The Judgment of Iron

[Yaj]

The following is a prequel tale to 'The Impossible Marine' - see signature.

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A chill air sweeps through the low lying hills upon which stands three men. Indeed to call them men is an understatement of understatement for these men are giants far in excess of the fourth and incidentally kneeling man who struggles weakly in there iron grip. In the valley below on platforms of burnished metal are hundreds perhaps thousands of mortal workers. Once comrades of the kneeling man they now look upon his tearful form with indifference knowing that one day it might be them up there. In the grip of the 'Iron Devils' and to show weakness would see them up there far sooner.

 

'Citizens of Dorn' the world in question is named for the Imperial Fists legendary Primarch though few are even aware of this. More concerned with meeting quotas and doing there best not to be noticed by the worlds Space Marine masters. As one they turn there full attention to the speaker a warrior garbed in iron trimmed with metallic red and some what at odds with the rest a white helmet.

 

'This man stands accused of the crime of stealing!' no one flinches at the words.

 

'Though his crime small and it be the first crime he has committed' there was a pause pregnant with tension and for a moment it seemed as if every single mortal was wishing the Iron Devils would show mercy. Then moving faster than any of them could follow the warrior span on the balls of his feet, drew the single bladed axe lying across his back and with one powered stroke took the thief's head clean off. The head flew up into the air and so fast was the blow that not a single drop of blood erupted from the wound before the energised blade of the axe had cauterised it. Then just as gravity took hold it was plucked from its grasp and held aloft for all to see.

 

'Break our laws and you shall meet with death! Follow them, work hard and you shall be rewarded with a place by the God-Emperor's side' they can not see his face clearly enough so none can see the curl of disdain as the warrior says 'God-Emperor'. As if one cue, yet still out of mortal sight, a thunderhawk appear on the far edge of the valley.

 

'For your loyalty we shall grant you extra rations of spirits' a forced cheer goes up as each worker tries to out do his neighbour in devotion not wanting to end up like the decapitated man. The thunderhawk lands burning to ashes three fools who got to close to its engines and servitors of the Iron Devils begin unloading cases of 'Kaval' a local drink little better than moonshine of old Terra.

 

'Citizens of Dorn, we near our goal and eternal prosperity for all!' a few excited whispers breakout but these are swiftly ended with punches and kicks from others who remember that the Iron Devils have exterminated whole work shifts before for such slights of disrespect.

 

'Heed the lessons of today! For soon your days of toiling shall be at an end' It can be said that there was something almost magical about the warriors voice for though his words were simple he had every mortal enraptured by them. Some even began to move forwards perhaps hoping to better hear him but they like the whisperers before were beaten back lest it be seen as an insult.

 

Scanning the crowd before him Iraho raised his axe high and shouted out four little words. Four little words that were taken up by the human workers ignorant of there meaning or the true nature of there masters.

 

'Iron Within! Iron Without!'

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Questions, Comments etc are very welcome!

 

Thanks for reading.

[Yaj]

Oily smog permeates the chamber thick with the taste of metallic and old blood. Such things stand as a testament to those who died carving it out of living rock and to those who died to consecrate its creation. In the centre of the hall are two warriors garbed in the iron plate of massive suits of tactical dreadnought armour and both of whom are guarding a third warrior in a smaller suit of power armour. This man is no less diminished in authority by the size of his bodyguards and it is clear for all who look upon him that he carries power far beyond that of his guardians.

 

As a man approaches from the south through double-wide doors of simple and unmarked admantium save for a thin trim of dark gold. He would see that one terminator holds aloft a banner pole in to hands from which hangs a series of chains each ending in an iron enclosed skull of some defeated foe. Indeed this must be the case for at the middle of the parade of skulls is a helmet not to dissimilar to the one worn by the warrior sitting on the throne. From what little markings are left from its millennia upon millennia imprisonment upon that standard is found the name of its original owners. The marking is a fist of black once a glorious symbol of hope for humanity yet sadly no more. Of the other terminator he would be forgiven to think it a mere statue for the warrior in question seems to maintain a stoic posture at all times. The only hint that he could unleash violence comes once every 0.23 seconds as his weapons of war, two chainfists of the colour of blood, crackle into life enshrouding the marine in a brief electrical glow of power.

 

Such a man does now approach. A man of substantial proportions his fat triple chins sticky with fearful sweat as he moves awkwardly towards the three warriors. His eyes are cast downwards knowing as he does from many previous visits and from the stump of his left arm end in. That one does not look upon the master of the Iron Devils without his approval.

 

'Speak, loyal servant of the throne' Iraho forces down the bile that rises to his throat at the words. If it weren't for the prize deep beneath this world he would have ended the charade and the existence of Dorn from orbit.

 

'We have found something' for a moment Iraho took his gaze of the man who reeked from weeks of going unwashed. To look upon a warrior dressed in similar fashion to him and then smiled triumphantly as the warrior returned his questioning gaze with a simple nod.

 

'We thank you, loyal servant of the throne' at the conclusion of these words and with a tap upon the shoulder guard of statue like terminator. The poor wretch found himself eviscerated by a single strike his blood now adding to the gore stained fists.

 

'I thought you could do with some entertainment' speaks Hirdol of the Thousand Sons before adding 'you've been so melancholy lately'

 

'I have wasted much time aiding you on your quest and yet I have nothing to show for it' a hint of steel behind the words speaks of the distrust between the two men.

 

'Iron Warriors have such little patience for so vaunted siege specialists' at this open insult both of Iraho's bodyguards move aggressively towards the sorcerer. They get only a metre before Hirdol raises his hand and with two words not meant for even a marine to voice freezes them in place. He then turns his attention back to Iraho but finds that the Warsmith the quicker his war-axe humming with power resting upon the sorcerer’s chest plate.

 

'I want my reward, Hirdol' said Iraho as he pushes past the thousand son and marches out of the chamber. Pausing at the threshold of the doorway he turns back and with undisguised venom he gestures at the two trapped terminators.

 

'I do not tolerate weakness, kill them' Iraho exits the hall to the sound of bones snapping and blood running free.

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Wasn't planning on this but I'm linking this story with the 'impossible marine'.

 

Any opinions, critique etc always welcome

 

Thank you for reading.

[Yaj]

Iraho walks down a long corridor cut, like the hall before, from living rock. As he walks he holds his axe up high its surface crackling with lethal murderous intent and allows it to cut deep groves into the ceiling. The ceiling which should not go unmentioned is fashioned into the likeness of a great warrior. Though the visage is now faded it is still clear to whom this crude rendering is meant to be and Iraho looks forward to the day he may finally be rid of Rogal Dorn's image. For now though it would take time he does not have. So he contents himself with carving great wounds in the Primarch and leaves brief blisters of molten rock scarring the master of the fists.

 

Small impact craters from bolt rounds and scorch marks from flamer weapons pot mark the left cave wall. He is not surprised by this though he wishes his men had some restraint for they risk the populace turning from them. Such an uprising would pose zero threat but it would mean shipping in unwilling slaves in order to complete the work and that is something he can't afford to waste doing. The left wall depicts a vast fortress of stylised battlements and walls of nigh unassailable height. Render like the image of Rogal Dorn from the rock it was a poor effort in comparison to the real Emperor's Palace. Indeed on the other side the craftsmen had created the followers of Horus with all manner of daemonic and sorcerers evils making up his army. This right side of the wall had suffered worse in places than had the left as the Iron Warriors under Iraho's command did not want to be reminded of that failure.

 

Reaching the end of the corridor he lowers his axe and with a heavy push opened a set of plain iron doors. The hall way beyond was slightly larger than his own chambers and was filled with over a hundred astartes bedecked in altered livery of his warband the 'Iron Devils'. At his entrance all of them ceased there brawls and heated debates, for this was a place for such things, and abased themselves on one knee in perfect ranks with there heads bowed. Iraho walked along the length of the assembled warriors looking upon them with disgust. For only a handful were true Iron Warriors most were from the thin-blooded third or later founding chapters who he had allowed to join his warband in order to bulk out the numbers. How he hated them and himself for allowing such dross to sully the pure blooded ranks of his legion but soon if all went to plan he would be rid of them.

 

'You, what is your name?' he asked a warrior whose symbol of a rearing cobalt griffon was still visible upon his pauldron.

 

'Adratos, my lord' Iraho nodded and with the haft of his axe he forced the man to stand. Then he walked along the line once more and repeated the question to a warrior called 'Nargax' and in turn forced him to stand. This done he order the remaining warriors to depart before turning back to Adratos and Nargax.

 

'You are to become my new silence' he paused momentarily pleased that neither man had shown trepidation at the prospect.

 

'Let us hope that you do not show the same weakness as those before did' he finished referring to the two warriors the Thousand Son sorcerer had murdered on his orders.

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For those of you reading 'The Navigator' I am putting it on hold to concentrate on this for the time being.

 

Don't often write stories about established chapters/warbands etc. So how am I doing so far depicting the Iron Wariors? or is to early to make judgments on it?

 

Thanks for reading.

[Yaj]

'I don't know anything or anyone, I swear' dangling in mid-air held aloft by his overalls in the grip of the miniature ogryn that was Hekgor. Words came as nervous fast paced screech but they were understood clearly enough.

 

'Your grace that simply isn't true' Karda Voleti knew precisely what and who his new friend did. He didn't know how but he was able to simply know everything about a person by just glancing at them and in Voleti's chosen profession this was most useful.

 

'Pleas…*garg*' the strange noise coming from his mouth and the fact that he was struggling to breath. Told Voleti that his companion was getting a little too carried away.

 

'Hekgor, put him down' the mass of muscle and little else shrugged it's shoulders, wiped a bulbous nose across one filthy sleeve and placed the gasping man down on to the floor. After a few seconds of recovery he tried to stand up but with a snap of fingers Voleti had his friend pin him to the spot.

 

'I haven't got all day' Voleti paused for a moment as his mind shifted through the information pouring out of the squirming mind before him.

 

'You are Tora Gragorus, son of Hedor Gragorus, Lord-Governor of Ulare' now Tora stopped moving and the moment Voleti had been anticipating occurred. It was a look of utter confusion and fear rolled into one. Now he would have been asking himself how this small weed thin man know that and did he knew any other secrets.

 

'I know who you are and why you are here' Tora was struggling to breath again as Hekgor applied to much of his own weight down on to his chest. Sighing Voleti placed his hand on Hekgor's arm and by this small gesture placated the giants’ misdirected aggression. It would not have been the first time the dim witted Hekgor had killed someone accidentally and though Voleti had always been able to place blame on some one else. He could not afford to allow this opportunity to slip into the realm of death and if that meant he had to use another aspect of his gift to restrain his friend then so be it.

 

Beginning to be breath more easily if a little fast Tora looked this way and that looking for an escape route. He would find none for Voleti had chosen this unassuming cavern out of the myriad network of them because it was just that unassuming with one exit and entrance. Realising he was trapped and now knowing what the weed thin man wanted. Tora picked himself up reached into his pocket pulling out a scrap of paper and a gem encrusted quill complete with its own attached mini inkpot. He wrote down a series of numbers and symbols before handing it over. Then looked on in disbelief as Voleti did not even bother to look at it before screwing it up and throwing it behind him.

 

'I was hoping you would give me what I want freely' a snap of fingers and Tora found himself hoisted in the air once more.

 

'Hekgor, search the bottom left pocket' at this Tora tried vainly to struggle free of the grip but lacked the strength to do so. Then he got a short moment of relief when the giant huffed out in annoyance when he found nothing.

 

'Tear it of, please' the moment of relief ended just like that and with one tug the pocket and a good portion of his overalls were torn of. In the process of doing so Hekgor revealed a hidden compartment crudely sewn into the lining of the left pocket. Inside were a series of documents and letters but that was not what interested Voleti. He was far more interested in the gold ring capped with a spike of sapphire and ringed with some form of faded motto.

 

'You kept your brothers ring?' Voleti smiled triumphantly for he had expected the documents and letters. To find Tora had kept the ring of his murdered brother was a bonus he had not anticipated. Evidently his gift wasn't quite as good as he thought it was but that was a problem for later. For now he would bask in the pleasure of such an unexpected finding.

 

Loud footsteps approached the cavern and Tora breathing picked up its fast pace once more. Voleti had a reputation of being to use the old Terran term a 'snitch' and had of course used his gift to ensure he gained from it. Whatever plan Tora might have thought up when he was dragged into the cavern by Hekgor had long since vanished in the face of Voleti's knowledge of him. If anything of that plan had remained it was now extinguished by the shadow of the true giant now standing behind him.

 

'Is this the man?' the marine voice was a wet growl and Voleti was sure it was having difficulty speaking.

 

'Yes, I am a murderer' Tora's eyes widen in terror as he spoke words he had no intention of voicing. Another useful aspect of Voleti's gift was that he could with limited success make a person say things they would not normally say.

 

'I placed the body in the western most cavern not two days ago' that was all the marine needed to hear and with one enhanced hand plucked Tora from the lesser giants grasp and carried his sobbing form from the cavern. Voleti turned back to his friend pleased that Tora would be dead long before he could contact his Father and ruin his plans.

 

'Do you know what this is? My friend' Voleti held the ring aloft allowing the light from the glow-strips aligning the walls to reflect of it.

 

'Pretty' Hekgor spoke with his nasal sounding voice rarely but when he did he was usually right. Voleti doubted his friend knew how right he actually was as he placed the ring in his pocket.

 

'Yes, my good friend, it is very pretty'

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Does anyone have any comments to make?

 

Thanks for reading.

[Nexus25]

I am liking this story so far. I hope the last entry ties in well eith the rest because as of right now it just kinda takes away from the previous entries.

[Yaj]

Thanks.

 

The last part will tie in with the rest though it may not be obvious how until later on. I'll write more about Voleti and Hekgor as the story progresses. Mostly it will focus on Iraho and occasionaly switch to writing about Hirdol when I think it's needed.

[Yaj]

Sifting through the bones and blood of the terminators he had murdered only hours before. Hirdol of the Thousand Sons was sat cross legged cast in a robe of dull cream his power armour stowed neatly to one side of the cavern. About his robes were words written in gold from all manner of worlds there on the left shoulder ancient colchisian and below on the sleeve the long dead language of the sea dwelling aliens of Alatos IV. Lost momentarily in his task the sorcerer fails to notice the entrance of three new persons.

 

'Are you defiling them?' Hirdol looked back anger flaring briefly in his eyes at the intrusion. Iraho replied with a cold measured stare his hand resting on the grip of the axe sheathed upon his armoured back.

 

'You told me to kill them' Hirdol laughed as he returned to his ritual

 

'I did not expect you to object to my use of them afterwards' at this a red mist descended upon the Iron Warrior and he did not question it. How dare this whelp of a sorcerer use his men, his men! In some barbaric ritual for its own ends. Caught in a moment of pure rage Iraho barely register the low strike from his right fist even as it broke Hirdols jaw and sent him sprawling across the cavern floor. As the Thousand Son picked himself up spitting blood he glared at the warsmith.

 

'Fool! What have you done?' the answer soon presented itself as the bloody parts of the terminators rose in a macabre fashion. Twisting, spiralling over and over until they had formed a large skull like rune with a gaping mouth forming a depthless void of bronze flame. The air shimmered with violence and murder as things started to take shape there forms blurred by the flames of the portal. Iraho knew exactly what they were even before they had coalesced into there chosen forms and felt his second heart begin to beat preparing his body for the hard fight to come.

 

'Bloodletters' breathed Nargax before activating his vox and calling for aid. At the sound of his new bodyguard calling for aid Iraho, his face pure hate, turned on the spot putting his back to the swiftly forming daemons.

 

'Thank you, brother' spoke the Warsmith even as he rams the combat knife; he had drawn moments ago, through Nargax gorget. The marine dropped to his knees blood frothing from the wound as the warrior desperately clawed at his throat life dripping through his armoured fingers. His companion in the 'silence' Adratos looks beyond the dieing warrior to the skull portal and the daemons breaking through into reality.

 

'Let that be a lesson to you' voiced Iraho as he wiped the bloody knife across the dead man's helmet. Armoured footsteps echoed into the hall as three dozen Iron Devils made themselves known there bolters held ready and blades drawn. They could have not arrived sooner for as they took up positions around the warsmith, none looking at the dead man, than did the bloodletters finally breach the bubble of reality with blood curdling war cries.

 

All this time the Son of Magnus had not been idle his eyes a flame with multi-coloured fire and giving voice to a spell of banishment. Sweat ran down in rivers from his brow as he struggled to contain and then close the warp rift before it could become larger. If that happened all his plans would be for naught and that could not happen not when he was so close to completing his mission. The roar of bolters told him that his efforts were failing so Hirdol delve into the depths of his power and tripled his efforts as the Iron Devils made war upon war.

 

Swaying to the right as a bloodletter attacked with a two-handed overhead blow Iraho darted inside its guard. Slashing his combat knife across it's eyes causing it to stagger back allowing Iraho to hack its skull in two with an overhead chopping blow of his own from his war axe. No sooner had he felled his opponent than another was striking at him with swift low sweeping blows from its black blade. Iraho had to jump backwards to avoid the blow that would have gutted him like a lowly slave and then again as the daemon came at him relentlessly! Now only armed with his combat knife having been forced to leave his axe imbedded in his victims skull. The Warsmith knew he couldn't retreat forever from his foe and then as if fate found it amusing he stumbled on the dead form of Nargax.

 

'Aaaargh' Iraho cried out as the daemons blade imbedded it's self into the flesh of his armoured shoulder. The cry of pain turned in a moment to a snarl of anger as against all odds the daemons blade became wedged fast. Reaching forwards Iraho took hold of the bloodletters elongated skull and forced it into a bone crushing head butt making it stumble backwards. With a silent roar of pain he tore out the daemons blade and before it could recover cut it in twain with a single blow from it's own weapon. All around him his warriors battled with the daemons and though he could never be proud of such lesser marines. Iraho could at least give them a moment of grudging respect for there skills.

 

The clattering of two armoured forms to his left told him that at least two bloodletters had broken through. Iraho made to gave chase to the daemons knowing that if they reached the human workers it would be months before he could replace the losses. Then before he had taken three steps the two daemons skin became translucent and they expanded outwards until they popped like over ripe fruit. Iraho turned back to the battle at hand as Hirdol returned to his own task but the brief moment had allowed the warp rift to grow once more. Suddenly skulls poured forth from the portal clattering on the hard ground like the drums of death. With a snap a writhing whip shot out of the rift dragging a warrior from his feet and screaming into the abyss.

 

*Snap* at first Iraho thought it the same weapon. He felt a chill travel down his spine as the marine ensnared by the weapon was drawn not half way before the second and then third whip snaked out each thinning the ranks of his men. If he had still been capable of feeling terror he would have been feeling it all to readily at the prospect of not one but three bloodthirsters breaking through. Taking up a combat stance with his war axe, now recovered and stolen blade from which he could feel the murderous energies pouring into his soul. Iraho, Warsmith of the Iron Warriors prepared to die angered at the thought that he would be denied his prize by the fool of a sorcerer.

 

'Do something! if they get in...' Iraho let his words trail of at the Thousand Son as he saw that it was to late. With a foreboding unnatural silence reality broke like a sword through wet paper and doom took root in the mortal world...

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Hmm, Three bloodthirsters! I don't think the next part will be pretty.

 

I'm shuddering at the thought and I'm going to have to write it!

 

Comments etc - Alway's welcome.

 

Thanks for reading.

[Yaj]

Hirdol was the first to die.

 

That wasn't surprising to any one versed in even the most basic of dark lore. Khorne despised magik users and especially ones who would seek to use his own minions for there own ends. Iraho found him laughing darkly at the psyker demise and then slowly stopped. No single piece remained of the accursed wretch remained not even a single drop of blood. Twisting emotions filled the heart of the Warsmith as he both rejoiced at the pysker’s escape and cursed his survival when he would in all likelihood die most horribly very soon.

 

Even as the conflicting emotions made war upon Iraho soul the daemons attacked once more. It was of some small miracle that believing the sorcerer dealt with the three bloodthirsters had turned upon each other rather than butcher the hapless lambs before them. Not that Iraho consider this a miracle as he fought hacking through one foe, gutting another and all the time fighting of the waves of pure rage radiating from the battle titans of war. Even as he fought the bloodthirsters massacred one another in a frenzy of wild blows and snapping whips. Great chunks of rock fell like rain from the impact of there weapons as the demi-gods sought to end each other in senseless violence and Iraho was certain that, sorcerer apart, the scions of Khorne did not even register them. A solid punch across his cheek brought him back to the battle at hand momentary irritation brewed in his mind before the realisation that the attack had not come from a daemon.

 

'Blood and Skulls! Blood and Skulls!' screamed the Iron Devil its head a crushed of ruined brain matter that slowly dripped from the horrific wound. Once more Iraho found he cursing the weak blood running through his men's veins for it seemed that some had succumbed, even in death, to the rage coursing out of the Greater Daemons. Indeed even as he ducked under another uncontrolled swing and pushed past the possessed warrior his daemon blade singing with joy as it chopped the warrior clean in two. He saw that the man was not alone and that his warriors were battling each other as much as they fought the daemons. This pure rage did not seem content just to affect his Iron Devils but now took hold of the lesser daemons as they to turn upon one another.

 

Iraho revealed in it drenched in both daemonic and astartes blood as he butchered anyone who came near his blades. Know longer did he care about the forgotten secret at the heart of Dorn, Know longer did he care about putting a hundred worlds put to the sword as a processional triumph for his long awaited return to Medrengard and know longer did he care if he lived or died. All that mattered was the slaughter pure, perfect and unending and with a wet growl his mouth awash with lifeblood Iraho took up the battle cry as his sanity fled.

 

'Blood and Skulls!!!'

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I'm thinking Iraho succumbing to the madness in two paragraphs may be a bit to quick. However I'm going to leave it for now and look at it again with fresh eyes tommorow morning.

 

Comments?

 

Thanks for reading

[Yaj]

Voleti rolled the ring through his fingers admiring its beauty and wondering just how rich he now was. Hekgor was sitting across from him, his weight causing the wooden seating to creak softly, watching two human overseers playing some sort of game of chance. He could see from the glint in his friend’s eye that Hekgor wanted to join in Voleti knew this would be a mistake. After taking a moment to drain the last drop of Kaval he reached across and took hold of the larger man's arm and slowly shook his head. Hekgor grunted, shrugged his shoulders and went back to nursing his own cup of Kaval.

 

'Wots that do? unlok sumfing' Hekgor asked suddenly in a moment of rare insight and intelligence.

 

'Perceptive' laughed Voleti and Hekgor laughed back though he had no idea why they were laughing. For Hekgor knowing his friend was happy made Hekgor happy and that would always be enough. For the briefest of moments Voleti wondered if he should explain to his friend how the signet ring of Tora Gragorus worked. Would the oaf sitting across from him understand how this ring, along with the papers, would allow them access to an entire planets worth of riches? Probably not and Voleti wanted to keep it that way. After all if Hekgor somehow grasped how it all worked then it would be harder for Voleti to take the lion’s share of the money and that wouldn't do at all.

 

He had to admit that being sent to this once missionary run, holier than thou, penal colony had been the best thing that ever happened to him. Having been sent along with his mother, who had committed some lowly crime deemed worthy of a penal colony, at the age of six and before his gift made it's self known. Karda Voleti now effectively ran the place for his gift allowed him to know what his enemies were thinking and report them to the overseers or like with Toras directly to the Iron Devils. Naturally he targeted those with money and there was always at least one in every twenty or so shipments of fresh prisoners who he sought out. These people in question were rich to one degree or another and had for reasons known only to them volunteered to spend a year or two in a penal colony. Perhaps they were ashamed at the riches they had acquired or felt sorrow that they had used said riches to buy there freedom at the expense of another.

 

'I hope they keep coming' Voleti muttered to himself as he placed the ring in his pocket. As he stood up he began to feel disorientated and then without warning his head began to throb with pain dull at first but growing with each passing second. Eventually it reached a tipping point and Voleti began to scream the sound causing the overseers to come over there half-iron masks and vox-unit mouths glinting in the glow of illumination strips. They reached for him but a sudden snap of invisible force sent them crumpling into the nearest wall. Voleti staggered back his hands gripping his head tightly as the pain worsened and then ceased only to return a moment later even worse than before. His eyes felt as though they were crying tears of liquid fire and his flesh tingled with ticks, twitches and he couldn't maintain his balance.

 

'Wots wrong?' asked Hekgor desperately wanting to help his friend but powerless to do so. Voleti's muscles had all but given up on him now and he flopped forwards his head resting on the long wooden table. Breathing heavily he tries to force his head up of the table the effort made more difficult by the fact that his face now feels almost glued to the wood. With a grunt of pain he pulls himself free droplets of blood fall from small wounds and to his horror sees several growths of fleshly suction cups had torn free. Bringing his hands back up to his face he feels more of them slowly inexorably and irresistibly pulling him back down on to the table. With a cry of anguish they finally succeed and then as if the horror of his situation wasn't enough begin to audibly eat there way deep into the wood. As they do, with rows of small needle teeth, he feels the rest of his body twist and turn in unnatural and painful ways. His arms and legs break the overalls sluice away along with the skin. His body turns 360 degrees and he feels his neck snap followed shortly afterwards by his spin. Now he is laying upon the table completely his entire body broken and abused by some unforeseen power. If he could see the shape he now formed it would make him sick with disgust and plead for the death he should have by now felt. The attack though hadn't finished and he felt more of the fleshy mouths forming on the rest of his body making him one with the table. Then he felt Hekgor's great strength take hold of him and wood splinter as the ogryn like man tried to free his friend. After a moment Voleti felt himself raised up in the air as Hekgor held him aloft like a battle standard. It was then that Voleti noticed the new presence in the room and with his one free eye looked upon the man and then downwards at Hekgor though his vision was narrowed by the angle it was clear that his friend was in complete control of this person.

 

'Bring him, Hekgor' instructed Hirdol of the Thousand Sons...

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I was originally going to have this happen later on in the story. I decided though to go down a different route and that meant brining this part in earlier than planned.

 

Comments? etc - Always welcome.

 

Thanks for reading.

[Yaj]

Was strongly considering re-writing the last part but in the end decided to just carry on and worry about it later.

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It was in the most basic terms a complete brutality of murder.

 

To his left a marine once of the Sky Vultures was aping his name sake appropriately by feasting on great chunks of dead astartes flesh. To his right three warriors were scything each other down in welters of blood in a bizarre triangular pattern. As one fell another rose again from the dead seemingly unhurt and so it went on were ever he looked Iron Devil warriors were committing acts of insanity. All the time the daemons of khorne moved amongst them ripping of heads of some and dragging others through the portal to what ever hellish fate awaited them. The whole thing reminded Iraho of the crude carving of the siege of the Emperor's Palace for it was as if the thing had come to life in the most vivid and violent way possible. The back drop to this living art was of course the titanic duel between the two bloodthirsters. Of the blow that had ended the life of the third Iraho could not say how or from which of the remaining two it had come from. The only sign that one or possibly both had been victorious over the third was when said daemon had thundered into the ground with its head rolling free.

 

'Blood and Skulls' the voice that carried those words made Iraho barely controlled anger rise up to threaten to over take him again as it had before. This new voice was joined by a second and then a third until hundreds of human voices took up the chant. At this time the rift decided to vomit forth more of the legions of the blood god as hundreds of bloodletters, some riding great metallic beasts, savage flesh hounds and other daemons he had no name for. Cursing the sorcerer for the thousandth time Iraho took up his war axe and daemon blade and blood flowed anew once more.

 

He felt like an avatar of war, a champion supreme. Nothing could stay his hand his war axe cleaving half a dozen mortal workers in two with but a single sweep whilst his daemon blade speared three hounds in a single thrust. Pirouetting on the spot he avoided the close range fire from an Iron Devil, a former Night Hound by his faded iconography, and then in a flash he flung his war axe straight into the warriors chest. Sprinting forwards before the man could recover Iraho leapt at him his face a snarl of malice and his daemon blade casting downwards cutting through the Iron Devil's skull to pierce the brain within in. As the warrior fell Iraho swept up his fallen bolter and spinning once more raked a line of explosive shots that saw daemon and non-daemon pulverised in great welters of gore.

 

Dropping the now spent bolter and recovering his axe Iraho narrowly avoided been decapitated by the low blow of a bloodcrusher as it rumbled past on heavy iron tread. However before it could come back for another pass an Iron Devil leapt on to his back and began hammering his combat blade over and over into the creature head until he had turned it into a red paste. Diving of the back of the leaderless beast as it smashed its way through one of the many combats, bodies thrown this way and that, the warrior found himself thanked by the Warsmith gutting him from behind like a dog. Iraho turned away from his latest murder to see that with the exception of Adratos who some how still lived on battling as he was against three bloodletters. All that remained were the daemons and his mortal workers now lost to the rage induced madness that emitted from the ever increasing portal and the bone rattling fight between the two daemon champions of khorne.

 

Everything he had worked for was now lost! He cried out in anguish as his dreams of conquest and glorious return home fled like startled birds in all directions and it was all thanks to that blasted Sorcerer. Why had he listened to him? The questioned railed around his mind as he allowed himself to be swept up in to the simple embrace of the carnage all around him. As the blood haze descended over his willing eyes he notice a new figure, a tall muscular human, carrying some form of standard. By now though it was seemingly too late to prevent the madness claiming the Warsmith once and for all...

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Already working on the next part and will probably post it tommorow.

 

Any comments?

 

Thanks for reading.

[Yaj]

Eight hours, eight seconds, eight centuries? What did it matter! All that counted in Iraho's narrow viewpoint of the world was the next kill and continuation of holy slaughter in Khornes name. His armour was gashed with numberless cuts and blood flowed freely from where a flesh hounds claws had raked across his face. On the other side of the warped cavern walls, now vast alcoves of spilling skulls, fought Adratos his helmet torn of and long blond hair now matted with gore. Adratos fought with two skulls of dead Iron Devils using them as crude clubs to pummel daemon and any of the few remaining humans that got to close. Then just like that the final member of the 'silence' died a single miss timed swing allowing a bloodletter to come inside his guard and take his head clean off. The daemons victory did not last long as three of its kin struck it down clearly angry at being denied the kill and then turned upon each other.

 

'Die, sorcerer, die!' All Iraho could clearly see through blood stained eyes was Hirdol's face. It was upon every daemon and human alike and the warsmith would hunt down each and every one of them. What remained of his rational mind told him that Hirdol had long since fled but he ignored it as his blades clove there way through each 'sorcerer' in turn. Why had he ignored his instincts? The lesson had been repeated often enough with the betrayal of the False Emperor and then being driven into exile by the turncoat Yivar and now he found himself betrayed by this Thousand Son. Worst was that the traitor witch refused to simply die! At least the other two of his betrayers had had the decency of dieing not long afterwards and staying dead. He lashed out again as another Hirdol tried to take him on his blind side instinct narrowly avoiding a killing upper cut from its staff.

 

It was as this 'Hirdol' died that Iraho noticed he was standing in a sort of no-mans land raging bloody combats all around. There at the entrance of the cavern standing before a waterfall of cackling voices stood the accursed sorcerer. Screaming incoherently and oblivious to the changing landscape as it altered to be more pleasing to a different god. This one would die just like the others and then he would kill the next one and the next all in the name of slaughter and reven...

 

‘Hurry, you fool, get out!’ loosing his blood-fever induced thought process allowed his rational mind to come to the fore. It was only for a moment but in that time it allowed him to release that this Hirdol was the real one and he was using his magic to enable his escape. Iraho glanced round seeing nine giants hold aloft icons of screaming twisted flesh even as he watched one became consumed with an inner reddish light before exploding in bone and gore.

 

'I can not maintain the opening for long!' Rationality had fully reasserted it's self and as three more of the bizarre icons exploded Iraho began to run full pelt towards the sorcerer. As he approached four more icons were destroyed and the madness threatened to consume him once more. His hands began to move of there own accord as the killing lust attempted to seize him in its grasp once more.

 

'Die, betrayer!' Iraho yelled once more as the insanity took over.

 

'Not today' replied Hirdol as he calmly side stepped the wild swing and planted an empowered blow from his staff upon Iraho's head knocking him out cold.

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Next part will be sometime next week.

 

Comments? always welcome.

 

Thanks for reading.

[Rain]

Kind of a quibble, but you consistently use "there" instead of the possessive "their". Yeah it's pedantic but it pulls you away. Iraho is kind of a funny Iron Warrior. He keeps raging about all of his "impure" comrades while coming off as rather incompetent himself, poor guy. I was going to say that Voleti seems too powerful, but as he appears to be a Tzeentchian demonhost I guess it makes sense, I like the character though, him and Hekgor are fun.

[Yaj]

Yeah I can never remember which 'there' or 'their' to use.

 

So I stick with 'there' and hope I've not used it wrong too many times.

 

Yeah, Iraho is your typical bad guy - why blame yourself when you can blame some one else! His character may change somewhat as I'm reading (well re-reading) up on Iron Warriors background. Good thing about writing this story is that unlike my previous (and on going) stories I have a set ending in mind as this is a prequel story.

 

I was going to say that Voleti seems too powerful, but as he appears to be a Tzeentchian demonhost I guess it makes sense, I like the character though, him and Hekgor are fun.

 

 

He's not a daemon host - well not in the normal sense

 

 

Voleti is kinda fun to write for but you won't be hearing from him or Hekgor for a while.

 

They do however still have an important part to play.

 

Thanks for the comments.

[Rain]

Well "there" is location, "their" is possession, and "they're" is a contraction of "they are". ie : I put their pen over there and said that they're going to have to come here and get it. It's a pretty common mistake though.

[Yaj]

I'll write that down.

 

Thanks.