"L"

[DeadpoolCory]

Please give me feedback, honest feedback, on the writing of this please. I am submitting it to Black Library in May.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1: DEATHSEND

 

They had fallen from the sky like hail in rudimentary ships, giant green monsters called Orks. They hadn’t been seen in decades, and this time there were more than ever before. They were huge beasts, with green leathery hides, small beady eyes, and massive jaws full of peg like tusks. They wielded anything as weapons, from cleavers to mismatched guns with multiple barrels. The Orks were armored in cobbled-together pieces of sheet metal, manholes, and leather. They attacked the cities of Deathsend, like a giant green maelstrom of violence that crushed anything it that it touched. Assistance from the Imperium came too little, too late. Two regiments of Imperial Guard, the Teronian Ursas, men from a harsh planet of unrelenting wind and snow, their uniforms unsuited for the warmer Deathsend with their furs and thick coats, arrived at the capital of Teratus. The Ursas and the Deathsend Planetary Defense Forces (PDF) reinforced the capital as best they could. Hope rose with the unexpected arrival of four squads of Raven Guard Space Marines. But even the combined forces of the Astartes, the Ursas and PDF were unable to hold back the green tide of barbaric Orks and eventually the capital, Teratus, fell.

 

Rain fell heavily as the Ork lumbered towards the ruined building. The only light came from the torches held by the smaller green skins, called “grots” or “gretchin.” The structure they approached had been a school, although the only remnant of its previous purpose was the occasional half-burnt children’s’ desk or an odd ruined toy lying in the mud. The building had been struck by super-heavy ammunition. From all appearances it was a giant artillery shell, though from which side the massive round had originated was impossible to discern. The ruins, once a massive multistoried block of ferrocrete, was eviscerated, now shaped like a horse shoe with a massive crater at the center that had penetrated into the subterranean levels of the building. The occasional skeletal body part stuck out of the mud like bare branches of a morbid tree, revealing that there were occupants of the building when it was struck.

 

The Orks paused at opening of the ruins. The largest Ork, easily three and a half meters tall, bellowed something in their brutish language and crushed one of the gretchin with a ham sized fist, leaving a small crater filled with ichor and broken bones, then pointing with the same hand into the building. All the Orks started, raising their weapons as pieces of broken ferrocrete clattered down the steps. The stairs led up to one of the few places still covered by what was left of the ceiling. The large Ork bellowed at its smaller companions, normal foot soldiers of the Ork Waaagh and the gretchin. They loped up the steps quickly, the lure of finding some lone human raising their bloodlust. When they reached the top of the stairs they searched for their prey, but there was no trace of what had caused the gravel to shift. The large Ork walked up behind the others, and squinted, its small beady red eyes trying to penetrate the darkness. The torches were barely piercing the heavy gloom, reflecting off the massive guns wielded by the Orks and the knives used by the gretchin.

 

Through the bluish tint of his helmet, Brother Caron Arthos analyzed the Orks, bracing himself overhead in the corner of the dark remnants of the room. He was above the large Ork who Arthos was certain was their equivalent of a sergeant known as a nob. Nobz were typically better armed, which was obvious from the giant two barreled gun the nob carried. It looked like a group of mismatched parts from a heavy bolter, an autocannon, and a combustion vehicle’s exhaust pipe. The other Orks’ guns were also a hodgepodge of rusty parts, but the nob’s was larger and cleaner. Suddenly the nob the bellowed again, and Arthos initiated his ambush.

 

He landed on the back of the nob, crushing its spine under his booted feet. The beast, not realizing it was paralyzed, began roaring so intensely that Arthos could feel it in his diaphragm rather than hear it. The other Orks reacted by turning and raising their weapons, though to Arthos in his heightened battle state they seemed to be moving through water. He drew his reverse-curved combat knife (a kukri) from its magnetic sheath on his chest and ran forward, simultaneously drawing his bolt pistol with his other hand. Another Ork began to fire at him, but due, either to its poor marksmanship or the inaccuracy of the gun it wielded, only struck Arthos with a glancing hit, making a slight dent in his heavily worn suit of power armor. He next thrust his blade through the lower jaw of a third Ork before it could fully react, the tip of the kukri protruding from the top of its skull. Arthos then rotated quickly, drawing the blade across the neck of yet another Ork, causing vital fluids to spurt over his helmet in crimson and spraying the wall like a mad man with a bucket of red paint. The last Ork was still firing at him, though most of its shots were hitting the walls. Though it had yet to land an effective blow to Arthos, it chuckled with deep heavy guffaws as the last gretchin disappeared in a poof of bloody mist. Arthos then raised his pistol and fired his single shot, cleanly removing the creature’s head.

Arthos etched a single mark in the already heavily scratched paint on his left forearm and moved to a small gravel covered hiding place and extracted a heavy case. It contained the preserved gene seed of nine Raven Guard Marines, all that remained of his squad. Arthos had served alongside them for nearly ten years, and felt a brief pang of loss as he hefted the case onto his back. He then pressed the right side of his helmet and did a routine check-in with any Imperial forces still alive on the planet. He didn’t know if anyone had survived the battle of Teratus to receive the messages, but the ritual soothed his mind and kept him focused. He turned to move on when his comm link crackled. He froze as hard voice pierced the static.

 

“Brother Arthos, repeat your last position, your transmission was garbled.”

 

Arthos repeated the grid coordinates.

 

“Location confirmed, on our way. ETA is 3 minutes”

 

Arthos could already hear ram jets in the distance and he turned, attempting to discern the location of the incoming ship. Suddenly, he saw something darker than night flit across the sky and he moved from cover to cover over open ground while scanning the surrounding area for any other Ork forces. He heard the jet wash as the Thunderhawk landed. He stayed in cover until he saw the ramp fall, dull red light spilling out from the interior. Space Marines in dark silver armor with red trim moved down the ramp in a swift dispersal pattern, taking cover and scanning the area for any threats.

 

“Brother Arthos?” The voice said in his comm link.

 

“Approaching from the west, hold your fire.” Arthos said.

 

He stepped out of cover and walked towards the gunship, still verifying that there were no threats.

 

A marine with a black helmet, slightly beaked like a bird of prey with sapphire lenses and a massive powerfist encasing his left hand, waited on the ramp. His armor was much darker than the rest of the Marines, the reds muted as though intended to be visible, but only under direct light.

 

“I am Captain Achilles, we’re here to bring you home. Oh, Emperor’s bones. . . .“

 

Arthos had stepped into the light, revealing himself entirely. The other Marines glanced over and froze. Arthos’ armor was heavily damaged with dozens of pockmarks from gunfire. He no longer had a right pauldron anymore, just a tangled mass of wires where once it had connected with the rest of his armor. The right side of his helmet was dented inwards, and a large gash in the ceramite pierced his left eye. The lens was gone and all that could be seen was a mass of scab tissue.

 

“How long have you been without support, Brother?” Achilles asked in a quiet voice.

 

“Three months, seventeen days, four hours and ten minutes.” Arthos said, his voice rasping through a faulty external vox. He hadn’t used it for a long time, and hadn’t realized it was damaged. He reached up, locking his knife back in its sheath, and holstered his pistol before removing his helmet. Achilles’ body language hardened slightly as he observed Arthos. “I haven’t been in contact with anyone since Teratus fell, but I have continued the persecution of the Ork horde. I have taken out. . . .”

 

Arthos had not taken off his helmet for months, and his hair was long and wild. His left eye was gone, covered with a scab like tissue that an Astartes’ body released when it was injured. He had a heavy beard, and his remaining eye looked gaunt and sunken. His cheeks were thin and pale from not seeing the sun for an extended period of time.

Arthos glanced at his left arm where he had been keeping a tally of the Ork squads he had eliminated and paused. The paint on the entire arm was covered in horizontal scratch marks. “I have taken out a substantial number, sir. Has there been any word from the 3rd, 7th or 11th squads?”

 

Achilles seemed to mull this information over before responding. “As far as we know you are the only surviving battle brother on the planet; we have been unable to locate any traces of the Raven Guard, even though we have been hailing them on all frequencies. I assume they have died honorably in the war against the Orks. Come with me, boy, we need to get you to the apothecarion.”

Arthos nodded, and walked forward, limping slightly. Achilles moved to take the heavy case from Arthos but Arthos slapped his hand away without thinking. Achilles took a step back, his posture becoming aggressive. “I am sorry sir. It has been my duty to carry it for so long, please allow me to honor my fallen comrades by delivering them to the apothecarion myself.”

Achilles simply nodded and took off his own helmet. His face was patrician, perfect in every angle, and totally unscarred. His eyes were a pale blue, almost the color of deep ice. “I understand, brother. Come, our ship awaits us in orbit for our return, and we want to be off the planet within the hour.”

 

“Why is that, sir?” Arthos asked, his remaining eye narrowing.

 

Achilles’ jaw line hardened. “You have fought hard, but this planet is lost. Exterminatus is the only option we have to stop this horde of xenos from spreading.”

 

“Sir, I. . . .“ Arthos stopped speaking as Achilles held up his hand.

 

“I am sorry, I can sympathize, but there is nothing we can do. There isn’t anything left to defend.” Achilles said, his voice heavy with anger and sorrow.

 

Arthos simply nodded and walked into the interior of the Thunderhawk, locking the case in a large armored container at the aft of the ship. He then locked himself into the grav harness, and placing his helmet in his lap. The other Marines returned to the ship in a cover pattern, locking in as well. Achilles remained standing and pressed the comm link piece in his right ear. “We’re loaded up, get us out of here and back to The Maximus.”

 

Arthos felt the ship lift off, and accelerate hard. He lost track of time, his mind trying to grasp what had gone on for the past three and a half months. When he realized he wouldn’t be able to reflect, not now at least, they were docking with The Maximus. When the ramp was lowered, far slower than it had been on the planet below, there was already waiting an Apothecary in white robes and wo servitors bearing a gurney between their heavily pistoned arms. Arthos indicated by raising his hand he was able to walk and followed the Apothecary quietly. He was with his Chapter once more, and he knew that he was in no danger. When they reached the apothecarion, the servitors began removing what remained of his armor. Congealed blood oozed from his armor as piece by piece it was placed on a table. Once entirely removed, he laid on the large operating slab. The apothecary held a machine over Arthos’ body and consulted the screen. “What the hell. . . .”

The door to the apothecarion slid open and a very squat and wide Marine walked in. He had three gold studs on his brow, but besides that his face was unmarked. His nose was slightly flat, and his bright golden eyes seemed to take in the room in a glance. He walked forward, wearing combat fatigues consisting of a sleeveless tight shirt and slightly baggy tan pants with dull, heavy steel-tipped boots. He had an Aquila tattooed across his barrel like chest, and his arms were covered in holy litanies and honor rolls. On his fingers the word Legion was tattooed, flanked on either side by stylized 3’s.

 

He walked forward to stand beside the apothecary. “What is it, Javoc?”

 

The apothecary turned his head as a large, spider-like machine descended from the ceiling towards Arthos. “Marcus, our brother should not be alive. He has massive internal scarring, evidence of broken bones that were poorly set, torn tendons and muscles. . . and, for the love of the Emperor, just look at him.”

 

Marcus,leaned over and looked at Arthos with a slight, warming smile. “I am, and I see a brother worthy of being called one of the Legion. You are Caron Arthos, correct?”

Arthos nodded a little weakly as the spider machine began injecting him with sedatives capable of taking down a full grown marmadoth, massive shaggy creatures from Arthos’ homeworld of Rorchillion. However with an Astartes’ biology, even one as severely damaged as Arthos’, the dosage was necessary.

 

“Do you know who I am, brother?” Marcus asked.

 

“Yes sir.” Arthos slurred slightly. “Captain Marcus Athos of the 3rd Battle Group of our prestigious chapter, The Legion.”

 

Athos chuckled, heartily and warmly as his smile. “Well, that will save me some time before Apothecary Tarunos puts you under. I wanted to come see the hero of Deathsend myself. We are in transit back to the Imperial Sword after we unload our payload.”

 

Athos read Arthos’ face and frowned. “You did all that you could. I am certain that with enough time you could have eliminated the entire Ork horde yourself but sadly, we do not have the luxury of time. The Legion is being recalled. We have a new undertaking, and we need every available Marine. I am sorry, you have fought hard and lost much, but this is a victory of sorts. We owe it to you and your fallen comrades that we are able to have this small victory. The sabotaging of the space port grounded the Orks until they could repair their vessels, and that contained them to them planet. How many comrades did you lose during that mission?”

 

Arthos felt himself starting to fade. “None sir, there were none left to lose.”

 

Athos’ eyes widened and he heard a sharp inhale of breath from Tarunos. “Well that just adds to your honor roll, now doesn’t it? Let yourself sleep, you need it. When you awake we’ll have arrived at the Imperial Sword, and we’ll have your armor prepared. You have brought much honor to yourself, your comrades and The Legion. Be proud, you have accomplished a monumental task. Now rest.”

Athos turned to walk away, but Arthos grabbed his wrist. “The geneseed, I would like to return it to the Raven Guard and carve the names of my fallen comrades onto the Black Gate.”

 

Athos paused, and looked back at Arthos.

 

Apothecary Tarunos interrupted. “Sir, the Chapter calls, we can’t stop. Ravenspire is in the opposite direction of the fleet. . . .“

 

“I know, Javoc. Arthos, the honor will be yours, I promise. We need to return to our fleet now. And if you are unable the task, I will do it myself. I swear it.”

 

Arthos chewed his lip slightly, then nodded and released the Captain’s wrist. He felt himself sinking into the hard marble slab and blackness engulfed him. His last thought was that he would complete his mission, no matter what it took.

 

© 2011 by Cory Sisco. All rights reserved

[Grotsmasha]

Man, that's really good. There's only two small minor niggles IMO.

 

First, when the Captains hand gets slapped away, maybe the marine should with-draw his hand protectively, rather than "assault" a senior officer.

Secondly, Athos and Arthos, are too similar. I know when I read books, i would mis-read these and get confused and have to go back and re-read the name, which breaks the illusion/flow.

 

Cheers, hope BL picks this up, as I would definitely like to read the rest,

Jono

[Leonaides]

He walked forward, wearing combat fatigues consisting of a sleeveless tight shirt and slightly baggy tan pants with dull, heavy steel-tipped boots. He had an Aquila tattooed across his barrel like chest,

 

You might want to change this - how can the eagle tattoo be seen if he's wearing a shirt?

 

And how many chapters are involved here? I see raven Guard, Doom Eagles (?) from the thunderhawk and this 'Legion'. Too many, too many...

[DeadpoolCory]

It's going to be the 9 Loyal Legions plus the Black Templars.

 

And the aquila could be seen because it's a sleeveless shirt, the wings would be poking out, but the I should rewrite that to include that detail. Thank you for spotting the mistake.

[DeadpoolCory]

Arthos walked the plains, his bow in his right hand, his left on the rope dragging the stagath he had brought down. In the distance he could see the campfires of his village being lit. He felt the cool air kiss his skin, and even though he was covered in heavy furs, he was eager to reach those fires for their warmth. He continued down the hill and finally passed through the heavy wood gates that were the only entrance to the heavily walled village. The walls were made of granite and earth, and were more for protection from bandits and corsairs than it was from any creatures that walked Rorchillion, especially this far north. His village, known as Ice Haven, was the most northern of the settlements on the planet, and was often frequented by travelers and treasure hunters, looking for forgotten technology in the ice wastes. While Rorchillion was relatively technologically advanced, Arthos had always felt that a bow and arrow was more honorable than a gun when making a kill. When he lined up the arrow and drew the bow, he felt like he had control over what was going to happen. It was almost as though he could understand the creature he was about to kill better than if he was looking through the scope of a rifle. It was also the silence of a bow; he felt that a hunter shouldn’t be loud and raucous, but silent, calm and respectful of his prey.

“Whoa, look at what Caron brought down!” A voice sounded to his left as he hung the stagath carcass up, preparing to gut it. He turned and saw his father walking towards him, his younger sister skipping alongside. Arthos smiled. “Yeah, I guess it’s about six years old big male. Hopefully, he isn’t chewy or as rank smelling as you.”

Arthos’ dad laughed loudly, clapping him on his shoulder. “That’s my boy! An honest to god hunter at the age of 12! Just like your old man.”

Arthos grinned, the right corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Gran says you weren’t able to go hunting on your own until you were fifteen, and even then it was just a little brachn.”

Arthos’ father blushed slightly. “Yeah, well, shuddup.”

Arthos knelt in front of his sister, her dark eyes just like their long dead mother’s. “How are you, Elysa?”

She smiled and made a hand sign. She was unable speak, the reason behind it beyond even the doctors in the hives. Arthos patted her head. “Good, I’ll be getting us some flank off here soon, why don’t you go get the fire ready for us to cook. Put some vegetables on as well, we need the vitamins.”

She stuck out her tongue and ran back to their modest single story house. Arthos turned and took out a reverse curved knife and began skinning the animal expertly. Skins were almost as good as money this far north, and this large hide would fetch a hefty trade. His father joined in, a similar curved knife in his hand. He began slicing out the organs, careful not to burst any of them. In Ice Haven, almost nothing went to waste. “How far out did you have to go?”

Arthos paused. “Almost to the Steeples.”

His father sighed and hung his head. “If this keeps up we’re going to have to move to the Zenton Hive.”

Arthos grimaced. He hated the idea of being cooped up somewhere like that, unable to see the sky, and forced to work in some minitorium building for the rest of his life. He couldn’t stand the idea of sitting all day, he needed to get up and do something. “Well, I hear that we are finally raising a regiment. Perhaps if I join, I can send money back and help support. . . .“

Arthos’ father got a hard look in his eyes behind the shaggy hair and heavy beard. “No, if someone is going to work for this family it’s going to be me. You just worry about getting yourself a proper job first, none of this guard business. We need you here, Caron. Alyssa needs you. I need you.”

Arthos lowered his head slightly and chewed his lip before getting back to work. They cleaned the rest of the body in silence, then took the meat to their house. His father began putting most of the kill in the heavy freezer, hanging up pieces of meat from hooks before slamming the door shut with a heavy thud, the lock engaging. They threw a couple of steaks onto the grill that was in the center of the house, the smell of cooking meat wafting through the air combining with the smell of grilled vegetables. Elysa leaped into Arthos’ lap and signed quickly to him. Arthos smiled and shook his head. “No, we didn’t fight, we just were talking about good hunting ground.”

Elysa’s eyes glared into his. She could always tell when he was lying. “I said I’d join the Guard to support us.”

Alyssa’s eyes watered up and she wrapped her tiny arms around his chest. Arthos patted her on the head. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here to take care of us.”

After dinner, which passed without incident except for their father drinking heavily as usual, they went to bed.

Arthos was having a dream where he was stalking a marmadoth calf, its tusks just beginning to grow. He raised the bow and drew the string, exhaling slowly, when he heard his name. “Caron!”

Arthos grimaced as he saw the calf run away. Who the hell was the idiot who was yelling during a hunt. It had sounded like his father, but his father should be at work. “Caron, wake up!”

Arthos’ eyes snapped open, his father standing over him fully dressed with his furs. “Quickly, get dressed. They’re here.”

“Wha- who’s here?” Arthos asked, sitting up and pulling on his clothes. It was still night, if he had to judge, near morning.

“Just get dressed and get outside now.” His father said. Arthos had only heard that tone of voice once before, when his mother died from lymphatic cancer. Arthos understood the urgency of the situation and got dressed quickly. He went outside, grabbing his knife in its sheath that hung beside the door. Once outside hesaw that he and his father were not the only ones who were awake. Every family was walking out into the frost covered dirt roads and moving towards the village square. From it, Arthos could see a bright, white light. Every father walked forward with a young boy, each about Arthos’ age.

Arthos’ father grabbed his arm and hauled him through a circle of people gathering around the square. In the center Arthos saw a large ship, steam rising from it in the cold air. Arthos knew what it was, though not in name. The massive guns on either side of the ship, the huge cannon on its spine, the missiles under each wing-- this was a ship of war. “What the hell is going on, dad?”

“It’s going to be ok, Caron. It’s going to be ok.” The words tumbled from his father’s mouth, though he did not answer Arthos’ question. A ramp on the front of the ship lowered slowly, and out of it a giant strode down, followed by two others. Arthos immediately reach for his knife and stroked the pommel, which was in the shape of an eagle head, and muttered a small prayer to the God-Emperor.

“All aspirants, create a line here.” A voice, heavy and metallic, barked.

Arthos felt himself pushed into a line with the other boys his age and looked over his shoulder. His father was standing with the rest of the crowd now and he had a scared look. He had never seen his father with that expression except when his mom had gotten sick. The giants began walking along the line of boys, inspecting them. One giant was in matte black, with a snarling skull helmet, another clad in blue with a crimson robe. The last was in dark silver, gold and wore a crimson and white helmet. They reached the end of the line, seeming only to glance over the boys briefly, though when the one in blue walked passed Arthos, he felt the hair on his neck stand up. More giants descended from the ship, as though by some unspoken order. The one in the skull helmet turned its head to the red and white helmeted giant, as though to speak, but no words were uttered, or at least none that anyone except the giants could hear. The red helmeted giant nodded once.

The skull helmeted giant stepped forward and the same harsh, barking voice resounded again. “We are going to wipe out your village. Kill every single one of you. We believe you are too weak to be considered worthy of the Imperium of Mankind. If one of you would like to try and stop us, go ahead. But I guarantee you won’t be able to so much as scratch our armor.”

There were gasps all around Arthos, and the women started screaming. One man, who had been carrying a pistol, drew it and shot one giant in the helmet. There was a loud clang, but the giant’s head didn’t even move. The giant who had been fired upon at raised his own, massive firearm and shot the man. Where the man had once been there was now a red mist and some pieces of viscera. The sound of the shot was deafening. The rest of the boys started crying and begging for their parents, looking behind them to see where their families had gone. Most of the villagers had run, but a few remained. Arthos’ father had a snarl on his face, and Elysa a terrified look on hers. Arthos turned his head back towards the skull-faced monster and felt a stab of fear. Then there was another feeling. It was cold and calculating, and Arthos felt his heart and breathing slow as though he were about make a kill. Arthos moved in a flash, drawing his knife and ran at the skull-faced giant. The giant looked at him, and Arthos knew it thought of him as nothing more than an annoyance. It raised a giant spiked club over its head but, before it brought it down, Arthos dodged into the giant’s center of mass. He took his knife and stabbed it in between the groin and thigh plates of its armor. The knife struck point first. The giant reeled backwards, roaring. The knife stuck out of its groin, lodged in the heavy material between the plates of its armor. Blood jetted out in thin streams. Arthos smiled to himself, a cold emotionless expression. That knife was the best he could buy, a mono molecular blade capable of slicing through even the toughest of materials with ease. He had saved for three years, selling furs, meat, going on expeditions a cook and doing the any job whenever possible. These giants could be wounded, which meant they could die. He leaped forward again at the giant but was batted, almost casually aside, by the blue armored giant. Arthos felt ribs break and something tore inside of him as he flew through the air, landing four meters away, coughing blood,and groaning. He struggled to his stomach and pushed himself up. The blue armored giant held up its hand.

STOP

The order was in Arthos’ head, and he felt his body seize in mid-step. He looked at the blue armored giant and hissed. “Psyker.”

He began to try to move his body, willing it to advance towards the giants, but to no avail.

Don’t, you cannot win. And if you struggle anymore your mind will break and killing you will mercy.

Arthos didn’t stop though. He felt blood gushing from his nose and ears. “I will not allow you to harm anyone else here!”

The skull-faced giant stepped forward, holding Arthos’ knife in his hand. The bleeding has stopped. This caused Arthos’ eyes to widen. How could it have stopped bleeding already, that was impossible.

The skull-faced giant closed his fist and Arthos heard metal snap. When the giant opened his hand, shards of knife fell to the ground.

“Now what will you do, boy.” The skull-masked giant asked.

Arthos gritted his teeth, blood bubbling from his lips. He felt weak. He knew he was going to die. He was having difficulty breathing, and a pain was building in his mind to where all he saw was the skull mask. Everything else was white.

“I’ll strangle you then. And if I can’t do that I’ll chew your head off.” Arthos growled.

There was a grating noise. Arthos realized it was laughter. It was coming from all around him.

The skull-faced giant stepped toward him. “You will do.”

Arthos felt the pressure in his mind vanish in an instant. He stumbled a little. “What do you mean?”

“You are showing bravery in the face of insurmountable odds for no reason other than to save those around you. You also show an adept mind for fighting, going for the weakest point in my armor. Though had I been moving at full speed, you couldn’t have made it a step towards me.”

“Your ego stinging a little there, Malaki?” The red helmeted giant walked forward. “He did get you pretty good, are you sure you’re able to keep standing?”

“You doubt my constitution?” The skull-masked giant, Malaki, said. “Anyway, the bleeding has already stopped.”

The red helmeted giant knelt in front of Arthos, who was starting to feel the pain of his injuries more severely now that the adrenaline rush was diminishing. “You are chosen to become an Astartes, a warrior-angel of the Emperor of Mankind. You do not have to come, and I will not lie. It is a hard life of fighting, and your death will not be from old age. If it is a good death, it will be atop a pile of slain foes. But if you come, you will be accomplishing more with your life than all of the people of this village combined.”

Arthos slumped a little, blood trickling from his mouth. “I don’t know.”

He felt someone looking at him and saw Elysa and his father. His father nodded, and Elysa signed. Go.

Arthos looked back at the giant. “I will, on one condition.”

Malaki stepped forward. “You insolent little brat, you do not make demands of. . . .“

The red helmeted giant raised his arm. “What is the condition?”

“You do not kill any Imperial person here ever again.” Arthos said, through gritted teeth. He slumped to his knees filled with an emotion that he couldn’t describe, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks.

The giant nodded. “You have my word. What is your name?”

“Caron Arthos.” Arthos choked out.

“Well, Caron, I am High Commander Severus Tola, leader of the 7th Battle Group of The Legion Astartes Chapter. I hope you survive, you have mettle well beyond your years,” Commander Tola said. He lifted Arthos up, cradling him in his arms. “You have raised your son well. He is in our care now.”

Arthos’ father nodded, and then stared at Arthos. “I am proud of you, Caron.”

 

Arthos woke with a start. He was in the apothecarion. He touched the left side of his face as he sat up. It was swathed in bandages. He looked over his body. While he was in his sleep trance, tattoos had been inscribed along his upper right arm. It was his honor roll. In the center of it was a raven, holding a curved blade like his own knife.

“Good, you are awake.” A familiar voice said to his left.

Arthos turned his head, and saw Athos standing there in full plate, his helmet under his right arm. His armor was simple, the dark metal accented with gold and crimson. He had two weapons strapped to his back, a great power axe and a short sword. They were known as the Midnight Blades, wielded by the leader of the 3rd Battle Group for as long as it had existed. “Do you like it? I did it myself rather than a serf, I always feel that the honor roll means more if done by a brother.”

Arthos looked back at the tattoo and felt a swell of pride. To be honored in such a way was very rare in the Legion, and even rarer still to have it done by a Captain. “Yes sir, it’s more than I could have asked for.”

The honor roll was more than just the fight at Deathsend, it recounted the deeds he had accomplished on the space hulk “Lost Light,” fighting off a group of Tyranid Genestealers, horrible xenos from beyond the edges of the known galaxy. Arthos had personally slaying the Patriarch. There was also a line dedicated to a small skirmish where Arthos had taken the head of a Traitor Marine champion known as Karthax the Tyrant of Ediou Secondus.

“How did you know about these?” Arthos asked.

“The Raven Guard was very regular with reports on you. You made a good name for yourself, and they await your arrival eagerly to honor you in their own way.” Athos said with his warm smile. “Javoc, get these bandages off of him and let’s take a look at his new eye.”

Apothecary Tarunos stepped forward and cut the bandages off. “How well can you see?”

Arthos’ vision returned in whole, but targeting data also appeared, cycling from Tarunos’ face to Athos’, and then clicked with a thought. He realized that he had just taken a literal mental picture of both of them. “Better than before.”

“Don’t say that around the Iron Hands, lord knows they don’t need a larger boost their ego. Come, let’s get you suited up. We’re late to the meeting.” Athos said chuckling, reaching out and helping Arthos off the slab. They walked in silence towards the armory, and when the door opened Arthos’ nostrils were assaulted with the smell of oils, hot metal, incense and sweat. Approaching them was a marine in full red armor, a large back pack with multiple spider-like arms folded up on his back. “Barrus, how are you?”

“As well as expected, I see our comatose brother has awoken from his little nap.” Techmarine Tanzer said, his face set as though in stone. Arthos could see blue lights behind his eyes, though beyond that the only obvious bionics were his legs and his left hand. “I hope the machine spirit of his armor accepts him, I spent too long on it for it to not work.”

“Could always smack it with a wrench until it complies.” Athos said laughing. “Let’s see this masterpiece.”

They walked into the back of the armory, where a single suit of armor stood, gleaming dully in the fiery light.

“What do you think?” Athos asked Arthos. Arthos couldn’t find words to describe what he saw.

It was obviously made up of parts of his old armor, but they were reworked and mated with obvious new editions. Where most suits of Astartes power armor of the Legion had an Aquila fashioned in gold, this suit had a black raven, its eyes made of sapphires. The left pauldron was heavily studded and completely crimson, with words in thin High Gothic along the edges in white. It had a heavy gorget, coming over the grill of the crimson helmet, which had laurels of white high gothic words in a crown around the top. The top vent was a matte black, and along the left side of the helmet, over the eye piece, was thin black writing. The right knee was red, and had a stylized number 3 painted onto it in black. The left knee was halved black and red, with a white raven with a black L on its chest in the center.

“He’s speechless. That’s usually a good sign.” Techmarine Tanzer said, a proud look in his eyes, though his face stayed stoic and impassive. “And here are your new weapons.”

He pulled a cloth off of a bench and revealed a new bolt pistol, the barrel coming out of the mouth of a skull, and a suppressor built into it. It was a little bulkier than the normal bolt pistol, and had no sickle shaped magazine. The other weapon was a reverse curved sword with an eagle headed pommel, and the blade had High Gothic written along it. It said “Victory through Indomitable Spirit.”

Arthos was still speechless, but finally found his voice. “Sergeant? I haven’t even been a full brother of our Chapter.”

Athos rested his hand on Arthos’ shoulder. “No, not sergeant. Champion. The space has been open since I took command of the Battle Group, but I waited until I was confident enough in someone enough to give them the title.”

Arthos sank to his knees and bowed his head. “I swear myself to the Emperor of Mankind, the Chapter, and to you, my Captain.”

Athos shook his head. “Get on your feet, there is no need for ceremony with me. We are warriors, not Lords of Terra. Get suited up, you are accompanying me.”

The process was assisted by servitors, once human but now more machine than man and lobotomized. They came from everywhere, usually convicts who were deemed worthy of working for the Imperium. Once Arthos was suited up, they activated the armor. There was a hum of power and suddenly the heavy weight of the armor lifted off of him, and he smiled, taking the helmet and placing it under his arm. “I am ready, Captain.”

“Call me Marcus when we are amongst friends; Captain only when we are around other Battle Groups.” Athos said, turning and leaving. Arthos fell in step beside him. “Yes sir, Marcus.”

“Just Marcus, Caron. Just Marcus.” Athos said, leading the way to the hangar.

 

They walked into the Hall of Primarches. Arthos looked around, having never been inside the hall, was awed by what he saw. The hall was carved out of old, worn stone. From the looks of it, it was older than the Imperial Sword. Captains, High Commanders and Arthos stood alongside a long table. At the head was a massive stone chair festooned with an Aquila, with a large amber eye in the center of its chest. The chair had remained unfilled for as long as the Legion existed. All the other Battle Group leaders were already sitting, each of their helmets in front of them on the long table. Athos walked to a chair near the far end of the hall and sat, indicating Arthos to sit with him. Arthos sat, and Athos leaned over. “We place our helmets on the table to show our true faces, that way no one can be mistaken about who is speaking.”

Arthos nodded and placed helmet on the table. He looked around and saw the faces of heroes. There was High Commander Narsus of the 1st Battle Group. His face was heavily scarred, testament to a close artillery shot that had killed the rest of his squad. It was rumored that he beat the enemies down with his severed arm when he ran out of ammunition. The new limb was a piece of art, a perfect symbiosis of mechanics and the natural body. It glimmered in the light, each knuckle an inset skull of a different xenos.

And there, there was a face that he recognized instantly. Severus Tola, High Commander of the 7th, sat across the table from Arthos. His face had been nearly destroyed when he was struck by a glancing blow of a traitor marine’s powerfist. In its place he wore a golden mask, a perfect rendition of his previous face, with cool blue bionic eyes regarding Arthos. Tola nodded, and if metal could smile Arthos was certain he would be smiling at him. “I am happy you survived. It is good to see you again, Caron Arthos. And it has been too long, Marcus. How was the persecution of the Eldar?”

Captain Athos shrugged, a warm smile lighting his face. “Ah, same :o, different system. We sent them running the day before we got the message to return to the fleet, which means our perfect record for completion of crusades has yet to be soiled.”

Tola nodded in a fluid motion only bionics could grant. “I see you have made Arthos your Champion? Good that you finally decided to fill the spot but, and I mean no offense, Arthos, is it wise to grant such a title to such a young Brother?”

Arthos looked down. The same question had been haunting him since he had seen the armor. It felt wrong for him to be granted such a great honor and title after only just completing his 3rd Path. But before he could remark, Athos clapped his pauldron. “Held off an Ork horde on Dethsend for three and half months without any support or knowledge that help would ever come. I think that pretty much sums up what a Champion is supposed to do for his battle group, but correct me if I am wrong.”

Tola’s head snapped to regard Arthos again. A noise like crumpled metal foil issued from him. “I guess they couldn’t beat the stubbornness out of you in your foster Chapter, hmm?”

Arthos cleared his throat. “Sir, I had a job to do. That’s the beginning, middle and end of it. I wasn’t thinking about getting out of there, I was concerned with doing as much damage to the Orks as I could before they could kill me. I am certain I would not have lasted another day without the arrival of Captain Achilles.”

At the mentioning of his name, Achilles’ eyes snapped sideways in his head. “What?”

Athos bellowed with jovial laughter. “Arthos is just giving you more credit to inflate your ego even further. He wasn’t warned that if it gets much larger we’ll have to dedicate a battle barge to transport it.”

Achilles, who Arthos knew had a vicious temper, actually grinned. Without his helmet on, Achilles seemed far less… intimidating. His hair was plated, ending in black beads and stones in the shape of skulls. His eyes were still cold and regarding, though. “Well, I believe my Myrmidons and I have earned our egos, rather than inheriting them, Athos.”

The Myrmidons were the closest thing to a 1st Company within the Legion Chapter. They were hand selected for the group by Achilles himself, and they numbered about 30. Each was a different breed of warrior than the rest of the Legion Space Marines. They had a focus in war that had been known to force opposing armies to turn tail and run without ever entering battle. “Champion Arthos, I hope you like the addition on your helmet. I believe you have earned the right to bear the color.”

Arthos glanced down at the top vent of his helmet, which was painted matte black, more an absence of light than an actual color. He felt his hearts skip a beat at the realization that Achilles had honored him with a color reserved solely for Myrmidons. “I plan to bring it the honor it deserves, but I do not believe I am yet worthy of this recognition.”

Achilles regarded him with piercing eyes, and their conversation had drawn the attention of several other Captains. “Modesty from an Astartes is a rare thing, and true modesty is even rarer still. I am happy to see that you didn’t have some of Athos’ golden glimmer rub off on you.”

Athos chuckled again. Arthos realized there was some sort of competition between the two of them, and that he was stuck somewhere in the middle. He suddenly wished he was back on the wastelands of Deathsend. Politics was something he never had any interest in, and being used as a pawn on the giant chessboard of competition between two Captains was somewhere Arthos did not want to be at all.

The massive doors opened with a loud boom, and in strode a massive figure. Standing nearly three meters tall, and the shoulder span of a full armored Space Marine in just a simple robe, the man was a legend among the entire Chapter. “Ajax.”

Even Athos’ normally smiling face settled in respect, and he focused his attention on the new figure. Ajax, unlike the rest of the Astartes in the hall, stayed standing. He cleared his throat. His large, muscled body was crisscrossed with scars, and he had a trimmed beard that seemed out of place on a man capable of going toe to toe with any being in the hall. “We have been requested by the High Lords of Terra themselves to assist in the matter of a large invasion fleet of traitor marines.”

Every man in the room had revealed varying degrees of disgust. Achilles spat, and Tola growled, the grating noise raising hairs on the back of Arthos’ neck. Arthos himself remained impassive, not quite understanding why this was cause for such disdain from his surrounding superiors. True, the fall of half the original Astartes legions was a stain on any Marine’s honor, but he saw men he had viewed as stoic in the face of any threat look ready to kill something right then and there. Even Athos, jovial Athos, grimaced heavily.

“I understand your feelings, brothers. But put a leash on your tempers until we reach the battle field.” Ajax said, raising his hand. Ajax was a respected warrior, and this caused everyone in the hall to put rein in their emotions for the time being. Or, in Achilles’ case, to restrain his apparent temptation to flip the table in his fury.

“We are to commit a full two-thirds of our Chapter to this undertaking. This is what the High Lords request. I, being the bearer of the news, am thus excluded from the vote. But I would like to say, two-thirds is too many Marines to spare in our current condition.” Ajax said calmly.

Arthos’ eyes narrowed slightly. What did that mean? Judging the size of the Legion Chapter was nearly impossible, the constantly roving crusade ships ensuring a delay in reporting casualties. Then again, Arthos thought, for the first time in living memory the Chapter been unified in one place. Things must be worse than anyone imagined.

“Just send my Myrmidons.” Achilles roared. “We will cut out those serpent tongues and stick them up their arses!”

A few of the Captains and Commanders nodded in assent, Athos not being one of them.

“No one Marine can be victorious in this venture,” a voice echoed from the other side of the hall of Ajax. A figure stepped out of the shadows. Or rather, the shadows peeled away from the figure. A marine in deep blue armor and a black robe stepped forward.

“Ah, the all-knowing Thorson comes to teach us yet another lesson in war. When was the last time you saw battle, hmm? Two centuries ago? Three centuries ago? I’ve lost track.” Achilles said. No one else seemed to want to make a verbal jab at the figure, Thorson. Just by looking at him Arthos knew that he wouldn’t last one second in battle against this Marine. The blue of Thorson’s armor indicated he was a Librarian, but the blue was so deep and dark it looked black unless hit by a certain light. Also, curious to Arthos, he bore only one shoulder pad on his left side, and his right arm was covered in a matte black sheath. Arthos suddenly started. Damien Thorson was a mystery to the rest of the Legion. He was the only Marine to still wear his helmet, but no one seemed to point this fact out. Bright, almost white blue light flickered behind the lenses of his helmet. Thorson was rumored to be as old as the Chapter itself. Arthos did not doubt that this was possible. It was only about two thousand years and while that was old for a Astartes, that was not impossible. But looking at him with his own eyes, he could tell that Thorson carried the weight of years well beyond his rumored age.

“It is true that it has been many years since I have left the Imperial Sword, but I guarantee, boy, I am still capable of extinguishing the enemies of the Emperor. Now sit down and let the adults speak, and maybe you will learn something.” Thorson said quietly, but his words carried across the hall, and even a deaf man could feel the blade in his words.

Achilles’ face turned crimson and he picked up his helmet and hurled it at Thorson. The helmet nearly reached him, but fell short, as though the gravity around Thorson was significantly greater than the rest of the ship. Achilles launched himself at Thorson, only to be stopped by Athos and Commander Deredun of the 5th. Achilles looked mad, a vein throbbing in his temple, and he growled like a caged beast. “I will kill you for such insults!”

Thorson laughed, and walked forward, passed Achilles, and stood beside Ajax. “We should send only half of our forces to this deployment, the rest should wait in reserve. Four hundred Legion should be enough to support the Imperial Guard already in the warzone. If it is not, then the reserves can be called forward.”

“You would have half of us stay and cower in our ships while the rest of our Brothers go out into the battle? Your years away from war are apparent, witch!” Achilles snarled.

Thorson turned towards Achilles. “What about our other duties, like protecting the worlds that pay tithes of ammunition and initiates to fill our ranks? We cannot leave them unprotected, and with our diminished numbers we will be unable to do so if we send the majority of our forces to one battle zone.”

“I agree.” A voice said. Arthos realized he had spoken. He also realized the hall was staring at him.

Athos broke the silence. “Why?”

Arthos inhaled slowly. He had placed himself on a pedestal in front of far more experienced warriors than himself, but he spoke with confidence that he didn’t necessarily feel. “We are created, as a majority, to fight in lightning fast battles of head-severing tactics. The more Astartes we bring, the greater our fighting ability will be, but our tactical advantage will remain unchanged and more Marines will be forced to stay in orbit or behind friendly lines. And if we lose even half of the amount that the Lords wish us to send, the Chapter may never recover. We cannot risk that, especially if our numbers are currently reduced to only 800 brothers.”

The room was silent except for the heavy breathing of the still raging Achilles.

“He may be young, but he does have a point. Dedicating all of our forces in their entirety is a risky thing. I agree with him.” Captain Klausdon of the 8th Battle Group said after a long silence.

“Then let the vote commence.”

[Lysimachus]

While I like this very much, I'm thoroughly confused about who these guys are. Is the main character Raven Guard or something else? What about all of the others? Achilles gives off a bit of a Black templar feel with the dislike of the psyker? Chapters aren't created by combining units from different existing Chapters, with the exception of the Deathwatch, and that doesn't seem to be what this is.

 

Oh, hang on, is this story about the B+C's own Legio? But their armour is black, not dark silver? I'm sorry, I just don't understand. If you are going to write something about such an oddly structured force, it needs to be better explained or readers will just start scratching their heads and then (probably) give up. The trouble then is that you can't get into the story because you've got to set it all up first.

 

Honestly, this whole thing would work much better if you just picked one Chapter (or made up a DIY) that everybody belongs to and didn't reference all these others.

 

 

 

Sorry if this comes across as overly critical, I actually really enjoyed the tale overall, particularly the first bit about Arthos rescue, just think maybe you need to stick to the 'KISS' principle (Keep It Simple, Stupid) especially if you want to submit to BL?

 

Edit: side point, but I'd agree about changing some names a bit, so far there's quite a few 'A's to remember and try to keep separate?

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good story, but:

Come with me, boy, we need to get you to the apothecarion.

I STRONGLY doubt a Space Marine will tolerate being called "boy" by another Space Marine, and suspect honor duels have been fought for this apparent insult ("brother" is more appropriate). And when is this story set, during the Great Crusade, the Horus Heresy (the mention of a "Legion," and Capt Arthos' tattoo, confused me), or the 41st millenium?

[DeadpoolCory]

All will be explained, but to answer questions before hand to make it clearer

 

The Legion sends it's initiates to several foster chapters to be trained by them after they complete scout training

 

The Chapters are Black Templars, Iron Hands, Blood Ravens, Ultramarines, Blood Angels, Imperial Fists, Dark Angels, White Scars, Raven Guard, Salamanders and Space Wolves.

 

The reasons for this will become more apparent as the story progresses, but I guarantee it is something pretty original and unique.

 

The reason why it is so mismatched right now is because the reader is intended to learn as Arthos does, because all he really knows is scout training then getting bumped right over to Raven Guard

 

Achilles is, as a matter of fact, Imperial Fist (but Black Templar, close enough)

 

This is in the 41st millenium

 

"Legion" will be explained in the third chapter

 

 

 

Oh, and while typically a space marine would not allow himself to be called boy, Arthos' case is unique because he is not yet considered apart of the chapter as a whole.

[Vairocanum]

amazing, i want to see more!!

[Corsair]

Very sorry to be the bearer of grim tidings, but two points:

 

1. Perhaps most importantly, Black Library will not accept work that has been published previously. This includes on forums, which means this work, as it is, could not be accepted by them even if they wanted to.

 

2. Not quite as bad as point 1, but the BL editors have stated quite a bit that they want work from new authors that is essentially "traditional" and fits within the box that several other BL stories do. This story is...substantially non-traditional, and that is considered a firm no-no for prospective BL authors...indeed, even guys like Dan and Graham don't get THAT much freedom to change things substantially all that often.

 

You have a very interesting idea here, but I think it will need substantial reworking and rewriting before you could submit it.