Damnation

[Dominicus]

Chapter 1

08:00 Terran Standard Time 989.41

 

The man paced about on the bridge of the strike cruiser. He stood well over two metres tall, a giant who towered over the crew that shared the bridge with him. His armour was painted a lively blue, with gunmetal pauldrons. However, the blue was barely visible under the scars and dirt that coated his armour. There was dried blood on his gauntlets, and the skull of an eldar warrior hung from his belt. As he walked towards the gunnery station, the skull clanked against his calves, alerting Ensign Macchius to the soldier’s presence behind him.

The crewman stood up hurriedly, knocking his chair over in the process. He slammed his fist to his chest in the traditional manner of salute, and once the soldier had nodded in acknowledgement, Ensign Macchius picked up his chair and returned to his work.

“Do we have ranges on those frigates?” the soldier asked in a harsh, deep voice. The mere sound of the soldier’s voice caused Macchius to squirm in his seat.

“Not yet, my lord Captain,” the ensign stuttered, “but weapons are at one hundred percent capacity, ready to fire.”

The soldier grunted approval, and leaned over the ensign’s shoulder to examine the screen more closely. The enemy convoy moved steadily through space, the engine flares lighting up the darkness of the void. The frigates surrounded a monster of a capital ship that sat in their midst, its hull scratched with dark runes that burned the soldier’s advanced eyesight. The capital ship bristled with weapons, the most prominent of all an enormous nova cannon that pushed out from an eloquently carved fanged maw that served as the prow of the beast. The soldier grunted in slight admiration at the size of this weapon, and slowly raised himself to his full height.

Sweat dripped down Macchius’ face as he frantically worked out detailed mathematical equations that would find the range of the enemy convoy. He knew that he could use the machine-spirit, but he had been raised this way, and so continued his tradition. He looked up as the captain stood straight up, and he turned his chair around to regard the gargantuan soldier.

“Your orders, my lord?” the ensign asked, stuttering over his words. The soldier was silent for a moment, deep in thought.

“Order the front batteries to arm and load the nuclear warheads. Tell the side and rear batteries to prepare to unleash a full broadside, Vulkan rounds,” the soldier commanded, his voice steeled in his purpose. Macchius acknowledged the soldier’s orders with a nod, and as he began to distribute the orders to the gun gangs on the lower deck, he felt his stomach rise into his gorge as he realized the soldier’s intent. There was no path to flank the convoy; the five frigates surrounded the capital ship entirely. Therefore, Third Captain Aurius, of the Iron Brethren Astartes Chapter, was going to make a path.

Right through the convoy.

[Dominicus]

Chapter 2

08:13 Terran Standard Time 989.41

 

The bridge of the Chaos cruiser bustled with activity. Dark red lights glowed from every console as servitors and human slaves alike put the Apostle’s orders into action. Word Bearers, in full armour, stalked amongst the crew, bolters in hand, ready to punish any who were not satisfactorily completing their task.

 

Dark Apostle Tyran sat upon the command throne, his dark red armour bleeding hatred for the ship he saw on the command screen. The Reverentia, the Iron Brotherhood’s battle-barge, was charging towards the convoy through the void, its engines leaving blazing trails in the cold air of space. Tyran snorted and grabbed his crozius. He stood up and walked over to where Helch, his Coryphaus, stood watching over the bridge.

 

“Order the Host to prepare to board,” he hissed, his pale face twisting into a grimace.

“Yes, my lord,” grunted the hulking Word Bearer, and turned to head for the door.

“Also,” Tyran voxed to the warrior, “choose the best ten warriors of the Anointed; the shall be with me when we board.”

“Yes, lord,” the Coryphaus voxed without breaking his stride, and the doors, etched with the screaming faces of daemons and humans alike, hissed open to allow him to exit.

 

The Dark Apostle calmly walked across the bridge, his mind reciting memorized praises to the Gods. He was a menacing figure in his armour; two large daemon horns protruded from his left pauldron, and the skinned face of a human was pinned to his left. His Accursed Crozius was black as night, with an eight-pointed star, made from the darkest obsidian found on Sicarus, adorning the top. A bolter fashioned to resemble a daemon screaming was slung at his hip, and a copy of the Book of Lorgar was chained to his chest.

 

His appearance, with his Mark III helm in place, had been enough to bring many populations into the folds of the Burning Blade Host. However, when his helm was removed, he was even more intimidating. A series of long scars crisscrossed his pale face, some from the heat of battle, some ritual. His eyes were completely black; they had long ago succumbed to the Warp’s powers and mutated into two black balls that allowed him to see not only what other Word Bearers could see, but also rifts in reality that the Immaterium leaked through. His bald head was tattooed with the eight-pointed star of the Chaos Pantheon, and devotional texts were inscribed on his eyelids.

 

He unclipped his helmet from his belt and slowly locked it into place, the clamps of his looted Mark VII power armour locking with the ancient helm. He walked across the bridge through another exit, into his personal chamber. It was a vast room, with effigies of the Chaos Gods drawn onto all four walls. In one corner, a vast iron cage stood, and in the cage there were humans. Naked except for loincloths, the prisoners huddled in the furthest reaches of the cage, trying to stay away from the glare of the terrifying Tyran.

 

Tyran stalked toward the cage and opened the door, stepping inside. He walked slowly towards the mass of flesh in the corner, and he could see the prisoners writhing in fear and terror. His lips turned into a freakish grin under his helm. He loved watching the humans squirm in his presence.

 

He grabbed the closest leg to him, which was connected to a small boy, no older than twelve years. The Dark Apostle raised the boy to his helmet visor, and his green eye lenses bore into the child’s face. The child, now hanging upside down, whimpered in fear and began to cry. A muffled yelp from the dark corner indicated his mother was there; she could only watch as Tyran squeezed the boy’s left arm, gently snapping his elbow joint. The boy screamed in pain, and the Dark Apostle chuckled darkly.

“You’ll do,” he muttered, and turned and walked from the cage, the boy screaming and swinging in his grip.

 

He stopped in the centre of the room and looked around at the four walls, silently deciding which God he would need most in the coming battle. Finally, he decided on Khorne, and as his long strides carried him towards the wall and the small obsidian altar in front of it, he reached up with his free hand and unclipped his helmet, attaching it again to his waist.

 

He slammed the boy onto the altar, the child screaming out in pain as several bones snapped from the force of impact. As the Dark Apostle let go of the boy, the child struggled to escape Tyran’s clutches, dragging himself off the altar onto the floor with his one good arm, screaming again as his broken bones grinded against each other. The Dark Apostle silently stood watching the boy try to escape back to the cage, to his mother’s arms. The cries from inside the cage grew louder as the mother watched her son try to flee from the murderous Word Bearer.

 

“Good try,” the Dark Apostle commended with a sneer, before taking a step forwards, picking up the boy, and slamming him to the altar again, to another series of painful yelps. Tyran reached down and pulled a long, curved blade from a scabbard on his thigh. He ran the blunt side of the ceremonial blade under the boy’s nose, the human’s mucus and tears coating the blade. The Dark Apostle then raised the blade to his mouth and slowly licked the blade, tasting the salty tang of tears and fear.

 

“Do not worry, little one,” Tyran said with a sadistic smile, “this won’t hurt a bit.” In a blur, he raised the blade and slammed it down, chopping one of the boy’s hands off at the wrist. The boy screamed in pain as blood spurted uncontrollably from his wrist; he couldn’t move his broken arm to grab the stump to stanch the flow. In between screams and cries, he looked viciously at the Word Bearer, pain and hate in his young eyes.

“You LIED!” the boy screamed, his tears now streaming down his face and splashing onto the altar.

 

“Indeed, it seems I did,” the Dark Apostle laughed and he deftly removed the other wrist. As the boy began to slip into shock from pain and blood loss, Tyran slid the blade along the boy’s throat, severing both the carotid artery and jugular vein. Blood sprayed from his neck onto the carving of Khorne on the wall, and the Dark Apostle raised his hands wide, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as blood spurted onto his face.

 

“Blood for the Blood God.”

[Dominicus]

Chapter 3

 

08:30 Terran Standard Time 989.M41

The serf walked quickly through the metal corridors of the ship, his head down. As servitors and other Chapter serfs rushed by him, preparing the ship and its Astartes warriors for combat, no one paid attention to him. He easily picked his way through the mass of people, and turned left into a doorway marked with a cog and skull

 

He hopped quietly down the metal stairs, striding across the catwalk that was raised above the engines as quickly – and carefully – as he could. He finally reached the far side of the engine room, where the controls monitoring the coolant levels and the adepts that tended the engine were stationed.

 

The serf silently pulled a laspistol from his waist, shining from his daily cleanings, and inscribed with the mark “XVII”, as well as the words “Ave Chaotica”. He double- checked that the clip was securely attached; he could not afford to fail in this.

 

He rested his arm on the railing of the gangplank, closing one eye as he aimed at the back of the nearest adept’s head. His silenced shot struck the Mechanicus priest squarely in the skull, and he flopped forwards onto his controls, blood and brains oozing from the scorched hole in his head.

 

The other adepts turned to look, but his pistol was already in motion. He squeezed off three more shots in rapid succession, and three more adepts fell to the ground with holes in their skulls. The last adept tried to turn and run, but another well-placed shot hit him and the back, and he dropped to the ground, squealing and rolling in pain.

 

The serf calmly walked over the dying adept and put him out of his misery, a single silenced shot ending his pain forever. He holstered his pistol and turned to the controls. He reached into his bag, marked with the symbol of the Iron Brotherhood, and pulled out melta charges. He placed three onto the consoles, then turned, headed down the small flight of stairs, and rigged charges on all of the engines and cooling containers in a similar fashion.

 

His job done, he dragged the bodies of the Mechanicus priests into a small cupboard, and locked the door. He walked calmly from the room, lifting his wrist up to his arm.

“Phase one is complete.”

 

+++ +++ +++ +++ +++

 

The gun gang hauled the lift of heavy shells into place behind the massive cannons that gave the Victorius her prowess as a fighting ship. As the gangers went to work loading the guns, one of the gangers stepped away, his hand pressed to his ear. He nodded to himself, but the nod was so slight that it wasn’t noticed.

 

He looked around at the four other gangs that worked the sister cannons of his, and eyes from members of all of the crews made contact with him. He made slight nods to each, and each knew what they had to do. In perfect unison, they all brought their slung guns to their shoulders, turned off the safeties, and sprayed lasfire across their crewmates.

 

There was no time for them to scream; the attack was over in a matter of seconds, every last loyal member of the crew working the guns dead from multiple shots to their body. The traitors slung their rifles again, and began to head from the gunnery decks, knowing that, all over the massive strike cruiser, similar events were taking place.

“Gunnery decks are secure; phase two complete,” one of the men hissed into a vox attached to his wrist.

 

A loud explosion rippled through the ship. The melta charges planted on the engines had been detonated; this was their signal.

“To the bridge!” one of the crew called out. Guns were unslung and readied as the rebel crewmen divided themselves into two large groups. The first groups began to head up to the bridge of the ship, where Third Captain Aurius and his command squad were located. The rest of the men headed downwards, towards the chambers of the Astartes of the Third Company, who were still preparing themselves for the coming battle with the Word Bearers. They were oblivious to the threat posed from within their ship, until the explosion of the engines.

 

“Phase three is a go,” the serf who had destroyed the engines voxed, “Ave Chaotica.”

+++ ++++

Aboard the Chaos cruiser Blood of the Gods, Tyran stood in front of his command throne again, listening as the voices of the traitors planted on the Iron Brotherhood’s ship confirmed their progress. He listened as lasfire and heavy stubbers chatted away, receiving some muffled screams in response, before the loud, distinctive barks of bolters cut across, drawing screams and wet sounds of exploding bodies.

 

The Dark Apostle smiled. The Victorius was shown on the screen in front of him, floating lifeless and defenseless in the void. Tyran would have his revenge on Aurius today.

If it’s the last thing I do.

He turned on his heel and headed from the bridge, donning his helm as he walked.

 

Now was the time for war.

[ChaptermasterDemon7]

Very nice what you have so far. I especially like your Dark Apostle.

[Armond]

Well done. I like the pace and it reads easy. Waiting for the next installment.

[Dominicus]

Chapter 4

 

09:02 Terran Standard Time 989.M41

The crew that had been standing on the bridge slowly rose to their feet, sporting a various assortment of bruises and lacerations. The least injured of the crew understood what was happening, and they immediately reached for laspistols holstered at their waist, or lasrifles that were mounted to the wall.

“Breach! Breach!” Ensign Macchius cried out from his position behind an overturned metal table. He fired off three quick shots from the pistol in his grip, and his smiled grimly as he was rewarded by two grunts as the attackers fell to the floor dead.

 

Aurius stood at the center of the bridge, his ornate helm on his head, and his bolter bucking in his grip as he picked targets with abhuman accuracy from the smoke that enveloped the main doors to the bridge. Around him, his command squad blazed away at the door with an assortment of weapons – Antonius loosed blasts of superheated plasma into the throng of attackers, whilst the champion Seratius calmly potted traitors with shots from his thrice-blessed bolt pistol.

 

“What is this madness?” Aurius demanded over the main tactical channel, his anger obvious in his tone.

“Sir,” Macchius replied, “it would seem that Chaos has made its way on board the ship.” He gestured at the nearest body with his pistol. Aurius glanced at it; foul markings that made his eyes water were carved into the flesh of the serf, and the eight-pointed star of the pantheon was branded between the serf’s shoulder blades.

The captain growled in hatred.

 

He looked over at Seratius, who met his stern gaze with a nod. Aurius turned to the rest of his command squad and raised his lightning claw high in the air, the talons sliding from their sheaths and igniting with a crackle of power.

“Into them! For the glory of the Brotherhood!” he boomed, his already loud voice enhanced by the speakers in his armour.

“And to the glory of the Primarch!” they answered, finishing the ancient war cry of the Iron Brotherhood as they drew their swords and daggers. The remaining loyal bridge crew cried out too, drawing a wide assortment of rusty pocketknives and combat blades.

 

The fighting was ferocious; the traitors, in their zeal, fought with great passion, and never once did they fall back in retreat. But the might of Aurius and his brethren was too great. The battle was over in ten minutes, the only damage to the Astartes being new scratches to their armour, minor wounds that had found gaps in their armour, and Brother Seratius would need a new helm. The close-range explosion of a plasma gun had rendered his current helmet unusable.

 

The bridge crew, however, was decimated. Only Macchius, who was covered in blood, most of it the enemy’s, and a junior member of the crew named Thorne still survived. Both had many gashes, their uniform ripped and their blades covered in blood. Aurius looked at them briefly, noting with momentary pride that the two crewmen still stood tall, even after the loss of many of their friends.

 

The vox in Aurius’ helm crackled to life as reports began pouring in from his Third Company brethren.

“Squad Emacius is taking heavy fire in corridor D6-B!”

“This is Squad Brutus, we’re holding position in the mess hall, but we’re surrounded. Taking casualties…”

“Squad Haine is gone. I repeat, Squad Haine is gone.”

 

“What?” Aurius muttered into the vox, startled. An entire veteran squad of Astartes, wiped out by crewmen with the same training as those that Aurius has slaughtered. It was an impossible notion.

“Regus, confirm. Was Squad Haine eliminated by traitors?” he asked over the vox, praying to mighty Emperor that his fears were wrong.

 

“No Captain,” Regus replied, the chatter of a heavy bolter sounding in the background, “the last time Haine checked in, he was reporting strange creatures were attacking his squad alongside the traitors. He also reported seeing strange lights coming from a doorway. Sir, I think we have da-“ the channel was suddenly cut, as if being jammed.

 

Aurius looked down at the ground, hate slowly turning his vision red.

“Daemons.”

[Dominicus]

This is a longer chapter, hope you enjoy! Feedback is always welcome, belated thanks to those who replied earlier!.

 

+++

 

 

Chapter 5

 

9:05 Terran Standard Time 989.M41

 

Tyran sat in the Dreadclaw, his accursed crozius lying on his lap. Dark power radiated from the corrupted symbol of the Dark Apostle’s rank, and the Word Bearer drank it in, using it to fuel his hate. He looked around him, see the Anointed Terminators that accompanied him. Garbed in blood red Terminator armour, these were the finest warriors that the 45th Host had to offer. Each was deeply versed in the Book of Lorgar, and as the Dreadclaw hurtled through space towards the Iron Brotherhood’s battle-barge, the Litanies of Hate and Rage spilled from their mouths in perfect unison. The eight-pointed stars carved into each of their foreheads glowed with red light, as the Gods poured their approval and blessings upon the warriors.

 

Tyran touched his battered copy of the Book that was chained to his chest. He closed his eyes behind his helm, power welling up inside of him. He focused his mind towards the battle to come; he thought of every sword stroke he would avoid, every swipe of his crozius that would find its mark, and the blood that would be spilled. The Dark Apostle’s eyes flew open, and he switched his armour’s speakers to maximum volume.

 

“My brothers!” Tyran cried, bloodlust filling his voice, “today we slay the Iron Brothers. Today we destroy the honour of their Chapter. Today…” Tyran stopped. The eyes of every Anointed warrior were on him, and he could see their growing thirst for battle. He grinned darkly.

“Today, we will annihilate Captain Maximius Aurius, and he will never be remembered.”

 

The Astartes is the pod cheered, their cheers slowly turning to roars of hate, and Tyran began the Litany of Blood. As the Dreadclaw neared the battle-barge, the warriors were in a complete focused state of mind, the entirety of their being focused on the coming fight. Litanies and chants from the Book of Lorgar poured from their mouths like water from a falls.

 

As the Dreadclaws of the 45th Host impacted on the battle-barge and cut their way through the thick armour of the venerable ship, Tyran laughed.

Today, I will have my revenge, he thought, a sneer making its way to his lips.

I swear it.

 

+++

 

Aurius leveled his boltgun and pointed it down the corridor. Sweeping it in practiced motions, he made his way down the dark hallway, his veteran eyes seeking any enemies that lurked in the darkness.

“Any signs of our brothers?” Aurius asked, his gun lowering a fraction as he became sure that the hallway was free of traitors.

“None, my lord,” replied Hydratius, the auspex in his hand. “There are no life signs in this hallway at all, except for ours.” The heavy weapons specialist kept his eyes glued to the screen as he hefted his plasma cannon, the servos of his relic Terminator armour whirring as Hydratius raised the deadly weapon to his shoulder. “Hold, I’m getting something…”

What?” Aurius inquired, his helm turning slightly to acknowledge his brother.

 

“Multiple readings, and they are definitely not friendly,” Hydratius announced. “Lord, we have daemo-.” His sentence was cut off as a Bloodthirster leapt from the darkness, grabbing onto Hydratius’ helm and twisting it side to side. The veteran Astartes flailed desperately to throw the daemon off, but it was to no avail. Before his brothers could turn their bolters onto the beast, he had ripped the veteran’s head clean from his shoulders. Blood spurted from the stump of his neck as the massive Terminator-armoured corpse slumped to the deck of the ship, the light of the charging plasma cannon dying as the owner did.

 

Aurius felt shock. The sudden loss of a brother, especially one as close to him as Hydratius, rocked him to his core every time. Something snapped inside the Third Captain. The red that had begun to take him over after the loss of Squad Haine was now completely in control. His lightning claws slid from their sheaths and he let out a feral bellow, his eyes narrowing to slits as combat stimms flooded his body in an attempt to keep up with his charge. He flew headfirst into the swarm of daemons, his talons a blur of motion. Warp-tainted blood spilled and flew, coating his black and gunmetal tactical dreadnought suit in the sticky substance.

 

Aurius was entirely immersed in the moment. He could faintly hear the reports of four bolters as his command squad followed him into the fray, every shot tearing into the corrupted flesh of the daemons. The head of a Bloodthirster burst beside him, the red mist covering the Cruz Terminatus that he bore on that shoulder. Bolter rounds whizzed past his head as he charged; he did not care, he was no longer Captain Aurius. He was rage incarnate, the mighty form of the Primarch in the flesh. Every calculated stroke of his talons struck with the brute force of a berserker, and his eyes were wild behind his helm, the bloodcraze slowly creeping into his mind, stealing him from himself.

 

Suddenly, there was nothing left to kill. The blood-covered monstrosity that was called Aurius stood facing the bulkhead in his massive armour, panting audibly, snorting as his rage fought to find a vent. Seratius slowly approached his captain; he knew his brother’s rages well, and he knew he had to exert care in bringing him back to sanity. He slowly placed an armoured gauntlet on Aurius’ shoulder.

“Brother…” Seratius began, before jumping back as the Third Captain whirled around, his claws slashing the air where the nimble champion had been standing seconds before. “Brother, calm yourself!”

 

Aurius was visibly struggling with his rage. Slowly, he raised himself out of his deep predatory crouch, as the red haze began to lift. His talons retracted, and his removed his helm, revealing a patrician face that glistened with sweat. His heavy brow was furrowed in concentration as he fought to control himself, and his mouth opened and closed, seemingly of its own accord.

“Welcome back, brother,” Seratius chuckled, shaking his helmeted head.

“Good to be back, my friend,” Aurius mumbled as he finally regained complete control.

 

He stared at the corpse of his fallen brother, and a single tear made its way from the corner of hi right eye, tracking down the grime that covered his face to drop from his chin onto the Aquila on the chest of his armour.

“Apothecary, remove his geneseed. He shall be remembered by the next Neophyte to take his place,” Aurius said solemnly, his eyes still locked on his fallen comrade. Hydratius and him had fought in the same Scout squad, under the grizzled veteran Yurich. There would be much grieving later, and Aurius would personally carve Hydratius’ name onto the Wall of Heroes at the Chapter monastery. But, for now, war called once more.

 

“My lord,” Antonius called, flipping through his vox channels as he spoke. “We are being boarded on the port side. The rebellion of the crew has been crushed, minimal losses, but reports from Squad Erasmus say that we are being boarded by the Word Bearers.” Aurius nodded, and slammed his helm onto his head, the seals clicking into place and a diagnostics check flashing up on his visor. Indeed, the time for mourning would be later. For now, it was the time for honour, and for glory.

“Brothers!” Aurius called out, the speakers of armour amplifying his fiery rhetoric. “Today, we shall slay the hated Word Bearers, for the glory of the Primarch!”

“And to the glory of the Emperor!” his squad roared, their fists clashing to the chestplates in a salute.

 

With zeal in their hearts and war on their minds, they began the march to the opposite side of the vast ship

[ChaptermasterDemon7]

Very nice. You story is getting better with each chapter. Your Third Captain is awesome.

[Dominicus]

Alright. thanks for the comment ChaptermasterDemon7. Glad it's improving.

This chapter is more focused around Tyran and why he has such an issue with the Iron Brotherhood. You're not gonna see this coming...

 

 

Chapter 6

 

9:24 Terran Standard Time 989.M41

 

Tyran howled as prayer to the Pantheon of Chaos as he delivered a vicious backhand to a Chapter serf of the Iron Brotherhood. The blow sent the mortal man sprawling across the deck of the ship, the vibro-blade he had wielded ripped from his grip upon impact with the bulkhead. The muscular serf shook his head, dazed and groggy after the heavy slap from the Dark Apostle. Before he could find his blade, the Word Bearer was on him. Pushing the serf’s face down with one armoured boot, Tyran bent over, raised his hand into the air, and plunged it into the man’s chest. The serf screamed in horror and agony as the traitor’s armoured gauntlet broke clean through his ribs and sternum, bone shards piercing his lungs and esophagus. Tyran left his hand in the man’s chest for a moment, then ripped it out again, the serf’s bloody heart held in his vice grip, still beating. The mortal spent his last moments watching in terror as the Dark Apostle raised the heart into the air, blood dripping down his left arm.

 

“Blood for the Blood God!” screamed Tyran, his vox speakers amplifying his voice. His Anointed warriors responded in kind, bellowing their allegiance to Khorne and the four Chaos Gods as they butchered their way through the impromptu force of Chapter serfs that opposed their boarding of the Victorius. Tyran grinned darkly beneath his daemonic helm. His accursed crozius hummed as the power field surrounding it burnt away the blood that was caked on it, and his bolt pistol was slung at his hip. He viewed the slaughter around him with eyes filled with burning hatred.

 

The Anointed warrior standing beside him, more than two metres tall in his hulking Terminator armour, slumped to the ground dead. Tyran turned to look at the corpse. A bright power sword was impaled through the warrior’s chest, blue incandescent power coursing over the blade as it burned the skin of the corpse under the armour. Tyran spun on his heel, and before him stood an Astartes in the livery of the Iron Brotherhood. His red helm signified his rank of sergeant, and the white laurel that adorned that same helm indicated the veteran rank this particular soldier held. As the Iron Brother removed his sword from the dead Word Bearer, he swung it in complicated patterns designed to loosen the muscles of his shoulders, back, and arms. Tyran smiled.

 

“Son of Dorn,” he snorted, noting the crux terminatus that the veteran bore on his left pauldron. “Do you really think you can kill me? I am a servant of the Gods! I am their conduit!”

The sergeant shook his head as his sword continued to weave patterns in the air, their speed and intensity increasing with each moment.

“For one so great to have fallen so far…it is quite a tragedy,” the sergeant murmured. “You do realize you will never be one of them? You will never be a true Word Bearer, Hyphaesus. You will forever be an imitator.” Tyran snarled at the words spoken by the Iron Brother.

“How do you know my name?” snapped the Dark Apostle, his crozius rising to provide protection against the attack he knew was coming.

The Astartes stopped swinging his sword, and with one hand he removed his helm. Short grey hair framed the noble features of Brother-Sergeant Janus. His steel grey eyes, hard as flint, bored deep into the eye lenses of the Dark Apostle. Tyran shuddered as he recognized the face of his former friend…his former brother.

 

Tyran screamed in fury and rushed the sergeant. Anticipating the attack, Janus stepped to his left, his right hand coming down to smash the pommel of his sword in the back of Tyran's red armour. The Dark Apostle stumbled, before diving and rolling to his feet. Turning again to face his opponent, Tyran snarled and removed his own helm. His jet-black hair fell to his shoulders, his white face contrasting against the darkness of his hair. The Dark Apostle could see the grief in Janus’ eyes; the same look he had seen when he had betrayed his brothers and made himself an outcast from the Chapter. The look pushed Tyran over the edge. Roaring praises to the Gods and pleading for power, he flung himself at the sergeant. He rained blows upon the veteran with his crozius, but with each brutal swing, Janus deftly maneuvered his sword to block each blow. The two spun and traded blows in the corridor, the Anointed warriors backing away to allow further space for the duel to move.

 

Janus ducked under a vicious swing of Tyran’s crozius, before driving his sword into the Dark Apostle’s thigh. The traitor howled, bringing his now-deactivated crozius down onto Janus’ head. The sergeant staggered back, disoriented from the blow. As the blood flow in his wound staunched itself, his organs working to heal his body, Tyran launched himself at the veteran Astartes again, his crozius beating enormous dents into the black and gunmetal ceramite plate. As Janus staggered away from yet another heavy blow, Tyran hooked the crozius onto a loop on his belt, and he brought his right fist around in a vicious uppercut. The sergeant’s head snapped back, exposing the Aquila on his chest as his arms flew up to cover his face. Tyran sneered and jumped into the air, launching both feet into Janus’ chest and kicking him through a plate glass window that separated a serf’s chambers from the corridor. The glass shattered as Janus’ enormous weight crashed into it, the shards ripping into his exposed skin and drawing blood from thousands of tiny wounds on his face.

 

Tyran smiled, his filed teeth showing, and stalked towards the broken window, Suddenly, bolter fire erupted ten feet away, and shouts over the vox indicated that the Iron Brothers had realized the true threat aboard their ship.

“My lord, contacts. About twenty of them. All Iron Brotherhood. Engaging,” one of the Anointed leaders announced over the vox, and this was promptly followed by the sounds of a hail of storm bolter fire. Tyran snarled, looking back at the unconscious form of the sergeant lying in the remains of the window.

“I’ll finish with you later,” the Dark Apostle muttered, before slamming his helm onto his head and drawing his crozius, activating the power field with a flick of his thumb.

[ChaptermasterDemon7]

very unexpected. I like it!

[Chapter Master Onyxius]

I love it as well, well paced, mesured and easy to read. This gave me some few ideas for my own story! Well done keep it up

 

- sincerely from Justicar Lionus and his author CMO

[Dominicus]

Chapter 7

 

9:29 Terran Standard Time 989.M41

 

Corrupted rounds from the storm bolters of the Anointed flew down the corridor, impacting and exploding on the bulkheads. Aurius crouched behind a large ceramite crate, dropping the empty ammo drum of his storm bolter before slamming home a new one and racking the slide of the relic. As the fire diminished slightly over his head, the Third Captain leapt out of his cover, sprinting across the hallway with a speed belied by his bulky Terminator armour. Spraying at the traitor Astartes as he ran, he succeeded in downing one of the hulking Terminators, several bolt rounds impacting into his chest and ripping away armour before finding the soft flesh underneath. With his lungs and heart gone, the Chaos warrior fell to the deck of the ship, blood pooling around the feet of his comrades.

 

Slamming into the other side of the corridor, this time in a shallow doorway, Aurius opened a private vox link with Seratius.

“Champion,” Aurius grunted, feeling the wounds that had been inflicted by the daemons. “Begin your assault.”

“Aye, my lord,” Seratius answered. Seconds later, a loud cry was heard as Seratius and Antonius charged from their hiding behind the Anointed warriors. Aurius leaned out of his cover, and watched as the champion dashed towards the Chaos Astartes, his dual blades glinting in the light of the corridor as he landed blows left and right. Antonius followed closely behind him, his power fist crackling with energy as he unloaded blast after blast of storm bolter fire into any Chaos Terminator that got close to Seratius’ blind spots.

 

“Brothers, into the fray! Into the traitors!” Aurius cried, and once again he rushed forwards, his lightning talons of his right hand extending as he ran. With his left, he mag-locked his storm bolter to his hip and drew his power sword. The ancient blade, forged in the enormous volcanic mountain of Hy’reth on his homeworld, crackled with blue electricity as he thumbed the activation rune.

 

A roar alerted him to a massive presence quickly closing on his left flank. Relying solely on his instinct, the captain dived forwards, but he was not fast enough. A power fist slammed into his side, throwing him across the hallway and into the adamantium bulkheads. As he made impact, his felt his sword slide from his grasp and skitter across the floor, finally skidding to a halt at the Chaos warrior’s feet. The debased Astartes grinned cruelly at the dazed captain as he brought his charged fist down on the sword, snapping it into two pieces.

 

Aurius cried out as the blade broke. A relic of the Chapter, it was a great dishonor to any warrior to let such a weapon fall from their grasp, let alone allow for it to be ruined. The captain howled in anger and launched himself at the traitor, his lightning claw a blur. The Word Bearer was ready for the attack, and he side-stepped as the captain flew forwards in his rage. As Aurius passed him, he slammed his power fist into the captain’s power pack, launching the Iron Brother head-first into the other bulkhead. The traitor Astartes heard a crack as Aurius skull broke on impact, and the captain slumped to the ground, face-down, unmoving. The Word Bearer howled in bloodlust, and stomped up the hallway, screaming praises to the Pantheon as he went.

 

In his wake, the captain did not get up.

[Dominicus]

It's been a long, long while, but I've caught the writing bug again, so let's see if I can try and wrap this up.

To any previous readers of this, my apologies for this delay.

To any new readers, welcome to the story, and enjoy!

 

- Dom

 

Chapter 8

 

09:30 Terran Standard Time 929.M41

 

Seratius watched as the Third Captain, perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend, slam into the bulkhead and crumple to the floor. On his visor, he saw Aurius’ life-rune change from green to flashing amber. The captain was hurt badly, and if he was to survive this battle, he needed an apothecary.

 

Seratius roared and pointed the blade in his left hand at the Anointed warrior who had just bested Aurius.

“Antonius, with me! The captain is our objective,” he roared into the vox, twin blades already flashing through the first Word Bearer to block their path. Antonius understood immediately, and he pulled the squad’s apothecary, Rylan, away from the fallen Iron Brother he was treating.

“The captain,” Antonius shouted, and without a word Rylan was on his feet, power sword in his hand.

 

The trio rushed through the Anointed warriors, the champion Seratius dealing wounds with every stroke, and leaving in his wake limping Word Bearers for Antonius and Rylan to finish off. A Word Bearer swung a thunder hammer at Seratius, and before he could block the swing, the maul slammed into his chest plate. Seratius rolled with the blow and came up on his knees, swords held out at his sides. He lunged forward with a speed that belied his Terminator-armoured frame, and with a flash the Anointed warrior’s head was separated from his shoulders, his corpse crashing to the floor.

 

Then they were upon the captain. Antonius turned and sprayed bolter fire into the Word Bearers as Rylan knelt and began tending to Aurius. Rolling him onto his back, it was obvious the captain was in rough shape; his skull was cracked and broken in several places, and his neck was quite possibly broken, if not fractured severely.

 

As the apothecary set about stabilizing the Third Captain, Seratius turned to stand beside Antonius, swords once again slashing viciously at any Word Bearer who survived Antonius’ disciplined barrage of bolter fire to close with them. Then Seratius saw him.

 

A massive figure in dark black power armour, adorned with sigils of the Ruinous Powers and with a massive book chained to his chest, was advancing through the Anointed warriors. Two massive Bloodthirsters of Khorne flanked him on each side, and without his helm, his piercing black eyes focused on Seratius.

 

Seratius shuddered as he recognized the once noble features of the Word Bearer. Hyphaesus, former Chaplain of the Third Company, the Arch-Traitor and the instigator of the Lasos Incident, where he murdered Aurius’ predecessor Vindictus and his entire command squad, save Aurius, on the bridge of the very same strike cruiser upon which this battle raged. Aurius was more than his equal, and dealt him a vicious wound and drove Hyphaesus from the bridge. He had fled in a stolen Thunderhawk to the edge of the system, and was picked up by a Word Bearers vessel that made a jump to the Warp while the Iron Brethren reeled from the loss of their captain. The incident had happened one hundred years prior, and though Aurius had hunted far and wide, they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the traitor. Until now.

 

Seratius steeled himself against the rage that welled inside of him. Bile rose in his throat at the sight of what he once called a brother, and with a roar he batted aside the nearest Anointed warrior to bring himself face to face with Tyran. He removed his helm and clipped it to his belt. He watched Tyran’s scarred features twist into a rictus grin as he recognized the former sergeant.

“Ah brother! It has been too long!” Tyran laughed motioning for the warriors around him to stand down. The Chaos Terminators fell back behind Tyran, leaving a large gap in which only the Iron Brother champion and the Dark Apostle stood.

 

“I have waited many years for this meeting, Hyphaesus,” Seratius said, his voice clipped and barely containing the rage that festered inside.

“I do not recognize that name anymore brother. I am Tyran, Dark Apostle of the true Gods, the Lords of Chaos,” Tyran shouted, the grin still occupying his features.

“I am no brother to you, traitor scum,” Seratius muttered, and he took his stance, swords braced and ready for blood. “This ends now.”

 

With those final words, Seratius charged. 

[deathspectersgt7]

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