Penance of Angels

[Llagos_Tyrant]

Penance of Angels

 

Loyalists. Heretics. Man. Xenos.

 

As several dozen Space Marine Chapters are called together for penance, the innocent will be caught up with the guilty in their punishment. And yet, there is no absolution. There is no retribution, nor amnesty.

 

In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.

 

Table of Contents

 

BLEEDING HEARTS - I - Lamenters

Part One ... ... ... ... ... ... Here

Part Two ... ... ... ... ... ... Here

Part Three ... ... ... ... ... ... Here

 

ROUTE - I - Iron Warriors

Part One ... ... ... ... ... ... Here

Part Two ... ... ... ... ... ... Here

Part Three ... ... ... ... ... ... Here

 

OF LIONS AND MEN - I - Lions Defiant

Part One ... ... ... ... ... ... Here

 

Preface

 

This was something I had worked on quite extensively a few years ago as an exercise in writing. It is something I've been meaning to share, mostly because this community is the only one that I know of that might enjoy 40k writing. It was easy to work on, without having to do too much world building, but still getting to develop my own characters and conflicts to write out. It isn't currently finished, but I plan to keep going on it for more practice as I work on more original works. That said, I should have plenty to share before I run out - I reached about 50,000 words of story (about a third through what I planned) before it trailed off and became something I've meant to finish. Hopefully that should give me room to keep writing in the meantime. I can't give a timeline on when I'll be updating, but I'll try to keep it regular.

Edited December 24, 2019 by GrimApostle

[Llagos_Tyrant]

BLEEDING HEARTS

Part One

 

 

The desert crawled with aliens like a carcass riddled with maggots.

 

            Bullets streaked through the air, exploding in showers of purple flesh and black-blue blood. The shower spray of viscera coated the ground for dozens of meters in every direction as armoured warriors fell back.

            Each of them bore the cold embrace of lemon-yellow armour. Pauldrons the size of shields shone in the sun, and skull faced helms peered at the charnel field. The warriors came to a towering height of any normal man, standing eight feet tall and four feet broad at the shoulders. It was only their size that kept a measure of proportion in their bodies.

            Unceasing roars marked their retreat as flame belched forth from their guns, coating the surrounding in blood and fire. One strode with a double headed eagle emblazoned across his chest. He sprayed a jet of flame into the midst of the encroaching horrors. Scorched and black-burned beasts flailed their many limbs, and screamed as their dying bodies collapsed, and fell apart in the magma hot burst of fire. Farther along the line of the dozen titans, one lugged a massive weapon in his hands.

            The gun was the larger of two variations. The smaller, which the others carried, was a thick rifle as long as a mortal man’s arm. Its barrel was a short cylinder of a snout and it belched fire from exhaust ports either side of the opening. The men held it up against their shoulders, and despite their unnaturally large frames, it fit snugly against their chest. The magazine was a thirty round cartridge of shells. Each was a bullet the size of a childs fist that exploded on impact against flesh, metal or rock.

Dozens of the explosions erupted in the fleshy alien masses before them. It didn’t matter. The beasts rolled over the dead like a rising tide.

            The larger bolter was held by grips on its top and held against the waist. The heavier weapon was ungainly, even for these warriors, and it fired rounds from a feed of ammunition that struck at a blistering pace. The belt hissed as it chewed through rounds, belching cases. Its boxy frame swung from side to side in a slow motion as its handler raked the ground before him. Its endless bark of death into the crowd ahead was wasted.

            The weapon was decorated with the carvings of battles its bearer had never seen and the names of heroes he had never known. He carried it like a token of divine favour. Squeezing the trigger, death leapt before him as he strafed the weapon. He cut down a dozen targets in a second, but for every alien beast that fell another came to take its place. They swarmed like ants, swarming over one another.

The dozen warriors continued their slow retreat.

 

            The bodies of the dead clumped together and rolled, pushed and jostled like rubble. With every step, the dead rolled another foot closer. The titans hammered the tide of aliens, and the metal cogs in their armour groaned to carry them further away, to the next day of fighting.

            A hundred yards behind them, a dozen vehicles waited, idling as black plumes rose from exhausts and choked the air. The lemon-yellow clad warriors turned and ran in full sprint. They rushed to the transports with their loading ramps still lowered, and the aliens surged forth, no longer held back. It was the inevitable outcome. Against a hundred thousand aliens, a dozen men would inevitably fall back, no matter their firepower.

The aliens threatened to over take them, leaping and bounding further with every step. Though the armoured giants were fast, the beasts gained on them.

The automated turrets and manned weapon sponsons of the box-like Rhino transport vehicles turned, and plutonium coated high velocity bolts shot forth. The unthinking tide of purple carapace, and red in tooth and claw scrambled over themselves and trampled their injured brood mates in pursuit of the fleeing prey. They slowed, but kept up their advance.

            Unclear words screamed in the gunfire as rifles flashed out from murder holes in  the transports. Thick vehicle treads bit into the earth to surge forth, and tore over the ground. The sand kicked up and splashed like water around them. For all the noise of the armour, the roar of engines in high throttle was barely audible above the snarls and snapping jaws of the infinite horde that trailed after them.

            The vehicles sped off and the roll of corpses was lost in the surging mass of aliens. The pack broke, and the faster creatures pulled ahead in pursuit. Their almost-reptilian faces were kept down as they ran, their bodies held parallel to the ground and scythed arms tucked into their body like a bird folded its wings. Their feet slammed into the ground, kicking up dust behind them and razor claws twitched on their toes with every step.

            The leading beast that followed glared at an armoured warrior through a murder hole. It gained on the Rhino. Even through the filtered red of his visor, the warrior could see the malice in the beasts sole eye. Its green eye. It lingered on its face like an emerald star in a purple nebula. The pupil widened as adrenaline pumped through its musculature. It bayed its neck and howled, and snapped its jaws. With three extended paces the creature picked up speed and leapt through the air. It raised its scythed arms and foot claws to grasp onto the armoured hull of the transport as the warrior slammed a new magazine into his bolter. With a heavy thud it landed and its claws tore into the compartment, burying into the man’s shoulder as he grasped the handle of his weapon and slammed the weapon’s receiver, chambering a round.

            Without tearing the scythe free, he pulled the trigger and heard the bark of his weapon tear through metal, and rip the alien in half. He reached up with his good arm and pulled the claw free of his flesh. The wound clot in an instant, and he heard the alien tumble into the dirt as they sped away.

            He turned from the firing hole and saw his brothers shooting for their lives. The discipline was still in their movements but the firing was at a more frantic pace than anything he’d ever seen. His vox communicator crackled to life but he couldn’t make out the words. Maybe it was adrenaline.

            Everything was distorted. Everything was moving as if delayed and every movement in the Rhino looked as if it was a phased image slowly catching up to real time. The movements of his brothers became little more than a blur of motion. Another burst on the vox and his brothers turned to look at the front of the Rhino. Through the drivers window ahead, he saw a massive beast, larger than anything he’d ever seen rear its head over the dunes on their left flank. It rose like a mountain. Much closer, another wave of aliens crashed over the desert.

            It was a massive creature that stood to the height of an Imperial Titan, a colossal war machine. It’s head was crowded with thick bony ridges that easily looked as big as tanks. Its body arched up like a cobra and it stretched out a dozen scythed arms. The largest pair looked about the size of a watchtower.  It arched its head and screamed.

            The warrior grabbed his helmet, trying to tear it free to cover his ears. His audial filters couldn’t drown out the noise – the rumbling scream of walking armaggedon. His eyes went dark in the noise, the noise screaming from inside his head, and roaring over the endless desert. He couldn’t see the beast dart forward, throwing up a dust storm in its wake, and obliterating dunes with its flailed tail. A cloud of sand rushed forward in its wake, and it dug its scythes into the earth to manuevre, coiling around the advance of the armoured column.

            The lead vehicle smashed into its side, crumpling like paper against the carapace. It leaned forward as the vehicles screeched to halt and two small forearms picked up a transport farther ahead and tore it in half.

The titan watched his brothers tumbled out to their deaths. Their armour was a mix of black and reds and blues in patterns he was unfamiliar with. They vanished in the onrushing mass of alien beasts that had caught them, flooding the ground. The serpent threw the tattered halves of the Rhino into the stalled convoy as dozens of beasts swarmed over them, stabbing and renting open the vehicles like tin cans.

The warrior watched as the rear end of the vehicle flew towards him and his mouth grew to a silent scream.

 

            Brother Dolore awoke in a cold sweat and his arms shot out to brace the edges of his open sarcophagus. His fingers went white knuckled in their grip over the carved angels and gargoyles along its rim. Within he could feel the nutrient tubes unplug from the sockets scattered across his gene enhanced body. His fingers ran up to grip the edges of the rest chamber by his chest and he felt the engravings of grimacing stone faces and trumpets held by winged cherubs. He pushed himself up and out of the holy chamber. The irony wasn’t lost on him. From time immemorial the angels of death had rested in these capsules. These coffins. It always seemed to him that the sons of Sanguinus slept soundest within the sarcophagi.

            That triggered something. Why had he been sweating in his sleep? It must have been the dream.

But Astartes didn’t dream.

And there was something else. Some feeling. Something he didn’t recognize gnawing at the base of his neck.

Edited January 3, 2019 by GrimApostle

[Bjorn Firewalker]

An interesting start. Is Brother Dolore experiencing events his gene-seed's previous bearer experienced? Will he demonstrate psychic powers later?

[Llagos_Tyrant]

BLEEDING HEARTS

Part Two

 

 

Brother Dolore awoke in a cold sweat and his arms shot out to brace the edges of his open sarcophagus.

            His fingers went white knuckled in their grip over the carved angels and gargoyles along its rim. Within he could feel the nutrient tubes unplug from the sockets scattered across his gene enhanced body. His fingers ran up to grip the edges of the rest chamber by his chest and he felt the engravings of grimacing stone faces and trumpets held by winged cherubs. He pushed himself up and out of the holy chamber. The irony wasn’t lost on him. From time immemorial the angels of death had rested in these capsules. These coffins. It always seemed to him that the sons of Sanguinus slept soundest within the sarcophagi.

            That triggered something. Why had he been sweating in his sleep? It must have been the dream.

But Astartes didn’t dream.

And there was something else. Some sort of feeling. Something he didn’t recognize gnawing at the base of his neck.

            It had been so vivid he thought, brushing the sweat off his brow. There was a stabbing pain in his temple, and his hands jerked up to his face instinctively. The migraines again. This day was getting worse. If they continued he might request the medicae. The dreams and sweat were almost certainly some sort of symptom. An unidentified affliction. Probably minor.

He wondered how long he could tell himself that and believe it. He loathed seeing the medicae. Part of it was the dread of hearing that his mental state would inevitably deteriorate into madness. The rest was just because he disliked seeing them. It always meant something was wrong. That in itself was just a reminder of how much had gone wrong for his chapter.

            A heavy rapping sounded on the door. “Brother Dolore” called a voice from the other side. Dolore recognized the voice of Sergeant Benedrino. He struck the door again as Dolore opened his mouth to speak. “Brother we know our next course. We’re gathering before the order is relayed. Meet in the chapel hall. Three minutes.”

            “Sergeant.” He answered. Benedrino walked in measured paces back towards the chapel. Dolore guessed his brothers had already gathered. How long had he been recovering?

            Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he stood and quickly dressed. The tattered cloth he slipped over his naked form ran its course threads over his skin, and the flagellant wires woven in its fibre stung. He winced as he put it on and wrapped the golden braid belt around his waist. Without a word he slipped an amulet around his neck, bowing in reverence as it came to rest on his chest. The talisman was light against his chest, and he imagined that he could feel the cool metal on his skin once again. For now, it rested overtop his robe.

            Barefoot, he stepped forth from his chamber and into a baroque hallway of the Sanctified Rite. The vessel was a strike cruiser. From the exterior, it was a misshapen sword bearing a cathedral on its blade, trailed by streaks of blue nuclear fire that propelled it through the void. Dolore imagined it scything through the deep black of space like the fin of a shark through water. Effortless. Silent. Hunting. Always hunting.

            Mechanicus droids hovered and buzzed along its hull like flies. They were simple constructs, robots that tended to maintenance or a dozen stress tests ongoing at any moment to monitor for structural or shield overbearing. The former could be dealt with. The latter would have led to an agonizing and tortured end for all of the inhabitants in the vessel. Even for the likes of Dolore and his Sergeant, survival would be beyond impossible. They would die screaming like any man. It lent the Mechanicus a grudging respect among the Astartes that they rarely ever failed.

Yet, among the Lamenters martial order of warriors, their had been three incidents of such failures. All hands lost, consigned to the warp, and pray to the Emperor it was a quick death. They were deemed ‘statistically anomalous events’, and the losses were one of several such ‘statistically anomalous events’ that had come to claim hundreds of souls since the founding of the Lamenters. Some preferred the word ‘cursed.’

            The hallway was adorned by angels bearing swords, shields, spears and bows all clad in plated armour. Most were faceless masks of death like the Astartes helmets. A skull visage with burning eyes. The few with their helmets in the dirt at their feet were hauntingly beautiful. The angels looked on in memorium on the wall. Each was the face of a Chapter hero carved to be forever remembered.

There was Sergeant Sela who had led a last stand against an Ork Waaagh. The fighting had become so brutal that it attracted half the Warboss’ host when he descended on the world and the Sergeant called for an orbital bombardment on his own position. The diversion blunted the Waaagh and saved countless civilian lives.

Halfway down the hall as he reached it, he saw the long hair and bared fangs of the Chaplain Borzia. On fiery wings of fueled thrusters, he had soared over countless battlefields, hacking apart the enemy with his Crozius. He led the purge of an entire system from Alpha Legion infiltrators before he was lost in the warp with three companies in the early days of the Chapter. One of those three incidents.

            At the end of the hall was the image of The Fiend. It was a massive dreadnought, carved into the door to the Great Hall of the Sanctified Rite itself. The mechanical behemoth bore cannons on its shoulders that streaked fire along the flanks of the hall into masses of Eldar and traitor Astartes. Its massive arms clutched a great hammer in one hand and a massive sword in the other. All around it and piled on the horizon of the carving were a field of corpses. The Fiend had been the Captain and commander of Dolore’s company millennia ago. He had led them with distinction and cold brutality. Eventually the infamous fighter fell like all eventually did. He had the dubious distinction of falling to a pack of Bloodthirsters and Daemon Princes during an assault on the Maelstrom. Whatever led him there was long forgotten.

            Looking at their faces and the victories commemorated in their honour, Dolore realized that the carvings had worn down. They’d lost their sharpened finish, and yet, the radiance of their image remained. The Emperor still shone through them, and there were angels here. They were forever His angels.

            Splitting the Fiend, he pushed open the massive doors of bronze. The room he stepped into was the Great Hall. Its walls rose so high that the ceiling was lost in shadow. Partway up the walls of the room, three rows of candles ran, vertically spaced about three meters and two horizontally. They stretched out to number several dozen in a single row from start to finish. They were poor substitutes for electric lighting, but in holy places sanctity must be kept. This room was one such place onboard.

            The walls were lined in images like the hallway he had entered through, but countless more persons were honored in carvings several times larger. Despite the gravitas of the adornment, the room drew attention away from them, and turned all who walked in towards the far wall. A stain glass window several stories tall towered at the end of the room, with a raised platform beneath it. A short flight of stairs led up to the base of the glass and a red strip of carpet ran from them to the opposite end of the room. The details were fine in the glass, and yet no one would have needed to be so close to know its splendor.

            The Angel. The Primarch. Founder. Hero. Father. Lord and Protector. Sanguinus of the Blood Angels and all their progeny. It was an image of him and him alone.

Every face carved in the room looked up to him, and the very walls angled to direct all attention onto him.  Light shone from his form and reflected off of blood red armour trimmed in the purest gold. Great wings of white feathers rose up behind him in full extension, spread as if he was landing or lifting himself to the heavens. A sword clutched in his right arm extended to the sky. It was crowned by a halo, as was his helmet. Streaks of light fanned out all around him and pierced the darker edges of the glass. In the background red shards fell like rain. Dolore could never decide if it was raining blood or simply the design.

            It was the most magnificent piece on the entire ship. Above all the carvings and all the tapestries lining other decks. It alone stood out to those who knew of it. An article so sacred was also a secret among the Astartes. Neither serfs nor crew were permitted to look upon the image. The room behind the window was even more secretive. Only Sergeant Benedrino and any visiting officers would be permitted to enter.

They called it the Battle Hall and what, exactly, was inside Dolore couldn`t tell. He imagined holo-maps and video feed links to relay and receive messages between commanders. He imagined a horde of treatises and data-slates and the Codex Astartes in divided volumes lining walls. He imagined trophies to remind the commanding officer of thousands of years of glorious campaigns in the name of the Emperor and the Primarch – both those of the Blood Angels, and those of the Lamenters themselves.

            He didn`t realize that he was about to find out.

 

            Atop the platform, his Brothers were arranged and speaking amongst themselves. At least the six who remained. All of them were dressed the same. Coarse haired tunics ran from their shoulders to the floor and were pulled tight across their waists with a golden belt. Their feet were bare as his own and their hoods were down. Closest to him were his Brothers Rael and Mikel who turned to face him at his approach.

            “Almost late Dolore.” Mikel said. His voice was deep but smooth and his thin lips betrayed no emotion while he spoke. His closely cropped hair was still new to Dolore.

All his brothers had been shaved recently. After so many years of long hair framing their face it was still taking some getting used to. After a lifetime with the same faces it would take quite a while he imagined.

            “Never late.” Dolore answered. Mikel’s face was unchanged and his sharp jaw kept the stern look he always had. His emerald green eyes were much better reflections of his emotions.

            “First time for everything.” Rael said. The smile on his face ran from ear to ear. “I was beginning to wonder if you would wake at all.” He said, extending his hand to grasp Dolore at the elbow. They shook arms as they held onto each other. “Welcome back to the living.” He said with a nod. His brown eyes seemed immensely pleased given the circumstances. His optimism was something that had taken Dolore a long time to get used to, and among the Lamenters it marked him out in their number.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

An interesting start. Is Brother Dolore experiencing events his gene-seed's previous bearer experienced? Will he demonstrate psychic powers later?

 

Thanks! I'm wary of spoiling anything too much, but it will definitely come up again.

[Bjorn Firewalker]

The tattered cloth he slipped over his naked form ran its course threads over his skin, and the flagellant wires woven in its fibre stung.

Are the "flagellant wires" built into the Lamenters' clothing, meant to inflict pain, like the "pain gloves" the Imperial Fists and their successors use?

The Fiend had been the Captain and commander of Dolore’s company millennia ago. He had led them with distinction and cold brutality.

I'm surprised a loyalist Chapter would nickname one of its own heroes "The Fiend," considering Merriam-Webster's definitions for the term include "devil," "demon," "a person of great wickedness or maliciousness," in addition to "a person extremely devoted to a pursuit or study; fanatic," the last of which was what I assume you intend. Perhaps you should lengthen the name to "War Fiend" (one extremely devoted to war) or "Fiendsbane" (slayer of devils and demons)?

[Llagos_Tyrant]

 

The tattered cloth he slipped over his naked form ran its course threads over his skin, and the flagellant wires woven in its fibre stung.

Are the "flagellant wires" built into the Lamenters' clothing, meant to inflict pain, like the "pain gloves" the Imperial Fists and their successors use?

 

Exactly! That was my source of inspiration, although I imagined that the Lamenters would make the pain a constant presence when outside of combat as a means of atoning for a sin they assume cursed them, and the rest of the Cursed Founding. I didn't see them using a glove per se, and have always pictured the Blood Angels as similar to reclusive monks devoted to various creative arts, when outside of combat. Granted I don't know a great deal about them, but I thought working the pain into the clothe of their robes was elegant enough to suit them.

 

 

The Fiend had been the Captain and commander of Dolore’s company millennia ago. He had led them with distinction and cold brutality.

I'm surprised a loyalist Chapter would nickname one of its own heroes "The Fiend," considering Merriam-Webster's definitions for the term include "devil," "demon," "a person of great wickedness or maliciousness," in addition to "a person extremely devoted to a pursuit or study; fanatic," the last of which was what I assume you intend. Perhaps you should lengthen the name to "War Fiend" (one extremely devoted to war) or "Fiendsbane" (slayer of devils and demons)?

 

 

I like this suggestion a lot! I had intended the first definition and may stick with it though, if I may explain - my idea was that The Fiend adopted his nickname from one given to him by his enemies and that he was much more sinister than a traditional Astartes is perceived. He put down a lot of mortal revolts in the Imperium (mainly over discontent, lack of food, inequality, and all the dystopian aspects of the Imperium) in addition to the Xenos and Chaos he fought. The nickname was used enough by his enemies, and his terrified mortal allies, that he adopted it. It was a useful tool to reduce enemy morale. However, an assassination attempt confined him to the dreadnought, and while his shattered mind remained brilliant, he bordered on insanity and The Fiend became his identity. If he had had time, he may have fallen to Chaos, but he died a 'hero.' He is revered by Dolore's company and the Lamenters (who ignore his less flattering aspects), but is a much darker character than a traditional hero.

 

I came up with a backstory to every part of what I'd written in case I could tease it out in the story, and as a thought exercise. Most of it won't really come out in the story unfortunately (or at least not as far as I have written up to).

 

Will try to update tomorrow!

[Llagos_Tyrant]

BLEEDING HEARTS

Part Three

 

 

Atop the platform, his Brothers were arranged and speaking amongst themselves. At least the six who remained. All of them were dressed the same. Coarse haired tunics ran from their shoulders to the floor and were pulled tight across their waists with a golden belt. Their feet were bare as his own and their hoods were down. Closest to him were his Brothers Rael and Mikel who turned to face him at his approach.

            “Almost late Dolore.” Mikel said. His voice was deep but smooth and his thin lips betrayed no emotion while he spoke. His closely cropped hair was still new to Dolore.

All his brothers had been shaved recently. After so many years of long hair framing their face it was still taking some getting used to. After a lifetime with the same faces it would take quite a while he imagined.

            “Never late.” Dolore answered. Mikel’s face was unchanged and his sharp jaw kept the stern look he always had. His emerald green eyes were much better reflections of his emotions.

            “First time for everything.” Rael said. The smile on his face ran from ear to ear. “I was beginning to wonder if you would wake at all.” He said, extending his hand to grasp Dolore at the elbow. They shook arms as they held onto each other. “Welcome back to the living.” He said with a nod. His brown eyes seemed immensely pleased given the circumstances. His optimism was something that had taken Dolore a long time to get used to, and among the Lamenters it marked him out in their number.

            “The Sergeant has not returned?” Dolore asked, his voice raspy from disuse. He cleared his throat and realized how dry it felt when Mikel answered.

            “He will be returning shortly. I imagine he gave you an extra few moments. A long sleep can slow you down.”

            Dolore was puzzled. “How long was I out?”

            “Three weeks.” Rael answered.

            Throne. That was unimaginable. Although he kept his face still, his brothers knew him too well to think he wasn’t surprised. “The medicae were almost raised a few times.”

            “-and the Chaplain.” Mikel added. Rael almost scowled at him.

            Dolore was quick to change the subject. “How has transit been?”

            “A lot of waiting. We expected orders before we went to rest and not having them until now, we have had much time for private pursuits." Mikel smiled. "I finished the collections from Terra.” He added. The collections were among the most widespread of literary relics from Terra's old history. All were written by authors so long dead their bones were no longer even dust.

            “And I finished another painting.” Rael added.

            “The Mountains of Baal?” Dolore asked eagerly It was a favourite of his by Rael, but the Astarte never finished it. He spent hours repainting and returning to add new detail, before wiping it away and beginning anew. War was also a constant interruption. Rael shook his head.

            “The Burning of Nostromo.”

            Dolore felt a burning in his gut at the mention of the name. “We spoke of this.” He said.

            “I know.” Rael answered. He could be stubborn.

            “You said you would stop.”

            “I said I would consider stopping.” Dolore struggled to smother the fire in his blood, and grimaced. It was difficult for him to hear his brother was painting a scene from the history of their enemies. “The truth of the matter-“

            “Hear we go.” Mikel interrupted. Rael shot him an icy glance as he continued.

            “Is that Nostromo rebelled against already corrupted masters. You can argue it was a rebel world all you want, but a rebellion against heretics makes them a loyal populace.”

            “It rebelled before they fell.”

            “They were lost before they purged that planet.”

            “You’re both wrong. They fell because the planet was lost. Both of them were traitorous. Only one survived to prove it.” Mikel said. His voice was cold as he spoke.

            The doors at the far end of the hall swung open as Sergeant Benedrino ended their discussion. He marched in full armour, clutching his helmet at his waist. The armour made him larger than the others, clad only in parish robes, but despite its bulk he moved like it was a second skin. Countless gyros, gears and fabricated muscles hummed to echo his movements as he made them. It was a near perfect system save for the amount of energy expelled from the power pack on his back.

            The armour was lemon yellow and scarred from a hundred engagements. The most prominent of the scars was a deep gash in the helmet, though Dolore imagined Benedrino could point to each and make a story of it. In the centre of the helm's forehead was a red heart and a drop of blood. It echoed the symbol on his left shoulder, set on a checkered backdrop. A trio of red jewels in a droplet shape sat in the center of his breastplate and his right grieve bore the carved form of an angel. Rael had gifted it to him after he had saved his life. One of the many times he had saved all their lives.

            “Brothers!” his voice boomed from across the hall. As he drew closer, Dolore could tell that it was not quite a scowl on his face, but disgust. “Brothers we have our orders. Captain Lona relayed them to me from the Chapter Master.” His head was shaved and his skin plastered with scars and wrinkles. His deep hazel eyes watched his squad as he approached.

            “I will not put my voice to what has happened.” He paused as he topped the stairs and surveyed his team. Looking man to man as if was trying to find words for each of them. He looked down and continued. “The trial of our chapter has concluded. Captain Lona’s transmission will explain.” He brushed past them to the base of the stain glass window. There was a hiss, and the floor parted beneath him. The platform beneath Benedrino lowered and the squad filed down the unveiled flight of stairs to enter the Battle Hall.

            Passing down the stairs and through a narrow corridor they emerged into a circular room with a single light beaming down from overhead. The ceiling was not as high as the Great Hall. The walls were a dull grey and the floor was steel grating. No trophies hung on the wall. No bookshelves were lined with tactical and strategic advice. The left wall was bare save for a rack of bolters and ammunition. The far wall housed a suit of Terminator armour, power fist and assault cannon ready for arming. The right wall however was crowded. A large tube of bubbling green chemicals was hoisted against the wall on a machine that lined the sides and base with tubes and cables and plugs. At the top of the vat a mass of cables plunged into it like a tentacle. Within, a malnourished and gangly figure rested in the pod. Its arms were crossed over its chest and its legs bent and raised up towards the torso. Its mouth was sown shut, its eyes covered in white bandages and its skin was a pale grey from a lack of sunlight. It was a telepath.

            Given the distance between fighting forces and the impossible futility of light speed communication, telepaths were the only means of speaking across the vastness of space. The cables, Dolore guessed, would record and store the messages for playback. It was a remarkable piece of engineering and the science behind it was long lost. So much for the golden age of man. Dolore thought to himself.

            “Gather here.” The Sergeant called to the men gesturing to a holo-projector at the centre of the room. They fell into a semicircle around it. “Rite” he called to the Machine Spirit of the ship itself. “Play last transmission from Captain Lona.” Two high pitched beeps acknowledged his command and the light above the room dimmed. Before them a red image of the Captain’s upper body was displayed. He was fully armoured and wearing a haloed helmet. His helm was crowned with a laurel wreath and an angel wing spread from his right shoulder. An iron halo was mounted on his power pack and chains of oath were wrapped around the chest plate of his armour. On his torso, a winged drop of blood was plain as day. It was the armoured equivalent of Dolore’s own honour he bore now. Unknowingly he took it in his hand and began rubbing the stone around his neck between his fingers. The voice when it came was a deep growl. It sounded almost more animal than human as it spoke.

            “Captain Lona, Fourth Company, Lamenters Chapter of the Emperor’s Adeptus Astartes. This message is priority one immediate. I report at the direction of Chapter Master Daeloth that the trial of the Lamenters Chapter has today concluded. The presiding board of Inquisitors and Chapter Masters have deliberated our actions on Gorodda V at the request of the Fleet Admiral Naras. Under the charge of blasphemy against the Emperor brought by Captain Malle of the Death Strike Third Company we have been found not guilty.”

            The squad was silent as the charges and verdicts of ‘not guilty’ were read aloud.

            “Under the charge of reckless endangerment of civilian life brought by Captain Url of the Black Guard we have been found not guilty. Under the charge of disparaging the Inquisition and its personnel brought by Inquisitor Beck we have been found guilty.”

            It did not bode well but was not nearly as serious a charge as those already dismissed. Dolore was tempted to exhale as the worst must be behind them.

            “Under the charge of-“ Captain Lona’s voice faltered. He raised his head and cleared his throat to continue speaking. “Under the charge of conduct unbecoming Adeptus Astartes brought by Inquisitor Beck, Captain Malle, Captain Url and Captain Galen of the Consecrators…” Lona paused again. Dolore’s eyes grew wide. “We have been found wanting under the watch of the Emperor. We are pronounced guilty.”

            The room was silent but Dolore could hear his heart clearly pounding in his head.

            Guilty.

            He had to fight the urge to pump adrenaline and combat stims into his blood. Mikel beside him dropped to his knees and uttered prayers beneath his breath. One of his other brothers leaned forward and braced himself against the holo-projector. His knuckles turned white in his grip.

            “Punishment will be announced in two months standard Terra time. All Lamenters forces are ordered to make immediate rendezvous with the Mater Lachrymarum in the Yuon system in the interim. The Emperor Protects.”

            Dolore was silent. His whole body felt numb. It was not possible. Benedrino tapped into the projector and the image faded. The light brightened and for a moment they stood in silence.

            “We are already en route to the Fortress Monastery. For the next month and a half we will train harder than we have ever trained before. Simulations will be harder and combat drops will be conducted when possible against soft and hard targets. We’re closer so we have more time to prepare. At rendezvous minus six days you will sleep and rest to full capacity. At rendezvous minus two days you will wake, you will make yourselves combat ready, and you will make your peace with the Emperor. On rendezvous we will join with the Chapter to hear our next move.” he barked.

            There was silence for a moment when Rael spoke. “Sergeant … the Chaplains.” He spoke in half formed thoughts.

            “We have none onboard but I hear the Serfs have several if you find your battle-brothers wanting.”

            Dolore found himself speaking before he knew what he was asking. “Sergeant what are we likely to face?”

            “I don’t know.” Benedrino answered with a steely look. “Nothing good I can guarantee. There’s talk of a penitent crusade.”

            “Of our chapter alone? We lost half our forces at Gorodda...” Dolore said in disbelief.

            “Not just us Dolore. We aren’t the only Chapter they’ve tried and condemned.” He frowned at the Sergeants answer.

            “Not just us? What have I missed?” He asked.

            “Brother they’ve condemned three other detachments who fought at Gorodda. One other Chapter as well.”

            “Who else?” Dolore managed.

            “The Fire Drakes were the first condemned.” someone said. Dolore could understand that at least. Their first and third companies had been removed from the campaign before it had concluded. Actively interfering with the work of the Inquisition was a step too far for any Astartes. Despite their conviction over disparagement, the Lamenters had been careful enough to avoid confrontation.

            “Next we heard of the Angels Grievant. Their bombardment of the capital manufactora station cost millions of lives, and invaluable mechanicus research.” Rael continued.

            “No matter that it killed twice as many orks.” Mikel interrupted.

            “No matter.” Benedrino noted, turning sharply to face him.

            “The seventh of the Astral Pyre and the third of the Panthers Rampant as well.”

            Dolore was dumbstruck. How could this happen?

            The room was silent. Dolore thought he heard his two hearts pumping blood in a panic.

            “Steel yourselves brothers. Whatever lies ahead … The Emperor Protects.” Benedrino said, marking the sign of the Aquila across his chest. He kept his head bowed longer than usual by half.

            The rest of the squad followed suit and bowed their heads in turn. The Sergeant broke the brief silence. “We begin training immediately.”

 

            After training and two months of transit it was a relief when they arrived in Yuon. It was there they learned a further four detachments had been condemned in other conflicts with over a million guardsmen for their conduct. There would be a Penitent Crusade after all.

            Worse still for their sacrifices, Gorodda V had suffered the ignominy of exterminatus. Like those who had fought and died on its surface, the planet was condemned. 

[Bjorn Firewalker]

This is well-written. You make me FEEL for the Lamenters.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

This is well-written. You make me FEEL for the Lamenters.

 

Thanks! We're going to be switching perspectives a fair bit through this, so I hope I'll be able to help you connect with all the characters.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

Aside: I am going to work on timing my posts to actually keep with a consistent schedule. Life has been a bit turbulent the last few months and is settling down again (hopefully).

 

ROUTE

Part One

 

 

Whispers. Mad, mad damned whispers filled his head and his skull echoed with the writhing crawls of ethereal daemons trapped in his mind. He saw them slowly coalesce and take shapes before his sight that were too familiar and too painful for his waking mind.

 

            His brothers were spread thin, firing on the enemy. Firing on themselves, even as the confusion of the moment set their truest of brothers against them.  Bolter fire raked their right flank and Meridorus took a shot to his side, falling to his knees at Oden’s feet before collapsing in an expanding pool of blood and organs. Straining his eyes he saw the fire of his comrades, their Iron Skull far in the distance, streaking towards his men. His left flank burst into flame as he lost himself in the moment, green armoured and black skinned daemons clawing through his men with flame and chainsword. His training, his oaths and his very spirit had taught him to stand against all odds and against all enemies, but he was conquered. Not by the treachery of his brothers, nor by the ignorance of his cousins but by something far more terrible.

  

          The whispers grew again as the shapes began to take a new and terrible form. A giant in green and flame, wrapped in a scaled cloak walking slowly towards him.

 

          He let out a heavy breathe, sounding as though a gust of wind had rushed through a pipe, and his eyes slowly refocused from his thoughts to the world around him. "Did you expect to run today?" came a muffled voice somewhere beside him. The sounds of heavy breathing filled the air. It was too organic to be his own.

 

           Running. He remembered that. Bolter fire jarring his world and eruptions of fire knocking him senseless. Caverns dripping blood and a floor covered in shrapnel and scraps of armour. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, cursing his brothers who had refused to submit. Cursing his mentor for betraying the Legion like this. ‘Damn you’ he whispered to himself, slamming his sword into the ground and pushing himself to his feet. He stumbled to the wall and felt his way along the hall, towards the-

 

            "Did you?"

            "Captain?" asked another. That voice was familiar.

            It was Pyrrhus sitting across from him. The battered warrior clung to his combi-flamer in both hands across his chest like it gave him comfort. As far as the Captain knew it did. The Rhino jumped as it barreled over a trench, and inside the warriors shook with the turbulence. There were eight of them. Across from Captain Tullaris, Pyrrhus was the first he recognized as his vision cleared. The tan-leather skin on his face was worn and cracked with wrinkles that could have been mistaken for scarring, save for around his mouth where the white stubble of a trimmed goatee masked his age lines. His eyes were brown and bloodshot. His helm was clasped at his side and two horns starting to protrude from its brow were marked by cracks and splinters of the ceramite.

            Tullaris wished he’d wear the damn helm. Without it the expression on Pyrrhus’ face gave voice to the weariness they all felt.

            “I’m fine.” Tullaris answered, ignoring the question.

            “That’s more than Behlen can say.” Aralan grunted, his teeth almost clicking the words out like mandibles. Tullaris could see he eyed the corpse strapped into the seat closest to the driver’s compartment door.

            Looking at bloodied Aralan now the Captain realized he would have a new scar running from his right ear, across his cheek and the corner of his lips. It didn’t look like any scars he had seen before. It almost looked self-inflicted. He would have to watch him more closely. Worse still, he had let the legion mark on his left shoulder fade and rust. Punishment would be necessary.

            “Why did we drag him here?” came a voice down the line.

            “He was a member of the command staff. He is our responsibility.” Tullaris answered.

            “But here? We could have dropped him in another transport.”

            It was Arean. The man was the newest to the Captain’s inner circle. He tended to think himself important for it. The man was new, relatively speaking, recruited in the last decades before Horus' revolt, but he'd proven himself. Few others could boast the strength that he did and he knew how to use it unlike many of them. A warhammer was clasped to his back while he clutched a bolter in his hand. Simple, brutal, effective. It was the way of the IVth.

            “Such a duty is below us.” He growled from metal teeth, all filed to a point. With his bald scalp and large dark eyes he fit the profile of a shark. He lacked the cunning of such a creature.

            “You will have the honour of bearing the body with Apothecary Tyr when we disembark. Behlen’s geneseed must be returned to the Legion.” Tullaris answered with a scowl.

            Arean cursed under his breath as he leaned his head back before slamming it into the hull.

            “Tyr, how many did you recover?” He asked, turning to his left.

            The Apothecary was almost unrecognizable to his position. His lower legs and up to his forearms were stained red from the blood of incessant fighting and combat surgery. The removal of a geneseed was grisly work yes, but the splatter on his breastplate was of lesser crimson. Much more blood had covered him in the slog through dozens of worlds and in his desperate efforts to keep the Seventh Grand Company at fighting strength. Somehow his efforts had pulled off a miracle. In no small part by the work of Tyr and his brethren, almost half the casualties of the 4th Line Company were returned to fight – and it was all that had sustained them.

            “Tyr, how many?” Tullaris asked again. He disliked repeating himself.

            The Apothecary sat with his head lowered to the floor as they rode away from defeat. “Not enough.”

            “Give me a number.” The whole transport was silent now. Even Arean had ceased his complaining.

            Tyr hesitated.

            “Thirty.”

            “Thirty?” the Captain asked. Tyr turned to look at Tullaris. In the dark his soulless red lenses still managed to reflect the despair in his voice. It cracked as he spoke.

            “Maybe less.”

            For a moment there was no noise. The world felt numb to each of them. Until Meeran spoke.

            A raspy, worn voice spoke from the dark across from Behlen. To a mortal it would have sounded ancient – far older than should ever be heard in a battle, let alone in the midst of the heaviest fighting.

            “From iron cometh strength, from strength cometh will, from will cometh faith, from faith cometh honour, from honour cometh iron. That is the unbreakable litany. May it forever be so.”

            As one, the squad repeated. “May it forever be so.”

            It took Tullaris a moment to realize Tyr had not spoken with the rest. Meeran beat him to raising the issue.

            “Despair not for the dead Tyr. They have gone to Olympia.”

            “Olympia is a barren rock.” Tyr spat, quickly turning his gaze at the Apostle. In the new hierarchy of the Legion, Meeran was what passed for a chaplain of a new religion. In truth it wasn’t very different from his old, albeit secular, role. “We made it so.”

            “No.” The Apostle began with awe in his voice. “Olympia has been reborn under the Primarch and there they walk forever more in the Eye of the Four Gods. Our Lord Perturabo will commune with Behlen and all the fallen. He will see them to their homeland made again.” Tyr grumbled his agreement. It was a half hearted thing.

            Meeran leaned forward into the glow of the overhanging floodlight. Tullaris had seen him without such rudimentary help through his genehanced sight but even so it sharpened his features. The preacher had sky blue eyes that were deceptively endearing. His hair was blonde and had fallen from its top knot into a shaggy mane that met with his beard. His unkempt features were offensive to Oden Tullaris but an exemption had been granted by the Warsmith of the Seventh Grand Company. Why was beyond his imagination. Less offensive was the patch of raw flesh on his cheeks. Meeran scraped it raw daily as a sign of his new devotions. Tullaris was reminded when he spoke that his voice was far older than his face.

            “His being walks with the Primarch in the realm of Gods, Tyr. That is something we should all envy. His death was in the thickest of fighting against the Dark Angels. To die bathed in the blood of the Emperor’s servants is something to envy too.”

            “Something to envy more.” Arean interrupted. Meeran ignored him.

            “His death was good Tyr. His life was lived among brothers waging war across the stars. Pray that we are all equally blessed by the Gods.” Tyr was silent. Maybe it was contemplation. Perhaps it was contempt.

            The Captain took the opportunity to vox him privately. A muted click signaled an open channel and he spoke. “Speak with the rest of the company. Find out if the other apothecaries faired any better with their recoveries.”

            “Acknowledged.” The answer was routine. Half registered and half spoken.

            Tullaris looked back up the line to each of his men as his gaze neared Behlen. They were ragged and their armour still slick in blood and ashen mud. His head turned and he sighed through the device clasped around his jaw. It was dark, but as with Meeran’s features he could make out the details of his brothers. Their armour was like his. The colour of worn iron with a trim of gold decorated with hazard stripes. Each bore a skull emblazoned and garish on their shoulders in bright silver on black or the stripes.

            The skull didn’t quite grin like it used to. Now it grinned like it mocked them.

            His eyes fell on Behlen. The body was limp and strapped tight into its seat. Behlen’s left arm hung by his side – the right arm was severed at the elbow in a sheared stump that dripped crimson blood onto the floor of the transport. Two bolter holes had punched through the armour in his chest. One bore into his primary heart and the other had blown out his gullet. Organs hung loosely in the gaping holes in his body. His helmet seemed undamaged. It would at least make looking at him easier when the time came to remove his armour.

            A muted click cut him off from the squad as the so far silent Mortez spoke with him.

            “He died well. Even after he lost his arm to an Angel, he kept killing.”

            “He was one of the few.” Tullaris answered.

            “We’ll avenge them.” Mortez responded without hesitation.

            “Will we? We don’t have any idea how they found us. How would we find them?”

            “It doesn’t matter. We know where Caliban is.” Oden laughed and despite the privacy of the vox link, he knew his squad could tell.

            “You are brave Mortez but we do not all move as quietly as you do. Arean would never get within a hundred light years of that planet without screaming his challenges to the Lion himself.”

            Mortez sniggered in agreement. Oden could practically see the sneer on his face as Mortez  glanced at the champion. Without taking his gaze away he continued. “Can we trust him? He’s already disgraced himself.”

            “Over Behlen? The dead won’t weep.” Oden answered. “But he is rash. And stupid.” He did have to concede the truth to that.

            “Behlen was at least reliable in a fight. You ask us to stand shoulder to shoulder with the young blood though, and none of us can tell anymore if he’s about to break into a charge for glory.” More doubts.

            “He will do as he is told. Trust in me.” Mortez turned to face Oden from his seat between Pyrrhus and Behlen.

            “Always, Captain.” He inclined his head in respect and the shape of the Corvus–pattern helmet seemed to exaggerate the movement. The rhino shook again, careening off rubble in the flight from their burning fortress. The chainmail dangling from Mortez’ waist and shoulder pad clinked in response. The knife and combat pouches strapped over his right pauldron did not. They were solidly clasped to his armour.

            A simple auditory click severed the vox link. He returned to the conversation of his squad to find Aralan and Arean arguing about who was the better killer. Was it Aralan, who danced with his short blades slicing and stabbing in neat, graceful strokes at the weakest spots of the enemy – or Arean, who swung wide, fast and strong with a hammer that crushed the guard and armour of any foe? Tullaris kept his opinions on the matter to himself. Who was better between didn’t matter. Neither was the best.

 

            Oden saw Pyrrhus clench his teeth to trigger a vox network without his helmet. He expected a report was due. “Captain, I’m getting a role call from the company.”

            “Speak.”

Edited December 24, 2019 by GrimApostle

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work. Your Iron Warriors speak with such conviction, it's inspiring.

[Tarvek Val]

Route is the only segment I have read thus far, but I am very impressed. The character development of the different Iron Warriors is excellent thus far and I'm intrigued by the storyline. Looking forward to the next installment. 

[Llagos_Tyrant]

Excellent work. Your Iron Warriors speak with such conviction, it's inspiring.

 

Thank you! I really appreciate your comments on each of my posts. It's encouraging to see someone following.

 

 

Route is the only segment I have read thus far, but I am very impressed. The character development of the different Iron Warriors is excellent thus far and I'm intrigued by the storyline. Looking forward to the next installment. 

 

Thank you very much! This story jumps around between a few storylines, and they're one of the main ones.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

ROUTE

Part Two

 

 

Oden saw Pyrrhus clench his teeth to trigger a vox network without his helmet. He expected a report was due. “Captain, I’m getting a role call from the company.”

            “Speak.”

 

            "Duros is reporting he is at half strength. Nikias is wounded with only three survivors. Ephialtes is eight strong. Taurus is alone and attached himself with three survivors from the First Line. Kitarn is reporting three wounded but all accounted for. Maraketh is at just over half strength – Delian is just under. Squads Hammerhand and Crossbow are unaccounted for.” The sergeant hesitated. “Presumed deceased."

            Captain Tullaris mentally struck Hammerhand and Crossbow from his forces. He had expected that. They were on the west wall when it collapsed.

            But the others-Gods' Blood! Such losses were unheard of in a century of warfare. Twenty-one days of holding a fortress against the Imperium and fresh faced Angels had killed half of his veteran Line. He felt the rage burning inside him and fought back the taste of bile in his mouth. The gall of the Lion’s sons. They would pay for this.

            “Speak with Taurus. I want to know how the First faired.”

            Pyrrhus nodded and followed through with the inquiry. A muted click.

            “Captain I have failed you. My failure to collect the geneseed of-“

            “I won’t hear it Tyr. We’ll discuss this later.” Was that too dismissive? He was being curt he knew.

            A muted click as he switched the channel.

            “Brother, did you fare as poorly as we did?” The rhino jumped and inside the warriors jostled in their seats as it landed hard into the ground. Behlen’s head tilted to the side as the vibrations shook his immobile form.

            “Worse I think. You held the north-west well enough but when the wall came down it was my Line on the west wall. Half of my men were buried in that damn rubble. We're thirty-two now.” It was one of his fellow Captains. Each was the ultimate authority of their Line Company and each was an adviser to one another. More importantly though, they advised the Warsmith.

            This Captain, the Captain of the Third Line Company, was Xenophon. Tullaris had known him the longest of any of his brethren. The pair had fought and killed and bled with one another in 2^nd Line before they had earned their new honours in the Legion Wars, the dark days of war in the Eye of Terror. It had given vent to the grievances and despair of the Legions after Horus’ death – and very nearly destroyed them all. It was, and forever would be, a fresh memory.

            “Did you see how it happened?” Tullaris asked. The question plagued him despite his ignoring it. Did you expect to run today?

            “No. Not a damn thing. No artillery flash, no upkick of earth beneath us. Not even a hint of sorcery. There was nothing, and then it fell.” There was screaming in the background of Xenophon’s transmission.

            “That’s impossible. Something brought that wall down.”

            “There was nothing. It buckled underneath us Oden.”

            “The Angels had nothing that could have gone undetected! You’re telling me that they brought down that wall- a wall we built?” There was a pause.

            “Maybe the Angels didn’t bring it down.” Xenophon had to be wrong.

            “You’re suggesting that-“ Screaming drowned out his words and he heard his audio system filter out the agony that plagued the Third Captain’s transport. Xenophon spoke first.

“We’ll talk later. The Warsmith will call us.” Click.

            Tullaris sighed. He did not look forward to reporting his losses. He did not look forward to the moment they truly set in. Here it seemed surreal. Only Behlen was dead that he could see – somehow that made it seem difficult to accept he had lost so many others. He bowed his head as he tried to think of it. To think of the faces he would no longer see.

            Looking back at him, his dark metal helm scowled with burning eyes that looked aflame. It cast a warm glow onto the black and yellow striped plume that marked him as a Captain of his legion. After the pattern it took they called the crest ‘a hazard stripe’. Bearing it took on a considerably higher risk on the part of the bearer. Though it was a mark of honour and station, many a legionnaire had lost their life being too conspicuous.

            “Captain.”

            He lingered his gaze in the blood pooled at his feet.

            “Captain?” Tyr repeated. Oden raised his head and looked back at the Apothecary.

            “Report.”

            The confirmed casualty figures that followed and the news from the other apothecaries worsened the Iron Warriors mood. Squad Crossbow was alive and had linked up with the survivors of the Sixth Line Company. That was some good news. The Sixth was almost wiped out however, with their Captain himself falling in the rear guard for his men. Oden smiled at that. Captain Darius had always been a stalwart companion. A good and loyal end for a man among traitors. Something would have to honour him. The smile faded as the report continued.

            Forty-four Astartes of the Fourth Line Company were all that survived from their original deployment of ninety. Almost half of the survivors were injured with wounds ranging from critical to non-life threatening. It was a horrifying realization. There hadn’t been a battle after all. It was a massacre. Worse still was the survival of only three Apothecaries, including Tyr himself. Between the other two, they had recovered less than even Tyr’s. They had salvaged only nine progenoid glands. Nine geneseeds to continue the Fourth. Tyr was either exceptionally skilled, lucky, or fast. They would be punished. He would be rewarded.

            In the other companies, other Captains were reviewing the figures as well. With the death of Captain Daro however, Tullaris ordered Tyr to find the status of the Sixth and to confirm it to him. The report, when it came, detailed the twelve survivors of the seventy-three who fell with their Captain on the south walls. Almost none of their geneseed was recovered. The numbers made that a moot point. Their company was already finished. What became of them was up to the Warsmith.

            It was then, as Tyr finished relaying the information to his Captain that the Warsmith called and Agathocles spoke. The rhino fell silent in unison as the voice began. Each heard the voice in their ear, and the warlord spoke to each and every one of them.

            “Brethren it is time we reform. Our flight from Grosskeipt has put us beyond the reach of the Angels. Rally to the Spirit Breaker.”

             The voice was deep and spoke in a snarl. Almost more animal than man, it was the Olympian accent that marked it as familiar. That and the laboured volume with which it spoke in a dry, laborious manner- as if every word was a struggle to speak.

            A faint tap alternated to a private transmission with the Captains of the inner circle.

            “Preliminary reports, now.”

            Krateros of the First Line Company spoke first. His speech was fast and his voice at a normal pitch for mortal man. Anywhere else it might not have been noticeable but among Astartes, his voice was high pitched. “First Company reporting in. Sixty-seven of one hundred accounted for, my Lord.”

            Barrus of the Second Line Company was second. His speech was half spat as he tried to hide his contempt for his fellow Captains.

            “Second Company reporting. Forty of sixty awaiting orders, Warsmith.”

            “Third Company reporting. Thirty-one of eighty ready to serve, my Lord.” Xenophon said, the screaming in the background marring his call having silenced.

            Captain Tullaris came next. “Fourth Company reporting. Forty-four of ninety stand ready, my Lord.”

            “Fifth Company-“ the Captain’s voice burst into a howl as the whir of a chain blade revved into action and cut deep into flesh. It was a moment before he spoke again through heavy breaths. “Fifty-three of ninety-two reporting.” He ended his report with a curse.

            “Captain Mirak are you injured?” the dry, booming voice of the Warsmith asked.

            “I’ll live, my Lord.”

            “Good. Your wounds will be honoured.” He paused for a moment. “Where is Captain Daro?”

            Tullaris took the opportunity to answer him, not knowing what the other Captains knew. “Captain Daro is dead, my Lord. I have taken the tally of his warriors. Twelve of seventy-three heed their Warsmiths call.”

            “Thank you, Captain. We rally soon. Report to me on your arrival.” A faint click as he transferred back to the Grand Company channel. “Iron Within.”

            Together they answered, “Iron Without.”

 

The ride to the Spirit Breaker grew rougher as they drew near  The outskirts of the Grosskeipt had been a labyrinth of trenches and fortifications once. Trench lines crossed and turned in a mass of confusing pathways that funneled the enemy into chokepoints and kill zones surrounded by, and lost in the maze. At first the Dark Angels  and their auxiliaries had suffered greatly as they reached these lines, manned by thousands of cultists and renegade guardsmen.

            Those forces had been well trained, well stocked and prepared to fight to the last. They knew the labyrinth and they knew how to force their enemy into vulnerable positions to pick them off. In any other circumstance Captain Tullaris still would have called them a weak challenge for the Angels. However the men were emboldened and coordinated by more than tactical data. The sorcerers of the Seventh Grand Company had coordinated the minds of whole regiments themselves. It must have been utterly alien to have connected so many lives at the same moment, running them as a single unified organism. How the witches had managed to do this was beyond knowledge Oden had ever gleamed. All he knew was that with witch control they shouldn’t have broken when they did. Not mere days into the siege while the labyrinth itself was untested.

            Instead the Dark Angels had bludgeoned their way through the trenches in a direct path around the carefully planned killing spots of the IVth Legion. The third day dawned and the first rounds were fired from the main battlements, miles behind the front line dug into the earth. It was only after the fighting that all the sorcerers were found dead. Like so much else it seemed impossible to countenance. Too much had gone wrong too quickly.

            “Tell me, if not the others.” Arean’s voice came to him. He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the click of the channel opening.

            Oden looked at him through lenses of fire. “Tell you what?”

            “Did you expect to run today?”

            The Captain thought for a moment. Not about his answer – that was clear as his own name – but about whether he should.

            “Did you?”

            Arean grunted his disapproval. “Why should I care? We lost a fortress and the Legion loses a manufactorum. I still got to fight.”

            “That factory was important.”

            “Not to me. Now, have I earned your answer?”

            “No, I did not expect to.” Oden admitted after a long pause. “We should have lasted longer than twenty one days.” Outside, the rattle of combi-bolter fire erupted from the Rhino convoy. "Something isn't right." He switched channels.

            “On the guns Pyrrhus.”

            “At once.” The sergeant nodded and got to his feet, pulling open the hatch with a quick slide. Back to Arean.

            “You may have more fighting yet brother.”

            Pyrrhus stepped up onto the firing post and turned his head across the flanks of the convoy. Oden watched as he sat against the hull and another burst of gunfire erupted from outside. The sergeant spun his head and the turret to the target.

            “Contact, 200 meters! Left side!” He said.

            “What are they?” Arean asked. Mortez glanced at Tullaris. That sound in his voice. Too eager. Oden hung his head low.

            “Devastators. Engaging!” Pyrrhus roared over the torrent he unleashed. Bolts fell into the cabin of the transport and rattled off the ground in twisting arcs. Blood splattered from the pool across the floor as they dropped into it. The sergeant finished his first burst and Oden switched to listen to the 4^th Line vox channel.

            “Open up! Longer bursts!”

            “Reloading!”

            “Keep them pinned!” He recognized Pyrrhus’ voice as he opened up another volley. The roar of the bolters dragged on, ringing out over the convoy and within the rhinos themselves.

            “I want alternating fire on them! Three Rhinos fire, three reload! Acknowledge!” Tullaris recognised the voice. It was stern but still almost paternal. An absolute rarity in the likes of the 4^th Legion. Centurion Ves had long been charged with his Line’s mobile forces. That he directed the gunners now and in their flight from the Grosskeipt was a comfort. If anyone would get them to the Spirit Breaker unmolested it would be him.

            “Acknowledged!”

            “Incoming fire!”

            Oden heard the roar of gushing plasma fired out of the hateful weapons of the Imperium. He could hear the boiling of the semiliquid as it hurtled towards the convoy and the hiss it made as it washed over the ground near them. The spray from the miss flew through the air and Oden heard one of the tanks complain about splash damage. Thankfully nothing their armour couldn’t handle.

            The complaints were dropped when the sudden burst of a lascannon beam burned into the ground near a fleeing transport, and another seared past the head of Pyrrhus. Oden saw the Sergeant duck into the rhino. Had it been on target, he would have been too slow. Thank the Primarch it missed.

            “Return fire!” one of his men yelled.

            “Enemy down!” someone yelled.

            “Kill confirmed.” Pyrrhus said, coming back out on the turret. He fired another burst. It dragged on longer than normal and Oden could tell from his swivel on the gun that he was raking the surrounding trenches with rounds. Hopefully it did the job.

            “Enemy down!” Pyrrhus yelled over the gunfire. He laughed at the enemy as the combi-bolter expended its last rounds and he grabbed a drum of ammunition to slap into the weapon.

            “No kill. Target is wounded.” Centurion Ves said. Pyrrhus’ slowed his reload and slammed a fist into the roof of the rhino. Cursing to himself, he loaded and pulled back on the cocking handle to chamber a round. “No contacts. Full ahead to the rally point.”

            Oden would have to commend the Centurion for his work. He had got them through the Angel’s perimeter. Pyrrhus, in his frustration, stayed on the turret and scanned the surroundings. Tullaris could imagine the muddy trenches, barbed wire and rotting corpses scattered across them. He had seen it so many times, and always it was the same. It held no interest to him and he waited in silence as they arrived at the Spirit Breaker, the Land Raider heavy tank that bore the Warsmith.

Edited December 24, 2019 by GrimApostle

[Tarvek Val]

The scene-setting and dialogue in this piece is very well planned and commendable. You've really done a great job with these characters and I'm certainly interested in seeing how this piece progresses over the coming segments. Very well done, looking forward to Part Three.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

The scene-setting and dialogue in this piece is very well planned and commendable. You've really done a great job with these characters and I'm certainly interested in seeing how this piece progresses over the coming segments. Very well done, looking forward to Part Three.

 

Thank you! I really enjoy writing big ensemble scenes, but it does get complicated (for the writing, and for the reading). Part three should be up shortly.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

ROUTE

Part Three

 

 

... he waited in silence as they arrived at the Spirit Breaker, the Land Raider heavy tank that bore the Warsmith.

 

            The camp at which they arrived was a hasty fortification. The outer reaches were patrolled by ragged groups of survivors who stalked the muddy wastes up to eight hundred meters out, and hunted for the Angels who pursued them. They hung low to the ground, leering eyes sweeping over the smoke hazed horizon. They had vox checked with them and entered unmolested. Closer still, squads with heavy weapons sat in waiting at just over five hundred meters from the camp. Arrayed with all manner of weapons facing out into the barren lands beyond the Grosskeipt. At two hundred meters they had found a number of their warriors resting after the battle and their flight alongside half a dozen 'anti-air batteries' that had been hastily erected. In truth, they were little more than manually targeting havoc launchers pointed up into the dark clouds of their blighted world.

            Beyond the Astartes who recovered at the haphazard air defences, a large group of rhino transports and predator tanks were arrayed in a circle with all guns facing outwards. It was a porcupine of a defence, and had enough firepower to drive off attackers from any direction. With the arrival of the 4^th Line, this last defensive ring swelled with their additions and the troops disgorged and arrayed themselves to cover defensive arcs.

            Within these successive rings of defence was the Spirit Breaker. The last land raider of the 7^th Grand Company, it was garishly decorated in trophies of war dating back to the very beginnings of the Great Crusade. Alien skulls were pitted on spikes across the hull, staring out from empty sockets as the Iron Warriors ground new races and old foes into the dirt. Astartes, Eldar and crude Ork helms were chained to the hull in reminders of their victories. The blood that had stained them so long ago was little more than a fading black smear on the armoured hull. All of this paled in brutality against the Dark Angel nailed to the front of the war machine – the sole captive from the defence of their fallen fortress. His corpse hung in tatters. Riddled with bullet holes, an eye lens cracked and its chest torn open in a cruel blood eagle. The decorations almost invigorated the machine. Every time Oden neared it, the hum of its engine set his teeth on edge, and a low growl in the air pressed against his skull.

            Apart from the trophies – numerous and unsightly as they were – it was much the same as the Line Captain’s rhinos. There was no effort to paint over the dark metal that it had been forged from, save for the strips of worn golden plating that were later grafted into place.  Skulls of silver glared out at the world – the hallmark of the IV Legion. The clarity of the skull stood out from the mud that covered the rest of the vehicle. The cleaning of their symbol was one of their last traditions. The Legion had to keep something to bind it to its past.

            Tullaris was walking towards the vessel when he realized he was late. Xenophon was the first to notice him approaching and sidestepped to make room. Tullaris nodded his thanks as he reached up to disengage the seal on his helmet. A hiss sounded as he unclipped it, tucking it under his arm. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dry atmosphere and felt the fall of water on his bare head. Inside the transport, he hadn’t realized it was raining.

            “You haven’t missed much.” Xenophon whispered to him. The Warsmith continued without paying them notice.

            Xenophon was noticeably taller than them all. In his Terminator armour, the Warsmith loomed over his inner circle, but Xenophon reached eye level with him. His shoulders were broad, his chest and limbs were thick and he wore custom war plate. None other could fit the frame his armour required. Millenia ago it had made him a legend in the Legion – though few of those who once spoke of him knew he still lived. The iron of his plate was dark and scarred, spared the hasty replacements of a legionnaire, the Captain had been forced to make his custom armour last.

            “Your man okay?” Tullaris asked. Whoever had been screaming in the background of their earlier communion, it had been bad.

            Xenophon shook his head. “Bled out.” It was then that Captain Barrus finished his account of the battle.

            “As we fought in the courtyard we heard the dirge casters blaring the evacuation claxon. We fell back through the halls of the first level and proceeded to the 2^nd Line’s armoury on the east side of the fortress. From there we evacuated and returned fire as we left the citadel.” The Captain said, motioning to a hologlyphic projection that showed representative pieces moving across a landscape vaguely reminiscent of the Grosskeipt and the surrounding area.

            “The Ravenwing pursued us briefly but we lost them amongst the trenches.”

            Agathocles interrupted him. “Killed?”

            “Bogged down.” Barrus answered. “Or crashed. We weren’t close enough to tell.”

            “Continue.” The booming voice of the Warsmith answered. Agathocles didn’t raise his eyes from the projection as the hologlyphs raced across it.

            “We passed through the trench works, and out of the plateau through Carrion’s Gorge. When we emerged, we briefly detected an aerial pursuit but had nothing on the auspex.”

            “So they held air support in reserve and still broke through our walls.” Agathocles said. From his voice, Tullaris assumed he spoke to himself more than his captains. “Whatever they used to break through worked damn well.” Was that praise in his voice?

            “Perhaps, Lord, but it doesn't change where we stand now. It is a curiosity, nothing more.” came the dry, hoarse voice of Mirak. It was not that his voice was deep, but the scratching and scarring on his throat had worsened it more than the passage of time.

            “Not if they play such a card again. Are we so confident they can not do so at whim?” Xenophon asked.

            “Afraid, Captain?” Barrus asked. Oden could almost see the grin across his face. That fanged smirk. He wanted to tear it from his face.

            “I might ask you the same Barrus. Your men were first in their vehicles as I recall.” There was a murmur of agreement but all of them had the care to not take this further. Not in the presence of the Warsmith.

            “As it is Xenophon, I would hear of your record next.” Agathocles motioned to him with his hand, waving him onwards. The towering Astarte presented his account clearly, as he always had. It had taken Oden many years to get such a grasp of their wider battles as Xenophon had mastered. For Tullaris every fight became a flurry of swords, blood and curses. 

            Xenophon explained the battle in the detail of an understudy who knows his role as well as the mentor. Better perhaps, in his own way. Xenophon could see the battle from the eyes of those who fought it. Agathocles had lost that capacity when he took command of a thousand warriors.  The dwindling remnant of some two-hundred and fifty was still a burden.

            His men had been spread among the auxiliaries as ordered and directed them with ease for the first two days. On the sixth day they had found the auxiliaries were slow to react to orders. The first wave of that day was repelled with higher casualties than the previous two days combined and a much greater reliance on the Iron Warriors themselves. By the ninth, the auxiliary line had all but collapsed and entire platoons dropped out of contact. The 3rd Line fell back towards the Keep and found themselves cut off and ambushed.

            Seeing the survivors return to the citadel had been a hard moment for us all. To see our brothers bloodied and many of them broken by the newborn babes of a chapter not fit for the name of a legion was a bitter pill. Worse was seeing their banner in a mangled tatter. A banner that had flown in proud conquest atop the walls of the Imperial Palace was a shredded scrap. Tullaris wondered if it had been lost in the evacuation. Such a waste.

            The 3rd Line had taken up positions on the west walls and held despite their casualties - until the wall buckled beneath them. That had cost them more warriors than fighting the Angels had. Such a fate had befallen some of his own warriors. None of them envied such an inglorious end. There was nothing in it that was worthy of them. After the collapse, Xenophon had led his men in a gradual fall back towards his Line’s armoury. Upon reaching it they left under suppressive fire and claimed an engine kill against a Predator tank. During the transit to the Spirit Breaker he had lost half a dozen men to their injuries.

            Oden followed with his story much the same as those previous. He had seen the wall collapse and detailed the mystery of it, and of the sudden failing of the mortal fodder they had clogged the trench works full of. Neither of it made any sense to him - and he made sure to voice such concerns. In millennia of warfare he had never seen such a sudden rout of a prepared force. It was wholly unnatural.

 

            Fires roared over the barking call of bolterfire and the thunder clap of explosive ordnance. Black towers that once rose a hundred of feet had crumbled into rubble strewn across the grounds, and deep scars in the earth marred what had been a grand courtyard of white marble and gold. Smoke billowed from the carcass of the fortress and blackened the dark skies of an already stormy planet. The skittering Neverborn danced and flickered in the sky for moments before they faded out of existence - crude reflections of emotion unfolding in the carnage below. The outer walls were covered in such creatures. Blurring masses of green and blue that vanished as spontaneously as they appeared. To watch them was to see confusion itself. To see the outer walls made why clear.

            The walls of the Grosskeipt had once been a towering ring of double lined defences. The outer walls had been sloped to deflect incoming tank and artillery fire away from the battlements, gun nests built into its sides halfway up the walls at twenty meter spacings, and a full line of battlements to man the top of the wall. The inner wall was a taller and pure vertical barrier mounted by wider battlements and artillery emplacements at every hundred meters. Between the double-lined fortification was a deep trench of mines and sharpened spike pits. Breaching the outer walls would be bloody enough. Crossing the open killzone to reach the second line would be an almost more brutal affair.

            Captain Tullaris looked on at the gaping hole that was the double lined walls that protected the keep’s courtyard itself. It wasn’t possible. They had simply crumbled - as if from the inside out. The shock of it was still washing over him when he saw the first of the bone-white clad figures marching through the breach in hulking armour. More than normal Astartes, these were lethal men. The Deathwing of the Dark Angels. The vox was in  a flurry of activity with reports and medic summons and calls for order when the warning claxon sounded over their home.

             ‘So soon?’ Oden whispered to himself. The first figure emerged through the whirling dust and smoke to unleash a shoulder mounted missile pack against the Iron Warriors.

              'So soon ...' The ground shuddered beneath the Captain’s feet as he felt the impact from their firing plumes and the erupting ball of flame high up the Grosskeipt. The thunder died down as more figures emerged and his mind focused on the siren. He knew the signal.

            ‘All squads, FRACTURE. I repeat, all squads, FRACTURE. Full withdrawal in effect.’

 

            Mirak finished his exposition with more confusion than the others. Being on the northeast side he had been completely unawares when the wall fell in the west. He could at least shed some light on the loss of the 6th Line. Captain Daro had come under a heavy assault in the east when the call to retreat went out. Pinned down along the battlements he and his men elected to fight a rearguard action and hold the Angels at the fortress. Only twelve of his seventy-three men fought their way out.

            “I would advise summary execution.” He said. His voice was wet and he spat a wad of blood into the dirt as he finished his piece. “They left their Captain, and their Line to die.”

            “Are you so certain, as to cost us more warriors today?” Tullaris snapped through his mechanical jaw. “We’re reduced by a third of our number and you want throw more of us into the ground?”

            “They’re useless if they ran from Captain Daro. How many men will they cost us if they abandon their post in the next engagement?” Barrus concurred.

            “Do we know they ran? Daro could have ordered them to pull out.” Xeno’s voice was calm and measured. Like always.

            Agathocles remained fixated on the hologlyphic projection in front of him.  The arrayed Iron Warriors were marked by grinning skulls in a bright blue that bathed them all in a sapphire light. Only Agathocles, looming over the ruined image of the Grosskeipt was shrouded in the ruby red glow of the Dark Angels sigils.

            “Krateros?” he asked.

            The First Captain turned his tusked war helm from Mirak. No one had noticed he was watching the Captain of the Fifth. “Warsmith. I do not believe Daro would leave his whole company to die with him. Even so, who knows what happened out there? We’ve had no reason to doubt the Sixth before. I see no reason to begin now.”

            “There isn’t a Sixth left.” Barrus said.

            “You are correct.” came the Warsmith’s voice. “Both of you. I’m not willing to lose more of our brothers than we already have, but the Sixth Line Company is dead. The twelve survivors will be folded into another company. The third or the fourth, work it out between the two of you.” He nodded to Xeno and Tullaris, raising his head from the projection for the first time. His helmet stared at them in turn and slowly he looked around the gathered officers.

            “We have lost a fortress and one of our companies. Our tribute to Medrengard is destroyed, and all we have is what we carry here.” He paused and looked back to the projection, nodding to himself. “Our time here is done, brothers. I shall call the Last Forge to take us off-world. If we move quickly it can evacuate us without further trouble from the these scions of the first.”

            “And go where, my Lord?” Xeno asked the question for them all.

            Agathocles barked through his helmet.

            “There is a gathering.” The Warsmith answered.

Edited December 24, 2019 by GrimApostle

[Llagos_Tyrant]

 

OOC: Back after a long hiatus.

 

Of Lions and Men

Part One

 

 

The observation deck of the Hunters Claw was a sanctum in the white starred canvas of the void. Windows on all sides peered out into the endless expanse of space, dark but for the distant vessels clustered around a stellar fortress. Their blinking lights and the faint blue sheen of void shields were surrounded by the burning orange and yellow trails of engines on a low-yield, synchronous burn. Many were warships, capable of intensive firepower. Many more were transports bearing tens of thousands of mortal men and women, clad in the blocky green, grey, and black fatigues and armour of the Imperial Guard. 

            To the figure standing at the edge of space, with his palm up against the observation platform window, this was all ceremony. He had seen it a dozen times before. A dozen crusades against a host of Orks, Xenos, Traitors and Heretics. All had fallen before the might of the Imperium. This gathering was not so glorious an affair. As much as it was the same, it was different. It was a punishment.

            “How long have you been waiting for me?” came a woman’s voice in the dark. The voice was soft and calm. It was gentle. It was a trick.

            “How long have you been watching?” he answered. He didn’t turn to face her. He looked at his own image in the dark. The reflection still unnerved him. 

            The scars of the last battle would never fade. Deep gashes marked his face, red and raw. He had suffered the cleaning of his wounds, but he would not let his face be repaired. He would not shirk this mark of his sins.

            He wore the ash white and black trim of his brotherhood on an ancient set of armour. It was bulky, heavier and more intricate, with designs and commemorations far beyond that of his subordinates. It marked his status and magnified his presence twice over. His brother space marines rose to an intimidating seven feet and were twice as broad as the strongest mortals he had met. In their armour they stood at seven and a half feet, broad again by a quarter. In his armour, Linnaeus rose to nine feet and was broader than his brothers. Arcane technologies, thick plates of the strongest metals, ash-tassled pauldrons and an inlaid personal shield system marked it as a relic. Enclosed in his armour’s almost invulnerable and amplifying embrace, he struck like a god with his power axe, though it was absent from his person. 

          Hearing her voice, he almost wished he clutched its shaft in his hands now. He could feel its grip, the handle wrapped in the leather of xenos hide – even through his gauntlets, spiked along the knuckles. He felt the weight of it, comfortable and familiar as he raised it. His arms were strong, and his skill was true. Raise the axe the size of a man, and let it fall. A single swing was all he needed. 

 

            He refocused his thoughts on the reflection before him. His left pauldron bore the black lion sigil of the Lions Defiant Astartes. The right was a relic of the heresy, his shoulder guard covered with pointed spikes. His helm was white, clipped at his hip, and marked with black painted clawmarks over sapphire lenses. They were one of two honour markings on his armour - the second were two strips of black down his left chest.

            His shoulders were framed by a white spotted cloak of black Weir Leopard fur. His right kneeguard was black and bore a white numeral six. As Captain of the sixth company it was his honour to bear the number. His men would bear the colours in reverse to mark them out, but he alone would have the white on black. Crimson blood splatter covered his armour and a smeared red hand dragged down his left arm. His thoughts emptied as he stared at it. Not the grey ceramite that showed through in the chips of his armour, nor the black scorch marks of bolter fire. The hand.

               “Long enough.” she answered, making sure to stay out of the dim flood lights that hung overhead. “How long?” she asked again.

            “I don’t know.” he said. It was an honest answer. How long ago had he entered the sanctum? How long had he stared at his own reflection? He had watched the lights of the warp flicker before him, he’d seen the fiery death of Gorodda, and he’d watched the gathering crusaders. For how long? “It doesn’t matter.” he decided.

            “I told you there was nothing you could do. I told you what would happen.”

            “I told you I didn’t care.”

            “And you were wrong.” He bowed his head as she spoke. He hated her kind and their endless condescension. He snarled as he turned to face the room.

            “There was a way. Something you missed. Something you kept from me.”

            “Why would I hide such a thing? We have a pact.”

            “I believe you have a great many reasons-“ he stepped towards the center of the room, casting his eyes across the room to find here “-to hide a great many things. How do I know that what you tell me is honest? How many times has your kind tricked mine?” How many times has your kind killed mine? He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need too.

            “Too many.” she conceded. “But I am not them. My people have hidden themselves. My kin know nothing of us.”

            He barked a harsh laugh at that. “So you have said, with little but your assurances to convince me.”

            “You have had ample opportunity to raise these doubts before, human. Why is this an issue now?”

             “Because my people died at Gorodda! My men!” Flashes of the burning cities played through his mind. The girl, a bloodied wretch, pawing at his hand. He looked at the bloody mark on his gauntlet. My honour died with them. “Tell me why I should let you leave this room alive.” He growled.

            She laughed at him. “You can try to kill me Captain but know you will fail. I can see your steps before you take them – and, for sake of argument, even if you succeeded … you will need my help in this Crusade.”

            He scanned the dark but couldn’t find her.

            “Explain.” he demanded, his voice coarse.

           She stepped into the light from his left and he turned. She wore no armour, only a flowing black dress dotted with gems like stars in a constellation he didn’t recognize. He knew it was out there, somewhere in the vastness of space. But it was unfamiliar to him. She had long flowing black hair that ran down her back and framed her petit face. She was unnaturally slender and tall for a human woman. Hers was an alien beauty, that even the Captain could recognize. She walked closer and he saw the pale jewels she wore around her neck glint in the false light.

            “Linnaeus.” she smiled. “Dear Captain.” She feigned a gasp as she walked closer to him and reached up to him. He snatched her hand from his skin. “Gentle.” she smirked. Her eyes ran over his face as they had done so many times in the past. So many years. So many wars. “Such scars.” she said, her voice growing somber. His aquiline nose and proud jaw glowered back at her.

            “Do not mock me, Farseer.”

            “You have truly lingered in this sanctum too long if you cannot find sympathy in my voice.” He didn’t know what to say to that. He had lingered too long. His brothers had needed him. “Your face is harder than usual.” She said. He released her hand from his grasp and felt her run it along his cheek. He watched her as her eyes followed the blood on his armour down to the helm on his waist. She saw the hand.

            “I’m sorry.” she said. He looked at her with hard eyes. There was always deception with the Eldar. Where was it?“She loved you. The mere sight of you, and she loved you like salvation itself.” Could there be none? “How did she die?”

            “Not well.” he answered. She bowed her head and said something in her alien tongue.

            “We owe this to her. To all of your kind. To all of mine.” She said. “This pact is for the betterment of both our peoples.”

            “You keep calling it that.” He growled. “There are no pacts between Lions and men.”

            She chuckled then, cooing like a dove. Her words, when they came, were tender, but sure. “Where would you be without me? Where would your Chapter be? The valour you value so highly would have been the death of you ages ago.”

            “Discipline has kept me alive.” he admitted.

            “Discipline to heed my words.”

            Discipline not to take your head. He reached up to run a finger along her face. He brushed her hair aside and stared at the curved ears, pointed like knives. He watched her as she reached up to pull his finger away.

            “Hush, Captain. Hush now and hold your peace. You wanted prophecy did you not?” She reached up to whisper in his ear, her voice as smooth as velvet. When the words came his mind flooded with the images of a future reckoning, and his eyes rolled up into his head.

 

            Linnaeus swung his axe in a wide arc, disemboweling the pair of brothers in front of him. They were clad in vestiges of beige cotton over dark green armour. Hoods hid their faces but through the dark he could see the red glow of their eye lenses. He stepped over their corpses and brought his axe round and down upon the shoulder of a lemon yellow warrior, bisecting him as the corpse dropped the chain sword in his hands and fell to his knees.

            The blood of brothers gushed at his feet and he heard the fighting all around him. Ahead he saw a warrior in purple armour with a silver trim scorching dozens of Imperial Guardsmen in a swathe of green lightning They fell to their knees as their blood boiled and their eyes burst in their head. The screams tore at him and he looked away.

            He saw a burning hive world, its streets coated in fire and rubble. Corpses littered the ground and a river of blood ran across the road and into the gutter. The sky was alight with the bright reflection of a city aflame. Beyond it and through the heavens themselves he could see the Eye of Terror leering down at the carnage below, peering through the clouds – as if parting them with a will of its own. 

          No, not the Eye – it was closer still, perhaps even within the system itself. Was it a tear in reality? The chasm above him splintered and grew, cracks in realspace gripped like fingers prying open a door. Darkness came forth - daemons on black wings soared to the burning hive city, across the gulf between dimensions.

            Beyond the stars, in the depths of the Warp, something moved. Something began to coalesce.

          Linnaeus tore his eyes from the scene and ran ahead, the sounds of battle ringing in his ears. Rounding the corner of a fallen building he looked ahead to see a warrior in red and a cloak of scales duelling a warrior in ashen grey and sea foam green. Those he recognized unmistakably. The Panthers Rampant were a sister Chapter to his own. There in the duel, wielding his shimmering blades, was the Captain Telemon. The red warrior he fought, Linnaeus didn’t recognize - but the movement of Telemon was unfamiliar as well. He fought with a new savagery. Unrestrained, raw, brutal, pure savagery. It was hateful, and glorious.

               Beyond them he saw warriors in in shadows hacking into Space Marines with the black armour and iron hands of Ferrus’ stoic sons.

            All around him was chaos and madness. Brother fought against brother. He looked to the side and at last noticed the warrior in shadowed blue armour and bright grey robes approaching him. He smiled and raised his hands in friendship, lowering his axe. 

            He didn’t see the knife as it slammed into the joints of the armour around his neck, but as he choked on his own blood and fell to one knee he saw the grin on the warriors face. He saw the red and yellow stain of warp taint in his eyes, and a reflection of himself he couldn’t bear. He saw the pleasure that he took in his own murder.

 

            The Captain gasped for breath and collapsed to one knee. He shuddered in the Farseer’s embrace as his sight returned to the moment of the present. The Eldar was speaking before he could gather his senses.

            “This is the future we walk. A future where the Crusade breaks. Where you and your brothers all die.” She said. Her face soured as he kept shaking. She spoke of the fate of her people, bound to the Crusade. “If we don’t change it, we all die.” She explained. His head ached, and the pain rose, and he groaned. “Are you listening to me?” she yelled.

            “Yes!” he howled. The pain. That head splitting pain. There always was after she reached into his mind.

            “This is the future of your Crusade as it is. This is the future you’re led to by an Angel. You have to remember that. It’s carved in blood into the coming days. He cannot be named Master of the Crusade. Do you understand? You cannot let him lead.” She spoke quickly. It hurt. Emperor, everything hurt.

            He reached up and pressed his fingers and thumbs into his forehead. “Who then?” He managed in between ragged breaths.

            “I don’t know their names, but there are others. Most will fault themselves before the time to choose. There is another angel who could lead, or a phantom, it’s not clear. There’s a fire, or a flame – that one would do well. A bleeding heart? but it’s not clear. Whatever happens, do not let that Angel lead your army. That is all you have to remember. Am I clear?”

            “Clear?” he asked. “Your words are vague and meaningless. I cannot tell a nameless Angel from another.” He closed his eyes and shook with every breath. “Do you know many of our brothers are in the company of Angels?” he asked, incredulous. “I’ll find the others.” He shuddered as she wrapped an arm over his shoulder and held him close.“Damn you.” he whispered through the pain. “ Damn you Elowhyn.”

            She smiled into the dark.

Edited December 24, 2019 by GrimApostle