Hi this is a story set in my Age of Horus alternative history version of Warhammer 40k.https://www.heresy-online.net/forums/...d.php?t=111743
. No where near finished so let me know what you think
The New Order
The winds of Norvus wracked the warrior's topknot furiously. This world was dying. Good then, he thought absently. His sea-green armour stood in stark contrast to the blood-tinged skies, and was covered in fetishes and ornate, forbidden runes. His ceramite plate was worn in places, punctured by bullet holes and deep, rust-covered indentations. Crimson stained scrolls and oath-papers clung to his armour. He was standing on a raised mound, consisting of blackened bones and the litter of war.
Banners of every colour, of every kind, whipped at his back. His retinue of battle-scarred brothers, a gang of bloodthirsty and damned souls, waited for his words with barely restrained frenzy.
‘Move the Brigades out. Bring me the Unbeliever’s head,’ said the warrior, his voice fierce and filled with dark authority.
‘By your command.’
His fellow Captains relayed the order throughout the assembled force. Cruel and vicious barks into the various vox-pieces followed, and five thousand gene-altered horrors roared their inhuman approval.
Markus screamed as a shell exploded in the trench less than ten metres from him. Blood and mud showered him, and the screams of his fellows joined his own. His ears... his nose... all his senses were bleeding. He fumbled for his las-rifle, his nervous fingers slipping on the soaked weapon. He was drenched and lost. Command was gone. Obliterated. Wiped out. He looked out across the tortured, bombed-out plains before him and wept.
Markus wasn’t a cowardly man; he was too old for it. In the raging battlefields of Terra he had witnessed things that would never leave him, millennia before the dream of a prosperous Imperium even drew its first breath. On the blasted sands of Veridus he watched as men he once called brothers, attack and feast upon one another. He had seen whole worlds die, families and communities butchered and sacrificed on the altar of the insane. He lived now in an age without the Emperor, an age where the helpless dared not hope.
However, one thousand fully-armoured, screaming aberrations, who howled dark oaths of allegiance and servitude to their dark masters, caused Markus to soil his breeches.
He turned and ran for his pitifully insignificant life. Men died in droves as he passed them, and blood hung in the air like a charnel house. A River of red streamed along the uneven ground, and pooled in craters of all sizes.
The city outskirts weren’t far, thought Markus. If he could just reach there he might have a miniscule chance of surviving this killing field. He saw his senior hetman lying on his back, half-submerged in the mud and blood. On a second inspection, however, the man was merely missing the lower portion of his body.
Bolter rounds shredded two men in front of him, and he stumbled past their eviscerated bodies. The roar of chainblades, and the ‘hum-sizzle’ of power weapons ripping flesh and spilling vital fluids, filled the crumbling frontlines. He gasped for air as fear carried him further than stamina ever could.
Hundreds of men were dying, their screams and cries echoing into the pink-tinged sky. A desperate cheer snatched Markus’ attention to the fore, as massive, rumbling engines gave the battered soldiers a moment’s hope. Markus kept going, those battle-tanks wouldn’t hold back the horrors for long. He passed the first tank in ten achingly long seconds, its familiar, massive frame doing nothing to reassure him. He could hear the monstrosities chanting about the planet's impending destruction.
Sound fled the world as its gigantic battle-cannons unleashed hell upon the enemy warriors. Markus stumbled and fell hard. Landing in water mingled with blood and brain matter shook him from his daze, and his senses composed themselves. He pulled himself from the small pool and picked up his rifle.
He ran. He ran with dozens of others. Hundreds of others followed as the main bulk of the enemy charge mauled the frontline. Risking a glance back, Markus saw dark shapes clamber over the awe-inspiring battle-tank he had passed merely minutes before. They tore it apart, literally.
One carried a torn and ragged banner, adorned with spikes and barbs. Painted on its blood-soaked cloth was an all-seeing eye. Markus felt a shiver reach down his spine.
Doomed men had turned back to fire at the assailants, but their rounds pinged harmlessly off the warriors’ black armour plating or were lost in a mist of otherworldly energy as they struck canine and feline shapes. Laughter bubbled up to mix with the howling of the dying.
The horrors had caught them.
Nothing remained of the frontlines and this was what was left, Markus realised. He touched his worn, ancient necklace and accepted his fate. His fear left him in an instant, as he realised that his life had probably been long enough. Twenty thousand years was quite old, he thought. He prayed to his God as a twisted, corrupted bolter round hit him square in the chest.