The Iron Clad

Llagos_Tyrant · May 3, 2012

Chapter - I

War Smith Oden sat in his decrepit throne room, his wolf cloak and its chainmail interior draped around his form. Besides the droning of the messenger before him, the only sound in the room was the methodical inhale and exhale of the rebreather covering his mouth. Gifted to him by the death throes of a Salamanders Dreadnought, it had become a constant reminder of his purpose in life. Of course, he had optimized it for his purposes. Feeding him a supply of oxygen and a nerve stimulant that heightened his reflexes and dulled his pain, he had ensured its purpose was as practical as it was psychological. Painted in the fashion of an open maw, jagged teeth bare and open wide across the rebreather, the War Smith had become known for his appearance as much as his history. His eyes slowly refocused from his thoughts to the world around him, and he glanced at the Chosen bodyguards flanking him.

The warriors were in their dark armour, a matte iron surrounded by a silver edging, emblazoned with the patterns and designs that had been so popular on Olympia. Their helmets were prizes of their most recent battles, the Imperial Corvus pattern, seized from the corpses of an unfortunate squad of Raven Guard. Their right shoulders bore the telltale hazard stripes of his legion, and their left pauldron still bore that cursed skull. On their chest, where once the Imperial Aquila had struck fear into their enemies, they had each carved a single grimacing skull. Draping down from their hip, a ragged length of chainmail reached down, almost to the floor. Rusted in places and filled with nicks and a few scattered bullet holes, the mail seemed to complement the hazard stripes on their left knee guards.

“My Lord has heard much of your exploits in the Peruvian Rift. He understands that the destruction of an entire regiment of the Imperial Guard is quite a feat.” The old man said, his left bionic eye adjusting to the dim light of the room as the massive fan overhead eclipsed it momentarily. He looked out of place here, on the rusted space hulk Heeded Judgement, in his deep red and purple regalia, with a sharp gold trim along its cuffs and embroidery. Even his skin was too fine, for a traitor. His beard too was finely cut and groomed, a gentle white scruff rolling down his face and neck like a waterfall, joined by the edges of a receding, white hairline.

“Half a regiment of the Imperial Guard.” Oden corrected him, his deep voice filling the room. “The appearance of a tendril of Leviathan was unanticipated.” He said in his slow, deliberate tone.

“Still. You got the job done, did you not?”

“I drowned three underwater Hive cities, overloaded the reactor cores of two Adeptus Mechanicus energy facilities, claimed an escort vessel of the Imperial Navy as my own and dragged the regiments general, screaming to the Governors Palace before the extermination of the Tyranid fleet.” Oden finished. “So yes, I got the job done.”

“Then my Lord shall be pleased to hear it.” The messenger beamed. “You will of course be well rewarded for your services in the Javik Sub-Sector.”

Damned Aristocrats Oden thought to himself. The Imperium used to be something to fight for, and now? Now they send a million lions to die to save a handful of self-righteous, ;)-covering pigs.

“In what manner?”

“In whatever manner you would desire.” The man answered with an unpleasant smile.

“No.” Oden rebuffed.

“No?” the man asked.

“No. The man without a solid offer, is a man I shall not deal with.” Oden rose to his feet and began the walk down the steps. “You can tell your Lord that the Imperium will have his head within a month.”

“That is precisely why we are looking to employ your services. Surely, you can see that the continuation of War in the Javik Sub-Sector is-“

“A dream of just another petty warlord.” Oden interrupted, stopping at the last step so that he was but several feet from the whelp before him. The Chosen behind him instinctively made subtle motions to their weapons. “Willingly, you defied the Imperium. Your first mistake.” Oden waived off his bodyguards. “Willingly, you summoned daemons to guard your worlds. Your second mistake.” Any feint smile had left the man’s face as Oden took another step towards him. “And now you come seeking my aid without any semblance of reason or reward.” Oden smiled at him as the fan passed overhead again.

Even with his bionic eye, the man wouldn’t have been able to see the War Smith lunge towards him in the sudden transition of light. It was all he could do the next moment to spit and struggle in Odens vice grip, grasping at the hand around his throat as he was lifted up and off of his feet. “In a galaxy such as this, one cannot make three mistakes.” Oden concluded, lowering the man to eye level. The Messengers veins bulged at his forehead as his eyes struggled to stay focused, the adrenaline in his blood kick starting survival instincts. Oden turned the gasping man slightly to the left and then the right, examining the skull beneath his skin.

“Pathetic.” He whispered, dropping the man to the rusted floor as he struggled to breath. “Tell your Lord to ask the Peruvian Rift what happened when my forces did not receive their due.” He said, waving open a door on the flank of his room. “He’ll find their silence grave indeed.”

The door sealed behind him with a hiss as he took his first steps in the long hallway, covered in rusted filth as it was with much of this ghostly Space Hulk. The dim lighting overhead flickered and shuddered as the battered steel structure passed through empty space, driven by a dozen engines, warped and modified to propel the structure in a single, unified system. As crude as it was, it worked, and Oden was confident that none but the Iron Warriors could have rigged such a network together. Nonetheless, it was hardly safe and every warp jump seemed more precarious and less exact than the last.

Oden ran his hand along the inner walls of the wreck, his Chosen silently following him. He closed his eyes and shivered as the daemons bound to the structure leapt to the forefront of his mind.

Oden … once more you come crawling,

While the dead Primarch is falling,

Deeper and deeper down,

Never to seize his crown.

Have you finally decided,

Or has fate at last derided,

That pitiful decision,

That you will put to revision?

Come and free my heart,

And together we will start,

All which you desire,

With your Primarch on the pyre.

They said to him with a single voice of a hundred lost brothers. He pulled his hand away and opened his eyes as he continued his walk. “Not today, wretch.” He said. Continuing his pace, Oden passed by the windows displaying the vast canvas of black before him without a glance, and as he rounded the final corner on his journey, he could hear the raucous orchestra of the loading bays, bristling with cranes loading ammunition and armoured vehicles into their transports.

He continued along the hallway and up a path of steps as the noise grew louder and louder. Eventually reaching their summit, the door before him opened and he stepped out onto the decaying catwalk. The drills and cranes below him worked feverishly while the various renegades and traitors he had cobbled together shouted in vulgar tongues at their slaves to work faster, work harder, or to avert their eyes from the catwalk as Oden strode past them.

Farther along the catwalk, another Iron Warrior watched the circus below him, dressed in full power armour and a grimacing skull helm. “That one should have been a World Eater.” He said, gesturing to one of the traitor guardsmen keeping order down below. Oden slowed his walk as he glanced down.

The man was beating one of his slaves senseless, a brass knuckle in each hand. Blood flew into the air between his swings as the slaves around him hurried in the work and sank lower to the ground in obedience. “A World Eater?” Oden asked, watching the man. His swings grew tired and his pace slowed as he gradually stood up, off of the man. He turned to look at those around him and spun on his heel in an instant, kicking his charge straight in the throat. The slave just lay there, perfectly motionless.

“Angron wouldn’t like him. He didn’t desecrate the corpse.” He commented, looking at his brother. The man’s armour bore the scars of a hundred battles, and the servo harness mounted on his back held its fair share of nicks and dents, in some places showing the metal over the painted hazard stripes. “Are we on schedule, Flesh-Smith?” He asked.

“Indeed we are. I have to ask though, do you really think that the Javik Sub-Sector is worth the risk? We haven’t made a full combat deployment in a hundred operations, not since the Peruvian Rift – and that was a near disaster.” The man responded.

“Brother Tyr, how unfaithful you are.” Oden said.

“The Iron Warriors are renowned for their selfishness and paranoia, haven’t you heard?” he answered, looking back to his brother. The red eyes of his power armour glowed in the dim light of the catwalk.

“The Peruvian Rift was our greatest exploit, if you recall.” Oden said.

“And one of our least profitable.” The Flesh-Smith grunted.

“That’s the trouble with mercenary work. You never know when you’re going to get a knife in the back.” Oden said. “Gods, I miss the Great Crusade.” He sighed. The Flesh-Smith turned back to him sharply.

“I’d be careful who you said that to, my Lord.”

“I’m not talking about the Emperor or that fool of a Primarch.” Oden answered, his deep voice rising in the anger of the moment. “I miss the challenge of personal combat on a hundred worlds, day after day. I miss the glory of an orbital drop in the middle of a battle between grand cruisers and battleships. I miss the endless call of war that woke us in the morning and sang to us at night.” He said, the possessed space hulk groaning as he finished.

“We could always divert to Cadia, if you’re interested.” Tyr said.

“In due time.” He paused for a moment as he glanced down at the guardsman, wiping his knuckles and face with a rag he had picked up off of a nearby crate. “When you decide to be a traitor, you can’t possibly imagine the price you’ll pay.” He said.

A small group of his renegade host approached the man below, seemingly upset that he had used one of their rags to clean himself off. “So what is the profit in Javik? Why are we going there?” Tyr asked. One of the guards stepped forward from the group, pointing a finger and shouting something unintelligible at the man. “I mean, you have to know that another local governor doesn’t have the resources to harbour us at any length.” Tyr said.

The man below had stopped wiping himself off and tossed the towel to the side, flexing his fists as they dropped to his side. “Do you remember when we found Ahriman several weeks ago?” The blooded guardsman lunged at the man confronting him, grabbing him by the throat and punching him in the face with his brass knuckles, shattering his nose and spilling blood down his face.

“What about him?” the Smith asked as Oden turned his head, and signaled to his Chosen. The pair behind him nodded in unison and stepped towards the railing, their prized stalker-pattern bolters coming up to eye level as they adjusted their sights and dialed the targeting assist on their weapons.

“The two of us have an arrangement of sorts.” He said

“And that would be?” Tyr asked, looking at Oden square in the face. The burst of gunfire behind him hardly affected the War Smith, who glanced down to the pits below to see the mangled corpses of the fighting guardsmen.

“The Iron Warriors are renowned for their selfishness and paranoia.” Oden answered, tilting his head in dismissal of his subordinate. As quickly as they had fired, the Chosen reformed behind their War Smith who brushed past Brother Tyr on his continued march to the Bridge.

“Ready your men, Flesh-Smith. You’ll find much more than traitors and dogs in the coming days.”

Bjorn Firewalker · May 6, 2012

A good start, but I find it hard to believe an Iron Warriors War Smith can get away with calling Perturabo a "fool"- in a Chaos army, there's no shortage of ambitious individuals who'll use that to rally others to his side, and justify a coup that'll remove the War Smith from power.

Azarias · May 6, 2012

At the same time, though, the legion is vast, and this particular warsmith might have been able to carve out a fiefdom of like-minded warriors. It's plausible. I'm curious to see the next bit though.

CKO · May 6, 2012

I am curious also, good stuff.

Jake-Mulraney · May 14, 2012

This is awesome!

Llagos_Tyrant · May 16, 2012

Thank you all for your comments!

Bjorn - Azarius has the right idea. His force is largely disillusioned with their Primarch although this will become more apparent and more explained over time (I hope.)

Now unfortunately this might be updated only sparsely due to Real Life commitments, a Community based writing story on here that I just got involved in (sorry), and a book that I'm writing - as well as painting and several weekended trips for the next little while so while I do have every intention of continuing to write this out, it may be a little bit of a wait.

I hope to keep you interested with each forthcoming post and not to disappoint your expectations.

Thanks again!

Kol Saresk · May 19, 2012

I like this very much. Wish to see more.

Llagos_Tyrant · May 22, 2012

Chapter II

The War Smith felt the Space Hulk shudder as it exited Warp Space, a sudden deceleration confirming his suspicions as it lurched to a halt. On the bridge of the rusted mass, the few officers and traitor naval officers needed to keep things running jolted forward and hunched over their consoles. Were it not for the railings and stabilizing bars that they had installed, it would have easily sent some of them to the floor, if not crashing into the equipment. The War Smith however, sitting high in his Officers chair, and the hulking warriors behind him barely moved, the weight of their armour keeping them still.

“Report.” Oden called out on the bridge, his thundering breathe coercing them to reply with all haste.

“My Lord, sensors are reading all clear. No hull damage to report and we are precisely on schedule - arriving at 0400 local time, within the magnetic field of Kirrahe. Rebel and Imperial sensors should have a hard time picking us up within the distortion of the Gas Giant.” Said one of the men, who was dressed in the crisp and trimmed uniform of an Imperial Naval Commander. Oden knew him at a glance. Commander Kalros, 76th Reaction Fleet, Imperial Navy. He would have made a fine officer in the Emperors service, but he had left his brothers from Krieg long ago. He had served with Oden from before the Nuclear Fire had ravaged his home world in a desperate civil war to ‘purify’ the system. Oden had once done something similar.

The man’s crisp uniform was in stark contrast to the dying and faded rust of the Hulk in which he stood. Right down to the polished Iron Skull on the brim of his Commanders hat, Kalros was out of place – and his glistening shoes had only reinforced that fact.

“Well done, Commander. You continue to impress.” Oden boomed. Turning to glance at the other officers on the bridge, the War Smith saw almost nothing but a collection of Servitors, fiddling and tweaking a variety of systems. Besides the man-machines and Kalros, the daemon within the Hulk had taken over much of the other systems, rendering the need for crew moot. Oden though, for his part, still preferred the presence of a living mortal on his bridge. Standing by a communications panel on the far wall, Ensign Gabriella Anders played with the communications relay on the hull, and tweaked the ships internal vox system to keep it at optimum levels – and out of daemonic manipulation.

“Ensign Anders, Communications Report.”

“My Lord, I am intercepting terabytes of information. Almost all of it is encrypted and beyond our capabilities, but it would appear as though the Imperium is losing ground to the daemons summoned up by the Planetary Governor. Their range of operation though, seems to be limited. They aren’t making any headway beyond Javik Primaris, the Capital Hive World. Even its Jungle moon, Avaris seems to be a dead lock between the Liberation Fleet and the PDF.” She said, looking up from her console.

Oden drew a long breathe as she looked up at him. She was quite a thing of beauty, with her dark skin and brown eyes. It was no wonder really, that Slaanesh had taken a fancy to her. Oden still couldn’t understand though, why she had seared the mark of her patron into her face. Beginning at her cheek and trailing up over her head, leaving half of her black hair falling shoulder length on side, and the other half bald with the scar, the Mark of her old patron rang round her right eye – though her vision had remained unaffected.

“Good. Any Astarte presence?”

“No my Lord, not yet.”

“The Ordo Malleus?” He questioned, waiting several seconds while she cycled through unencrypted transmissions.

“Scattered reports indicate an Inquisitor is expected to arrive imminently. I will update you as I find more information.”

“Good, Ensign. Notify me if the situation changes.” Oden turned from her, peering out at Kirrahe as it spun on the solar plane. The Gas Giant was massive beyond compare. A swirling ball of bright greens, regal purples and shimmering blues that cast off an eerie glow into the darkness of space, it could almost have been mistaken for a second sun. Indeed, were it not for the gas mining facility holding in low orbit over the planet, it could very well have been. Nonetheless, the immense reserves of nitrogen, methane, ammonia and oxygen within its gravity well were too valuable for the Imperium to ignore. Off in the distance, Oden could barely make out a small brown sphere of dirt and death. Javik IV. A world tidally locked and so bombarded with refracted radiation that it might as well have never been colonized, if not for military facilities it housed. He might not have been able to see it from this distance, even with his Astartes enhanced vision, but circling high above the world, on a rocky Ice moon was the Imperium's greatest feat of Prison engineering in the sub-sector. Haelstrom, it had been identified to him.

Turning his gaze from the forward observation window, Oden looked to the Centurion on his right. "Prepare Pyrrhus and his men, Mortez. They will be accompanying me with Deinonychus and his Raptors. You will march with me." The Warrior, clad in his Corvus pattern armour with a combat blade strapped and sheathed on his hazard striped right shoulder tilted his head in compliance as the glow of Kirrahe caught the etched silver trim of his suit.

"Of course my Lord. We shall await you in the hangar bay." The Warrior said as he turned from the Bridge and marched to the door, the Stalker-pattern bolter raised across his chest.

Turning to Drusus on his left, Oden looked over his modified bolter before he spoke. Assembled, modified, replaced and improved over a countless battles, Drusus had proved himself the finest marksman in the company a hundred times over. His stalker bolter, retrofitted and augmented with the latest advancements from the Mechanicum looked bulkier than the regular version. It was all the more lethal as well, fitted with a drum magazine and mounted with the extended barrel of a scouts sniper rifle. The weapon was truly a marvel, and due to his own ingenuity, Drusus had assembled it in a way that only he could properly operate it with such precision and lethality as was required.

"You shall prepare Flesh-Smith Tyr and Brachus' Forge-breakers for combat. Advise him to bring his latest progeny with him. No doubt, he is eager to see them in action." Oden rose from his seat as he continued, waving a dismissal to Commander Kalros as the Officer resumed control of the bridge. Drusus followed his Lord, listening intently as the two armoured giants left the bridge before continuing. As the door sealed shut and locked with a hiss behind them, War Smith Tullaris continued his order.

"You will go with Tyr to Avaris. You will take with you, a full third of the Iron Horde and their armour. Perhaps those traitorous guardsmen can finally prove their worth to the iron cause."

"Of course my Lord. What is our objective?" Drusus asked, his Olympian accent a continued reminder of Odens failures.

"You will be the face of our interdiction in these rebellions. The Planetary Governor asked for our assistance, and you will provide it. Shore up his defences on that Moon. There is a Manufactorum facility there that is vital to this war effort. It cannot be allowed to fall." Oden said as the pair walked out over the bridge approach, a high suspended catwalk overlooking the hangar bay below, filled with the Iron Horde finishing weapons checks and loading their last ammunition canisters onto the handful of Valkyries they had scrapped together over a decade of war. "And forget about the Hive World, it is of little consequence." He said over the noises below. Were it not for the filters in their vox systems, kicking in when background interference became too overbearing, Drusus might have struggled to hear Odens words. Indeed, the clink of metal, the grind of gears, the shouts of officers and the call of disgruntled renegades was all quite calamitous and it seemed rather chaotic below the armoured behemoths.

"Of little consequence? My Lord, surely the Governor will want us to support the forces defending his own bastion." Drusus asked as the pair continued their march. "Besides, how are we to be the face of an operation that exists beyond the sight of the rebellion?"

"Centurion, the Governor can want us to support the defence of his glorified home as much as he likes. The fact is that he has employed daemons in the cities. When they're done with the Imperium, they will turn on him and burn the world to the ground. Would you add our brothers to the eleven billion souls who will be lost when that happens?" Oden asked curtly, rounding a corner into a long corridor, rusted and weathered far beyond anything that should have been able to hold together

"Are we not lost already?" Drusus said, coming to a halt.

Oden slowed his walk as his boots on the grated floor lost their echo in his bodyguard. Pausing several feet from him, Oden slowly turned to face one of his most loyal warriors.

""We have always been lost Drusus. For ten thousand years we have been lost, waiting to die. And yet here we are, still alive. We're still alive because the Iron Warriors know that no matter what preparations are made, no matter how many soldiers are brought to bear on the enemy, or how much firepower is rained from the heavens - one day, we all have to die. We all have to lose eventually." Oden walked forwards to his brother and raised a hand on his hazard striped shoulder.

"Accepting the inevitability of death, does not mean submitting to it quietly. That's why we're here. So accept, Brother Drusus, that we have always been lost - you and I, and all our brothers. For ten thousand years and more - and yet still we are fighting." Oden released his Centurions pauldron as he turned back down the corridor.

"Should we not try to save them then?" Drusus asked his liege as he walked away.

Oden laughed in his unnatural, and rare, fashion. Even for a man as deadly as Drusus, the sound unnerved him. The metallic tinge to his voice and the thunderous exhales of Odens breathing apparatus made for a sound altogether inhuman.

"Save them?" Oden asked as his laughing ceased.

"It is better to die, than to live in hell."

Bjorn Firewalker · May 22, 2012

"Are we not lost already?" Drusus said, coming to a halt.
Oden slowed his walk as his boots on the grated floor lost their echo in his bodyguard. Pausing several feet from him, Oden slowly turned to face one of his most loyal warriors.

""We have always been lost Drusus. For ten thousand years we have been lost, waiting to die. And yet here we are, still alive. We're still alive because the Iron Warriors know that no matter what preparations are made, no matter how many soldiers are brought to bare on the enemy, or how much firepower is rained from the heavens - one day, we all have to die. We all have to lose eventually." Oden walked forwards to his brother and raised a hand on his hazard striped shoulder.

"Accepting the inevitability of death, does not mean submitting to it quietly. That's why we're here. So accept, Brother Drusus, that we have always been lost - you and I, and all our brothers. For ten thousand years and more - and yet still we are fighting." Oden released his Centurions pauldron as he turned back down the corridor.

I like the dialogue. It reminds me of Budd's (Michael Madsen's) attitude in Kill Bill- he felt he deserved to die, but he wasn't going to take it lying down.

Azarias · May 22, 2012

Once again, wonderfully done. Deinonychus strikes me as a wonderfully appropriate name for a Raptor.

Olis · May 22, 2012

Excellent work, the dialogue feels like it flows naturally and the characters act and behave distinctly. Good job. :lol:

Llagos_Tyrant · June 2, 2012

Chapter III

Oden grimaced as he stepped inside his quarters. For the ill repute of a Chaos Lord he was, it seemed a fittingly vile place - even if he loathed it. The noxious odor of decay filled his senses as he stepped inside the room and his enhanced physiology compensated for the gases that lingered there, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Passing the ragged bed, draped in animal pelts, Oden walked on by the scrying basin with impunity. Moving to his armour rack, Oden was filled with pride at the skeletal hanger. Every polished bone bore the intricate carvings of a mad sorcerer and Oden avoided gazing too long at the intricate detail. It formed out into patterns and sigils that covered the remains of the Hulks former master - a Death Guard Sorcerer - chained and speared on the iron poles holding the armour aloft. Having been in full battle plate to receive the rebellious Magistrate and to review his troops, a lone silver helmet rested on the polished corpse of his disgraced fore. Staring into the skull shaped masks dark, blank eye slits with memories of slaughter and flashes of combat blanketing his every thought, Oden picked up the helm and tucked it under his arm.

Turning from the chained corpse, Oden stared at the floor and called out into his room. "Silas!" The audible clicking of the servo skull as it awakened from its slumber atop the Sorcerers shoulders was shortly followed by the glow of its bionic eye. The red light was dim at first but soon grew and pulsed in a red light, that hummed with the foulness of the warp. The hovering skull drifted towards Oden as if it rode on water, bobbing up and down on imagined waves. "Gather Wulfric and Aralas. The Pup is with Brachus." Oden thundered. "Aralas will come with Tyr and I." he finished, resting a hand on the pulsating eight-pointed star on the sorcerers forehead. He could feel the warp flowing into him. The call of a daemon slowly building up to a whisper, before it was swatted away like a fly by the possessed Space Hulk - eager to keep Oden as its own prize. The War Smith grinned in slight relief as he withdrew his hand. The enemy of my enemy he thought. The skull servitor blinked its mechanical eye with a retracted metal curtain sheet that overran itself like scales and floated down the halls of the Heeded Judgement.

Oden too turned from the device as he walked towards the Hulks holding cells. It took him almost ten minutes to arrive, walking through the Hulk to its barracks, long in need of repair before descending into the remainder of the ship. When Oden and his men had seized the wreck, the sheer number of daemons summoned within its belly and the untold horde of other warp-beasts had derided any attempt at total conquest. Instead, the Heeded Judgement belonged half to the cold Iron Warriors and half to Nurgles bloated Plague-Bearers. The two sides had struggled with determination for a time, though Silas death had effectively ended the battle. Now, the ship was merely deadlocked in silent standoff, rather than the hazardous battleground it had once been. Since those days, Oden had only bothered to make one foray with his troops. Fighting against the very powers of hell itself, Oden had carved a path into the belly of the beast - and then he kept his greatest prizes in the sanctum of the daemon. It was the ultimate test of faith and fortitude. Most fell to the beast within a day, swelling and contorting into a bloated mass that flopped uselessly in its shackles. A few had so far resisted, and it was to them that Oden often came to visit.

His eyes had adjusted and guided him the whole of the way, but Oden was glad as he entered the Caged Hall. Glad to be out of the daemon tunnels of his Hulk. More than once on his journey, a frantic slither and hissing noise had erupted as he drew near - and the glowing eyes of the dark had glared at him with hunger painted in their very being. Entering the massive room, Oden was comforted by the locking mechanisms of two massive rusted iron doors, hauled into place and secured by a pair of Tyr's earliest creations, the duo of Servitors enhanced beyond recognition whose arms had long since reshaped into the wide barrels of an auto-cannon and a heavy flamer, respectively. Oddly, it seemed to Oden that every time he saw them, the metal of their arms looked more organic than the last. He had thought about bringing this up with Tyr, but ultimately he had more pressing matters.

Turning from the brutes, Oden passed through the hold with putrescent slime echoing his every step as it fell from the ceiling. A daemons hiss above him passed with impunity as the writhing mass of flesh and disease curled its poison dripped teeth and flicked its tongue in excitement. Swelling like a boil from within the heart of the ship itself, the Daemon clicked its teeth and snarled at the War Smith below it.

"Foul Daemon! The Emperor casts you out!" came the sermon from the far wall. The prisoner was alone, as he had been for some time. As the War Smith approached the shackled and bloodied form of the Space Marine Chaplain, he looked at the Black Gothic cross on his prisoners shoulder pads and inclined his head slightly in recognition.

"Your resistance does you credit, Chaplain Brannon. I had given you but a weak to resist the daemon, and yet you surprise me. Perhaps the Emperor does protect." Oden pondered momentarily, letting his eyes fall from the glorified priest.

"Heretical cur!" Brannon screamed as Oden slammed his fist into his gut, before pulling the silver skull helmet from under his left arm, and mounting it on the wall beside them both.

"And perhaps he does not." Oden concluded, stretching his fingers and clenching his fist as the Chaplain keeled over, his cracked helmet wheezing and face down in the eery glow of the holding chamber.

"Unchain me, traitor, and we will see who is protected." the Chaplain said, blood draining from a crack in his face grill. The man spat a thick clump of blood and it splattered on the ground with a sickening noise. Above them, the Daemon howled at the bloods stench, begging for a taste.

"Tempting as that is, priest, you still have a purpose here, though you deny it." Oden mused, taunting the Chaplain. In truth, he was simply being honest. "Have you wondered if your Emperor could have saved you? Have you felt doubt snapping at your soul yet, Brother?" he said, pushing the Chaplain upright to stare him in the face. Oden examined him for a second. Drawing in a deep breath, the War Smith raised his fist high and brought his fist to strike the Templar across the jaw. As the man fell and the chains strained to hold him up, the War Smith kicked up with his knee, cracking the Chaplains chest plate. Without hesitation, Oden seized Brannon up by his throat and held him against the wall.

"Where is the Emperor?" Oden howled, striking the Chaplain hard in the side and bursting one of his kidneys. The Chaplain collapsed again. "Where is Rogal Dorn?" Oden yelled, his neck veins bulging as he struck the Templar with an uppercut, sending him straight back into the wall as bits of rusted metal flaked off and fell to the floor like dead leaves. There was a sickening crack as his head smashed back against the wall. "Where is Sigismund?" Oden asked as the Chaplains wheezing form hung limp from the chains.

"Your blasphemies..." the Chaplain began.

"Yes?" Oden thundered, his breathing apparatus bellowing in the hall.

"Will see you burn forever." he finished.

"How very droll." Oden commented.

The Chaplain sounded like he was chuckling, though he could have just been coughing up blood again. "There is a very special place in damnation for traitors, Iron Warriors. You will learn this soon enough."

"What would you know of treachery, Brother?" Oden snapped. "I burned my Homeworld for the Emperor, and he condemned me. I slaughtered my brothers for my Warmaster and he failed me. I carved an Empire from the stars and my Primarch broke me. Tell me Templar, Cousin - Brother - what do you know of treachery?" Oden paused as he took in a long breath, waiting for his answer. Slowly, the Chaplain rose and propped himself against the wall behind him.

"I know the vileness of the alien, the foulness of the with, and the lies of the daemon." he said, glaring at Oden with steely eyes. "I know the tales of your Great Betrayal, and I swear on the Holy Throne that I will never stand for Heresy." He finished, proud and bellowing his words at the War Smith as the daemon hissed from above.

"They may be tales to you, Brother, but they are truths to me." Oden answered, his anger palpable. With a strength that seemed inhuman, even for a space marine, the War Smith struck the Chaplain hard in the throat, tossing his head back, careening off the wall. Before he had fully fallen forwards, Oden was on him again, raising his knee and shattering the Templars skull mask. As the broken Templar flew back again, Oden grabbed the lip of his chest plate and pulled him back down, striking him in the side of his head. Holding him aloft from collapse, the War Smith struck the Chaplain again, and again, and again in a flurry of hatred. Putting all of his strength into a final blow, Oden sent the shards of the Chaplains helmet flying across the room as a loud snap broke the Templars neck, and sent him falling to the floor. Landing in a bundled, broken heap, the Templar twitched slightly as the chains holding him to the wall gathered on the ground around him, torn from their sockets.

Oden stretched his fingers again, the bones realigning in his hand. Breathing heavily as he looked to the broken body on the floor, Oden knew the Chaplain was at deaths door.

"Don't worry, Brother. I don't need you to be a heretic. I just need you alive." he said, motioning to an apothecary-servitor-thing as it stepped out of the living walls of the ship, metal tearing and flowing across it like flesh as it lumbered towards Chaplain Brannon, once again bringing him back from the clutch of the warp.

Without another word, Oden turned from the hall and marched back through the dark to his men, hounded by the screeching of the writhing daemon infesting the very essence of the Heeded Judgement.

hushrong · June 3, 2012

FInally got through what you have written and must say it is a good read! Some highlights for me are that they are on a hulk that is still Daemon Infested (if I read that right), these IWs appear to be mercenaries, and I am curious about what will be done with the chaplain!

Interested in seeing more, bud!

Llagos_Tyrant · July 7, 2012

++ I was really tired when I tried to preview a post and it posted it online ... Apologies to anyone who read the brief paragraphs that ended abruptly and was suitably confused. A new update will be out soon. Check back later on today! ++

Aqui · July 7, 2012

I'm loving it so far GrimApostle ^_^

Llagos_Tyrant · July 7, 2012

* Note - I am taking a bit of artistic liberty here in terms of vehicles and their terminology. With these guys being Iron Warriors, I believe that they either make, adapt or scavenge whatever they need to suit their needs - and then modify it some more. This will give them access to a few toys that most Chaos forces don't have - at least in this story. *

Chapter IV

The boom of the Drop Pod being launched shook Oden against the impact brace wrapped across him. It was smaller than standard Imperial designs - being one of almost a dozen small assault boats that housed only a pair of the massive Iron Warriors. It was fitting, for these skilled warrior smiths to have founded their own line of assault pods - designed specifically for use with the Heeded Judgement. No one else would have had the ingenuity, or the audacity to create such a beast that dropped to the surface faster than its Imperial behemoth of a cousin. With a faster velocity, it was harder to target - at the cost of its deceleration thrusters, and of a concentrated troop deployment. The pods, labelled the Thunder Rods by its cargo, had the unnerving benefit of crashing into the ground with the force of a small missile, using kinetic force to toss earth and shrapnel into the air around it. Usually, the reinforced - and warp touched - shell would absorb and dissipate the impact into the surrounding area, but if the Rod landed on ground that was too solid, or a fortress too strong, it was simply a suicide drop.

Oden was silent as the Rod shook when it entered the atmosphere of Haelstrom, and if such concerns crossed his mind, he was quick to dismiss them. Haelstrom was the small planet tidally locked to the systems gas giant, Kirrahe. Named for what Oden understood as a particularly foolish Adept of the Mechanicum, he had lead a force of skitarii on an orbital station against the local detachment of Emperors Children during the Horus Heresy. After they had routed and slaughtered his forces, the pawns of Slaanesh had obliterated the station from existence - and martyred another hero of the loyalists. Now though, it was all irrelevant.

"All rods are green." came the voice of Commander Kalros over the vox systems, buzzed through interference from Kirrahe.

"Good, Captain, pull the Heeded Judgement out of orbit and set a course for Avaris. Tyr will need an immediate delivery with his troops. I want them in the thick of combat before the Imperium ends its assault."

"Of course, My Lord." came the acknowledgement. Oden shook back and the chains on his armour rattled against the hull of the Thunder Rod, as it continued its break neck drop. Falling onto a world of ice and rock was not something he had designed the Rods for, but they should serve their purpose. Against the fury of a glacial blizzard however, he was not as sure. The sweeping winds could easily knock their craft out of place, scatter them or push them into the sea near their target. He cursed under his breath in Olympian as more turbulence greeted him to the world.

"Why send the ship out of orbit? We'll need a pick up eventually." Mortez questioned, his helmet shaking in the descent as his body rocked back against the hull of the Rod.

"Our target is host to an old teleportation array. We won't need the Heeded Judgement to get off world. It links to a similar site on Avaris, which frees up Tyr to make his assault early before our arrival."

"I thought we were making a strike against a Communications relay." Pyrrhus said, his voice thick with his old Olympian accent. Pyrrhus, to his credit, was one of the old guard. One of the few warriors to have survived the last ten thousand years in command of his squad, and with Oden as his Commander. It was no surprise then, if one were to review the whole 7th Grand Company, that Pyrrhus bore a much more complete and modern set of armour than his forge-brothers and many of the other, successor Iron Warriors. With Mark VII leg plating and a fully functional Imperial signum targeting assist mounted on his backpack, Pyrrhus was one of the most valued leaders in Odens Grand Company. Of course, being armed with an ancient Power Fist, a combi-flamer and the modified Signum to provide a constant flow of tactical and strategic data - Pyrrhus was well aware, and proud of this fact. It was another reason that some of the successor Warriors hated him.

Outside the winds howled and beat against the falling rods in futility, roaring their fury at the oblivious marines within. "It is a Communications Relay." Oden answered.

"And they have a teleportation array?" Centurion Aralan chimed in, clicking his words through fanged jaws. Oden grimaced at a reminder of the Centurions existence. Having sold his soul to the Dark Gods long ago, Aralan had been cursed with their foul mutations as boons of service - though Oden could hardly think of them as boons. Among such curses, his mouth had been twisted into a vestige of fangs and a set of mandibles, dripping in poisonous slime while his right hand had mutated into a long, bony blade that was lined with the same poison from his mouth. If he had not been the best interrogator and torturer in Odens company, perhaps he would have lost his life long ago. But now? His usefulness had waned of late. Perhaps it was the pragmatist in him, or perhaps it was the influence of the Gods, but he was unwilling to kill this lieutenant yet. Rather, he just hoped that Aralan would go back into the Maelstrom on his own - seeking out more boons from his masters.

"Curious, isn't it?" Oden bellowed. The vox was silent for some time after that, but as the Thunder Rods accelerated further in the atmosphere, the turbulence grew stronger. After half a minute, Oden could feel the vibrations through every fiber of his being. It was exhilarating and his armour shook in the ride. The shaking grew stronger and stronger until Oden wondered if the brace across his chest would hold him in place - and then the Astartes were deafened as the thundering boom of their passage into terminal velocity drowned out their thoughts. All they could hear was the banshee scream of their drop in the pure, unrestrained agony of the atmosphere as the lancing trails of the blazing Thunder Rods hurled towards the ground.

+ + + + + +

Adept Teclis felt the pulse of information along the back of his neck as information pumped into his brain through a mixture of data and amniotic fluids. The coils lodged in his skull were still somewhat itchy, having been repaired not too long ago after an ‘isolated’ glitch. It was only a week ago that the glitch had erupted and nearly fried his brain –before leaving a half a dozen servitors comatose as they tried to compensate for the energy spike. Running through the math again, Teclis found there was a .000023% chance of such a glitch occurring in the next 12 hours.

Though many of the organic components of his brain had been exchanged for data modules and tech-stacks, he still felt the same fear as any man. Cycling through his systems again, looking for ways to compensate, he adjusted the teleportation array briefly. No one used that thing anymore. Most of the guardsmen stationed at Haelstrom Relay Alpha, or the Blue Rock – as it had been known, didn’t even know it existed. Curious, he pulled up a stream of records in the space before him, invisible to all but the mechanical eye that read projected code.

He scrolled through the files until he found one particularly interesting.

++ By the Order of Inquisitor Hecate of the Ordo Xenos,

The Teleportation Array at Haelstrom Relay Alpha is to be redirected from

[Records Deleted]

to

[Records Deleted]

. Further, any such persons who have examined

[Records Deleted]

will be detained for questioning. Any persons currently on

[Records Deleted]

will be detained for questioning upon their return.

Penalty for aiding in the escape/release of such persons is death by firing squad.

Penalty for impeding the search of such persons is death by firing squad.

Penalty for obstructing the arrest of such persons is death by firing squad.

Penalty for further examination of

[Records Deleted]

is immolation.

The Emperor Protects.

Order Passed by the Ordo Xenos, M38.172 ++

The Adept paused for a full .32 seconds as he finished the document. Swiping it aside, he search deeper for records on the Teleportation Array, but found no such information - the blunt words of Records Deleted staring back at him dispassionately. Indeed, no such information on Inquisitor Hecate or anything from before M38.175 could be found - save the order. The only thing after that which passed through the Teleportation Grid, was men and materials from Javik Primaris - at least until the outbreak of rebellion sealed the grid.

Turning back to his machinations, the Tech-Priest played with the disused teleporters in some vain attempt to-there. Adjusting the specifics of the grid with the speed only a machine could muster, Adept Teclis praised the Omnissiah as the chances of a renewed glitch dropped to .00000009%. It was a great success, and he double checked his calculations to be sure. Now though, there was a problem with the Teleportation Grid. If fired up, it seemed to be changing arrival points sporadically around the System.

He brought up the arrival projections and was about to dive into a balancing act between his own paramount safety and the irrelevant grid when a burst of binary from one of the servitors over his sleeping audio feed roused the senses. Blinking to change from synthetic, to organic brain halves, he clicked the thin, metal instruments in his mouth for binary speech.

= Adept Teclis, Anomaly detected. Descending orbital mass, cluster pattern of 10 objects approximately 3.1 km from the Blue Rock =

The Tech-Priest twitched at such a rudimentary name for one of the outposts of the Omnissiah. Having been granted by the guardsmen of Javik for its rocky, freezing terrain, the Blue Rock was a small fortress amongst the rolling ice plains and rocky crag spires of this glacial planet. Unfortunately, the name had stuck when the 2nd Kaerak Regiment had arrived to pacify resistance in the system and now, the bronze armoured grunts were exemplifying the basest intelligence of mankind - just like their predecessors. Of course, the pacification of Javik soldiers into Servitors for the facility had also given a more internal display of such disrespect. Making a mental note to rewrite the phrase out of their collective programming, the Adept responded within normal time for conversation.

= Bring up a projection. = he ordered. The room dimmed as a lined green plain was projected before him, expanding outwards to eventually include Relay Alpha - perched on a rocky outcropping and looking out over the landscape with its high, rockcrete walls. He could even make out the Watch tower in the image, with its slender, angular walls driving up from beside the main gate. Turning back to the issue at hand, he watched a number of small, slender objects falling through the atmosphere as a dotted line traced their projected landing point. They were moving too slow to be weaponry, but they were too small to be any form of drop pod. Still, there was no meteor activity projected for this month.

= Send out 3rd Platoon to recover the debris of ... that. = He said, cycling through memory banks to find any identification for the objects. Finding none, he ran through the math and found a 70% chance it was the debris of space junk. The Servitor droned its acknowledgement as the room lit up once more, and Teclis rolled back the armoured window covers to look outside. He rarely did so anymore, being so busy with the synthetic workings of his mind and the relay. It was a shame then, that he didn't see anything but the fierce blizzard beyond the room.

Exhaling a wisp of visible breath into the room as the chill rolled in off the windows, he switched back to his synthetic half and blinked his eyes.

I would have liked to see the sky. He thought.

+ + + + + +

"ETA - Thirty Seconds!" Someone yelled over the vox.

The noise grew higher in pitch, and louder until even the compensation of their Power Armour was not enough to prevent the discomfort of the Astartes and several cries of agony broke over the vox systems, though Oden could barely hear them. The only benefit of maximum velocity, was the total drop in turbulence as the Thunder Rods cut through the atmosphere like a power sword scything through a guardsman. And then suddenly, it was over. The tremendous crash and sonic boom of their sudden deceleration as they impacted the snowy plains of Haelstrom silenced the yelling, as calls of panic turned to coughing and wheezing.

Oden himself leaned forward over the chest brace and grabbed his stomach for fear of puking into his breathing apparatus. The pain was unbearable, as if he had been struck deep in the gut with the Hammer of Vulkan itself.

"In Slaanesh's name." Aralan hissed over the vox.

"Hells teeth!" Came another voice. There were a number of complaints in those first seconds before Oden straightened his composure.

"Fan out and secure the drop site." Oden ordered, wrenching his archaic bolter and its drum magazine off the weapon mount beside his head. Holding it in his right hand and loading it with the ease and precision of ten millenia of repetition, Oden grabbed onto the door handle before the safety on his weapon had kicked off. With a quick glance at Mortez for a readiness check, Oden nodded and pulled back the handle. Unable to break the seared and synth-organic shell from the inside, a detonation charge triggered within the hull and blew off a section of the Thunder Rods outer armour. The metal door flying off in a burst of flame, Oden was out and kneeling in the snow before it had even hit the ground.

"Have we made impact?" came the voice of one of the troopers. Oden looked around as his skin began secreting its adaptive fluids to ease the cold on his face. All around the Thunder Rods, the ice was scorched and cracked. The snow had melted and pooled among the cracks in the glacier before rapidly freezing inwards. Standing in a depression and spread across the ice, Oden counted nine pods on the surface, and a gaping hole in the ice in their midst.

"Someone tell me we haven't hit yet." Came a panicked voice.

"Khorne's Skull ..." one of the other warriors voxed as he stepped out of his Thunder Rod, glancing down the chasm. The burning fire in his lenses turned up to Oden with a shake of the warriors skull shaped mask, as he raised the bolter in his black gloved hand and strode towards his master.

"Ajax! Pyrrhus! What's going on?"

"Oden, you bastard!"

"Shut up! Pyrrhus?!"

"We've fallen through the ice you idiot!"

The panicked conversation rose in tempo and volume until Oden signaled the skull masked warrior to cut their vox feed. With a nod, the warrior clicked a button on his armours collar, just below his chin and opened a line to the Heeded Judgement. Aralan stood straight and snarled as he stepped out of his Rod, almost enjoying the panic. The vox crackled out of existence as the warrior radioed his Master.

"It is done, my Lord." Came the thick voice, wreathed in his Felisian accent. The warrior bowed his head in respect as Oden looked at his mask, noting how similar it was to his own. In place of the transverse crest in black and yellow that Oden had, the warrior before him had forged a raised band of steel to come off his helmet, like a mohawk splitting his helm in two halves of left and right. The mouth was similar too with a bone nose and upper jaw set into the armour. Finally, to mark his station within Pyrrhus' squad, the warrior had set the numerous skulls of past traitors into his right shoulder pad, left knee guard and upon the circlet of his belt. He would have perfectly fit in - save for the black glove on his right hand, and the massive Chain-Axe maglocked to his exhaust-pack. It was the glove that set him apart though. It set him as one of the 'Black Hand' - one of Oden's most loyal and lethal warriors, spread amongst the squads under his command to ensure that the Forge-brothers hold to their loyalties, and that the Forge-fathers do the same.

"Would you silence us all so quickly?" Deinonychus hissed as he stepped out of his Thunder Rod. The raptor looked unusual without his jet pack strapped onto his frame but the ride down was cramped enough as it was. The Astarte bore his grey hair out above his helm in the style of The Despoiler himself, and it whipped around his head in the wind, quickly taking on a whiter tone as the snow lodged itself in his mane. Oden guessed that the style had rubbed off on him during his service with the Black Legion, where it always seemed popular. Behind him, the members of his squad fanned out with bolt pistols and chainswords at the ready. They called themselves the 'Screaming Shadows'. Another product of foreign service, from when they had left his band to train with the 10th Company of the Night Lords, millenia ago.

Syrus stepped to the side, and faced the Forge-father. He glanced down to his bolter and stretched his black gloved fingers along the grip. "If I had to." He confessed, looking back up at the raptor.

"And you do not." Pyrrhus interjected, stepping into the gathering of warriors as the chainmail draping down from his waist fluttered in the blizzard. The Iron Warrior tossed his combi-flamer back over his shoulder as he spoke - the painted yellow warhammer on his shoulder proudly displaying his heraldry. In his other hand, the ice had already begun to form on his Power Fist and when he ignited the energy field flew it apart like glass.

"No. Not yet."

"My warriors are already securing the perimeter, Oden. Ajax has ordered a pair of the Shadows to scout ahead, and Blain is preparing his auto-cannon. We should be fully functional-" Pyrrhus paused momentarily as the gentle whine of expanding metal began. Oden looked past the gathered warriors to see Blain, the pair of bull horns on his head tilted as he watched with endless fascination as the warp flesh on the end of his weapon extend the long metal gun barrels. The Iron Warrior noticed his Lords attention, and bowed his head - the massive chain fed ammunition canisters swaying with his body as it arched up into the ammunition pack on his back. "Now." Pyrrhus finished.

"You order my warriors to your bidding?" Deinonychus asked through gritted teeth and pale skin.

"To our Lords bidding." Pyrrhus corrected. He had always been one of the more pragmatic, level headed Forge-fathers of the Silver Sons. Maybe that was why he had taken so much of his armour from his dead foes. Indeed, only his chest armour with its bull ring piercing, the power fist emblazoned with the eight pointed star, and his horned helmet were originally his. Even the shoulder pad baring his heraldry, that had recently begun to grow a horn from the far edge, and the pauldron bearing the ancient Skull and Star of the legion was a later addition. Or maybe that was because he was absolutely lethal.

"Enough of this." Oden said with a wave of his hand. He nodded to Mortez who had kept quiet, awaiting his Masters word. Instinctively, the Centurion stepped back to the Thunder Rod and pulled Odens plumed skull mask from its interior. "Deinonychus, move ahead and keep watch on the Relay. Pyrrhus, call back your men. We will have company soon."

The men arrayed before him bowed and turned as Mortez handed the Lord his Skull Mask. Oden brought it up and placed it on his head, fitting it perfectly with the hiss of the airtight seal as his skin found the new environment suitable, and ended its production of adaptive residue. Looking out over the Astartes arrayed before him, as Pyrrhus shouted for his men to begin trap placement and selective fortification, Oden clicked the vox beneath his armoured chin as the heaving breaths of the respirator sent plumes of hot air into the frozen beyond.

"Tell me, Commander, has the Inquisition arrived yet?"

Aqui · July 7, 2012

:)

Llagos_Tyrant · August 6, 2012

Chapter V

“Do you think they suspect us?” asked the slender figure, crossing her arms as the party looked over the gangway to watch the workers ascending from the long chasm before them. Sparks flew off the rising platforms as the spinning cogs clicked their progress to the watching group and the flash illuminated them better than the green lenses of the Astartes warriors arrayed on the viewport.

If one stood behind the group, huddled in the dark that mired their image, they would discern little of their nature. The woman with her arms crossed stood in an ornate suit of red and gold armour, its sleek vambraces and plate powered by a maze of plasma coils beneath the exoskeleton, and she looked only slightly bigger than an average human. Of course, the golden helmet she wore, angular like those of the Grey Knights, seemed rather more humble against the twining patterns that were carved along the rest of her armour. Indeed, the only remarkable thing about the helm beyond its white, glossy eyes, was the sigil of Dorn. A parting gift from the Imperial Fists for past relations, the Templars cross and it did not sit well with the embossed image of a white chalice on her right pauldron, set against the deep crimson red.

“No. They have no reason to.” Answered one of the warriors undertoned with the deep growl his chapter passes to each of their Battle-Brothers. He turned to face her, and she spared him a sideways glance, noting once again how the light grey cloak hid the lion within. It always made her uncomfortable, being so close to the Astartes. They were so distant and altogether inhuman – and anything inhuman made her wary. It didn’t help that these Astartes were even more distant and brooding than their brothers.

“But surely they will expect a trap? They don’t honestly think they can just arrive on the moon and lead the assault to seize the station?” She asked, watching as one of the rising Mechanicus platforms stalled in a shower of sparks, delaying the ascent of the half a dozen cars below. The light show caught the party in its aura, and for the briefest of moments, the midnight purple armour of the Astartes warriors caught the light beneath their torn and scarred robes.

“They will think we have yet to arrive. No reports of our existence have left the station since you brought me here.” The warrior said, peering out from his hood, concealing the mask beneath. “That is correct, Inquisitor? Is it not?” He asked, with a tone that was a bit too condescending for Nadja’s taste.

“That is correct.” She bit back, grinding her teeth.

"And they have no psychics in their company. They are blind, and foolish." The Commander hissed. Nadja felt a chill run up her neck at the sound of his voice, shivering - even as the heat regulation system in her armour kept her comfortable from the boiling jungle that sprawled the Moon.

"How can you be sure?" she asked, curiously.

"Ah. Doubt. Such a mortal thing." The Astarte whispered. Inquisitor Kolchak felt a lump grow in her throat. The way these warriors differentiated themselves from the rest of humanity, was too much. "Such a weakness." The Commander continued, hissing the words as a pain grew in the back of her mind, and her muscles tensed. "There is more to this universe than you know Inquisitor. You have a history of mutants and xenos - but nothing of the arcane." Her muscles hardened, as if calcifying under her skin and she was locked in place. "Of course, that's what your Master wanted, wasn't it." He continued, the pain in her mind growing stronger as her face contorted. "You aren't ready yet. In time, the darker things will come to you, as they came to me." He whispered - not vocally but, almost inside her head. "And eventually, they may consume you."

Twisting her mouth, and fighting the paralysis of terror she spoke in short gasped intervals. "But ... that's ... you can't ... you weren't there. He never ... told ... we ... were alone."

"Silence!" He hoarsed, barely above a whisper. Inquisitor Kolchak dropped her mouth and squeezed her eyes as the pain intensified, blinding and muting. "We have a future together, Inquisitor. He may have not divulged all that he knew, but in time, that may damn us all." The pain faded and she gasped for breath as the Commanders voice calmed and returned to its growling comfort. "You have much to learn, Nadja Kolchak."

“And how will you stop them?" She spat in a rage, recovering from the mental assault. "With all five of you?”

“All six, Inquisitor. All six.”

Inquisitor Kolchak laughed and shook her head as the Mechanicus platform jerked to a sudden rise once again. “You have five men, Astarte.” She paused as the workers of Javik called out to each other on the carts, the tech-priests silencing their merriment with a burst of code-speech. “Apostle?” She asked, turning her head to face him.

Alone in the dark, Inquisitor Nadja sighed as she relayed instructions to her arrayed forces, trying to distract herself. They were but a tattered few of the 51st Javik Regiment who had remained loyal to the God-Emperor in these most trying hours. Naturally, her distraction quickly passed and she soon prayed for a different Chapter of Astartes, one to come in force, and to relieve these ... these damned Grim Apostles.

But such was the Emperors will.

+ + + + + +

Oden growled as he dismembered another guardsmen, staining his brown and orange camouflage in the splattered crimson of his innards. He scythed through the third in their ranks as his outreached hand grabbed another, crushing his helmet and skull in a grotesque mass of pink and grey matter, before tossing the corpse against his fellows. He didn’t stop to watch the mortal body knock his brethren to the snowy ground before the slaughter consumed them. Indeed, the Iron Warriors didn’t stop their slaughter until the last rank of men had fallen.

What a perfect slaughter it was in those icy plains. The cold biting at the soul, the wind howling its savagery and the whipping snow clawing at their armour and flesh. Angrons fist, this was a perfect scene for such carnage. If only they were always so blessed in battle - in anything more testing that this game.

Oden ended his visceral dance of blades at the last of the squad, raising his head at the lone survivor as his last kill split in two, cut from shoulder to thigh. The soldier stood his ground, staring at the massive armoured killer before him from the uncaring face guard and helm of the Javik 51st. It was completely standard in all respects, and very Cadian in appearance. The guardsman fired his lasgun, but the Warsmith was oblivious, swatting the nuisance from his foes hands. Reaching for the blade at his hip, Oden wrenched the soldier from his feet and held him a lot, single handed. Sliding Everburn back into its scabbard, he brushed the singed ice off his breastplate. Turning back to the struggling warrior, Oden grunted in approval.

"It's good that you fight against such hopeless odds. I hope all of your regiment is like you." The Warsmith said, his metallic voice ringing with a low boom as he spoke.

"Serviceman Borodin, Identification Number 59183-"

"Please." Oden hissed, tossing the serviceman head over heels. The guardsman rolled awkwardly, and the pathetic helmet flew off as the soldier struck a rock. Immediately, her flowing blonde hair caught in the wind, and whipped around her face, lashing her skin and catching the snow. Her lips curled in hate as her brown eyes blinked for clarity in the storm. She had a petite face, with smooth skin. It was almost immediately cut by the soaring ice in the air, and a trickle of blood ran down from her cheek. "Let's not stand on ceremony." He said, as she spat a wad of blood to the ground and drew the blade at her side.

"Impressive." The Warsmith said, stepping towards the panting guard. "Ready the blade, good." He whispered as the pair circled each another and the guardsman tensed her fingers along the hilt. She was panting now, and her eyes glanced past him, looking at the bodies of her squad and the armoured warriors who were turning from their prey to watch the pitiful scene. "Focus." Oden roared. "Or you'll be dead in the time you blink." She snapped back to the duel.

"Be silent!" She yelled, clear to Oden though hardly for herself in the wind. It was a strong voice. An angry voice. Filled with a hatred the Oden had not known in many centuries.

"Control your anger, Borodin. If it controls you, it will betray you." He taunted, side-stepping a lunge and swatting aside a sweep of the combat blade with his palm. He felt the snap of her hand as he struck the wrist, and tilted his head when she dropped the knife. Gaping in pain, she grabbed her hand and fell to her knees as he saw it had spun round the wrong way. "Get up Borodin." He hissed. She snarled as she looked back at him. "Get up, or I will kill you here."

Wrenching the blade with her good hand as she moved the other to hold against her chest, she lunged forward. Oden sidestepped the lunge again, and stepped back in the sweep that followed. Another slash missed, and he stepped out of harm once more. "Enough." He said, grabbing her good hand as the blade lunged an inch from the soft armour of his core. "You have spirit, Borodin. I grant you that." He pulled the blade from her hand, and threw it into the snow, impaling the bisected corpse he had left on the crimson ground. "But-" He began, moving his other arm to grab her dislocated hand. She struggled against him, but could do nothing but shiver in the cold. "You need better training. She winced as another piece of ice cut her forehead, and moaned in agony when he locked his hand around hers, turning it sharply back into place.

She cursed as he grabbed her by the throat, and held her aloft once again. "You are the advance party? Good. You will see what is to come for this sector. The future of the Javik System, and the others within." He turned her head in his hand as she grabbed onto his arm, trying to pull herself up to ease her breathing. "It will be ... shocking. I assure you." He said as he skin grew red and her veins bulged. "Her helmet, Syrus." He said with an outstretched palm.

Without hesitation, the warrior in the honourary skull mask and the black glove picked up her helmet several paces away, and bowed as he returned it to his Warsmith. Setting down the woman as he eased his grip on her throat, Oden handed her the mask as she collapsed against him, barely able to reach his shoulder for stability. "You don't want to catch a cold, Borodin. Nurgle will be unforgiving to this place." He looked down at her, immobile and curious. Such weak creatures. "Put your helmet on." He boomed.

Another cut on her chin was all the convincing she needed, and even as she burned him a thousand times over with the loathing in her eyes, she did as he ordered. "Good." Oden stated. "Bind her." Mortez stepped to his side, and all the warriors in his company continued towards the outpost as planned. At the back of the warband, bound in chains that stuck and froze to the carapace of her arm guards, Serviceman Borodin cursed under her breath and looked back to see the corpse laden plain that was the death of her fellows. A yank on the chain from the feral enforcer, warned her against stalling, and the burning fire eyes of the skull mask turned back to their lord.

Oden heard her whisper a prayer for her comrades - attuned to her speech and curious of her character - but if under that helmet, she shed a tear, none would ever know. It would have frozen cold on her cheek.

Brother Daeger Helsir · August 28, 2012

Man, some great fiction starring my favorite traitors! Can't wait to read more.

Azarias · September 5, 2012

There's a great deal of good writing that goes into showing the relationship between an Astartes and a guardsman, but until now I'd never read any good writing on the relationship between a traitor astartes and a guardsman. It's entertaining in its flippant tone, while also safe from any sense of grimdark vaudevillian evil. Well done.

Dosjetka · September 6, 2012

An excellent piece of fiction. I've really enjoyed it so far and I'm definitely looking forward to reading the updates :tu: You've got a bunch of very characterful characters, something you can be proud of.

Ludovic

Llagos_Tyrant · October 21, 2012

Chapter VI

Oden kicked the last guardsman in the stomach and the grunt slid back across the ground. The thing was still, and blood dripped from its mouth and pooled along its belly. Weakness. Frailty. Mortality. It was everywhere in this Imperium. Unavoidable. What had once been forged from the craft of heroes, and the blood of men had fallen into lapse for too long. Surely, Oden thought, the Emperor would weep for his Empire if he had tears to shed. He winced at the thought.

"My Lord, the way is clear." Syrus said, bowing his head as the Warsmith turned to face him. The wind whipped up along the outward wall as the bolter-fire continued farther in the complex. Oden stayed still for a moment. Syrus inclined his head further when Oden gestured to the woman. Immediately, Syrus pulled her out from behind him and pushed her forward, sending the guardsman to her knees. With a flash of his knife, Syrus severed her bonds and stepped back. Oden, meanwhile, stood silently as she looked up at him with hatred burning in her soul. Turning to his side and grabbing the head of a guardsman, he tossed it to her. The dumb expression was already frozen in place when the head stopped rolling and stared up at her, a crimson trail marking it's path.

"Look at it." Oden bellowed. With effort and reluctance, Borodin complied and stared into the lifeless eyes beneath her. "That could have been you, Serviceman Borodin." She continued to stare, lost in a trance. Screams pierced the storm from the complex as a swathe of bolter-fire ended in a fireball erupting from the courtyard behind the Chaos Lord. Turning again, he picked up one of the bisected troopers and tossed it to her. It landed with a sickening thud and the still warm intestines spilled onto the icy rockcrete. "That could have been you." He said, reaching down to the broken guardsmen he had kicked a moment ago. Driving his hand hard into the overturned corpse, Oden grasped onto the spine of the thing, and in one motion tore it from the skull and body. He tossed it to her, hit her in the shoulder and she grunted, falling backwards. Her trance broken, Borodin gasped for air as the shock that froze her body, lead her into action.

She was already scampering away when Oden ripped the head off of the last guardsman and threw it at her, striking her helmet hard. Even for the helmet, it was a lot of force and she collapsed onto the ground in a daze. "Leave her." He said to Syrus. "Go to Pyrrhus. Tell him to cleanse this place. No survivors."

"No survivors?"

"I know what we want, Syrus. That will be all." He said.

"Of course." The warrior said, inclining his head to his liege, before pulling the chain-axe from his back and departing for the courtyard with a surge of enthusiasm. The bolter-fire erupted again as the screams of guardsmen rang out once more. Oden tilted his head in curiosity.

"It's been some time since I have seen a mortal." He said, stepping forward. "But it seems," he added, grabbing her shoulder and flipping her over. "That you are as pitiful as ever." He finished, grabbing her by the throat and holding her aloft in the air. Her arms reacted now, panic pulling her from shock as she clawed at his arm and heaved on his hand, trying to loosen his grip. Oden obliged voluntarily and dropped her to the ground. Her legs gave out without a moments notice, but Oden held her upright, grabbing her by the neck.

"Look at them." He said, his breathing heavy and loud. "What do you feel Borodin?" He said, jolting her head. "Hmm? What do you feel?" He asked. "Did you know them?" Oden knelt beside her, whispering into her ear. "Did you?"

"No." She responded, turning her shallow breaths into longer gasps. "No I didn't." She repeated, catching eyes with the first head that Oden had tossed her. Even through their masks, it was like Oden could follow her eyes. Glancing to the head, and then back to her, Borodin felt a smile forming behind that awful skull face.

"You're lying Borodin." Oden pushed her neck down, and she gasped in pain as he left her. Grabbing the head and turning back to her, Oden tore off her mask and held it in front of her. "Who was he, guardsman?" She glared at the head, her lip quivering as her eyes ran red. "Was he a lover? a friend? family, perhaps?" Borodin bowed and whimpered. Lowering the dead mans head, Oden looked at Borodin, uncertain as to what he should do next. He was so used to slaughtering the mortals by the dozens, disemboweling them before anything but sheer terror could be expressed. So he knelt there, staring at her, the decapitated head at his side. "Who was he?" Oden asked, his menacing voice sounding youthfully curious.

Borodin brought her eyes up to his, and Oden twisted his head in further curiosity. Her lip quivered and her eyes were bloodshot, but Oden knew that it wasn't fear, and it wasn't the storm that had turned her so. A tear ran down her face, and Oden raised his sheathed hand to her cheek. She grimaced as the metal of his armour touched her skin, and he caught the tear on the end of his index finger. Bringing it closer to see, it ran down his finger as he turned it, watching the tear turn to ice before him. "Who was he?" he repeated.

A tear. He had seen them before. Long ago, when worlds burned in humanities name and the Angels of Death were united under one banner and one purpose. Long ago, when humanity welcomed them as liberators and cried out for liberation, for enlightenment. Long ago, when the Primarchs walked among men, and the Emperor fought and killed alongside them all. It had been some time. He was so caught up in reliving the images and experiences of eons past that he almost didn't hear her answer. In fact, what dragged him from his memories was Borodin smacking his helmet with her open hand.

"Who was he?" she yelled, "who was he?" she screamed again, punching his chest and beating her fists against his armour. He watched the display, immune to her strikes but caught in ... what was this? He understood her. He understood the anger. He knew it. He knew the anger when one of his brothers died. He felt their souls dragged into the Warp, damning him for leading them to their end. He knew the unquenchable desire for revenge. And he knew the despair. "He was my son!" She yelled.

Oden caught her arm the next swing. Rather than breaking it, or maiming her in some way however, he simply held her there. She struck him with her other arm. "I admire your courage, Borodin." He began.

"Shut up!" She yelled, her other arm swinging forward towards his respirator. Oden reacted instinctively this time, his head tucking down and driving forward as he headbutted her in the chest, sending her flying backwards. She lay still for a moment as he rose to his feet and ran a hand along the metal grating of his respirator. Feeling a shiver running along his spine, Oden closed his eyes and buried his thoughts. Despite the roar of the wind, Oden heard the guardsman wheezing as she came back to her senses.

Borodin brought herself upright rubbing her chest. Her head was groggy and she felt blood running down the back of her neck. Blinking several times to correct her vision, she caught her breath when she came upright. The Lord of the warriors was standing several paces in front of her with his back turned. She saw him holding an outstretched hand, knowing too well what was in it. Before him though, the bisected guardsman lay, the bayonet for his lasrifle just poking out from within his coat. Crawling forward as silently as she could, Borodin snaked her hand into the jacket and felt the metal in its pocket, designed to keep it from being so cold as to stick to the edge of its holster on the rifle.

Darting her eyes away from the Lord ahead of her, she tugged on the blade and felt it cut lose from its strapping, as a thud caught her attention from ahead. The Warsmith no longer stood with an outstretched hand, and instead turned to face her. Glancing down at the bayonet in her hand, and then back to the towering behemoth before her, Borodin took a deep breath.

Oden caught the glint of the dagger in the storm before she had even got to her feet. She was running at him now, screaming as she did. Why did they always yell, he wondered. It didn't matter. Reaching forward to grab her mid-run, Borodin dodged his grasp and rolled to the side, slashing his thigh with the bayonet. His armour held fast, but he afforded it a glance before continuing. With reckless abandon, he walked forward at a snails pace. The plasma pistol strapped to his arm was still inactive, and Everburn still itched to taste blood in its sheathe, but he was not concerned.

Again Borodin ran at him, and this time he faked a lunge towards her, teasing her as he had done in the snow before - but now she was prepared. Darting to the side once more, Oden was impressed that she had landed another blow. He was more impressed, that she had targeted the soft armour between his waist and his abdomen - and that she had had the strength to drive the blade through it.

Odin winced, and grabbed her hand, holding her in place with the bayonet in his gut. Glancing down at the blade, he saw a drop of blood fall from the blade, and freeze before it struck the rockcrete, shattering into a million tiny pieces. If he had been able to through his respirator, he would have smiled. Instead, he reached up to his helm with his other hand, and pulled it from his head. The seal disengaged with a hiss and he felt the storm lashing at his skin in an instant. Blinking to adjust his sight to the weather, Oden realized that Borodin had been cut several times from the storm - just as he felt his first.

"You learn quickly." He bellowed, his respirator loud and hoarse in the storm. "That is admirable." He said, dropping his helm. "But you do not pick your fights well." he finished, grabbing her wrist with his free hand and wrenching it from the blade. Still holding onto her wrist, he brought her arm around until she was bent over, and ripped the bayonet from his gut. Another drop of blood froze as it fell, before the blood clot and the wound was sealed. It was a quick punishment then, when he raised his knee and struck her in the side, smashing into her ribs. She gasped for air, but he had already grabbed her throat and pulled her off the ground.

"I could kill you here, Borodin. Kill you, to join your son." He said, tightening his grip on her throat as her face turned red. "Would you like that, Borodin?" He asked. Twisting the blade in his other hand, he brought it up to her throat, sliding the blade gently along. It was only enough to kiss her skin, but he persisted. "Perhaps you would." He finished, tossing the knife over the wall and into the blinding storm. Another explosion ripped through the complex further on as he eased his grip enough for her to breathe. "But I still suffer this universe." He said, carrying her to the edge of the courtyard to hold her above the graveyard of her fellow troopers, hacked and butchered by those far more skilled in the art of war.

"Why should I suffer alone?"

** So it's been awhile. Much less of an action oriented update - but I promise those are coming. I'm settling into University so updates should be sporadic now, rather than non-existent, but don't be surprised if I'm quiet for a long time. Anyways, despite feeling a bit rusty, it's good to be writing again. I hope you enjoyed the update. **

DarkSavage · October 21, 2012

Wow, very well written sir!

My wrist ached in chapter 5 when Oden set the guardsman's broken bones. Going to be tracking this one for sure :D

Keep up the good work sir!

Dosjetka · October 30, 2012

Definitely an enjoyable update. I loved the part when you describe Odin/Oden's (which one is it? :P) emotions. Really solid stuff.

All the best to you for Uni and hopefully we'll get an update soon :)

Ludovic

Llagos_Tyrant · December 26, 2012

Chapter VII

"Do you really think we'll be able to hold them?" The warrior asked, echoed by his double voice. His knuckles tensed their grip on the railing as he dropped his head, looking down into the chasm of the manufactorum. A gust of wind sent the grey robes he wore whipping around the purple ceramite armour underneath. It was a long drop. Almost four hundred meters down, and a hundred across. And it was all theirs. Taking up refuge in an old, abandoned facility of centuries past, they had largely passed unnoticed, and with the help of Librarian Thosh, they would remain so.

"Sergeant, this is not a war of attrition. We will not engage them in the open field." The man said, his eyes glowing with an unnatural blue aura. Sergeant Hellas turned to look at him. The Librarian was old. His face was aged and scarred, and his forehead bore the ceremonial carvings that were a mark of honour in the Chapter. Each carving was made to commemorate a century of service, and at six hundred years, Librarian Thosh had been the reason behind the designs of the two latest additions to such a longstanding tradition. Perhaps he was too old. A jab of pain in his mind reprimanded Hellas for his musings, and even as he winced, he struggled to control the anger rising in him. "Even a Veteran is not above the commands of a Librarian." Thosh jabbed, reading him like a tome.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but we have not even made the slightest hint of our presence known. The heretics rampage across the Sub-Sector with impunity, and the traitors have made landfall on Avaris while we wait in this pit. We cannot afford such an idle position in this conflict." Hellas argued, looking back over the pit as a burst of sparks erupted some ways down the shaft. "I know that this is not a matter of attrition, but we are Astartes. We must act. We must strike from the shadows, as is our mantra." He added, his voice rising in frustration.

"Hush, Sergeant. All is as it should be. Trust in myself, and in the Emperor." Thosh urged, his deep growling voice unnaturally calm. "Your part will come in time, I'm sure." He smiled. "As will all our times."

"Yes, my Lord." Hellas grunted, bowing his head in respect, if not agreement. "But what of the people? How many of the Emperor's own will suffer before we can act?" He asked, his head kept low.

"Brother, the Emperor knows them for his own. Fear not for the dead, for they are not lost. They shall rejoin Him, in His grace." The Librarian responded. Hellas took a deep breath. When dealing with Thosh, it was always best to keep a question distant from his zeal. It made progress possible. "Or do you doubt the teachings of the Chapter?" Thosh asked, his eyes growing brighter and flickering with flashes of light.

"No, Lord Thosh. I trust in the Chapter, and in the Emperor as always." Hellas said, his head rising to face Thosh.

"Then you will trust that He will find the innocent, and we will bring Him the damned." The Librarian growled. "You are dismissed, Veteran Sergeant." Thosh said with a wave of his hand.

Hellas bowed his head and started for the door, focusing on the only thing that might have kept Thosh out from his thoughts. A chill crept up his spine at the thought of the zealot reading his fears and desires. Even as he closed the door behind him, Hellas was loathe to let the Aquila vanish from his thoughts, but he doubted it would help to remain so fixated forever.

+ + + + + +

The thunder of Odens breath filled the antechamber of the ruined outpost as he looked up into the night, through the shattered ceiling and towards the mountain their target was carved in. Ash and snow fell gently through the gaping tear above him, as the wind howled beyond. Still clutching the plumed helm beneath his sword arm, Oden walked over the tattered corpses and the shards of wall that covered the floor. Ahead of him was a large door of emblazoned metal with an augmented skull set upon a shield of cogs to signal its allegiance. Oden stared at it for a second before at the rest of the room. Pyrrhus and his men had gathered here, while Deinonychus and his Raptors tore apart the communications systems with Aralan. They were lining up alongside his walkway , slowly raising axes to rest on their shoulders or lowering smoking bolters as he stepped forward. Apart from his own breath and the wind above, Borodin was the only sound in the room. An entire outpost exterminated, and again she had to stand among the bodies of her compatriots. None of the Iron Warriors spared her a glance.

Oden stepped over another corpse and glanced around the room, before turning back to the door. "Break it down." He said, signalling with his free hand, as the gentle whine of the plasma pistol mounted on his gauntlet heated up. But something was wrong. The sensation was unusual, tingling as the flesh beneath the armour shuddered in anticipation. Oden straightened his head, ignoring it. On cue, Pyrrhus marched to the door, igniting his power fist in a brilliant show of force as settled ice shattered apart on the artifact. Pausing only to toss his flamer to Ajax, who had always left one arm exposed to the elements, Pyrrhus brought his fist back before launching it forward at the door. The magnificent crash that followed, was quickly followed up by the discharge and recovery of the power field around the weapon, as the Champion brought it smashing into the door once again.

The drum beat was constant. Three times. Four times. Five times.

"That’s a strong door.” Mortez noticed, poking his head out from the scope of his bolter.

“Of course it is. Look at the sigil above the door.” Oden nodded.

Sure enough, looking down from above the massive, bronze coloured door, the bright red and silver sigil of the Inquisition was imparted in all its radiant splendor and arrogance. Mostly arrogance. There was little to glory to be attributed to the Inquisition as far as Oden had uncovered.

“The Mechanicus worked with the Inquisition to seal off the array?” Syrus asked, glancing over at his lord. The elder marine let out something of a snarl in anticipation.

Behind the lenses of the skull faced helmet, Oden could almost see Syrus’ wild and lustful eyes, begging for the slaughter. He relished it. At the same time though, he could hear the faint questions and curiosity coursing through them. It was only a moment later that the questions silenced, and gave way to the admiration and loyalty instilled into each such member of the Black Hand. If Oden was still able, he might have smiled. As if acknowledging his masters approval, Syrus brought up his hand to beat on his breastplate. Turning back to the door before them, Oden was greeted with the first crack in the door.

Roars of approval came from his men and the drum beat continued, beating its impression into the door. Flexing his fist as it reached crescendo, the Warsmith’s plasma pistol was whining in heat. Pyrrhus’ squad side stepped into positions of cover next to the pillars, or around Oden.

"Iron Within! Iron Without!" He roared.

"Iron Within! Iron Without!" They answered him, as he brought up his plumed helm and slammed it into position.

"Iron Within! Iron Without!" They all cried together, Odens own voice augmented by the speakers within his helm.

It was then that the door broke down, crashing in a hail of shrapnel as Pyrrhus blew it apart with a final stroke. Screams erupted on the other side as Ajax tossed the Champion his flamer, who quickly brought it up to mount on the rim of his power fist for stability. Engulfing the room in flames as las-rounds filled the smoking opening of the door, Pyrrhus was able to deflect most of them behind the sheer bulk of the power fist. After several seconds of absorbing the fire and emptying promethium, Pyrrhus stepped back into cover on the frame of the vault.

Bolters rang off in unison as the sharp discharge of plasma erupted from Odens wrist, springing into the room. Screams were heavy as Oden signaled with his free hand. Ajax, Pyrrhus and two other Astartes led the way into the breach, discharging their weapons as the screams suddenly grew into shouts of panic. Mortez lead the next wave with Malthus and his meltagun who fanned right, even as Oden and Syrus stepped through and to the left, all the Iron Warriors discharging weapons in a precision display of lethality.

Bodies blew apart as guardsmen turned to run, and flesh liquefied in pulpy masses around the room as order failed the loyalists. The Iron Warriors were silent in their slaughter. They were the grim and resolute warriors that they should have been in the horror that unfolded– the steady pop pop pop only bolstering their aura of omnipotence. For Oden, it was a welcome sign of their recovery from past failings. For Pyrrhus, it was a precursor to greater favour. For the guardsmen, it was terrifying.

Like the adamantium Gods they were, Oden surged forth with Syrus and his chain axe revved to life behind him. Barely registering the fire of lasguns deflecting off his armoured bulk, Oden struck left and right, some-times closed fist and others bare handed, but all the time leaving gore in his wake.

It was a short fight. Hardly ten seconds after it began, Oden punched his fist through the torso of the last guardsman and tore out his beating heart. The body fell forward against the armoured giant for stability, though Oden pulled away, only to see his armour dripping crimson in the arterial spray. With a quick gesture to Mortez, Oden stepped away from his forces and walked to the edge of the room with his Chosen.

“Pitiful.” Pyrrhus whispered. “Bring in the prisoner.” He called back to the last Iron Warrior in the antechamber.

Ajax stepped out of the room, his armour and left pauldron betraying his veteran status through the original symbol of the legion. Even so, his left arm was bare and coated in a thick genehanced sweat that gathered along the defined contours of his muscles. His helmet was glaring at the bodies in the room, and his lenses shone with an unnatural warpfire in their midst.

Borodin made some faint complaint in the other room, but with a quick heave, the guardsman came dragged along behind the Iron Warrior. “Captain Pyrrhus, the Raptors and the Freak are en route.” He called out, the three yellow vertical lines on his helm pulsating with his breath.

Pyrrhus was slow to turn, but the large horns on his head almost appeared to be the first to do so. “Keep the woman close.” He ordered. “The rest of you – fan out. Make sure we’re clear, and get this machine working again.” He finished, turning back to his Lord.

Oden was standing at the rails edge, on the far side of the room. There was an unnatural scent in the air as Pyrrhus walked up beside the Warsmith and Mortez. “Do you smell that, Captain?” Oden asked, taking a deep, thundering breath with his breathing apparatus.

“I do, my Lord. The smell of the Warp still lingers here. There must be daemons about.” He answered, giving a quick glance around him.

“Daemons?” Oden asked, as if to be sure of the Captains response. The Warsmith took a slow breath. “Tell me, Captain Pyrrhus. What do you see beyond this railing?” Oden asked.

Pyrrhus’ head tilted slightly as he answered. “I see the cavern wall, my Lord.”

“Just a bare rock face then?” Oden asked with condescension in his voice. Pyrrhus eyes were fixed on his Lord. “Look again.” The Warsmith said with a tilt of his plumed helm. Pyrrhus obliged Oden with a bow of his head, but when he raised his eyes again, he was immediately blinded by an incredible light that wasn’t ahead of him a moment ago.

“Olympias bones…” the Captain cursed.

“That is not the Warp, Captain. That is something else.” Mortez whispered.

Looking out across the railing, the Warsmith, the Captain and the Chosen could see a massive cavern, hollowed out into a rough spherical shape. Along the upper reaches of the right side, were massive black pipes and cables, large enough to fit a rhino through each. These were descending into the room of an enginseer some 50 meters along the walkway, twice the size of such a room any of the three had seen, and only a bit smaller than the main loading bay of the Heeded Judgement. Across from the enginseer room, a bridge extended far into the center of the cavern until it met a massive circular platform bathed in light. The light itself came from a miniature sun, suspended above the platform and imprisoned by a pair of oppositely rotating rings that shifted in size and shape to encompass each other, and swap from the inside to the out every dozen rotations.

“Something much older than the Warp.” Oden mused.

** A long wait there, but I hope I made it worth it. Merry Christmas Everyone! **

Wow, very well written sir!
My wrist ached in chapter 5 when Oden set the guardsman's broken bones. Going to be tracking this one for sure ^_^

Keep up the good work sir!

Thanks! I really appreciate that.

Definitely an enjoyable update. I loved the part when you describe Odin/Oden's (which one is it? :P) emotions. Really solid stuff.

All the best to you for Uni and hopefully we'll get an update soon :)

Ludovic

It's Oden and thank you! Although, I really do apologize for the delay on the update.

I hope what I've written makes up for it.

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