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In honour of TheEyeOfNight's rather awesome thread, I've decided to write a piece-by-piece Heresy story. Doing it this way should allow me to finish my other commitments at the same time.

I had to split some parts up due to time constraints. I've also had to do some editing after parts are posted, since I'm doing this on the fly. Enjoy!

EDIT: I also note, after re-reading the incredible Horus Rising, that I made factual boo-boos about Ullanor. Rather than re-write my story, I just thought sod it, keep going

=1=

ULLANOR, M31

I couldn't see him. I couldn't hear him. He was beyond even my genhanced senses. Yet I knew he was there.

The radiant beings projected overlapping fields of awe. Of wonder. Of horror.

Sanguinius. Fulgrim. Lorgar. Sixteen Primarchs knelt, in turn, before their new Warmaster. Humans who witnessed the coronation of Horus fainted, or collapsed in tears. A few spasmed in the throes of heart attacks, weak little things, to be attended by apothecaries of the Raven Guard, Ultramarines and Word Bearers. Those apothecaries were urgent, calling out for servitors to lift the suffering mortals on stretchers. They missed Horus's apotheosis. They missed the beginning.

And so, it seemed, would Mortarion.

Yet when Guilliman - humbly waiting for all of his brothers to swear allegiance to Horus before he did the same - rose, to clasp gauntlets with a chuckling Warmaster

Horus was weeping

a darkness stole across the room. Everyone sensed it. I had already seen it coming.

Guilliman stepped back into the ranks of his brother Primarchs, leaving Horus to turn and smile at his final brother.

Mortarion didn't come in through the chamber's archway. The chamber was so huge it could house a battalion of Titans. All but the Primarchs seemed lost within it, yet there were ranks of Astartes wearing the colours of Eighteen legions, thousands of mortals, and of course

the daemon who wore a man's face

the glorious, golden bonfire of love and courage

and bloodshed and murder

we know and salute as our Emperor. He cast his radiance over all. Even the battered, furious Angron seemed calmer in his presence. Something about the Emperor brought out the best in each of us

which is why we hate him so much

which is why I have avoided all mention of him until now. Far easier to look upon the magnificence, the brightness, of the Primarchs, than stare at the blazing sun of the Emperor.

He was a liar from the time he conquered Egypt wearing the missing Pharaoh's form, and when he caused Hitler's suicide, and while he hid from the original Terran Empire

Mortarion stepped from behind a pillar by the Emperor's raised dais and stepped towards Horus. Alone of all the Primarchs, Horus had known where Mortarion was.

The primogenitor of the Death Guard Legion did not return his brother's smile. Mortarion's armour was tattered, still stained with Ork blood where his brothers' - aside from Angron's - were cleaned and polished to perfection. The customary clunk-tap of Mortarion's gait, using his scythe as a walking stick he didn't really need, was the only sound audible. Then, as they noticed him, and assumed immediately that our Lord's behaviour was temerity, they gasped. To my genhanced hearing, the exhalation of of ten thousand humans was the roar of a tsunami.

And now, the Primarchs drown the galaxy in blood

Mortarion knew the effect he was having. He knew that for a few precious moments, he was the single most important man on the galactic stage. He showed nothing of his feelings, as was his way. Only his sons would have known. Mortarion regarded Horus with dispassionate eyes.

"Brother," said the lord of the Death Guard, standing before the Warmaster of the Imperium.

"Brother," Horus said with a playful grin. A less tactful man might have added, how good of you to join us. Horus did not.

Mortarion was silent for a moment. Reflective. Not pensive, nor lost for words. The moment seemed to stretch into forever.

"I shall reap the enemy in your name," he said. He glanced up towards the blazing presence of the Emperor. Even Horus, I have noticed, could not look directly at his sire for long. Mortarion was as unafraid of the Emperor as he was of anything else in this hostile galaxy.

"And yours," he said.

"Will you not kneel before your Warmaster?" asked Horus. The question was phrased politely, as a kind of joke. I could sense the iron in the Primarch's voice. It was not a joke.

The pause which followed was even longer than before. It bordered on insolence, yet I have never witnessed pettiness or insubordination from my father. I knew only that he had conquered Barbarus and united its human inhabitants in the face of terrifying monsters; I should know, for I was one of those humans. Mortarion saved me from one of those monsters. He feared nothing, and abhored the concept of bowing to another being, as the monsters had forced us to do.

Yet Mortarion finally bent his knee to the Warmaster and said:

"I would lead my Legion into hell for you, should such a place dare to exist."

=2=

THE DREAM STARS, M31

We stood before Mortarion in the planning room of Terminus Est. It was a long gallery with large, void-shielded windows running along one wall, affording a view of the beautiful blue stellar canvas beyond.

Eighteen hundred ships had ploughed through the Empyrean. Remarkably, only four ships disappeared during transit. Another three human captains lost their minds, perhaps unable to resist the nightmares or the promises of love, power or sensation whispered into their skulls, and detonated their warp cores after they had dropped into realspace, claiming fourteen further vessels.

Our mortal serfs whispered about the fate of those doomed to warp-death. They believed the souls of those humans were in torment even now. Hard to comprehend such nonsense. The Emperor denies the Empyrean is inhabited by damned souls. Yet of course it is inhabited by something - by aliens of some foul breed, not creatures of a darkness which cannot exist.

But they were right... even now, thousands of human souls scream as we roast them and cut them open, again and again... the lucky ones will be reborn as daemons and sent against you

Mortarion towered over us, yet by Primarch standards he was gaunt and quiet. His rebreather jutted from the collar of his armour, wisps of toxic Barbaran air emanating. Something in my Primarch's personality, some aura, seemed to loom like shadows cast by firelight. In him, the Emperor had captured the atavistic fears of cavemen huddling around the first flames, listening to the roars of predators outside.

"Human cartographers named this stellar cluster the Dream Stars," Mortarion said. "Despite its whimsical name, this region is a source of constant horror. Human vessels, even fleets, have vanished here without broadcasting distress calls. Colonies founded within fifty light-years have winked out of existence. Rogue traders report strange xenos starships which fade in and out of surveyor range. These ships teleport xenos abominations onto trader vessels to butcher the crews. Few humans have survived such attacks."

"Sir," said Kharn. I and my brothers glanced at the World Eater with something close to contempt, though I knew many of the Death Guard privately respected Angron's equerry.

Kharn wore blue and white armour that was uncharacteristically clean and in a state of good repair. Their serfs were useless, so we had set our own to work restoring the World Eaters' armour and equipment.

"Speak for your Primarch, warrior," Mortarion said.

Kharn glanced around as though only just realising Angron had missed yet another planning session. Kharn was the only World Eater in the room. He looked out of place.

"Sir, with respect, you only need to tell us where to go."

I felt like batting the impetuous fool with my scythe. Did Kharn really believe Mortarion would emulate his idiot brother and loose thousands of Astartes into an unknown warzone, with no instructions?

"My serfs are providing you with co-ordinates," Mortarion said, nodding to hunched creatures who dared to call themselves men. The mortals even wore robes in the off-white and green of the Death Guard. It was an insult to our proud Legion. These scampering, whimpering men made a mockery of us.

Three serfs stepped forwards to hand Kharn a data-slate. Three men, one to hand him the slate, the other two standing behind him, perhaps for moral support?

"Thank you," Kharn told them as he took the slate. There was no hint of malice or humour in his tone. Clearly he did not share my distaste for mortals.

"As you will see," Mortarion said, "you will be assaulting three worlds registering xenos power signatures. Expect orbital defences and ground forces. Kill every alien you encounter and destroy their technology. Do not recover anything. Let it all rot."

"We'll wipe these Yammanite bastards from the face of existence," Kharn said. He nodded respectfully to the primarch and left; he had all he needed and didn't really care what the Death Guard would be doing.

Mortarion turned to us once Kharn had gone.

"As for my sons, who understand the value of tactical analysis, I have two objectives: the primary objective is a world I have designated Terium Oblique. The secondary is a space hulk drifting in the Terium system, which I have designated Fallen Hero."

"Only two objectives?" Grulgor snorted. I froze at the Captain's tone. "The World Eaters have three. Do we give them the lion's share of our work?"

"Such fire," Mortarion chuckled. "Perhaps you should change the colours you wear."

"Forgive me, sire," Grulgor said. "I spoke out of turn."

"You do, but if you did not, you would never have earned your rank. I chose our own objectives with specific reason: I have discovered evidence of the psyker-taint amongst the Yammanites. Imperial Intelligence has not encountered Yammanite psykers before. I wish the satisfaction of crushing these xenos witches myself."

One day your people will form an Inquisition, and they will occasionally stumble over locations we wish them to find, places of overlap between the Warp and your cold, aching universe, where the souls of men are made into monsters and sent back to slay and bedevil you

"How many psykers, and which category?" I asked. My voice seemed very loud in my own ears. I was speaking in front of the Primarch and our Legion's senior Captains. I didn't feel sufficiently qualified to be in this room, despite my success against the green skin at Ullanor, for which Lord Mortarion had personally thanked me.

The primarch bathed me in the cold light of his eyes.

"The numbers are unconfirmed," he said. "Their capabilities range from beta level to alpha plus."

=3.1=

TERIUM SYSTEM, DREAM STARS, M31

"Go forth," Mortarion had said. "Find the witch. Burn the witch. Leave no traces. Human purity shall prevail."

Status reports and tactical briefings buzzed in my brain as I held firm. Our Stormbird shook as it stabbed the planet's atmosphere - a poisoned blister the Death Guard lanced in the Emperor's name. I held tight to the hand-loop set into the ceiling, along with dozens of my brothers. My Terminator armour, Nightshade pattern, was locked in place. By the Throne, we were rocked and jostled: even the planet's atmosphere was inimical to human existence.

Our craft was one among hundreds making planetfall. Astartes Stormbirds descended like a murder of crows upon a carcass. Lighter human escort fighters blitzed between us, shooting down the incoming missiles rising from the planet’s surface, chasing off xenos interceptors even as they loosed strange energy shards at our craft.

Status screens set along the sides of our Stormbird’s hull showed us the incredible view outside. Even as our landing force descended, braving a hail of rising fire, torpedoes and mass driver fire from the fleet in orbit pounded the planet’s crust. A firestorm engulfed continents, forming a literal ring of fire around our target, which fleet intelligence had identified as the planet’s capital. Mortarion liked to call this tactic the Circle of Despair.

There was a flash to our right and we were rocked again as tracer fire struck and demolished a Stormbird. Xenos fighters flashed past. Their energy weapons ripped into our hull. Oxygen screamed through rents; several brothers cried out, then their cries were silenced. Fire raged within the Stormbird’s hold as the planet’s atmosphere fought to keep us out. My armour’s temperature sensors redlined and the paint was scorched from us. Several battle brothers’ cries echoed along the vox-net as their power armour melted onto them. I heard brief hissing from the tech-adepts and menials who had been cowering at the back of the hold. Their deaths were painful yet brief.

“We’re going off-course!” called brother Lumian, our pilot. He had always had more empathy with machines than people, and his body was partially augmetic as part of some pact he held with the Mechanicum, but he sounded purely human in this moment. “Hold on, brothers, this is one landing you won’t thank me for!”

For the first time ever, I was glad not to be a member of the Deathshroud, though I was honoured with a weapon and armour similar to theirs. If I was about to be impacted to the size of a bolter magazine, it was better that the formidable Primarch of the Death Guard was not standing beside me.

“Stand firm, men!” Sergeant Dacius roared across the vox. “Die like Death Guard, not snivelling Eldar!”

“If I’m going to be flattened in humiliating style,” announced Errin, a brother from Sergeant Nestor’s squad, “at least bloody Yorth won’t be around to laugh about it!”

“Idiot,” Yorth voxed back. “I blame you for this. Always were a bloody jinx.”

“Just like Errin to headbutt a world because it hasn’t bowed to the Emperor,” Prin said.

“Have you all got problems?” Dacius grated, formal bravado dropped. “What did I just say?”

=3.2=

XENOS ABOMINATIONS. We are the Imperium of Man. Six hundred thousand worlds stand united in the cause of your extinction.

Your corrupt civilisation defiles the Emperor’s galaxy. Your forces murder innocent Imperial citizens. You parley with the witch and the mutant. You mock us by praying to false gods for salvation that will never come.

You have therefore declared war upon the Emperor of Mankind and his Imperium, and have committed war crimes against humanity. There can be no alliance between us and there can be no peace.

Your species is sentenced to death by Ultimum Exterminatum.

DEPLOYING THE DEATH GUARD

=3.3=

"Lumian!" I said. "If we are going down, we need to draw their fire. Do you have any control?"

"Aye, Nexius," he replies, voice strained. "Some. I'm descending hard, there are eight AA turrets clustered around that city block, they're shooting the hell out of us. I'm going to land on the bastards' heads."

The Stormbird lurched severely.

"Get out of the way!" Lumian yelled at other pilots, forgetting he was still on the squad-vox. We took another severe hit which tore out some of the deck below us. The fire of atmospheric friction had died by now. I could see a view of the strange, organic alien city below. It would have been dizzying if I wasn't enhanced, and unafraid of falling. Several of my power armoured brothers were hanging above that void, holding on for their lives. It almost looked funny, though there was little to laugh about at that moment.

"Emperor, that was close," Lumian muttered.

"You're still on the squad vox," I told him.

"Here we come, xenos scum!" Lumian roared. "Count the seven!"

=4.1=

Vocalog report by trooper Blane Eridus, Terran 44th Heavy Infantry, Solar Auxhilia

We dropped right into the teeth of the xenos fire. My dropship followed in the wake of a Death Guard Stormbird. I admit we were using them as cover. We kept getting caught in their jetwash once we'd breached the planet's atmosphere. We heard the screams of our ship, the Revenator, across the vox before Lieutenant Dreskil cut it off. Those xenos bastards were packing serious anti-orbital firepower to take out an Avenger class battle cruiser.

Dropships were getting taken out all around us. My company lost about ten per cent of its men but other companies were hit harder. I heard the aliens took out a Titan lander too.

The Stormbird we were following got hit hard and started going down. We got caught in their jetwash again and our pilot lost control, so we effectively went down with the Marines. Probably saved our lives: the anti-air fire was so bad by then and the xenos were using some kind of technology we'd never seen before. Bam, bam, they were popping our dropships out of the air.

Rumour was, their shots were guided by psyker-magic. That's why Mortarion, excuse me, the Lord Mortarion was hell-bent on putting the aliens down, and why he risked half his Legion in one assault. We definitely couldn't bombard the main population centre due to psyker-storms, psi-shields, something like that, so we needed boots on the ground.

The Stormbird made a perfect distraction, coming in so fast and so steep that parts of it ended up ripping off, one of which hit us and killed ten men. Everyone was screaming, I genuinely heard someone praying but I'm not sure who... I don't want to get anyone disciplined.

The Death Guard took out one xenos turret and somehow our gunner launched a Brimstone missile which nailed a second one. We basically rolled between the two stumps left behind, still somehow following the Astartes. The Death Guard crashed down in a city street between tall, organic buildings, like a nightmare version of Old Terra. They bulldozed through a lot of xenos junk. We put down behind them and skidded into them -- Emperor, it was terrible. Eighteen men crushed to death right in front of me. I don't know why I was spared. A wall of metal and crushed meat came at me as the lander crumpled against their Stormbird.

There was barely any time to think. The Lieutenant grabbed me and dragged me out. The smell... Breath of Terra, it was horrendous, we were raped through the nose and my stomach bunched up to be sick.

The Yammanites were already organising and we were in a firefight with those big son of a bitches before I knew what's what. Our lander blew up behind us and I went down wounded, but the Astartes blew the xenos away. They were terrifying, the xenos, the Astartes I mean, the whole situation was bloody terrible. I don't know how I lived through it. If it hadn't been for the Death Guard, the Yammanites would have fed me and my squad into their machines and sucked our bodies into mulch-fuel.

I don't know what happened to the Space Hulk, Fallen Son was it? Fallen Hero, sorry. I heard the boarding teams had it pretty bad. But they should be thanking the Emperor himself that they didn't land on that planet.

=4.2=

Vocalog report by Terminator Nexius, Death Guard Legions Astartes

We dropped from the Terminus Est in good order. The xenos ground batteries were extremely competent considering they are alien scum. My Stormbird was shot down and we crash-landed in the heart of the xenos population centre. We killed a lot of xenos on the way down. We rescued two squads of Solar Auxhilia who crashed alongside us and fought our way into cover.

We saw things that almost broke the mortals' minds. For the first time since my elevation to the Death Guard, I could empathise with mortal men.

=4.3=

The impact sounded like the gong at the end of existence.

I will still be around to hear that. Will you?

We chewed up the road, scattering hulking aliens and their otherworldly organic machines. It was satisfying to crush so many xenos scum. Lumian's strength must have been extraordinary, to land the wounded Stormbird on its belly and not simply pile us nose-first into the ground. The flyer screamed in its death throes, throwing waves of sparks. Xenos fire hit its flanks even as we careened along the road. We drifted to a halt, Stormbird slewing sideways. Assault hatches opened and we fell out like the innards spilling from a wounded predator.

We got out just in time. We were already taking fire, ripped-up streams of cyan energy tearing into our armour, when Ustricks, our only surviving plasma gunner, screamed a warning.

An Army dropship was spiralling down towards us.

You should have died then and there...

=4.4=

The sounds of our crash-landing were bad enough, but the ringing impact of a Solar Auxhilia dropship slewing sideways into our Stormbird was loud enough to throw us to the ground.

Even as my brothers dragged wounded and confused humans from the wreckage, I was co-ordinating the return fire. Yammanite constructs thumped down the road towards us.

They resembled human hips in shape, covered with green syn-skin, with jewel-tipped sensor probes and flamers hoses jutting from them. It was almost obscene. Legs telescoped downwards, stomping across the ground, and no matter how much firepower we put into the fragile-looking constructs, we could not even slow them down. We certainly wouldn't have been able to knock them over.

Their flamers possessed exceptional range and were hot enough to melt Terminator armour. This really was an exceptionally resistant race, requiring the co-operation of two Astartes Legions and millions of human soldiers to defeat; and even had the almighty Emperor himself been with us that day, surely even he could not have saved the lives we lost.

Brothers Ixos and Vane died, shrieking, as the flamer-touch melted them like candles in some sped-up pict-vid. Human soldiers burst into flames and fell, consumed in fatty clouds of their own essence.

"Return fire!" I yelled as more of my squad deployed. "Hammer the bastards!"

Bolt rounds flared against our enemies, the distinctive RAAARK-whoosh overpowering the zip of lasguns or the noisy blaring of xenos weapons.

Yammanite soldiers closed from all round. We had no cover other than the burning dropships. Death Guard warriors spread out and knelt or lay in firing positions with vulnerable humans clustered around them.

I tore my attention away from the humans' display of cowardace to blast an approaching Yammanite trooper. They resembled upright lizards, green flesh with protective, ochre-coloured torsos that could stop a bolt pistol shell.

They didn't need power weapons to rip us up in close combat. They were strong, far stronger than the Ogryns accompanying some Auxhilia regiments, and they were fast. One of the Yammanites brought a halberd-like weapon down, slicing Lumian's right arm off.

"You little Ork-s**t!" the pilot cursed, smashing the xeno across its face with the bolt pistol held in his left hand. "I needed that thing!" The xeno reared at him as if to bite his head off. He put a burst of shells into its mouth and out the back of its skull.

Nice! I actually enjoyed reading this quite a lot! See, posts like this are why Dakka Fiction is awesome. Keep it up!