Honour Paid - 2011 Black Library Submission

[Corsair]

Honour Paid

 

 

By Tim Sweeney

 

They drifted silently toward the end of the world.

 

Matte black, invisible against the void, the unpowered Thunderhawk Grind-Two-Eight rotated gently along its axis, almost imperceptibly, one downturned wing lifting to allow the passage of a piece of hurtling debris.

 

Staring at the external sensor display, Veteran-Sergeant Fenan Husq of the Executioners grunted as he saw the twin-headed eagle of the Imperium etched into the detritus flash past, a mere whisper from ripping a hole in the side of the gunship.

 

"Close," muttered Kruss from his seat opposite the Sergeant, the words buzzing through his damaged vox. The burly assault specialist, one of the First Company Vanguard, cradled a huge power axe across the knees of his battered, bastardised armour. Kruss, like the rest of the infiltration team, had daubed himself in Codex-approved swirls of white and blue, the better to suit the icy hellhole they flew toward.

 

They had been aboard the Grind for just over three weeks now, dropped off at the edge of the system by the Night Hag, one of the fastest and stealthiest warships the Chapter possessed. Gliding toward their distant objective, the Executioners could only watch as the situation on Polus II had steadily worsened. Now, with their target finally within reach, they could see they were almost out of time.

 

The ships of the Inquisitorial armada were pounding the tiny, frozen ball mercilessly from orbit, the massive lance strikes causing damage no less catastrophic than a full Exterminatus, albeit over a much longer stretch of time. The sensors showed that the attack was systematic, methodical, the Imperial captains seemingly taking great delight in wiping out a single settlement at a time, allowing some of the rebel population to flee before destroying the next haven, and the next one after that.

 

Although the heretics deserved no less than death for their betrayal of the Imperium, it was still a slow, wasteful, and altogether impersonal method of waging war. But though the murderous joy of the Inquisition was distasteful to the Space Marines, their excess meant that the Executioners still had a small window of opportunity to complete their mission before the planet cracked like an egg under the bombardment.

 

"Twenty minutes," hissed Brother Pitic from the cockpit, the young pilot’s voice unnecessarily soft, as though the crewmembers of the Imperial fleet might overhear him. The Sergeant had his concerns over the mettle of the boy, freshly raised as he was from the Scout Company, but the apprentice Techmarine had shown himself to be a steady hand so far.

 

"Final checks," Husq followed his own order, blink-clicking through a final systems diagnostic of his armour. Like most of the equipment in service to the Chapter, it had seen better days, but the machine spirit of the old plate was proud, and appeared to be functioning at near-optimal levels.

 

The Sergeant passed a quick eye over the members of his force - he hesitated to call the ad hoc group of Marines his 'squad' when not a single one had served under him previously. In fact, he had never fought alongside any of them barring Kruss, whom he had served with in the First Company.

 

Sitting a little to the left of the Sergeant, Brother Tursk was checking his ornate bolter, effortlessly pulling the weapon apart before reassembling it and repeating the whole process over. Though Husq could not see the other marine's face, he knew from their time together on the Grind and the Night Hag before it that Tursk would have his eyes closed inside his helm, lips mouthing soothing prayers to the spirit of the weapon as his fingers did their compulsive work.

 

In the opposite corner of the dimly lit passenger area, Brother Junn assisted Brother Oros, the plasma gunner of the makeshift squad, with his armour. The gigantic Junn reminded Husq of a feral grox, all muscle and fur and belligerent attitude, but the heavily scarred assault specialist's hands moved gently, almost reverently, as he checked the buckles and plates of Oros' suit.

 

Staring at the special weapon trooper, the Brother-Sergeant felt a sense of awe himself. Oros, as tall and swarthy as any true son of Stygia or Aquilon, was clad in a priceless heirloom of the Chapter, a full suit of Mark I Thunder armour from the Unification Wars on Terra. It was a relic of their primogenitors, the Imperial Fists, gifted to the Executioners on the date of their founding. It had sat in a sacred reliquary in the Fortress Monastery, untouched for millennia.

 

A snarl crossed Husq's battered features as he stared at the ancient suit of armour, the expression thankfully hidden by his beaked helm. The heirloom armour had been touched now. Brother Oros had fallen victim to a plasma overheat whilst fighting the orks of Warmasta Blitzdakka on the world of Saint Paedrig's Pride, his weapon detonating in his hands and irreparably damaging his own plate. He had been given leave to wear the sacred relic because, quite simply, there had been no other armour to give him.

 

Until their century long penitent crusade was over, there would be no new armour from the Mechanicum, no new weapons or replacement parts. With resources dwindling, no relic was forbidden. Nothing was sacred.

 

As he looked at his small force - a shadow of what would have been dispatched on this mission even a few decades ago, if indeed the Chapter would have bothered at all - he felt the anger wash away. This was the price for their role in the Badab War, fighting alongside the rebellious Astral Claws and their treacherous Tyrant. Honour paid and blood owed.

 

Junn finished checking his battle-brother over, slapping him on the shoulder as he moved back to his own berth. Oros staggered slightly under the blow, a scowl coming to his exposed face as his legs buckled. The semi-armoured greaves of the Mark I suit completely lacked the electro-fibre bundles typical of later power armour designs, a distinct liability in combat. They would have to cover for this weakness on the mission, using their own superior armour to protect Oros' vulnerabilities. It would be another complication, but the Executioner Sergeant was quickly learning to adapt and overcome such difficulties.

 

The Grind continued its glacially slow journey through the Imperial blockade, silently gliding between a cerulean-armoured frigate of the sector fleet and a crimson-and-gold strike cruiser belonging to the Howling Griffons Chapter of Space Marines. Husq grinned as he read the name stencilled in High Gothic on the side of the grand vessel: the Chivalrous Ride.

 

He had once teleported aboard the Ride at the height of the Badab War. It had been an unsuccessful attempt to scuttle the mighty ship, Husq one of a dozen Terminators tasked with slaughtering their way toward the warp drives defended by the Howling Griffons and their Chapter serfs alike. Though the Executioners First Company had eventually been driven back without completing their objective, the battle had been glorious, with much honour earned by both sides that day.

 

"Listen up," he murmured, the makeshift squad instantly turning to face him. "When we are past the pickets, Brother Pitic will be taking us in-atmosphere. We will be running dark and dead for as long as possible, so the ride is going to be bumpy-"

 

"Isn't it always?" grunted Kruss. The other Executioners laughed harshly.

 

"-and it is liable to stay bumpy once we hit the surface," Husq continued, ignoring the interruption. "The vault is hidden away from any major settlements, so it is unlikely we will encounter ground forces."

 

He nodded toward the display, the quartered red-and-gold Chivalrous Ride dominating the image. "Unlikely, but not impossible, especially with the Griffons here. We all know that our honourable brothers will be down fighting on the ground until that planet shatters like an eldar's skull. Maybe even after."

 

This led to another laugh. Their Chapter thought highly of the Howling Griffons, even after they had ended up on opposite sides of the Badab War. The fact the feeling was most definitely not returned just made the Howling Griffons more worthy of respect as far as the Executioners were concerned.

 

"What do we do if we encounter other Imperials?" There was no real hint of a question in Tursk's voice. Like all of them, he knew the answer, but wanted the distasteful thought out in the open.

 

"If we are found here, brothers, infiltrating a traitor-held world under the nose of an Inquisitorial blockade, the Chapter will be excommunicated, if not wiped out entirely," Husq paused, letting the words sink in. "So we will not be found here. Understood?"

 

Tursk nodded, grimly going back to pulling his bolter apart.

 

"Aye, and what if one of their ships spots us on the way in?" Junn asked, his voice so guttural as to be almost unintelligible. Husq could only imagine how hard the barbaric warrior would be to understand if he ever deigned to wear a helmet, although the ruined mass of scar tissue that made up Junn's face was a testament to the fact that this would not be an issue.

 

"Passing the blockade now, five minutes to atmosphere," Pitic called softly from the cockpit, the slightest hint of strain in his voice. "Better strap in unless you are feeling adventurous, brothers."

 

Ignoring the words of the young pilot and the accompanying vibrations as the gunship engines powered up, Husq stared into Junn's eyes, "If they spot us on the way in, Brother Junn, we will all burn."

 

A grin smeared itself across Junn's grotesquely scarred face. "Best pray to Dorn they don't see us then, Sergeant."

 

 

+++

 

"Vox is clear, Brother-Sergeant. It appears we made it down cleanly." Husq could hear the pride in the young pilot's understated words.

 

"False modesty is for the sons of Guilliman, Pitic," Oros laughed.

 

"Aye, lad," Junn's growling brogue broke in. "We Executioners own our deeds. Whose chronicle will the Death-Speakers regale our brothers with: The pilot who defied the might of the Inquisition and our fellow Space Marines, who laughed in the face of certain doom and landed us safely despite the odds, or the pilot who 'made it down cleanly'?"

 

"Acknowledged, Pitic," Husq said after a moment of listening to the pilot splutter over the vox, successfully hiding his own amusement. "Finish your final checks and get down here."

 

Husq nodded to Oros and Junn as he closed the vox-channel. The two marines, still laughing to themselves over needling their battle-brother, moved off to begin the laborious process of assisting the servitors in covering the Thunderhawk in camouflage netting, lest the black body be a beacon in the pure white snow for any enemy spotters who happened by.

 

Enemy spotters. Any spotters worth noting would be fellow Imperials. This mission left a sour taste in the mouth.

 

A short distance from the transport, Brother Tursk squatted in the snow, deftly adjusting the knobs and dials on the auspex clasped in his gauntlets. Already the blizzard was causing frost to build up on the warrior's shoulder plates, obscuring the tactical squad markings and the axe insignia of the Chapter.

 

Husq adjusted his cloak as he knelt beside his battle-brother, the heavy fur made heavier still by the thick coating of snow clinging to it.

 

"I've got the route, Brother-Sergeant," Tursk said without waiting for the obvious question, "approximately ten kilometres north-west of here."

 

"Should be easy enough."

 

"Aye. The blizzard is unpredictable, especially with the havoc the bombardment is causing on the weather patterns, but it shouldn't slow us too much." Tursk looked up from the glowing display in his hand. "We will need to watch Oros closely, however. His suit lacks the protection of proper power armour."

 

"Makes you understand why it no longer sees active use," grunted Husq, "some relics are better left in the reclusiam. Anything else?"

 

Tursk leaned in close to him, an instinctive gesture considering they already spoke on a private channel.

 

"I do not like this mission, Husq. This sneaking about, hiding from those who should be our allies, it stinks of dishonour. How do we know the prize is actually here?" He paused, looking down, obviously uncomfortable being so familiar with a superior, especially one who was a relative stranger. "How do we know it is worth it?"

 

"Faith, brother. The Death-Speakers are rarely wrong, and the Librarians confirmed it besides. The prize is here." He hesitated, sensing that this answer was not enough to stay Tursk's apprehensions, yet unsure of how much he should say.

 

After a moment, he continued, "Besides, you fought in the Badab War. This is just the sort of thing they would do."

 

The other Marine nodded once at this last, seeming more sure of himself. Sergeant Husq wished he felt the same.

 

"Contact." The words hissed across the vox, static-laced and barely audible. Kruss was out scouting the perimeter of the landing site, having disappeared into the bleakness of the icy wasteland only minutes before. "Howling Griffons."

 

 

+++

 

They moved through the snow drifts like ghosts, the blizzard masking their trail, camouflaged armour invisible to any eyes seeking them out. The Executioners clutched their weapons tightly, eyes scanning for threats with the casual precision expected of Space Marines, only minute shifts in body language betraying the fact that his brothers lacked their typical calm. Husq felt a flash of annoyance at this squad of strangers he was leading, wishing that his Sternguard Squad - those few who still lived - could have accompanied him to Polus II instead.

 

But the mission was all important, and resources were too few. Better to take versatile specialists, each orphaned within the Chapter, than risk wiping out an entire experienced squad. Besides, he suspected that Squad Husq would have been dreading the idea of an upcoming clash with fellow loyalists every bit as much as his mission team, especially the noble marines of the Howling Griffons. Glorious battle as equals was one thing – and indeed, the Executioners had relished the Badab conflict for this very reason, as who could be better to war against than fellow Space Marines? But this skulking around in the shadows was another thing entirely.

 

He flexed the fingers of his power fist yet again, little slivers of ice shaking free of the skulls engraved into the knuckles. Perhaps his squad were not the only ones feeling apprehensive.

 

A double-click sounded across the vox, signalling the all-clear. A second later Kruss was back amongst them, huge axe across his shoulder, appearing from the swirling snow like the soul reaper of old Terran myth. The Sergeant eyed the cluster of skulls hanging at the Vanguard's belt, wondering yet again how he managed any sort of stealth with them clacking together as they did.

 

"Over the hill. No danger. Brace yourselves." Without another word, the taciturn warrior turned on his heel. The squad followed immediately, scanning the impenetrable depths of the storm.

 

They found what was left of the Griffons in a narrow defile, sheltered from the pervasive winds of the blizzard. There were a half-dozen of them, Scouts all, their exposed skin turned as blue as their camouflaged armour in the bloodied snow. All had been violently dismembered, limbs shredded. The inclement weather made it difficult to be certain, but the state of the bodies indicated they had been killed days ago.

 

The Sergeant ordered the men to form a perimeter, moving to join the veteran by the slain initiates. He looked at the Vanguard inquiringly.

 

"Wasn't me," grunted Kruss. "Found them like this."

 

"Ambushed?"

 

"Aye. Look closer."

 

Husq knelt beside the nearest corpse, what was left of the aged face indicating that this was the leader of the squad, an experienced veteran mentoring the children of the Chapter. His face looked vaguely familiar in fact.

 

Perhaps they had fought against each other, once.

 

The carapace armour worn by the slain Howling Griffons was cracked and pitted, massive craters gouged out of the ceramite. Combined with the torn flesh and shattered bones, Husq was certain they had been felled by bolter fire.

 

It was then that he noticed the bloody gouge in the Howling Griffon's chest. It was not a bolt wound.

 

"The geneseed?" he gasped, horrified.

 

"Aye," Kruss crouched beside the Sergeant, pointing to the ragged holes in each of the bodies, one in the neck, one in the chest, distinct from the wounds caused by exploding bolt rounds. "Seen this before?"

 

Husq nodded, pulling his cloak tighter reflexively. Acid burned in his throat, bitter and intense. The neophytes would not even have had mature geneseed to harvest. The bloody gashes carved into their bodies stank of ritual; of sorcery of the most profane kind.

 

"Thought this was meant to be an uprising, farmers and the like?" asked Kruss, toying absently with a discarded shotgun.

 

"It was," said the Sergeant.

 

"This weren't no farmer, Husq," snorted Kruss in his coarse Aquilonian brogue, tilting his head toward the slaughtered neophytes. "And it weren't no gibbering cultist or renegade PDF'er either."

 

Husq nodded. Though the Scouts would have been the most inexperienced of the Howling Griffons, lightly armoured and less hardy than full battle-brothers, they were still far superior to mere mortal enemies. Even heretics well-equipped with bolt weaponry could not have accomplished such an effortless slaughter.

 

"Space Marines did this," sighed Husq, staring into the dead eyes of one of the neophytes.

 

“You know what that means?"

 

"Yes, brother," whispered Husq through gritted teeth. "It means the Astral Claws are on Polus II."

 

 

+++

 

They left the corpses of the Howling Griffon initiates where they lay and moved out. Young Pitic had wanted to honour the dead, but Junn pointed out that they did not know the Griffon rituals, and that, regardless, the entire planet would be a fitting funeral pyre soon enough.

 

The ever-present wind was getting stronger, stinking of ozone, the snow swirling in a manner that felt unnatural to Husq. He suspected the tiny ball of ice they stood upon would not withstand the Imperial bombardment for much longer.

 

The Sergeant watched as Brother Oros stumbled again, falling forward as he climbed one of the massive drifts, the weight of his armour sinking him deep into the powdery snow. He flailed for a moment, almost comically, undone by the primitive relic he wore.

 

Husq shook his head at the thought that one of his battle-brothers might be brought low by so petty an enemy as frostbite or hypothermia.

 

"On your feet, Oros," said Junn as he helped his squad mate up, patchy beard fanning out from the bottom of the crudely stitched ork-leather mask he wore, his one concession against the cold. "Stand behind me, I'll take some of that snow for you."

 

"I am fine, Junn,” Oros pushed away from his friend, fists clenching in obvious frustration. “Leave me be."

 

Husq could see Oros' lips turning purple inside his half-helm, his words accompanied by the faintest chatter of teeth. "Do what he says, brother. You are free to die for honour, you are free to die for glory, but you are not free to die for stupidity. Understood?"

 

Oros nodded, baring his teeth at the Sergeant in what could have been construed as a smile.

 

 

+++

 

Almost an hour later, they crested one final rise. Tursk's auspex began to ping rapidly.

 

"That it?" grunted Kruss.

 

"Not much to look at, is it?" said Oros, teeth still chattering faintly.

 

They stared at a rock wall, much like any other, unique only in that it was not completely submerged in snow.

 

"Auspex says this is it, Brother-Sergeant," said Tursk, eyes still glued to the readouts on the screen. "The cliff face should only be about two paces thick."

 

Husq nodded, not bothering to reply as he began the half-walk, half-slide down the snow drift to the foot of the opposing cliff. The squad followed him, weapons scanning for ambushers. There had been no further sign of activity, living or dead, after Kruss' grisly find, but the Executioners were not taking any chances.

 

"I have the melta charges, Sergeant," said Pitic when they reached the bottom, reaching a hand into the heavy satchel hanging at his hip.

 

"Don't bother," Husq replied. His power fist began to hum, the stench of burning ozone filling the air as snow melted from its surface. "I believe I shall honour Dorn this day."

 

The Sergeant did not join in the laughter of his brothers as he swung the massive fist directly into the rock wall, instantly pulverising a ragged hole in the brittle stone. He smashed the oversized gauntlet into the cliff face a few more times, sending cracks spidering across the grey-brown surface for metres in every direction. Finally, their entry point beginning to take shape, he began to gouge at the rock with his fingers, ripping huge chunks out with the ease of a child digging holes in the dirt.

 

Within minutes, Husq had carved a hole large enough to step through, his fellow Executioners joining him within his makeshift doorway. Inside was what they had come to find.

 

"That looks promising," said Junn.

 

Before them stood a massive archway, easily three times as tall as the largest of Space Marines. It was made of black iron, brooding and dark and all but impenetrable. The doors themselves were carved of the same material, inscribed with thousands of lines of devotional texts and holy symbols, icons of the Emperor and the Imperium. In golden bas-relief at the door’s centre, a beautifully crafted lion head seemed to roar defiantly into the wailing blizzard.

 

"So it's true," breathed Pitic, "Astral Claws."

 

"Owe the Executioners a debt of blood," growled Kruss with as much emotion as the Sergeant had ever heard in his voice.

 

"That they do, brother. We take a pound of flesh and squeeze out every last drop today."

 

The squad all murmured their agreement with their Sergeant's words. Husq eyed the heavy doors, then spared a glance at his power fist, quickly realising it was not up to the task. He turned to the young pilot, "Give me those melta bombs and get clear. Let's bring these doors down."

 

 

+++

 

It took time, time that they really could not spare, but the charges did their job in the end, the imposing doors and archway counting for little when the surrounding stone was vaporised by the melta charges. Unfortunately, the thoroughness of the demolition work meant that Husq had to lead his five brothers in digging while the blizzard raged and the ground rumbled with the death-throes of Polus II.

 

Finally, the way to their prize lay open.

 

"Dorn's gilded fists," whispered Tursk once they made it inside the remains of the doorway. Staring at the contents of the vault, Sergeant Husq couldn't help but agree.

 

The room was cavernous, extending upward far enough that even the enhanced vision of a Space Marine could not make out the gloomy reaches of the arched ceiling. Despite being locked away for decades, the treasure of the Astral Claws vault was as pristine as the day it had been manufactured on Mars.

 

Arrayed around the ferrocrete walls of the room stood a score of armatures shaped into the rough approximation of a man, each adorned with a suit of unpainted Mark VII or VIII power armour. They stood at a diagonal, facing the doorway, like silent grey sentinels watching disapprovingly as strangers intruded into their domain. Against the far wall, placed upon a pedestal like a king upon his throne, a single, hulking suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armour gazed at the Executioners with empty eyes. It was a treasure more valuable than everything else in the vault combined.

 

"Some pound of flesh," said Kruss, running a hand over the raised collar of a suit of Errant armour.

 

"Hauling this trove back will be a fine addition to our chronicles," added Junn.

 

Husq eyed the stacks of olive-drab crates piled unobtrusively in the corners of the room, each stamped with the Adeptus Mechanicus skull-and-cog and the Imperial aquila. Though far from glamorous, their contents of ammunition and weaponry would be just as important as the armour to the underequipped Executioners. He felt a rare smile come to his face.

 

“Pitic, signal the Thunderhawk and have the servitors bring it straight here.” He hesitated, remembering the slain Howling Griffon initiates. “Make it low level and slow, brother. I do not like the idea of walking home because those idiot slaves got the damn thing shot down.”

 

He watched for a moment as the apprentice Techmarine slung his bolter and contacted the servitor co-pilot of the Grind, his binaric whispering sounding harsh and alien to the Sergeant’s ears.

 

“ETA twenty minutes, Brother-Sergeant,” said Pitic. “They have to stow the netting and run through pre-flight first.”

 

“That’s the time limit then. Oros, get outside and keep an eye out for the bird or any unwelcome company. The rest of us will begin loading the pallets.”

 

Oros powered up his plasma gun, the whine of the weapon lingering a moment after he had stepped through the ruined doorway.

 

Junn was already unstacking the pile of heavy steel pallets from near the doorway, showing no sign of strain as he moved tonnes of metal. Each of the trays was marked with the symbol of the Mechanicus and the designator H3435-D, no doubt the designation of a cargo hauler the Astral Claws had hit during the early stages of the Badab War. Husq wondered if they had known what cargo the vessel had aboard when they decided to raid it.

 

Considering the heresies Huron’s rapidly expanding Chapter had been involved in and their subsequent need for extra equipment, the Sergeant decided the Tyrant had known exactly what he was doing.

 

Pitic, Tursk, and Kruss began stripping the armour stands, taking each piece of power armour and placing it reverentially on the pallets. Husq thought to assist them, but found himself drawn inexorably to the suit of Terminator armour on its pedestal against the back wall.

 

As he stared at the beautiful suit of artificer-crafted armour, his hand rose to absent-mindedly stroke the bone cross hanging from his neck, a representation of the Crux Terminatus awarded to him when he was inducted into the First Company just over a century ago. He had worn the sacred armour only rarely in his time as a battle-brother of the First, spending more time amongst the veteran Sternguard before eventually being reassigned to Third Company as a Sergeant of his own squad.

 

A feeling he was unaccustomed to hit him then, so bizarre that he almost laughed: Temptation. Staring at that armour, remembering how invincible it made him feel, a small part of him was tempted to shuck his plate and attempt to don the Terminator suit then and there.

 

“You plan on helping us, boss, or just staring at the armour?” Kruss had walked up beside him, whispering over a private channel so the others would not hear.

 

Snapped from his reverie, Husq turned angrily on his brother, ready to demand blood for his insubordinate attitude. After a moment, he snorted instead, grinning ruefully, “Sorry, Kruss. I was just admiring the craftsmanship of the artificers of Mars.”

 

“Not too many of those suits left to us now,” said Kruss, his own hand gripping the ivory cross hanging from his waist in a mirror of Husq’s gesture of a few minutes before. “This would be prize enough alone to make the Death-Speakers tell your legend for millennia, but I think the other supplies will be what help save the Chapter.”

 

“Brother,” laughed Husq, “I think that is the most words I have ever heard you string together at once.”

 

“Pitic is rubbing off on me. Boy never shuts up.”

 

They began to gingerly pull the priceless armour down from the platform, the incredibly thick plates quite heavy and unwieldy to move.

 

The work was almost done when Oros’ voice called over the vox, “Contact, contact, ene-“

 

They never heard him finish, the words drowned out by the sound of a massive explosion.

 

“Grind is not responding, Brother-Sergeant,” whispered Pitic.

 

With the piercing shriek of a dying star, Oros began firing his plasma gun.

 

 

+++

 

Husq sprinted through the doorway, ignoring the whip-crack of shots flying past his head. The steady crump of small explosions and the rocky debris clattering against his armour told him the enemy were using boltguns, and that they most likely outnumbered the Executioners by a substantial degree.

 

He dived into cover next to Oros, sliding against a chunk of twisted metal that had once been a part of the vault door. A tarnished golden eye, all that remained of the Astral Claws lion, stared up at him accusingly.

 

“Winged my leg,” growled Oros, still firing his plasma gun blindly over their makeshift cover.

 

“You have a gift for understatement, brother,” replied the Sergeant. Oros’ leg was shredded just below the hip, reduced to nothing more than a lump of cracked bone and oozing flesh.

 

“Shot deflected up off the ground, it was lucky it didn’t penetrate higher. Did you know this particular suit of Thunder armour doesn’t have pain suppressors?” Oros was panting with each word, superhuman physiology obviously struggling to cope with so grievous a wound. “Just found that out, myself."

 

“Any idea who is shooting at us?”

 

“None at all, they haven’t shown themselves.” He fired another burst of plasma into the blizzard. “What’s the plan?”

 

"The transport is down, the planet is being destroyed around us, and our backs are to the wall," the Sergeant shrugged. There was nothing else to say.

 

“Fair enough. Leave me out here then, I’ll claim a few heads before I am done.”

 

“No, brother, we’ll make our stand inside.” He handed Oros his stormbolter, the wounded marine grasping the heavy weapon in his left hand while the right still clutched the plasma gun. Oros began firing both weapons into the blizzard.

 

“Suppressing fire,” Husq voxed to the squad. Grabbing Oros by the topknot, knowing the effort was most likely wasted, he started to drag the wounded marine back inside the vault. Bolt rounds began to fly over his shoulders towards their attackers, a pittance compared to the torrent of explosive shots hammering toward them.

 

They were not even half way back inside when the first shot hit him, deflecting off his right shoulder pauldron, the impact enough to stagger him slightly. The second slipped past Oros’ face, taking Husq in the soft armour under his left arm. The round detonated before it could penetrate fully, but the wave of pain-suppression drugs flooding his bloodstream told him that the round had done some damage. He felt the hot blood begin the slow trickle down his arm, into his gauntlet.

 

“Cease fire!” The call was gruff, distorted, as though it did not come from a human throat. A few more bolts struck the ground near the Executioners, before the enemy fire ceased completely.

 

“Well that was theatrical,” groaned Oros as Husq began dragging him faster, taking advantage of the lull. “Why didn’t he just vox the order to his squad?”

 

“He wants to talk, and he wants us to know it.”

 

Husq pulled his wounded brother behind the makeshift barricade inside the vault, made from stacks of emptied ammunition crates and piled with pieces of priceless armour. The Executioners were nothing if not pragmatic.

 

“Ho, strangers!” the mechanical voice yelled, as if on cue. “There appears to have been a misunderstanding.”

 

“Misunderstanding?” said Oros, grasping the still-bleeding stump of his leg.

 

“We assumed you were more of those pathetic Howling Griffons, but my Sergeant here tells me that the debris of your Thunderhawk is a simple, spartan black without insignia, quite unlike those vainglorious bastards. Are you lackeys of the Ordo Xenos, perhaps?”

 

“Well we know who found us,” whispered Tursk.

 

“Know that voice,” grunted Kruss.

 

Husq nodded. He did too.

 

“We are not the Deathwatch, Astral Claw,” he called, unsure why he even responded.

 

“I know you,” the harsh voice responded after a long moment, sounding startled. “Husq. Executioner.”

 

The speaker paused. Husq gestured for his men to prepare themselves for the attack, knowing that this enemy would be too intelligent to simply rush their defensive positions, and would instead most likely bombard the vault with explosives until the Executioners were all dead.

 

“For what was,” the voice began after an eternity of silence, “and the fraternal bonds of brotherhood and blood debt, I swear to honour the ancient oaths and will raise no hand.”

 

Husq crouched behind the pile of armour, struck dumb.

 

“We fought as brothers once, Fenan Husq. There is no need for this to turn to bloodshed. Come out with your squad and let us end this. I am not your enemy.”

 

“Dead either way, Husq,” said Kruss.

 

“They’re traitors,” said Tursk, “we would have no more honour than they.”

 

Husq ignored them both. Instead, he looked at where Oros lay, bleeding slowly to death against a wall of now-useless treasures, the Terminator armour chief among them. The wounded marine looked him in the eye and nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

 

The Sergeant slapped his injured battle-brother on the shoulder and stood up.

 

“We are the headsmen of the Emperor, brothers, not weaklings to be slaughtered cowering behind a wall. There is no honour in dying here.”

 

He did not bother waiting for their objections to his words, instead turning the vox-speaker in his helm to maximum volume.

 

“Hold your fire, Apothecary Perron,” he called, “we are coming out.”

 

 

+++

 

Sergeant Husq grasped his stormbolter loosely in his hand, pointed at the ground but ready to be raised and fired in a heartbeat. It was a gesture designed to indicate a lack of outright hostility, but one that could never be construed as surrender. His helm hung from his waist, his scarred features and long black hair exposed to the elements.

 

"Brother Husq, it is you, and Kruss as well!" Perron stood atop the same rise the Executioners had descended earlier, stringy grey hair blowing in the ever-present wind, his baroque armour draped in belts of human skin, each of the fleshy bandoleers adorned with dozens of tiny vials. A pair of long, scimitar-like talons curved from the backs of each of his gauntlets, golden lightning crackling along the edges of the blades.

 

The traitor was flanked by a full squad of renegade Space Marines. All wore armour of black and crimson, aquilas and Chapter insignia defaced or removed entirely. Many were bedecked in twisted symbols, runes of the Fell Powers that churned the Sergeant's stomach when he gazed upon them.

 

"It has been a long time, Apothecary," said Husq, staring up at the treacherous scion of the Astral Claws. "My knee still works as well as the day you replaced it."

 

"Ah, Khymara," murmured Perron, "it was my pleasure to assist in my own small way after the Executioners' glorious battle there against the hated Howling Griffons."

 

"You were quite the healer, Apothecary." Husq smiled as he spoke, the expression colder than the raging blizzard they stood in.

 

"Apothecary no longer, as I am sure you are aware." Perron smiled back with equal frigidity, the expression made grotesque by the jagged brass augmetic replacing his lower jaw and throat.

 

"We know," spat Tursk, refusing to look directly at the renegade. "We saw what you did to the children of the Howling Griffons."

 

"Hungry for geneseed, traitor?" added Junn, stroking his chainaxe like a hunter calming a hound baying to be let off the leash. "Is your precious Tyrant still trying to turn the Astral Claws Chapter into the Astral Claws Legion?"

 

"We are the Red Corsairs now," Perron replied calmly in his mechanical buzz, ignoring the jibes. "And our numbers grow by the day as disillusioned battle-brothers from across the galaxy flock to our cause."

 

"For those who choose to fight us, however..." He smiled then, caressing the vials hanging from his chest. "It is my deepest pleasure to add to Huron's supply of geneseed in my own, special way."

 

"Corpse Taker," hissed Pitic, the apprentice Techmarine beginning to raise his bolter.

 

"Enough, brother," warned the Sergeant, "we are here under a flag of truce, and we honour the ancient ways."

 

"Indeed, Husq, you do," said Perron, still smiling an evil smile. "I must admit, I was surprised you accepted my offer of parlay. Loyalist dogs typically have little interest in talking to the enlightened, especially when they have already betrayed us once, as your Chapter did when we needed you most."

 

"Betrayed you," Junn took a step toward the rise, stopping when Husq raised his hand.

 

"The Executioners die a slow death, Corpse Taker," Husq said, still holding Junn in place. The massive warrior was breathing heavily, spittle freezing in his beard. He looked every bit the raging, ill-disciplined barbarian at that moment, eyes wide inside his leather mask, ready to strike at his Sergeant if it got him closer to the traitor standing on the ridge.

 

"This penitent crusade punishes us for an honourable war. We were brothers, once, Executioners and Astral Claws, so I will permit you this one chance to converse." Even as he finished addressing the former Apothecary, Husq pivoted on the spot, delivering a stinging backhand to the face of Junn with his deactivated power fist.

 

Taken by surprise, the giant warrior fell backwards into the snow, a snarl on his bloodied lips. "Control yourself or I will bury you, brother," Husq hissed over the vox, sending a rush of power buzzing through his gauntlet to punctuate the point.

 

"Alright," muttered Junn, accepting the hand Husq offered him. "But there will be a reckoning, you and I, when we get back to the Night Hag."

 

Husq snorted, "If we ever make it back to the ship, brother, you'll be welcome to try taking my head."

 

"Finished disciplining your troops, Sergeant?" asked Perron, obviously amused. "Speaking of which, where is your sixth? I would suggest he had deserted you, but I saw Brother Leng's shot take him with my own eyes."

 

The Sergeant stared at the marine the Corpse Taker indicated, a warrior with an insect-like helm and the defaced insignia of the Mantis Warriors on his pauldron. The Mantis Warriors, along with the Lamenters and the Executioners, had been allies of the Claws during their rebellion, and it did not surprise Husq that some had followed Huron into heresy instead of accepting the punishment of the Imperium. The traitor nodded to him, perhaps under the impression he was being shown respect by the Executioners Sergeant.

 

"He died while I was dragging him inside. His leg was gone, and the armour he wore lacked the ability to cope with the injury. He bled to death."

 

"Was that really Thunder armour he wore?" laughed Perron, "by the Blackheart himself, I'm surprised a ten thousand year old relic like that still functions!"

 

"Enough idle chatter, Perron. What do you offer?"

 

The traitor's laughter cut off, expression turning serious as he gazed down at the Executioners.

 

"It is a simple enough offer, brother," he snarled, voice buzzing from his augmetic throat. "By the old bonds of allegiance between our two Chapters, I give you this one opportunity: Renounce your Corpse-Emperor, abandon the corruption of the Imperium, and embrace the sovereignty of the true Adeptus Astartes!"

 

"Oh, is that all?" grunted Kruss.

 

"I would give your entire Chapter this opportunity if I could," yelled the Corpse Taker, arms raised theatrically, a Demagogue breaking into a fiery sermon. "Even with the treachery you showed us in the Red Hour, turning upon your trusted allies to protect the geneseed of the hated Salamanders.”

 

“Aye, we are the treacherous ones,” muttered Tursk.

 

“We would welcome you all with open arms,” Perron continued as he paced back and forth, not hearing or simply ignoring Tursk’s words, “as brothers united once again against the petty mortals who seek to dominate us. Tell me, does the Imperium that betrayed us - that punished you so wrongly - would they give you the same opportunity?"

 

"You want us to join the Red Corsairs?" asked Husq.

 

Perron just stared at him, a slight smirk on his grotesque lips.

 

Husq did not bother to confer with his men. He knew their answer. He nodded slowly, the gesture one of the hardest things he had ever done in over two centuries of life.

 

"Excellent!" laughed Perron, clapping his clawed hands together. "Let us go inside and investigate the vault together, united as brothers once more!"

 

The traitor ordered his squad down the mound first, sliding after them once they had their weapons trained on the Executioners. Up close, Husq could smell the warp-reek coming off them, the stench working its way inside his helm. He saw Junn spit, the glob of saliva coming perilously close to striking one of the Red Corsairs. The bearded giant grinned toothily as the heretic growled at him.

 

"Now, before you think me a fool," the former Apothecary said conversationally as he stood face to face with the Sergeant. "Understand that I have two more squads covering you as we speak. If you plan treachery, you will not survive long."

 

"I am no fool, myself," said Husq dryly, "I understand I will not survive."

 

"Excellent!" Perron said again, obviously relishing the superiority he held over his new recruits. "Now, onto business. I want you and your squad to enter the ruins and bring the contents out to us. If you prove yourselves trustworthy at so simple a task, I will allow you to kneel and renounce your oaths to the Imperium."

 

"Generous," said Kruss.

 

"Very well, brother,” said Husq, thinking quickly. "But first, allow me one question."

 

Perron smiled at this, "You are hardly in a position to ask for a boon, Brother-Sergeant, but I am feeling magnanimous today. A question for a question, fair enough?"

 

"Agreed." Husq paused, taking a moment to enjoy the frigid, cleansing air of Polus II against his sweat-coated skin. "How did you get here?"

 

"We arrived months ago," said Perron, indicating his squad of heretics with a lazy wave of a lightning-clawed hand. "The Blood Reaver ordered me to retrieve the contents of several supply vaults we had scattered around this and other worlds in the Badab sector, emergency stockpiles from early in the War that are needed to equip our newly recruited brothers."

 

"Your presence here triggered the uprising?" asked Tursk, interested in spite of himself.

 

The Corpse Taker laughed. "Indeed, these fungus farmers began worshipping the Pantheon after discovering we had been excommunicated. Apparently their loyalty runs so deep that they formed their own Tyrant's Legion in our absence, just awaiting the day one of Huron's sons would return and lead them to victory."

 

Husq snorted at this.

 

"Yes, I felt much the same way. The useless fools attracted attention we would have preferred to avoid, but nothing that will trouble us overmuch. We have a vessel in amongst the asteroid belt and a pair of Thunderhawks on the ground, there will be no problems escaping this world once we have all that we came for."

 

Perron spared a glance for his men, who had begun to look more and more agitated as the lengthy and surprisingly cordial conversation wore on. A soft hissing noise emitted from his mechanical throat, apparently from a built-in vox, and all the warriors in the squad immediately ceased their fidgeting, dropping partially raised weapons to point once more at the icy ground.

 

"We had an agreement, Perron," said Husq with forced affability, eyeing the agitated traitors. "Ask your question."

 

"Very well, Husq. You had not yet entered the war when we claimed the Mechanicum vessel. Tell me, how did the Executioners learn of this repository?"

 

"Easy," grunted Kruss before the Sergeant could reply, "Took a Red Corsair, just off the Aventis Gulf."

 

"A former Tiger Claw, in fact," interjected Tursk, twisting the knife. The mysterious successor Chapter had always been a sensitive issue for the Astral Claws, to the point that Husq had seen perfectly calm warriors fly into a murderous rage at the merest mention of the Tiger Claws by an outsider.

 

"Resisted for a while," Kruss continued, "but only so many parts you can cut off a man before he starts talking. The Librarians flayed his mind, even as the Death-Speakers flayed the rest of him."

 

He pointed to the row of skulls at his belt, touching a particular one with a pair of large, silver spikes impaled through the eyes and the High Gothic word 'perdita' engraved on its forehead . "Took his head myself, after he told the Death-Speakers everything he knew. He begged for it, in the end."

 

"Very talkative today, aren't you brother?" muttered Husq.

 

"Splendid," interrupted Perron, the ever-present smile plastered across his ruined features looking decidedly false now. "He was weak and so he deserved to die. You did the Red Corsairs a favour."

 

"I am glad you feel that way," said Husq with false solemnity, "I would hate to think this might cause bad blood between us."

 

"Enough talking," spat the Corpse Taker, stepping toward the Executioner Sergeant.

 

"Grant me one final boon, Perron, and we will do what you ask." Husq knew he was pushing his luck, but he sensed the traitor would put up with much for the glory of recruiting so many new brothers to the Red Corsair ranks.

 

"You try my patience, brother," growled the former Apothecary.

 

Husq stepped forward, resisting the urge to strike out at the traitor. Bile rose in his throat as he tried to inject a note of pleading into his voice.

 

"You ask us to give up all that we have known, to betray oaths that have bound our Chapter to the Imperium for millennia-"

 

"And what of it?" interrupted Perron, looking murderous.

 

"You invoked an ancient honour rite to bring us to this point. Thousands of years of tradition demand that we complete it."

 

The Corpse Taker stood there for a long moment, struck dumb. "Gods man, are you serious?" he asked finally.

 

"Deathly," said Kruss, gently stroking the skull of the Tiger Claw hanging at his waist.

 

Perron sighed in obvious exasperation, the sound billowing forth as a blurt of heavy static. He stepped forward, signalling for a cluster of his squad members to do likewise. Husq noticed that all bore the old insignia of the Astral Claws, ruined by the application of swathes of blood-coloured paint and the clenched fist of the Blood Reaver.

 

The Sergeant gestured for his own men to do the same, each of the Executioners squaring off with an opposite Red Corsair. All held weapons to their chests in the classic parade pose, the twitching traitors looking far from natural in this ceremonial role. Husq grimaced at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

 

As the principals, the Sergeant and the former Apothecary stepped toward each other, each placing their right hand upon the other's shoulder. Husq was pleased to see the Corpse Taker flinch almost imperceptibly as the deactivated power fist came to rest on his shoulder pauldron, massive fingers gripping the scarred ceramite tightly. He felt Perron adjust his own hand, angling the lightning claws to aim toward Husq's exposed throat.

 

"By blood and brotherhood, the bond endures," recited Perron, sounding bored.

 

"By blood and brotherhood, the bond endures," chorused the Executioners, words tinged with disgust. The Red Corsairs uttered not a sound, although Husq thought he could hear one of the heretics growling through the fanged grill of his helm.

 

"Honour the Executioners," said the Corpse Taker.

 

"Honour the Astral Claws," replied Husq.

 

"Red Corsairs," hissed Perron, spittle hitting the Sergeant in the face.

 

"My Chapter honours the memory of the Astral Claws, for what they once were," he pulled his face tight against the Corpse Taker's, nose to nose, eye to eye. "But your bastard Blackheart and his petty little band of pirates deserve only the headsman’s axe."

 

"You'll die for this treachery, scum!" screamed Perron.

 

"As I told you before, brother, I understand I will not survive this day."

 

Time seemed to slow. Husq's left gauntlet shot up as he felt the lightning claw at his neck ignite, slapping the Corsair's hand away with his stormbolter before Perron could tear out his throat. The gun, a valuable relic, was sliced into pieces by the Red Corsair's talons.

 

The traitors stood around their leader, opening up with bolters, howling with glee at the prospect of finally murdering the loyalists. The Executioners themselves had gone to ground, returning fire sporadically. They knew what was coming.

 

Perron lurched in his grip, attempting to drive his claws into Husq's abdomen.

 

“I will tear off your limbs, Executioner,” spat Perron, attempting to shake off the grip of the Sergeant’s massive fist. “And leave you to watch as we rip the geneseed from your brothers!”

 

“Now,” replied Husq, smiling.

 

"For the Emperor! For Dorn!" Brother Oros' voice roared suddenly, the words carrying clearly from inside the cavernous vault despite the howling wind and the bark of bolter fire. "Take their heads, Executioners!"

 

With that, the dying Space Marine detonated the last of the melta charges Husq had left with him. Brother Oros, the entire vault, and the cliff face itself disappeared in a blinding white flash as all the ammunition and priceless armour was consumed in atomic fire.

 

Husq watched as the momentous explosion threw many of the Red Corsairs off their feet, swatted away by the shockwave as though they weighed nothing.

 

Somehow, the Sergeant and Perron remained standing, knee-deep in the swirling snow of a dying world, and each stared into the eyes of a man they had once fought beside, once called brother.

 

Then Perron stabbed his fists forward, crackling talons on the backs of his gauntlets driving into Husq's abdomen.

 

"How does that feel, brother?" the Corpse Taker laughed as he impaled Husq.

 

Blood coming to his lips, the Brother-Sergeant did not bother to reply. Instead, he activated his power fist.

 

Perron managed one gurgling, static-filled scream before he came apart in Husq's grip, shoulder and part of his head disintegrated by the crackling power field of the giant gauntlet. Standing above the toppling body of the traitorous Apothecary, the Executioner ripped the claws free of his stomach, thick blood spraying over the snow, the vicious wound steaming in the cold.

 

The Sergeant replaced his helm on his head and ordered the attack.

 

Husq felt the combat drugs flush his system, dulling the pain, making his hearts pound in his chest. He gazed across the impromptu battlefield, seeing that his battle-brothers were already in amongst the traitors.

 

He watched as Kruss dodged a clumsy attack by a former Ultramarine bearing the Star of Chaos branded on his maggot-pale face, the traitor swinging and missing with the butt of his bolter. Kruss slipped under the blow, taking both the Corsair's legs off with a single sweep of his giant power axe, before pivoting and driving the blade through the screaming heretic’s neck. The Vanguard made eye contact with Husq for an instant, nodding his head, then moved onto his next opponent in one smooth motion, axe swivelling into an overhand chop that his enemy only barely managed to block in time.

 

Pitic and Tursk fired their bolters in support, sheltering behind the stacked bodies of a pair of Red Corsairs they had gunned down in the initial attack. Tursk picked out targets of opportunity, the young pilot following his lead, their combined volleys felling another traitor who was moving to intercept Kruss as the Vanguard slaughtered his way further and further away from his battle-brothers. Husq noticed a blinking amber rune on his display to match his own; Tursk was wounded, though he showed no signs of it, his aim never wavering.

 

Junn was the first of them to die.

 

The giant charged ahead of his battle-brothers, bolt pistol and chainaxe roaring in his hands, the cries of these mighty weapons as nothing compared to his own bellows of rage. Husq was forced to look away from the glorious charge, crouching under the swing of a gibbering heretic armed with a gladius in each hand. He pushed himself upward, servos in his knees whining, and launched an uppercut with his power fist that ripped the Red Corsair in half, thick loops of intestines tumbling out of the traitor to land, steaming, in the pristine snow. Even as he finished killing the Corsair, he saw Junn's rune flicker from green to black.

 

He swung back, watching helplessly as the massive warrior fell in a puff of crimson, headless, the victim of a bolter shot to the face. He had not even reached the Red Corsairs. It was a poor end to a long, honourable chronicle.

 

The Sergeant saw the former Mantis Warrior, crouched in the snow a dozen meters away, looking through the scope of the corrupted Stalker-pattern boltgun clutched in his taloned grip. With a roar, Husq charged.

 

"Ridge," he heard Tursk yell, the word cut off with a strangled cry, but he was almost upon the enemy and had no time to heed the warning.

 

The traitorous Brother Leng had all the famed senses of his former Chapter, spinning with preternatural speed to aim and fire at Husq. The shot was rushed, however, and hit him in the collar of his armour, not penetrating deeply enough to cause lasting damage. He was mere strides away, power fist extended out to the side, readying a swing that would avenge Brother Junn in one single, glorious blow.

 

He never made it.

 

Husq was thrown forward, face first into the snow. He couldn't breathe, unable even to thrash as his arms and legs refused to respond.

 

He felt a heavy boot against his shoulder, shoving him over onto his back. He looked up at the former Mantis Warrior, crimson helm twisted into an insectoid leer. Up close, he could see the mandibles on either side of the warrior's jaw were quivering slightly, as though alive.

 

Behind the traitor, up on the ridge, at least twenty more Red Corsairs stood, firing their weapons down into the shallow ravine. He saw Pitic fall, the young marine smashed from his feet by a salvo of bolter fire.

 

One of the Red Corsairs held a missile launcher pointed in his direction, the long tube still smoking in the cold.

 

Husq looked down, the movement taking an extreme amount of effort. He felt numb.

 

His legs were both gone, as was most of his right arm. His torso armour was as shredded as the flesh beneath, only the aquila on his chest surviving apparently unscathed. He didn't need the klaxons wailing in his helm or the scrolling damage reports to know he had been hit in the back by a missile, the direct hit on his power supply resulting in the catastrophic blast that had so ruined his body. He felt heavy, weak, the barest trickle of energy remaining to the almost-dead machine spirit of his armour.

 

Husq could barely summon the energy to look up at the traitor standing over him.

 

Brother Leng looked down the scope of his bolter, aiming directly at the Sergeant's face. He gestured, once, a slight shrug toward the prone Executioner. Husq understood.

 

The Veteran Sergeant reached up to remove his helm one last time, sighing sadly as he realised Pitic and Tursk had joined Oros and Junn in death, four black runes in a row under his own glowing red light. He pulled the helm from his head, smiling up at the traitor who had shown him this gesture of respect, warrior to warrior.

 

Summoning the last of his strength, Husq spat in Brother Leng's face, regretting for the first time in his centuries as an Executioner that Dorn's geneseed denied him the ability to spit corrosive acid.

 

The Red Corsair growled, ignoring the bloody sputum on his helm. Husq let his head drop back into the snow and closed his eyes, content. Four black runes, his own blinking red light.

 

And one solitary green rune, accompanied by a single line of text:

 

+The Chapter will learn of your sacrifice, Husq, upon my axe I swear it. Die well, brother.+

 

Husq began to laugh.

 

His final order had been obeyed. The Executioners would soon learn of the Blackheart's plans, and of the valiant deaths of his men.

 

It had been a glorious day. Honour paid and blood owed.

 

Sergeant Fenan Husq was still laughing as the traitor fired.

[Dosjetka]

I loved it. Simple as that. Well written, great atmosphere and I love the plot.

 

Thank you for sharing this, you've really made my day :devil:

 

Ludovic

[Lysimachus]

Really very nice. I'm guessing that as you've posted it, you didn't get it accepted by BL? (That reminds me, I never posted the bit I wrote for last years submission window, never heard back from them so I'll have to put it up)

 

Anyway, I really don't get why they wouldn't have wanted it, but their loss is our gain IMHO.

 

 

Edit: Just realized/remembered, one of your characters is the same guy from an earlier story, got his face ripped off by an Ork didn't he? Nice bit of continuity there!

[Corsair]

2996649[/url]']

I loved it. Simple as that. Well written, great atmosphere and I love the plot.

 

Thank you for sharing this, you've really made my day :rolleyes:

 

Ludovic

 

Thanks very much for taking the time to read, and of course for the kind words.

 

2996742[/url]']

Really very nice. I'm guessing that as you've posted it, you didn't get it accepted by BL? (That reminds me, I never posted the bit I wrote for last years submission window, never heard back from them so I'll have to put it up)

 

Anyway, I really don't get why they wouldn't have wanted it, but their loss is our gain IMHO.

 

 

Edit: Just realized/remembered, one of your characters is the same guy from an earlier story, got his face ripped off by an Ork didn't he? Nice bit of continuity there!

 

You're right indeed, Black Library announced on the Black Library Bolthole forums that if you haven't heard by now, you won't be hearing. I'm disappointed of course, but I kind of expected it.

Thanks for the kind words, I'm glad you liked it. Ive always been fascinated by the idea of what happened to the various Chapters that rebelled alongside the Red Corsairs. I know there were penitent crusades for all and sundry, as well as harsher punishments for the Lamenters and Mantis Warriors, but I like the idea of exploring the complex relationships this would create between them and the Imperium, as well as their former allies.

Oh and you're right, Junn and Oros appeared in a previous story (although it was written after this one), which detailed how Junn lost his face and gained an ork-skin mask. It's something I like to do across my work - for example, the story where Junn loses is face takes place on the world of Saint Paedrig's Pride, which was featured being conquered by the Orks in my story Pride Goeth.

In a similar vein, the Night Lord Cerck that featured in my story further down the page (Heresy Ad Infinitum), has popped up in various places and will continue to do so as an antagonist.

I'm intending to submit an Executioners novel pitch for the next window, so I guess we'll see how it goes.I'll be sure to take a look at your story

[Olis]

Nice read. Interesting to hear tales of the Executioners written as well as this.

[Corsair]

2997147[/url]']

Nice read. Interesting to hear tales of the Executioners written as well as this.

 

Thank you. :tu:

I've been fascinated by them since first seeing a camouflaged Executioner mini all those years ago, and the expansion of their fluff has only made me more interested in exploring them both per and post-Badab

[Gitsplitta]

As a Mantis Warrior player since the time they were first introduced... I loved it. Excellent piece of fiction.

[Corsair]

2998903[/url]']

As a Mantis Warrior player since the time they were first introduced... I loved it. Excellent piece of fiction.

 

It is funny that you posted that, as it was your Tranquilty sniper that inspired the inclusion of Brother Leng in the story! (it was originally just going to be a random Astral Claw).

Thanks for reading, I'm glad you liked it. It's my goal if I ever get my foot in the door at BL that I will grab the Badab War with both hands and write about the Executioners, Lamenters, Mantis Warriors, and the various loyalists as much as is humanly possible.

As much as I love the Heresy, I find the Badab conflict infinitely more fascinating.

[Gitsplitta]

Keep at it Corsair. You're very good and clearly have talent. Not sure what the BL crew is looking for... but I've read published BL stories that weren't as cohesive or as compelling as yours. I'm honored to have had some influence on such a fine piece of work.

 

Funny thing... I've already done one traitor Mantis Warrior for a friend who runs chaos (Red Corsairs). He's a prototype for the way I'll do my vanguard.

[Andrew J]

Fantastic beginning! Loved it. I dont know how you did not get into the BL. You do certainly have the talent. As said previously you are a better writer than some BL I have read. I hope it goes better for you in the next go around. Keep up the great work!

[Llagos_Tyrant]

I don't mean to bring a thread back from the dead, but this simply amazing.

 

This is a wonderful story you've written and everything about it is great. You've got a real talent for writing and you have to keep this up. Any time you write anything new, be sure to post it here. I'd love to read it.

[Corsair]

Thanks a lot everyone for the kind words; I don't mind the bit of threadromancy ^_^

 

I've got a few other 40k pieces on here (might be easier to find them at my site http://timsweeney.net ).

 

I'm working on my submissions for this year's BL window at the moment. Wish me luck.

[Dosjetka]

I'm working on my submissions for this year's BL window at the moment. Wish me luck.

Good luck with that then mate! :)

 

Ludovic

[Taranis]

I'm working on my submissions for this year's BL window at the moment. Wish me luck.

Good luck with that then mate! :D

 

Ludovic

 

+1

 

Thanks for a great read. I'll be checking you site. B)

 

T.

[Brother Richard]

A good read...thanks for sharing!

[Corsair]

Thanks a lot guys, really appreciate it.

 

I am submitting my first BL sample tonight, which is also about the Executioners; I'm determined to claim the laughing axe men as my own!

[Andrew J]

Good luck Corsair!!! I hope you get in this time!!