With Fire and Iron: On the Noctis Infernae

[ThatOneMarshal]

As a starting Night Lord I've gotta steal that colour scheme for my own terrans! Glory to the the true night lords not those Filth from nostramo!

 

Keep up the good work!

[Barabbas Sogalon]

+On the Noctis Infernae/The Beginning/Before Fire and Iron+

The 26th Company of the Emperor’s VIII Legion was far from the most famous formation in the last days of Unification, its dedication to scorched earth warfare nothing compared to the Company I know. They were grey then. Captain Astorian, a non-Albian, was the first commander. The oldest of the Infernae insist on calling him “Astorian the Unworthy” or “Astorian the Weak-Blood”. Lord Saevus served as a Lieutenant at the time, then known simply as Aliksandr. A few members from other Legions named him “the Savage One”. How many names can one man have? I understand that the obsession with fire had already manifested itself at this point. But what of the dark mood? No, I won’t move into that territory again. I have enough nightmares.

Astorian fell in the Panpacific and Aliksandr succeeded him, taking traditional Albian warfare to a new level. Soon the 26th started referring to themselves as “bringers of infernal night” and early in the Crusade some legionaries painted a flaming eye on their armour (the future Oathblades). A new war cry, Igni Atque Ferro, was chosen; the words taken from a speech Lieutenant Aliksandr held after the Southern Atlan Purge. Upon leaving the Sol System, the Captain swore that he would light a path for his Emperor by burning everyone and everything opposing Humanity.

Then they found the Sunless World.

Names mentioned by the Captain.

S. Kopernag: I

M. Tolvan: IV

A. Gerontius: VII

B. Sogalon: XIV

Further inquiry necessary?

- From the notes of Regimental Archivist A. Saroyan, in service of the 4th Northern Varyags, 003.M31

Lieutenant Aliksandr, "He Who Is Called Saevus", XXVI Company, VIII Legion; Purge of the Southern Atlan Holdouts, Unification Wars

@ThatOneMarshal: Yeah, the Nostramans are just a bunch of pretenders. And thanks!

[Barabbas Sogalon]

THE VOICE IN THE DARK AND ALL-SEEING EYE

007.M31

Look at what you have done.

Anton opened his eyes and looked down at a pair of bloody hands, realizing they belonged to him. He noticed a knife on the floor.

Look at him!

He saw Leon lying there with three stab wounds in the chest while the blood pooled around him and seeped down between the floorboards.

Your own brother. Dead by your hand.

Anton froze at the sight, then he wanted to throw up or claw his eyes out. Perhaps it was just a nightmare or hallucination caused by days of hunger? It had to be.

Wish all you want. This is real, this is all your fault… kinslayer.

For eight days the voice had haunted him. It had started as barely audible whispers in the shadows, scratching at his sanity and making it impossible to sleep at night. Then it grew louder until he heard the words clearly, as if the speaker stood right beside him or resided inside his head. Cold and raspy, it was certainly not his own.

We have come for you. We have come for you.

Four months ago, all communication across the continent had fallen apart and the following silence was quickly replaced with blood chilling sound of someone being burned alive. Power failed next; then fire from the sky crippled all supply lines, scorched the ground and left every city in complete isolation. A month ago, the first city fell to an inferno of green flames, just the start of a daily phenomenon. The fire was not the only thing claiming lives; cold, sickness and starvation plagues the cities, and suicide rates had exploded along with the number of random murders and bouts of madness.

Anton tore at his hair and gasped for air. “You made me do this!”

No, this is your doing. I simply gave you some information. You were the one who chose to act on it.

Bright orange light shone through the windows, a constant reminder of the burning horizon.

You were always jealous of your brother. Admit it. You envied all the love your parents showed him, envied his wealth… desired his young wife. She is all yours now. Go out there and claim your prize! You are all going to die anyway.

“Leave me alone!”

He knew he was alone, that screaming at the darkness was pointless, but he was past the point of caring. The voice laughed mockingly.

We both know that won’t happen. I have come for you. I hear you. I see you. I am you. There is only one way to end this. You know what I’m talking about.

“No.”

Anton’s voice barely qualified as a whisper. He looked from his brother’s corpse to the knife, to his bloody hands, to the flaming light, to the shadows. His head hurt worse than before and it was difficult to breathe.

Are you afraid, kinslayer? Perhaps I should find your brother’s wife and tell her what you have done, tell her about all the dark thoughts that fill your sick little mind every time you look at her.

He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears.

The green fire is a slow and agonizing death. You don’t want that. The way out is within reach. You know what you have to do. Open your eyes.

Anton did as he was told.

It’s on the shelf.

He saw books, a few bottles and the small pieces of ancient machinery he had collected over the years. There was also a painting there showing the capital during summer; the city was gone now and the forests turned to ash.

Higher.

An old wooden box branded with his family name had stood untouched on the top shelf for years. Anton lifted it down and placed it on the closest table, but his fingers froze when they touched the lid.

Open the box.

The revolver inside once belonged to his father who kept it loaded at all times and it had not been used since the last war about forty years ago. He gripped the weapon with a shaky hand.

Now, pick it up and bring it to your temple.

Anton couldn’t stop shivering and let out a whimper when he felt the cold muzzle against his skin. Tears were flowing now.

That’s it. Just wrap your finger around the trigger. Don’t be afraid. A little more pressure and you will be free of me forever. I promise. It will be over soon.

+++++++

Goryan Yitzhak opened his eyes as another life blinked out of existence nearby. Darkness had claimed the city, making the buildings look like giant tombstones, and everything was covered in a thin layer of pale ash. The difference between night and day no longer existed, black smoke and polluted clouds ensured that the sun never showed itself. A hellish light surrounded the city, bright colour blending into the blackness above, and beyond it lay a continent-spanning sea of ash and fire. The Infernae were coming; the first city to be isolated was always the last to fall. When Yitzhak’s brothers arrived, they would find a city ravaged by chaos, madness and despair, and defenders crippled by a wave of sudden deaths among the officers.

He was the only psyker in the 26th, a pariah despised by all; that he hailed from Ursh instead of Old Albia didn’t help matters, but he had learned to survive in a Company that wished him dead. They never bothered making him a Librarian, the one good thing to come out of it, for he hated the name implying that he was a damned bookkeeper surrounded by dusty scrolls. It was common knowledge that Lord Saevus had an intense hatred for everyone with psychic ability, something that stemmed from all the years he spent fighting horrors during Unification; in his eyes every psyker was creature that only deserved death by flame. Yitzhak had the honour of being an exception. Not long after they cleansed the Company of Nostramans, the Captain ordered the removal of Yitzhak’s tongue in front of all the Oathblades, wanting to give him a mark of shame to carry around for the rest of his life. Two from the Gedryht restrained him while Oath-Decurion Krastor cut out his tongue with an iron dirk and threw the bloody lump nonchalantly into a brazier; the psyker remembered the sight and smell as a part of him was fried to a crisp among the flames. Since that day he could only speak by using telepathy, but it was difficult to say whether the voice others heard in their minds was the same as his old voice or not.

Picking up a handful of ash, Yitzhak let it fall between his armoured fingers. They could have killed him instead, but the Lord of Infernal Night was not a man who discarded a tool that still had some use to it. Now he delved into the minds of his enemies to prey on their weaknesses, haunted their dreams, filled them with terror and madness, and pushed the buttons that would drive them over the edge and into murder or suicide. No one could hide from him, no secret was safe and no one died without suffering for their sins. On occasions he had forced worlds to surrender without a shot being fired, though most of the time it was all about punishing those who opposed the Emperor; only difference was that today the Imperium found itself on the receiving end. Yitzhak knew he was living on borrowed time, the Captain certainly made that clear, and the moment he had outlived his usefulness, Equerry Jebra would be there to chop off his head. Kalthim Jebra, the humourless bastard whose world only consisted of black and white, of justice and injustice. Yes, his dreams had shown him that he was going to die by the Equerry’s hand, brutally cut down when he was moments away from unlocking unimaginable power.

Thinking about his death was a distraction, and distractions didn’t improve his usefulness or help his plan to avoid Jebra’s blade for as long as possible. Yitzhak brushed ash off the shoulder pad he had taken from a Mud Digger on Istvaan before looking at the burning night again; he was no Albian, but like them he greatly appreciated the duality of light and darkness. The Infernae were less than a day from the city and there were still many weak souls still alive, more prey for the Voice in the Dark.

We have come for you. We have come for you.

+++++++

Goryan Yitzhak, the Silent Brother; Noctis Infernae

[Pearson73]

The Silent Brother looks good, especially like the dark and ominous fluff.

[Memento Of Prospero]

That Equerry has my seal of approval. Big swords for everyone!

[Barabbas Sogalon]

@Pearson73: Glad to hear it!

 

@Wolf_Pack: Thanks, the Equerry is one of my favourite models. Nothing says executioner like a big sword.

[Augustus b'Raass]

Just had another lovely written meal. Om nom nom ;)

 

Dude, your writing is so evocative, so crisp. It truly is a joy to read. And the quantity and frequency of it too.... Where do you find your inspiration to write so much, so well, so often?

[Barabbas Sogalon]

From the North they come, like howling wolves with bloody maws.
From the North they come, bringing fear and fire.
Reaving and raiding, murdering and maiming.
They always strike first, those Northern Men.
Ruin and death is all that's left, sacrifices for their Northern King.
"Varyags", they call themselves, the Lords of the Northern Way.
Savage beasts, children of ice and shadow.
Dark are their souls, no honour, no mercy.

Only a thirst for blood and battle.
Gods help us.
- Poem written about the Nordmen prior to the Unification Wars, author unkown.

BITIT FYRST

E.K. You want to know what it means to be a Northern Varyag, girl? Why come to me?

A.S. They say you know everything worth knowing, and if you don’t know you lie.

E.K. And what’s to keep me from lying to you now?

A.S. Your overinflated ego? The fact that you can't resist sharing your cheerful view on the Crusade? Because my coin keeps you good and drunk? Take your pick.

E.K. Did Little Ragna teach you to talk back at your elders? You spend too much time with that crazy girl, she might be pretty doing the Blood Dance, but she's not good for you.

A.S. Says the drunken liar from Alostan.

E.K. All right, miss Saroyan, I’ll give you the truth if you really want it. Hope your tender ears are ready for this.

A.S. You’re the picture of generosity, Chief Karelion.

E.K. If you’re a highborn noble, being a Varyag means serving our great Emperor by spreading Imperial Truth to the ignorant masses. It means you’re part of the Old Hundred, glory and sodding honour on the battlefield and all that. It means you have absolute power over the lowborn caste, that no one can touch you and it’s one of your privileges to kick downwards as much as you want. It means you can call yourself a Nordman even though you don’t have a single drop of pure blood in your veins.

If you’re a lowborn like you and me, being a Varyag means that you’re given a weapon and told to go kill the Emperor’s enemies, but when you do just that some bureaucrat who’s never left his desk comes yapping. They say you’re too violent, call your methods too excessive, declare you a mindless butcher. They look at the burning cities, the hanged men, the heads on spikes and say excessive use of force when we would say red handed justice. Being a Varyag means that you’ll spend your life in hell. It means you fight through mud, snow, ice and ash to drown your enemies in their own blood. It means you’re forbidden from staying more than a single day on a world after conquering it. It means that you get constantly pissed upon by every self-righteous bastard out there. It means you’re a pureblooded Nordman, a descendant of the people that once made all of Terra tremble with fear.

But most importantly, being a Varyag means that you’re dead. When you swear the oath of service, they declare you dead in the eyes of your people. Then they bury you in a lovely little ceremony and say that all your sins are forgiven. That’s the great thing about the Varyags; you can butcher a dozen families down to the smallest babe and it’s all forgotten upon joining, washed away by the burial. Murderers, thieves, kinslayers, madmen… it doesn’t matter as long as you can kill everything that moves. I bet you’ve heard the sodding outsiders that applaud our devotion to the Emperor or our willingness to atone for our ancestors’ actions. Those bastards don’t get it; dead men have nothing to lose, dead men know no fear, dead men have no restraints when the blood starts flowing. I’ll be honest with you, girl, and say that death is a far better life than the one I lived before.

Some say you can’t trust a Nordman. You’ve heard that before, seen the way those outsiders look at us. What right do a weak blooded non-Terran have to judge a Nordman?! Makes me want to slowly feed them their own eyeballs! They call us a bunch of selfish, honourless opportunists, claim we have no loyalty to the sodding Imperium. Well, we didn’t get much of a choice. Once our blades served the Northern King, now they belong to the Emperor that killed him and knocked us down into the dirt. We were a glorious kingdom, but He had to take that away from us and turn the Nordman into a beaten servant. I grew up on the stories of the past, my old man used to tell them. Worthless bastard couldn’t read or even write his own name, but he liked to talk. He said our family was a mighty house centuries ago, feared and respected as we marched behind banners showing a flayed man on fire; these days we’re forced to fight over scraps just to survive. “The Karelions have always been faithful servants of the Northern King, Endrin,” he used to say. “One day we will see him return.” Apparently, now that the old royalty is gone House Karelion has a claim to the throne; imagine that, girl, King Endrin Karelion the First of His Name, ruler of the Northern Way. Our Imperial overlords would call such thoughts heresy, but we don’t care. No matter how much they take from us, how much they spit on us, we’ll never stop dreaming of a new kingdom. Why is our dream of a Northern Kingdom for Northern Men deemed more selfish than a single man’s dream of an empire spanning the galaxy?

But I digress.

Being a Varyag means that you serve the Infernae of the VIII Legion, and we do that gladly. The Lord of Infernal Night is a Terran, he understands us and allows us to dispense Northern Justice without any shackles. The Varyags are the armoured fist of the Infernae; we strike first to crush their enemies under our treads and steel-clad boots, paving the way for fire and iron that will scorch the earth. The Imperium has always needed us, used us. We've given our blood for the Emperor since the days of Unification and now we fight His war, this Crusade to spread Imperial Truth, even if we all know it’s a sodding lie, because it gives us an opportunity to kill. But if it should come to a point where we're forced to choose between some distant lord and the man who allowed us to be true Nordmen, we belong to the Infernae until whatever end.

Now... let me tell you about the Bleeding Twins...

- Part of a conversation between Regimental Archivist A. Saroyan and Chief of the Assault E. Karelion of the 4th Armoured Assault Regiment Northern Way, 002.M31.

Nothing new, just a hint at things to come.

A very, very, very late reply.

@Augustus b'Raass: Thanks! Most of the previous parts were written during the first half of 2015, so they were ready when I finished the models. It's going a bit slower now that the storage is almost empty, but I hope that will change during the summer. Inspiration is always there, I think it comes from the vision I have for this army and the fact that I've been planning it for over two years. The biggest challenge is that I'm writing in my second language.

[Calas Typhon]

Looking forward to more.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

“Our Battle-Captain is cursed, litte girl. That’s all I have to say about it.”

- Oathblade T. Barka to Regimental Archivist A. Saroyan when asked about Lord Saevus’ absence during the purge of 743-14, 000.M31.

DARK MOOD

003.M31

Aliksandr. The Captain. The Lord of Infernal Night. Saevus. Those were his names. There was honour in names. Cold darkness surrounded him, the same darkness that had haunted every step of his existence. He looked down at the helmet in his hands. Blue-grey, crested and with the faceplate fashioned in memory of the Ironsides, it stared up at him with empty black lenses. For several mortal lifetimes it had protected him and been the face he showed an uncaring universe. The helmet of a true Albian warlord. It was a worthless relic constantly reminding him of the suffering and long dead past. He threw it away and heard it hit the wall somewhere in the shadows. Flames were alive in the brazier in front on him, the hot coals glowing, but not even their beauty could keep the cold ghosts away. Saevus stared into the fire, never closing his eyes. The memories always appeared when he blinked, so he refused to do it. Faces and voices. Both of the living and the dead, mostly the dead, and he hated almost all of them. One he hated above all else. A man clothed in white and crimson, crossing the battlefield unarmed under a banner of peace. Lies on his lips. His thoughts always returned to Old Earth and Unification. It would have been better to die on the fields that day than being forced to serve a tyrant and the lesser men licking His boots. Humanity was weak and corrupted by its greed, lying little maggots clawing at each other in their desire for power. It was an unbreakable circle, the liberator proving to be a tyrant and then overthrown by the next self-declared saviour. Humanity should be left to burn, surrounded by its own filth. Why fight for them? The lesser men with all their cheap titles knew nothing of Old Earth or the sacrifices made in the Wars. Old Earth was the world Saevus once called his home. He had been blooded there, lost his brethren in trenches across the ruins of past greatness, and seen humanity for what it really was. Few understood this. It was like he could see old battles being fought in the flames, and his mouth twisted at the memories. Then he blinked in a moment of weakness. The head of the man marching in front of him exploded in a red shower. Earth should have belonged to the Sons of Dusk and to think that it had been within their grasp... it brought only pain. Another blink. He felt the kick of the auto-rifle in his hands, breathing heavily inside the gas mask. Was he the only warrior from Unification who could see the truth? The hopelessness in everything? Nineteen points of excruciating pain throughout his body. The flames turned bleak and lifeless as a darkness gripped him, scratching at the edges of his mind and making his hearts burn. Distant screams mixed with gunfire and detonations. He closed his eyes-

-and looked over the top of the trench, watching as the night burned. Red and pale green fires raged among the enemy fortifications and the sky was marked with lines from incendiaries and chemicals being delivered by cluster bombs. No man's land had been scorched black and a few embers still remained between burning wrecks and the torn corpses of countless dead. The mortal soldiers would not be missed, no one ever missed cannon fodder. Satisfied, Aliksandr returned his attention to the other legionaries in the trench. The VIII Legion. Once they had been mortal and weak like the wretches dying on the battlefield, now they were the superior breed and Mankind perfected. Their stormcloud grey armour had a red left shoulder pad and carried markings in the shape of lightning bolts and the legion numeral. Aliksandr looked at his bolter and enjoyed the thoughts of how much violence he could unleash in his new form. He was no longer the weak boy who failed to protect his homeland. The pain of the transformation had washed away all weakness.

“How far did the mortals get?” asked the legionary beside him. Krastor was his oath-sworn brother, the two had fought side by side since they were child soldiers sent to support the Ironsides. Both were clanless, having lost everything to the Giants with Thunder Banners.

“Sixty seven metres from the first trench.”

Krastor laughed, his voice like gravel. “Guess I won again. You have too much belief in the common man, brother.”

“Only by five metres, Namarik,” Aliksandr replied with a grin.

The ground shook as the artillery behind them opened fire. A proud city stood here thousands of years ago, but the bickering of tyrants had reduced it to twisted reminders of lost ages and with the current trench war only ashes would remain of the holdouts in the ruins. All tyrants must die. Aliksandr knew that short sentence well, as an Albian it had been hammered into his head during his childhood in the trenches. He often thought of the irony, him now fighting for the same man who forced his people to bend their knee, but it was impossible to change the bitter reality. Albia had lost and the VIII was his home now; no one could take the Legion away from him. Of course, he would never forget the past.

Something was happening out in no man's land and Aliksandr noticed a legionary, Sulai, who came running from the western trenches. The flamer carrying marine had been recruited from the prisons beneath Albia and though he was a capable fighter, he lacked the sense of honour found among the clansmen. Barbarous scum, Aliksandr liked to call those recruits.

“Lieutenant, the IV is moving. Full frontal assault on the first trench and they’re taking casualties.” Sulai also lacked an Albian accent.

Aliksandr looked up from the trench again. A horde of grey power armour charged across the scorched battlefield and through a hailstorm of autocannon fire, several legionaries falling dead to the ground. The IV Legion was a tool and nothing more.

“Then why haven't we gotten the order? If those suicidal bastards want to get torn apart out there, then let them, but I won't stand here and watch.”

He sneered behind the helmet, feeling his blood boil as the killer awoke. The eyes of the foe as their life was extinguished, the smell of burnt flesh...

“The Centurion-”

Sulai had barely uttered the words when Aliksandr cut him off.

“The Centurion is an incompetent lowborn cur without a single drop of Albian blood. He knows nothing of our ways.”

“He would have your head for saying that.”

Aliksandr suddenly felt the need to laugh.

“I'd like to see him try. Then we'll see whose head is rolling.”

A flashing rune inside their visor told them that the assault was seconds away. Finally. During the war in Albia, Aliksandr had been filled with dread the first time he went over the top, but now he felt only the longing to kill. He racked the bolter and turned towards Krastor, who was attaching a long bayonet to his weapon.

“Buaidh no bas,” said Aliksandr before they clasped wrists. “See you on the other side, brother. Albia Invictus.”

Krastor nodded. “Albia Invictus.”

Then the signal came. Aliksandr was among the first to leave the trench, watching two legionaries in front of him get mowed down before he began his charge. He focused only on the target, his thirst for death making him ignore the rain of hostile fire; if he was hit, he was hit, nothing he could do about it. Shrapnel was flung at his armour and he smiled at the harmless sound. The IV had broken through and their storming of the trenches turned Aliksandr's smile into a sneer, the risk of being left with picking up the pieces making his skin crawl. He realized he had passed the endpoint for the mortal assault when he no longer heard the crunching sound of corpses under his boots, only sixty seven metres of burnt ground remained between him and the bloodshed. Sixty six, sixty five, sixty four...The tools had done a good job at drawing fire to themselves. Forty one, forty, thirty nine, thirty eight... He saw the soldiers in the first trench prepare for the incoming charge, the terror glowing behind the eye slits in their iron helmets. Thirty six, thirty five... Thunder sounded as cluster bombs detonated above. Twenty four, twenty three, twenty two, twenty one...

Aliksandr jumped into the trench, crushing a soldier as he landed before backhanding another to death. He opened fire at the packed ranks of men in both directions and watched their frail bodies get torn apart and the walls in the trench coloured red. It felt good. Other legionaries joined him, but he paid them no heed while he advanced through the grisly scene, executing all who entered his sights. The soldiers wore crude iron plating and pieces of chainmail over faded green uniforms, all marked with runes painted in blood, and each carried a heavy auto-weapon that made more noise than damage. Apparently, the rabble belonged to a cult worshipping pieces of ancient machinery and Aliksandr had heard rumours of both psychic abominations and gene-bred berserkers pumped full of stims; he wanted to see them burn. Several soldiers were killed when one of their tanks crashed front first into the trench after being struck by missiles. Pulling the pin and throwing an inferno grenade down a side trench, Aliksandr almost forgot the chaotic fighting as the occupants were engulfed by pure flame. He grinned while watching a cultist on fire with great interest. The charring, all hair just disappearing, the clothing melting into the man's flesh, his screams of agony, how he writhed and rolled on the ground in a failed attempt to survive. Death by flame was a horrible ordeal, but that made it so much more fascinating. They cleansed as well as killed. Aliksandr remembered the initial strikes on the Southern Atlan holdouts and the burning of the hives; for hours he had watched the hungry flames and listened to the screams until there was only silence and black smoke left.

More of the VIII reached the trench and the ones carrying flamers began the task of burning cultists out of their hiding places in the pillboxes. Aliksandr moved through the inferno he had created and deeper into the network of defences, gunning down every mortal in his path. Krastor's voice crackled over the vox, his signal coming from the eastern end.

“Still alive?”

“Aye. You?”

“In the eastern trenches. Don't know how many weak-bloods I've gutted by now.”

“We'll compare numbers later, just keep 5th together. On my way to see an old friend.”

“You sure he lives?”

“Oh, he lives. Though, if he's dead I won't mind the extra glory.”

Krastor laughed, making the crackle even louder, then broke contact. Green light bathed the area as phosphex was unleashed in several minor trenches and the screaming rose to new heights. Aliksandr saw what he knew had to be the berserkers coming straight at him, a feeling of disgust for humanity crawling through him as he did. The creatures were taller than a normal man, but far shorter than an Astartes, and a combination of iron plates and chainmail covered their freakishly overgrown bodies; stim-injectors everywhere, helmets shaped like skulls and one had a chainsword where his lower right arm should have been. Wanting to spit acid, Aliksandr shot the head from the first one's shoulders and proceeded to empty the bolter at the charging chunks of tainted flesh. He grabbed a fallen chainsword and dodged fast enough to avoid a blade aiming for his chest, striking back by drawing the roaring weapon across the berserker's exposed throat. The gurgling creature had barely met the ground when another shouldered Aliksandr into the trench wall with great force. A tear in the gut only served to increase the “man's” violent rage, but rage also made people careless and it gave Aliksandr a perfect opportunity to ram a dagger through an eye slit. Then he went for the rest. He had never understood the fascination some had for chainswords, anyone could wield one and the results said nothing of the wielder’s skill like proper bladework did. Why carve the opponent open when you could bring him down with a few precise and agonizing strikes? Still, the ugly weapon had its uses. After killing them with fire, he now did it with iron. He smiled. With fire and iron... there was a beautiful sound to that.

The last fell after his legs were severed and Aliksandr finished him by stomping on the neck. He grabbed his bolt pistol and moved before others in the Legion could reach him. Heavy shelling had devastated a meeting point between several trenches, leaving behind only rubble and unrecognisable body parts in a sea of dust. A soldier covered in blood and missing most of his left arm staggered out of a collapsed bunker; Aliksandr shot him in the chest as he ran past. More thunder in the sky before the ground shook and flames appeared all around. He finally found what he was looking for. Three legionaries from the IV were locked in combat with the berserkers outside a destroyed gun nest and many of their brothers lay dead in the corpse filled ditch behind them; tools indeed. One of the Astartes was literally a giant, standing taller than everyone else, who wielded a power fist and bloody chainsword with brutal efficiency, if unimaginative. The armour he wore was modified to fit his unusually large frame and carried lightning bolts on the chestplate, barely visible beneath the lifeblood of his enemies. Menashe Tolvan; the eternal fatalist hailing from the warrior tribes on the eastern edge of the Dustbowl. Aliksandr raised his pistol and shot the cultist standing right in front of the giant in grey and black armour.

“You.” Tolvan turned to look at the Albian.

“Aye, someone needs to show you clods how a real war is fought,” said Aliksandr and impaled a berserker through the back.

The two had fought together several times the past months, but never seen eye to eye.

“Had enough slaughter today, Saevus?”

Aliksandr grinned. They liked calling him that, his brothers in battle. The righteous Shaul Kopernag of the I Legion had been the first to use it after the rad-purge in the Panpacific. Was he to be labelled a savage for enacting vengeance on those who had oppressed his people in the past? The fate of tyrants had to be cruel to make up for the rivers of blood.

“I've barely started. And it looks like you're the ones being slaughtered here.”

Tolvan ripped the head off a cultist before disembowelling another with the chainsword. Brute force, like the rest of his legion.

“We’re soldiers of the Emperor. Each of us is expendable in the name of Unification.”

“That might be true in the IV, but I have no intention of dying,” said Aliksandr, throwing himself at the berserkers. “One day we take to the stars, Tolvan. There you will keep breaking your backs in muddy ditches while the VIII forms the speartip that burns a path to glory.”

He punched a berserker until the skull cracked.

“You and your damned talk of glory,” Tolvan growled. “Killing is all there is, killing is all there ever will be. We were bred to kill, and that is our duty. Glory means nothing.”

Aliksandr laughed and kept laughing as he killed. Only a tool spoke such words.

“And that's why you'll remain in the trenches, poor bastard. Soldiers are just bodies on a field, warriors are the ones who are remembered through the ages.”

Waves of phosphex burned to the north-east and Aliksandr allowed himself a moment to savour the sight after relieving a man of his head. He muttered a curse in his native tongue when an axe disrupted the view, blocking the handle and angrily shooting the berserker twice in the stomach before he killed the creature. At least the berserkers had their hearts in the right place.

A wide grin appeared on his face. “I'll make sure to thank your broken, rotting corpses for their sacrifice when I claim the heads of tyrants!”

The final berserker died, gunned down by one of the IV, and Tolvan turned towards Aliksandr while flexing the fingers on the power fist. Legionaries from the VIII finally caught up with them.

“No matter what you tell yourself, you'll always be an arrogant savage.”

Aliksandr was about to speak when he suddenly felt something press on the insides of his skull, and then it was as if he had been stabbed in the gut. All colour drained from his surroundings, despair sucking the life out of everything. It all returned to normal almost immediately. He blinked and-

-stared into the fire again. Old pain still gnawed at him. Saevus rose to his feet as the growing blackness devoured him from the inside, the ghosts of the past drowning slowly in the ancient hatred. They surrounded him; brothers he knew had fallen ages ago stood side by side with those who lived. Finally he saw nothing but flames. He hammered his scarred and tattooed fists into the closest iron wall, cursing the lack of pain. The next instant he was screaming in the Old tongue.

First Lieutenant Aliksandr, "He Who Is Called Saevus", XXVI Company, VIII Legion; Purge of the Southern Atlan Holdouts