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[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

[Wysten]

Unspeakably epic, Thats all I have to say really, a fantastic tale of exactly how tough a marine is, while maintaining a sense of charcter in such a way that is different, yet distinctly a marine. Your eye for detail is something surpassing that of a well painted model.