A rune on Mayer’s helmet lens blinked, denoting 0,0013% damage taken to armour integrity, and turned to see one of the lords’ bodyguards swinging a large stave at him. He twisted and easily deflected the blow with his sword, slicing through the shaft of the stave. For half a second, the bodyguard stared at the useless lump of metal in his hands dumbfounded, before Mayer’s sword took his head off.

 

Other bodyguards were charging at the Imperial Fists, attempting to get their lords out through the crowd to safety. The Fists showed no mercy and easily dispatched them. With a grunt, Loric Amboss scythed through a group of lords, kings and dignitaries, their halved bodies toppling to bloods heaps.

A shout went up.

 

“YES! YES! More! KILL them!”

 

The Word Bearer Chaplain strode through the milling mass of people, bludgeoning the priests and their servants brutally with his Crozius. A mad, frightening, smile played over the Chaplain’s features as he killed.

 

Mayer uneasily paused in his strikes as he saw the two librarians following Sor Salbek. Both seemed to be stumbling, swaying, grasping at their heads with their hands, and moaning.

 

Something was wrong, terribly wrong, yet in the chaos, Mayer couldn’t fathom what.

 

As he glanced around, trying to understand what was happening, to his horror he noticed that most of the World Eaters hadn’t charged the priesthood at all. He glanced back up the steps of the amphitheatre and saw a long line of World Eaters systematically butchering their way up the steps through the shrieking crowd. Hundreds, thousands of bodies already littered the steps, some trampled to mush, others reduced to piles of mangled flesh. Blood ran down the steps toward the Podium in a steady, continuous stream, bathing the entire amphitheatre red.

 

Mayer grabbed the frenzied Chaplain by the wrist.

 

“Brother, this has to stop! Stop this, now!”

 

The Chaplain gave him a mad smile.

 

“No! We end this now, kill them all!”

 

The Chaplain pulled free of Mayer and shouted to the battle-brothers around him.

 

“Yes! More, kill more!”

 

Mayer gazed around the hideous murder happening all around him, almost slipping on the blood streaming down the steps toward the altar.

 

For a moment, he thought he saw a strange, pinkish light swirling around the altar, almost invisible.

 

What is happening?!?

 

 

 

Bhar-at-Riksh, trainee priest of the noble Sendho priesthood, fell to his knees. Tears streamed down his face as he witnessed the destruction of all he had known, all he had ever cherished.

 

A huge figure loomed over him.

 

He looked up and looked into the friendly face of the Chaplain.

 

“Why?” Bhar whispered.

 

“Because” Sor Salbek answered, and brought down his Crozius on Bhar’s head.

 

 

 

Church slammed his power fist into the body of one of the priests, and the man flew through the air, impacting heavily against the altar. Two of the “possessed” priests, both painted in a myriad of colours and bedecked with feathers, attempted to run, but Church caught up with them, crushing both under his massive fist.

 

The Podium was a slaughterhouse. Blood and Gore flew about everywhere, drenching everyone. Bodies covered the floor so thick one could hardly see the now blood-red floor.

 

Church gazed about. Most of the priests and lords had been killed, with some World Eaters turning on the dead bodies, bludgeoning them to bloody pulp or ripping heads off.

 

Church espied the Chaplain, killing his way through the last of the bodyguards, shouting at the top of his voice.

 

“NOT ENOUGH! KILL MORE!”

 

Church turned, searching for targets. The drummers had attempted to flee round the sides of the podium, but Holske had caught up with them and was making mincemeat of them. A group of dancers in brightly coloured clothes huddled together aside of the killing, attempting to find a way out. Church charged over to them and swung his massive power fist.

 

Just as he was about to land the blow, he heard high-pitched screaming. He tensed his muscles and stopped the blow mid-swing. Looking down at the group of dancers, he realised it was the children. Their small, fragile bodies were huddled together, holding each other, crying, screaming.

Church suddenly felt his hearts pounding. Not with adrenaline, but with something else, something he had almost entirely forgotten, something from a different age. A strange ache gripped his hearts, held them. Pain seared not only though his hearts, but through his very mind.

 

Horror. Shock.

 

Church breathed heavily, his eyes widening in shock at what he had almost done.

 

This is not right. This goes too far.

 

With a snarl, Church switched off and lowered his power fist.

 

He looked down at the children. He realised, indeed, knew inherently, that he could not, should not harm them. They were only children, Emperor’s sake!

 

Before he could think any further, a flash of blue and white passed him. The children screamed. Calras Dom swung his chainaxe with insane laughter, a laughter no longer human. The chainaxe chugged, clogged with blood, and ground through the fragile, young bodies of the children.

 

Church stood still, rooted to the ground by shock. The screaming of the children seemed to carry over the cacophony of the massacre.

 

“YES!YES! YES!” he heard the Word Bearer Chaplain shout.

 

Those children that attempted to run were caught mid-step by the teeth of Dom’s axe or were knocked over and crushed under his boots, their brain matter bursting out of their skulls and splattering over the floor.

 

“No…” Church whispered, his muscles failing to respond.

 

For the first time in centuries, Hanas Churchendal felt intense shame.

 

As the blood of innocence pooled around his boots, tears streamed down his face.

[Legio Draconis]

A very welcome return brother and another great additon to a wonderful story. Only one word can hope to describe it, and that word is 'Epic'!

[Ufthak]

Thanks as always for your kind words, Legio Draconis :lol:

 

I hope I can find some time in between work to do the last bit in the coming weeks. Sorry it's taking its time...unfortunately, reality has little time for muse.

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

very good as per usual...wow...I really do not like Word Bearers. I didnt before, now your making me hate them!

[Ufthak]

Thanks for the good feedback Bohemond :)

 

You don't hate the Word Bearers? Haven't you read the Horus Heresy series? Practically EVERYONE hates them (Erebus and Kor Phaeron in particular) ever since it came out...