[Bane_of_Kings]

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).

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)

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

Table of Contents - Continued:

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.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

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.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

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.”

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

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.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

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.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

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.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

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.

 

[ckcrawford]

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.

 

[Epidemius]

These are good, you get +rep my friend :biggrin:

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

Thanks for the comments and the rep guys :victory:.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

Here's my entry for this month's HOES, with another Imperial Guard Short. The theme was Turning Point.

Fort Indomitable
An Imperial Guard Short Story

Guardsman Lenxax trained his lasgun at the oncoming army of metallic machines, covering the mountain path so there would be no getting through it. He picked out target after target in the grey crowd, making sure that his first shot of the battle would not be a wasted one. Other guardsmen, stationed on the fortress wall like him, were also doing the same thing, picking their own targets, as though it was like training back at Corvus III, his home and the home of all of the men around him.

Except one. Walking down the small gap that stood behind Lenxax, was the man who had served with the regiment since its foundation, the elderly ‘lifer’ named Reaon Markus, the Commissar from the world of Armageddon. He wore a gas mask like his old Regiment, although it was no longer needed as the Corvus 132nd had never been to Armageddon.

The Commissar told the men that he wore it to remind himself of all the men that were dying back on his homeworld, and how that the Guardsmen who he was fighting alongside might one day be as brave as them.

Lenxax found it hard to understand the man, as for the Private had never fought for his homeworld, never been dragged away from it to join another regiment, but the fact that he fought for the Emperor was enough.

Several shouts were heard from behind Lenxax, and he knew what they were going to do. Moments later, the Guardsman’s suspicions were confirmed as several shells fired from artillery soared overhead him, seeking out the packed xenos ranks in front of him.

There was a devastating blow, and the artillery confirmed the first kill of the day, blasting metallic aliens into smithereens before Lenxax’s eyes.

“Men of the Imperium!” bellowed Commissar Markus, standing directly behind Lenxax, his bolt pistol ready in hand in case the guardsmen nearby him showed any signs of desertion. As he spoke, his voice was amplified around the fortress ground, so every guardsman inside would hear the words of encouragement. “You have fought these xenos before, and have beaten them! You know their tactics, and you know every strategy that they have pulled. They will show no mercy, no forgiveness. But neither will we. I don’t expect any of you to abandon your posts today, even if the enemy has all but overwhelmed us. I want you all to keep fighting until there is nothing left to kill. With your weapons, with faith.”

The Commissar paused for a dramatic effect, as the artillery continued firing. "The Emperor Protects!”

Every voice inside the fortress replied as one, bellowing one, loud warcry which filtered across the defences of the Imperial Guard. Suddenly, as the aliens advanced eerily, a loud voice filtered through the loudspeakers, a voice which was defiantly not from the Regimental Commissar.

“It is foolish to give your warriors false hope, as they do not realise the doom that is coming to them. Your last bastion is surrounded by my legions, and you have no hope of escaping what lies in store. We claim dominance over this world, mortals. You will fall in this battle, and faith in your emperor will not protect you.”

Almost a split-second later, the enemy opened fire, and several, eerie green shots headed towards the defenders of the Imperium, in perfect coherence, and Lenxax ducked to avoid a shot that passed just above his head. Instantly, he was back on his feet, and waiting for orders, the taunt of the xenos filling his ears.

Another second later, the Commissar was up, his weapon pointed at the oncoming ranks, “Fire at will! Leave no prisoners! In the Emperor’s Name!”

In response to the alien fire, several lasgun shots splintered across no-man’s land, fired in unison by their owners as they headed towards the xenos that awaited them. Lenxax couldn’t tell whether his shot was accurate or not, but by the Emperor, he hoped that it had brought down one.

The battle was well and truly underway, The Guardsman thought with a frown.

++

When the gate was finally breached, a whole two days after the fighting for Fort Indomitable had first began; it shattered with a tremendous roar, killing a large chunk of Imperial Guardsmen who stood nearby and on the surrounding walls, giving a large, gaping hole in the Imperium’s ranks.

The Necrons had soon exploited the weakness with ease, and had quickly gained a foothold in the almighty fortress, as the Guardsmen struggled to hold ranks, any tanks they sent against the xenos destroyed by the aliens own anti-vehicle weaponry.

It was dawn on the third day when Commissar Markus finally sounded the retreat, ordering all Guardsmen to pull back from the walls of the fort, for they were well and truly taken, along with most of the first layer.

The Second layer, and also the last layer, would have to do. “Fall back!” Colonel Obadiah yelled, positioned on top of his Command Salamander from where he could easily issue orders to troops. “To the second layer, we will hold them off there!”

In normal circumstances, Commissar Markus would have executed the Colonel there and then, but he needed every round that he and his troops would get, as well as every man – so the man from Armageddon decided that executing the commander of the Corvus 155th would have to wait until after the battle.

If there was an aftermath. The inspiring speech at the start had done little to keep the spirits of the knackered guardsmen high, and it was indeed a miracle that they had held out for this long.

From the ground, Markus looked up as the troops were gunned down by wicked Necron weaponry. ‘This is no way to die,’ Markus thought with a frown, dodging a green bolt that came in his direction. ‘But at least they are dying for the Emperor.’

Suddenly there was a cheer from the Imperial lines, a soldier had his hand pointed skywards. When Markus looked up, his whole body was filled with relief. Wiping a sweat from his brow, the Commissar announced to the gathered guardsmen. He punched his fist in the air, and added his shouts to the rest of the troops; for drop pods, bearing the dark blue colours of the Ultramarines Chapter descended planetside, to bring aid to the beleaguered forces of the Imperial Guard.

Elsewhere, Colonel Obadiah had one thought on his mind, as he added fire to those of his subordinates, that this was the Turning Point of the battle.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

After finishing joint-third with Fort Indomitable, I return with the latest HOES entry, going by the theme Hatred.

Vengeance For The Lost
1043 Words

THEY HAD REDUCED us to nothing.

They had smashed down our homes and tore apart our lives as though they meant nothing to them... the hounds of the corpse-Emperor.

I used to believe that he was the only light in the galaxy. Before all of this... I was naive. Very naive, to believe that the Emperor was the only thing out there. The only thing that could ever offer me anything.

That is until I found him. Until my chapter found him.

We had been sailing through the warp for what had seemed like decades before we were approached by our new god. Countless decades, cut-off from the guidance of the emperor and abandoned from his false light.

We had been fleeing our homeworld. Our own homeworld.

A chapter never abandons their homeworld. Most would rather die with it than to flee. Some of us did. In fact, most of us fell to the wrath of our enemies that day.

A single day.

That was all it took to reduce the mighty fortress world of Marchados Prime to nothing but ash and ruin. Oh... how I hate the foolish followers of the Imperium.

It is irony, yes – for I understand that I was once as naive as them. The only difference now is that they are still idiotic, and I am not.

I have changed since I first pledged the remainder of my days to him, changed in all shape and form. Although I boast a mutated left arm, it has only made me stronger. I am no longer as handsome as I once was – and I know that I can never be again.

But greatness does not come without a price, for I am wiser. Stronger, more powerful and better in every possible way.

And they remain the same.

Sure, they will have gained more experience over the years that we have been seeking refuge in the anomaly known as the Eye of Terror, but their wars have only left them weaker.

We have had no such wars, and therefore we are stronger. Ready to kill, ready to burn.

“My lord. The Chapter is ready.”

A voice floats through my ear, and I snap to attention. Even though we are no longer Imperial Astartes, we are still astartes – still angels of death, even if the meaning of the word angel is different.

“We await your command, my lord.”

I recognise that voice as my eyes flicker open from surfing what some called the Great Ocean, and what others called the Warp. The voice belonged to my champion – a Battle-Brother named Kazran who will one day go on to become much greater than I will ever be.

I look across at him, and allow the warrior to lead me to the Drop Pod, still painted in our chapter’s colours. We have not changed them yet, but one day we will. We will change everything.

I am the first into the Drop Pod, closely followed by Kazran, Theodomis, Lexandro, Rexan and Covanium. They take their positions around the transport, and attach themselves to their harnesses.

I utter one simple word into the vox-link embedded in my throat, addressed to all the remaining adeptus astartes. Seven hundred is all that is left, from what originally consisted of a thousand.

Three hundred battle brothers fell in the defence of our homeworld. Three hundred.

Three entire companies.

Gone. Dead.

They will never return to us. Names filter through my ear now – names that represent soldiers who I had fought alongside since I had been part of the 10th company.

Adrexal, who was responsible for the death of two Terminators before his untimely demise. Maxius, who boarded an enemy Land Raider with the aid of Paronix, taking the crew by surprise and then using it to turn the guns on the enemy.

And the others. Paveal. Corthanis. Balbos. The list goes on and on and on.

And it is today that they will be avenged. Our enemy will rue the day that they ever decided to set foot on our homeworld – rue the day that they decided to assault the chapter.

Sure, Imperial Records will state that it was our own undoing that brought them upon us – and maybe they are right.

But the past does not matter.

It is the future that does.

Here and now, is where we will emerge triumphant. Here and now, where our enemies will be cast down from the walls of their very own homeworld – just like we had been. The Knights of the Raven will pay for their assault, and the loyalists will suffer another deadly blow.

They have already lost our chapter.

Now, they will lose another.

And there will be nothing that they can do about it. They will hunt us down and try to seek vengeance, but they will never find us. We will disappear, into the Eye of Terror once again.

Only this time – we will have our purpose filled.

They should all follow my command. All of them. However, I know that not all of them will stay true to me. Most will follow, admittedly – but others, some will hold their ground. They are the ones that will need convincing. I know my command squad and the first company will have my backing, as well as the second and the third.

But the others?

I am not so sure.

Maybe this assault will convince them, when they gorge themselves on the gene seed of loyalist warriors. I hope that it will. Deep down, I know that it will.

“My Lord,” urged Kazran, repeating his earlier statement. “We await your command.”

“You shall have my command, Battle-Brother,” I respond – looking Kazran directly into the eye. The next sentence was spoken into the vox link embedded in my throat – on an open link, to the entire chapter.

And to even the Knights of the Raven.

But I don’t care. Let them know that we are coming for them. They will think us destroyed, but we will show them. We will show them all.

“Eternals! Strike hard, strike fast! For Tzeentch!”

Seven hundred voices echo two words in perfect unison – as though the voices only came from one head. “For Tzneetch!”

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

Another entry for the HOES competition.

The Grandfather
Renegades

In the embrace of the 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​

774. M41


THE COUGHING HAD begun several weeks ago. Several weeks ago I thought it was just a normal cough, with no strings attached. That was, a perfectly normal one that would go away in a couple of days.

Only this one, it was persistent. It stuck to me like a fly is attracted to a light, never letting go, be it at sunrise or sunset.

And worse, it had spread. Spread throughout my squad, infecting five of us so far. Leonas, Kulvain, Harkness, Lok and myself. All fine warriors, all veterans of Cadia. We had withstood the brunt of the Despoiler’s attack, and survived the seven day siege of the Fortress-City of Theranis.

And now we were succumbing to this. The Legends told by people in bars mention of a plague which swept Terra thousands of years before Him on Earth came to power, a plague which sowed nothing but devastation through the likes of every person, be they innocent or not.

Loyal or traitor, xenos or worse, nothing escapes the plague. It is the one thing that has caused devastation for millions of people throughout the Universe, the one thing that almost every planet, even Holy Terra itself has in common.

At least one person has died from the plague.

And now it has come to us, the 105th ‘Siege Breakers’ Cadian Regiment, the one that held fast whilst others fell back, the one that earned its nickname after the Seven Day Siege.

Where others dared to tread, we saw the opportunity. Where others couldn’t break their target, we broke it for them.

We were one of the most elite non Glory Boy Regiment that the Imperium had at its disposal. Victory after victory, mission after mission. Indeed, there are only a few Regiments that I’ve heard of that can even match our record of consistent victories, let alone beat it.

Every now and again I hear of the Sabbat Worlds Crusades, the mass purge of heretics in that area. I hear mentions of Ghosts, Imperial Guardsmen from nowhere, lead by their Inspirational Colonel-Commissar.

They must have been a pretty undisciplined lot. I mean, to have a Commissar who’s also a Colonel... I shuddered at the thought. Put it this way, if our newly attached Commissar Leves was granted command of the whole regiment...

God-Emperor help us all.

Well, that was what I would have said if I was still part of the 105th, still a warrior – still fighting for the corpse that sits upon the Golden Throne.

Yes – I no longer serve him, that bastard Emperor who has let countless of lives fade away without caring, without even –

- The Imperial Guard. Bullets spray over his shoulder as he notices the traditional colours of his brethren. The ones who have still remained loyal. Although they are few, they are strong.

“How long have we got until the blasted Death Guard get here?” Kulvain yells in his direction, bringing a loyalist down with his lasgun, a superb hit.

Just because we had forsaken our oath to the Emperor doesn’t mean that we’re not good fighters anymore. “I hope they get here soon,” the soldier responded. “This is getting boring. You know the Commissar just fell, right?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Kulvain chuckled from behind the wall. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages. Makes me almost wish I was still one of them now.”

“We’re screwed unless those Death Guard get here,” Kulvain commented. “They’re fighting like inspired men. If they keep it up, we don’t have a chance.”

“It won’t take long for them to run out of ammo,” the first man remarked. “Besides, they’re surrounded.”

“Yeah, but they’re still the 105th. Siege Breakers, right?” Kulvain rebutted. “They may have lost three quarters of their men but that still doesn’t mean they can’t break out from a siege.”

“Sir!” the vox-operator, Leonas – turned to the unnamed warrior. “Death Guard Terminators en route. They’re finally here.”

“Excellent,” Kulvain smiled, and turned to the figure. “See – you’d never have got this far as part of the loyalists, people’d never call you sir in that rabble.”

The man addressed as sir chuckled slightly, before saying after a moment - “I think I could get used to it.”

And then it happened.

Suddenly, materialising directly in front of the renegade Imperial Guardsmen was the warriors who the commander now owed his life to. Half a dozen green-armoured clad adeptus astartes, warriors who had long ago forsaken their oath to the Emperor now spearheaded the assault, with it only taking a round of weapons fired from their anti-armour figure to bring death to a Leman Russ Battle Tank, crippling its machine spirit and killing the crew without mercy.

“Die, Loyalist scum!” one barked, and a searing flame erupted from its bloated armour, causing several Imperial Guardsmen caught under the fire to scream in agony.

“Now’s our moment! The Terminator’s can’t win this alone!” The Commander roared, lifting his stolen Sword and holding it skyward, before leaping over the barricades and into the thick of battle –

- Oh, how glorious my first battle as a renegade was. It was not my last, which was a very nice thing, for I am still fighting. Still fighting, for I no longer fear death on the battlefield. The Grandfather has made me stronger, much more powerful than I could ever become.

They whisper my name throughout the warband now, as the man who destroyed an entire Imperial Guard Regiment with one cough. This is alone is enough to see me elevated, and praised by the almighty Grandfather who has kept me alive thus so far.

I never had a name, as a member of the Imperial Guard. Just a service number, for I had never needed a proper name in the past. So, when I turned my back on my fellows, cast aside my oaths of devotion and became an oath breaker, all I needed was one new name – that would inspire my new brothers and bring woe to the opposition.

And that name, that one name – is Contagion.

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

Winter's End
An Iron Fists Story

THE ADEPTUS ASTARTES Strike Cruiser entitled “Winter’s End”, hung in orbit over the planet of Scherulpta IV. It bore the gold and grey colour scheme and heraldry associated with the Iron Fists chapter, the descendants of the Primarch Ferrus Manus and the Iron Hands, the Tenth Legion.

The Fourth Company, famed throughout the chapter for their daring boarding assaults had been assigned this latest mission, the mission that would take place under the command of Captain Betheor Exodus, newly appointed after the conflict on Kalador which saw his predecessor, Valkas Rexan, slain.

“Brothers,” announced Exodus to the gathered crowd, a hundred astartes fully clad in their battle gear and assembled in the large room brought joy to his heart, but it was minimal. Although he had been in these situations before, as merely a Sergeant – this was his first time that he stood on the upper tier of the room, and made a speech from the balcony before battle. “It sadness me when I stand on this balcony today, to address you all like this.”

Seeing the confused looks on some of the astartes faces, he continued, before one of them could call him out. “Do not be mistaken, my brothers. The sadness is not directed at you, but at me. You all know that our former Captain, the honoured Valkas Rexan, fell during our last encounter with the traitors to our order on Kalador. You all know this. Some of you were there, fighting alongside in those final moments when he fell.”

Something flashed through the Captain’s eyes, and he felt himself brought back to that fatal last stand. He was-

- losing men and fast. Brothers Reyas and Leonars had fallen, each of them succumbing to lucky shots in the weak parts of their armour. Crouching behind the barricade for cover, Exodus, still a Sergeant – looked at his Captain for orders, but all he got was a glance from Rexan, helmet attached, before his master turned his attention back to the battlefield, and unleashed bursts from his Storm Bolter, each accurate, each dealing death blows to the overwhelming enemy.

Exodus glanced up at his Captain. Words formed from his lips as he started to speak, contacting Rexan through the vox -
- “I must spend some time with you today to speak of this, before we take to the battlefield once more, for several reasons,” Exodus continued, fully aware that every eye was fixed on him, even those in his Command Squad. “Firstly, although I was chosen by Captain Rexan and tutored, mentored by him – I am not him. Do not mistake me for our fallen Commander. I am a new warrior, and that is what you should treat me as. Captain Exodus. Do you understand, my brothers?”

There was a moment’s pause before the cry of the affirmative went up. Exodus smiled, and continued. “We make planetfall today against the great archenemy, the -

- before Exodus could continue however, he was interrupted by a loud Frag grenade exploding behind him, catching Brother Farnus unawares, and sending him toppling to the floor. However, within seconds – the superhuman figure was back on his feet again. Adeptus Astartes wouldn’t fall easily.

“For the Emperor!” bellowed Rexan, a warcry which was echoed around the ranks of the surviving brothers. There was not long left until the extraction unit arrived, but they couldn’t just sit about and hold out. Already, in the distance – Exodus could see armoured units approaching, a trio of Vindicators in the colour of the Plague-spreading Death Guard.

“Brace for impact!” the Commander bellowed, as the weapons of the ruinous powers swung towards the hunkered down loyalists, increasing speed dramatically. The –
“The Scions of the corrupted Warmaster himself. Although we are outnumbered, we will not fall. We will seize the initiative – and this is where we will catch them unawares. We will not rest whilst the great enemy draws breath, and we will not succumb to petty temptations! But before we go into battle, are you with me? Are my warriors ready to answer their captain’s command?” Exodus roared to the crowd gathered around him, raising his hand as he finished his speech. Even before it had lowered, a loud cry of the affirmative echoed throughout the room.

“Then prepare for battle,” Exodus finished, lowering his tone back to a normal. “Only will the evidence of these heretics’ deaths will satisfy the order of our Chapter Master,”-

- “Yes?” The Captain asked when Exodus tried to raise Rexan again on the vox.

Exodus had finally got his master’s attention, as the great, noble figure of the Captain answered his question. “What do you want, Sergeant Exodus?”

“My Lord,” replied Exodus, “The Extraction Thunderhawk is en route, ETA five minutes.”

“Excellent,” Rexan remarked, from behind cover. “Now we can get off this dammed rock. What say you, brothers? Eager to return to the sea of stars once more?”

A loud cheer went up from the thirty-or so survivors of the strike force, entrenched in this small outpost, weathering the storm of the oncoming Death Guard. They still held, but even a warrior such as Rexan knew that it wouldn’t be forever. Climbing to his feet, Rexan unleashed shots from his Storm Bolter into the endless sea of cutilists and traitors alike. And worse.

“Daemons,” spat Rexan, watching the battlefield rituals take place before his eyes. The cutilists were spread out, in circles, chanting. “Cover me, my brothers.”

“Captain... what are you doing?” questioned Exodus, unleashing fire from his Bolter. The Sergeant watched with growing horror as he realised his Captain’s plan upon the departure of the first grenade from his belt. “Captain! No!”

“You will fall back now, astartes. That is an order,” Rexan had time to utter, as the Thunderhawk behind him touched down. “I have a mission to complete. Fall back under command of Captain Exodus – I will not be returning.”

Exodus was, for the first time in his life... speechless. His captain had just embarked on a suicidal, desperate mission that would only end with one outcome.

“For the Emperor!” bellowed Rexan, and with Storm bolter in one hand, and Power sword in the other, the Fourth Captain of the Iron Fists, the Master of the Fleet – began his last ever charge towards enemy lines, supported by the fire from his brothers. A desperate move made by a desperate person.

That was the first time that the fourth company had ever fallen back beneath enemy fire, the first time in the history of the Iron Fists. Their honour had been damaged, and now, they wanted revenge.

 

[Ambush Beast]

Cool

'Black Rage' is a cool story. I had a good time reading it. What kind of alien were they fighting? My mind kept trying to focus on them... did they have six legs, claws, two heads, five eyes? Did they wear armor or have turtle shells or something? In the battle I wanted to know exactly what the fourth were fighting.

Also you mentioned the Death Guard but I did not see them in the fight. Where were they? What had happened to them?

Otherwise the story was real good and taught me about the cost of self sacrifice and purity of purpose.

 

[Ambush Beast]

I like it.

Vengeance For The Lost. What a story! :goodpost:

 

[Bane_of_Kings]

Thanks for the feedback. Here's another story, submitted for HOES 8, and revolves around again the Iron Fists.

Cell 42A
An Iron Fists Short Story

The Bridge, ‘Winter’s End’, Battle Barge, Home to the Fourth Company of the Iron Fists Chapter, Orbiting Calexious IV

BROTHER-CAPTAIN EXODUS of the Iron Fists stood ready, receiving the news through the vox-link embedded within his grey-coloured helmet, the same that he had worn ever since he had first been given the honour to bear one, making the plunge from a Scout, to an assault marine all those years ago, serving in the jump-pack boasting marines, back in the days when he was part of Eighth Company, under command of the still-serving, veteran Xavier Halden, the Master of the Skies.

Oh, those were the good days, Exodus recalled, back when he was a newcomer to the ranks of the adeptus astartes, and didn’t have to worry about any leadership skills at all.

“Captain...” the breaks in between the speech made by the person on the other end filled Exodus’ ears with the static hum of the chapter’s private vox channel. “Prisoner...”

More static filled the air, the Chaplain, who was speaking, having some of his words cut off by the unpredictable vox-link, “ready... interrogation... Cell... 42...A, Over.”

“I will be there shortly, Brother-Chaplain,” responded Exodus, cutting the link after murmuring a brief, “The Emperor Protects.”

Outside Cell 42 A, Detention Blocks of ‘Winter’s End’ Battle Barge

BY THE TIME Exodus had reached the Cell-Blocks, The Chaplain had withdrawn from the cell, the skull-faced helmet of Varon Reyes meeting his gaze. Both veteran Iron Fists locked eyes, and the Chaplain was the first to speak. “The Prisoner has broken, Brother-Captain.”

“Excellent,” Betheor Exodus responded. “Now, we will finally get some answers. I trust Brother-Librarian Obaion has done his work?”

Reyes nodded. “Yes. Like I said. The Prisoner has been broken. However, he will only speak to one person.”

“I question your definition of broken, Brother-Chaplain. Surely, a broken man would reveal every secret that he has, to the person that broke him?”

“It is progress, but we are wasting time. We need to learn of the archenemy’s whereabouts. The Tenth Company paid a heavy cost to extract this... heretic, and now he will reveal that he will only speak to one man.”

“You said that last bit before, Brother-Chaplain,” Exodus frowned. “I take it, you have called me here because I am that man?”

“Aye, Brother,” Reyes nodded, respectfully. “I don’t know what connection it shares with you... but you had better get some answers out of it.”

“I will do my best,” the Fourth Captain nodded, and entered the room. What met his eyes was a horrible sight, causing even a hardened battle-warrior to look away for a brief moment. The prisoner was, naturally in chains, and due to some curse gifted to him by the Dark God Nurgle, it was covered in bubonic, stinking and green pus.

It was quite clear that there was no aspect of his humanity left on this tainted soul, no way that it could be redeemed. Even though the creature was covered in cuts and bruises, had several legs, arms and even three eyes – it still didn’t show any visible pain. “You are the commander, I take it? Captain Exodus?”

“How do you know my name?”

“We will talk about that later, Captain,” the Daemon, for it only could have been one, responded, enigmatic. “Right now I have come to talk to you about other things.”

“Well, speak them quickly, and I will end your suffering.”

“I did not ask for an end aloud, but an end... would be nice. To have the embarrassment of being captured by Imperial scum,” The Daemon spat the word Imperial, as though it was anathema to its lips. “Oh, how my brothers and sisters would tease.”

“Remain silent unless I tell you to speak, Daemon,” Exodus managed to regain some composure. He wouldn’t let the Daemon overwhelm him so easily. “You will tell us the whereabouts of the Daemon known as Hakanor, commander of the Warband Hakanor’s Reavers. Now, and your death will be a quick one.”

“They are floating in space, Captain. They are not of a threat to you yet,” The Daemon responded with a small smile.

“Yet?” The Space Marine raised an eyebrow at this statement. “What does yet mean, heretic? Answer me now... or I shall never end your suffering.”

The Daemon coughed before speaking, and all three eyes swivelled directly to meet eye-contact with Exodus for the first time. It was an eerie and haunted feel.

Its eyes were empty of life. “They will be a threat to you. They will be a threat to your chapter,” The Daemon spat. “You’ve got what you asked for. Now shoot me.”

A Growing look of revelation dawned on Captain Exodus’ face. “This questioning is over, Daemon. Your mercy will not be granted. Librarian Obaion will return.”

“No... Not him! No!” screamed The Daemon, distraught. “You lied to me, Captain Exodus. You lied to me!”

“You didn’t give us all that we asked for,” responded the Captain. “I will return when I see fit.”

He spoke into his vox. “Brother-Librarian Obaion. The heretic is ready for more torture. After it has been broken and given you the answers that you need... kill it.”

“Yes, my lord,” the Librarian responded. “I’m on my way.”

The link was cut. Captain Exodus stormed out of the room, leaving the Daemon to whisper in a hushed voice, “Nurgle knows you, Captain Exodus. Nurgle knows your name.”