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I am Culexus, and I am feared.

I was born on a world worth nothing, raised in the filth and waste of its depths. I was reviled, beat, and cast out by all around me.
I did nothing to deserve it, but I was hated. I was feared.

As I slept one night I was ambushed by men dressed all in black, their faces hidden. The low-hab scum cheered as I was dragged away.
They were happy to be rid of me. I cried out for help, but none came. I was hated. I was feared.

I was taken to a temple, dark and foreboding. Even the light of the Emperor could not find its way here. I was dressed in the black of my captors and trained in the ways of body and mind. I was told that I was unique, one of only hundreds that was born as a dark void in the warp. I was told that I was a valuable tool to the Emperor. But I could see it in their eyes; I could see that I was loathed. I was feared.

Now I am an instrument sent to kill the enemies of mankind. Eviscor, Vindicare, and Callidus are used to cut off the head of the serpent, to kill its body. I am sent to drain its very soul. The witch, the psyker, the daemon, the vile xenos Eldar; all will know me.

I am Culexus, and I am feared.

[This is the prologue/intro/teaser to my Culexus fan-fiction! Anyway, if you like it you can expect more journeys into the soul-sucking, intrigue-wrapped world of the Culexus in the future.]


Chapter 1: Darkest Before Dawn

The chron said that it was morning, but outside it was still pitch black. Proctor Blanchard was already up and gathering his materials; the data slate, paper copies of the assignment, and a large key adorned with skulls. The proctor glanced at himself in a small polished mirror, admiring the aura of mystique his black clothes and mask afforded him. With one last deep breath he opened his door and entered the hall. The passage was lined with doors, the rooms of his fellow proctors. At the end of the hall was a lift, which Blanchard boarded. With deft hands he entered the password and the lift began its descent.

Down here there were more doors, although these were made of adamantium and bore no openings. There were lights overhead, but these did not prevent shadows from gathering in the corners. Blanchard began to walk, glancing at the numerals scratched into the heavy doors. Finally he came to the door he was searching for; XIII. The proctor halted in front of the thick metal, tugging his tunic closer to his body. Chills crept up his limbs, and an incessant buzzing had begun inside his head. Another deep breath and Blanchard worked up the courage to unlock the door and knock.

The wait seemed like an eternity, but eventually the door shrugged open. A wall of cold hit the proctor, and his vision began to swim. Blanchard peered inside, but it was as dark as the perpetual night of the planet he was now stationed on. “Th…Thirteen, present yourself,” Blanchard croaked into the darkness. His voice sounded distant and slurred. A shadow detached itself from the darkness around it and walked forward. The figure was slight, but muscular, and extremely pale. His face was hidden in blackness. Blanchard nearly vomited, but managed to keep his composure. “There is an assignment for you Thirteen, one of tremendous importance.” The proctor offered the data slate and papers to the man inside the room. His hand was shaking violently. The figure reached out, took the papers, and returned once more to the depths of the room, all without a single word. The metal door slid closed and locked with an audible click. Blanchard hurried back to the lift, latched the door, and slumped to the floor. He had never been so afraid in his entire life.

[This is my first story written for an internet audience so perhaps it is a bit slow to develop. I don't want to lose anyone's interest if it is boring at first, but thanks for reading!]

Continuation of Chapter 1...

The ship was compact, its dimensions more akin to a tomb than a space-craft. It was just large enough to hold its single passengers and his gear. Like a coffin adrift in the sea the ship’s engines powered it silently through the void. Inside the passenger sat motionless at the controls, his eyes flickering as if in a deep sleep. The data-slate was plugged into the back of his skull, rapidly relaying critical mission information. The slate gave off a pale blue glow, illuminating the stark interior of the vessel, and the being inside of it. He was dressed in a black body-glove, durable but not hindering. A bandoleer of grenades was clasped around his waist, along with a blade and silenced bolter. His head was hidden behind the rictus visage of a death’s head mask; cruel and white. A device clung to the side of the mask, its arcane workings now beyond the knowledge of man. Its oculus was closed, but it promised agonizing death to those unfortunate enough to gaze into it.

With a slight hum the data-slate shut off, once again dipping the chamber into darkness. A spastic jerk awoke the man from his data-coma. The eyes of his helmet opened, radiating a cold, ghostly blue. The man activated a vox on the console, encrypted to 300 levels and directly linked to his Templum. “Holy Temple, I have studied my assignment diligently, and I am prepared to exercise the Emperor’s will.” Thirteen’s voice was a rasp from inside his helmet, a sound like someone’s final breath on their deathbed. The vox crackled to life, bringing a reply, “May the God-Emperor cloak you in darkness assassin, begin your descent to the planet and bring blessed death to the enemies of Mankind.” With that the small tomb-ship veered toward the pitted surface of the planet Caryatid.

The small city of Mycenae was just beginning to stir from its sleep. No one noticed the black form which darted through their sky and blocked out the fledgling sun’s light. The object landed well outside city limits, in the crags and plateaus of the Highlands. Here Thirteen knew there were heretics awaiting death; he knew this because his Temple told him that it was so. He clambered from his ship, stealing away into the pre-morning gloom. A small auspex attached to his wrist pointed Thirteen toward his prey, leading him into a small cave network. The equipment in his helmet showed the cave bathed in light, although in reality it was as dark as the body-glove he wore. Thirteen moved swiftly in the darkness, the most reliable weapon of a silent killer, and a place where he excelled. Eventually the auspex pinged and shut off, signaling that the target had been found. Thirteen stopped dead in his tracks; before him stood his quarry in a lighted room, hunched over a table. However, there was a problem. There was only supposed to be one target. Two men stood in this chamber.

Really good. You haven't wasted words and the repetition suits it and makes it flow well. Looking forward to seeing more.

very well done, I cant recall reading a fanfic about a assassin before in 40k, so keep the good stuff flowing.

man...you know what I'm about to do?Those two little options to click at the bottom left of this page? Well the one highest up, I'm gonna click it! Way to go man I cannot wait to read some more.
By the way I meant the subscribe button. I didn't know if I was clear enough on that. ^.^

Thanks for the support guys! I'm in college so updates may be a tad irregular, but really, thanks for reading!

Continuation of Chapter 1...

“There are two heretics here, how should I proceed?” The tiny vox in Thirteen’s helmet crackled back the Templum’s reply in a hiss of static, “Do you doubt the wisdom of the Emperor? You are a weapon, you kill what we point you at! Finish off these Heretics and return to the Templum for penance.” Thirteen voiced his understanding and moved to the very edge of the lighted space. The muscles in his arms and legs tensed, anticipating the furious movement to come. With a silent prayer to the Emperor Thirteen burst from the shadows at his foes.

The two heretics turned immediately, firing compact auto-pistols at the living shadow. They could barely discern a human figure; though they knew something was wrong. Their vision was swirling and their shots were going wide. The shadow closed distance with the first man, delivering a powerful blow into his ribs. The heretic fell to his knees, blood dribbling down his chin. His companion rushed to his aid, directing a powerful psykic push at the skull-helmed assailant. The mental attack, powerful enough to fell a Cadian guardsman, simply withered into nothing. The skull now had its eyes focused on him, burning blue with malevolence.

“W…what are you?” The heretic asked, his voice cracking. As the shadow approached a large occulus opened on the side of his helm, purring with arcane energies. “I am your death Warp-monger, I am Culexus.” a cloudy haze filled the eyes of the Heretic and his head pulsed painfully. The skull was now directly in front of his face. “Do you fear me?” Only a whimper was given as a reply. The man mewled and drooled rivulets of blood as he stared into the occulus, and the occulus stared back into him. His eyes rolled back into his skull and his body began to crack and break, like a bulkhead under too much pressure. Finally his body bent in two, his spine snapping noisily. Thirteen shuddered as he felt the soul of the heretic course through his own body, absorbed into the black void that was his nothingness. The occulus hummed louder, imploring, hungry for more. Thirteen turned his deathly gaze at the other heretic.

But he was gone…

Continuation of Chapter 1...

A stream of oaths left the merchant’s mouth as his stand was toppled. Clay pots and exotic fruits fell to the ground, trampled under the fleeing steps of the citizens. The other heretic, blood still spilling from his mouth, fought his way through the panicked crowd. He risked a glance behind him; a black figure was following him, icy blue eyes staring back at his. The townspeople were fleeing from this man, although none of them knew why. All they knew is that when he appeared their bodies and minds screamed at them to flee. The heretic hurried his pace. His escape awaited him in the form of a shuttle docked in the port. If only he could make it.

A terrifying blow slammed into the heretic, bringing him hard to the ground. Another beam tore through the air, black as night and cold as the depths of space. Several civilians standing nearby fell to the street, their souls ripped violently from their physical forms. The heretic stumbled to his feet, casting a psykic shield around his beaten body. Thirteen approached the psyker, the void inside him sapping the potency of the shield. “Psyker-scum, your powers feed my hunger. Your soul I offer up as tribute to the Emperor.” The heretic’s soul began to wither, drawn from his body by the assassin’s existence. “I…I am a loyal…uhn…servant of the Imperium!” The words were coughed out along with pools of blood. “The Emperor will judge that in death.”

Thirteen climbed into the cool darkness of his sarcophagus-ship, the hatch sealing closed with a hiss of compressed air. The ship flickered to life, automatically programming the protocols and functions for the return to the Templum. Thirteen keyed the vox. “Holy Templum, the heretics are dead by my hand.” The vox was silent for a moment before a response buzzed back. “The Imperium of man appreciates your service assassin, farewell.” The small tomb-ship detonated, a flash of light to add to the innumerable stars of the abyss. Debris rained down on the hard stones and trees of Caryatid. Thirteen felt, but only for an instant. He felt strange; betrayal, disbelief…fear…Then he felt nothing…


End of Chapter 1...

Chapter 2: Rebirth

It was dark here, but not like the shadows. In the shadows you knew you were hidden, you knew you we safe. Here was only darkness, and nowhere to hide. Thirteen was immobile and silent, barley breathing. His sense were piqued, probing the blackness for noise, scent, movement. His hands and legs were bound and he surmised that he was strapped to a table. He remembered nothing of how he got there. Pain coursed through his body, and for that much he was thankful. He knew he was alive.

A sound, like footsteps, grew louder in the darkness. Soon a voice followed, low and hurried, arguing with a faster, louder voice. Thirteen tensed, bracing his muscles for action. The footsteps grew louder. Thirteen readied his mind, prepared to kill. The footsteps and voices were right outside the room. Thirteen whispered a prayer to the Emperor. The door opened, bathing the room in light. A man hurried in, checking various mechanics and cogitators built into the walls. He was bent and gnarled, comprised more of machine than flesh. Behind him came another, tall and stern. He wore cloaks and carapace armour, an ornate “I” collared around his neck. An Inquisitor. The Inquisitor strode to the table Thirteen was fixed on, eyes squinted in curiosity.

“Is he awake?” the Inquisitor asked the stunted man.
“It would seem that he is Lord, although there is no way of knowing if we successfully repaired his higher functions.”
“I must be sure he is ready…” The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed. “Release the fetters.”
Obediently the small man went to undo the straps holding Thirteen to the table. This was the moment he had been waiting for…

It's cool! i've never read any fluff about a culexus assassin, very interesting and you have a good style writing, waitin' for more!

Continuation of Chapter 2...

The shadow on the table sprang up in a flurry of movement, barley registering to human sight. Within seconds he had disarmed the Inquisitor and had a boltgun pressed to his temple. The midget man whimpered, distressed by the capture of his master. He tried to shrink away into the shadows, but he knew that would not be wise. This shadow before him had taken life, and was about to kill his master! The midget trembled, intense fear crippling his movement. Blood was running down the Inquisitor’s nose. The room was silent.

Thirteen tightened his grip on the bolt pistol and surveyed the room. The midget was no threat, but the man he held prisoner was a different matter. He was a psyker, and an extremely powerful one. Thirteen felt his special nature nibbling on the edges of the Inquisitor’s soul, delighting in its potency. However, without his Oculus he could not hope to defeat him in single combat. Thirteen decided to end this standoff before it came to combat, and pulled the trigger. The psyker threw up a mental shield, a blinding blue sphere around his body that swatted the bolt round away as if it were a fly. Thirteen was thrown aside, his void unable to cope with the psyker’s raw power. He lay on the cold iron floor, stunned, awaiting the burn of pskic fire. None came. The Inquisitor crouched down in front of Thirteen, their eyes boring into each others.

“Assassin, I am not your enemy, but I could quickly become one.” The Inquisitor’s voice was calm, yet commanding. Thirteen said nothing. “Know this Culexus, you were betrayed. An Inquisitor, a renegade, used you to kill those that knew the truth. Those such as myself. Those men on Caryatid were not heretics, they were faithful servants of the Emperor.” Thirteen closed his eyes, and processed the information. He remembered now…dying. The Inquisitor’s tale explained much, if it was true. The man continued, “We salvaged your body, and my loyal Biolotech rebuilt you. I know you are only a tool, but I offer you the chance to visit vengeance upon those who used you.”

Thirteen glared at the Inquisitor. He was trained to hunt psykers; this was all he knew. He felt hatred, a feeling so powerful it threatened to rip apart his mind. But it was not towards this man. No, Thirteen had been used, he had been betrayed. And he would kill those responsible. The assassin rose to his feet, deliberately, to show he meant no harm. He stared into the Inquisitor’s eyes, “Do you fear me, psyker?” The Inquisitor returned the stare, icy cold, but mutual. He laughed.

“Not at all.”

Good as gold, keep it comming

Looking good

Continuation of Chapter 2...

It was always dark in the drop ship, and trooper Elias had always been a little claustrophobic. But now it seemed like the walls were closing in on him, trying to choke out his last breaths. Elias was seated on one of the deck benches, with two other troopers to his side; Ria, the squad’s sniper, and Bron, the demolitions expert. Good soldiers, tempered by battle. They had all worked in Inquisitor Phates retinue for years now, fighting the horrors of cults and witches. Elias had seen things that made his blood run cold, and on the last mission most of the squad members were killed. Now the crew bay was filled with new recruits, hand-picked by the Inquisitor. However, directly across from trooper Elias sat a shadow wearing a skull for a mask.

The thing didn’t seem to move, didn’t even seem to breath. It could’ve been a mindless servitor, except for the way it made Elias feel. No machine had ever scared him so. Just looking at this…man…was enough for Elias to want to leave the drop-ship, escape somehow, kill himself if he had to…A strong hand clasped Elias’ shoulder, dragging him back into reality. It was Inquisitor Phates. The Inquisitor shook Elias once more for reassurance’ sake and began to speak into his micro-vox.

“Troopers of the Imperium, Elite of the Inquisition, tonight we hunt traitors!” There was a general cheer from the amassed soldiers. “Some of you may recall Inquisitor Golias. He was a good man, but now he has fallen to the corrupting powers of Chaos. He is but a pawn in the greater scheme, but is a valuable clue nonetheless!” “In order to ensure he is taken alive I have enlisted the help of this man.” Phates gestured to Thirteen, seated with the soldiers. Most of the troops tried to avoid looking directly at him. The brave amongst them stole glances out of the corners of their eyes. “Regardless of how you might feel right now, this man is your ally!” “Stay out of his way and do your jobs, and we will crush this heretic under the Emperor’s boot!”

The drop-ship flew low, hugging the tree line to avoid detection. Inquisitor Golias’ manor loomed ahead, back-lit by the lights of the surrounding cities. The moon was full, casting a bluish glow on the stone-works of the building. It was clearly fortified and efficiently ominous. The small ship swooped above the roof, directly above a faceted skylight. The hatch opened and a small shadow landed on the roof. Thirteen signaled an all clear, and the ship departed. The operation had officially begun…

(Thanks for your comments everyone. Its good to know someone is reading this, for a while I though I was just writing for my own sake, lol.)

Well not much to say that has not been said already. But I must say, what abouth making the parts a bit longer, because Im dying for updates

Duly noted, I usually squeeze in writing time late at night, so I've been sticking to this 3 paragraph or so scheme.

I'll make sure the next part of the story is lengthy and actually progresses the story a little bit, lol...

Continuation of Chapter 2...

The doors were made of a thick dark wood, built from trees that had been growing long before humanity set foot on this planet. They were unadorned, but strong as adamantium. Trooper Elias stood to one side, covering the opening in a classic breach pattern, his hell-gun murmuring idly in his grasp. Arrayed around him was the rest of the squad, ten men and women trained to kill the Emperor’s enemies. Their purpose here was to serve as a distraction and eliminate any opposition. It was planned that the explosive assault on the front gates would allow that assassin to slip in and capture the Inquisitor. Bron had just finished rigging the breaching charge, and signaled “take cover”. Elias tensed, ready for anything. He didn’t like being used as bait.

The charge detonated, as if lightning had hit the wooden gates. All sound left the world, replaced by a incessant ringing in the soldier’s ears. For an instant the area was bright as day, and the enemy was seen. They were people from the cities, not trained killers, but rabid with dark energies. Their eyes were glossy and their skin pallid. Ria let out a single shot and felled a brute wielding a cleaver. Then it was night once again. The rest of the squad began their bloody work, placing precise shots to decimate the incoming horde. But the cultists were many, and the soldiers few…

Thirteen’s vox chimed three times, letting him know the assault had started. If he tried he could almost make out the distant explosions and crack of lasguns. The Assassin tensed; it had been a long time since he killed. He was dead for two long years, and rebuilt piece by piece. His dangerous nature was still intact, and he knew no enemies, especially a psyker, stood a chance against him. Still, for the first time Thirteen felt…uneasy. To the Templum he was no longer a tool of the Imperium, just a statistic on a death list. He killed now for an Inquisitor, but he had been betrayed by their kind before. Thirteen did not know how to deal with these doubts he harboured…he did not know how to be human. “A tool does not feel.” he whispered, but immediately cursed himself. An Assassin does not speak when he is hunting.

Driving the worst of his thoughts into the back of his mind, Thirteen gazed through the skylight into the room below. It was an antechamber, connected to a long hallway, that eventually lead to the Inquisitor’s personal room. Gathering below were the elites of his cursed cadre, Imperial Stormtroopers now coated brazenly in sigils of chaos. They formed a circle, each man watching the two entrances and one exit. Thirteen slid his knife and silenced bolter from his belt and jumped.

The skylight erupted into a thousand twinkling shards, raining down onto the storm troopers and crunching underfoot. The highly trained soldiers immediately spun, letting loose a torrent of death into the air, painting the room with red blasts of energy. They tried to focus on the enemy, but their vision swam. Usually pinpoint precise, their lasbolts were flying wide. A shadow landed in the center of their circle, a shadow of whirling death and fear. It lashed out and slit necks and broke skulls. Bolt rounds, calling out like miniature thunder, boomed in the darkness. The heads of the traitor troopers were pulped and limbs were severed. These soldiers, who turned to ruin because of their fear of the rogue Inquisitor, now feared something else. They knew the Emperor’s fury had come to visit them, and they feared they would be dammed in death. And so they were.

Thirteen slowed his breath. The carnage around him was a manual in the art of killing, a perfect symphony of death. He could feel his doubts receding. An Assassin was born to kill, and he had done his job well. After a quick search of the room Thirteen unlatched the entrances and waited. Phate’s troopers were supposed to rendezvous with him in this location. Thirteen tried his vox, but only static greeted him. More doubt crept into his mind, and doubt was not something he needed right now.

Trooper Elias finally stopped running. His breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps, and his lungs felt like they were on fire. He knew he could not stop running though. They were all around him. Even in the walls. Elias began running again, and worked over his memories, trying to make sense of what was happening.

His squad was holding back the tide of cultists, despite their greater numbers. Eventually the horde faltered in its attack, and the troopers used this lull to push forward. Great numbers of cultists were gunned down, and the troopers moved further and further into the heretic’s manor. However, they were not prepared for what awaited them.

The manor had been twisted by the powers of chaos. Hallways overlapped and intersected like a maze, and doors opened up to solid walls. The darkness in these rooms was heavy; it filled your lungs when you tried to breath. Chiding whispers and hoarse oaths dripped from the walls and snuck into your mind. The squad moved at a crawl, attempting to stick together in the sprawling tunnels. Elias saw it first, a creature that seemed to materialize out of thin air. It was shorter than he, but what it was Elias could not know. To him it was a mass of tentacles and eyes, radiating colors that seemed to burn into his retinas. It was vaguely avian, but the creature did not stop to allow curious inspection. It vomited a stream of flames, hotter and brighter than any mortal fire. The squad was caught in the eldritch glow; flesh ran fluid and bodies were wrapped in a convulsing microcosm of evolution until they were nothing but a puddle steaming in the carpet.

Elias opened fire, punching four bolts of red death into the monstrosity, but it just seemed to giggle as it absorbed them. The remaining troops did likewise, trying in vain to burn this warp-damned thing out of their reality. The hell-guns had no affect and more of the squad was consumed in daemon fire. Bron’s demo-packs were caught in the heat, and went off in a thunder peal of kinetic energy. The squad, or what remained of it, was thrown wide, but the bird-thing took the full force of the blast. Elias stayed on the ground, waiting to see who else would arise. No one did. Cradling a broken arm he lifted himself from the bloody carpet. At the bottom of a blackened crater a pool of multi-color liquid wreathed, trying to coalesce into existence. Eyes started to form, bulbous and penetrating. Elias fired a few more shots into the puddle with his laspistol for good measure, and took off down the hall.

And that was now where Elias was, running down empty corridors, knowing that his worst nightmare was following his every move. He ran blindly, unsure of what direction he was traveling in. At any moment Elias expect to charge into a squad of enemy troopers. Perhaps that would be a more desirable fate than what the daemon-bird had planned. Rounding a corner Elias slammed into a dark, solid object he believed to be a wall. It was not. Before him stood a second daemon, his fears made form, long and black and wearing a skull for a mask. But this time Elias prayed in thanks to the Emperor. This daemon was on his side.

“Don’t you hear the voices!?” This trooper was bloody and beaten, and seemed to be the last of the squad. Thirteen tried to ask him of the situation, but all the man did was shout nonsense. No, of course Thirteen could not hear the voices. They were a psyker trick, the work of witches and daemons, and such ruses did not affect him. But he knew something stalked these halls, he could smell its ozone stink. The man still chattered next to him, speaking of empyrean horrors and thousands of blinking eyes. Thirteen squeezed the mans broken arm, and he passed out from pain. A daemon was here and it was time to hunt.

Thirteen found the creature in a hallway, painting concentric patterns onto the walls with human blood. The daemon finished its last shape and turned to face the Assassin, murmuring and popping with its many mouths. “He we enjoyed the maze-killing, oh dark-man, yes?” The things voice was thick with liquid squelching. Thirteen made no reply. The daemon shrieked, a thousand voices at once, and charged forward. Anticipating the strike Thirteen rolled to the side, opening the oculus on his helmet. Another shriek and another clawing leap from the daemon-bird. The claws sizzled away, the daemon’s existence negated by Thirteen’s empty soul. More of the creature burnt away, and it gurgled on the floor as it lost its hold on reality. Thirteen stood over it and listened to its mad, lyrical death cries until it was nothing more than a smudge on the floor.

It was late now, and an unnatural storm had formed around the manor. The people in the surrounding cities huddled together in homes, praying fervently to the Emperor to see them safely through the night. Inquisitor Phates had tried the vox hundreds of times, but the storm played havoc on communications. He was in the drop-ship, hovering miles away, ready for extraction. The operation still had time to play out, but there should at least have been some vox-contact made. Phates was beginning to wonder if extraction would be necessary…

Elias plodded on, following the dark man before him. His arm pained him and his head buzzed, but he was grateful to be alive. When he asked the Assassin what became of the daemon all he said was that it was dead. Elias couldn’t begin to understand how such a feat was possible, but he knew better to ask. This man was scarier than all the warp-spawned terrors he had seen. He tried to be thankful towards him for saving his life, but all he felt was revulsion. And his nose would not stop bleeding.

Thirteen retraced his steps to the antechamber, the trooper following diligently behind him. Thirteen was unsure how the man managed to stay so close; most people found him…unbearable. Time was wearing on, and they still had a mission to complete. Most of the antechamber was the same, but the floor was covered in a fresh growth of multi-colored flowers. They all had human faces for petals. The trooper’s eyes grew wide, but he stayed quiet; it seemed that he had been desensitized to such things. Thirteen strode to the single exit leading to the heretic’s room, impossible flowers wilting and dying as he passed. The door was unlocked, and he and the trooper passed through.

What was once a hallway was now a grotesque museum, manikins with ever-shifting features, strewn about the floors, ceilings, and other surfaces unknown to man. Thirteen knew they were close to the mark, he could feel reality slipping away. Ahead of them stood a door, shining fluorescent green and whispering to itself. The door screamed as Thirteen approached, his void banishing the portal back to the hell from where it came.

This room was normal, an ordinary human room. It was dimly lit and the curtains were drawn. Dusty books and parchments were scattered about haphazardly, some in arcane patterns, other seemingly at random. On a chair in the center of the room a man was seated. His hair had turned to a shock of black feathers, and it seemed as though unearthly eyes peaked out from under his robes. Inquisitor Golias rose to greet his new guests.

Thirteen barely had time to open the oculus before the psykic shockwave reached them. Most of the power of the blow was sucked away, but there was still enough force to throw Elias to the side. The trooper slumped in the corner, unconscious. Sparks flew from the oculus; some internal machine must have been damaged. The helmet’s machine spirit raged at Thirteen, overloading his vision with surplus data and screaming static into his ears. Thirteen ripped his helmet off and brought his pistol to bear. He fired three quick bursts, but Golias caught them in midair, halting their momentum and dropping the bolts to the ground. A cone of incandescent fire flew from the heretic’s hand; the consuming energy licked at the Assassin’s arms, burning away his body-glove. Thirteen fired more bolts at the traitor, but they veered away and instead blew chunks out of the wall.

Sunlight streamed in through the new holes, highlighting the violence in the small room. Bolter rounds flew harmlessly past the rogue Inquisitor, who advanced ponderously toward Thirteen. Casting his gun aside, the Assassin drew his knife and charged the psyker, trying to concentrate his void without the empowering aid of his oculus. The blade sunk deep into the heretic’s shoulder, causing a howl of pain to escape his lips. With unnatural ease the traitor cast Thirteen into a wall, holding him in place with psykic energy. Thirteen fought the heretic’s mind, he could feel his emptiness combating the mental energies but it was not enough to defeat this daemon-infused foe. Blood began to seep from the Assassin’s nose, ears, eyes, and mouth. He could feel bones shifting and popping.

Golias began to cackle, a mad tune that possessed no happiness. “Greetings Assassins!” The heretic’s mouth did not move, his voice seemed to emanate from the air itself. “When I was told to kill you, to put that bomb in your ship, I thought it such a waste!” “I am so overjoyed that this time I will get to shape you into a tool worthy of the Eye!” Golias tightened his mental grip on Thirteen, attempting to form his bones and flesh. Thirteen felt consciousness slipping away; through his blurred vision he thought he saw a shape appear behind the heretic. Finally Thirteen closed his eyes.

Elias rose, forcing the mad ravings and visions out of his head. The pain coursing through his body was great, but he was chosen for this mission and it remained incomplete. He hefted a scepter, some kind of arcane tool used by the mad Inquisitor, and approached the disheveled man silently. Elias bellowed a prayer of vengeance, its ancient words giving strength to his wasted form, and brought the metal rod down across the heretic’s head. The traitor slumped to the ground in a broken heap, unconscious but not dead. The Assassin fell from the wall but quickly rose. He was obviously beaten, but it seemed he would survive. Elias felt the revulsion kicking in again, but suppressed his fear. This man and him had come out of a daemon’s madhouse and survived. They were now comrades.

The manor house groaned and wailed as the daemonic forces inhabiting it fled. A vox beacon managed to penetrate the waning storm and reach the waiting drop-ship. As the ship descended Inquisitor Phates spotted the Assassin and a lone trooper standing on the roof, a broken man slung between them. The ship touched down and a squad of soldiers debarked, spreading out to secure the complex and the prisoner. The Assassin and the soldier, Trooper Elias, boarded the ship and were immediately set upon by medicae officers. Phates, having examined the prisoner, hurried into the troop compartment. He was visibly excited. “Very good gentleman, now we can get some answers.”

End of Chapter 2

Wow......Amazing!
Earlier you posted that you were afraid that you were just writing for yourself. Well I can tell you one thing, You've definitely got at least one fan.
Keep up the Awesome Work! ^.^

Most impresiv I must say, keep it up. Count me in as a fan forever after a story like this.

Chapter 3: Pieces

The Carl Gustav sat motionless in dead space, far away from prying eyes. It was a massive craft, an image of Imperial power wrought in baroque spires and grotesque gargoyles. Each of its main guns could swallow a city, and the population of a planet could easily dwell within its shielded hull. Blazoned across the bow was a stylized “
I”, marking it as a vessel of the Inquisition. This ship was a prison, holding some of the worst criminals and heretics the galaxy had to offer. Horrors lurked in isolated cells, left for hundreds of years to rot for their crimes. Screams echoed the halls.

Inquisitor Phates took a moment to view himself in a mirror. Chasing heretics within the Ordo had aged him. Gone were his youthful looks and smooth skin. Only his eyes, a grassy green, remained bright. This did not bother him; the Inquisition was mankind’s bulwark against powers it did not even know existed, and Phates had to ensure the shield remained strong. Now he was embroiled in this new hunt, for those who worshipped something called “The Eye”. Information had been difficult to come across, but now he had something he could use. He had Inquisitor Golias.

Elias fumbled with the buttons on his military jacket. It was much harder to get ready in the morning with a broken arm, but he managed. Several new scars lined his face, like valleys in a desert. He looked like a soldier, like the human equivalent of a well worn, but deadly, lasgun. Out of the squad of ten he was all that remained now. All the soldiers he had fought with for years died in that daemon-infested manor. The price was high, but they captured their prize. Hopefully this Inquisitor Golias would lead them straight to the head of the cult.

Thirteen was seated in a lotus position, his eyes closed, his room dark. The cloying stench of incense hung about the room in a haze. He was dressed in a new armored body-suit, but he was helmless. The Oculus had been damaged during the previous weeks operation, and was being repaired by some of the finest techno-magi the Imperium could offer. For now, Thirteen did without. He was not used to being bare-faced, and neither was the crew. It was almost as if his human features frightened them more than his death’s head mask. Many were surprised to see he was human at all. His face was gaunt and pale, with dark rings under his eyes, and a “XIII” carved into his forehead. Finishing his prayer, Thirteen rose and walked silently out of the room and into the hall. He had an appointment with Inquisitor Golias.

Golias strained his neck, attempting to see what was waiting in the shadows. He was chained to a chair, and had been for a week now. Pain surged through his body, and he was certain that bastard trooper had cracked his skull. A flood light illuminated his immediate position, but outside of this ring of light he could see nothing. He had not seen a single soul since his arrival, but he knew they were there. He was their prize, and they would require answers. How weak he felt! The empowering forces of daemon-possession had left him. His god had forsaken him. He was alone.

“I am glad you found your way, now we can begin.” There was an anticipatory edge in Phates’ voice, almost like a child waiting to open a package. He wad dressed in black robes and black gloves, and stood outside of a small, dismal cell. Elias and Thirteen had just arrived from the upper decks. They were now down 300 levels, in the bowels of the ship. “We have kept him isolated in that room for a weak, to try to break his resolve.” “We have tried torture, but as an Inquisitor he is familiar with our methods.” A piercing scream escaped the cell. “I was hoping that you could assist us Thirteen?” The Assassin nodded and entered the chamber.

The torture was painful, but Golias knew what was coming. He knew he could withstand their physical torments. Just as the burning spasms reached their crescendo, they abruptly stopped. The Interrogators hobbled out of the room, clinking with the tools of their trade. Golias breathed a small sigh of relief. He had beaten their first round of questions, not revealing anything that would endanger the plan. Golias took a few ragged breaths, and noticed they were clouding in front of him. An intrusive buzzing, quiet, but loud enough to interrupt thoughts pervaded the room. Blood began to run from Golias’ nose. In the darkness ahead of him he believed he could just make out a figure, like a shadow within the shadow.

Thirteen stepped closer, and the trickles of blood-flow from the man’s nose increased. Golias’ eyes grew wide when he realized who had come. The fear in his expression brought a feeling of satisfaction to Thirteen. He advanced slowly, each step increasing his debilitating affect on the helpless psyker. Golias began tearing at the chair with his fingers, carving deep gouges filled with bits of flesh and blood. “We know your are nothing but a pawn, an underling. Who is your true master?” Thirteen’s voice was a hiss. “I will tell you nothing Assassin!“ My master foretold such an event, and steps have been taken to ensure the plan remains in motion!” Thirteen stepped closer, putting his face directly in front of Golias’. “I will ensure your plan fails, and that your master is damned in the eyes of the Emperor! Help us, and perhaps we could grant you His Mercy.” Golias could feel his heart thumping in his chest, beating against his ribs. “You speak to me of mercy? You wish that I would beg for it? It is you who will begging at my feet when the plan culminates, when the sky over Tetrephae opens and the gods and daemons of the warp flood your Imperium! You are frightened now, yes I know it!”

Thirteen grabbed Golias by the neck. The physical contact with the blank was almost to much for the heretic to bear. His heart beat a staccato rhythm inside his body, as if trying to escape. He could feel his eyes swelling. “Fool, daemons weep at my coming! I will see that your soul is flayed endlessly by the Emperor’s hand!” Thirteen concentrated his emptiness, focusing on Golias' soul. Without a daemon’s power the traitor was helpless. His heart exploded inside his chest as his soul was dragged screaming from his corpse.

Phates and Elias entered the cell, along with several men to take away the body. It was to be pulped, burnt, and the ashes thrown into space. Thirteen relayed what he had learned, that some aspect of the plan was already in motion on the planet Tetrephae. Phates nodded his approval of Thirteen’s information and hurried to plot a course with the ships captain. Elias and Thirteen walked to the elevator for the long ride back to the upper decks. “How are you feeling Thirteen?” Elias mumbled the words, clearly not sure whether he should be speaking to the Assassin. “I am fit for combat service.” Elias shifted his weight from leg to leg, waiting for Thirteen to explicate. They rode the rest of the way in silence.


(Thanks for reading, thanks for the comments everyone! Also, any C&C would be welcome, I know its kind of hard to critique someone's writing, but if you've got something on your mind I'd love to hear it.)

Good so far, though the -I- usually torture the hell out of prisoners and keep on reviving them after death until they can tell them nothing else. Especially someone as important as a rogue Inquisitor.

And I would guess than a rogue Inquisitor would not be quite as scared of 13 as he seems to be in your story - he might have let slip the information by mistake, or even in the hope that he has given them enough to walk into some pre-prepared trap, etc.

Otherwise it is pretty good.

Yeah you have a good point. I probably could have elaborated a little bit, I may have rushed his death a bit.

I counted on Golias being frightened because he is a psker and pskyers are supposed to be absolutely terrified by pariah/culexus. Just being around one drains their soul so I imagine that would be a pretty frightening experience...

Also, letting the name of the planet slip was more of a threat than a reveal, a mistake if you will

Continuation of Chapter 3...

A small armada of ships hung around the orbit of the planet Tetraphae, like a fence of hardened steel and bristling weapons. This was only a small portion of the collective firepower of the Segmentum Obscurus battle-fleet, charged with protecting the Eastern fringes of Imperial space. Still, it presented an impressive sight. A huge ironclad destroyer, the Ukraine, sat at the head of the formation, monitoring the other vessels. Its powerful auspex detected the Carl Gustav as it made its approach vector towards the green-blue sphere of the planet.

On the Carl Gustav's bridge Inquisitor Phates stood by the main view-port, taking in an appraisal of the situation. Tetraphae had always been a peaceful planet, in many ways a model Imperial world. In Phates’ experience, this only meant that the corruption was more ingrained. These ships seemed to be arrayed in a blockade formation, suggesting some sort of conflict on the planet below. Something must be wrong. The crewman began relaying information between their own ship and the fleet. Codes were transmitted and checked in triplicate, and massive deck guns stood down as they received the all clear. The head officer on the Ukraine, Admiral Decker, demanded to know of the Gustav’s intentions. Phates knew many Inquisitors tried to downplay their special status, but he was of the opinion that his authority should be known. Relaying a holographic image of his Inquisitorial rosette often allowed him certain advantages and privileges. The vox was silent for a few moments, until a reply came from the Ukraine. “Inquisitor, we are fortunate you have arrived. I think there is much you should know.”

Admiral Magellan Decker hurried to the landing bay, accompanied by a small mob of ratings and a detachment of naval security, replete in black carapace armour and black shotguns. The officers were silent, but the ratings tittered amongst themselves, discussing the various problems an Inquisitor could present. Magellan shot them a stern glance, quieting their heretical talk. Inquisitors carried with them the power of the Emperor, and spoke with his authority. If this Phates told him to plot a course into the nearest sun he would be hard pressed to resist. However, he could not help but agree with his anxious junior-officers. Decker knew that the great cogs of the Imperium ran because of the chain of command, and this was even more important during war. And war was constant. It had come to Tetraphae, and Decker was to make sure that the Imperium would enjoy complete supremacy in space. If this Inquisitor showed up and started making unsound tactical advice, it could doom the entire campaign.

The landing bay door trundled open, thousands of pounds of adomantium shifting on massive promethium engines. The naval security stood at attention, a mere step behind Decker, and the ratings attempted to make themselves as mundane as possible. Inquisitors could see heresy in anything. A sleek black speeder, resembling a scarab beetle, swept into the bay on silent thrusters. Clawed landing gear descended from underneath its glossy hull, and it lowered itself onto the deck in a wash of steam. It sat silently, like a predatory insect waiting to ambush. Finally its hatch slid open, releasing a slender walk-ramp. A man strode out, dressed head to toe in gilded gold and black robes, an Inquisitorial “I” at his neck, graying hair swept back in a pony-tail. He was followed by two storm-troopers, faceless in their visored helmets, and a man who must have been the captain of the Carl Gustav, wearing a long brown storm-coat and captain’s pips. The last figure to exit was a shadow, a slender man dressed in a reinforced black body-glove and a cowl raised over his head, hiding his features in darkness.

The Inquisitor did not bother to pause and address Decker, instead hurrying past him on his way toward the bridge. The Admiral was dumb-struck for a moment, not fully understanding this break in procedure. Phates called out behind him, spurring the Admiral to motion. “I was hoping we could dispense with the formalities Admiral, this planet is fast approaching a critical state, and I may be the only one who can help.” The Admiral and his small band reached the Inquisitor, falling into step slightly behind him. The bridge was just ahead, a sprawling, cathedral-esque chamber lined with data-ports, crew stations, and view-ports looking out into the blackness of space. Phates stopped in front of the main holographic projector, which currently detailed the situation down on the planet’s surface. His eyes read over the streaming data, and the more information he saw, the more worried he became. Tetraphae was at war. Decker stood at his side, having already reviewed the data since his arrival several months before. “Indeed Inquisitor, it is worse than you could have imagined.”

Wow... this is addicting like a drug. We need MOAR!

Continuation of chapter 3...

The bridge was silent as the Admiral and Inquisitor conversed in hushed voices. For several years the Arbites on Tetraphae had been cracking down on a resurging cult. No matter how many times they were exterminated they rose once again from the ashes. They were not overly hostile; instead seeming to focus on acquiring rare artifacts and knowledge. Still, it was clear they worshipped some blasphemous chaos power. Again and again the cult was wiped out, and on the 12th occasion of their re-appearance the Arbites reluctantly called in outside help. They asked the favor of the Inquisition.

An Inquisitor appeared one night, accompanied by several men. The people of Tetraphae were hopeful; they believed that their peaceful planet would finally be free from the taint it harboured. The Inquisitor reported to the Arbites judge to learn the location of the cult stronghold. It appeared he was hoping to destroy the cancer at its source. The man and his cadre disappeared into the night. After a week the cult was reported destroyed; all the minor hide-aways in the cities were found abandoned. A planet wide celebration was held. After another week of revelry, the cult reappeared for the 13th time. But it was different this time; instead of weak-limbed mystics came powerful men in armour wielding weapons, and mutated horrors spitting flame. For months the planet was scoured by these abominations. People whispered of seeing the Inquisitor at the head of the unholy hordes, leading them off with strange and horrible words. Eventually a distress call reached the Imperium, and the Navy and Imperial Guard arrived to deal with the situation. However, they had reached an impasse. The cult had evolved into a terrible planetary rebellion. Now the Imperial Guard was fighting full-scale war on the planet’s surface.

The Admiral finished his story, glancing thoughtfully at the holo-table displaying the battle below. Phates sat silently, his eyes staring into emptiness. He knew of this Inquisitor. In fact it was this man who he believed to be the head of the cult of The Eye. Inquisitor Esarhaddon. Some Inquisitors being as paragons of humanity, only to fall to darkness in their quest to protect humanity. Esarhaddon had always been a black spot in the Ordo, an outspoken, and violent, proponent of using the warp against itself. Now he had shown his hand, coming to this planet with powerful allies for some unknown purpose. Phates decided then and there that he would do whatever necessary to stop this madman, this heretic.

It was decided that the next morning Inquisitor Phates and his retinue would depart to the planet’s surface to see what they could do to restore the momentum of the Imperial forces. Thirteen was eager to get on the dirt and sink his blade into the skull of the heretics. He was no tactical genius, and could help very little up here on the bridge of a starship. It was too long since he had seen action. Here in his chambers he returned to his latest conflict, his battle against Inquisitor Golias. If that guardsman had not been their he could have died at the hands of that heretic. Perhaps it was to his advantage to work with a team.

The door to Thirteen’s chamber slid open with a hydraulic hiss, interrupting his reveries. A figure floated in, silent on repulsor lifts, clad in threadbare red robes. A hood covered its features, creating a pool of shadows only pierced by winking red lights. It held a small platinum box in its mechandendrites. Thirteen rose, crossed the room, and took the package. He knew who this…man…was and what he had brought him. This was a Tech-Magos from Phates own ship, a high-ranking and extremely skilled individual. Thirteen had never heard any name given to him, and did not address him now. Instead he opened the box and stared down at his skull-helmet and his once-damaged oculus. The Magos was tasked with repairing this ancient piece of machinery, and honing its powers. Thirteen was subtly disturbed that his powers, even enhanced by the oculus, could not best the strength of some daemons. Now, with the Magos’ alterations and upgrades, he hoped he could banish whatever unholy creature that dared to face him. The Magos chittered and whirred as Thirteen turned the helmet over in his hands and clasped it over his head. Thirteen felt the familiar sense of the mask overcome him, saw the dark room highlighted in a wash of green. He bowed low to the Magos, impressed by his work. The man-machine flared his red lights, acknowledging the gesture, and left Thirteen to his thoughts.

Elias stood at attention outside the door to Phates personal chambers. He had been summoned here many minutes ago, and waited patiently for his Lords’ audience. The black doors, fashioned of jet and obsidian, finally swung open, admitting Elias to the inner-sanctum. Phates sat at his desk, pouring over case-files and biographies. He had been in his office ever since he discovered the identity of the rogue Inquisitor, researching the heretic’s modus operandi. When he noticed Elias enter he put down his data-slate, stacking it with several dozen others. The Inquisitor looked tired, his hair, usually tied in a tight ponytail, was unkempt around his shoulders. He gestured for Elias to take a seat. “It seems our Inquisitor Esarhaddon is not a man of any particular skills. I am unsure of how he rose to such a prominent position in this cult.” Phates voice was distant, as if he was talking to himself and not Elias. “He does, however, travel with a small band, usually two. It seems these individuals do for him what he can not do for himself. One is very likely a powerful psyker, I fear approaching alpha class. The other I have less information about. It appears as though he is a powerful warrior, clad in armour and weapons most men can not even lift.” The Inquisitor rose from his seat, and Elias did the same. Both men approached a large footlocker, stamped with the Imperial Aquila and Inquisitorial “I”. Phates opened the case and bid Elias to look inside. Within lie a full-suit of matt-black carapace armour, pauldrons and gloves covered in a stylized silver script. A matching bolter and power-sword were to either side. The visor was fashioned into a leering skull. “I foresee great conflict ahead of us Elias, and you are the only soldier who has made it thus far. This is my old armour, given to me when I was much younger man. I bequeath this to you now, so that you may use it against the Emperor’s enemies. May it serve you well.”

Below them was a verdant forest of green and brown, ancient trees blocking sunlight. Above them was a clear blue sky. Immediately around them were the cold grey walls of the troop-lander. Inquisitor Phates sat in the co-pilots’ seat, reviewing yet another data-slate. Thirteen sat on a wall bench, clad in his armored body-glove and skull mask. Elias was on the other wall, outfitted and geared up in his Interrogator’s armour. Around him were five troopers; Elias’ hand-chosen replacements for this mission. They were all new recruits to Inquisitorial service, but all of them were Imperial Guard veterans and natural killers. The lander they were in was speeding over equatorial forests on Tetrapahae’s surface. The land was fresh and unscarred this far south, but ahead the sky grew dark. Lush forests gave way to desolate and scorched deserts, burnt away by war. Smoke clogged the air and made breathing difficult. Tetraphae was made up of small city-states, each semi-autonomous. These cities surrounded the capitol city, Damasc, a ziggurat shaped hive, filled to the brim with citizens. Damasc was held by the heretics, who poured out of its narrow alleys and streets to clash with the Imperial Guard. Loyalist forces were stationed in the only two city-states left standing after heavy bombardment.

Phates peered out the viewport, taking in the scene. He knew this was the case; it had all been shown to him on the holo-map. But to see it in person was different. He knew what Tetraphae was before war had visited it, and he had scene what it had become. Gone was a bastion of Imperial society, in its place bloodshed and hardship had come. The ground was mud and grit, tossed up by artillery fire and mechanized tracks. Cities and great swathes of land burned in the background. What angered him the most was the fact that a member of his own Ordo had caused all this to happen. How could an Inquisitor fall so far? He prayed to the Emperor he would never find out.


End of Chapter 3

Very good, you keep getting better for each chapter.

Continuation of Chapter 3...

An expansive headquarters grew larger and larger in the viewport as the dropship made its decent. Thousands of tents and prefab buildings huddled around a Leviathan command vehicle, like men surrounding a campfire. The command vehicle was a monolithic structure, a manmade mountain of steel and gun emplacements. Emblazoned across its side was a stylized blue lion, clutching a banner and human skull. Phates recognized the symbol. It belonged to the Nemian Lions, a ferocious and loyal company of the Imperial Guard.

Fields of Leman Russ and light support vehicles stretched as far as the eye could see. The Nemian Lions, in this case the Nemian 5th, specialized in lightning vehicle raids. They would use their mechanized units to overwhelm the enemy and destroy them before they even knew the battle had begun. The tanks were clumped around fuel bowers, receiving maintenance by engineers and Techpriests. Munitorium officers were overseeing deployment of rations and crates bearing other battlefield supplies. Troopers practiced rapid deployment from Chimera transports. There was an overwhelming smell, a mixture of sweat and incense, promethium and gun oil. Men shouted and ordered, called and replied, argued and spat. The entire camp was filled with the sights and sounds and smells of the Imperium at war.

The dropship landed on a large cleared platform, made of rockrete and marked with a sprawling white Aquila. Elias and his storm troopers hurried out of the hatch, sighting for targets or hostiles, and found none. Phates exited the ship, with Thirteen at his heels. The air was cool and light breeze blew in from the direction of the hive city. It carried a sweet, almost noxious stench. It was midday but gun smoke and fat, black clouds hung in the air, obscuring the sun. The Imperial Guard headquarters was bathed in a brown, hazy darkness. The storm troopers’ tensed as they sensed movement approaching them, but it appeared to be the commanding officer of the Nemian 5th. The man was short and solid-built, with black hair and browning skin. His insignia and dress, a khaki field-uniform with gold braiding, marked him as a general. He approached fates and greeted him with a low bow. “Greetings my lord Inquisitor, I am Honor-General Leo Kruger, overseer of this war in the Emperor’s name.” The man had a heavy accent. “My pleasure, General,” Phates replied; “How goes the war?” The general seemed to sag slightly, as if a great pressure had just resettled on his shoulders. “My lord, it could be going better.”

Kruger led the party to a command tent, a large canvas enclosure built up around the enormous tracks of the Leviathan. Junior officers and some higher ranking Nemians were busy with their duties, gazing over maps and rushing reports from the front. A holo table had been set up in the center, providing up-to-date battle statistics to the commanding officers. Phates gazed at the troop disposition, noting that the Nemian had set built a network of trenches and emplacements. “Honor-General, if I may be blunt, why have you created this front line? I believed it was the practice of the Nemain 5th to use vehicular assaults?” The General lit a lho stick before he continued. An ashtray was located near the table, overflowing with smoked butts. “My Lord, that is what my men and I had hoped to do; go in fast and bloody and end this war quickly. Now we have been sitting here for months, our supplies and manpower dwindling. My soldiers are not meant for attrition warfare.” Phates studied the General’s face. He was not a weak man, and he was not derelict in his duties. There was some force preventing him from doing the Emperor’s work. “Why have the assaults failed thus far, General?” Phates asked. “The area we assault is a wasteland, and foul things lurk there. Entire platoons go missing, vox signals are in turmoil, the commanders cannot relay orders to their soldiers. Battle-tanks sink into the earth, never to be seen again. My men can fight any mortal foe, kill any flesh and steel. But we can not fight this, this…sorcery.” The Honor-General spat the last word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. Kruger began to continue, but a deafening roar shook the command tent, blacking out the lights.

More booms followed the first, gaining in intensity. Far off the telltale crump of artillery fire had begun. An attendant rushed into the tent, searching for the General. “Honor-General, the enemy has begun to advance!” Kruger began shouting orders, directing the efforts of the command staff. More explosions could be heard in the distance. “Honor-General, the defenses at hard point Alpha11 were not yet completed. The traitors could break through and flank our entire line!” Elias and the storm troopers checked the safeties on their weapons and turned, heading out the door. “My Lord Inquisitor, where are you going?” Kruger asked. “To see if we can help your men.”

End of Chapter 3

Chapter 4: Broken

It was too much. Too much. Trooper Zail had been an Imperial guardsmen for 10 year, part of the Glorius Nemian Lions. He had brought wrath and ruin to the enemies of the Imperium from his Hellhound. Now he was in the mud on some daemon-cursed planet. Bright strobes of lasfire winged past him, cutting down men he had come to love like family. Artillery pounded in the distance. Zail could feel every impact shudder up and down his spine. It stank of blood, and smoke, and death. He hadn’t seen the enemy yet, only the bright blobs of lasfire they directed his way. Someone was shouting, something, but Zail could not hear him. All he could hear was his own heartbeat and the pounding of the artillery. A twisted brute, some horrible amalgamation of man and bird, screamed over the half-finished earthworks, firing its lasgun on full auto. Zail was clipped on the shoulders, the impact of the shot punching him face down in the dirt and blood. The mutant blathered in some ruinous tongue, gloating over its kill. Zail knew he was about to die.

The bird-creautre’s head exploded in a mist of blood, showering zail in brain and bits of flesh. The chest-pounding thump of a boltgun rang clear over the mayhem of the battlefield. A soldier clad in black fell into the trench next to Zail, unloading a stream of precise shots from his hell-gun. “You alright Trooper?” his helmet voxed chirped. Zail nodded. “Good, then pick up you gun and fight!” Zail swept his fallen lasgun into his arms and hunkered down next to the trooper, firing spears of light back at the enemy throng. Down the line more black-clad toopers could be seen, reinforcing gaps in the Imperial defence. A man in robes, with an “I” around his throat, was firing his bolt pistol and shouting words of inspiration. “Lions of Nemia, men of the Imperium, rise!” The Imperial line surged forward into the desolate no-mans-land, meeting face to face with the mutant enemy.

Everywhere Zail looked he saw abominations; twisted, bloated, shifting forms of evil. The mutants fired old-pattern lasguns and stubbers, peppering the Imperial lines with death. The precise fire of the black stromtroopers cut bloody swathes in the fetid horde. Zail was caught up in the charge, sloshing through mud and body parts. All he think of was step and fire, step and fire. Bird-faced enemies were blown limb from limb by concussive bolter rounds. Suddenly the momentum of the charge stopped. Zail could see men from the front of the charge turning and fleeing, terror in their eyes. A winged mutant, repellent and terrible in sigils of chaos, had appeared. A menacing red light glowed in his eyes and hands. The winged-man threw torrents of fire into the Imperial lines, burning men to bones. A black shape detached itself from the beleaguered troopers, heading straight towards the winged-man. The figure, clad in a black-body glove, fired its bolt pistol at the mutant, which had begun to convulse and tremor. A searing beam of energy, cold and lifeless, erupted from the figures skull-mask, striking the winged-man in the chest. The winged-man detonated, an incandescent explosion of pinks, and reds, and blues. A great cheer rose up from the Imperial lines. The mutant horde, deprived of leadership and shocked by the death of their champion-sorcerer, fled. Many were cut down as they turned to escape.

Zail collapsed. He could not feel his limbs, and his breath came in ragged gasps. But he was alive, and for that much he was thankful. They had already begun the march back to the Imperial lines, ready to shore up the defenses for the inevitable second attack. Six men in carapace armour, storm troopers, huddled around the man with the “I”. Zail knew now he must be an Inquisitor. The shadowy figure was also present, barely visible in the smoke and gloom. If an Inquisitor was here, this rebellion must be more serious than the Guard knew. Zail wondered what this would mean for his life expectancy.

Well done as always, I really like how use almost lure in the readers into your world, keep this coming and Il keep reading

Wow....as Anshal said, you REALLY drew me into this....no that I just finished I realized that I didn't pay a single ounce of attention to anything but this story. Thats how great of a writer you are
Keep up the amazing work.

Thanks for the Inspiring words everybody! More story is on the way