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post #1 of 18 (permalink) Old 07-10-10, 11:31 AM Thread Starter
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Okay, in this collection, I'll post a load of short stories that I work on. These will include entries for Read in a Rush on Black Library Bolthole, Heresy Online Expeditious Contest entries, and of course, random short stories that I feel like writing. (ala How to Die, Black Rage and An End Worthy of a Song).

Quote:
Contents:

Blood Angels:

Black Rage 1745 words, finished. (post 2)

Imperial Guard:

How to Die 651 words, finished. (post 3)
Emperor's Blood 1010 words, finished. (Post 5)
Fort Indomitable 1096 words, finished (Post 12)

Black Templars:

An End Worthy of a Song 370 words, finished. (Post 4)

Inquisitors:

The Tower 1011 words, finished (Post 7)

Renegades:

Vegeance For The Lost, 1061 words, finished (Post 13)
The Grandfather, 1094 words, finished (Post 14)

Horus Heresy:

Final Hour, 1168 words, finished, (Post 8)

Warhammer Fantasy:

Night of the Hunter 1004 words, finished. (Post 6)

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post #2 of 18 (permalink) Old 07-15-10, 06:19 PM Thread Starter
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Table of Contents - Continued:

Quote:
Iron Fists:

Winter's End - 1100 words, finished (Post 15)

Black Rage
A Blood Angels Short Story

“Sanguinius. It should have been him. He has the vision and strength to carry us to victory, and the wisdom to rule once victory is won. For all his aloof coolness, he alone has the Emperor's soul in his blood. Each of us carries part of our father within us, whether it is his hunger for battle, his psychic talent or his determination to succeed. Sanguinius holds it all. It should have been his...” -- The Warmaster Horus

“...THAT IS WHY I will the Spearhead,” announced Captain Castigon, to the Knights of Baal, the Blood Angels fourth company, each warrior assembled in organised ranks stretching out in front of him on the Strike Cruiser. “For the Emperor and Sanguinius!”

His fellow Blood Angels roared in agreement, as Castigon continued, “Ready your Drop Pods. We have some killing to do.” Upon that statement, the Blood Angels rushed off, and Castigon led his command squad down the steps and away from the bridge, to their Drop Pod.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Castigon heard a marine boast as he readied his power weapon, looking at his squad mates from inside the Drop Pod. On his left was his Champion, the Noble Levix. Castigon had known Levix before they were Astartes, and Castigon trusted his Champion with his life. Opposite was the calm Reordan, a blond haired Apothecary of many campaigns. Next to Reordan was Aslec, a swordsman, proud and arrogant. On the other side of Reordan stood the Astartes who bore the Knights of Baal’s banner, Santos. Next to Santos was the final member of the Command Squad, Enacius, a bald headed man with two lightning claws who was skilled in close combat and preferred to enter battle without his helmet. Standing on the right of Castigon was a Chaplain assigned to his company, Dominius. The skull which had once been covered in flesh was the only part of his body un-armoured. The final Marine in the Drop Pod was Jenico, their white helmeted Sanguinary Priest.

Klaxons rang out throughout the ship, signifying the launch of the drop pods. The Fourth would not be alone in this fight as they had requested the aid of Terminators, and some Death Company warriors joined them to try and gift themselves with what they wanted; Death, a glorious Death on the battlefield.

It was then that the Drop Pods launched, the noise becoming so loud that the Sons of Sanguinius had to shout to hear themselves inside the transport, but other than the Chaplain shouting words of encouragement, there was nobody that made a sound.

When the Drop Pod finally hit the ground, Captain Castigon and his Command Squad burst out of the Drop Pod, looking for their enemy. They were immediately thrown into the thick of the fighting, with Blood Angels and the opposition alike exchanging blows that would bring down each other.

“For the Emperor!” bellowed Dominius, breaking apart the alien that he was fighting with ease. “These Xenos will relinquish the day of their creation!”

“I have come to destroy you,” Ancient Seifel bellowed, unleashing a torrent of flame upon the enemy, killing the swarming foe. “You will fall by my hand.”

Suddenly, several missile barrages whizzed overhead Captain Castigon, informing him that the Thunderhawks had deployed the artillery, a mixture of Thunderfire Cannons and Whirlwinds. Castigon pushed forward, an alien meeting its end on the blade known as Slayer. The Fourth Captain smiled as blood spat across his visor, looking at the sea of dead xenos lying crumpled on the floor below him.

“For Sanguinius and the Emperor!” The ancient bellowed the warcry of the Chapter, unleashing itself upon the defenders with no mercy, as they were alien. They were a threat to the Imperium, and they deserved none. The Space Marines weren’t called the Angels of Death for nothing.

It was then that Castigon heard a cry that he recognised. It was Santos, who had fallen to several Xenos at once. The aliens who had killed the noble Marine were gunned down in response, as Reordan reached to pick up the fallen banner. Whilst a member of the Fourth lived, their banner would hold.

“Jenico!” ordered Castigon, and his Sanguinary Priest answered the call, pushing aside the alien to extract Santos’s Geneseed. The Fourth Captain and his command squad moved to cover him.

“Squad Borath!” Castigon called to the neighbouring Tactical Squad. “Push up with Forax and take the left. You’ll have some fire support from-“

Castigon was suddenly cut off as something materialised in front of him. Not something, some one. And there was more than one of them, causing his command Squad to scatter in front of the ten xenos that had just appeared out of thin air. “To me, Sons of Sanguinius!”

Enacius was the first to reach his Captain’s aid, lightning claws ripping apart the enemy with unyielding fury. He tore apart one, blood spraying across the muddy battlefield in all directions, like when a rain drop hits the floor. One-by-one Castigon’s command squad joined him, and they beat back the aliens, causing them to withdraw to their own lines.

The battlefield was a mess, with both sides brawling for dominance on the blood soaked fields. Once this world had been beautiful. There had once been fauna teeming these fields, not warriors battling for dominance. The xenos that had been on this world were a peaceful species, living nomadic lives, preferring to see many places rather than remain still behind walls. But they had fearsome allies, and it was these allies that came to the threatened species aid when the Imperium first appeared in system.

“You are the Knights of Baal!” bellowed Dominius, gunning down an xeno, rallying a place in the line where the Blood Angels were weak. “You are the defenders of the Imperium and you shall know no fear!”

The outnumbered Blood Angels roared, redoubling their strength and charging back into the enemy. ‘This is how war should be,’ reflected Castigon, as he plunged his sword into the nearest xeno, ripping it out again, swirling around and unleashing bolt pistol shots at the rest of them. ‘Against outnumbered enemy on some unknown xenos world with my brothers’.

“Captain,” the Sanguinary Priest spoke, coming alongside him. “We have two more Brothers down. Brother Lupis of Squad Borath was incinerated by some sort of heavy weapon so I couldn’t recover his geneseed, and Brother Raal, also of Squad Borath, died trying to avenge him. I managed to get Raal’s geneseed.”

“The Emperor watches over them,” was all Castigon had to say before he was caught back in the thick of the fighting, slaying the xenos, but for each that was brought down, two more would take its place.

“You shall feel my wrath,” intoned Seifel, ripping apart a xenos and purging another merely by standing on him.

It was Castigon who spotted the threat to the Ancient before anyone else. A rocket, fired by the enemy hurtling towards the Dreadnought with unstoppable force.

“Brother Seifel!” warned Castigon, but before he could reach the Dreadnought in time, there was a sickening explosion, bits of xenos and marine body alike being flung in all directions.

‘My... my brothers’, Castigon mourned, climbing to his feet. He looked around at the tide of blood, body and vehicle parts that littered the fields. He saw the Company’s Banner, lying where Brother Reordan had fallen, caught in the old ones blast. His first response was to reach it, and reach it he did, shrugging off enemy fire as a new strength found him. He looked around for survivors, who were rallying to the banner. He noticed Sergeant Forax, leading two more members of his squad to join his Captain. There was no sight of Sergeant Borath. “All squads take cover!” bellowed Castigon, as another rocket could be seen in the sky.

But there was no cover to be found, not in these blood soaked fields. He would die here, and he knew it. This was the day that his Company would fall, and this would be the day that he would fall. “The Emperor watches over us!” Dominus bellowed, shortly before being hit by the next rocket from the xenos’ deadly arsenal.

Castigon looked around in dismay. His brothers were dropping like flies, as the xenos redoubled their assault. “You shall not take our banner,” vowed The Captain, hoisting the banner to make one final stand with the five survivors. Five remained, including himself, out in the open. An entire battle company with support, massacred in mere hours. He transmitted one final message via the vox system to the surviving brothers. “Die Well, Knights of Baal. Die Well.”

Then, Castigon turned around to see a huge alien, bigger than all the rest, presumably the commander, howling in victory as it clawed through a Terminator Armoured Veteran of the First Company. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. How did the Fourth manage to be decimated in something so quickly? It would be a stain on the Chapter’s Honour. He had hoped for a glamorous death at the hands of the archenemy, performing some last act of heroism. Heroism. Castigon brought out his last meltabomb, and with one final act of defiance, detonated his grenade, killing himself and the xenos leader.

He had been the last member of the fourth to live, and he had ended the battle in self sacrifice. Without their leader, the horde would dissemble and be reduced for easy prey for the Guard, or the other Companies that would come to avenge his death.


The scene changed, now depicting a titanic battle between two Demi-Gods, one a fallen, twisted embassy of Chaos, and the other, a winged, proud and noble Primarch. Not just any Primarchs were these, for they were Sanguinius and the Warmaster, the arch traitor, Horus. Sanguinius struck Horus in the arm, causing his fallen brother to halt his attack for a moment, redoubling with more fury. “You shall have regretted this decision, brother,” Horus rasped, plunging his weapon into the loyalists’ stomach, causing the Primarch of the Blood Angels to scream in pain.

But the dead Sanguinius wasn’t the only one screaming. It was Castigon, awakening from his sleep on the eve of battle. But he was now changed by the time he fully awoke. No longer was he a normal Captain. Nor did he desire to live anymore.

He wasn’t life.
He was death.

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post #3 of 18 (permalink) Old 12-11-10, 08:31 AM Thread Starter
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I apologise for the necro-bump, but I didn't think that this was worthy of a new thread, you know, just for a 651 word story.

How to Die
An Imperial Guard Short Story

IN THE FORTY-first millennium, you do not know how you’re going to die. When you’re born, you don’t know if you’re going to be a hero, or if you’re going to be a traitor. You don’t know if you’re just going to be a rank-file trooper, or not even a warrior at all. You could, if the fates smiled on you, die as a member of the adeptus astartes, the Emperor’s Finest, on some important world fighting for your beloved chapter. After all, everyone dies eventually. It’s just a question of where, and how. It’s not a question of when.

Lasgun shots littered up the air as the xenos advanced through the narrow ridge in their thousands. They were beyond number, but still, they were constantly being pushed back by the Guard, but for every one that was brought down, two more leapt forward to tear and slay.

“For the Emperor!” bellowed Colonel Ambras, a ‘lifer,’ who had survived countless of battles, that had seen him promoted to the commander of the Malstad 22nd. He was in his late fifties now, and had lived longer than the life expectancy of a standard Guardsman. His grey hair was cut short, and he was riding atop his horse, like the traditional generals of Malstad, shouting Warcries to his men and using his beloved Powersword to kill any that came close. So far, every blow had been accurate, every hit had been on target. It was hard to miss, after all. “Let them fear the Imperium of Man, and the might of the God-Emperor! Do not let any xenos filth take what is rightfully ours! For the Emperor!”

Basilisk shells ripped through the air, the trio of tanks that were positioned behind the main line, bringing down xenos after xenos in their droves. They were so deep in the valley that some of the xenos were crawling up the side. Colonel Ambras thrust his powersword into the air, as the xenos reached the front line of troops. He knew it would happen eventually, there were just too dammed many of them.

And, despite all praying, he knew it was only the first wave. He knew that there would be Tyranid after Tyranid that would be pouring over the hill and into the valley, and they would grow stronger by the second. He watched his men fall below him, men that he had fought with for decades. Men that he had watched grow up, Men, that he was now watching die with him.

“You will hold your ground! Think of Malstad! Think of our homeworld! You will fight for the honour of your homeworld, 22nd! And you will fight for the God-Emperor!” Ambras brought down his Powersword into xenos flesh, ripping apart the crude infrastructure of the white coloured alien that sought to try and eat his horse. They were reaching his lines now, the lines behind the very first. All of the men there, a good fifty odd, had fallen. And they would not be getting up again. Once more, Ambras flung himself heroically into the fray. He would not give up, he would not retreat – he would die with the Emperor’s name on his lips.

Suddenly, the Colonel was flung of his horse as the ground was ripped into pieces below him. He felt his Powersword being detached from his hands and spiralling across the floor, where a nearby trooper saw it, and picked it up. The trooper was devoured shortly afterwards.

Colonel Moran Ambras saw none of this, however. He was dead when the first claw of the large xenos ripped through his body, causing his blood to spew everywhere as his body was massacred again and again. But before his death he had realized something, something that had escaped his attention for fifty years. He had always expected to live, and never die at the hands of several xenos. Or even, one for that matter.

But in the forty first millennium, it does not matter if you die. It is just a question of how and when.

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post #4 of 18 (permalink) Old 12-17-10, 10:40 AM Thread Starter
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Now, I present to you, a very short Black Templars story. Enjoy. Also, Due to editing, this may be even shorter in word length.

An End Worthy of a Song
~A Black Templar Short Story~

“My... My Brothers,” the fearsome, black and white armoured adeptus astartes hurled himself from the destroyed fortress, still aflame. He looked around at the burning corpses, and he was filled with hatred at the xenos bastards that had done this. ‘How... how did it come to this?’

He saw that several Orks had survived the blast, the blast that had levelled the fortress and ended the lifespan of his brothers. Fixing his attention back to the greenskins, the Templar knew that they were recovering from their shock.

And it was then that they saw him, the last survivor of the crusade force stationed on Thestus IV, the last Black Templar on the planet.

Against an army of a thousand orks, according to the data stored in his helmet. It was a small relief that it wasn’t damaged. But it was nothing compared to the lives of his brothers.

Oh, he remembered them, he remembered them all. Young but arrogant brother Demius, who he had picked to train as his chosen neophyte, whom he had picked to temper his bloodlust and thirst for battle. He had failed him. The Black Templar had failed them all, Demius, Caston, Exellion, Morovar, Sansun, Thesan, Ronad, Thorsan, Zerus, the astartes that had fought with him on the campaign, the only astartes sent to Thestus IV.

They had believed ten was enough, the glorified Chapter Command. Only ten, against a whole world infested by greenskins.

And now, there was only one. And he was the only survivor. Oh, he could hear them now, the xenos chanting their praises to their blasphemous gods, and readying to fight him.

And so, the Black Templar would meet them in battle. He would go down fighting, and his end would be worthy of a song. Drakken would not retreat, and he would never surrender.

“I am an adeptus astartes,” he chanted, and placed both hands on his sword, and charged. “I fear no evil, I fear no death, for the Emperor will protect me.”

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Okay, apolgies for the Necro-Bump, but as you may be aware, I've recently submitted two peices for the newly created Heresy Online's Expeditious Competition, hosted by Boc. I'll start with the first entry, an Imperial Guard short story. For this month, the theme was Panic, and what better to mix the Guard and Daemons?

Emperor's Blood
An Imperial Guard Short Story

SLOWLY, KEEPING HIS head down, Colonel Kardan advanced through the ruins of what had once been known as Hive Hestran. “Watch your backs, men,” he remarked, gesturing to his men behind him. “You never know where these traitors might be hiding. Check every ruin.”

“Yes, Colonel,” there was a chorus of replies from his squad. Climbing through what had once been some sort of pub, a place for hivers to gather and drink; it was here that he first heard the voice.

‘Count the Seven.’

“What was that?” uttered the vox-caster, afraid. He was a young man in his early twenties, and boasted blonde hair. He was named Thestus, and had been with the Regiment ever since Morannos. “I just got something weird on the vox.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kardan responded. “It’s just your vox acting up – keep going. Remember, guard your flanks. The Emperor Protects.”

“The Emperor Protects,” they chorused as one, and continued their advance.

“The Baneblade was last reported to be several miles north-east of our current position, Colonel,” Jedrec, the man who carried the squad’s flamer, informed his Colonel of what he already knew. Deciding not to respond, Colonel Kardan continued his advance.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Andras was the one who spoke, nudging a corpse with his lasgun to see if it moved. “Why couldn’t we be off on the front line? We shouldn’t have to be searching for a lost Baneblade.”

“Contact was lost with the Baneblade, but the pskyers confirm that it’s machine spirit is still intact,” Kardan turned on Andras. “That’s why we’re going out there. We can’t go in Valkyries or Chimeras because that would give away our position. And we don’t have any Sentinels left, and all our other squads are on the front line.”

“I know that, Colonel,” responded Andras. “But what about the 22nd? We haven’t heard from them in weeks.”

“The last time they were reported was near the Baneblade,” replied Kardan. “I’ll give extra rations to all of you if we find both.”

That got the men interested. The promise of extra food always got the men interested, as during wars, food was often hard to come by. As Kardan climbed over another piece of wreckage, he heard the voice again.

‘Count the Seven.’

“I don’t think that’s my vox acting up, Colonel,” uttered Thestus.

“Try changing the frequency,” replied Kardan, and continued regardless. “It’s nothing.”

“But Colonel, this is the second time I heard it,” Thestus remarked, anxiously. “I mean, I can understand once, but twice?”

Colonel Kardan shot a look at Thestus, and remarked, “It’s defiantly your vox acting up.”

“But Colonel...”

“Any more words from you, Thestus, and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

“It wasn’t Thestus who spoke, Colonel,” remarked Andras with a frown. “I heard it as well. Count the Seven. That’s all it is. Just three words.”

‘Count the Seven.’

And this time, Colonel Kardan heard it. It was an eerie voice, deep and dragged out. It echoed across the squad, causing each of them, including the Colonel to stop stone dead.

“Ignore it,” after a long pause, Kardan came to a conclusion. “If it’s not the vox acting up, it’s the enemy trying to scare us. Don’t pay attention to it.”

“Colonel, if the enemy can get into our vox systems, does that mean they know where we are?” asked Thestus, worryingly, as they climbed over another small ruin.

“If they know where we are they would have attacked by now,” replied Kardan.

“Or they’re leading us into a trap,” Jedrec replied grimly. “What’s our next move, Colonel?”

“We follow our orders, unless you want to find yourself as part of the penal legions,” Kardan spat, and grabbed his weapon, a trusty Power Sword that had been with him, also since Morannos, when he had lost his old one to a xenos later classified as a Carnifex. The only reason why he still lived was due to the intervention of an adeptus astartes, from the Raven Guard Chapter, appearing from nowhere to smite the alien with righteous fury.

“So we advance,” the final member of the five-man squad, the only female there, and the highest ranked in the Regiment, Kal, spoke. “And if it’s a trap, we spring it and call in for air support.”

“Aye, that’s what we’ll do,” Colonel Kardan grinned. “Nice thinking, Kal. Sharp as ever. Now, Guardsmen. We wouldn’t want to let the God-Emperor down, would we?”

They continued their advance in silence. About half an hour later, they arrived in what had once been an Imperial Chapel, dedicated to the God-Emperor and the Imperium. Some defiled banners still hung on the walls, signifying that the enemy had not had a chance to taint this place yet.

Which unnerved Kardan, as he thought, if he was the enemy, he would have defiled the Chapel long ago – as it stood out as a beacon of resistance, and a beacon of hope, to any survivors.

“We go inside the Chapel,” ordered Kardan.

“Guns blazing or stealth, Colonel?” asked Jedrec, curiously, lifting his flamer.

“Scan for signs of life,” Kardan responded, looking at Kal, who obeyed.

“There’s... There’s nothing,” Kal remarked, after a quick scan.

“Good. Then we don’t have to-”

“Wait,” Kal held up her free hand. “I’m detecting something... lots of things inside. Some small, some large. But... there’s hundreds, Colonel! And there’s more – behind us!”

“Behind us?” Colonel Kardan spun around, but saw nothing. Then, Kal screamed. Instantly turning around, Kardan noticed it.

Daemon,” he spat, and loaded his pistol. It was small for a spawn of the archenemy, and stank so badly that Kardan reckoned they could have smelt it a mile away, and it was covered in green – but there were more than just one of them.

And they were not all the same size. There were several different shapes of them, some suspiciously man-sized. Recognising the banner that one of them held, Kardan cursed.

“Emperor’s blood.”

At last they had found out what had happened to the Korvannon 22nd.
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Okay, here's the second entry for the Heresy Online Expeditious Competition, and after Emperor's Blood won the first one, I'm hoping to win this time round. The theme is thirst, and this fic is also my first Fantasy one, and focuses on vampires, which I'd have thought was a pretty ovbious choice.

Night of the Hunter
A Warhammer Fantasy Short Story

Middenheim, the Year 2502

‘It is a dark night’, thought Asmeth, as the vampire made his way across the buildings of the city of the white wolf, or so the humans called it. He didn’t really care what they called it however, as long as he got what he wanted. As he leapt from one building to the next, he could feel himself closing in on his prey.

The Vampire advanced, taking great care whenever he saw watchmen in the streets below, or atop the buildings, for to alert one now would to condemn his mission to failure, and not just mean his downfall, but also increased tension in Middenheim, which could potentially mean that his fellow vampires, or at least those still in the city of the white wolf, would be discovered.

And that, Asmeth really didn’t want to happen. The dark figure was still unnoticed by the humans below, but as the undead man made his way closer to his prey, the amount of guards increased, forcing him to move slower, even though he was leaping across the rooftops of the city.

Because, if one of them decided to look up, that would mean he would be discovered, and would have to act very quickly before more guards appeared. Suddenly, Asmeth stopped, teetering on the edge of a building.

‘Well, that complicates things’; the Vampire grimaced, stepping back cautiously to avoid being sighted. Crouching down, Asmeth took a closer look at what he had encountered, and what was too stalking through the shadows below him. Beneath his dark, black cloak, the being that had once been human could easily pick out the figure amongst the few normal men and women still out at this late time, he noticed a pale, blonde haired figure hiding behind a cluster of small barrels, his eyes fixed on a small band of night-watchmen, armed with swords and torches. They were wearing the blue colour of their troops, and were laughing loudly. However, they didn’t worry Asmeth.

The other vampire worried him more, a one newly inducted into the bloodline, carless, violent and eager for blood. Asmeth didn’t know why Qu’meck, the elderly vampire who had taught both the young one and him the ways of the undead, had let this inexperienced hunter of his leash in the middle of a city full of humans. “So, Leros,” Asmeth whispered under his breath. “You wish to hunt the hunter.”

“That he does, Asmeth,” said a cold, elderly voice behind him. Asmeth spun around, and found himself face-to-face with a third creature of the night, his mentor Qu’meck stood there with a grim smile on his face. “And, you are also seeking this notorious Witch Hunter, are you not?”

“How did you know, my friend?” Asmeth whispered, as they retreated from the edge of the rooftops as the patrol passed by Leros, not taking any notice of him.

“Well, you have always had a fascination for high buildings, have you not?” Qu’meck responded. “Come now, Asmeth, let us see how good Leros really is.”

-/

Down in the still-crowded streets of Middenheim, Leros Von Schierber watched the blue coated soldiers advance through the streets, bitterly wishing to lunge out here and now, and bring them all down in one swift stroke.

However, he resisted the urge, as the young Vampire knew that he could not take out the patrol all at once. A quick glance above him informed Leros that he was being tailed, and he already knew whom. It seemed Asmeth, and his master had taken to following him, but doubted they would come to his aid.

They were here to observe him, and to watch him. This was part of his training.

When the patrol had passed, Leros sprinted down the road, still being tailed by Qu’meck and Asmeth from the rooftops, keeping an eye on his every move as he prowled through small packs of people, one after the other.

And then, the creature of the night saw his prey, standing there, out in the open. The Witch Hunter, who had butchered several of his brethren in Nuln, including his brother, accusing him of being a vampire when it was actually Leros that had forsaken his humanity. Wincing at the memory, Leros brushed it aside, even as the screams of his twin echoed in his ears, praying for Sigmar’s mercy.

However, Sigmar’s mercy never came, and Leros’ brother had died. A bitter hatred grew in Leros that day, and ever since, he had been tracking his quarry. And now, the vampire smiled, licking his lips with growing anticipation.

All it took would be one blow, just one, and Damion Von Schierber’s death would be avenged. However, suddenly, there was a hand placed on the back of Leros’ shoulder.

“Not yet, young one,” Qu’meck’s voice was quiet, yet Leros could hear it plainly. Careful not to make any rash moves, Leros took a moment before he replied.

“How long have you been watching me, master?”

“Since the last patrol,” smiled Qu’meck. “You learn well. Now, as a reward, I will let you have your prey. You shouldn’t have left without consulting me, however. All it takes is just one slip up, just one.”

“I am truly sorry, master,” responded Leros, and then, “Why is Asmeth here?”

“To give you a challenge, Leros,” Qu’meck grinned. “And I suggest you hurry up, Asmeth is already taking his position.”

With a quick glance up to the small building next to the Witch Hunter’s place of residence, Leros swore as he noticed his rival rip out a windowpane, and hurl himself through. “You distracted me, Master,” he smiled, and took off, heading towards the Witch Hunter, who had got up from his resting place and was opening the door on his house.

Qu’meck sat back, and observed both of his trained vampires, dash into the house of the hunter. He smiled, and knowing that time would reveal the outcome, he turned and departed the scene, the smile not leaving his face.

+++

So, there we go, that's the entry for the current HOEC, and I'll post the result here when the winner is decided on 5 March.
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Again, apologies for the necro-bump, but here's the third entry for the third month of HOES, and I present you with an Inquisitorial Short for the betrayal theme.

The Tower
An Inquisitor Story

Climbing up the stairwell, the man did not know what to expect. The Inquisitor was a relative newcomer to the Ordo, and had been called a prodigy by many of his tutors. He had passed up the ranks faster than any of his fellow aspirants, and had proven himself worthy of the many tests that had been thrown at him along his short career.

Or at least, it was at the moment. The battle armoured, muscular Terran kept his bolt pistols attached to his body, knowing that he might need them at any moment.

After all, what awaited him at the top of this stairwell was what a whole army had died to try and possess, to try and obtain its ungodly secrets. Secrets that if revealed, could pull mankind from the brink of defeat and see humanity reclaim all its glory that had been snatched away from it during the dark days of the Horus Heresy.

So far, the Inquisitor had countered little resistance, which was a surprise. He had been expecting a small sized army at least, but had found nothing. He hadn’t expected the decoy attack made by the Elysian Drop Troop Regiments to have actually distracted the filthy heretical scum away from their most treasured bastion.

He knew that they were dying now, as they were already under strength from the previous, failed assault, which the Inquisitor didn’t really want to think about right now.

Not after he had seen Themos fall, his most trusted advisor, companion and friend cast down by several bastardised cutilists.

He was getting ever closer to his goal now, the Inquisitor knew, and could tell this due to the increase in rarer, tainted artefacts that were mounted on the walls of the tower that had once been finely detailed.

Once, but no longer. Not since the dammed, egotistical, power hungry lord governor had cast aside his oaths of loyalty to the Imperium of Man, turned his back on those that had once remained loyal to him, and seized control of the planet.

The twin suns of the planet made the temperature inside the tower almost unbearable, and the Inquisitor wondered what extreme temperatures that they Elysians must be going through right now. The thought only strayed across his mind for a second, but he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit guilty for sending good, brave and loyal men to their deaths.

But he felt that it was all worth it in the end, all for the greater good of the Imperium of Man. He had been told, after all, by the late Themos, on the eve before his death, of the legendary resurrection orb, said to be the only power in the universe that could return life from the grave. Well, the only human power in the universe.

The Inquisitor had believed Themos, for since when had the old man ever let him down? Since when had he ever turned himself away from the light of the Imperium, even when faced with impossible odds? Since when had Themos lied?

Never, was the answer to all of those questions. It was Themos had helped the Inquisitor recover after the loss of his planet, and Themos who had helped the Inquisitor recover in the dark days that had followed. Themos had always stood beside him, and the Inquisitor never doubted the man’s faith.

He never had any reason to. The Inquisitor still had to see that Themos’ body was buried safely and with honour, as he had argued that the man should get a proper burial, just like he had always wished for.

These thoughts were brushed from his mind, as the Inquisitor planted both feet firmly at the top of the stairs, and looked at the wooden, black door, the symbol of the ruinous powers etched into its centre, replacing the Imperial Aquila that had once stood there in all its glory.

The Imperial sign itself probably lay defiled in another place or torn into a thousand pieces.

“The Emperor Protects,” whispered the Inquisitor as he drew one of his bolt pistols, and firmly gripped in his hand, the man had every intention to go in guns blazing. It was one of his few flaws, as he could not bear with the stealth approach, it reeked of cowardice.

In this aspect, the Inquisitor had been reckoned similar to the astartes of the White Scars Chapter, the sons of Jagatai Khan, with their precision strikes, but only by those who had not seen the White Scars in action, and had just heard of their tales. The Inquisitor knew this because on his first mission, him and his routine had to end up being rescued by the sons of the Khan, and he had come to respect them even more in the days that had followed, just as he had become a respected figure within the White Scars.

The door took some time to kick open, as it was bolted shut from the inside. This left the Inquisitor with two options. Option number one, that there was another exit, which he highly doubted as the tower looked too narrow to contain one. Option number two, that there was somebody, or something inside.

The door was ripped off its hinges, and the Inquisitor fed his eyes on what was inside, with growing fear. Four banners, each devoted to the respective blasphemous god, lay hung up on the opposite wall, along with various gifts placed at the top of small steps beneath each one, each held in a human skull.

The Inquisitor looked away, and noticed what was in the centre of the room. It was a small table, a small, circular table that was barely big enough to rest both of his bolt pistols. The table wasn’t empty, and the Inquisitor looked up to see a small, blue circular shaped object that was covered in a cloak.

“I was wondering when you’d get here, Thorn.”

The Inquisitor turned to see an all-too familiar figure standing there, with his weapons raised. Then, bullets sprayed in his direction.
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This is for Black Library's Read in a Rush Competion, with the theme being Shattered Dream.

Final Hour
A Horus Heresy Short Story

I stand on the edge of a swirling abyss that was once a battlefield, where two armies had once exchanged blows on the field. The first battle for this planet composed of human versus alien.

It had seemed so simple at first, such an easy victory. Elements of Four Legions, Three brutal legions who, before all of this, he viewed as the best out there. The Emperor’s Children, lead by their Primarch, the Phoenician. The Death Guard, lead by Mortarion. The World Eaters, the bezerk sons of the Primarch Angron.

And the Sons of Horus, formerly known as the Luna Wolves, the Emperor’s chosen and those who stood as the Lupercal’s posse.

I had come from that legion, and I had served loyally under my Primarch, all the way through the Great Crusade. Not the full two hundred years, but for half of that number, one hundred.

I have seen many things in my time, and realise that I will see no more. I stood witness to the moment when the frigate The Hand of Horus was dragged into a battle with numberless xenos, and cast down onto the oceanic planet below. I have seen entire star systems cast down their weapons and surrender at the mere mention of the Warmaster’s name.

He was like a God of the battlefield, and many of us viewed him as second only to the Emperor. The Emperor of Mankind. Most of us, as it seemed, viewed Horus Lupercal in a greater light than him, as they had become twisted, corrupt and tainted by the foul schisms of chaos.

I could no longer call them brothers, not any more. Not after all of this, not after we were betrayed. Not after we were sent to die on this world, by those whom we would give our life for.

I was part of the Sons of Horus, the Warmaster’s own Legion. The ones who were above all others, the best of the best. The Emperor’s favourite.

However, the moment that Saul Tarvitz, of the Emperor’s Children, descended from the skies to warn us of impossible things, I no longer counted myself as part of that brotherhood. That now, corrupted brotherhood.

Where are the armies of the Imperium? Where are the numerous legions of Guilliman, Lorgar, Russ and The Lion? Surely, they would be able to stop this. The Primarchs of the other legions must be able to compose a force strong enough to stop this uprising. This Heresy.

Unless my greatest fears are true, and the taint has spread deeper than these four legions. I know for a fact, that Erebus, the Word Bearer’s first Chaplain is tainted. He is up there, on the Vengeful Spirit, right now, with my Primarch, my poor, misguided Primarch.

But that doesn’t mean the rest of his legion is tainted. I am living proof of that example, me and my brothers.

I look to the left of me, and see my squad taking up defensive stances in the ruins of a once majestic city, having ordered them in strategic positions along with the other squads, each under command of their separate sergeants.

A brief glance upwards informs me that death is coming to Isstvan III once more, in the form of fiery red. World Eaters, Angron’s. The Red Angel was probably amongst them, as even when he still served the Emperor, he could never easily be controlled.

I swear those astartes know only one strategy. Attack. And most of the time, despite the loss of casualties, judging by the reports that the Sons of Horus received from the World Eaters, they were successful.

In fact, especially when lead by the Primarch, the commander of the XII Legion himself. The Drop Pods are the first to touch down, descending into the part of the ruined city guarded by the loyalist Emperor’s Children and the loyalist World Eaters.

I look out, as more spaceships descend from the sky, falling planetside as they attempt to deliver death to their enemy. To the ones they once called brothers.

I continue to realise that the Emperor’s dream has now shattered, lying in ruins. At first, the aim had looked so bright, so promising. To reunite humanity under one rule. Where had it gone wrong? Davin, perhaps? As early as the Ullanor triumph?

The Drop Pods slam into the rubble in their hundreds, and I can hear now, in the distance, shouts and bolter fire, away from my section of the city, informing me that Angron has struck our lines, and I looked ahead of me to see at least a company of red painted warriors emerging from their transports, the angels of death striking planetside.

“Hold,” I speak into the communicator embedded in my helmet, as I see my brothers are just as eager to fire their weapons as I am. However, it must wait for now. I held up my hand to emphasise the statement, and repeated it just to be sure. “Hold.”

Any shot missed, and shot off target would mean wasted ammunition, and that would mean that our chances of survival slipped even further away. “It’s just like at Kohlan Reach,” one of my brothers whispered. His name was Ghoran, and I had served with him since joining from Cthonia, the Primarch’s home planet. My home planet. I wonder if I will ever lay eyes on it again.

Probably I never will. “Every shot counts,” Ghoran remarked, through the vox, as the World Eaters were closing in. I could hear their savage warcries now. “Don’t miss, brothers.”

“Aye,” I nodded. “Don’t miss. Save as much ammunition as you can. Aim for the head, and weak parts in their armour. Let’s show these bastards how the Luna Wolves fight!”

The surrounding astartes cheered, and I felt pleased that the old ways had returned, for I hated the change that had swept over the legion since the re-naming.

“Hold,” I yelled once more, having to yell now for the noise of the battles nearby was deafening. Not a single marine loosened their hand off the trigger. Two seconds later, when the traitors were in range of our weapons, I gave the command, shouting the one order that would throw us into the battle. “Fire! For the Emperor!”


“For the Emperor!” the warcry echoed across the squads, and I was pleased to see that it wasn’t just mine that shouted it. Above me as well, stationed on higher grounds, the Death Guard Devastators unleashed their own weaponry into the World Eaters lines, all the while chanting the warcry that I had been the first to shout.

However, I knew that we would not last long. Despite the hope Tarvitz, Loken and the others had given us, I knew that we would be lucky to hold out for a month.

My name is Kazan Loranzo, a Tenth Company Sergeant, and this is the final story that I will ever tell.

I load my bolter, and add the fire to that of my brothers.
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post #9 of 18 (permalink) Old 03-22-11, 05:37 AM
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I've only read the first two. But nice work. You put a lot of time and effort in this sir. Good job and plus rep.
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post #10 of 18 (permalink) Old 03-22-11, 06:24 AM
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These are good, you get +rep my friend

"In the embrace of great Nurgle, I am no longer afraid, for with His pestilential favour I have become that which I once most feared: Death."
-Kulvain Hestarius of the Death Guard
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