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The Sanguinius Heresy

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Index Astartes: Iron Hands

 

 

 

Origins
The world the Tenth Primarch would land upon was a small, dangerous world residing in the Segmentum Obscurus. Medusa was a harsh world covered with ash filled, polluted skies that caused the planet to be in perpetual gloom. Medusa's sun rarely shined on the planet's surface and the world's geology was highly unstable, with earthquakes and volcanic eruptions constantly creating and destroying entire mountain ranges and seas.

 

The people of Medusa are a hardy people that despite the deadly environment they live in they have not only survived but flourished. The population was broken up into various nomadic clans that viciously compete and vie for natural resources and safe ground as the unpredictable nature of Medusa's landscape means little can built in one place for long, save a few areas of relative calm which are consistently fought over by the clans.

 

The nomadic clans, travelling via large caterpillar-like mining haulers, are ever on the move across their world, fighting other clans for resources and land. This method of harsh living, nomadic lifestyle, war and resource scavenging ensured the people of Medusa were a tough and hardy breed. One of the greatest wonders of Medusa is the ruins of the Telstarax, a colossal structure space station dating back to the Dark Age of Technology. In researches done by the Mechanicum, shortly after Medusa was brought in into the fold of the Imperium; it is believed that the Telstarax was used to plunder Medusa of its resources before Old Night.

 

Ferrus Manus, the Tenth Son, impacted upon the volcano Karaashi, the Black Pinnacle of Ice, in a vast inhospitable mountain range to the north. Known information about Manus and his early life is rare and unknown. Few details have survived into the forty-first millennium with Carpinus' Speculum Historiale being only one of two sources with anything that could be described as credible, the other being a Medusan poem known as the Canticle of the Travels.

 

 

Climbing out of the chamber his gene-capsule had crashed into the young boy who knew himself only as the Tenth stood at the edge of a long drop downwards into the strange, alien chamber. Rubbing his arm where the silver creature attacked him was heavily bruised and bleeding from multiple open wounds. He could already feel his body healing itself at a rapid rate, the blood coagulating and the wounds themselves beginning to scab over. His naked body was glistening with sweat from his earlier action and the heat of the world along with the smear of soot.

 

In the distance were mountains upon mountains covered in ice and black rock. Smoke rose and ash billowed on the wind currents. The air was difficult to breathe but manageable. Spitting out phlegm containing dirt and ash onto the ground he began to stretch. Looking down into the cavern at the place that was somewhat of a home to him for some time laid there amongst the rubble, destroyed beyond all repair, it was lucky he had survived; luck or perhaps destiny.

 

A roar echoed from a mountain close to him. The silver beast was wounded but not dead. Its roar had a metallic overtone to it. No matter, if it could be hurt it could be killed. Another roar, farther away this time, bellowed across the mountain range. It was moving, afraid of him. It could run… for a time.

 

Tenth’s silver eyes caught a glimpse of the beast many leagues in the distance as it crawled away, snarling and snapping as it retreated. Its silver glistening skin catching the light of nearby lava pools. He noted the beast put distance between itself and the magma. A weakness perhaps, was the metallic skin covering it prone to the extreme heat of lava?

 

The pain in his hand which the creature bit flared with sudden pain greater than any he had ever experienced bringing him to his knees. Gritting teeth and growling the pain subsided. Looking down at the bloody mess of a hand he grimaced. This is how the beast survived by the Tenths weakness to kill it. Weakness from his own body, his own flesh had held him back allowing the creature to escape. The flesh is weak but must be overcome if the beast was to die. Setting off down the mountain with skill he had been embedded with the journey would begin.  

 


What is known for a fact is that Manus never waged war to unite Medusa under his rule. Instead of campaigning for planetary unification Manus instead roamed Medusa, moving from clan to clan. The clansmen respected and feared the wandering primarch; the tales of his adventures would become legendary. Manus would never formally join a clan but rather all the clans considered him an honorary member despite never staying for any length of time. 

 

Many deeds were accomplished by Manus in his travels. Medusan legends tell of him wandering the northern realms, casting down hulking storm giants, slaying monsters and murderous machine-creatures, relics of an ancient era of death and bloodshed. The most renowned of such legends featured the deathless horror of the great silver creature-wyrm known as Asirnoth. The Inquisition, in a joint effort with the Adeptus Mechanicus, would release a Vermillion level report to the High Lords that hypothesizes that the silver wyrm was in fact a Necron machine construct, impervious to harm. This theory is thought to be the truth but none are for certain.

 

In the Land of Shadows the tenth primarch had to submerge the creature in molten magma to kill it. The creature's quicksilver-skin, called Necrodermis, marked the primarch in its death-throes and now perpetually coated Manus’s own hands and forearms.

 

When Manus strode forth from the Land of Shadows he was thought of as a living god by the clans of Medusa, feared and respected by all. While he did not require Medusan worship, and reportedly did nothing to encourage it, he did demand absolute obedience to his will. Any that disobeyed were bloodily broken in combat. The conflict between the clans was not ceased nor was peace brought to the planet, but instead he gave the Iron Fathers, the half tech-priests, half-shamans who ministered to the clans' spiritual and technological needs, the fruits of his own making in exchange for the technological secrets they had kept for generations. Through the Manus’s teachings the Medusan clans forged better weapons and stronger machines with which to fight each other to prove they were worthy to survive.

 

Ferrus Manus, many years into his legendary travels, would lead the bravest warriors of the clans to delve into the frozen realms in the south, breaking open long-sealed vaults bursting with technological treasures and intruding into ice-buried fragments of great machine-works that had fallen from the skies in the ages before Old Night. In the frozen southern wastelands the warriors loyal to Manus fought degenerate mutants, living-dead cyborgs whose decayed flesh hung in tatters from corroded metal bodies, and subdued the dark-engines of nightmare.

 


The stink of sweat and blood hung in the air along with the forever presence of smoke and ash. The man before Ferrus Manus was tall clad in plain clothing. Manus was similarly dressed. Both fought with fists, the stranger’s were flesh, Manus’s were his metal appendages, a… gift of sorts from the silver-wyrm Asirnoth. All around them the northern mountains of Medusa were laid out around them, an imposing view, one filled with beauty and danger together.

 

The stranger’s long black hair and deep blue eyes spoke of inner strength, calm demeanor and wisdom of the ages. This stranger had come to Manus days ago as a representative of others asking him for his loyalty to some ‘Imperium of Man’ that apparently was sweeping the galaxy in a mass crusade.

 

Manus, despite some inclination towards accepting the offer, refused out of hand stating why he should fight for some interstellar empire that has not shown its strength and power to the people of Medusa nor him. The stranger replied that if he defeated Manus in hand to hand combat than would Manus accept his offer and join this Imperium. Manus, of course, agreed, confident of an eventual victory over the newcomer.

 

Now eleven days later, leading into the twelfth, both men fought without pause. Both were bleeding from gashes on their skins and bruises ranging from a multitude of colors were imprinted across their bodies, visible or beneath their simple garments.

 

Both men circled each other, never breaking eye contact. The stranger was an incredible fighter, his strength and speed rivaling Manus. Yet the man who knew himself only as Tenth in his younger days, before the Medusan clans named him, felt this stranger, this representative of the Imperium of Man, was holding back.

 

He needed to end this. Despite his body being incredibly strong with a large well of stamina he was tiring slowly. The days of fighting had been draining him. His opponent was tiring but seemed to have a larger reservoir of stamina remaining. Summoning all of the strength he had left Manus charged the stranger.

 

Feigning left than right Manus swung from below to hit the stranger. The black-haired opponent deflected the attack using his momentum to head-but Manus. Reeling Manus withdrew with the stranger swinging his right arm. Manus blocked it, slamming his left elbow to the stranger’s face. The stranger’s face seemed to be made of iron and he took it in stride swinging to his left to wheel around Manus.

 

Leaping forward, escaping his opponent’s grasp, he turned around blocking a succession of lightning attacks from the raven haired man. The man’s left arm came fast at the Tenth’s face which he easily avoided punching the man in his iron hard stomach. However the stranger pivoted his foot, taking the punches in stride, turned with his right arm about Manus’s throat pulling backwards.

 

The knee of his opponent slammed into Ferrus’s lower back eliciting a wheeze of pain. The blue-eyed man held him in a headlock, applying careful pressure to the throat of Manus, squeezing slowly and with care but with deadly precision. Manus punched behind him hitting the man three then four times in the face but to no avail.

 

Realizing he had lost Manus raised his hands, palms upward to the dark sky, in surrender. Immediately the pressure around his throat receded and Manus fell to the ground breathing in the air of Medusa. After a few seconds he rose to face the man before him.

 

The stranger’s breathing was elevated and blood streamed down his face where Manus’s iron hands had punched him but nevertheless he stood resolute and vigilant. “Do you submit, Ferrus Manus?” the deep voice questioned.

 

A fight was a fight and a loss was a loss and Manus had promised his submission if he lost. “Aye, I submit to this Imperium of yours. Now tell me, what is your name?”

 

The stranger straightened his stance with a knowing smile, a golden light seeming to emanate from him, “I am called the Emperor of Mankind. You are my son and I your father. Join me and take to the stars by my side.”

 

Manus was surprised but not shocked as he thought he would be. This Emperor, his father, spoke a bold statement; a statement that Manus innately knew was the truth, the words seemingly unlocking segments of his memory allowing him to see the truth in the Emperor’s words. There was only one course of action to pursue, “I submit you to, father. I am yours to command.”

 

“Good,” said the Emperor, “we have much work to do.”

 

 


The Great Crusade
Within just a few months of Manus being found by the Emperor he would be united with the Legion based off the primarch’s genetic template. The X Legion, nicknamed the Iron Tenth for their fortitude, was one of the first Legions to have found their gene-father, bringing a sense of accomplishment to the then named Storm Walkers. After only a few months Manus had devoured every technical and military journals and his craving for a greater understanding led him to Mars, home of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

 

The relationship between Manus and Priesthood of Mars was said to be the strongest out of all the primarchs with the Mechanicus holding a high opinion of Manus and vice versa. This allowed the Iron Hands access to the latest in armor and weapons technology, along with the most advanced physical augmetic enhancements. 

 

Shortly after visiting Mars the Iron Hands Primarch would descend to Terra to construct the weapon he would wield in the Great Crusade. It was while he was here that he met his brother Fulgrim, the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children. This would be the first time the two brothers had met and brotherly rivalry had begun as soon as they set eyes upon each other.

 


The forges were deep beneath the Ural Mountains, filled with flame and heat. He had been down here for over two days constructing the weapon he would use in his father’s crusade but everything he had made just felt… wrong.

 

Glaring at the weapon before him, fresh from the forges, was a large double sided axe, edged with adamantium and acid etched on the side was the double eagle, sigil of the Imperium. The weapon was glorious, a masterpiece, art made into a weapon, Terran nobles would spend tens of millions of crowns, if not hundreds of millions to acquire a weapon made by a son of the Emperor, yet it seemed wrong, incorrect, flawed, weak.

 

Exasperated at his lack of success in devising a suitable weapon he threw the axe upon the ground beside his feet alongside the other half dozen weapons he had created since his arrival to the forges. His silver hands gripped the work-bench, his fingers creating indentures in the metalwork.

 

Behind the primarch the metal doors leading into the sweltering forge room opened up allowing the heat and flame to be guttered away, at least temporarily. Turning to face the doors Manus saw another being such as him enter uninvited. He was tall, lithe, with long silver hair and violet eyes, sporting purple and gold apparel. “Fulgrim,” Manus grated.

 

The Primarch of the Third Legion looked at his brother with a hint of arrogance in his eyes. “Ah, Ferrus, so glad to finally meet you. I’ve been busy fighting beside our brother Horus for the past few years and have not had a chance to meet you,” Fulgrim bowed, “Working hard, brother?” A hint of superiority clouded his Chemosian brother’s tone.

 

“What do you want, Fulgrim? Why are you here?”the Tenth Primarch demanded.

 

The purple and gold clothed primarch merely smirked and walked over to the adjacent work-bench, new servitors following in his wake, ready to assist if need be. After checking the surroundings, changing a few of the tools arrayed before him, the Third Primarch turned to Manus. “Why I am here to create the most perfect weapon ever devised by human hands. For use in the crusade of course, I had grown tired of my previous weapons.”

 

Manus grunted. “I am doing the same, brother.”

 

“Ah, isn’t that interesting,” Fulgrim craned his neck stretching. “Shall we contest than? Better we see who is the superior weapon-forger than ponder about who is better years later.”

Manus grunted his agreement and began to work. Fulgrim following suit as the sound of hammers clanging began.

 

 

Fulgrim and Manus’s first impressions of each other were initially low. Manus thought Fulgrim arrogant and Fulgrim thought Manus an uncivilized barbarian. However during their three month long contest to outdo the other in creating a weapon the two brothers bonded; their dislike of one another melting away allowing a strong fraternal friendship to develop. When they had finished crafting their weapons Manus had created an elegant yet deadly golden sword he named Fireblade that would forever burn with the fire of the forge’s furnaces. Not to be outdone Fulgrim presented a mighty warhammer he named Forgebreaker, a weapon only a primarch could wield, said to be able to level mountains if need be. When the primarchs had seen the weapon their brother had created they declared the other’s had been the better and without another word switched weapons, forever cementing their newfound friendship.

 

Now armed and filled with all the knowledge the tech-priests divulged to him Manus and his Legion were finally ready for war. While the Tenth Primarch would never be credited with the strategic and tactical brilliance of Horus or El’Jonson, the organizational strengths of Guilliman, the calm demeanor of Vulkan, or the raw savagery of Russ he was nevertheless a gifted commander. During the intermediate years between the Heresy and the time he had met Fulgrim he had acquired the nickname the Gorgon from the Third Primarch. While the title held little grandeur such as the Phoenician, the Great Khan or Lupercal it did hold a certain weight and strength that Manus not only preferred but represented. From hence he was known as Ferrus Manus, the Gorgon. 

 

Utilizing his Legion’s strengths of relentless firepower and armored warfare the Iron Hands were able to utterly demolish an enemy force through brute strength alone. As the Great Crusade continued Manus and his Legion were called to participate in multiple campaigns at any given time, stretching the Iron Tenth thin but allowing the Imperium to quickly conquer hundreds of worlds within a relatively short time period.

 

This mass deployment of the X Legion to dozens of campaigns handicapped Manus when word reached him of Guilliman’s secession. Orders from Terra commanded him to meet Sanguinius in the Istvaan Star System to take part in quelling the foolish Secessionist. If Guilliman was able to hold that star system, establishing it as a forward operating base than it could very well be used as a launching point for a strike towards the Sol System itself.

 

Manus was in the midst of a campaign of compliance and only had his elite Terminator armored Morlocks of the Avernii Clan available for the quick departure that was demanded. Filled with righteous fury at the thought of a brother of his betraying the Emperor the Gorgon assembled his Morlocks and within hours of receiving the astropathic message he had jumped into the warp on his way to join up with the Vengeance Armada at Istvaan.

 

 

 

Dropsite Massacre
Arriving in the Istvaan System with his three thousand Morlock Space Marines the Gorgon demanded an immediate assault on Guilliman’s position. Sanguinius dissuaded him though, stating that the Imperial Legions must create a plan bold enough to defeat the Ultramarine Primarch as he was dug in like a burrower and must be pulled out by force.

Manus reluctantly agreed to wait and for a few days he seethed and brood, waiting for combat to begin. He attended the daily meetings to discuss the tactics to be used against Guilliman.

 

After three days of planning, along with the full might of eight Legions assembled, the assault Manus was demanding became granted with him to lead the first wave made up of the III, the XVIII and his own X. The Iron Hands Primarch, in conjunction with Fulgrim and Vulkan, landed on Istvaan V with their Astarte sons. A ring of steel was rung around Guilliman, trapped inside his defense bastion. For hours both sides would hammer away at each other, in many cases in hand to hand combat using combat blades and chainswords.

Many hours into the battle with the both the Loyalists and Secessionists bloodied and weary Sanguinius informed the Imperial legionnaires on the ground that phase two of the operation would commence.

 

Not wanting to disengage until he had questioned Guilliman on why he betrayed the Emperor Manus remained on the frontlines with a few hundred of his Morlocks. Fulgrim tried to convince his brother to withdraw as was per orders from the War Commander but the Gorgon refused.

 

Remaining behind he ordered the majority of his sons to the drop-site to be resupplied and refitted for the final confrontation. Led by one of the Morlock captains most of the remaining Iron Hand Astartes withdrew to the drop zones being established by the Word Bearers, the Night Lords and the Death Guard. The Loyalist Astartes had no idea they were walking into a trap.

 


Ferrus Manus grabbed an Ultramarine sergeant by the throat crushing it with a mere squeeze, the Mark IV Maximus armor buckling under the strength of a primarch. Raising Forgebreaker into the air he let loose a roar of fury.

 

Beside him was Fulgrim, dodging a swing from an Ultramarine chainsword while plunging Fireblade into the chest of another warrior of Macragge. Pulling out his ornate bolt pistol Fulgrim shot the Ultramairne with the chainsword in the helm causing blood, brain matter and armor to rupture outwards as the explosive bolt impacted his head.

 

“Ferrus,” his brother began yet again, “we must pull back. We do not have enough forces remaining to deal the Secessionist a death-blow, but with the War Commander and the reinforcements inbound we can. We must fall back!” he yelled over the cataclysm of war.

 

“No, I end this now. You can go if you wish, brother but I will not leave this battle until he is dead. But before I kill I must ask him why. Why he betrayed the Imperium, why betray all that we stood and fought for? Why he betrayed father?”

 

Fulgrim frowned, temporarily marring his perfect features, but nodded in understanding, “We will make him talk, Ferrus, together. But first we must rearm and refit. Come brother, use your senses,” the Chemosian Primarch pleaded.

 

Manus exhaled heavily through his nose, making quick calculations in his mind. “Fine, we go to rearm but Roboute is mine.”

 

“Very well,” motioned the III Legion’s Primarch. Both primarch-brothers turned from the fight, their personal guard covering their withdrawal. Overhead another wave of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds descended from the heavens, their cargo consisting of bolter ammunition, heavy weapons and thousands upon thousands of Astartes drawn from the Death Guard, the Night Lords and the Word Bearers Legions.

 

“Iron Captain Marrex, have you reached the drop-sites yet?” Manus demanded.

 

“Aye, my primarch, I can see the Night Lords position, we are about fifty meters away.”

 

“Good. Find Curze and tell him I will be there shortly.”

 

“Aye, my lord, the Night-” the vox crackled and Marrex’s voice ceased, replaced by the gurgling of blood and echo of bolters being fired en masse, echoing through the vox-channel.

 

Manus raised his head sharply, looking towards the drop zones seeing, thanks to his Emperor-given eyesight, the Night Lords, Word Bearers and Death Guard legionnaires firing upon the Iron Hands, the Emperor’s Children and the Salamanders, scything through the ranks of Loyalist Astartes as if they were merely stalks of wheat. From the sky thousands of drop-pods fell with murderous intent, their occupants primed for war. The drop-pods impacted upon the ground amidst the retreating elements of the three Loyalist Legions unleashing of thousands of red and black armored Blood Angels and blue and white armored World Eaters, weapons drawn and killing all in their path. 

 

Manus yelled at the top of his lungs not only in anger but in anguish. More brothers of his and their Legions had betrayed the Emperor. This was far more than a simple rebellion; this was treachery at its most foul. Beside him Fulgrim looked on in shock for just a moment but was on his Legion’s vox frequencies within seconds ordering an organized withdraw.

 

“All Children of the Emperor withdraw from the drop zone. It is a trap. The Word Bearers, Death Guard, World Eaters, Night Lords and Blood Angels have betrayed the Emperor. They are not allies, they are Traitors. Fall back and form defensive formations,” Manus could hear the click of Fulgrim changing vox frequency, repeating the information and commands to his Lord Commanders.

 

A Thunderhawk in the colors of the Blood Angels swooped overhead, unleashing a torrent of missiles from its munitions racks detonating in the center of the retreating Morlocks. That brought Manus back to fore. 

 

“Santor, withdraw all Avernii Clan-brothers back towards a defensive ring in coordination with the Emperor’s Children and Salamanders! Save as many as you can, Gabriel.”

 

“Aye, Lord Manus,” came the quick reply from his First-Captain. He could see Santor upon a hill near the drop zones firing at the Traitors with his bolt pistol, motioning with his free hand and directing over the vox for the remaining Iron Hands to fall back away from the trap.

 

Manus boiled with rage at this betrayal but he needed to act quickly if they were to survive the hour. “Vulkan, are you there, brother?”

 

“Yes,” the Salamanders Primarch croaked, his voice filled with pain but whether it was from the betrayal or actual wounds Manus did not know, probably the latter as Vulkan had been leading his Marines back personally when the trap was initiated.

 

“Good, Vulkan pull your Legion back to these coordinates,” Manus rattled off the location he and Fulgrim were sending their sons to, “Be strong, brother. We shall survive this yet,” Manus spoke confidently.

 

“But what will remain?” Vulkan whispered.

 

Manus cut vox connection, not to ignore his brother but simply because he had no answer. What would be left, not just here but across the Imperium? This was far more than Guilliman seceding, this was a galactic civil war of unprecedented scale. Taking a deep breath, allowing the full stink of death, blood, and treachery into his lungs, Manus set off towards where his sons were retreating to. Fulgrim ran with him, their bodyguard units in tow.

 


After the initial Traitor salvo, which killed almost fifteen hundred Iron Hands Astartes, the III, X and XVIII regrouped to defend against the Traitors and Secessionists who closed around them, slowing pushing them back towards their doom. The Urgall Depression had been stained with the blood of tens of thousands with the promise of tens of thousands more yet to come.

 

For hours the Loyalists were pushed further and further towards total annihilation until suddenly hope emerged. In orbit a small Imperial fleet led by Battle-Captain Garro, and a handful of Loyalist Death Guard legionnaires, had come to assist the few remaining Imperial ships that were still engaged in inter-ship combat with the War Commander’s warships in orbit. Garro’s fleet was small but was just enough to tip the scales for a few hours, presenting an opportunity to allow the surviving Loyalists to escape.

 

There was only one thing preventing the evacuation of the Loyalists. The Ultramarines anti-air fire would destroy any dropship that rose from the blood drenched black sand. Manus, after convincing Fulgrim of Garro’s true loyalty to the Imperium, initiated a raid deep into the heart of the Ultramarine defenses. Fulgrim would cripple the AA weapons while Manus would guard his brother.

 

It was at this time that Manus caught sight of Guilliman bringing reinforcements to stop his two erstwhile brothers. Manus’s honor demanded that he fight the Secessionist in close combat to the death. Guilliman and Manus would engage in sword-to-warhammer combat, both fighting with great intensity. Manus was a physically more powerful primarch but the battle throughout the day had drained him along with the multitude of wounds he had acquired giving Guilliman the advantage in stamina. The Gorgon was able to wound the Battle-King of Macragge but in doing so opened up an opportunity for Guilliman to decapitate Manus which he exploited, killing Manus instantly, his head detached from his shoulders.

Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the Iron Hands Legion, Tenth Son of the Emperor, the Gorgon, and resolute defender in the Imperium and its ideals died that dark, treacherous day. Fulgrim was able to recover his fallen brother’s corpse which the X Legion was forever grateful for.

 

Fulgrim with the few surviving Morlocks and Phoenix Guard legionnaires in tow caught the last few departing dropships leaving the world of Istvaan V to bring word of Sanguinius’s treachery to the Emperor. From that moment on the command of the entire Iron Tenth fell to First-Captain Gabriel Santor who was grievously wounded in the Massacre but clung to life long enough for the Apothecaries to stabilize him.

 

 


The Heresy
Barely two hundred Medusan Astartes survived the Dropsite Massacre. This was one of the gravest losses the Iron Hands had ever taken but when the news of their father’s death spread it caused many legionnaires to break down, having lost all hope and feeling emptiness within their very beings. It was during this time that many Medusan legionnaires felt melancholy for the first time. Some turned their bolters upon themselves, not able to take the loss of Manus; others left the Legion to go into uncharted sectors of space for purposes unknown but the vast majority of the Legion remained defiant and ready to fight the civil war to its finish.

 

The commanders of the Iron Hands, in the absence of Santor who was placed into a medically induced a coma to expedite the healing of his body’s injuries, formed the Iron Hands Clan Council to act as a temporary leadership body until Santor recovered sufficiently enough to retake the mantle of command.

 

Santor would return to war within six months, his body almost entirely mechanical, and would lead the Iron Hands for the remaining of the Heresy. He and the X Legion would fight in dozens of major campaigns and for the first few years were the only significant Legiones Astartes force opposing Sanguinius in any organized manner.

 

In the final year of the Heresy, as Sanguinius made his gamble of assaulting Terra, the Iron Hands Legion had finally united to form one coherent force numbering less than half of the Legion’s pre-Istvaan numbers. These tens of thousands of surviving legionnaires would break through the delaying efforts of the Night Lords ‘terror’ fleets and through the Iron Warriors garrison-worlds to head towards Terra to break the Traitor Legions siege. In conjunction with the Dark Angels and Thousand Sons Legions, led by their respective primarchs, the Iron Hands were able to bypass and/or breakthrough multiple Traitor forces to begin the long and hectic journey towards the Throneworld.

 

Even though these three Loyalist Legions would arrive too late to physically take part in the Siege of Terra their incoming fleets and the threat they represented forced Sanguinius to employ a last ditch desperate measure as time was running short for the Traitors. The Angel of Blood would order his flagship’s void-shields to be deactivated, thereby allowing the Emperor, Horus, and Dorn to teleport aboard the Red Tear to finish the Heresy at its source.

 

By the time the Iron Hands arrived in the Sol System the Emperor had already been interned on the Golden Throne to sustain His wavering life force. War Commander Sanguinius, the Arch-Betrayer, was defeated. His body now a corpse and his soul extinguished the Traitors fled before Imperial reinforcements arrived. The death of Manus created a deep emotional scar on their psyche but the half-death of the Emperor drove the Legion to eternal hatred of not only the Traitors but of themselves as well. Believing that if the Legion had been at Terra the Emperor would have survived. The Iron Hands vowed to purge themselves of all frailness, real or imagined. This would lead to even more acceptance of the biotic over flesh.     

 

 


Post-Heresy
Following the end of the Heresy the entirety of the remaining Tenth Legion returned to Medusa to bury their primarch in the very mountain he landed upon centuries ago. It was here that Santor stepped down as the single overall commander, ceding the majority of his powers to the Iron Council.

 

 

The sight of thirty-seven thousand legionnaires standing in rigid formation, divided by Clan and from there by Company, stretching as far as the eye could see, should have swelled Legion Master Santor’s hearts. Alas it did not for there were so few left, so few had survived the seven years of hell that was the Sanguinius Heresy.

 

Before Istvaan, before the Dropsite Massacre, the X Legion had numbered one hundred and thirteen thousand Astartes. Now it was able to field barely a third of that. Thousands died on Istvaan V but that had only been the beginning. The first three years of the Heresy Santor’s Legion was all that stood against the primary force of the Traitors. Delaying tactics, raids, assaults on supply lines, overwhelming force on minor rebel worlds and defending strategic star systems as long as possible was all that the Legion had been able to do. It sustained horrific casualties, but it was done regardless because duty demanded it, because honor demanded it. The years the Iron Tenth bought for Dorn to fortify Terra were crucial, allowing the homeworld of Mankind to hold out long enough to survive the Heresy, if just barely.

 

It had been eight and a half months since the Legion left Terra. It had come to Medusa, it had come home. The sky was gray, colored by ash and pollution. Lava flows were visible nearby. Medusa was ugly, it was deadly, even brutal to its inhabitants, but it was truly home.

 

Santor looked at the Iron Council beside him. The Iron Fathers, Iron Captains, Librarians, and Iron Lords looked on as the anti-grav casket bearing the body of Ferrus Manus was led through the Legion’s ranks, protected by the surviving seventeen Morlocks that were with him on Istvaan and that had endured the Heresy. Seventeen survivors out of a force that had been three thousand, Santor internally winced in despair.

 

Manus would be buried on the side of Karaashi, the Black Ice Pinnacle. Only appropriate that he should be laid to rest on the very location he rose from to begin his legendary travels across Medusa. The ceremony of burying a primarch was sadly not new to the Imperium, it had been done twice before the Heresy, but it was the first time one fell in battle against an enemy rather than being forcibly forgotten and purged.

 

As the body of Manus passed by the small elevated ground the Iron Council stood on Santor formed the Aquila with his biotic hands. The entire Legion followed suit, many with heads bowed. The casket stopped next to the former First-Captain. Dropping his hands Santor keyed his vox to all channels so everyone present would hear his words.

 

“Brothers,” he began, “cousins, friends, comrades,” Santor spoke nodding to each in turn. The cousins were situated near Santor and the Iron Council’s position. They consisted of a small Emperor’s Children delegation with their primarch at its head; beside them were representatives from the other Loyalist Legions. The friends were the Adeptus Mechanicus adepts and tech-priests that had constructed the Gorgon’s tomb. The comrades were members of the Imperial Army and the newly created Imperial Navy, having been detached from the Army following Siege of Terra by orders of the High Lords; it was now its own Imperial military service branch.  

 

“We gather here today to bury the father of our Legion, Ferrus Manus,” the Legion Master looked out across the field of black and white armored Astartes. He began detailing the Dropsite Massacre for those that were not there. The entire Legion had heard the story from numerous sources but it needed to be told again with all attendance by their commander himself. Santor started from the beginning, telling of the battle against the Ultramarines, than the Traitors revealing themselves and the Massacre that ensued, and ended the Istvaan account with Manus being beheaded by Guilliman, his corpse being carried back to the Loyalist drop zone. He went on to thank the III Legion, Fulgrim in particular, for their service in retrieving the Gorgon’s body. 

 

The speech encompassed major events that occurred during Heresy from the Tenth’s perspective. After speaking for another two hours he finished with, “And now we are here on Medusa, our home. Lord Manus will be buried today but his genetic legacy lives on in all of us. We will carry his bloodline into the future, never forgetting who we are or what we have experienced.

 

“I have one more item to talk about before we lay the Gorgon to rest. In recognition of the primarch’s leadership, charisma and undeniable authority I feel that holding the office of Legion Master besmirches Manus’s command, a command that we had fought under for two centuries. Therefore no longer shall a Legion Master control the entirety of the Legion in such a way as Lord Manus did. The role of leading the Legion will fall to the Iron Council that will be directed but not controlled by an individual that will be known by a new title from henceforth.

 

“I am no longer Legion Master of the Iron Hands Legion. I am Iron Lord Gabriel Santor, commander of the Avernii Clan-Company, and the first holder of the title of Iron Speaker. I do this not to dishonor Manus but in fact to honor our father for none of us can ever match him no matter how hard we strive to do so. Now let us bury our father and get on with the Long War.”

 


Gabriel Santor had begun the day as the single overall commander of the X Legion but would end it merely as first among equals in the Iron Council. He would be the first Iron Speaker; this philosophy would persist into the forty-first millennium, far after Santor’s eventual demise. No longer shall one man control the Iron Hands in its entirety as Manus had done but rather the Clan-Companies would be given more independence and would result in them being considered semi-Legions by many of those not of Medusa. While the Iron Hands acknowledge this they know they are still one Legion that is committed to ensuring the survival of the Imperium and following the edicts set down by the Emperor and their primarch until the Time of Ending.

 

After the burial of Manus the Iron Hands would once more leave their homeworld to wage war amongst the stars, this time in their new organizational structure. They would participate in Warmaster Abaddon’s Great Scouring that cleansed and purged the Imperium of the Traitor Legions, driving them into the Eye of Terror from where they would continually launch raids and crusades from for the next hundred centuries.

 

Since the end of the Great Scouring the Iron Tenth has remained vigilant in their duties of ensuring Imperial dominance in the galaxy. Patrolling the Imperium, particularly the Segmentum Obscurus, for any signs of threats or weaknesses the X Legion never sleeps, never wavers, constantly fighting and purging the alien and heretic.

With the forty-first millennium coming to a close reports from the Alpha Legion inform the High Lords of Terra of an impending Fourth Blood Crusade. The Imperium prepares itself for an onslaught unseen since the Heresy. The Iron Hands begin marshalling their strength to defend against War Commander Raldoron’s newest crusade but recent developments may impede their commitments in other warzones.

 

With 999.M41 coming to a close Imperial scout ships have detected a large Chaos fleet that was able to sneak by the extensive Imperial fortifications surrounding the Eye of Terror, making its way towards the Legion’s homeworld. If Medusa were to fall to Chaos the X Legion would suffer a blow unfelt since the death of their primarch, a blow it might not recover from. It would cause great instability and losses among the Legion, weakening not only them but the overall defense of the Segmentum.

 


Kardan Stronos fired a magazine’s worth of bolter shells unto the fallen Necron Warrior’s breastplate. The metal monstrosity’s armor crumpled under the bolter barrage. As the last few rounds from his bolt pistol impacted the silver armor of the Necron it cracked open revealing his vital innards which were quickly destroyed under the Astartes weapons fire. Stronos’ pistol clacked as the pistol ran out of ammunition. Reloading, Stronos ran forward, commanding his Clan-brothers to advance.     

 

Around him Iron Hands Astartes moved forward against the Necron stronghold, supported by a wide variety of tanks. Land Raiders, Predators, Fellblades, Vindicators, even a handful of the increasingly rare Fellglaives trudged against the Necron menace with Razorbacks and Rhino transports following close behind, laden with Space Marine infantry. Overhead Thunderhawks, Storm Eagles, and Landing Craft began to deposit their cargo whether it was Space Marines or supplies, quickly taking back to the skies, returning to the starships that made up the Garrsak Clan- Fleet.

 

Over ten thousand black and white armored Astartes fought on the world of Ferrew Minor, the entire strength of the Garrsak Clan. When word reached Stronos of another Necron Tomb World having been found and accidentally awakened he immediately recognized the threat and ordered the Clan to squash it before it truly budded.

 

The campaign had raged for days, casualties heavy on both sides. But both the X Legion and the Necrons took the losses in stride and deployed ever more devastating weapons. But victory was in sight for the Imperium, there remained only a single Necron Pyramid. The hordes of the Necrons resisted but resistance was futile in the end.

 

Stronos predicted another week or so until total victory was attained. Above him, engines roaring, a Thunderhawk carrying an entire squad of battle-brothers was hit by the exotic gauss weaponry the Necrons favored. One wing destroyed the dropship fell to the earth exploding on impact killing all aboard. He snarled. The battle will be won but would be a bloody business finishing it.

 

“Iron Speaker, lord,” a voice over the vox clamored for his attention.

 

“This is Iron Speaker Stronos, report.”

 

“My lord,” began Iron Captain Raydel Targeis, Fleet Master of the Clan-Fleet. “We have received an astropathic message from Medusa.”

 

“What did it say?” he demanded.

 

“A large fleet of Chaos warships have bypassed the Praeses Fortress Worlds. They have been sighted in the Thule Sector raiding and pillaging as they move.”

 

“Medusa,” he stated flatly.

 

“Aye that is where Clan-Commander Rauth believes the Traitors are heading. It is the only logical location their path of destruction leads to.”

 

Stronos clenched his jaw. Just as he was about to finish the Necrons this happens. No glory, no close combat with the metallic abominations. “Targeis, inform the Fleet to prepare to depart from orbit and to receive their contingents of battle-brothers. We are moving out.”

 

“What of the Necrons, my lord?”

 

Stronons would have preferred the thrill and satisfaction of finishing them on the ground, with his own hands but another option will do. “Exterminatus,” came the terse answer.

“Acknowledged, my lord,” the Fleet Master cut the link.

 

Stronos quickly briefed all of the Astarte commanders under his command. Many would be disappointed such as him to leave before the battle was truly over but if the Traitor fleet landed on Medusa… well that just could not be allowed.

 

Boarding a Thunderhawk with a squad of legionnaires Stronos already began devising a plan of defense for his homeworld. The other Clans would have to be recalled, on the authority of the Iron Council and its Speaker. Hundreds of aircraft would descend to the surface to pick up the Garrvak Clan legionnaires and its armored brigades in the coming hours. In near orbit the Clan-Fleet’s capital ships positioned themselves to murder a world.


 

 

Combat Doctrine
The combat doctrine of the Iron Hands, even before they were reunited with their primarch, was one of slow moving high-intensity warfare and set-piece engagements supported by massive amounts firepower through the use of armored units. The X Legion would deploy multiple armored brigades to breakthrough enemy defenses followed up by heavy infantry to break the back of enemy forces, grinding them into dust. Once the enemy’s main force had been defeated the remnant of the enemy would disperse only to be hunted down by the methodical, bitter Astartes.   

 

This doctrine, while criticized by others for its relative inflexibility, remains the preferred method in how the Iron Hands wage war, a method that has seen countless victories in its long history of employment. An extension of this doctrine is the philosophy “the end justifies the means.”

 


 

Organization
Since the death of their primarch at Istvaan V and the pyrrhic Imperial victory in the Sanguinius Heresy the Iron Tenth do not have a single, overall commander. This is due to the structure of the Legion having been changed by the then First-Captain Gabriel Santor after the Heresy. Santor, despite being First-Captain and Equerry to Manus, along with leading the Iron Hands very successfully during the Heresy and the Scouring, felt that no commander could ever truly replace Ferrus Manus and that as a sign of respect to their deceased father no one warrior would command the entire Legion. In the place of a single leader the Iron Hands Clan Council was established as the leaders of the Tenth. Representatives from all of the Clan-Companies reside on the Council to discuss strategy, deployments, recruitment and other important matters. The Council is directed, but not controlled, by the Iron Speaker.

 

This has caused the ten Clan-Companies of the Legion to act more or less independent of one another with only general guidance from the Council allowing each Clan-Company to be considered in some ways a small semi-Legion. All of the Clan-Companies, minus the one assigned to protecting Medusa, travel the width and breadth of the Galaxy in military campaigns, however there are always anywhere between four to six Clan-Companies in the Segmentum Obscurus at all times due to the threat of Chaos raids from the Eye of Terror. The Clan-Companies are further broken down into Battle-Companies which from there break up into individual squads.

While there is indeed the title of Legion Master within the Iron Hands the title is merely a formality when dealing with other Legions or the Imperial government. The holder of the Legion Master title is always the Iron Speaker who guides the Iron Council. The Iron Speaker is in a first among equals position rather the single overall ruler of the Legion. 

The Iron Tenth also does not have the specialist ranks of Chaplains or Techmarines, rather the duties of the two are combined into the unique rank of an Iron Father. The Iron Fathers uphold the spiritual stability and mechanical maintenance of their Astartes and weapons of war respectively ensuring the Tenth is always prepared, even willing, to go to war against the foes of Mankind. Iron Fathers hold great sway within the ranks of the Iron Hands with many on the Iron Council. The current Iron Speaker, the de facto Legion Master, is the respected but ruthless Iron Father Kardan Stronos. He has led the Legion for over three centuries, making his reign longer than even Manus himself.
  

 

 

Recruitment

The sons of Manus only recruit from their homeworld of Medusa as they see the inhabitants as the only people worth recruiting from. The male children of Medusa know of the vaunted Astartes and for those that wish to join their ranks they must travel across the hell that is the surface of the planet to reach the supposed haunted Land of Shadows. If they survive long enough to make it to an Astartes outpost that resides within the Land of Shadows they are then assigned to one of the Legion’s ten mobile-fortresses, converted into an Aspirant and from there truly begin their training after being purged of any possible weaknesses.

 

While the training and techniques the Iron Hands Aspirants learn is quite standard amongst the Space Marines there is a ritual they continue to do that has been around since the Great Crusade. Each and every Aspirant must, once he reaches the final stages of training and surgery, replace one of his hands with a bionic replacement to symbolize his official joining of the Legion and begins the long path of slowly but surely replacing his body with bionics. 

 

 

 

Homeworld
The homeworld of the Iron Hands is Medusa, a harsh volcanic world that strangely is not united under a single government like most of the other Legion homeworlds. In fact the Iron Hands do very little in the way of actual governance. This policy stems from Manus’s philosophy of “competition breeds greater strength,” a philosophy which has been upheld since its inception ten thousand years ago.The only two notable locations on Medusa are the Karaashi volcano where Manus’s gene-capsule fell to the earth and the mysterious Land of Shadows where the ghosts of the Medusan dead are rumored to be waiting for the unwary traveler.

 

Medusa is protected at all times from outside forces by the powerful and advanced Tenth Legion’s fleet of starships. While all Clan-Companies are represented on Medusa at all times only one Clan-Company acts as the protective steward at any given point in time for a hundred year span. The Clan-Company that defends their homeworld serves two purposes. The first and primary purpose is to defend Medusa from any outside threats and to monitor the inhabitants of Medusa to make sure they are free from Chaos taint or seditious thought. The second purpose is to act a strategic reserve for the Legion as a whole. If high losses for a Clan-Company results in a theater of war not progressing as well as wished reinforcements from the reserve Clan-Company are sent to bolster the flagging forces. 

 

 

 

Beliefs
The Iron Hands truly believe their philosophy that the flesh is weak and are on an unending campaign against any form of weakness whether it is within their own bodies or those they perceive as enemies of the Emperor. This has led to incidents with other Imperial officials, including other Legions, as the Iron Hands contempt of nearly all things has made other Imperials view them as dour and severe. The Iron Hands are noticeably harsh and unforgiving even against their fellow allies. Since the Heresy they have become increasingly reclusive, preferring to fight only with their own legionnaires.

 

On the occasions where cooperation with other Imperial forces is unavoidable the sons of Manus are noted to be cold, distant, and contemptuous of others making the interaction and cooperation between the two sides awkward, hesitant, and difficult. This attitude has made many Imperial Army and Navy commanders unwilling to fight beside the Iron Hands, preferring the assistance of Astartes from other, more cooperative Legions.

 

The Iron Hands harsh behavior towards those not of their Legion is infamous throughout the Imperium. An example is the purge of the Contqual sub-sector which resulted in one-third of the population being summarily executed to demonstrate the price of weakness. These actions have caused friction and outright hostility from Imperial forces, putting them on bad terms with nearly every Legion, particularly the Raven Guard and the Salamanders, who both refuse to fight alongside the Iron Hands unless ordered so by the High Lords of Terra. The only Legion the Iron Tenth considers itself comrades with are the Emperor’s Children Legion, this relationship having extended all the way back to the Great Crusade and the close brotherhood the Gorgon and the Phoenician forged in the depths of the Ural Mountains. This bond was only strengthened during the Dropsite Massacre when Fulgrim was able to retrieve Manus’s corpse from the battlefield before he withdrew, gaining the everlasting respect of the Iron Hands. However even the Emperor’s Children wrinkle their brow in distaste with some of their fellow Astartes more brutal methods.    

 

 

 

Gene-seed
There are no physical or genetic deviations of the Tenth Legion’s gene-seed yet some whisper that the Iron Hands’ hatred of weakness and physical frailty has led to an unhealthy willingness to replace their own body parts for bionics. That it is some internal instinct that makes them abhor their own flesh causing them to voluntarily replace their limbs with mechanical substitutes. This mindset has led to many Iron Hand Astartes being more machine than man by the time they reach a century or so of service with some of the older battle-brothers to be wholly mechanical except for a handful of organs.

 

 

 

Battlecry
The battlecry of the Legion has remained unchanged since the Tenth Primarch took command. It simply states, “The Flesh is Weak.” Although others such as “For the Emperor,” or “For the Omnissiah,” are heard on rare occasions.

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The Sanguinius Heresy

 

A Dreadful Silence


The Vengeful Spirit was a Gloriana-class battleship, command ship of the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet, flagship of Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Great Crusade, and commander of all Imperial military forces. It was usually full of noise, whether it was the dull vibration of the plasma engines, the blaring of the inter-ship vox, or even the simple chatter of the human crew, but now it was eerily quiet.

 

Garviel Loken, Captain of the Tenth Company, Luna Wolves Legion, walked down the near-empty hallways of the massive warship. He was out of armor, clad in off duty robes which seemed barely able to contain his Astartes physique. But Loken knew why everything was so quiet, so silent. It was shock. At first it was shock that a world had rebelled against the Imperium for such a thing was truly rare, than it turned to shock that the Warmaster was wounded by a mere governor, and finally to shock that he was not recovering and was in fact dying.

 

Loken had been there with Torgaddon, Aximand, and Abaddon. They all watched the rebel leader strike the Lupercal with his damned poisoned blade. Shrugging off the wound Horus killed Eugen Temba with a single stroke, bisecting the former Imperial governor from shoulder to waist. When questioned about the wound the primarch had stated it would be fine, that his Emperor created physiology would heal it completely in a matter of hours. However hours later the wound had not healed and in fact had become worse, much to the shock of the Legion’s Apothecaries. Spreading like a canker the flesh around the wound decayed and dripped contaminated blood black and thick as melted tar.

 

He remembered as the Chief Apothecary Vaddon told Horus that his body was refusing to heal itself and that the poison was not only infecting the skin around the wound but was seeping further into his body intermixing with his organs causing them to shutdown. Within a day the primarch had been forced to lay upon a surgery table in the Apothecarion. Another day, and six surgeries later, Horus had become even worse. Flesh and stamina was lost, his face had become as pale and gaunt as Mortarion.

 

By the third day it was obvious Horus would not recover, that he was to die a terrible death far from Cthonia or Terra, his twin homeworlds. In desperation Loken suggested that Horus be placed in a stasis pod to stop the infection and for the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet to return to Terra for the Emperor to see his son. If any could heal a primarch it would be the Emperor.

 

First-Captain Ezekyle Abaddon immediately ordered it so. The XVI Primarch was interred into a stasis pod in the center of the Vengeful Spirit, and would remain there until the Luna Wolves were over the surface of the Throneworld.

 

Loken’s Company and Mournival duties so far had prevented him from seeing his father but he finally had an opportunity. Down the hallways he went, pondering as he neared the chamber the primarch’s body resided in.

 

Nearing his destination he encountered the first of the Justaerin. The black armored Terminator equipped First Company stood sentry around the primarch’s temporary residence. The black wolf upon a white moon showed on their breastplate, right above their bolters.

 

Walking through them with hardly a glance at his brother-Astartes Loken approached the door that blocked the Warmaster’s stasis pod off from the rest of the ship; only legionnaires were allowed past this point and even then only officers approved by the Mournival and those of the Justaerin.

 

Passing more bolter wielding Astartes Loken reached the door. Captain Falkus Kibre, better known as the Widowmaker, held up an armored hand preventing the

 

Captain of the 10th entry. “Hold here, Loken. We need to run a blood test.”

 

Loken frowned, “Is that really necessary?”

 

Kibre was unmoving, “Yes, First-Captain’s orders. We need to verify it is you and not some… imposter.”

 

Loken held out his left arm as a medical servitor that had stood in the corner by Kibre walked towards him. One hand inserted a long needle into his muscled forearm while the other scraped skin off with a micro-blade. Moving back slightly it sat beeping and shaking. Comparing the blood and skin tissue to what the Legion’s database had on Loken’s profile the servitor eventually looked towards Kibre, speaking in a monotone voice typical of their kind. “He is Captain Garviel Loken, commander of the Tenth Company, Legion identification number 43-“

 

Kibre waved his hand commanding it to be silent. “Very well you may pass. Sorry, Garviel, the First-Captain has been very paranoid of late and with good reason. He feels that if there was an assassin on board it would try and strike the primarch down at his most vulnerable.”

 

“An assassin? Here?” Loken asked in surprise.

 

“It is unlikely but we also thought it unlikely the Warmaster could be wounded in such a way. He has enemies, Garviel, remember that. Not all were happy with his ascendance to Warmaster.”

 

He shook his head, “Another Legion wouldn’t dare strike him. We have our rivalries and feuds but nothing that would result to murder.”

 

“Perhaps,” mused the second-in-command of the Justaerin, “but it is better to be ready for the unexpected than be surprised by a threat unprepared,” Kibre stepped aside allowing Loken to enter the primarch’s chamber.

 

After entering the first thing he noticed was how cold it was. It was not bothersome to a Space Marine but the drop in temperature was noticeable. The stasis-pod was in the center of the room surrounded by monitors and cogitators along with a secondary power source in case the ship somehow lost power. Stepping forward to the stasis pod Loken looked his father in the eyes They were gray as stone but strong as plasteel, full of charisma and inner strength. Glancing down at the wound in the primarch’s stomach, which had become a multitude of sickly colors; it reminded Loken that his father was indeed a man and therefore could die something that seemed impossible not a month ago.

 

The possibility of Horus lying dead before him shook Loken to the core. But he must prepare for that possibility no matter how depressing it was to think of. He was to be the voice that shook the foundations of the Mournival. He was to question, to act as an outsider and give opinions and thoughts the other three long term members never would have thought of. “Is this your first time?” quirked a voice from behind.

 

Loken turned around to see Tarik Torgaddon walk in, his jokes and sarcastic nature having receded as of late. The last few weeks had been hard on him, hard on everyone. “This is only the first yes. Duties,” Loken explained.

 

“Of course, we have had to take on more responsibilities since the primarch… became unavailable,” seeing the look in Loken’s eye Torgaddon reached out and planted his armored hand firmly but gently on his brother’s shoulder, “Have hope, Garviel. When we reach Terra not only will we have an army of doctors, surgeons, and apothecaries but the Emperor Himself to heal Horus. Our father will rise from this, never doubt that.”

 

“I hope brother. But what if he does not? What if Horus dies before the Emperor can cure him?”

 

Torgaddon’s face darkened. “Brother I know you worry for him as do I but it is better if you kept such thoughts to yourself especially around Ezekyle,” the Captain of the Second Company warned.

 

“How does the First-Captain fare?” Loken asked cautiously.

 

“Ezekyle has not slept since we entered the warp. He is either at the bridge, the training cages or here watching over the Warmaster. We are still a couple of months, if not three, from Terra at current speed but the warp could easily hasten or delay our voyage. The Emperor has been forewarned and last I heard He is preparing for our arrival. Abaddon has also sent dispatches to the rest of the XVI throughout the galaxy. He orders all those not currently engaged in a campaign to make haste for Terra. If... if the worst is to happen the majority of the Legion should be there.”

 

Both Astarte captains stood before their father. Time seemed to stretch and the silence became unbearable, dreadful even. To break the quiet Loken spoke again, “Who is to lead the Crusade with the Emperor on Terra and Horus incapacitated?”

 

Torgaddon’s gloom broke on hearing the question. “Our father’s beloved brother Sanguinius is to take temporary command. It is to provide direction for the Crusade for if we had no leader there would be little to no coordination and that would just quickly descend into chaos.”

 

The junior Mournival member nodded. “Sanguinius is a good choice. He is a sound strategist, an amazing tactician rivaling Horus, and one of the better close quarter fighters in the galaxy.”

 

“I’m sure that had a lot to do with it. With Dorn on Terra and Guilliman busy with Ultramar he is really the only viable chance.”

 

The Captain of the Tenth looked at his brother, “You are forgetting El’Jonson.”

 

Torgaddon frowned, “That is true. The Lion is just as good of a tactician and the strategist within him does match Sanguinius. But the Lion is cold, calculating. He lacks the charisma and the diplomacy necessary for the role of leading the Crusade. The role of commander is not to simply order units around the galaxy but to understand those that serve under you. Horus has that ability and so does the Ninth Primarch. The Lion can order armies through the void but he cannot relate and understand them. He has little experience in human communications and relationships. It is his flaw.”

 

“He will not be happy and neither will the First.”

 

“You’re right. The Angel of Blood had better prepare for the waves of dissent that will hit him just as it hit our father after his elevation to Warmaster,” both brothers chuckled remembering the early years after Ullanor when Horus’s resenting brothers had to take his orders and found… interesting interpretations of them. Angron and Perturabo had been the most vocal of the dissenters, at least until the Lupercal’s superior diplomatic skills eased their choler and jealousy.

 

Speaking of Perturabo, “How does the Lord of Iron take this news that Sanguinius and not he will be Crusade commander?”

 

Torgaddon frowned again, “His reaction was not what I expected if I’m honest. Instead of being angry and bitter the Fourth Primarch, from what I’ve heard, was one of the first to congratulate him on his promotion.”

 

“Perhaps he learned after the Triumph that he would never hold such responsibility. Maybe he learned to accept the inevitable. No matter, he has sworn his loyalty that is all that does matter.”

 

Turning back to look at the body of the Warmaster when something Torgaddon had just said irked him. “You said the Lion’s flaw was his lack of understanding of the human character correct?”

 

“Yes. I’ve met him before, forty eight years ago during the Kahlahryi Compliance. I was there as an attaché from the Legion. The First Legion had only found their primarch three years before that campaign but they were already transformed into what the Lion envisioned: an efficient fighting force based on the ideals and code of Caliban. The Dark Angels numbered only twenty thousand then, a sixth of the size that now follows the Lion into war, but they undermined the enemy defenses and within two weeks had defeated over seven million alien soldiers with the loss of barely three hundred Astartes. A commander that surpasses most of his brothers without a doubt… but I saw a detachment in how he acted with not only outsiders but his own legionnaires as well, it seemed awkward, forced.

 

“A detachment that I believe stemmed from the fact he grew up in the forests of his homeworld and not with human beings as many of the primarchs had. His orders were given and expected to be followed but there was no warmth there, no emotion and compassion coloring his words. The Lion doesn’t seem to understand necessities of close friendship or true brotherhood, those morals and ideals are foreign to him. And that is his flaw.”

 

“And what do you believe is the Lupercal’s?” Loken asked softly.

 

Torgaddon sharply turned his head to look at Loken. A tense second passed before the older Astartes relented. “They may be primarchs but they are human to a degree. I’ve seen the primarchs exhibit happiness, gratitude, anger and even jealousy on occasion so if they have human emotions they must have flaws.”

 

Torgaddon inhaled and exhaled deeply. “I would have to say his flaw is hubris. He is Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Imperium, first found and favored son. His tally of victories and worlds brought into the Imperium rivals that of the Emperor. He has much to be prideful of but it is a dangerous path to walk. His confidence of defeating Temba easily resulted in his current state and his pride was what made him refuse medical help when he was first wounded. We may have been able to prevent this but we will never know. It doesn’t matter anymore, the past is the past and we must live in the present and look towards the future.”

 

Loken nodded, thankful for the honest answer. That was what he thought Horus’s flaw was as well. All of the primarchs had flaws. Some flaws were easy to detect like Angron’s uncontrollable rage or Magnus’s virulent pursuit of knowledge, others were hidden.

 

After another moment a thought struck him. “The Emperor didn’t promote Sanguinius to Warmaster did he?”

 

“No, Horus will retain it. The Emperor promoted him to a new rank which is to be a temporary title until Horus returns.”

 

“What is it? What is the title called?” Loken asked expectantly, Torgaddon cracked a weak smile, savoring the moment. He spoke the title which held an undertone of power and what was to come, a title which would reverberate throughout the Imperium as the harbinger of death although neither legionnaire knew of this yet. A title only the most powerful and feared commanders of Chaos would wield.

 

“War Commander.”

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The Sanguinius Heresy

 

Arrival to Tarnaek

 


The cold bit at his face causing him to bring the cloak higher, leaving only his eyes naked to the winds of Inwit. Snow swirled in the air, acting as frozen daggers which stabbed at the skin, making breathing an arduous chore. In the boy’s eleven years of life he had seen many blizzards but this was by far the worst for many reasons.

 

His sisters were beside him, one fourteen, the other nine, both clothed in thick wraps of fur and coating. Their tribe had been attacked by ice-pirates and slaughtered all. Even now they were chasing the three survivors. The mad screams of man carried on the wind promising death and despair.

 

The boy pushed forward against the deep snow opening a path for his sisters to follow. His physique was small but all hard muscle and strong bone. The sounds of the ice-pirates following were getting closer urging him to go faster. His older sister Aallani looked at him with fear, seeking his council, a council which he had none of.

 

“Forward, we must go forward,” he said.

 

“Where brother, where shall we go?” fear colored her tone.

 

After a moment of pondering he responded, “Elsewhere.”

 

Onwards they went only to delay the inevitable. The pirates caught up with them an hour later. The boy knew he would have to fight. He turned about putting his sisters behind him.

 

“Run,” he said. But they would not. Aallani gripped her spear with both hands, preparing to fight to the death. His younger sister, Yeri, pulled a knife from its sheath beside her hip. Within moments the pirates were in view through the thick mass of snow and ice.

 

Tribal tattoos and long, thick unkempt beards marked them as ice-pirates, so very unlike the civilized clans of Inwit. Their attire was rags kept together by sinew of their defeated enemies. Weapons of bone and iron were their trademark.

 

The first, a young boy similar to him, ran directly towards Aallani. The boy threw the spear that their father had given him at the advancing transgressor, impacting into his chest and coming out the other side covered in bright, arterial red blood. Pulling his two knifes from their sheaths he charged the next attacker. Ducking below the attacker’s axe the boy rapidly stabbed in the pirate’s stomach, gutting him as if he were an animal.

 

Another came at him but this time with a spear. Grabbing the spear as it stabbed past the boy he pulled himself forward stabbing his knifes in the head of the holder, one in the eye the other in the nose. As he was pulling them from the bloody mess his knifes created a club of bone smacked him across the back of his head. Falling down the boy was dazed, his head hurt and he could feel the warmth of his body leave in a stream of blood that stained the virgin snow, his vision fading to darkness.

 

His sisters screamed. Yeri as the loudest and the least prepared for what was to come. Her cries were like ice in the lungs, hurting and wanting it to end. The boy knew the pirate men would not kill them, not now, not here. They had far worse in mind.

 

Aallani screamed her defiance but it was for naught as they bound her with taut rope. Looking towards her brother she screamed in desperation, fearing for him and their young sister, “Wake up! Wake up, brother! We need you!” Above him the chieftain loomed above him. His scalp was shaven but his beard reached to his waist. Leaning downwards he examined his prey. Chuckling the chieftain raised his bone club, “Wake up, Xander, wake up!” his sisters cried together as the club fell down.

 


*   *   *

 


“Wake up, Xander, wake up,” said a familiar voice.

 

His eyelids snapped open, his flint brown eyes surveying the Thunderhawk compartment. Before him was Squad Commander Berenz Vukmir, his second-in-command and closest friend, plated in the armor of their Legion. The yellow and black armored Imperial Fist nodded at his commander and took his seat across from him in the dropship.

 

A voice came over the vox, “We will be entering the atmosphere in ten minutes, prepare for reentry, my lords,” said the mortal pilot whom turned off the inter-ship vox, the subtle click sounding like loud snapping fingers thanks to the advanced hearing of a Space Marine.

 

Xander looked at the men of his squad. The newest squad member was Minos Barben, a recruit who hailed from Necromunda. He had been a full battle-brother for only six months and had yet to see any action against Traitor Astartes having only fought mortal rebels, pirates and Traitor Army troopers. Minos was bald and was pretending to sleep, fooling no one.

 

Alexander Dirne was a veteran of thirty-six campaigns, eleven in the Heresy, the remainder having been fought when the Imperium was a whole empire, united in purpose under the Emperor of Mankind. So much had changed since Istvaan four years ago. He was the squad’s banner bearer which was firmly in place beside him. One side sported the black Imperial Aquila upon a white field; the other fielded the black fist of the Seventh upon a yellow background. Alexander was in discussion with a brother Astarte next to him.

 

Aden Seissa was young; barely a decade spent in the Legion’s service but was already a fine warrior with quick wit and a fine regicide player if Xander was to admit. Both Aden and Alexander wore their hair close cropped like the primarch’s but where Rogal Dorn’s was bone-white Alexander’s was reddish-brown and Aden’s was blond.

 

Nathaniel Siverrex was a Techmarine and therefore somewhat of an outcast in the Legion. Not truly a Mechanicus Adept and not truly an Imperial Fist but rather somewhere in the middle as a bastardized combination. Nevertheless his technical prowess and knowledge was invaluable.

Botho Guinin hated flying of any sort and the impending atmospheric entry made him… fidgety. Despite this irregularity Botho was a fine battle-brother. Oath of the moment parchments hanged from his shoulder pads signifying his loyalty to the Seventh, the Primarch, the Imperium, and of course the Emperor.

 

Berenz Vukmir, his oldest and closest friend sat across from him, his blue eyes looking on at his squad sergeant with dutiful attendance. Xander nodded and Berenz returned it quickly, fingers interlacing to form the Aquila, a gesture Xander copied.

 

Luckulus Heidler, the Apothecary for the Imperial Fist contingent descending to the world below, was reading a medical manual detailing the easiest way to dissect a Welrykian death-worm. Always the student, thought Xander with some humor attached to the thought. Despite being somewhat of a bookworm the Apothecary had saved many of the battle-brothers onboard the Thunderhawk countless times.

 

And last but not least was Aranz Fidel, the squad’s heavy weapons specialist. The large autocannon he carried was extremely heavy even for an Astartes but Aranz carried it as if it was merely a standard bolter.

 

There should have been one more brother but Dermeris Gelner had died on Nessus VIII by a Traitor Army Leman Russ tank. Lupercal tank he reminded himself, Lupercal. The name had changed shortly after word reached Terra that the Space Wolves Primarch and his Legion had joined Sanguinius in rebellion. Having a vehicle of war named after a Traitor seemed… wrong leading to Fabricator Locum Kane, who barely escaped Mars when the Schism would undoubtedly end in favor of the Dark Mechanicus, to put forth the name change of the tank design to bear the name of Warmaster Horus. The Emperor and Malcador approved and within a year vast swathes of the Imperium had heard of the renaming from the messages sent by the new Astropathic Choir.

 

Therefore from the Loyalist point of view the Leman Russ main battle tank was no more instead it had been rechristened the Lupercal. A more fitting name despite that no word of how the Warmaster and the Legions he took with him to Ultramar fared. A large warp storm had surrounded the entirety of the Ultramar Protectorate preventing travel and communication. Xander had heard whispers, rumors really, that the storm was weakening but whether it was or not would have no effect on his duty, at least not where he was going.

 

“Entering the atmosphere in 3… 2… 1, mark,” and true to the pilot’s word the Thunderhawk began to shake as it fell onto the world. The planet’s heavy gravity seeming to pull them in like a black hole which did no favor’s for Botho who seemed to pale.

 

Xander looked at the data-slate he had been holding. It showed his squad’s dropship and three similar ships heading towards the same locale in the southern hemisphere, high in the mountains. Each ship carried a squad of Space Marines bringing the Imperial Fist contingent to thirty-nine battle-brothers.

 

It was not a lot but it would have to be enough.

 

After a few moments the dropship began to land upon a large landing pad. As the ship touched down Xander stood up. He walked to the front of the non-lowered ramp. He pressed the large rune which highlighted as it lowered. Behind him his squad prepped bolters even though they were not expecting trouble… yet. All the Astartes minus Berenz and Luckulus grabbed the three large steel containers, two per contained, one on each side.

 

These carried the bolter magazines and autocannon ammunition the squad would bring with them. More was on the dropships but those would remain there for now.

 

The ramp finished lowering and the Imperial Fists Space Marines strode out confidently, helms on. Xander noticed from the corner of his eyes of the other thirty yellow and black Astartes walking out as well from their respective Thunderhawks. Before the legionnaires were six humans although that was stretching the term slightly. They were shorter than most humans, far shorter than Astartes, but were quite stocky and were obviously physically strong.

 

Stopping a respectful distance away Xander activated his external vox speakers. “I am Xander Jericho, Sergeant of 4th Squad of the 163rd Company of the Imperial Fists Legion. We come as representatives of the Imperium.”

 

Out of the six figures before him the one with the dual-horned helm and thick beard spoke first. “I am Derren Daegmyr, King of the Stronghold Tarnaek, Lord of the Hearthguard, and founder of the League of Kaprei. Welcome to Martoof Sergeant Jericho.”

 

Xander formed the Aquila. The greetings were said but seemed overly formal, awkward even. Unclasping his helmet as a sign of respect he pulled it off to breathe in the thin air which was filled with cold winds, much like home.

 

Walking forward, as did Derren Daegmyr, both reached out to shake hands in the style of old with hand grasping wrists. Xander had served in the Legiones Astartes for over ninety-two years but this was the first time he had ever shook a Squat’s hand.

 

Behind the Squats facing the Imperial legionnaires arose the fortress-city of Tarnaek, founder as well as leader of the League of Kaprei, the major Squat political, economical, and military League on the world of Martoof. Martoof itself was one of three worlds that acted as a gateway into the Heavy Worlds, the home of the abhuman Squat sub-species and the galactic eastern flank of Segmentum Solar. If these worlds fell to the War Commander one of the Arch-Betrayer’s primary flanks would be secure as well as depriving vast amounts of natural resources from the Imperium to feed and supply his own conquering armies.

 

“It is good you are here,” murmured Daegmyr, “Now we can settle this matter.”

 

Xander merely nodded and put his helmet back on.

 

The massive ten meter thick outer gate began to crank open and the King of Tarnaek gestured for the Space Marines to follow his delegation inside. The thirty-nine Astartes followed while the four Thunderhawks stayed on the landing pad. They would be need later if it came to that. No, when it came to that. Daegmyr started to speak after they had passed the fourth gate, each thicker than the last.

 

“The other Strongholds will be sending representatives to hear what the Imperium has to say. Tarnaek is behind you but I cannot speak for the rest of the League. This civil war has divided our society as well. The rules of the League do not necessarily apply to this war”

 

“How many have pledged for the War Commander?” Xander asked as he walked beside the Squat King, towering over him like a goliath from Terran legend.

 

“On this world alone a quarter have sworn allegiance to the rebels, another quarter have maintained their oaths of loyalty to Terra. The remaining half however is split. These next days will be the deciding factor whether this world will declare for the Emperor or not. For the rest of the Heavy Worlds I have no definite answer to give you.”

 

“Understood,” was all he replied with. Similar meetings would be taking place across a dozen star systems in the Heavy Worlds. With the Traitors encroaching ever closer to the Sol System Lord Dorn had ordered two companies of the VII Legion to garrison the worlds that swore loyalty to the Imperium, to isolate the worlds that had already declared for Sanguinius, and to try and convince the divided worlds like Martoof to resist the Traitors and support the Loyalists. Even now the small taskforce that brought Xander and his men here would be heading for the system’s edge to warp to another star system to drop off more Space Marines.

 

The legionnaires led by their Squat companions walked through the Stronghold. Like all Strongholds on Martoof it was a fortress built into the tall, steep mountains that dominated the high gravity world. Normal humans would not be able to live here or even walk on the surface for any extent of time. Only Astartes and Squats both modified humans, both for different reasons, could live on this world for any distinguished amount of time. As they walked the long hallways and intersecting corridors Xander appreciated the design. It was strangely beautiful, hiding underneath a pleasant facade its true purpose: to resist an enemy for every meter. He carefully attuned and veteran eyes saw gun holes, automated weapons, collapsing floors, thick walls, all ready to resist outsiders… for a while at least. The Imperial Fists sergeant began listing notes in his head, a little legionary modification here and there and this place could defy a siege for months perhaps a year even against the worst the rebel Legions threw at them. Hopefully that long.

 

Every day the Imperial Fists bought here it allowed the Throneworld another day to prepare for the juggernaut approaching it. After near an hour of walking Daegmyr looked up at the legionary sergeant, eyes worried, as they approached a door leading into the inner sanctums. “I need to inform you that the War Commander’s representatives have already arrived just a few hours ago,” Xander’s helm turned to the Squat who shrugged his broad shoulders, “Do not cause any violence or friction, the League Council will notice and deem you the aggressor. Present your case and they will choose.”

 

Xander silently fumed at this new information. Quickly taking control of his emotions and gesturing at Berenz who responded with a mirror copy signalling he and the squads would be ready in case of anything going awry. After depositing the steel containers which would be protected by four legionnaires the remaining Imperial Fists entered the inner sanctum of Tarnaek.

 

The amphitheater was large and circular, able to seat hundreds of Squats easily and many of these were filled by Martoof’s varying lords and commanders. At one end was a dull gray throne with Daegmyr’s coat of arms etched into the seat’s back.

 

To one side of the amphitheater were ten fifteen meter long windows whose glass was hardened and as thick as Xander’s arm was long. Outside the twin stars of the Martoof System shone through giving the hall a natural light.

 

Squat guards of House Daegmyr stood in strategic locations, wearing a variation of power armor similar to older design of what the Space Marines now wore. While they looked primitive to the Astartes the intelligence dispatches informed that they gave great strength and protection to the user.

 

But all these he took in at a glance. What drew his primary attention and those of his battle-brothers were the score of red and black armored Space Marines in the center. Their sigil upon their shoulder pads and breastplate were white angelic wings with a drop of ruby colored blood.

 

The bare-headed commander of these Astartes turned around. He smiled but it was cruel, a predator’s grin more than anything. “Nice of you to join, sergeant,” began Captain Tagas of the Blood Angels 111th Company, “Now the negotiations can truly begin.”

Tanner151 Battle-Brother

Tanner151

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I had planned to use Malal as the patron god of the Night Lords Legion, post-Heresy. Curze survives the war due to a few different changes (noticeably he never fights the Lion) and lives into the M41 and that is "canon" for this Heresy as I have already mentioned War Commander Raldoron enlisting the help of the six surviving Traitor primarchs for his Fourth Blood Crusade (only Sanguinius died).

 

Anyway I don't think I have stated (on the actual chapters/indexes) what god the Night Lords will follow in this timeline. So here it is: should I use the concept of Malal as the patron god of the Night Lords. The Night Lords, especially Curze, will be bitter and self-loathing post Heresy and I thought ideal candidates for Malal/Malice.

 

But after a discussion on a fan page on another website a lot of people pointed out the flaws of Malal and his lack of depth and value in the current Warhammer 40,000 lore. Now I'm using the modern lore but have gone with retro ideas (the Squats). So now I'm conflicted. Should Curze become the Chosen of Malal and wage war as much on his fellow Traitors as he does the Imperium for he is self-hating for the crimes he has done, and thinks his fellow brothers are weak for embracing the other forms of Chaos (this part will be post-Heresy).

 

Curze would not become a Daemon Prince, merely his strength and other powers would be enhanced but he and the VIII Legion will be one of the least corrupted out of all the Legions and will not go towards the Eye of Terror (as far as I have planned).

 

So what do you guys think?

1. Night Lords and Malal

2. Night Lords without Malal

 

Let me know which idea holds more merit and potential in the comments below and thanks for the assistance.

Tanner151 Battle-Brother

Tanner151

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Without , I would not think he would need the help of a fledgeling god.

So far I'm at two Yays and one Nay. On the other website I upload this to, alternatehistory.com, two people like the idea. I might go with it but Curze won't exactly be asking it for help or anything, this god just chooses him and his legion to represent him and Curze naturally hates Chaos which Malal does as well, ironically since it is Chaos. 

  • 3 weeks later...
Tanner151 Battle-Brother

Tanner151

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Legiones Astartes: Word Bearers

 


“I had never wanted to wage war. I did not care for a crusade of blood, science or falsehood. I only wanted to bring the worlds of the galaxy under the benevolent rule of the God-Emperor, my father. He, who was a god to me and countless billions, was the epitome of humanity, His charisma and power unmatched. I would have killed entire worlds if He had asked for I knew His way was the correct and true path. That all changed after Monarchia was razed by the XIII. How foolish I was to think the Emperor, who was but a man, was a being worthy of worship and devotion. I was wrong and my sons suffered for it. For a time I despaired, not knowing my path. But Erebus and Kor Phaeron directed me to the true gods of the universe, gods that have chosen you to be their champion so many years ago on the radiated deserts of your homeworld. I am not a commander of the degree you are, never have been and never will be, but I have brought the Primordial Truth to you and your Legion, brother. I have laid the foundation of faith, of true faith in both our Legions. I have seen these gods majesties with my own eyes and they are real, their power eternal. With their help we can tear down father’s empire and rebuild anew atop of the ashes. You only need to renew your pledge of allegiance to them, embrace them as divine and they will give you powers that even I cannot fathom.”
-Lorgar to Sanguinius, shortly after the XVII Primarch returned from his Pilgrimage.


 

Origins
Before Old Night fell upon the galaxy, destroying entire civilizations and fracturing whole empires, the world of Colchis had been a technologically advanced world, a center of human dominance in the sector. Towers and buildings stretched into the skies for kilometers, made of metals and glass, a pinnacle of human engineering and science. But when Old Night began the impenetrable warp-storms separated Colchis off from all contact, isolating it like so many other thousands of worlds.

 

Sometime after the isolation a religious order made up of priests that called themselves the Covenant came to power in the capital city Vharadesh, this Colchisan word when translated into Low Gothic means the City of Grey Flowers. Promising a return to prosperity and peace the Covenant soon came to dominate the entire world. A strict dogma was put into place with any deviation to it declared heresy and that person and their family burnt alive root and stem. In this way the Covenant would rule Colchis with an iron grip for thousands of years.

 

That was until the arrival of a fallen star. Fate would have it that the Seventeenth primarch-son of the Emperor, who would be the most spiritually inclined out of all his brothers, would land on a planet mired in religion. The gene-capsule carrying the primarch would crash into a courtyard near one of the many monolithic cathedrals that dominated the cities across Colchis. Thousands of priests, acolytes, and zealots would bear witness to the arrival of this demi-god from the heavens.

 

 

The cleric walked confidently, but quickly, across the inner garden of the Temple of the Four Divines. His brown-red garb nearly an exact replica of the clothing his fellow believers wore. What signaled him out from the majority was a simple pendant of interlinking chains of wrought iron, hanging from the end was the eight pointed sigil of the Covenant, the personal embodiment of the gods if some of the older scriptures were to be believed. It was a symbol of his office. Sunlight streamed down into the garden to allow the trees and plants to flourish.

 

The books he was carrying in his satchel were old, incredibly old and only his position as personal secretary to the Bishop of Vharadesh gave him access to the Restricted Library. They held such… glories in them. Stories and promises of power that was intoxicating to just read about. He had to take them to his personal chambers and hide them as the other clerics and even high priests would frown on his obsession with the past, for learning of the dark past Colchis had survived would have seen him censured at best, or worse he would be hanged till death.

 

They did not understand. The current dogma of the Covenant was a watered down version of the True Faith. It was filtered, flawed, incomplete, but he promised himself he would open up his brethren’s eyes if he was ever given a chance.

 

A sound of thunder clapped through the air, startling all who heard it. It did not rain on Colchis much but as the clergyman looked into the sky but he saw no clouds or storms brewing. What he did see was a ball of fire falling like a meteorite down towards the city, specifically towards the cathedral.

 

It roared as it fell down. It crashed into the courtyard, barely missing a handful of friars who had been reading underneath one of the garden’s many trees. Coming to a stop underneath a tree's foliage the fallen object was a metal capsule, large enough for a child or small adult. Curious as to what this was the cleric hesitantly walked forward. The capsule seemed to suffer little in the way of damage but whatever it contained inside lay dormant. The metallic container had strange writings on it and four characters on the front of a language he had not seen before.

 

There was a port-hole to view what was inside. Placing his hand on the capsule he leaned over to see what lay within. His hand however seemed to activate whatever was inside before he could get a clear view. A hissing sound of escaping air accompanied the raising of the capsule door.

 

The cleric stepped back, amazed at what he was seeing. In his peripheral he saw that he was the only one who had approached the metallic object, the others stayed back, wary and afraid. Small hands from inside gripped the edges of its residence and pulled itself out.

 

The cleric gasped. The boy was beautiful and as perfect as any human could be. His shaven skull perfectly shaped in proportion to his athletic body. The cleric fell to his knees before the approaching boy.

 

The boy stepped away from the capsule and approached the cleric, seemingly curious. He stopped in front of the kneeling Colchisan, the rays of the sun hitting his skin making it the color of gold as if the sun was painted upon him.

 

“Who are you?” he asked in awe which caused the boy to laugh a hearty laugh. He looked at the cleric with eyes a blue as the small oceans of Colchis.

The boy seemed to think about it for a moment. “I am the Seventeenth but I am also called by another. A name that springs from within yet I do not know who gave it to me.”

 

“What is this name?”

 

“Lorgar,” that single word seemed to enrich all around the boy and the cleric, the crowds moved in hesitantly but with amazement etched into their facial features. The boy merely nodded and smiled, unafraid, at the men and women approaching him and they smiled back as well, unable to resist his natural charm.

 

After a moment of basking in the attention of the others the boy, this Lorgar, turned back to the cleric. “What of you, my friend? What is your name?”Lorgar’s voice resonated within him, the words wanting to unravel all in the clergyman’s mind. He felt like he had to tell Lorgar everything and knew that this young boy, this… prophet perhaps, would understand.

 

Those deep blue eyes stared at the cleric, seemingly seeping into his mind; the potential of this child was obvious. He would be the future of the Covenant, of Colchis, a prophet of the gods themselves.

 

Lorgar stepped forward to the speechless cleric, placing his small but strong hands on the sides of the man’s head filling him with warmth that spread through his body, relaxing him and putting him at ease. “What is your name, my friend?” Lorgar asked again, his every centimeter of being a blessing, intoxicating even.

 

The cleric coughed to clear his voice, the impact from Lorgar’s landing had caused much of the dirt to rise in the air, irritating his throat. But at last he could reply. Looking upwards towards the boy’s golden face he spoke his name.

 

“Kor Phaeron, my name is Kor Phaeron.”

 

 

Lorgar’s first contact with another human being would be a lowly cleric named Kor Phaeron, who shortly after Lorgar’s arrival would take the boy into his own home and raise him as his son. Kor Phaeron would become Lorgar’s foster father, a fact which would lead the Imperium into a galactic wide civil war that very nearly destroyed it almost two centuries later.

Lorgar, as befit a son of the Master of Mankind, quickly assimilated into the Colchisan culture and devoured all of the historical texts, scriptures, holy works created by past saints, , and the study and creation of organized faith. Less than five years after his arrival Lorgar would have fully grown into his now adult body and supreme in mind, outclassing all those around him. It should be no surprise that Lorgar rose through the ranks of the Covenant at an astounding rate, surpassing those of weaker will and faith.

 

Since he came to Colchis Lorgar had been afflicted with dreams detailing him of an ancient, powerful human being who traveled the stars in exploration and conquest. He knew this Supreme Being to be his father, the Master of Mankind and the God-Emperor of the Imperium. Lorgar swore to convert the planet to the worship of the God-Emperor. His first disciple in this endeavor would be Kor Phaeron, his first and strongest supporter.

 


“My brothers, my sisters, hear me speak the Word!” Lorgar declared in the market of Kharephei, a large city north of Vharadesh. The citizens looked strangely at the newcomer. Lorgar had only been on Colchis for five years yet he was already a man grown, his physique was exquisite and surely the divine had gone into his creation, molding him to be the perfect avatar of the heavens.

 

He had arrived to the city only this morning and after a small breakfast and a prayer to the God-Emperor he was ready to enlighten those who had not heard of the Word of Lorgar.

Standing upon the stone base of a statue dedicated to the Old Ways Lorgar spoke with charisma and energy that drew the eyes of men, women, and children. From the high priests of the city to the common laborer the Word of Lorgar enraptured all and they stood in mute admiration as this prophet from beyond the stars spoke to them.

 

“Faith has always been of Colchis and allowed it to survive the Old Night. Faith and the belief of something divine and holy are imbedded not merely into our architecture, nor our education, but into our very being. Belief in a higher power flows through our veins. Citizens of Kharephei, you may not know me other than the ‘Prophet of Vharadesh’, and you will be wary of what I have to say for the words I speak goes against the teachings of the Covenant.”

 

Lorgar watched the crowd’s reaction. He had thirty guards with him, which stood sentry behind and by his sides with his foster father beside him, even though he thought it unnecessary but Kor Phaeron thought otherwise. No matter, Lorgar could tell there would be no violence here, these people listened and the Seventeenth son could see them turning from their old faith to the one he created and now preached for.

 

He was an excellent orator, it just came natural to him, his voice carrying across the central market yet he did not raise it. All those in attendance hung on his every word for the next two hours of speaking, their routines and duties temporarily forgotten.

 

The crowd grew as others in the city came to hear of the Prophet and his Word. Many thousands the day before had been of the Covenant of the Old Ways but after that single speech by him, the Prophet of Vharadesh, the people of Kharephei became willing converts to Lorgar’s Covenant of the New Faith, the Godsworn.

 

Now was time to end his fervor-filled speech, “Remember my brothers and sisters, we will be ridiculed by the old theocracy, for they are set in their ways and blind to the future our truth will bring, but for us to change their minds to the correct path we must show them the power of our faith, our dedication to the God-Emperor. When my father arrives to our world we will be ready to embrace Him as the One True God and His benevolence will ensure our world a place of prestige and the center of the Church of the Emperor in His young Imperium,” Lorgar looked around the crowd, their eyes locked on him, “Who’s with me?”

 

The yells of affirmations, and the pumping of fists into the air to declare fealty to him gave him great satisfaction. Lorgar raised his hands, palms upturned as if reaching toward the heavens, as if inviting the future that was come.

 

“Sons and daughters of the Emperor,” Lorgar turned to look at Kor Phaeron who nodded at his foster son, “Blessed be the Word!”

 

“Blessed be the Word! Blessed be the Word! Blessed be the Word!” the throats of thousands chorused as Lorgar walked down amongst them to embrace their love and devotion.

 


After barely a decade of speaking of the glories and wonders to come with the imminent arrival of the Emperor the Covenant had been divided into two distinct but powerful factions. The largest and most powerful in military strength was the Covenant of the Old Ways while Lorgar’s Covenant of the New Faith, called the Godsworn, was smaller, but if anything more zealous with better leadership and organization. Both jockeyed for power, the Synod of the Covenant threatened and lynched some of Lorgar’s followers when caught but the primarch refused to submit to violence. He truly believed that if he peacefully approached the matter he could convert all of Colchis with a minimum of bloodshed and destruction.

 

The highest elders of the Covenant saw this ‘Prophet of Vharadaesh’ as a threat to their power base and beliefs. In secret they met and planned to kill this wayward individual. Gathering their armies they marched to the house Lorgar shared with Kor Phaeron. But as the Army of the Covenant approached they found the house empty and abandoned.

Lorgar, his foster father, and scores of Godsworn followers had escaped the City of Grey Flowers only a few hours earlier and made their way north to Kharapei but even there the Army of the Covenant chased them, determined to kill the primarch.

 

Lorgar and his followers would withdraw further away from the major cities, heading deep into the sparsely populated deserts, far from the bastions and centers of power of the Old Covenant.

 


“This is a :cusshole, Lorgar,” cursed Kor Phaeron, spitting on the parched dirt they stood upon.

 

Lorgar, son of the God-Emperor a fact which he thanks his dreams for informing him of, looked at the man who adopted him as his own from the corner of his eyes. So like Kor Phaeron, he thought. Blunt speaking and forward in his opinions. The village before them was… bland but nothing as severe as a ‘:cusshole.’

 

“Come now, father, it may not be Vharadesh or Geriphaar but it is the place we will rise up to cleanse this world of unbelievers with fire and blood. I hope the Emperor will forgive me for what must be done.”

 

“It is in His name, Lorgar. He will understand. If Colchis is to be part of the Imperium it must be purged of the disbelievers and heretics.”

 

Lorgar Aurelian, the Urizen as he was beginning to be called, looked into the night sky. The stars were twinkling, staring back down at him like angels. He liked to imagine some of them were stars his father, his true father, had passed by on his way to find his sons. The image of a golden warrior, adorned in eagles, lightning bolts, wielding a sword of fire and radiating of divinity came before him, an echo from his dreams.

 

“Father,” he whispered. Kor Phaeron did not hear it as the noise of the small village drowned it out. Beside the God-Emperor stood a figure near-equal in height wearing blue robes and a heavy tome hanging from his waist by a silver chain. This figure’s skin was the color of copper, his hair a fiery mane that fell past his shoulders. His eye… his eye glowed with eldritch energy while the other was shuttered closed, warped and sealed. And this was Magnus, his brother. He knew of them and they were searching for him.

 

They were close, so close, but not close enough to stop the war that had started. If Lorgar was to present Colchis to his father it must be a world united in faith and loyal to the Emperor. To do that war must be waged, battles fought across his homeworld. Millions, he closed his eyes in horror of the thought, millions would die. He thought himself more of a scholar than warrior but he knew both traits flowed through his blood, encoded into him by the Master of Mankind. Colchis must be under one rule, one belief, one church, and for that to happen a schism that his homeworld had never seen before or hence would have to be ignited.

 

Those that followed the Old Ways had started the war when they tried to murder Lorgar and Kor Phaeron in their home. They started it but he would finish it.

 

“When do we march south?” asked Kor Phaeron, his sword and crested helm in hand, a flintlock pistol at his side. The Urizen looked at his Colchisan father, the priests and generals that swore fealty to Lorgar were behind him, ready to move out. Behind them stood an army of thousands that had marched from all across the continent with more arriving every day from lands far beyond; the Word of Lorgar had spread far and wide.

 

“Tonight,” he said, hefting his own sword, inscribed with passages from the Word. “There is a city nearby. Hoqarish it is called, home to thirty thousand people. It has sworn allegiance to the Old Way and it must be eliminated. Tonight we begin.”

 

And with that said he began the march south with an army that was made up of farmers, laborers, midwifes, and other sorts of peoples from all paths of life. They had been a rabble but under Lorgar’s direction they had become an army, driven by purpose, united in belief.

 


After months of gathering his strength Lorgar began to fight back. After a few quick conquests of enemy cities his army was finally met by the Army of the Covenant near one of the few mighty rivers that threaded through the barren Colchisan plains. Lorgar’s force was barely ten thousand; the Covenant’s over seventy thousand. What should have been a massacre against the Prophet and his followers was instead a grand victory for Lorgar, victory that could only be won by a primarch.

 

The Army of the Covenant was shattered, only a few thousand survived, and Lorgar truly began his conquest of Colchis. Following this great victory millions flocked to Lorgar’s banner. The Covenant’s days were numbered but they would not submit to their inevitable defeat. Six years of war followed, six years of sweat, toil and blood became everyday life in Colchis. Wars fought over territory, resources and philosophical ideologies are hard fought and bloody but religious wars are if anything fought harder and bloodier than all combined.

 

By the time Lorgar and his army, now numbering in the hundreds of thousands, approached Vharadesh the war had been won, only the deed of removing the Synod remained. Lorgar would personally behead all of the members of the Synod and from that day onwards the Covenant was disbanded, its books burned, its statues pulled down to replaced by those of the Emperor.

 


The fires lit up the city of Vharadesh. Everywhere Lorgar looked the city was awash with the purifying flame. Books, scrolls, paintings… people, all that was defiant of the Godsworn was to be burned. It was brutal, but it was necessary.

 

He brought his hands before his face. In the fire-lit darkness they were red. Red with the blood of innocents, his crusade had murdered millions but… but he had done it for Him, his Emperor. He was close now, so close, a year at most. The dreams occurred every night and were increasing in intensity. Many a night he woke up covered in sweat, his throat as dry as the interior deserts.

 

“Is something wrong, my son?”

 

Lorgar turned to see Kor Phaeron walk in, concerned was written across his face.

 

“Yes, father. It’s just… so much blood and death. I’m a priest not a general.”

 

Kor Phaeron’s black eyes stared at him. The High Priest of the Godsworn walked over to the Aurelian. “Lorgar, listen to me,” he said, placing his hand on his adopted son’s shoulder. “Bad things have happened yes, and bad things will happen across the stars but you must remember. These bad things happen for a reason. To change the galaxy for the betterment of Mankind sacrifices and detestable deeds must be performed. That is how it was, that is how it is, and that is how it will always be. No matter what, my son, remember that.”

 

Lorgar looked out at the flaming city, the fires burning the image in his retina. ‘I will, I will always remember.”

 

“Good,” said Kor Phaeron, turning away to leave the chamber. Lorgar Aurelian continued to look out across the city and Kor Phaeron grinned. He was now on the path towards the Primordial Truth.

 


As he predicted the Emperor arrived to Colchis less than a year after Lorgar had established a theocratic state. Accompanied by Magnus, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, the Emperor was pleased to meet His new found son but was wary of the religion Lorgar had established as His Imperium was based on the Imperial Truth, a doctrine of science, logic and reason, not of superstition and myth.

 

However the Emperor saw a frailty to Lorgar and did not want to crush it upon meeting Him. The Master of Mankind thought that Lorgar’s religious beliefs would ebb with time as he saw the benefits of the Imperial Truth. He would be sadly mistaken as Lorgar’s faith upon meeting his father grew to a fever pitch.

 

After a weeklong celebration held in honor of the Master of Mankind and the XV Primarch the Emperor stated he must return to the Great Crusade as His attention was required in half a dozen campaigns. But as the Emperor was leaving Colchis a large fleet of starships entered the system.

 

These were the first ships of the XVII Legion to arrive, led by High Herald Halik-gar, who came to reunite with their gene-sire. When the entire Legion, after many weeks and months of warp travel, had been assembled near the gates of Vharadesh Lorgar renamed the XVII Legion, known as the Imperial Heralds in those ancient times, to the Word Bearers Legion. Lorgar embraced his newfound sons and within a few months he had converted the entirety of the Word Bearers to the devotion and praise of the God-Emperor. A new office, named the Chaplains, was created to act as the spiritual counselors of the thousands of legionnaires and to help spread the Word to the rest of humanity. They would be encased in black armor with white skull-patterned helmets. One of the first things Lorgar did when Imperial technology was effectively established on Colchis the XVII Primarch performed two acts. One was to declare that Colchis was to remain as Lorgar had molded it, a world of worship and complete devotion to the Emperor who was a god and the primarchs who would become saints to mortal men. Colchis would not become industrialized like so many other Imperial planets, nor would it change the culture established by the Urizen. It would be the first official Shrine World of the God-Emperor. Lorgar’s second act was to begin recruiting from his homeworld as he realized converting a galaxy of heathens would require a very large Astartes Legion.

 

The first Colchisan human to become a Space Marine was none other than Kor Phaeron, who despite his adult age, could be modified through a multitude of surgeries and gene-therapies to become a quasi-Astarte. He would gain many abilities he never had as a normal human but would not quite be a true Astartes which would cause some in the Legion to label him ‘half-breed’ although never near the primarch or where he himself would hear it. After a successful transformation into a legionnaire Lorgar made his adopted father the First-Captain of the Legion. The title of Master of the Faith was given to Kor Phaeron as well.

 

After Kor Phaeron’s successful induction into the Word Bearers the primarch began to recruit extensively among his followers and the children of Colchis. While many of his older followers that had fought in his army during the Covenant Schism died during the process Lorgar was unflinching in his duty, although it saddened him to see so many friends and comrades die. But for every death Lorgar’s faith was renewed by example of his followers’ devotion. Less than three percent of post-puberty volunteers were able to complete the conversion into Space Marines but from then on Lorgar would only recruit from the children of Colchis that met the certain physical, mental, genetic, and spiritual criteria he demanded.

 

 


The Great Crusade
The Word Bearers, after several months of modifying their Legion to fit Lorgar’s vision, immersed themselves into the Great Crusade with gusto, eager to bring human worlds into compliance, to smite the xenos and mutant wherever they were found.

 

The first few years of the Great Crusade for the newly christened Word Bearers saw very few worlds brought into compliance. Unlike many of his brothers Lorgar did not wish to spread his Legion across the galaxy to simply conquer planet after planet, leaving the rebuilding and restructuring of the conquered planets to the Imperial Army and the Administratum.

 

This was not the XVII Legion’s way, not anymore once it was united with its primarch. The Word Bearers would not move on to the next campaign until the newly acquired subjects had their history, their culture and their philosophy systematically purged and reformed to suit the Seventeenth’s needs. In place of these ideals the Word Bearers instituted the religion Lorgar created. Worldwide palaces, statues, shrines and cathedrals were constructed in the God-Emperor’s Name. The XVII became so dedicated to their crusade to spread the unofficial Imperial religion that their campaigns crawled to a near standstill. Their Legion of over a hundred thousand, one of the largest Legions at the time, second only to the Ultramarines, had expanded the Imperium’s borders the least. Legions much smaller tripled, even quadrupled, the amount of star systems brought into the Imperial fold in those years.

 

There was a boon to this slow expansion, one that Lorgar used as one of the reasons for his slothful pace. The Word Bearers would arrive to a heathen world, conquer it, mold it, and leave only when the loyalty and devotion to the Emperor was unquestionable. So while the XVII advance into the stars was lethargic the worlds it brought into compliance would be some of the most loyal and, at the time, the most pious of all worlds in the Imperium. Rebellion, dissent, and heresy were all meaningless words to these planets as their belief in the Imperium and its founder were unshakeable.

 

Lorgar and his sons would continue this method for nearly a century until the Emperor could not ignore the lack of progress coming from His son. The Emperor had grown tired of the overly long occupation and rehabilitation of worlds by the Word Bearers themselves. And the spreading of religion, especially one claiming Him as a god, had reached a boiling point with the Emperor which could not be tolerated any longer. Lorgar must be forced to change his ways and the Emperor had the ideal location to do it at.

 

 


Fall to Chaos
The world of Khur was selected to be the setting of Lorgar’s censure, the city of Monarchia specifically, the so called ‘Perfect City’ by Lorgar upon its reformation into a spiritual city. Khur had been brought into compliance by the XVII Legion six decades before another Legion force came to the relatively unimportant planet. The XIII Legion, the Ultramarines, led by their primarch Roboute Guilliman had been selected to assist the Emperor and Malcador the Sigillite in censuring the Word Bearers.

 

In a span of seven days the ‘Perfect City’ was reduced to ash and rubble by the Battle-King and his sons. Once the deed had been accomplished an astropathic message from the desolated city’s former mayor was sent to the Colchisan primarch and his Legion, a message begging forgiveness and pleading for help from the grey angels. It would take weeks but when the Word Bearers entered the Khur Star System they were shocked at what had transpired. Guilliman ordered his brother and his brother's sons to descend to the center of where Monarchia once stood to await judgment. Lorgar and his Legion complied but had to resist the urge to enact revenge in the name of those Monarchian citizens that died in the city, those citizens that refused to leave despite numerous warnings by the XIII.

 

The Ultramarine Primarch and the Regent of Terra reprimanded the Word Bearers, demanding that they stop their ways and conform to the Imperial Truth. Lorgar refused… until his father teleported to the surface to rebuke His son in person. The Emperor scolded His wayward son in front of the entirety of the XVII. The Urizen would fall into the ashes of Monarchia, break down in tears and begged the Emperor to allow the XVII to continue glorifying Him. The Emperor, however, was adamant that the Seventeenth must change. Using His immense psychic abilities the Emperor forced every Word Bearer, one hundred and forty thousand legionnaires, to kneel in submission and made them renew their pledges of fealty to Him and the Imperium. He ordered that the XVII Legion disband its religious practices, embrace the Imperial Truth, and wage war across the stars at a more acceptable rate.

 

When the Emperor was done He and Guilliman left to return to the Great Crusade while Malcador would return to Terra. Lorgar and his sons would leave Khur a broken Legion, its spirit sapped, its beliefs shattered.

 

This is when the primarch’s two most trusted advisors, First Chaplain Erebus and First-Captain Kor Phaeron, began to plant the seeds of heresy in their gene-father. Both Astartes had long been secret devotees of the Ruinous Powers and saw the void of faith in their father’s being as an opportunity to exploit.

 

For months the two Word Bearers whispered of the powers of the dark gods into their primarch’s ears. Lorgar had come out of his depression that he had suffered since Khur and before he would take a Pilgrimage his Legion needed to be reborn first.

 

The world of Forty-Seven Sixteen was chosen as the place of rebirth. Lorgar, in a Legion-wide speech, told his sons that no longer will they worship the Emperor and that they must embark on a journey to find the true gods, gods that formed the heart and soul of the Old Faith of Colchis. Variations of the Old Faith had been found across the galaxy but all spoke of similar gods, gods of the darkest majesty that wielded incredible power few could grasp. Lorgar told his sons that they would find the origins of these faiths and find the truth of them. They would determine if these gods deserved the faith and loyalty of the Word Bearers. But before the Legion could embark on this Pilgrimage one thing had to be done: the total extermination of every man, woman, and child on Forty-Seven Sixteen.

 

Within the span of a day over two hundred million human beings had been killed by the slate grey armored Astartes. As the Word Bearers prepared to disperse to their various expeditionary fleets a fleet exited the warp, its flagship demanding an audience with the XVII Primarch. This fleet was led by none other than the Angel of Blood aboard his flagship the Red Tear.

 


Hours after his brother came aboard, hours after discussions and confessions, Lorgar looked at his brother with a new respect and admiration. The Angel of Blood had always been distant to him, seeing Lorgar’s faith as distasteful. But since the Castigation of Khur and the murder of Forty-Seven-Sixteen it seems the Ninth Primarch had begun to warm to his Seventeenth brother.

 

Lorgar had confessed his doubts, his fears, his search for the galactic truth, and even his burgeoning hatred of the Emperor to Sanguinius, who listened attentively from across the chamber. Not once did the Ninth Primarch interrupt or dissuade him. When the Aurelian had finished Sanguinius began his tale. He told of how he had never fallen for their father’s lies, that he knew the Emperor for what he was: a self-centered, war mongering, murderous megalomaniac who needed to be dethroned if Mankind was to survive the horrors of the galaxy.

 

“Brother,” began Lorgar, “you do not know how happy I am to hear this. It is good to know I am not alone in my thoughts.”

 

The Blood Angel Primarch flexed his pearl white wings. “I am pleased as well. For decades I have been planning my rebellion and will be decades more before I am ready but my Legion is cleaned of the Emperor’s lackeys. Yours must be cleansed as well.”

 

Lorgar did not want to admit it but he did have some sons that continued their worship in the Emperor, despite their chastisement on Khur they remained devout, believing they somehow failed Him and were becoming even more fanatical in their praise of their primarch’s father. They would have to be silenced. “Aye, you are right. There are some hundreds, perhaps a thousand. They will be taken care of; you have my word on that matter.”

 

“Good,” Sanguinius leaned forward, his wings tilted inwards, “What do you plan to do now, brother?”

 

“My First Chaplain and First-Captain have convinced me to look for the true gods, for there must be something out there in the cosmos. I will undertake a Pilgrimage,” he watched his brother carefully, waiting for his reaction.

 

Instead of appearing condescending or frowning at what he had planned Sanguinius merely nodded, accepting his brother would not stop searching for a higher power. “Go and find them if there are any,” he stood from his chair, walking around the table to come face to face with his brother, “and come back soon, Lorgar. We have much to do.”

 


After many months of travelling, and under the watchful eyes of a squad of Custodes dispatched by the Emperor to watch His son for the next fifty years, the XVII Primarch came upon a world on the edge of the galaxy in the Segmentum Obscurus. A world the inhabitants called Cadia.

 

The violet-eyed natives were cultists of Chaos and their leader, a beautiful priestess named Ingethel, convinced Lorgar to witness “a gift from the Gods of Chaos themselves.” This would be a ritual in which Lorgar witnessed Ingethel transform from a human woman to an inflated, bulbous, decadent form. She had become a daemon and would be the Speaker of the Dark Gods to Lorgar.

 

Lorgar was initially horrified at what Ingethel became but he admitted to himself that is was a sign of power from a collection of higher beings, power that only gods and daemons could wield. He however needed further proof. Guided by Ingethel the Ascended Lorgar and his Legion travelled perilously close to the large warp rift known in modern times as the Eye of Terror.

 

A single light cruiser, the Orfeo’s Lament, was sent into the great warp rift to see if the gods Ingethel spoke of were in fact real. Guided by the daemon the light cruiser, commanded by Captain Argel Tal, commander of the Seventh Company of the Serrated Suns Chapter entered the Eye of Terror.

 

The light cruiser would experience incredible difficulties, the entire mortal crew was killed on entry and a quarter of the Astartes died as well. While in the Eye Argel Tal saw many horrid and disturbing things but he was touched and blessed by the gods. He and his company that survived had become possessed by lesser daemons.

 

Eventually the light cruiser would exit the Eye of Terror after many months of suffering and torment only to find that they had been gone less than a minute to the rest of the galaxy.

Lorgar became intrigued and disturbed by what his sons saw. He interviewed Argel Tal immediately after the captain returned to Lorgar’s flagship, the Fidelitas Lex. What the Seventh Company Captain told his father of what he saw and experienced while in the Eye of Terror was enough to convince Lorgar of the reality and strength of these Chaos gods. Not only did they accept worship, they demanded it.

 

After pondering for many hours Lorgar ordered the majority of the XVII Legion to return to the Great Crusade as to not arouse suspicion. The Word Bearers Primarch would enter the Eye of Terror himself with only a small bodyguard. What he witnessed few could grasp and none would dare experience themselves. The Urizen had arrived to Cadia a primarch in desperate search of true faith, of gods that had power and existed. He entered the warp rift hesitant of what the future would bring but he would exit converted in full to Chaos Undivided.

 

As his Legion quickly converted to Chaos, Lorgar began to write his greatest work: the Book of Lorgar. When Lorgar returned to meet with Sanguinius both primarchs renewed their commitment to tear down and reform the Imperium. The Colchisan Primarch introduced the Ruinous Powers to the Baalite Primarch and Sanguinius embraced them wholeheartedly, knowing these gods were the same voices that put him on the path of rebellion. The XVII Primarch, knowing that the gods favored Sanguinius as Champion, would be the Angel of Blood’s most vocal supporter during the Heresy and the years leading up to it. For the next forty-three years the Blood Angels and Word Bearers baited their time and waited for the opportune moment.

 

The next four decades would see the Word Bearers slowly corrupt and influence other Astarte Legions into betraying the Emperor. Through the establishment of secret groups called lodges the rot of Chaos begins to spread in some Legions. The Legions with the most prevalent and influential lodges would be the ones to fall to Chaos. Post-Heresy all of the lodges that operated in the Loyalists Legions would be broken down and banished, never to return as they were seen as a seed of corruption whose threat could not be ignored.

After the Ullanor Campaign was victoriously concluded Horus was promoted to Warmaster by Imperial Decree, he would now be Commander-in-Chief of all Imperial forces in the Emperor’s absence. Lorgar and Sanguinius both congratulated their brother as not to arouse suspicion. Lorgar had hoped the title would be given to Sanguinius but was not very surprised at the Emperor’s announcement. In both the Traitor Primarch’s eyes Horus could never be corrupted, his love and loyalty to the Emperor was too strong.

 

Shortly after the Triumph at Ullanor the Council of Nikaea was called to discuss whether Librarians, along with other psykers, should be banned from using their powers or continued to use their psychic abilities for the betterment of the Imperium. Both Traitor Primarchs hoped to see their brother Magnus chastised and censured which would ensure his downfall to Chaos, specifically to the Dark God Tzeentch. They would have to be manipulated into joining the Traitors but having the XV Primarch and the Thousand Sons at the sides of the rebels would be a beneficial boon.

 

But it was not to be so. The Emperor’s Edict surprised many especially with Magnus the Red alongside his honor guard stood beside the Emperor as the Edict was announced. The XV Primarch was full of pride and assurance as he and his Legion in its entirety had undertook the soul-binding ritual. The Edict would allow the Librarians to remain, the Thousand Sons would go without censure, and psykers throughout the Imperium would see some new restrictions but would be able to continue using their psychic abilities as long as it was in the interests of the Imperium.

 

With the Edict having be declared and immediately put into effect the council was concluded with all the primarchs and their Legions returning to the Great Crusade. Sanguinius and Lorgar would not be able to convince the XV Legion to join the rebels but Nikaea presented an opportunity to corrupt another primarch, one with a much larger Legion: Leman Russ and the Sixth.

 

As Sanguinius went about whispering lies to the Space Wolves Primarch the Angel of Blood would also be corrupting Jaghatai Khan and his White Scars to become the chosen avatars of Tzeentch. While Sanguinius did this Lorgar prepared to incapacitate or kill the Warmaster.

 

Erebus, the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers and a confidant of the Lupercal, stole a sword called the anathame from the civilization called the Interex during a diplomatic negotiation and in the process created war between the Imperium and this advanced star nation which resulted in an Imperial victory.

 

Later the Chaplain was able to use sorcery to transport himself and the anathame to a world called Davin. He would give this alien sword to the Imperial Governor, an individual named Eugen Temba, who would become corrupted by Nurgle due to the daemon infused into the sword. Temba would corrupt the entire star system very quickly. After giving the anathame to Temba Erebus would return to the Vengeful Spirit, the XVI Legion’s flagship, and warn the Warmaster of an uprising in the Davin Star System.

 

Horus was shocked until intelligence reports confirmed that Davin had gone silent and had attacked nearby Imperial warships that attempted to scout the system. Enraged the Warmaster assembled the entirety of the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet to defeat the uprising and kill Temba. Prior to the fleet’s departure towards Davin Erebus, and the few Word Bearers that accompanied him, left the Luna Wolves fleet to return to their own primarch.

 

Horus sped towards Davin, not knowing it was a trap. After arriving with his fleet he began to assault the now wholly corrupted worlds and moons of the star system. Within a day the Sixteenth Legion had reduced Davin to ashes but at the cost of Horus being wounded by the rebel governor.

 

At first it was a minor wound but quickly festered and spread infectiously thanks to the daemon’s infernal corruption. The Warmaster’s body would become so poisoned that he would have to be interred in a stasis-pod to prevent his death. The XVI would travel towards Terra, hoping the Emperor could heal their father.

 

With Horus wounded, unable to lead, the Emperor appointed Sanguinius as War Commander of the Great Crusade. Now with authority to influence the vast cogs of the Imperial war machine the time of the rebellion rapidly approached.

 

It would begin with Guilliman declaring independence. The Five-Hundred Worlds of Ultramar would secede from the Imperium to form the Ultramar Protectorate. The Emperor, shocked at these events, ordered Sanguinius to assemble a Vengeance Armada to squash the secessionists. The majority of the Ultramarines Legion would arrive in the Istvaan System, a star system on the far galactic west of the Segmentum Ultima, close to the Segmentum Solar. It was clearly a launching stage for a crippling strike on Terra.

 

Sanguinius would order Leman Russ and his Wolves to Prospero to exterminate the XV as “recent information showed they were about to join Guilliman in declaring independence.” The Sixth would comply immediately as they had been waiting for an opportunity such as this, feeling that they were truly saving the Imperium in doing so. They could not be more wrong.

 

The Burning of Prospero crippled the Thousand Sons and saw the Space Wolves descend into the alluring clutches of Slaanesh, embracing their own dark nature and becoming loyal to Sanguinius and Chaos.

 

As the Heresy neared ever closer Lorgar put multiple plans into motion as the majority of the Legion approached Istvaan. Throughout the galaxy thousands of Word Bearers were put on high alert, poised to attack crucial nearby Imperial worlds. Operations were put into motion to cripple the Imperium early in the coming civil war. Ships with cargo holds filled with thousands of powerful psykers were sent to Sol. Their actions there would severely damage the Imperials ability to communicate with their armies throughout the galaxy for many months.

 

 

 

Dropsite Massacre
The Word Bearers would arrive in the Istvaan System with the Blood Angels, the World Eaters, and the Death Guard. Sanguinius would order the World Eaters and the Death Guard to Istvaan III to secure the Vengeance Armada’s flank but in truth it was a ploy to purge those Legions of Loyalist elements.

 

As the Word Bearers and the Blood Angels arrived in orbit over Istvaan V thousands of Techmarines, enginseers, and slave-workers would land on the planet to assist the Ultramarines in creating a formidable bastion of defense.

 

While Lorgar despised Guilliman and the XIII he gave strict orders to his legionnaires to treat the sons of Macragge with respect and dignity. Their hatred of the Ultramarines and their primarch could not interfere with the coming war. And Lorgar did take satisfaction in the fact that with the Ultramarines seceding and fighting the Loyalists on Istvaan it would forever blacken the name of the Thirteenth across the Imperium. And once the rebellion was won and Sanguinius became the Second Emperor then the XVII would properly take revenge on the XIII.

 

When more Imperial warships were detected entering the system the War Commander and the Aurelian recalled their men to their own ships. Soon the skies over Istvaan V were filled with the might of eight Astarte Legions, a force powerful enough to conquer half the galaxy.

 

After extensive planning the War Commander ordered the Emperor’s Children, the Iron Hands, and the Salamanders to begin their offensive against the Secessionists. After establishing a ring of iron around the Ultramarine fortress the Loyalist forces began to push in, suffering extensive casualties but reaping heavy losses amongst the cobalt-armored sons of Guilliman.

 

Hours after the battle began Sanguinius ordered the remainder of the Legions to land on the planet. The Word Bearers, the Night Lords and the traitorous third of the Death Guard descended and laid out temporary fortifications at their drop-zones. The World Eaters and the Blood Angels would remain in orbit until the treachery was revealed.

The majority of the tired, but exultant, warriors of the Third, the Tenth, and the Eighteenth Legions would fall back to the drop-zones only for a greater, far worse betrayal than Gulliman’s succession to greet them.

 


Captain Argel Tal, Crimson Lord of the Gal Vorbak, and scion of Lorgar stared ahead at those he had once called brothers. His regret showed if one was to look into his eyes, but alas he had his helmet on. He stood solemnly still, watching the purple and gold plated warriors of the III approach his position.

 

The Emperor’s Children trudged through the sand, their armor dented, scorched, and covered in blood and soot, towards his entrenched Space Marines, thinking it was merely allies defending a vital position instead of preparing for a massacre.

 

Argel Tal looked at the Word Bearers beside him, gone were the days of pretentious loyalty to the Emperor and with it faded the standard grey armor the Legion wore with pride for decades. Had worn with pride that is, until the Castigation of Khur. Since that day forty-three years ago the armor was a reminder of their rebuke, of their shame.

 

But as the Legion arrived to Istvaan the standard grey was replaced with crimson red, similar to their brother Blood Angels, but edged in gunmetal trim rather than the deepest black. He remembered a time when only he and his Gal Vorbak wore that armor. They were the Blessed Sons, the first to embrace the harsh truth of the universe, the first to convert to Chaos Undivided, and the first to allow their bodies to host a daemonic entity.

 

Even now Argel Tal felt the daemon coil inside himself, acidic saliva dripping from the corners of his own mouth to slowly dribble down his chin. With discipline and practice he pushed the daemon down, for now at least. There was a time and place for that and it was not now.

 

He saw his fellow battle-brothers grip their bolters and swords with anticipation and relish. Nearly half the Legion did not witness the Castigation for they were either Initiates or not old enough to be selected for induction into the Legion at the time. Yet despite this their burning passion of hatred matched those that were there and if they couldn’t expend this hatred on the Ultramarines, yet anyways, than the other lackeys of the Emperor would receive their just punishment.

 

Turning back to face the now closer Emperor’s Children the Crimson Lord saw an officer with a plumed helm jogging at the head of his Legion. Argel Tal’s internal vox chimed with the Third Legion officer attempting to open a personal channel. He accepted the opening of a channel with a mere thought.

 

“This is First-Captain Julius Kaesoron, First Company, Emperor’s Children. My men and I are inbound for resupply and refit.”

 

He raised his hand in acknowledgment and welcome. That would not suffice however, and he needed information, “Greetings, brother, I am Captain Argel Tal of the 7th Assault Company, Serrated Suns Chapter, Word Bearers Legion. How does the battle fare, Kaesoron?”

 

The Chemosian officer seemed to swell with arrogance, “Very well, even now the Ultramarines are retreating to their inner defenses. Guilliman and his sons are running. Victory is assured; we only have to deliver the killing blow.”

 

“Yes, we do,” Argel Tal stated. The Chemosian had no idea how true those words would soon be. Scanning the thousands of the Emperor’s Children ever approaching closer he noticed an absence. “Where is the Primarch Fulgrim?”

 

“The Phoenician is organizing the withdrawal and will be with us momentarily. He has to convince Manus to detach from combat; the Gorgon’s blood is up today and is reluctant to leave the battlefield with the Secessionist still alive.”

 

Typical, thought the Colchisan captain. The Aurelian would want to know the Phoenician and the Gorgon were not accompanying their sons. His eyes flickered to the left. At least Vulkan was.

 

More information would be needed, “Did you suffer heavy losses?”Argel Tal asked, his tone beginning to take a neutral tone as the time was fast approaching.

 

A moment of silence followed but eventually Kaesoron replied, “Yes, many thousands dead and wounded. We have been bloodied but so has the XIII, them more so.”

 

Thousands dead, it was truly a large number. In his two centuries of service Argel Tal had never seen such losses amongst the Legiones Astartes occurring in a single afternoon. “Much blood has been spilt. And more will be spilt until it is all over,” he said, his tone of voice reflecting the regret of what he was about to do, but knew it was what his father and the gods demanded. And as always he would follow Lorgar to the end of time, for better or worse.

 

“Captain Tal?” the First-Captain asked over the vox, him and his Astartes were only a hundred meters away now. The Crimson Lord looked to his right at Company Chaplain Xaphen who was his friend and confidante. The Chaplain nodded at his commander, assuring him of the righteousness of their chosen path. “Captain Tal respond, is your vox down?”came the expected question when he did not reply.

 

“Forgive me,” he whispered into the vox, immediately cutting the vox connection between the two officers.

 

The Emperor’s Children were only fifty meters away now. It was almost too easy. Argel Tal raised his bolter, already cocked and loaded, aimed at the approaching Astartes. He could hear the Chemosian trying to reopen the link and could imagine what the officer was saying. Was he demanding they lower their weapons, was he warning the Word Bearer of the consequences, or was silence his only answer with the betrayal revealing itself?

 

It did not matter in the end. He was to die anyway. On the Legion’s primary vox channel he gave the order they had been waiting for, not only since the time they landed on this accursed world but for forty-three years. An order that would affirm their loyalty to the gods and show the Imperium and the galaxy where their true allegiance lay, it was an order that would echo for millennia to those that survived the day.

 

It was a simple order, one of the most simple and to the point Argel Tal had ever given. Lorgar had given him the honor and privilege to be the first to fire upon the Loyalists. His own Chapter Master Deumos was subservient to his order. A hundred Chapter Masters and hundreds of captains and sergeants accepted his command without question.

 

“Fire.”

 

Tens of thousands of bolters fired into the mass of Loyalists. The Night Lords fired and killed the leading Iron Hands, the traitorous Death Guard shot upon the Salamanders and their primarch, and the Word Bearers fired bolt after bolt into the Emperor’s Children, killing thousands in the opening salvo.

 

Argel Tal had aimed at Kaesoron and put a bolt into his chest causing him to fall to his knees. Tal and his fellow Bearers of the Word fired clip after clip into the assembled Children of the Emperor, scything through the forward ranks as if the heavily armed Astartes were nothing more than stalks of wheat.

 

The Loyalist forces began to fall back after barely a minute. The Iron Hands falling back with an officer atop of a small hill motioning them to withdraw with one hand, the other was firing a bolt pistol toward the Night Lords. The Salamanders falling back in chaos and the Emperor's Children withdrawing in an organized, efficient manner they were known for.

 

“Forward, grind them into dust, and leave no survivors. For Lorgar and the War Commander!” the Master of the Gal Vorbak ordered.

 

The Word Bearers legionnaires complied quickly with the ranks surging forward to hunt down the Loyalists. As the Word Bearers advanced so too did the Eighth Legion led by the Night Haunter himself and the Death Guard led by their First-Captain. Overhead drop-pods of the IX and XII Legions fell to the earth, carrying many thousands of Astartes. Those drop-pods impacted into the rear echelons of the retreating Loyalist. The blue and white armored World Eaters along with the War Commander’s red and black Blood Angels tore into their former brethren with delight. Both the IX and the XII were known throughout the Imperium for their savagery and skill in close combat and it showed with the pile of Imperial corpses rising high. Even from here Argel Tal could see the Red Angel, the Eater of Worlds himself, cut a swath through scores of Loyalists, his twin chain-axes drenching with blood in a matter of seconds.

 

Beside him legionnaires of the XVII rushed the enemy but he merely walked towards the fallen First-Captain. Kaesoron had fallen from his kneeled position to lying on his back. Rivers of blood ran by him, some his own, the majority his fellow brothers.

 

The Emperor’s Children First-Captain reached for his weapon beside him. He’s brave but foolish thought Tal as he planted his armored boot on the Chemosian officer’s hand, preventing him from bringing the bolt pistol to bear.

 

“Nothing personal, First-Captain, I find this act I have been forced to commit a stain upon my honor as a legionnaire, but I most follow my father as any son should do. I ask for forgiveness. Will you give me that?” It was a rare hope he would receive the forgiveness but he must try.

 

The response that emitted from the legionary officer’s mouth grille was gurgling blood as words refused to form but Tal could guess that it was not forgiveness and just hate.

He sighed “I see. I hope you find peace in the afterlife, I hope the gods are kind to your soul but I know that they won't be. Goodbye, First-Captain,” Argel Tal fired his bolter at Kaesoron’s skull which ruptured like broken fruit.

 

 

The Traitors had shown their hand and were unmerciful in their act of treachery. Tens of thousands died in the first hour with tens of thousands more in the following hours. The Word Bearers pursued the Loyalists to their own landing zones, boxing them in.

 

But before the final blow could be dealt the Loyalists destroyed the Ultramarine AA weapons and were able to evacuate to orbit when a small fleet of Imperial reinforcements turned the tide of the void battle in favor of the Loyalists long enough for the remaining survivors to withdraw. After receiving the survivors the Imperial ships fled Istvaan to begin warning the wider Imperium of Sanguinius's rebellion and those that followed him. Just as the fires of combat receded the Ultramarines departed to head back towards Ultramar to defend their empire against the strength of two Legions loyal to Terra.

 

 


The Heresy
For the first two months of the Heresy Lorgar and Sanguinius waited in Istvaan for the first gathering of all the Traitor Primarchs. Once assembled the next phase of the war was planned. Konrad Curze and half of the VIII would depart for Segmentum Tempestus; the rest of the Night Lords would head to other locations throughout the Imperium to spread fear and terror while crippling Loyalists supply lines and communication. The Wolf King would head to the Eastern Fringe to intercept the Dark Angels to prevent them from reaching Terra as well as spreading death and destruction to the worlds they visited. The other primarchs and their Legions had various duties, all of whom complied and would go about their assignments.

 

After the meeting was concluded, the other rebel primarchs having returned to their flagships, Sanguinius informed his closest brother of their next destination: Ultramar.

 


The empty void was ripped open, a tear in the fabric of space. Light and energy of all colors spilled out, some could be identified by Mankind, while others could not. Out of the torn fabric of reality ships of metal, forged for war and conquest, spilled forth, tendrils of warp energy clinging to them until fully exiting the Immaterium in which case they faded as if they had never existed.

 

The first warships that came back to realspace were kilometers long, with thousands of crewmen, some who were even born on the very ship they slaved on. First it was one squadron of four ships, then two squadrons, and within minutes over one hundred ships were gathered in the remote star system.

 

About half were marked with the sigil of the Blood Angels, the other half adorned with symbols that informed any who saw it that it belonged to the Word Bearers. The outer warships were destroyers and cruisers, the inner ships were grand cruisers, battleships, battle-barges, void-craft carriers and the Red Tear, flagship of War Commander Sanguinius.

 

Once the fleet organized itself into formation it sped towards the inner worlds of the star system. The system was called Gallafrey with its single inhabited planet of Gallafrey Alpha a bustling center of commerce in the sector, near the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar and just outside the borders of Guilliman’s Protectorate.

 

The Gallafrey Star System was known locally in galactic terms as a valued trade partner whose primary exports were raw materials mined from the extensive asteroid belt surrounding the inner worlds.

 

In peace and in war it would have been somewhat strategic to take the planet, to occupy and convert its factories to military purpose, to retain all the raw materials it exported to instead feed the needs of supply for the occupying faction.

 

The population of the planet numbered around thirty billion. It had sworn loyalty to the Emperor but could be made to change allegiance if forced to. They knew they were a long way from the Imperial heartland. The fleet of Traitor ships quickly destroyed the dozen Imperial Army destroyers and the two score local militia defense frigates that guarded the system.

 

As the rebel fleet took position around the planet pleas of mercy were sent to the War Commander, along with oaths of fealty from many of the planet’s rulers. They swore to forever renounce the Emperor and would supply Sanguinius and his allies with weapons, food, fuel and other crucial supplies. But this fleet was not here to raid nor invade and occupy. This fleet was here to murder a world and close the trap that was forming around the Protectorate. This would be the eighth world to die since Lorgar and the Angel of Blood departed Istvaan.

 

For almost two months they had sailed to and around Ultramar, sacrificing seven heavy populated worlds as tribute to the Ruinous Powers. For every world murdered the warp currents nearby would quickly fall into mayhem, preventing any safe travel in or out. Eight worlds were chosen, eight worlds populated by Mankind which numbered over three hundred billion all together and were chosen due to their population and strategic placement.

 

Not strategic in a military sense per se but the currents of the warp were easily navigable in the selected star systems and if those currents were affected to fall in disarray it would send shockwaves throughout the warp, destabilizing it for years. Only one star system remained to be sacrificed and Lorgar stood aboard the Red Tear looking down upon it. Vast blue oceans and green continents were a contrast to his homeworld but it would have been a place of rest and building for a future in a past life. But not this one, no in this one it was to die.

 

When the Red Tear reached the appropriate distance was when Lorgar began to read from the newest additions to the Book of Lorgar. The ink was from his and Sanguinius’s own blood, giving the words more power. He had wrote it after his brother informed him of what he had planned.

 

It had taken many days, with thousands of slaves disemboweled along with much prayer and communion with daemons to create the necessary ritual to kill a world. Despite doing seven times flawlessly Lorgar’s mouth still felt pain and discomfort speaking words that should never have come out of a human’s mouth. Words that distorted the air itself.

 

Hours later he continued to speak the non-words, blood and saliva dripping from his open mouth as the words temporarily tore his jaw muscles. At the end of the ritual he clicked the communicator located in his armor.

 

"Is it done?" Sanguinius demanded.

 

"Aye, Sanguinius. Commence bombardment."

 

In response the Red Tear's macro-cannons, lance weapons, laser clusters and torpedo emplacements fired upon the surface. Following the flagship's cue the rest of the fleet fired as well, aiming for concentrated population centers and weaknesses in the planet's crust. The weapons fire would kill over half the population in an hour, the rest would die as their planet died. With this sacrifice concluded the nearby warp currents would begin to distort and collapse. It would be some days before that happened but happened it will.

 

Lorgar watched it all. He knew his acts had killed many billions but they were only the first. Trillions would die before Mankind finally accepted the underlying facts of the universe and embraced the Ruinous Powers in their undivided form. The fires of the world below matching the fire burning within his soul. He stared out the void-glass window for what had to be hours until finally the fleet began to move away from the massive graveyard it created.

 

"Lorgar," came a voice behind him.

 

Lorgar turned around to greet his brother, bowing his head in respect. Sanguinius walked to his zealot brother and stared at the dying world they were leaving. "When will the local warp space fall into anarchy?"

 

"If the other worlds and their currents are used as a basis I give a week, maybe two until travel will be impossible."

 

"For how long will this trap last?"

 

"The Runestorm should last anywhere from four to six years, five is the more likely outcome."

 

"Excellent," the Angel of Blood murmured. "Roboute would have seen through our visage eventually. Whether or not he would have been able to rejoin the Imperium is questionable but in any case the Imperials and the Protectorate would have stopped fighting allowing the greater resources of those two forces to work in conjunction which would have squashed our forces before we ever neared Terra.

 

"But with the Runestorm falling into place the Ultramarines, along with the Alpha Legion and the Sons of Horus, would be trapped inside the Protectorate. Both the Imperials and the Secessionists will bleed each other throughout Ultramar, weakening themselves without our forces having to be involved."

 

"Do you think the three Legions will fight each other into extinction?" Lorgar asked expectantly. After Terra was secure he would want to get proper revenge on Guilliman and his sons. It was only right.

 

Sanguinius thought a moment before he answered. "No, I do not. Guilliman is a wise strategist with probably the best grasps on logistics and empire-running than the majority of our brothers. Horus and Alpharius are both gifted commanders and the Warmaster's ire will know no bounds. It will be a bloody five years for Ultramar but in the end all three Legions will survive in some form I imagine. Don't worry, brother. After I have ascended the throne you can deal with the remnant of the XIII and personally teach Guilliman the humility he so deserves."

 

Lorgar grinned in expectation. "Now where, Sanguinius?"

 

"The frontlines. Raldoron has done well leading the main offensive but I must return as do you. We have a rebellion to see to its finish after all."

 


After creating the Runestorm, trapping the XIII, the XVI, and the XX Legions in Ultramar for the next five years which resulted in the destructive and bloody Shadow Crusade, the Urizen and the War Commander returned to the frontlines and Lorgar would remain by Sanguinius's side for the next seven years.

 

The XVII Legion during the Heresy fought in nearly every major campaign, using their large numbers and daemonic allies to great effect, helping expedite the advance towards the Throneworld.

 

Lorgar and his Legion would be present in the Sol System during the Siege of Terra. As the Iron Warriors laid siege to the Palace, the World Eaters assaulted the primary gates, the White Scars launched lightning attacks, both physical and psychic, at Imperial supply lines and communication hubs worldwide, the Black Legion attacked a multitude of Imperial installations across Terra to tie down potential Loyalists reinforcements, the Blood Angels acted as a reserve force and was planned to be the eventual killing blow towards the Inner Palace once the Eternity Gate was overrun, the Word Bearers occupied large sums of territory surrounding the Palace and were instrumental in bloodying and slowing the vast majority of the Loyalists making their way to the Imperial Palace.

 

Lorgar himself, along with the Gal Vorbak led by the Crimson Lord Argel Tal, the First Company under Kor Phaeron, with Erebus in tow, along with several other elite units were at the siege of the Palace itself, wanting to be one of the first to enter the Throne Room and personally witness the fall of his father's empire.

 

This was not to happen as during the fifty-fifth day of the siege the War Commander, in a move of desperation, lowered the shields of his flagship allowing the Emperor and a small army to board via teleportation. By the time Lorgar knew what had happened, and was in the midst of preparing to disembark to the Red Tear with reinforcements, the news of the Angel of Blood's death reached him.

 

The XVII Primarch was shocked, saddened, stricken with grief and horror that Sanguinius was dead the Heresy was effectively lost. Even the news of Horus's death and the Emperor being mortally wounded did little to appease him. With Sanguinius dead the warp interference surrounding Sol that blocked any Loyalist communications collapsed, allowing the Loyalists to see the incoming Dark Angels, Iron Hands and Thousand Sons reinforcements which combined with the Legions already in Sol would have seen the Traitors annihilated. First-Captain Raldoron of the Blood Angels, acting commander of the Ninth, ordered the entire IX Legion to withdraw and flee the Sol System.

 

The Blood Angels complied quickly, in many cases without warning their fellow allies. The Blood Angels were the first to depart from Terra's surface but they were not the last. The remainder of the Traitor Legions retreated as well, it was that or face extinction at the hands of a vengeful enemy.

 

 


Post-Heresy
Months after the pyrrhic victory over Terra the Imperial Legions launched their great counter-attack. It would take another seven years but the Imperium would push out the Chaos-aligned Legions and reclaim the majority of territory it once held.

 

Following the Great Scouring the Traitor Legions would retreat to the Eye of Terror except for Curze and his Night Lords. The Eye would be a hellish haven of a sort for the Chaos legionnaires, one where they could rebuild their forces and embrace the powers of the warp in its purest forms. The Imperium could not invade the half-warp/half-realspace maelstrom and instead decided to fortify the worlds surrounding the Eye-Imperial border. These would be the Praesus Fortress Worlds.

 

The Word Bearers chose Sicarus to be their new homeworld since the destruction of Colchis during the Scouring. Many Word Bearers wondered what was to be their fate following the Heresy since they had felt victory had been snatched away from them and must have been so because the gods deemed them unworthy. To renew their faith with the Dark Gods cathedrals, temples and monuments were raised with zealotry and devotion.

 

Lorgar sensing his sons uncertainty decided to intervene. Before the entirety of the XVII on the damned plains of Sicarus the Word Bearers Primarch spoke to those that had survived the Heresy as well as the Scouring. He assured his sons that the gods still favored them and their cause. That the defeat of the Heresy and loss of Sanguinius was regrettable but preordained, an event that had come to pass for the assuredness of ultimate victory in the future. The Legion must now wage the Long War, their goal now to weaken the Imperium for thousands of years for eventual supremacy of Chaos.

 

At the conclusion of the speech Lorgar announced he was to go into isolated meditation in the Templum Inficio. None other than Argel Tal's Gal Vorbak would be in contact with him, not even Erebus or Kor Phaeron.

 

In Lorgar's absence the Word Bearers Legion is led by the Dark Council with Dark Apostle Erebus and Black Cardinal Kor Phaeron constantly trying to outdo the other to gain more power. For ten thousand years the XVII has been led by the Dark Council until the end of the 41st Millennium when War Commander Raldoron visited Sicarus to meet personally with the Urizen to try and recruit his help in the coming Blood Crusade. After many hours, sacrifices and other rituals Lorgar and Raldoron would emerge from the primarch's inner sanctum side by side.

 

The primarch told his sons that his isolation was at an end, his communion with the gods had gifted him with much insight. Now was the time for him to personally lead the Seventeenth once again.

 

 


Combat Doctrine
The combat doctrine of the Word Bearers revolves around heavy use of daemonic summoning along with the extensive use of heavy firepower supplemented with overwhelmingly numbers. This kind of method of war is somewhat attritional but no less effective.

 

Despite having many skilled commanders the Astartes of the Seventeenth are known for their relative lack of flexibility, depending heavily on divination and prayer, so much so that entire Hosts will vastly reorganize on the eve of battle to better accommodate the Dark Apostles wishes.

 

 


Organization
The Word Bearers, unlike the Space Wolves and World Eaters Traitor Legions, have remained a loosely united and coherent Legion post-Heresy/Scouring. With the Daemon World of Sicarus now the new homeworld the Legion saw itself undergo various changes to its infrastructure.

 

Gone were the days of standardized Chapters and Companies. Instead these would be replaced by Hosts, which could range from a mere hundred Astartes to many thousands. They would officially be led by Dark Apostles, especially in matters relating to faith or doctrine, but the actual military scenarios would be carried out by the Coryphaus, the most senior captain in the Host’s ranks. This is done so to allow the Dark Apostle to better commune with the Chaos Gods and to allow the Dark Apostle to seem more of a holy figure, blessed by the warp itself, rather than simply a post-human. If the Dark Apostle were to killed in warfare the Coryphaus, if alive and did not prevent this, would instantly be executed by order of the Dark Council that rule in Lorgar’s name.

 

While the Coryphaus is the effective military commander and the Dark Apostle is the spiritual leader there is another rank in between these two that acts as the voice and public face of the Host's dark priest. These are the First Acolytes, Dark Apostles in training, whose devotion and loyalty to the Dark Apostle was only matched by their hungry ambition to elevate themselves higher in the theocratic hierarchy of the Legion. A place on the Dark Council, and all the powers and influence associated with it, are highly sought after by lower ranking Dark Apostles and First Acolytes.

 

 


Recruitment
For over two centuries the Word Bearers recruited from Colchis. But since the destruction of their homeworld during the Great Scouring the XVII recruit from Chaos cultists across the Imperium and Eye of Terror. Only the most devout and strong willed are even considered to be inducted and must endure incredible hardships physically, mentally, and spiritually if they are to don on the dark crimson and gunmetal trimmed armor of the Seventeenth Legion.

 

Despite the heavy losses suffered during the Heresy, and the decades following, the Word Bearers have rebuilt their strength to its former glory of just over two hundred thousand. In conjunction with these many tens of thousands of Astartes are millions upon millions of Chaos cultists assembled in massive armies assigned to the legionary Hosts. While these armies are usually poorly trained and armed they are amongst the most fanatical human worshippers of the Chaos gods. This fanaticism has seen many victories won for the Traitors during the Long War.

 

 


Homeworld
The Word Bearers original homeworld was Colchis but since the Great Scouring, in which Colchis was destroyed, the new homeworld of the Legion has been moved to Sicarus, located deep in the Eye of Terror. It is a shrine world dedicated to the dark gods. Cathedrals dominate the Daemon World, black spires where the bodies of believers are impaled upon them, their blood adding to the red and black of the architecture. Sicarus is truly the daemonic holy land for Chaos Undivided, a place where daemons can come and go uninterrupted, and unlike the Daemon Homeworld of the Iron Warriors, Sicarus exports not weapons, nor shells, nor foodstuffs. It's only export is the faith of Chaos Undivided, written upon the skin of dead slaves and gifted to not only the other Traitor Legions, some more reciprocal than others, but to the masses of the Imperial Army and Imperial Navy that have fallen to Chaos in the ten thousand years since the Heresy.

 

While Terra is a beacon of light, hope, Imperial power, and a holy world in the Imperial Creed the Word Bearers current homeworld is its mirror copy although it is a symbol of darkness, despair, might of the warp, and a daemon world for the Pantheon of Chaos.

 

 


Beliefs
The Word Bearers once believed the Emperor to be a god but that belief died in the ashes of Monarchia. Since Lorgar’s Pilgrimage the Seventeenth Legion has converted in its entirety to Chaos Undivided. Unlike some Legions who only pay lip-service to the Dark Gods the Word Bearers are zealots in every sense of the word and are more than willing to spread the faith of the Ruinous Powers across the galaxy.

 

The Word Bearers will not stop until the Imperium has fallen than been rebuilt to follow the tenets of the Book of Lorgar. Until that time the Word Bearers are content with causing the galaxy to burn.

 

In pursuit of their goal the XVII see War Commander Raldoron as the true successor to Sanguinius and are the most loyal Legion to Raldoron that is outside his own Blood Angels. In all three Blood Crusades the Word Bearers have contributed significant amounts of their Astartes. On the eve of the Fourth Blood Crusade Imperial intelligence estimates the entirety of the XVII, along with their daemon-primarch, have assembled and ready to wage war in the name of Raldoron and for Chaos.

 

 


Gene-seed
Prior to their retreat to the Eye of Terror following the Heresy and the Great Scouring the Word Bearers had exemplary, pure gene-seed. All nineteen organs were in excellent condition and there was no genetic deviation.

 

This slowly changed post-Khur when more and more of the Legion became intermingled with the daemonic and touched by the warp, particularly the specialist unit the Gal Vorbak. Now after ten thousand years of residing in the Eye of Terror the Legion’s gene-seed has become thoroughly tainted by Chaos yet all nineteen organs continue to work, although some perform less efficiently than they did pre-Heresy.

Lord Xedillian Novitiate

Lord Xedillian

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Love the idea of this heresy, definitely ranks among my favourite alternate heresies.

 

Good points: I found you were putting a lot of emphasis on the brother hood of the primarchs Fulgrim-Manus, Sanguinius-Horus etc.

Another good point is you are actually writing the events happening rather than leaving it ambiguous

 

The only thing I would say to work on is check for originality, while this is a lovely piece I've found that some passages are straight from other heresies such as the Dornian heresy with different names. Try to mix it up a bit

 

Other than that, great work, looking forward to more

Tanner151 Battle-Brother

Tanner151

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Love the idea of this heresy, definitely ranks among my favourite alternate heresies.

 

Good points: I found you were putting a lot of emphasis on the brother hood of the primarchs Fulgrim-Manus, Sanguinius-Horus etc.

Another good point is you are actually writing the events happening rather than leaving it ambiguous

 

The only thing I would say to work on is check for originality, while this is a lovely piece I've found that some passages are straight from other heresies such as the Dornian heresy with different names. Try to mix it up a bit

 

Other than that, great work, looking forward to more

The Dornian Heresy is a major inspiration obviously and I have borrowed many ideas from it (Ultramar seceding although that is slightly different the spirit is definitively in the same ball park). 

 

"If something isn't broke why fix it" kind of mentality yet I see where you are coming from with creating more original ideas. I understand that, I get that. I will be trying but I cannot promise that you won't see other ideas inspired by other heresies. But I am trying to create my take on the Heresy. Glad you like it though. Should be 1-2 story chapters then the Dark Angels Index. 

  • 3 weeks later...
Tanner151 Battle-Brother

Tanner151

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Posted

The Sanguinius Heresy

 


Choices are Made

 

He awoke to screams. As his eyes flickered open the screams of his sisters hit him again and again, like a hammer upon a nail. Turning a grog filled head, hammering with pain the bone club’s strike caused, Xander saw that darkness had fallen, the snow had stopped but the wind continued uninterrupted, the wisps and whispers of spirits of the fallen whirled around them.

 

A hand, large and muscled with a grip like iron, took hold of his chin using it to turn his face sideways as if an animal under inspection. It was the ice-pirate chieftain whom stood in front of his captive. “You are quite strong, and smart, to run from us. But as so many before you have failed, so have you. Now,” the chieftain released Xander’s chin, “now you suffer and watch your sisters suffer. The price you pay for running.”

 

At that the pirate chieftain walked away, unblocking his view. Before the boy were his two sisters, Aallani and Yeri, strapped to a wooden pole, their hands and feet tied by taut rope. They looked at their brother with relief, glad to see him awake. Yeri started to burst into tears until one of the pirates hit her across the face with a clenched fist. Blood and spit erupted from Yeri’s mouth.

 

“Stop it, stop it!” yelled Aallani. Another pirate slapped her. Once to the right, another to the left, blood, snot and saliva dripped down her face, dropping from her chin to the ground snow, staining it.

 

“Shut you damn mouth, girl, or I’ll do it again. That or worse,” the pirate chuckled, the ones nearby him laughed as well. Xander could imagine what ‘worse’ was. Enslavement, forced labor, beatings… repeated beats. It was an outcome he could not allow.

 

He wriggled his bound hands, feeling the rope give just a little. It was slightly loose, but not loose enough to become free, not yet anyway. He needed to buy time before the pirates took his sisters away to violate them.

 

“Chieftain, fight me. Fight me in single combat. If I win you let us go, if I lose you keep us.”

 

The ice-barbarian stopped in his tracks, turning around to look at the boy in surprise. “Single combat, are you mad?”

 

“What have you to lose? Fight me, unless you’re a coward.”

 

The chieftain frowned. Glancing at the men around him he knew that if he backed down now, even to an eleven year old boy, the other ice-pirates might overthrow him due to perceiving him as weak.

 

“Very well,” gesturing to the guards nearby, “untie him. Let’s get this over with.”

 

Xander was quickly untied and handed an axe and dagger while the chieftain retained his bone club along with a dagger much larger than Xander’s. The chieftain hefted his weapons, standing tall and confidant. I must use his confidence against him.

 

“Alright boy, are you ready to die?”

 

“No, are you?”

 

The chieftain barked laughter. “You are a confident little bugger aren’t you? When I kill you I’ll etch your name on my skin, as an honor of course.”

 

Xander did not reply, merely crouching to put balance through his body. His dagger he held before him, the axe at his side at an angle, ready to strike into the ice-barbarian if given a chance.

 

He took a deep breath. He would die, but hopefully he could kill the chieftain and, he grimaced at the thought, kill his own sisters as well. Better they die by his hand than by these… creatures.

 

Looking at Aallani he saw her nod, she knew and understood, a blessing if anything. Gripping his weapons he waited. The chieftain was not as patient as he and charged the Inwit boy.

 

Bringing his bone club high the barbarian charged. Xander dodged but the bigger man’s elbow hit him in the jaw, causing him to lose his footing. Turning to better face Xander the chieftain brought his knife down. He scampered back on the hard packed snow, his fingers quickly becoming numb, as the knife came down just short of his body.

 

Rapidly coming to his knees he used his own dagger to stab into the meat of the chieftain’s bicep. Grunting in pain the larger, more brutal man, shrugged Xander off, the dagger still impaled into the meat of his arm, embedded into the flesh.

 

“Why you little-” the next words were blared out by a grunt of pain and effort as the chieftain took the blade out, blood gushing out but quickly hardening from the cold temperature. He threw it out into the depths of the snow.

 

“Now you die boy, no messing around anymore,” the heavily muscled and tattooed chieftain stalked towards Xander.

 

He had to charge before he was cornered. Doing so he raised his axe to put weight behind it but the chieftain caught his arm, head-butted him which caused him to fall. His nose and lip were bleeding.

 

The axe fell out of his grip which the now winner smirked and kicked it away. The cold steel clattering as it skipped away. “Good try, but not well enough.”

 

The chieftain raised his hand, bone club in hand, and Xander knew his life was about to end. He had failed his sisters, he had failed his mother and father, and he had failed everyone including himself. But he would not shirk his death. He stared defiantly at the murderer.

 

Before the bone club that would have spelled his demise fell a deep roar emitted from outside the makeshift camp. As it sounded the chieftain fell to the snow blood and brain matter spilling outwards at a rapid rate. The steam from his internal heat rose in the air, dissipating as fast as it left the newly created corpse.

 

The other barbarians looked around, barring weapons but within a few seconds they fell as well. Sixteen thunderous claps for sixteen barbarians, all dead before they realized they had been hit. Xander looked around nervously. Without thinking he picked up the axe and ran to his sisters, cutting their ropes and standing in front of them as a protector.

 

Out of the darkness marched ten giants, clad in some kind of metal. They might have saved his life and the lives of his sisters but he wouldn’t trust whatever they were. Not yet. “Who are you?”

 

Nine of the armored clad giants stopped but one marched forward, his eyes glowed red. Not five meters away the stranger stopped. After a brief hesitation he brought his hands to his head and took it off. He was wearing a helm, although this one was all enclosing rather than the tradition Inwit head protection.

 

“At ease, boy. I’m not here to hurt you,” the voice said gently yet clearly.

 

“Then who are you?”

 

“I am Decius Tardin, son of Rogal Dorn and Sergeant in the Emperor’s Seven Legion.”

 

The words meant little to Xander but he was intrigued. “What do you want?” he dared.

 

“You,” was all Tardin said. “We had planned to come by your village but only found it destroyed. We followed a large thermal signature, these scum,” the warrior said gesturing with an odd weapon he was gripping towards the corpses lying about with large craters in them. “We found you just in time it seems.”

 

“What do you want, really?” Xander asked cautiously.

 

“We came to recruit you into the Seventh and one day, if you are strong and resourceful enough, you might end up beside me in war.”

 

Xander paused and looked at his sisters. They were worried but nodded, confident that he knew what was right. “I’m assuming there is no way I can thank you and be on our way?”

 

“Of course there is. If you simply say no we will leave you be. Lord Dorn only wants recruits not conscripts.” Xander nodded and began to think of finding a nearby village to where he and his sisters could take shelter. “You care for them, no?” stated Tardin.

 

“Of course,” Xander said quickly. “They are family.”

 

“Indeed,” a moment’s pause. “Join us, Xander. Join the Legion.”

 

“Why should I?”

 

“You want to protect your sisters?” Xander nodded at the obvious. “Then the best way to do that is out there,” the sergeant pointed out into the stars. "There are things there far worse than mere ice-pirates out there. What they can do makes this seem tame by comparison. You will do more good out there than you could ever do here. What say you?”

 

“What about them?” gesturing towards the two girls, “I cannot just leave them here, like this.”

 

“Have no fear; I will personally see to it that they are put into a city farther south. A place where those like me are based to protect the citizens there; there are no murdering of families, no pillaging, and no terror. They will be safe. What say you?”

 

Looking into Aallani and Yeri’s eyes was hard but they smiled at him knowing what his answer would be. Xander had always been an adventurer and some in the tribe called him an idealist for he always wanted good to take root in someone or something. Going to the stars was a dream he didn’t even realize he had but if he did go up there… if he did good things it might erase his past failures. Good will come of the actions wrought up there, he was sure of it.

 

“I say aye.”


* * *

 

“I say aye,” declared the Squat King from Gaerrek, a nearby member of the Kaprei League but an intense rival for power with Tarnaek. Cheers of approval and roars of denial rang though the stone chamber.

 

Sergeant Xander Jericho, of Captain Decius Tardin’s 163rd Company, stood in the centre of the amphitheater. His men on one side of the room, unarmed as the Squats had insisted on that, while Captain Tagas of the 111th Blood Angels Company stood near with his men at his back, also similarly unarmed. While the Baalite’s face remained neutral in look Xander could picture the mocking sneer. Another Squat Stronghold had sided with the War Commander and a powerful one at that.

 

Debating had gone on for days with some hesitant Squat leaders siding with the Loyalists while many had thrown their lot in with the War Commander. It was disheartening and making him angry to say the least.

 

The room was packed with Squat leaders, about a quarter of them had not decided yet and if Xander dithered they might see it as weakness and join the Traitors out of a spite of such a trait for these were a hardy people and they admired strength, a strength that he didn’t like admitting the Imperium currently lacked these past few years.

 

Tagas seemed almost bored standing there. He knew he would get a majority of them in the end. Xander had pleaded and tried to convince them to remain true to the Emperor. Tagas had responded with a speech that Xander knew when he heard the first words had been prepared and had only waited for an opening.

 

“True to the Emperor?” the Blood Angel began his voice incredulous. “How can we be true to a dictator that turns on His word and past deeds?” The red and black armored officer took the main floor, turning around as he spoke to better project his voice. Xander had to admit that Sanguinius’s sons had a talent for theatrics and speaking.

 

“The Emperor abandoned us in the Great Crusade, returning to that polluted sinkhole of Terra. He didn’t have the will or the drive to finish what He started. Horus was not much better, getting wounded on Davin’s moon by a mere mortal no less. They are weak and we are strong as has been proven since my primarch became War Commander.” The assembled Squats grunted in agreement.

 

But Tagas was not finished, “The Treaty of Assimilation was signed by the Imperial government and the representatives of the Squat Homeworlds, almost two centuries ago,” Tagas’s voice rang clear. “This treaty integrated the Squats into the Imperium as full subjects and, after much discussion with the various Squat Leagues the Act of Regional Autonomy was established to better give the Squats more freedom away from the corrupt Administratum and for you to better handle your own affairs with only tithes and external policies expected to be enforced.”

 

Derren Daegmyr, Chairman of the Kaprei League and King of Tarnaek, frowned. “Is there a point, captain? We all know these; many of us were there to sign it.”

 

Tagas smiled and bowed his head slightly at the enthroned king. “Of course, Your Majesty, I am nearing it,” turning to look amongst the bearded crowds he continued, “The Emperor swore to respect the autonomy of the various Squat Homeworlds, He swore that you only had to allow the Mechanicum access to the technological riches of your worlds and pay a small tithe to the Adeptus Terra and your autonomy would be respected and defended by Himself if need be.” Tagas walked across the room, warming to his point.

 

“He lied to you; He lied to all of you. Before my primarch launched this rebellion the Imperium had for two decades slowly but surely impeded upon the rights and privileges of you and your people. Tithes were doubled and then tripled, Mechanicus priests began to petition the Administratum and the Council of Terra for mining and manufacturing rights within your own territory. Imperial Army deep space dockyards and supply/refit stations were constructed without prior permission. If Sanguinius didn’t open the eyes of some of his fellow brothers and sought to tear down this corrupt regime I estimate that in another two possibly three decades the Homeworlds would have been outright annexed into the Imperium with Administratum clerks running your worlds, forcing you to slave away at the behest of an oligarchy of idiocy, greed and ambition.

 

“That is why I propose, my friends, that you join our cause. Join us, help us in this time of civil war and after the war is won I have the promise of Sanguinius that the Homeworlds will not only receive their former autonomy in full force but that any and all Squat worlds, if they so wish, may secede from being an autonomous region of the Imperium and to form your own star nation with the complete support of my primarch’s New Imperium whose only wish is that trade and friendship will remain.”

 

The amphitheater broke into a chaotic clamor. Tagas walked back to his proscribed spot, his eyes betraying the pleasure he had at speaking those damnable words. Many of the assembled kings and lords yelled support for the Traitor. “Sanguinius, Sanguinius, Sanguinius!” with other chants hurting Xander more, “Down with the Emperor, down with the Tyrant! For the Angel of Blood! Long live the War Commander!”

 

Daegmyr was dismayed; Xander could see it in his hooded eyes. Tagas might just have taken the majority of the Squats on Martoof and brought them to his rebel side. With so many against Daegmyr and the few Squat kings that pledged for the Emperor the Imperial Fist Sergeant estimated the entire planet would fall to the rebels in a matter of months.

 

He could not allow this to just happen. Stepping from his pedestal Xander raised his arms for attention. Daegmyr saw and seemed grateful. Banging a wooden hammer against his stone chair the room quieted down quickly.

 

“Sergeant Jericho has the floor.”

 

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The Imperial Fist legionnaire looked around knowing no matter what he said over half of this room would not listen but some might, and for every one that does more time would be bought.

 

“What Captain Tagas says is true,” gasps of disbelief erupted from many mouths. The Blood Angels officer himself looked curiously at the warrior of the Seventh, wary of trickery. In the corner of his eye Xander saw the other VII Legion sergeants and their men look at him cautiously. “The Imperium has failed you, and for that I am truly sorry. The Emperor, Horus and so many of those primarchs and commanders that have remained loyal to the Imperium were so focused on completing the Great Crusade that we thought not to look at ourselves, to look at what we had created and spend the right time to properly mold it to perfection or at least satisfaction. In that regard we failed. Instead of an empire united through loyalty and honor it had become as fragile as glass only waiting to begin cracking.

 

“For two hundred years the Emperor’s dream of Unity spread through the stars and in that short time a thousand thousand worlds are now part of this great vision He had for Mankind. And despite all of the glories, wisdom, and power the Emperor commands He is at the end of the day a man, remarkable beyond all doubt and supposedly ancient in age but again simply a man. For isn’t that what the Imperial Truth preaches? It is not given that men, no matter how perfect they seem, can have flaws?”

 

He looked around at all those faces. Now was the time to win them. “Is the Imperium the perfect government and body in the galaxy? No, for there are flaws in everything, no matter how much you strive to make it otherwise. The Imperium did wrong by you and for that I apologize but we would never, ever betray you like Sanguinius has betrayed his father.”

Sergeant Jericho turned his gaze to Tagas who shifted uncomfortably under those steel brown eyes. “Istvaan saw almost a quarter of a million Astartes die through treachery. Guilliman at least stated his intention with the Declaration of Secession but Sanguinius was our leader, our commander and spat on his oaths in a way which will ensure his name will be a black mark in the annals of history for all time.

 

“The Imperium might have wronged you but we never murdered you in cold-blood. Nor have we butchered the lives of the citizens of our empire needlessly. Multiple times through this war the Traitors have done horrible things. The Extermination of Saox, the Buryn Cleansing, Garoeth, Hera VI, the bombings of Tallarn, the Sallastian Moons Butchery, and the Murder of Murdock to name only a few.”

 

Many of the Squats, having been reminded of these atrocities, shifted uncomfortably from where they sat. They had heard the stories of some of the worlds that resisted the rebels; their defiance was not met by being invaded and possibly as was expected but simply were wiped from existence. These genocides ranged from Astartes shooting and cleaving any and all they found, to nuking individual cities, to an Exterminatus of an entire world.

 

Yes the Imperium had committed its own fair amount of atrocities, especially during the Great Crusade but those had been almost exclusively against Xenos breeds or human civilizations so entrenched in debauchery and fanaticism that wiping them out was a sort of cosmic kindness.

 

Tagas’s mouth was clenched, possibly grinding his teeth and his eyes spat hatred towards Xander. Ignoring those the Imperial Fist continued, “The Imperium, despite its flaws, is still the best chance Mankind has for surviving in this hostile universe. Led and guided by the Emperor we can do great things; we have already accomplished so much in such a short amount of time,” he took a deep breath, “Sanguinius appears to winning so you want to join him in rebellion. You are afraid of what choosing the wrong side could do to your finances, your homes, and your lives. All logical to think about and one I cannot hate you for pondering on.

 

“But ponder this. When this war is over, though I fear the aftershocks of this conflict will last millennia, and say Sanguinius is crowned the Second Emperor what then? Hmm? The Angel of Blood, primarch of a Legion notorious for viciousness these past five years and in his entourage are Angron, a bloodthirsty butcher that exterminated his own world, Leman Russ, a primarch so steeped in a hedonism that men whisper dark things of what the Wolf King and his Legion do to the innocent and weak. Then you have Curze, a psychopath who kills in the dark of night and preys on the weak, Jaghatai Khan whose psychic powers have seen to the deaths of billions, Perturabo, a primarch who has hundreds of strategic worlds garrisoned, preventing trade and resupply especially relief efforts between Imperial worlds. And Lorgar, a primarch who once worshiped the Emperor as a god, has fallen into a false religion that sees sacrifice and self mutilation as blessings.

 

“These are the primarchs you wish to lead the Imperium into a new age? Not an honorable Dorn, a charismatic Horus, the calculating Lion, a brilliant Fulgrim or a dependable Mortarion as well as the others? If you choose the Imperium we will honor our commitment, I swear upon my honor. Captain Tardin, my company commander, told me that Malcador, the Regent of Terra, bade us to inform you that all rights and freedoms of the Squats that have been ignored and tramped over will be fully restored. This has the approval and endorsement of the Emperor Himself.

 

“So choose than. Choose the Emperor and have oaths of loyalty renewed, past wrongs become right, and dedication to a cause greater than yourself. Or join Sanguinius who will see to it that the promises he made will be empty and you will all become slaves to his empire built on blood and madness. Choose.” His eyes never left Tagas.

The room erupted into bickering between the pro-Loyalist, the pro-Traitors and the neutrals, each debating on the correct choice of action. Daegmyr stood up, his power warhammer in hand. “Silence!” he bellowed.

 

“We shall call for a vote. Whoever you vote for shall be your oath of commitment to that cause and all that it entails. Understand?” Heads nodded in understanding. “If you vote for Sanguinius and his faction please depart as soon as the voting is finished as I am voting for the Emperor. If voting for the Emperor’s faction remain here. If you have decided to remain neutral leave now,” three Squat kings rose and hurriedly left, their personal dropships waiting on standby.

 

“Let us vote. Enter into the cogitator before you your vote. Red for Sanguinius, green for the Emperor.”

 

Xander, almost against his will, broke eye contact with Tagas to look at the results on the pict-screen behind Daegmyr. He frowned. It could have been worst but it could have been a lot better. The League of Kaprei had voted: 134 Strongholds for Sanguinius, 72 for the Emperor. The smaller Leagues on Martoof would also pick their sides but many would likely follow the majority of Kaprei due to their position of strength.

 

Daegmyr turned to look; he sighed but straightened as if accepting the path he chose regardless of the results. “Those that voted for the Angel of Blood leave at once. Guest right will protect you until you leave Tarnaek airspace. After that you will be considered an enemy of my Stronghold and the Imperium.”

 

Those that voted for the Traitors quickly left. The last to leave was Tagas who walked slowly by Xander on his way out the doors. “Nice speech, Jericho. You might have bought yourself a few score more Strongholds with that but it makes no difference in the end. The smaller Leagues will follow me, most of them anyway, which will nearly double the Squats that will support my father. We have the numbers, the resources and the dedication to win this. No matter how bloody.”

 

Turning to look at the Ninth Legion officer Xander replied, keeping his emotions in check as any son of Dorn should, “You best be on your way, Traitor, seems we both have a war to fight.”

 

The Blood Angel snarled, “You think you are so bloody proper do you, well you’re not. You are just a tool of the False Emperor, a pawn He cares nothing about. Mark my words, Jericho, this Stronghold will fall.”

 

“It will fall, it is inevitable in the current circumstances but before it does, “Xander stepped forward, fists clenched. His face half a meter away, “I will kill you with my own hands.”

The Traitor’s eyes widened and a harsh bark of laughter came out, but underneath it Xander could sense fear, no, that wasn’t it. Uneasiness that was it, he thought. The Captain of 111th Company of the IX Legion turned about gesturing with his Astartes to follow which they did.

 

Berenz Vukmir walked up to him from behind. “What do we do know, sir?”

 

Sergeant Xander Jericho stared after the withdrawing red and black armored legionnaires and the now rebel Squat kings and lords; he watched them until the massive amphitheater doors were closed by the sentries. “We prepare for war, as we always do.”

  • 2 weeks later...

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