Blood and Iron

[TalonofHatred]

Hey guys,

It's been a while since I've been here, or since I've done Warhammer for that matter, I got back into it not too long ago and am starting to rebuild my CSM as the new chapter the Crimson Slaughter (I like em, even though they aren't Legionnaires). Anyways, I decided to write up a bit of a short story series that will feature four armies: Crimson Slaughter, Iron Hands, Iron Warriors, Imperial Guard, and will hopefully come out as a decent tale. Would love some feedback and criticism to help improve my writing. Just so you know, I will try to give as much facetime to all the factions, but Crimson Slaughter are the main characters of this story. Enjoy

 

BLOOD AND IRON - Part I

 

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-unrXnydtvT4/UxQ5XqOHQFI/AAAAAAAAe_Y/JYNRAY2_qjE/s1600/CSM23.jpg

 

Forus brooded upon his throne, the mistakes of the past douring a mood that was always reflected by his posture. Sitting, gazing into empty nothing, he looked as a defeated king of some ancient Terran kingdom, half-remembered only in myth.

Forus however was no king, though some would call him more, or less. Once, he was sergeant of a Crimson Sabres Sternguard squad, considered one of the best marksmen in the chapter. When he fought for the Emperor his life made sense, all was where it was meant to be, before the dark days.

Though he had long since replaced his former Captain, a man he had respected at one time, he certainly felt no more superior than a grunt. Forus in truth felt bitter shame, a shame that would never be cleansed, one that would remain with him until he was felled in battle against the very people he once swore to defend. 

The Lord of the Black Arrow, for that was the name of his stolen vessel, gazed around wearily, his dark eyes covered in shadow. In front of his drab steel throne several dozen human slaves worked the consoles of the vessel, their miserable faces made green by console light.

None of the slaves dared make a sound, unless it was totally required, for they were terrified of the crimson giants that stood only paces away. Forus craned his head to the left, where he saw one of the Crimson Slaughter standing alone in the darkness. The blood red armour of his brother was almost hidden by the shadow, for the command bridge was lacking proper lighting. Such trivial things no longer concerned the Crimson Slaughter, though it had felt strange to Forus before, once loyal serfs and servitors would handle such matters, now terrified slaves were more concerned with life and death work than lighting.

Forus focused on his brother, who he realized was not even supervising the working crew, instead the other Astartes eyes were wide-open and blood shot, distracted. The marine kept glancing left and right, sometimes towards the ceiling, his eyes moving, as if following something that only he could see. The look of his brother wasn't one of fear, but fatigue and bitter hatred, though there was an undeniable hint of insanity.

Occasionally the Space Marine mumbled something, as if talking to himself, whatever he was saying was out of Forus' hearing range, and the Lord of the Black Arrow simply groaned as he made to sit upright, returning focus to the front of the bridge.

He will kill you.

Forus' form went from tired and disorganized to suddenly upright and aware. He slowly glanced around his throne, no one was there. For a moment he wondered if he had heard the faint whisper or not. 

No honour, among the damned.

This time the whispy voice felt as though it was directly to his left ear, and the Astarte shot up, glancing in the direction, his melancholy face turning to one of anger, as he looked around. Several of the slaves whimpered, or fell from the consoles, scampering to get back to their seats before they angered the overlords.

"Have... have they begun again?" inquired the Crimson Slaughter marine, who noticed his lords sudden actions. The marines eyes were twitching, and he had a dark look to his black-rimmed eyes.

Forus didn't bother to reply, he thudded back down to his throne, the melancholy he felt replaced by deep anger and tired irritation.

"Damn them all," he stated coarsely, his teeth tightening as his fists clenched.

Forus hadn't noticed the slowly approaching slave-girl until she was near the very feet of his throne, he gave her a venemous look, and she shook under his glare, hands covering her face, as though protecting her from the eyes of her master.

"My Lord, c-c-c-contact f-f-from the Lost Hope," she stuttered, not making eye contact.

Forus waved his hand up, motioning for them to establish the link, and the slaves wasted no time in following their command. Several of them clicked at the consoles while others rewired several control cicuits, and soon a bright screen of grey-blue static illuminted the dark bridge.

Forus sensed the Crimson Slaughter marines joining his side by the throne, the one he had been examining, and two more guarding the entrance to the bridge.

The screen began to clear of static as the slaves rewired more circuits and adjusted several dials, soon an image began to manifest through the white noise. Roughly humanoid, it too sat on a throne, though far larger and more grandiose than Forus' command chair. Flanking the figure were two enormous shapes, that were quite clearly Terminator bodyguard.

Enormous curved horns came into resolution, along with a snarling face-plate and a long cape dirty azure that was thrown across one of the figures armrests. His armour was highly decorated, or defiled, its shapes winding and controrting, as if forged by some mad blacksmith, though the human face at its the center was far from steel or ceramite.

Forus bowed his head, "My Lord."

Though static ruffled the speakers voice, it resonated with commanding power nonetheless, "Forus, I have orders for thee," began the traitor lord.

Though he was the visage of a hellish nightmare, Forus could not help but see him as dark nobility.

"The Warmaster requires deeds done for the Black Crusade, the Imperium must suffer, and we are given targets that are required for victory," continued the Chaos Lord.

Though the thought of working for the arch-traitor Abaddon hit Forus in the guts with self-loathing, he knew they required Abaddon both to survive, and to reap vengeance. Of course, the Warmasters orders brought them fresh salvation from the secret curse that hounds the minds of each battle brother of the Crimson Slaughter.

"Though I have dispatched other warbands and lords through the galaxy, you and the Black Arrow's dwellers, must make all haste to Devlan IV. Legionnairies from the Iron Warriors themselves have been assaulting the world for three weeks now, the Imperials are giving the sons of Perturabo a fight that they are failing, and failure is not and option."

Forus nodded, "Understood Lord Kranon, what is the situation, what forces are giving the "mighty" Iron Warriors such difficuly?"

Kranon gave a coarse laugh at Forus' mockery, "Mighty indeed, yet apperantly the warriors of the silver legion cannot overcome the Imperial Guard garrison."

"That is all?" asked Forus, genuinely confused.

"Supposedly they are dug in far too well, experts at siege war themselves, and led by experienced commanders. These are good men Forus, skilled soldiers."

"The Imperials or the Iron Warriors, Lord?"

Kranon did not bother to answer, for the truth of the Crimson Slaughter was that, though they now came to hate the Imperium, they were not ancient foes who hated EVERYTHING it stood for, as the warriors of the Legions do. After the maddness passed, sometimes they found their enemies had been skilled or particularly brave, and respected them for that at least.

"Kill them all Forus," Kranon began, his voice becoming harder than before, "the soldiers, then the elders, then the women, then the children. Drown this world in the blood of men."

The order was a death sentance, for the Crimson Slaughter took no prisoners, when they assaulted a world all the populace was doomed to violent death, unless the Crimson Slaughter could be abated by strong enough defense. Rare enough to be driven away from a world marked for the Slaughter, Forus thought, though his brothers were used to rapid assault tactics and surprise, this war would require only brutality.

Forus nodded to the image of Sevastus Kranon, who gave a kurt nod in reply. Before the lord of all the Crimson Slaughter vanished, he left one final word; "Make the Imperium suffer for the injustices of the past."

With that, darkness returned to the command bridge. Forus spared no time, for he could already hear the voices whispering of murder from the corners of the room and through the dead vox. Rising, he quickly grabbed the hulking manreaper sycthe, that rested against the command throne, and his horned helm that sat on the right armrest.

"Slaves," he snarled, "Summon my council to the war chamber, and make all haste for Devlan IV, war is coming, and the Crimson Slaughter draws near!" 

 

Forus thundered from the command bridge, leaving the slaves with snarling and warhungry space marines, who constantly twitched and stared around madly, or began arguments with beings who were not there.

[deathspectersgt7]

NICE !!!!

[TalonofHatred]

PART II

 

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The morning was cold, perhaps the coldest of the week, and grey. Commander Lucius stood with hands behind his back, staring out from the wide panel-window of the command bunker, evaluating the battlefield. 

Down bellow his high fortified location, the Commander of the Cadian 399th could see the criss-cross of trench lines. Though it would be unlikely for the casual observer, he could spot the various hidden dug outs where heavy bolter, and heavy stubber crews lay hidden, their secret lines of sight intersecting at certain intervals, or "murder-fields". 

One of the troopers from the bunker arrived by his side, the man bowed slightly, before handing over a large can of coffee, still trailing warm smoke. The man look tired, thought Lucius, worst of it, he wasn't one of the men on the front-line, for them it must have been truly nightmarish. 

The garrison had been fighting hard for weeks now; and with the criss-crossing trenches, tank traps, mine fields, long-range artillery, air-support, anti-air, and fast moving veteran and Stormtrooper support, the invaders found the capitol city well guarded.

Iron Warriors, he thought, of all the forces to land into this trap it had to be them. The men of Cadia knew well the armies of the arch-enemy, and this was a battle he had been dreading. The defense set-up had proved strong, however, and the silver legion found no easy method of attack.

Early on the Iron Warriors had charged the front in a bull-rush, but found that the entire companies of Leman Russ battle tanks had been hidden in underground bunkers, which intercepted the heavy infantry of the Astartes. Though Predators brought a high tole, with the mix of long range heavy artillery the enemy were forced to withdraw.

They could hold out, though Lucius, and they could win. The commander assured himself, he knew help was coming, the Iron Hands of the Avernii clan had only the week before confirmed their support to the 399th and Devlan IV.

As if hearing his very thoughts, a voice trailed up from behind, "any word of the Astartes my Lord?"

Lucious turned, somewhat surprised, the speaker was energetic, most of the men who were up this early were groggy, no matter how hard they made to conceal it.

"Not yet, dear Commisar," he smiled, "the Iron Hands should be arriving within the week, however. And perhaps then we can take the fight to this scum."

Commisar Briggs went to stand beside the Commander, he was a fairly large man, not much taller than Lucius but broad and well built, intimidating and scarred.

"I say we take the fight to the enemy, drive the hammer of the Emperor through the skull of this heretical onslaught," stated Briggs.

"I know my friend, you always preffer the direct approach. However, while we have a city to defend I do not wish to leave it open to attack from any hidden force they may be concealing. I have read several reports of Iron Warrior strategies; they attempt to quickly 'steal' fortresses and from there they consolidate and carry out their attacks. They do not have the high ground they are comfortable with, and that is out advantage."

The commisar nodded to Lucius' wisdom, "You're the expert here, I'm the one who hits cowards, and stabs at any traitors within reach," he laughed, tightening his grip around the power-sword embedded in his scabbard.

The two returned their gaze out across the battlefield, the wet-muddy terrain was drying to the cold, and frosting over in the late autumn weather. The sky became marked by an orange glow as the sun began to rise, washing away the grey twilight.

The vox came to life, buzzing and beeping sounds could be heard from the ends of the command bunker, and the voices of several officers were muffled behind the walls as they communed with the platoons out in the field.

One of the officers quickly stomped from the hallway behind the two leaders, "my lords."

Lucius and Briggs turned to face the man, a young and handsome youth who was clearly nervous, whether by the war in general or by some new circumstance, the veterans were unsure.

"Platoons 94, 96, 81, have engaged the enemy. Raiding force: twenty arch-traitors, they are using rapid assault tactics, and are being masked by a horde of one hundred plus cultist infantry. They are also supported by a dreadnought of some kind."

"Damn it, it begins already," mumbled Lucius, who quickly made to follow the young officer to the map room.

"Would you have it any other way sir," smiled Briggs.

"Yes!"

 

* * * * *

The cultists broke through the treeline, and made way towards the bunkered position of platoon 94. There were over one-hundred of them, perhaps more. Each of the cultists were armed with autoguns, standard models that could be found in several military regiments, or even weapon stores.

Sergeant Janz glared at them from his position on the trenchline. They were too far to be shot at accurately by las fire, so the men would have to wait. Heavy stubber fire ringed over the battlefield, however, echoeing in the early morning calm. Several cultists dropped, screaming and howling, holding onto wounded limbs. 

The less maniacal of their lot went prone, or sought cover. The more reckless of their number screamed in madness, returning completely disorganized and inaccurate fire towards the Imperial side.

The rising sun shone directly on the Imperials, causing Janz to swear and flip on goggles that came standard issue with Cadian gear. Some of the men in his platoon hadn't had theirs due to disorganization, and now they found the glare impeeding their vision.

"Idiots, I told you not to lose your goggles," muttered Janz, looking over at a troublesome duo in particular.

The men shook their heads, clearly embarrased.

"Such a minor thing, yet it could cost your life," he continued.

Turning back to the cultists, he saw they were nearly at the barbed wire nets, several of them getting out large pliers.

"Alright men, to position! Lets send these :cusss back to their whore-gods! For the Emperor!"

"FOR THE EMPEROR!" the platoon cried, raising their lasrifles high before taking positions up on the trench-top. Dozens of rifles aimed down the dark, frost tinted earth, and mistified breathe rolled out from their bearers.

As soon as the cultists reached the wires and started cutting, Janz let them have it.

"Kill the bastards!" he yelled, and a wave of lasfire errupted from muzzles of the Imperial weaponry, flashing through the early morning sun, and erupting within the pressence of the enemy soldiers. Mixed with the enhanced payload from distant heavy stubbers, the cultists began to fall.

Men screamed as arms were torn off, others were shot dead center in the chest, a blood mist heralding their falls. The panicked shouts and screams of the cultists errupted, and it didn't take much to send them scurrying for cover. Several fell onto the barbed wire lines, and their howling agony could be head across the field, as panicked men attempted to tear themselves free .

Flesh and skin were torn, and the agony and slaughter being sent out by platoon 94 was something horrendous. It didn't take more than five minutes for most the lot to be still on the floor, the earth turning red around the broken horde. 

A few of the enemy made to run, several of them escaping back to the treeline, the assault an utter failure.

For a moment the field went quiet again, and the Imperials gazed out at the corpses they had made. The dozen or so corpses snagged into the barbed wire, drawing grim fascination.

"Is this really it, I had thought more from the arch-enemy," whispered one of the men to Janz.

As if hearing such arrogance, the earth began to shake. Trees swayed in the distance as they were disturbed by something, something big.

Janz felt his eyes widen when the beaten iron forms manifested through the dark gloom of the trees. Their iron bodies tinted oragen by the early glow of the morning sun.

"Emperor preserve us."

From the treeline, another wave of cultists errupted, twice the number of the dead band, and amongst them was a force of silver-clad Astartes, corrupt in body and mind. Within the very heart of the mob a towering dreadnought, twin-linked lascannon born high, and a snapping power fist clanking in it's other arm.

The cultists, as well as the Iron Warriors, were armed for close combat, rifles slung across their backs. They all bore ritualistic scarring and tattooing of icons that seemed as heretical as they appeared foul. 

Amongst their number came banner carriers, lofting the eight pointed star, the severed heads a dozen men slain from the Imperial forces hanging there, faces caught in permanent agony.

"Platoon commander, this is Briggs," stated the Sergeant, activating the Vox.

There was a break before the buzz was replied, "Aye Sergeant, I see what you see."

There was a pause, "Maintain fire, try to keep them at bay. We have reinforcements rolling in."

"With all due respect sir, my platoon can't keep that at bay."

Another pause, "You have your orders Sergeant, Emperor protect you."

Briggs swore, "Alright boys, it's the same as before, aim at the light infantry, don't even waste your time against the power armour."

Near panic spread among the men, they had no intention of staying to fight traitor marines in close quarters, "And calm, yerselves, help is on the way. We'll make for trench B-11 once they reach the 100-meter mark. Won't be having any legionnaries over for tea today, no matter how much they want it."

Nods and smiles broke out among the troops, and they went back to aiming. 

The massive dreadnought sparked as Heavy Stubbers attempted to take it out, the clanging of metal on metal echoeing across the plain. As the enemy approached the barbed wire fence, the Imperials prepared for fire.

The dreadnought however, would not have it. With a blinding light of power the lascannons fired, searing a trail that burned barbed wire to molten slag, and corpses to charred ash.

With that the cultists stormed through the gap, and Janz felt the first beads of nervous sweat trickle down his brow.

Lasfire was exchanged with frenzied auto-pistol rounds and the cultists were again cut down, though the ferocity of these warriors kept them from turning, and their numbers were far larger than before.

By the time theyreached the 100-meter mark, barely a fourth had been put-down, less than the fools cut down at the fence earlier, and Janz himself felt cold fear gripping at his heart as the roaring enemy stormed towards them, the dreadnought in tow.

":cuss, boys, run for it! To the B-11 line, now!" screamed Janz, the others quickly following his example.

The Imperials bolted up the hill towards B-11 where 96th Platoon was stationed, and where several heavy bolters and missile launchers awaited. 

Glancing back over his should Janz was relieved when he saw the cultists fall behind at the trench line, having to climb down to cross the gap. The Iron Warriors though, leapt clear over it with such ease that Janz nearly stumbled and fell.

The silver marines were coming at them with speed and Janz realized, they would not make it to B-11.

"Men, rally! First rank fire, second rank reload!" screamed the Sergeant, the men were confused and exerted, but instantly fell into line, turning to see the towering Iron Warriors only twenty metres away.

Lasgun fire errupted at the enemy. At such range the weapons would have torn men in half, and sent limbs flying. The most it did against the gigantic Iron Warriors was sending them off balance. The realization that their weapons had such little effect on the enemies, caused Janz to simply close his eyes, and accept his fate.

He could hear the men crying out in panic, they had realized they were doomed.

The impact that hit Janz was heavy, it crushed several bones and sent him reeling across the frost-bound earth.

Deep inhuman growls were mixed with the guttural sound of chainsword blade spinning, and Janz closed his eyes tighter as the screams of his men filled the cold morning air. Panic and all other senses were fought off, he knew he could not outrun these abominations, he knew there was no point. 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the screaming stopped, and the tangy smell of blood and piss filled his nose. He was alive, and the fact alone made him slowly open his eyes. Above him, a massive iron brute stood, coated in gore and offal. Janz quivered, even as a veteran sergeant, he quivered.

"Back to your master, slave," intoned the dread behemoth, before it plunged a massive banner pole through his chest.

Coughing out blood, and groaning out his agony, the last thing Janz beheld was the blood-slick icon of the eight pointed star.

[Olis]

Not bad, brother, although there are the odd typos cropping up here and there. Besides that, the second part needs to be reformatted - at the moment there are a lot of line returns that are unnecessary. 

[deathspectersgt7]

Cool !! Like it .

[TalonofHatred]

Thanks Oli, I have a bad habit of not correcting my stuff after the initial print. Will do for the future