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Ager GreatHorns sniffed the air with his bloodied snout. The room that he and his herd hid in stank of fear - made physical by the piles of dung and oceans of urine now covering the floor.
Being inside when a herd was panicked and afraid was not a pleasant place. The scent that he was desperate to avoid was that of the giant grey armoured killers that had force the Herd into here. He stamped his hooves with impatience at the noise and stench his herd was making, with a shake of his head he brayed his last warning at them to be still. If the grey giants caught them here in this room then they would all die. The scent of the killers was unmistakable, it was a sweet foulness of burnt herbs and a sharpness that tore into his soul as well his snout. That was the thing about these grey killers, their very presence spoke as something wrong in the universe, as though simply being near them he felt less than he was. A new scent cut through the stench of the Herd - challenge. Lifting his head he turned his baleful glare onto Bloodfur, a young buck who had grown much since the last season. He was as tall as himself but lacked the girth and bulk a true Bull needed, yet in his eyes he saw desperation mingled with a spark of ambition. Now of all times this idiot thought to challenge him - how had he come to this?

The deep green had been home to the Clan Skullfist since time began. Calves had been birthed,raised as bucks and birthed more calfs. The Bulls of Skullfist had always been strong and proud, leading the Herd with power and guile till a more suitable leader challenged, beat and ate them. The Bray shaman had guided the Bull in all he did and used their knowledge of the Forest Lords to protect the clan. Thus the seasons had passed. Then came the fire that foretold the coming again of the Forest Lords - powerful spirits that guided the Bray Shaman in their spells and prayers. The sky had always been a bruised and battered thing, great whirlpool of clouds launching lightening to catch the slow and unwary. Now though it was calm, a sickly blue colour that allowed the brightness of day to outweigh the still night.
Then had come the armoured giant, a warrior, prophet, priest and guide. Thick slabs of blue , green and yellow armour strong enough to turn aside axe blade and arrow head, spear and club covered his powerful frame. A helm shaped like a bell but with a single great magical eye in the centre covered the face of the giant. In one hand he carried a staff that was topped with the eight pointed star of the Forest Lords, it crackled with arcane power. In the other it carried a powerful magical engraved weapon the likes none on the Herd had ever seen. When Bray Lamehand had tried casting his warding spells the giant had raised it and from the hole in the front a crack like thunder roared and Lamehand was thrown backwards some ten paces and when he landed he had had a hole the size of the giants fist in his chest. Without further asking Ager knew that he had found a new Shaman to follow.
The giant had promised weapons the equal of his if the herd would follow him. Seeing that they had little choice, and chance to gain these powerful totems of war they had followed. He had led the herd to this abandoned town many days travel from the edge of the Deep Green. Shells of huts and other larger buildings that the Herd had no name for surrounded the single complete structure. This was a low hut made of a smooth grey stone. The giant had given them several large totems, calling them heavy stubbers. Ager had given them to the largest of the bucks who had taken great delight in learning how to fire these impressive weapons. With just one of these they could have ruled the Deep Green, with three they would have ruled even the Beyond. Yet the giants generosity did not end there - he gave Ager a Sunfire pistol. This powerful totem carried the heat of the sun in it's belly and when he tried it against a wall he was a little awed at the destruction it caused. The giant gave the Herd two larger versions of this pistol but when Ager had challenged for one he had whispered in his ear saying that the sunfire was a capricious tool that would burn it's master rather than an enemy. Ager had given the larger guns to his "closest" warriors, Froththroat and Bittenhorn. The giant had then ordered them to guard the intact building against any who came without the Forest Lords blessing.

They had waited for three days, the heat and dust eating away at the herd till he had been forced to step in and butt down several bucks. This was not the Wild hunt and no prey had been scented. Then on the sun down of the third day came the steel dragon. It came roaring out of the stillness, a noise so loud that as one the herd scattered into the ruins, leaving behind the tell tale signs of how scared they were. Only Ager had stood his ground, though he felt the fear build in his guts as well.
The steel dragon landed right outside of the ruined village and it's mouth opened. It puked forth a double fist of smooth skinned humans. They all looked as if they had at one time worn the same clothes, like they were part of the same herd, but now these were dirty, torn and ripped. Paler bits of cloth showed where badges had been torn from sleeves to be replaed by crudely stitched Eight Pointed stars. They showed a few blessings from the Forest Lords but not many. They carried their own war totems, but these were ill cared for and many looked to be repaired in haphazard fashion. All were skinny, pale and from their eyes fearful - they had the look of another clans young doe that had been cornered and did not know what would have happen next. When they saw Ager standing staring at them they all flinched. He was taller and broader than any of them, his massive horns had been freshly oiled that morn and he raised his axe above his head and pounded the sky with it. All the time he brayed his challenged and none came to meet it. These smoothskins ran straight to a ruined building opposite from the Herd camp on the other side of the bunker and half of them hid there peering at the Bull in fear. The other half run backwards and cowered behind a ruined wall. Ager was about to goad those hiding behind the wall into a fight when the Steel Dragon spat once more, this time from it's arse. Again there was approximately two fists many, this time of stunted twisted. Ager knew that the twisted lived in the Beyond, every season a massive steel snake would come to the edge of the Deep green and gak out a dozen or so of them. They would be chained together, often with boards nailed to their necks with bizare scrawlings on them. Lamehand had said that these twisted had been offered to the Herd as offering - to stop the Herd from conquering the Beyond. The herd would wait for the massive steel snake to leave and then would take the twisted as their due. They tasted horrible but Lamehand had insisted that they needed to be cooked well over the Feast Fire else the sickness that so obviously ate at them would eat the bucks.
These particular twisted carried buckets and rags as well as crude clubs and long daggers. Between half a dozen carried weapons like the smoothskin scum. All carried the blessing of the Forest Lords to one extent or another, their "leader" was blessed with a massive right apendage that looked to be to heavy for his pigeon chest to use. It ended in long claws that dragged along the floor. This twisted rabble just ran straight into the smooth stone hut and out of sight. From behind them came the giant warrior who had first came to Ager. Behind him follwed 10 other equally massive warriors. These were dressed in the same huge armour but this painted in a deep red. Chipped and cracked gold edged the massive shoulder guards. Each wore a different helm, one was the shape of a barking dog devil. Another a grinning skull that cried rubies of blood. A third wore a screaming deamon for a face and yet another bore no resemblance to anything Ager had ever seen. They had large unsheathed knives and hatchets chained to their bodies as well as brutal looking blades that looked like toothed swords or axes. Slung carelessly by their hip were smaller, brutal looking versions of the war totem that the Shaman carried. These warriors had the scent of blood strong about them, all twitched and shook as if containing some great fury. When a warrior whose helm had three blades rising from the crest like some bizzare crooked mane saw Ager standing staring at them he roared a challenge and raised a brutal looking toothed sword at him. Ager knew that this was a fight that he did not want. He quickly backed down and went to scurry about with the rest of the herd. His last sight of these menacing warriors was as they walked down into the stone hut.
The prophet came to him soon afterwards and told him how impressed he had been at the courage that he had shown against the Steel Dragon. He was also impressed at the wisdom Ager had shown at the challenge of the Blood warrior. His herd needed Ager strength for on the morrow the Great Enemy would come and for Ager to die under the blade of a "blood crazed berserker" would not have been good for the herd. Upon the herd hearing the Shamans praise for their bull they erupted with a mighty roar and pounded the sky with their clubs and fired their new totems with cheerful abandonment. The prophet then ordered a steel spider with two large arms to walk from the belly of the dragon and sit, perched on a shattered hut overlooking the bunker. He bowed once to the bunker, once to Ager himself, electing another bout of braying and firing and boarded the Steel Dragon which roared away.

The sun broke and the day began as had the others - hot and dusty. Come miday though the heat began to pound heavier than before and the herd were bleating that maybe the prophet was wrong and that they should take their new totems and return to the Deep green to rule with them. Ager was balancing these options in his mind when he felt his fur tingle and stand on end. The very air smelt burnt and a gust of air so cold that he felt pain blew over him. From where the camp was he could see the Enemy standing on the edge of the village. Their forms shimmered as if the a great wind encased each one, blurring them and making his eyes water if he stared too long at them. From what he could see there were fifteen figures, five of which were if he had focused right truly gigantic, larger even than the prophet. Without thought he brayed the Herd to arms and they rushed towards the forms, the big guns randomly firing off. None of the shots seemed to have any effect on the giants that they fired at but that did not matter - Ager knew that once he was in range then the sunfire totems would destroy anything. Suddenly there was a scream from within the herd, Froththroat was literally melting, covered wih liquid fire that quickly left a blackened skeleton. The other bucks looked at the twisted metal of the the subfire weapon and gave Ager and Bitten horn a wider berth. The prophet was right, the larger sunfire weapons were not to be trusted. With all the noise from the herd he barely registered that the smooth skins had also opened fire - their weaponry as effective as the herds in hitting the Enemy.
The Enemy split itself into three group of five - two of 5 smaller warriors and one of the true giants. The smaller warriors nearest to the herd ran up behind a shattered wall that held coloured glass in the shape of to Ager's eye a winged deamon. Much of the glass was gone but a faint outline could be seen. Ager smiled, these warriors were coming to him- he would not have to hunt far for the feast tonight. The second group of warriors moved steadly towards the smoothskins hiding place whilst the giants advanced like a mountain range on the move towards the smooth stone hut. Suddenly the warriors behind the stain glass window came into sharp focus - each was at least as large as the blood red warriors who had gone into the hut. The massive armour that they wore was a dull metal grey. It looked old and finely wrought with many flutters of yellow ribbon and gold scrawlings. In the center of each's breast plate was a sealed casket which had an emblem on it though they were too in cover to see clearly. Three of the warriors had massive glaives - one had a shield on his shoulder bearing a book with a star burst on each cover pierced by a sword. The other two had war totems like that of the prophet except they had larger mouths and were connected to ornate barrels on the backs of the warriors...
Ager could remember thinking that these 5 versus the herd would be over run easily, but then had come the pain, the bright searing pain. From the mouths of the war totems came jets of pure blue flame that lept over, under and around the ruins burning hide and fur and armour with ease. It was as if the Devil Lord Sang itself had returned on it's mighty wings to reign fire over the herd. The pure flames smelt like no fire that Ager had ever met, it burnt so deeply he felt as if his very heart was being torched. Ager roared in pain and stumbled back, he saw three or four of his bucks screaming as they burnt like conifers hit by the black lightening. They rolled on the ground and spread the fire further. The smell of the unnatural flame, of burnt fur, hide and skin was overpowering. The other deamon warriors, fore that is what they must be, raised their fists at the herd and more spitting death came ripping among the herd. The roar that deamons totems made was the same as the prophets only it never stopped. Huntmore was ripped in bloody half by the shower of deadly shot and Thricearmed lost two of his arms as a line exploded across his body. It was too much for the Herd, who shrieking and braying panicked and fled - Ager knew that they only place that they would be safe would be to get inside the stone hut so they clawed and kicked and butted each other down into the stone huts guts.

The herd regained some composure once they were in the coolness of the stone huts belly. They had tumbled en-mass down metal stairs and had scrambled into a large hall. Ager was enraged, they had been forced to flee by foul sorcery - where was there Shaman? dead at the hands of the prophet who had abandoned them here to fight flame spouting deamons with no fey guard. He roared his anger and began to force the herd back to order. None had escaped the flames but it seemed that the majority were still able to hunt. As they stamped and brayed the rabble of twisted who had last been seen scuttling down here with buckets and rags raced past and through them. Gone was the scuttling and the bow backed servants. Now they were a mob, a frothing, zealot charged rabble of the righteous. The massively deformed leader was waving his huge appendage in air, striking sparks from the metal walls with his fearsome claws.
Even above the screaming of the twisted and the whining of the herd he could hear more of that dreadful roaring of the fire deamons totems. It was a sound that tore through his head and he could feel the wrath of it even under the ground. Suddenly an almighty cheer came from outside and Ager snuck up the stair way too peer outside. By the Spirits the twisted had done what the herd could not, they had charged the giants. It was only when they were compared to something that the true scale of these giants be appreciated. They were easily half as tall again as the twisted and nearly thrice as wide as the oldest Bull. The twisted swamped four of the giants, the fifth saw hunched at the back, it's arms drooped down by it's side and smoke could be seen to be pouring from the back. Then came the terrible slaughter, it was as if the giants were Gods from the old tales. They spun their galives and blades as if they were made of air. Yet they struck like lightening and killed with every stroke. Within a heartbeat there were only half of the twisted remaining, in the next heart beat - none. Their ripped bodies lay scattered like leaves in the wake of a storm. Not one stirred, the slaughter had been complete and so quick. What was worse that the giants did not scream, or roar but killed silently. Then they marched down into the belly of the hut with Ager scrambling away from them.
He returned to the Herd and silently prepared to die - none could withstand the force of these warriors. Even the prophet had been scared to face them that is whayt he conned the herd to face them. Why had he agreed ? Pride and the lure of the war totems. Perhaps they would save him now. Suddenly the doorway was darkened, a massive giant with many fluttering pieces of paper and a huge glaive engraved with gold lightening bolts stood in the doorway. He lifted his other arm and the fearsome totem spoke again, this time though the herd ducked down low and the shots ripped away apart of the wall. The giant did not even pause, he simply strode into the room, Bittenhorn screamed and fired his sunfire weapon - the bolt pure sunfire ripped a massive chunk from the giants leg armour but he kept coming. Bittenhorn though paniced and pulled the trigger again and was betrayed by his totem for his recklessness and he too was consumed by traitorous sunfire. The giant ploughed into the herd, who broke and fled again. They were in an unnatural place with all this metal and stone above them, they were fighting giants and flame spouting deamons and their new weapons were turning on them. They dropped the heavy stubbers and the other war totems that they had been given by the feckless prophet and ran.

The giant behind them just kept walking after them. They raced down hallways and found themselves in a dead end room. Their tomb. Ager stood at the doorway. HE could make out over the herd the giants walking down the hallways searching for them. From opposite came the sound of other heavy boots running and a pounding noise. From the other side of where they were hiding came the blood red armoured killers. They were running with wild abandon, like the Wild hunt brought to life. They were waving the toothed swords and axes in the air and firing their totems into the walls and roofs, from their helms came a single chilling chant " Blood for the Blood God" over and over they chanted it , roared it, became it. At one point Ager feared that they were going to charge right into the room such was the momentum they built up but they suddenly turned and screamed down an adjacent corridor - where the giants were coming from. Ager inched his way to the junctin and stared in awe at the carnage. The blood red warriors were too far gone in their madness to aim their shots which were wasted against the walls and floor and cieling of the corridor. They hit the lead giants like a blood tide against steel rock. Ager was sure that the powerful, insane warriors would carve a bloody path through the giants. Yet they held and began with lightening speed to weave their blades back and forth, swipe and jabe, deflect and thrust. Within a heartbeat the only warriors left standing were the giants. Though their armour had been rent by the toothed swords of the blood red warriors they all stood. The remains of the blood warriors lay in crumpled heaps on the floor. Many were simply beheaded, one the dog devil had his chest split in two like an over ripe tree apple. The helm of the weeping skull lay looking direct at Ager, blood already congealing at unnatural speed like a collar on the floor. Ager looked up and saw that the giants were pacing straight towards him. He ducked back into the room and slammed the door shut. He could hear the giants walking towards them...

Ager Greathorn sniffed the air again. The fear was flooding the room, literally yet he could no longer smell the giants. The enemy had by passed this room and gone where the blood red warriors had come from. He took one look at young Bloodfur and raised his axe. He snarled and moved towards him. Bloodfur slipped in the dung that littered the floor in the haste to step back. He lay on the floor and waited for the blow that would end his challenge. It never came. The door burst inwards and the giants walked in. Their unholy flame filled the room and the roar of their foul war totems echoed loud in the small space. The last thing Ager ever saw was the barrel of the war totem thrust into his snout and then all was quiet....

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Brother Captain Hurmundex, Third Magi of a now defunct coven, Cursed and Blessed thrice in Damnations name , formerly of the Thousand Sons legionas Astartes stared out over the bunker through the picmags, his power staff floating by him, gently turning on the breeze. This was not as he had planned, the runes had decreed that there was a Adeptus Astrates involvement to be thwarted here but it had said nothing of who they might be. Personally he was hoping for the Runts of Russ - he always enjoyed pulling their fangs. This though was different, this was almost intresting. They had sent the Grey Knights, led by a Grand Master no less. There was something on this fetid little world that the Imperium wanted, and if they wanted it then he did too. Perhaps it would be important enough to rouse Ahrim from his pointless quest of solving the Rubicon and back to what was important. Perhaps even of great enough Import to attract Magnus's all seeing eye, the mere thought that the Primarch might once more favour him gave him a pleasurable rush. It all could be again - he just had to reason why the Grey Knights had come to this planet?

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I really liked this. the herd and Ager was an interesting read. A few spelling and grammar mistakes but nothing to harp on about. Well written and well done.