Wight Lord with the Sword of Kings
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Glory to the Fourth
So, just me giving writing another attempt! Sadly, it's written from my phone, so excuses for any spelling mistakes I might have made (or might have had auto-corrected!). All comments are appreciated, as is all criticism! I'll be adding links to new chapters below as I post them. Cheers!
Prologue, Skaeliv III
Chapter One, Medrengard
Skaeliv III, Feudal World of the Imperium
Castle Gildore
The sun shone brightly over the heads of the assembled host of Lord Aerkhan the Second, the light reflecting on the steel helmets of those that could afford such equipment. The Lord himself stood atop a hill overlooking his force, sat atop a mighty steed, and flanked by his guards, and the woman. Aerkhan and his fellows were clad in mighty armor, weapons ready, while the woman seemed to be totally out of place in her appearance - wearing nothing more than a few pieces of cloth covering her upper body, with nothing to protect herself from harm. None of the men could ever recall seeing her actually wear more. Not that many actually dared look at her - their Liege-Lord didn’t like it when people looked at the pink-haired woman with the strange tattoos.
It was a quiet and peaceful morning, though it would not last. At a single gesture from Lord Aerkhan, the Second Count of Ulvene to bear that name, the sky filled itself with fire, as projectiles were hurled towards the castle, to the woes of its defenders. Gildore’s Lord had refused to surrender to his neighbour, and thus, the latter had invaded. Word was spreading quickly throughout the Realm - Aerkhan had found a new lord, they said. A mighty Prince, with the pink-haired woman as His envoy. Already, the King was mustering his forces, for there was only one true lord: the Sky-Emperor. To abstain from His Light was the foulest of treacheries, and there was only one appropriate punishment: trial by fire. Gildore’s Lord had agreed with that, and thus Aerkhan was delivering the Lord of Gildore a trial by fire. The Count of Ulvene grinned at that. Such a sweet irony, he thought to himself. The old man would have burned me, and now I’m burning him and his castle to the ground. The Prince will be pleased.. At the thought of the Prince, he looked to his right. Lady Cenealda Brightflare or, as some called her, The Woman, stared right into his eyes, as if she had read his mind. It wouldn’t surprise Aerkhan, considering the magicks he had witnessed her doing. Confirming his suspicions, she spoke.
“Yes, He will be pleased indeed, my lord. For the moment.”
Aerkhan grinned. When the Prince was pleased, there’d always be rewards, and he did enjoy his rewards. His smile dropped when the woman added the words “For the moment.” to it. Was the Prince never pleased? And why was he in such a hurry? With the Prince’s aid, surely nothing could stop him? Surely no one would be able to defeat him? He was the Prince’s chosen, the woman had said as much! Why, then, did he need to hurry so much? For the past month, he did what the Prince had asked, and yet the Prince was only pleased for a short moment. Horns resonated against Castle Gildore’s walls, and Aerkhan wheeled his horse, ready for the glorious assault, where he would surely take the heads of all that opposed him - but he felt no pleasure as he had used to when doing such things… only worry, and the need to become ever more perfect. As he joined combat, there was only one thing the Count was smashed to the ground. Before his sight faded into nothing, there was only one thing he could see. Warriors clad in Iron armor, and his world burning, a large, metal skull pressed onto their banners, a large number four underneath it…
Chapter One
Medrengard, The Eye of Terror
The forces of Skargath the Mighty, Warsmith of the Forty-Seventh Grand Company, had marshalled here, at the Gate of Wrath, leading towards the forges and manufactorums that belonged to the Forty-Seventh. The red warmth of the forges of the Grand Company’s Warpsmiths could be felt even here, despite the cold winds, on the plateau in front of the gate, the kill-zone meant to form the 47th’s first line of defence. In the distance, artillery emplacements boomed. They were not those of the 47th Grand Company - none dared attack them now. There was only war on Medrengard, however, and it was never far away, the Iron Lord’s forces ever fighting for dominance.
Among the Iron Warriors stood mere mortals, the Flesh servants of the mighty Astartes of the Fourth Legion. Soldiers all, the Janissaries had stood here for the past eight hours, waiting for their Lords to give them new orders. To do anything else was to sign one’s death warrant. They had not been allowed to do anything. The Janissaries were even not allowed to consume the grey drab that their Iron Overlords referred to as “nutrient paste” - which would have made for a dour past time, but still a better one than to stand silently. Astartes occasionally took patrols, walking among them, looking for any sign of weakness. In the last hour, already several men had died a gruesome, public death after shining red eyes had gazed upon them. The Flesh was weak, and the weakest of the Flesh were culled. There was no place for the weakness among the Iron Warriors. The Flesh were but a necessity to occupy worlds; the Iron Warriors did not have enough numbers to do so, and thus, they still had use for the Janissaries. It was the only reason the humans still lived, and they knew it.
Again, a harsh, cruel voice barked over the vox-casters that had been placed, the sound of it echoing across the plateau, as it had for the past eight hours, once every minute.
”Obedience. Fidelity. Servitude.“
A cry followed in it’s wake. Another man found lacking, another man found dead.
Captain Rorke, clad in an ornate set of Tactical Dreadnought Armor, marched through the masses of Janissaries, followed by his Terminator Honour Guard. Together, they marched towards the Gate, moving closer towards the Warsmith’s Citadel. It was as an inefficient way of transportation in this case, but it served another purpose: the Janissaries had to be reminded who their overlords were, and that they were all-powerful. The Iron Warrior grunted as one of the Flesh failed to move out of his way in time, smashing him aside with his power fist. The man’s broken, bloody body landed amidst (and on) his fellows, who struggled to keep their nerves in check. To show fear was to show weakness, and to show weakness was to die - that much they had learned. As the small group of Iron Warriors made way, the massive Gate of Wrath slowly began opening, the whine of metal resonating across the plateau, as the voice once again repeated his words.
”Obedience. Fidelity. Servitude.“
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