Avatar of the Bloody-Handed God
Inside your mind, corrupting the pathways
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This was a contest entry I made for a 40k e-fanzine some time ago. I believe that it was going to be included, but apparently the fanzine kind of didn't happen for whatever reason, so I thought I would dust it off and post it here.
Divinity
The sand had been fused into glass by the head of the liquid fire that had rained down upon the Imperial outpost over the weeks it had lain under siege. The blackened husks of hundreds of foul xeno and Guardsmen littered the hillside amid the shards of razor sharp glass which had been thrown up by the munitions aimed at cracking the bunkers and clearing the trenches and which had killed almost as many as any of the other weapons of war.
A pal of thick smoke covered the bodies like a shroud, gently caressing the fallen as they lay baking, even in the dim sunlight which managed to filter from the nearby primary star through the soot, ash and cordite. Only a languid breeze stirred it now where only a few hours before it had been ripped apart by the roar of a thousand voices, backed by the boom of artillery and pierced by the shriek of shells overhead and the screams of the dying.
Nothing moved now. Only a few scraps of cloth blown about in the fetid wind gave the scene any sense of life. That and the bodies caught in the miles of tangled razor wire, gently swaying to and fro, almost as if forever striving to be free of their torment.
It was the pain that brought him back there at the very summit of the desolate hill; the ache in his hands where he gripped the barrel of the bent and battered lasgun tightly in his fists. His forearms cramped as he attempted to let go causing him to cry out in pain; the sound echoing oddly over the watchful fields of the dead.
The lasgun clattered to the ground as he finally managed to force his hands to let go, semi conducting fluid from one of the capacitors within the leaking through one of the many cracks in it's abused casing,; the skin of his palms and fingers peeled away where it had fused to the once red hot barrel of the weapon. Absently he rubbed the life back into his cramped and blistered hands and slowly forced himself to his feet from where he had been kneeling for Emperor knows how long. He swayed slightly as his heart tried to pump blood up to this new and unprecedented height.
His vision blurred and he blinked for the first time. The sand and dust grated across his seared eyes as his lids closed and the little that seemed to remain of his mind wondered how long he had been staring into the distance after the darkness took him.
Something trickled down the inside of his flack vest and his arm slowly moved up to his chest. His fingers brushed across the tattered remains of his jacket to one of the several tears which marred its surface. His fingers probed inside and encountered a sticky mass of half clotted blood. Even the simple act of moving had reopened a score of wounds all over his body.
It was strange that somehow it didn’t hurt.
The ground cracked as he shifted his weight slightly and raised his head to look out over the battlefield that had been fought in, over and under for what seemed like so long, and to the desert beyond.
The wind began to pick up, whistling shrilly as it blew across the millions of razor sharp shards of glassed earth which lay strewn everywhere. The smoke started to clear slightly. His arm came up to shield his eyes against the sudden glare of the white hot sun.
The dark stain of the Ork lines could be seen blotting the desert surrounding the mound upon which the Imperials had hoped to weather the seige. Instead wave after wave of the green skinned monsters had thrown themselves into the fight non-stop, blocking their own lines of advance with their dead, until they were blasted clear by the ever present artillery or when foul creatures strapped with explosives meant for destroying the Imperial tanks and bunkers had wondered into the maze of flesh and not emerged in time, their charges detonating and vaporising a new path through the decaying mass.
There was no sign of the Orks now, other than their burnt corpses and wrecked vehicles strewn amidst the Imperial defences. Nothing seemed to move. There were not even any signs of desert scavengers usually drawn to such a scene of carnage.
His head turned slowly, tortured skin of his neck cracked slightly as he moved. He paused to look out in every direction before picking his way slowly through the corpses. He passed the faces of his friends as they lay flesh blackened, their blood pooled beneath them, without slowing.
They were surely with the Emperor now.
His path lead him through the Imperial lines and past his commanding officer; laying only a few yards away with his bayonet through the open mouth of a huge Ork encased in inch thick metal plates. In return the Ork had neatly sliced the man almost in half with it’s armour’s power claw and the officer’s guts lay strewn about him like obscene worms.
He seemingly ignored the scene and continued to be drawn through the carnage, seeming to be lead almost by a choir of voices just beyond hearing in the winds howling progress; occasionally slipping or stumbling, hardly aware of his own footfalls or where they were leading him. His eyes were unfocussed as he made his way down the hill.
At last he reached his destination. He stooped down and felt more of his wounds opening up. He could dimly feel blood flowing freely from somewhere on his back and pooling in his boots, though his mind seemed to shelter him from anything but a dull reflection of the pain his body must have been in. His fingers closed around a thick wooden pole inlaid with wires of gold, the blood running down his arm making is slightly slick in his hands.
The remains of his armour creaked as he once more hauled himself upright, levering himself to his feet, the proud banner of his company held in his hands, once again flying free in the sunlight. It was miraculously untouched, the emerald green and brilliant white flag fluttered in the oven hot breeze, only slightly mired by the layer of burnt grime and viscera that seemed to cover everything else in sight.
He started to move downhill again, towards the closest section of the Ork Lines and the toppled form of an immense gargant felled by Imperial artillery earlier in the seige. The shoulder plate of his flack vest, torn loose at some point during the fighting swung too and fro as he hobbled onwards, the flag seeming to carry him as much as he was carrying it.
The heat rose from the tortured ground along with the voices carried in the wind and the harsh rays of the sun once again began to bake the battlefield made the air haze. His sweat ran freely, mixing with the blood which was continuing to seep freely from his wounds; his every move seemed to open more and more of them.
As he cleared the Imperial lines, pieces of his armour began to break apart now and he stumbled but the voices pulled him on towards his goal. More and more tears and rents appeared in his armour as he drew near the gargant and he was bleeding copiously from scores of wounds covering almost every inch of his body.
He started up the steep slop of the gargant’s front armour, slowly hauling himself towards the control platform set inside the leering Ork’s head at the gargant’s summit. The wind continued to rise and now it gusted against him. Huge chunks of his uniform had been ripped away along with the flesh beneath, as if the very air itself was resisting him, trying to take him apart before he could reach his goal, despite the voices it carried almost shrieking their demands at him. And yet no matter how much flesh he lost, still none of it hurt.
At last he pulled himself over the lip of the battlements and stood on the heavily listing plates of the command deck, surrounded by crude dials, switches and levers. The body of a huge Ork lay across one of the control lecterns; its crude augments showing amid its armour.
He was suddenly slammed to the floor, something cracking within him. His chest had been caved in almost completely and blood frothed on his lips. His vision dimmed for a final time but amid the darkness were the faces of his comrades and behind them a golden light, almost too bright to look at and getting brighter. The glare came from a giant figure sitting upon a huge golden throne. The figure inclined its head just a fraction. It was all that he needed. At last he knew why he had been brought here. With the last of his strength he drove the armoured point on the base of the flag as deep as he could up into the silent machinery of the control lectern.
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The handful of survivors could hardly believe it when one of the presumed casualties from an earlier round in the fighting had risen to his feet and started to walk down the hill, seemingly oblivious to the fire continuing to streaming towards the last of the Imperial defences. Still less could they believe it when he stopped and raise the company standard in his blood stained ands and continued on his way down the hill.
The last of the officers, a young lieutenant, watched from his trench as one of his men walked through the curtain of fire being thrown up by the Orks. He and his men all knew they were going to die. This was a minor outpost in a disastrous campaign with Orks breaking through in every sector: No one could be spared to break them out. He glanced at the few remaining men under his command as they watched the lone figure weave its way toward the Orks. He came to a decision.
“We can’t hold this position any longer. No one is coming to break us out. I’m not going to face the Emperor knowing that we let a brave man advance with the flag of our company fall to the enemy while we sat and did nothing, are you?”
“We can make it through their line! Protect the flag! For the Emperor!”
His men roared in assent as he clambered over the earthen lip of the trench.
The more able leapt from their trenches and the wounded dragged themselves over the parapets or were otherwise helped from the trench. No man was left behind as they advanced after the guardsman who was still making his way down the hill towards the bulk of the ruined gargant.
They shot down any Orks who broke cover in an attempt to cut down the flag carrier in hand to hand and tried to suppress the heavier points of fire now being directed towards him from along almost the entire length of the Ork line. Even with the support of their cover fire and the innate ability of the Ork’s to miss almost anything they shot at, the shear weight of incoming fire began to tell. Several of the men were down, though the wounded were still being carried along. No one who was alive was going to be left on the hill. The guardsman with the flag was getting the worst of it; he had reached the foot of the gargant and started up. He was bowed over, almost as if fighting a gale. Chunks of his armour, uniform and flesh were being ripped from him as innumerable rounds from the Orks found their target.
They continued to pick off Orks from whatever covered they could find amid the wreckage as they worked their way closer to the gargant. A vast Ork warboss in an equally huge powered suit of armour suddenly broke cover and lumbered towards the Gargant’s side hatch. They could do nothing as they saw the hapless guardsman standing in the control room with the flag held tight in his hands, oblivious to the enraged Ork storming towards him. They watched as he was pulverised with a single swipe of it’s massive power claw and saw him crumple under it’s impact.
The focus of their hope and drive now lay dead. A painful wail welled up on their lips as their last hope was torn from them. They were going to die, there was no escape for them now. Just as the jaws of despair were about to swallow them, a golden light shone out from the leering mouth which formed the parapet of the command deck. They saw the stunned Ork warboss watch as the crippled guardsman at his feet filled with a golden radiance as he rammed the flag deep into the heart of the main control lectern. Golden lightning flashed within the confines of the gargant and the warboss let out a scream of rage and hacked the guardsman’s head from his shoulders.
But the damage was done. Whatever the light had been the results were catastrophic. The gargant’s main fuel tanks ruptured and the Ork’s highly corrosive fuel flooded out into the Ork lines. A stray spark ignited the fuel, burning hundreds of Orks in seconds and causing the remainder to flee as the immense heat cooked off munitions and fuel stores throughout the Ork camp, causing huge explosions and secondary waves of fire.
The guardsmen stood stunned, watching the Orks flee for their lives as the flames spread rapidly through the Ork trenches. They sat watching the smoke rise high into the air and sweltered as the heat of the burning Orks added itself to the already formidable heat from the incandescent primary star.
Eventually the climbed to the top of the gargant and retrieved the body of the guardsman who rested there and the flag he had carried. The guardsman’s body was almost entirely burnt beyond recognition. His armour was completely blackened apart from the Imperial Eagle which gleamed a brilliant gold on his flack vest over his heart.
The vast quantities of smoke from the burning fuel eventually drew the eyes of Imperial High Command and they saw the ragged mob of Orks fleeing across the desert. Fearing a trap and being low on manpower, it was a further 6 days before they sent troops to investigate.
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+ Inquisitorial Report: J74234856/aii +
+ Classified +
+ From: Inquisitorial Scribe Kenil +
+ To: Inquisitor Helwrath +
+ Subject: Suspected Divine manifestations within Sector 34a +
+ Thought for the day: Strive not for perfection, for perfection implies vanity. Seek only to do the work of the Emperor +
As per your request I have researched most ardently as many cases of suspected Divine manifestation amongst the fighting forces of the Imperium operating within local Sector 34a as I have been able to discover. As you suspected, the reported number of incidents amongst our forces is significantly higher than those in other sectors. In particular the event on Phenron I provides a reasonably well documented case (due to the statements of a number of guardsmen who witnessed the event first hand), as well as presenting strong circumstantial evidence (the routing of a large contingent of Orks by a relative handful of our soldiers) which may go some way to prove the authenticity of the claim of Divine manifestation in this case.
Following Inquisitorial investigation +//See case notes attached//+ the event on Phenron I was deemed non-heretical, although as you will be aware, the actual happenings were officially erased from the records. Due to the shortage of combat capability in the sector at the time, the company was reformed with new recruits from its home world and has fought competently in the several decades since.
The reformed company unofficially became known within the regiment as “Phoenix Company”, and before each campaign a “Burnt Man” is chosen to carry the company standard. He may wear no insignia other than a golden Imperial Eagle and wears an entirely black uniform (although there have been complaints from the Commiserat on a number of occasions about this practice). He is allowed to carry no identification and may not to speak or be spoken to and is expected to be at the forefront of any charge or combat.
Official Inquisition files linked to the matter have concluded that the observances do not present a serious risk to the Imperium, although the Inquisition still maintains watchful vigilance +//See Inquisitorial files [CLASSIFIED] through [CLASSIFIED]//+ to ensure that the practices do not form the basis for malevolent incursion by Chaos forces.
I shall of course present to you the body of my research into the matter as soon as I have finished collating the data that I have been able to gather thus far but I felt that I should forward on to you as rapidly as I could this particular record.
Your ever working servant,
Inquisitorial Scribe Kenil.
+ End Transmission +
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. I really enjoyed this, and I hope you write more. 
Everyone has a choice. Me, I choos not to make a choice 