The sky was alive with fire. Roiling tides of insanity clashed against one another, lending an eerie, unreal light to the scene below.
A toxic, wreck-strewn wasteland. Fire. Death. Carcasses, baseline humanity had transformed this soil into a graveyard.
On the highest spire the remnants of th last holdfast were growing cold. On a balcony, watching over the scene, stood a tyrant clad in hulking, sootstained silvery armour. His smile was cruel as he watched large landing craft descend toward the planet surface, to retrieve his spoils. The fortress these cowards had deemed sufficient to stand against him would now serve his men as a temporary dwelling.
“Warsmith.”
He turned toward the warrior that had spoken, the servos of his armour whirring with each movement. It was Brylla. A new arrival. He had led them here.
“The landing craft have arrived. Shall I get some men together to retrieve the cache?”
The young marine seemed uncertain, nervous even. The Warsmith snorted in derision, before giving a curt nod of approval. The Space Wolf bowed uneasily, hurrying away with undignified haste.
“You enjoy being hard on him, don’t you, Holreck?” Remarked the unnaturally smooth voice of Derrus. Holreck Kethral, Warsmith of the Molten Brethren, turned toward the scene down below again, where bands of slaves were already hard at work rebuilding and improving upon the defensive measures of the citadel.
“He is fresh blood. Foreign blood.” Holreck spat out with more zeal than he would have usually allowed himself.
“Yet you let him stay and he made good on his vow.” Derrus made his way to stand beside the Warsmith, taking in the vista. “Look what a gift he made you,” he remarked, “some would speak of divine intervention.” His green eyes had an irritating playful glint about them. Holreck would never understand what exactly was so off-putting about Derrus, or why he never punished him.
“He has no Iron.” the tyrant finally replied, almost a mutter. “He may have made good on the first part of his promise, but this here merely bought him my tolerance.” he added, gesturing at the gifted world below.
“Let us see how long it takes for him to betray his new brothers.” He said after a while, condemnation heavy in his voice. He didn’t need to look at Derrus to know that he was pondering whether to say his piece or not. Wisely, the zealot stayed silent.
Varx ponderously meandered down the dark corridors of the holdfast, seeking for anything of interest on this rock of a world. He could feel the psychic echo of the slaughter all around him, but nothing of true value seemed apparent to him. He turned his head, the tactical dreadnought plate he was wearing making the movement awkward and unnaturally hard. The sorcerer looked upon a picture, a portrait of a woman. It wasn’t a relic, for sure, but somehow striking enough to intrigue him. The Iron Warriors wouldn’t pay mind to it. Then again, he was no Iron Warrior. He was not one of the Molten Brethren. He had a sense of appreciation for refined culture, after all.
The woman may have been in her mid-thirties by appearance alone, but who could truly tell one’s age when even mortals could lengthen their lifespan considerably if they had the wealth? She had high cheekbones, pale skin that contrasted with blood-red lips. Her eyes were of a deep blue, a natural blue as he’d only once seen in the tropical seas of Innervao. Just as he thought he’d perceived something strange, a soothing, bass-heavy voice tore him from his excourse.
“I’d never have taken you for one to appreciate hollow sentimentalities.” Derrus spoke softly for a son of his Legion. Varx turned hastily toward the ancient priest. He could see the power of the immaterium cling to the zealot, almost blinding now that the warp was unstable. Before he could muster a witty defence, Derrus was already beckoning him to follow. The arrogant fool!
“If you are done here, we may finally begin the conclave.” The sorcerer smiled bitterly behind his helmet.
“As if Kethral truly wanted me to be present while he addressed his lackeys.” he mused.
“You are part of his council,” the priest countered, “if you do not wish to be any longer I am sure we can find a replacement for you.” The threat in his words was not truly veiled, but his tone seemed to speak of legitimate amicable concern. It sent shivers down Varx’s spine how disgustingly hard it was to pin the Apostle down. From then onward, only the thrum of their power-armours and their heavy footsteps accompanied them along the way. As they approached what had been a massive briefing room for the officers of the citadel, triumphant roaring and cheers could be heard. There was light flooding from the blown open doorway to the briefing room. Gathered inside were all Molten Brethren that were to take part in the raids of the next few days and that didn’t have any other duties to attend. To call it a room would have been an understatement, for truly it was a hall, with a high ceiling that let every shout and yell reverberate hundredfold. Roughly fourty Astartes were chanting and howling, or they were watching new blood enter their ranks.
In an empty space, before a raised dais, stood five new-arrivals. Four of them were new initiates, true Molten Brethren, implanted with the gene-seed of the fallen.
‘Or whatever gene-seed these savages could get their hands on’, Varx thought as he and the apostle made their way through a hastily forming gap in the ranks of warriors, toward the dais.
On the raised platform stood the Warsmith himself, Holreck Kethral in his ragged battle-plate, his scarred, broad face an unmoving mask at the sight before him. Varx and Derrus took their places to either side of him as the tyrant raised his axe one-handedly, demanding silence from his warriors.
The room became quiet almost instantly, aside from some laboured breathing and the thrum of power-armour. The haft of the axe slammed into the stone ground, the conclave was opened.
“Brothers, hear me!
This world is ours by right of conquest, its spoils ours to do with as we please!
This citadel is ours for now, and you will see to it that it remains so!
By sunrise you will have moved out. Despoil and pillage what you can. We are not here to stay, no matter what some may already say!”
A sweeping gesture at his gathered warriors followed, accusing all and none.
“This world is just the beginning, remember this. Take everything of use. Enslave the able-bodied, slay the rest!”
Again Kethral raised his axe, lending gravity to his command.
The Brethren remained silent, once more the cold discipline of old had crept into them. The tyrant gestured to the five Astartes kneeling before him.
“New brothers join our Long War this day. They fought side by side today, shed blood with you, toppled this fortress. Do you accept them?” he demanded to know. Gestures of brotherhood and some vocal affirmations were given. Holreck glanced over the five assembled Astartes. Brylla was amongst them, the traitor to the thin-blooded curs that would call themselves the heirs of the sixth Legion. His armour was blackened, the marks of fire on the ceramite that had purged the colours of his previous allegiance. The Space Wolf did not dare look up at him, instead staring at some fixed point in empty space.
“They may become true warriors in time. Watch them, Brothers, as once we watched you.” he commanded, turning toward Derrus, who had produced glowing iron from a brazier on the dais.
“From this day onward you will be Molten Brethren, initiates.” the Warsmith spoke, accepting a glowing brand from Derrus. The Apostle, Varx, and two others also would brand one of the initiates.
“Know what failure means. Know no Fear. Banish it from you. Vanquish all doubt.” he spoke, staring at Brylla. He weighed the glowing brand in his hand.
“From Iron, cometh Strength.” He intoned.
“From Strength, cometh Will.” he watched Brylla closely, waiting for a sign of weakness from the traitor.
“From Will, cometh Faith.” He saw no sign of faltering.
“ From Faith, cometh Honour.” He spat the words out, trying to get under Brylla’s skin.
“ From Honour, cometh Iron.” he pressed the iron onto the Wolf’s forehead, holding it there for what seemed like an eternity. The Wolf flinched slightly at first, but did not retreat or yelp.
“This is the Unbreakable Litany, and may it forever be so.”
The initiation was complete. Holreck retracted the brand, leaving the mark of the Molten Brethren on the Wolf, marking him until the day he would die. It would remain to be seen how quickly that day would come.
The air was brisk on his skin as the rhino sped over the ravaged steppe. They moved with a column of smaller troop-transports and vehicles, filled with battle-slaves. He felt the relatively fresh burn-mark on his forehead itch as the fresh air pressed against it. Brylla remembered the ceremony clearly, remembered the loathing in the Warsmith’s eyes. He wondered what it would take to prove his worth, if even this world wouldn’t buy him Kethral’s favour.
He turned his eyes toward the horizon, where a small outpost quickly drew ever nearer, the goal of the little expedition he’d been chosen to lead, since he was intimately acquainted with the terrain.
He could see the small figures running around like insects they seemed against the rising sun, which itself barely managed to shine through an immaterial haze. Whatever sorcery the Brethren had unleashed, the tides of the warp prevented reliable travel now. Hopefully long enough to take what they needed and leave.
Brylla did not appreciate the thought of his old brothers returning here so soon, maybe guessing where he had run off to.
He chose not to take offence, not now, not while his loyalty was still doubted by his new pack.
He sat down next to Orros, the initiate he believed was the least likely to shoot him in the back immediately.
“You should put on your helmet.” the young Astartes advised. Brylla gave him a doubtful look. “You’ve never fought without that thing, have you? Never tasted the blood of your foe, never smelt his fear in the air.” The Iron Warrior’s faceplate gave no indication whether Orros considered gutting him right then and there. Brylla could feel his Betcher’s Gland kicking in, producing the acidic saliva that would usually aid him in combat situations.
“The last time I fought without a helmet I nearly lost my jaw.” Orros finally replied, turning back toward the middle of the compartment. “Since then I learned to value a complete suit of armour.”
Brylla did not know what to reply to that. He put on his helmet, a beat-up piece of Mark V plate.
Finally the transport came to a halt and the ramp fell down. The warriors rose and stormed out of the rhino, swarming out.
Like one man the Molten Brethren bellowed their warcry. They fanned out and started a sprint for the outpost.
a small curtain wall protected five barracks and a landing pad, as well as a warehouse filled with weapons. From atop the watchtowers gunfire started to clatter down onto the advancing marines. They were charging at the front gate, where two guards were struggling to set up a heavy stubber. Before they could even rack the weapon two precise boltrounds tore them to pieces, bursting in their chests and spraying the surrounding troopers with gore, only furthering their terror. A buggy came roaring toward the west side of the compound, the battle-thrall atop it sending a rocket flying toward one of the watchtowers. Within a moment the metal construction was blown apart, debris clattering down to the ground. Within two more strides Brylla and the Brethren were upon the guards at the gate. His chainblade licked out, chewing through a man’s torso like it was nothing. With a backhand he broke a neck, a well-placed kick sent a soldier reeling and gasping for air. As he split another of the guards in twain with an upwards swing of his sword, he was alerted by the autosenses of his armour that small-calibre munitions were bouncing off of his plate. All around him bolter-fire roared up.
With a snarl he hurled himself against the first barricade the mortals had erected tearing through the sandbags and crates. Had they truly thought this would stop a son of Fenris?
He simply trampled the guards, the other Brethren followed him, breaking bones or tearing flesh.
He dove into the shadow of the landing pad and revved his chainsword, beginning his climb.
This was all far too easy.
The Warsmith allowed himself a small smirk to sneak onto his face. He was supervising the numerous raids and operations of the Molten Brethren from the command-room, a bunker-like structure at the heart of the citadel, dimly lit by orange screens and holo-projections. Servitors were constantly blurting out reports, human and mutant vox-officers were contently relaying the information they’d gathered from their underlings to him.
Brylla had succeeded in taking, what he had claimed to be, a depot of missiles the PDF had been charged with supervising. The specifics were still unknown, but missiles had been found, Karr had sent a private report about the situation, estimating that some of the fighters aboard the Eternal Usurper could use the missiles as ammunition. The grand prize Brylla had promised was yet to be found, however.
Not an exceptional prize, but sorely needed without reliable supply lines. The smirk was gone.
How he craved to create a grand campaign again, without a concern for anything but victory!
Soon, maybe, if this raid proved to be as fruitful as first Derrus and then Brylla had promised, he would have what it took to sow true devastation again.
The Molten Brethren were a strong warband, but not strong enough to take on truly big prey, like a fortress monastery, without suffering heavy, irreplaceable losses.
82 Astartes, roughly 4000 battle-slaves, uncounted thousands of menial slaves in the guts of the Murder-class Cruiser Eternal Usurper, a sizeable cohort of daemon engines, 103 fighters, hundreds of transports, dozens of tanks, 132 pieces of artillery of varying calibres, all these were fairly sizeable assets, but against the might of an entire loyalist Chapter there was still a relatively high margin of losses to be expected. A sizeable regiment of the loyalists’ mortal military could muster similar numbers, even if it could not sport the same variety in tactics or strategies.
Derrus had led him here, claiming that there would be immeasurable value here. Under the shrublands, steppe and infertile hills of this world apparently ores of unbelievably high quantity and quality had been found, yielding an output of iron, silver, copper and aluminium that could not be ignored. Metal for new machines of war and for repairing what was already there. There had even been rumours of a new source for ceramite running rampant, but that remained to be proven to him. There’d be a lot of work required to fabricate that material, even more to create new power-armour, maybe even the help of one of the Mechanicum-exclaves of the Eye. Such talk was senseless and thankfully scarce. Holreck knew that he would not rebuild the Legion on his own. Through his expressionless frustration he heard one of the mortal officers hurriedly approach, he could smell fear on him, bad news, for certain.
Varx was caught by surprise when the Warsmith barrelled into him. The impact of the enraged Astartes sent him reeling, even in his Terminator-plate, yet he remained on his feet, the servos of the armour whirring in a rather distressed fashion to stand against the tide of muscle and ceramite that had lunged at him.
The Warsmith’s already ugly face was distorted further by uncharacteristic rage, the combi-melta in his left hand was aimed right at the sorcerer’s face, making Varx consider that, maybe, this would be the last moment of his long life.
“Give me one good reason not to stamp you out right here, Sorcerer, it better be good.”
Varx was at a loss. What had happened? He had sensed nothing, to be honest, he had not done anything since riling up the immaterium to isolate this pitiful world. Before he could voice this meek defence, however, an all too familiar voice interceded.
“What would cause you such ire, Holreck? What has happened?” Derrus approached swiftly, his facade betraying nothing apart from his usual patriarchal worry. When the priest attempted however to lay his hand on the Warsmith’s shoulder pad, the weapon swung around, now aiming at his head.
“You! You dare...you promised the shroud would be unpierceable! You guaranteed this world would be ours alone, that none could approach us, yet the Eternal Usurper has detected enemy contacts in orbit! Explain yourselves, before I cut your sorcerous lies out of you!”
Varx had a nice look of the two. He’d never seen Kethral so displeased with Derrus, never seen him threaten what many said was his closest companion.
The priest seemed to be at least as surprised, for his face told of legitimate concern now.
“It shouldn’t be possible, are they certain?” Now it was Varx’s turn to intercede, drawing attention to himself, while trying to find a logical solution before the maniac murdered him right then and there!
Suddenly the vox sprang to life, giving a crackle. Holreck remained perfectly still for a few seconds, before focussing back on the sorcerer.
“Explain.” He grunted, the flame in his eyes growing colder, his mind calming. Varx wasn’t sure this was a good thing, seeing as he still did not have an explanation.
“Have they identified the enemy?” Derrus inquired, strangely calm again. The warrior-king did not bat an eye, simply spitting a single word: “Greenskins.”
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“The xenos are known to show up where they shouldn’t. They probably did not intend to land here, maybe stragglers from one of their larger fleets.” The priest offered, far too helpfully. Varx raised an eyebrow at the almost smug Apostle. Had he known?
Kethral did not stir, his mind remained blocked to Varx, but it was clear there was thought behind that thick skull.
“The warp is fickle, and so are the Gods.” Derrus added after a short eternity, “It seems they would have us fight for our spoils.”
The Warsmith remained still like an ancient statue for another moment, before turning away from Varx, growling orders into the vox as he marched back toward the control room.
Only now Varx noticed how hard his two hearts had been at work, pumping blood and combat-stims through his system, flushing him with stressful readiness.
“Why did you help me?” he pressed out through gritted teeth as Derrus made to follow the tyrant. The priest only glanced over his shoulder, smiling slyly.
“Maybe the Gods wished it to be so. I believe you should get back to your undoubtedly important work.”
As the priest left Varx found his balance again, once more focussing on the Lady on the wall, searching for the secret behind the paint, the hidden sign that occupied his mind.
Brylla stared up at the sparkling, flaming debris above. The wind was gentle, but soon it probably wouldn’t be. The stench of witchcraft was heavy, heavier even than before, clogging his fine senses. He could see one of the Greenskin vessels in lower orbit being torn apart by the Eternal Usurper’s lance batteries, combustions rippling through the ramshackle construction as it slowly plummeted toward the distant horizon, the gravitic pull of the planet soon tugging at it ever more, ensuring its complete destruction.
The immaterium flickering across the skies, the flash of void-ship-weaponry, explosions, it all just seemed like a strange haze up there, enrapturing but unsettling as well to the Space Wolf. He still could not shake his dislike for the witch, being surrounded and dependant on the whims of the wyrd made him nervous, it somehow bit at a rudimentary part of his being. He guessed he’d need to get used to it if he didn’t intend to die anytime soon.
Another particularly bright explosion led his attention to another xeno-ship. It seemed the vessel was attempting to flee toward the planet surface. It seemed mad , it seemed to dive straight for the planet. Instead of fleeing anywhere else these green-skinned beasts had decided the core of this world was to be their destination. He saw its hull rippling with impacts, as its prow began to glow with the heat of entry. The mad creatures would be torn apart in the atmosphere.
Here was hoping none of the ilk survived the crash.
“You’re not wearing your helmet again.” Orros interrupted his train of thought. When had he approached? Brylla didn’t know, honestly, the stuff of the warp was dulling his senses. He’d thought the stinking catacombs of the Eternal Usurper bad, but since their arrival on this world the ozone-stench had been so oppressive that it was slowly but surely causing him physical pain.
“Did you already forget what I told you about helmets?” the initiate asked, with a slight edge to his voice, though whether it was challenge or irritation at being ignored Brylla could not discern.
“Look at it Orros. Look at it with your own two eyes. Can’t you feel it on the wind, the scent of fate?” Brylla finally turned to look at the initiate, to see whether his companion may actually bow to his demand. To his disappointment, the cold ceramite mask stayed on his head.
“I can tell you that Command thinks this xeno-scum will try to land if they can. Whatever you feel on the wind they seem to already know,” the Molten Brother replied coldly, “so I’d suggest we get ready to escape this place or to defend it.” he gestured at the misshapen and battered depot around them, at the dishevelled battle-slaves hurriedly loading their vehicles with whatever they could gather up. He snorted in derision at the pitiful defences they had just ravaged through. “your decision, in the end.”
Brylla nodded slightly, looking back up at the dropping xeno-vessel. They best get moving quickly.
The situation was surprisingly dire. Three out of five assault groups sent out to pillage wayward outposts had reported contact with the xenos. The command room had a strange air about it, for while the underlings and vox-officers were visibly stressed, Holreck Kethral, the Warsmith of the Molten Brothers, responsible for the lives of every single Astartes, seemed unphased by reports of casualties.
A handful of his brothers had been wiped out in the last hour alone, losses that would usually send him flying into rage, yet he seemed strangely at peace. An accursed calm lay upon that face that betrayed as little as a dark mountainside. None dared disturb the peaceful surface lest they wake a vengeful god. None but the Apostle, that deemed himself protected, it seemed.
“You seem unmoved by the...latest developments.” Derrus warily began his usual questioning.
He would not get his usual dialogue. Holreck wasn’t in the mood for these little games.
“Call back whoever can retreat. Signal the Eternal Usurper. I want this Greenskin scum wiped from the world. Inform the taskmasters, the current work-quota is doubled. This citadel needs to be ready within the cycle, else we will lose all we have gained so far.” He did not even need to add that failure would not be tolerated. Such was only par for the course.
He could smell the xenos in the warp-clogged air, the stink of greenskin-flesh bringing back an awareness Brylla had been missing for a while.
Their convoy was whipping across the steppe again, rhinos and warrigs swarming around the more precious trucks they had scavenged from the depot.
Behind them they could see a green tide swarm after them, also on ramshackle vehicles. How they had managed to motorize so quickly was a mystery to Brylla, but he cared little for it. This was a hunt. He snarled as he realized he may be the prey this time.
The very heart of their problem was the damned loot! He couldn’t leave it behind if he didn’t want to be flayed by the Warsmith, he couldn’t keep it if he wanted to escape the Orks.
The first shots rang out from the xenos, hitting the ground without posing much danger, they were too far out to hope to score any hits.
After a short while, Brylla snarled into the vox. He wouldn’t lose his prize!
Varx was uncomfortable standing on the battlements of the citadel, eyeing the steppe, where several convoys were moving toward the gate. One passed through the extensive mine-field the Warsmith had commanded be laid, soon through the many pillboxes and trenches, some old, some made by the Molten Brethren in the last hour. Then there were three walls that spanned between two sheer mountainsides, natural defences even the Iron Warriors couldn’t scoff at.
Come to think of it, it was impressive how quickly Holreck had gone about taking the place, even more impressive how quickly he had repaired and even improved what sections had been damaged.
Turrets had been grafted onto the towers, twisted metal abominations that could spit disgusting amounts of firepower. Still, there was little beauty in what the Brethren had erected.
He frowned behind his helmet as he looked back out over the plains. This entire affair just seemed so pointless now. No artifacts of any worth, nothing he could say truly interested him. That painting maybe, but he’d given up on trying to decipher what had attracted him so much about it. He definitely could admire the work, but it would not surrender its secrets to him, and focussing had become an ever bigger problem for him. Not that he had much to focus on, anyway.
Blood of the Pantheon, he hoped they’d leave this rock soon. He was missing his library.
The first actual impacts of the Greenskin-weaponry were devastating to the slave-line. first one, then two, then ten vehicles vanished in bursts of flame as primitive rockets found their mark and low-calibre slugs tore through their crew. For most of the slaves it was already too late, the xenos would devastate them. Brylla cursed silently, as another of the war-rigs was blown to dust.
the Iron Warrior commanded. Easy for him to say, since his life didn’t depend on the condition that these missiles reached the Warsmith.
An explosion shook the transport, cutting through the standoff. Weren't it for the mag-locks in his boots Brylla would have been sent crashing against the cabin-wall.
He was already out of the top hatch long before the rhino skidded to a final halt, and headed straight for the approaching vehicle, some sort of bike, gunning his chainsword eagerly.
As the ramp of the transport slammed open an unreadable Orros eyed a seething Karr. It seemed the Pantheon had taken Brylla’s side in the matter. They’d see whether their attention wouldn’t be his downfall, he thought, when he noticed the helmet sitting on Brylla’s seat.
Heavy laughter rang over the calamitous battle before the walls of the citadel. The Warsmith bellowed out his joy at the xeno-beasts, as they were torn apart by the turrets and guns he had brought down with him.
He stood on the parapets of the second wall, watching as the greenskins were slaughtered in their hundreds by uncaring salvoes of boltrounds, slugs, rockets and incendiary munitions.
Only adding to his levity was the fact that the column of Brylla, that thin-blood, still hadn’t returned.
“It is almost regrettable that this won’t take too long, isn’t it?” Derrus remarked. The Apostle had followed Holreck as he usually did. He too seemed to exude amusement, though the Warsmith doubted his reasons were the same.
“It's true. I’d almost prefer to have a proper host of the beasts to burn. But this’ll do.” he gestured out over the meagre thousand or so Greenskins that had trickled into the vale before the walls. There was little reason to their tactics, simply running toward the gunlines or riding crude machines. Not even a single walker of theirs was present, no titanic hulk of metal either.
This then ruined Holreck’s mood. Now that he thought about it, he only found disdain in him. These creatures had made him waste high-calibre ammunition!
“We wouldn’t want any brothers still out there to be overwhelmed, after all.” Derrus added.
Holreck turned towards him, staring into the eyes of the priest, searching for traces of humour, for something to accuse him of. There seemed to be only contemplative concern. He scoffed.
“Maybe Father had a point when he said only the strongest should serve him.” he spoke. He swallowed the bitterness that was slowly creeping into his mind again. Closing his eyes he listened.
The thrum of power-armour, the whirring servos in artificial limbs, the distinctive firing patterns of larger guns, some of which he had designed or crafted himself. He knew them all by calibre, age, knew their faults, knew the ability of their ever-changing crew. He heard the faint cries of the xenos as the bark of bolters and the rattle of auto-weaponry added their last touches on the symphony of slaughter.
He let the cacophony drone on for exactly ten heartbeats. Ten heartbeats he’d need to regain focus. He’d tested it.
The hoots of the beasts and the howl of their ramshackle engines surrounded the Astartes as they made their stand. disciplined firing patterns took shape, almost synchronous they moved and maneuvered, laying down bolt-fire, taking down whatever vehicle came closest. Somewhere in the midst of battle, enraptured with the opportunity of halfway worthy enemies. He sprang on top of an approaching war-rig, squeezing the trigger to put a bolt-round into the gunner, before ramming the chainblade into the driver’s chest, gobbets of gore sprayed from the creature, painting Brylla bright red. Using the seat of the rig as leverage he jumped off, his eyes darting to find a new enemy. He risked a quick look behind himself. The trucks were riding off, gunning it for the citadel. Now he only needed to survive this battle and he’d be safe for a while.
The clatter of shot against his chest plate reminded him that survival wasn’t guaranteed.
He turned to see his assailant, but he was too slow. The warbike smashed into him at full throttle, sending him flying backwards. He fell onto his back, quickly rolling toward his left to evade the tires of another war-machine. He could feel stimulants pulling through his veins, smelled the refreshing scent of gore.
“You’ll need more than that!” he boasted as the bike came in for another round, ramming its way through its comrades. The beast driving it roared at him, its bloodshot eyes alive with fire. The Wolf sidestepped just in time to evade a primitive rocket that came from behind him. He was surrounded, more and more small-shot came in toward him,mostly bouncing off his armour uselessly, but it was only a matter of time before they found something more vulnerable. He howled as the biker charged at him, firing his chainblade and stepping aside again, slicing vertically through the xeno’s skull. He felt the blade shudder as it ground away the bone. Already he fired his bolt-pistol into more of the creatures, hammering shot after shot into the green tide and their vehicles. A glance at the Iron Warriors told him the situation was desperate. The warriors had been scattered, their formation had been disrupted by the greenskin’s reckless charges. They each had felled dozens of the beasts, but three of their number already lay dead. Maybe he’d chosen unwisely.
Just this once Brylla would agree with the veteran. He clamped his pistol to his thigh and ran toward the rhino, slicing at the beasts whenever they came close enough.
He was nearly with the regrouping squad when he saw one of their number struggling against a particularly large ork. Orros.
He took a second to consider, then charged toward the initiate and his unequal foe. The beast was armoured in crude iron slabs, a twisted claw in its right hand and a primitive gun in the left it was currently trying to pump shots into Orros’ The chainblade rose and fell, cutting into the ork’s left arm, but getting stuck in its bone. Orros was sent reeling as the large beast backhanded him with the claw. Brylla had its undivided attention now. He tore back his sword, before trying to distance himself from the seeming leader of the horde. It’s crude armour was adorned with a pole, a typical sign of leadership amongst the Orks. It bared its teeth as it roared a curse at him in its vile tongue,
bringing up the claw. Energy danced across its edges as it sliced downward toward his shoulder. He stepped to the left and rammed the creature’s side with his pauldron, trying to throw it off balance. It stumbled aside a step and he followed, swinging the sword toward its chest. The ork spun around and simply swatted the blade away with its gun, leaving Brylla dangerously exposed. The claw swiped down. Brylla raised his left arm to deflect the blow. The powerfield cut through his ceramite and into his arm, but it bought him the crucial moment he needed to regain a semblance of balance. He dove down and rammed his chainsword upward, toward the beast’s head. The blade caught on its plate, throwing splinters at the ground and at his face, but soon he was showered in blood, as the chainsword found purchase in the greenskin’s chest and naturally dragged itself upwards, into its throat. He felt the claw finally cutting through his arm, but the pain only lasted for a beat of his twin hearts, as coagulant and pain-killers began to deafen his senses. He pressed the chainsword home, closing his eyes as the skull of the creature was split apart. It tipped over unbelievably slowly, burying him under its bulk. The Wolf sucked in a few laboured breaths before shoving the beast off of himself. He rose to his knees first, then tore the chainblade from the beast’s carcass, using it as a support to bring himself to his feet. Around him the xenos fled. The death of their leader had discouraged the pack. He raised his chainsword and let out a victorious howl. The roar of another of the beasts little concerned him. Only when he turned his head, to bring his chainblade to bear against the ork-bike that should pass him in the next two seconds, he saw the glowing muzzle of a primitive flamer light up, spitting a gout of fire toward him.
The world disappeared in fire.
The Warsmith again found himself on the highest spire of the citadel, staring down at the courtyard. Landing craft descended, devouring yet more resources and men. The raid had been a success, even though a few losses had been taken during the small ork-incursion. He glanced over the battlefield once more. The creatures had turned out to be quite disappointing even after a full three days of siege. They’d never made it onto the first wall. He turned his attention back to a train of valuable ore-transports, as they slowly disappeared into the dark maw of a mass conveyor.
“Is there anything you wish to make known to the lower ranks?” Derrus inquired, surrounded by a gaggle of black-clad slaves. They were his own little disciples, carrying his word to the furthest reaches of the Eternal Usurper.
“I wouldn’t think you to be at a loss for words. You were always the verbose one of us.” Holreck delegated that duty. His eyes wandered toward a large missile, slowly disappearing in one of the haulers. A single marine stood beside it, looking up at him. The pup had returned with its prey.
“Let the slaves know that their masters are pleased.”the tyrant finally instructed. “And tell them that their numbers have grown ever so slightly.” he added after a while, a stiff upper lipper hiding his amusement.
“Of course,” Derrus made his assent known, “of course, Lord.”
Varx breathed in the recycled air of the Eternal Usurper and almost let out a hysterical laugh. He’d missed the stale, sterile tang. He was making his way down the corridors toward his library, his sanctuary, were he held his secrets and, most importantly, where he would finally be uninterrupted. Rounding a corner he was surprised to find Derrus smiling at him, as if he’d expected him. The corona of malign energies surrounding the Apostle’s armour was discomforting as usual.
“Oh, what a surprise.” the priest spoke, in his usual, soft, voice.
“Don’t pretend like you just happened to be directly in my path.” the Varx demanded. “What do you want?” Varx disliked the way the Apostle was staring at him, as if searching for something in his features, as if there were a secret there to decipher. Just when he could feel the chill of the immaterial gather in his fingertips, the Apostle changed his stance completely, only shaking his head.
“Nothing Varx, nothing. A simple pleasantry, that is all.” He almost seemed convincing.
“You should probably return to your studies, forgive me.” with that the priest swiftly retreated leaving Varx alone to ponder.
When the sorcerer continued on his way and finally opened up his sanctuary, he noticed nothing at first. Only later when he was in his silken robes, all alone and undisturbed, did he notice something odd. There was a painting on the wall. Blue eyes stared back at him invitingly.
Strange. Perhaps he should devote some more time to the study of it, now that it was here...