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Introduction/Foreword


It had been three years since General Marius’ return from the Seventh Zeldor raids, and since then the feral Ursa creatures had been rather hospitable and accepting of the Drassilian P.D.F that had been stationed nearby to warn off intruders. Though it seemed all was well, especially as the Drassilian Guard had returned from campaigns from the Segmentum Tempestus, Kreig. Two decades it had took for them to return, and only few at that returned at all.


Hardened by war in the north, the Drassilian Guard returned with dour expressions on their faces. Years of brutal, gruelling warfare with renegade fanatics and Orkish warbands, leaving old men with sore eyes and twisted minds. Even within days, dozens had to be put down for fear that they may turn renegade or lose their minds. Only the strongest pushed through.


Four thousand.


Four thousand was all that remained alive and sane from the campaign, from the thirty thousand that departed as fresh recruits into the Imperial Guard, and though General Marius and the Planetary Governor, Titus Mannheim, were both glad to welcome them, they were reluctant to trust them, for they had endured horrors of the worst kind, more so than the Planetary Defence Forces had with the Zeldor raids. Though, for now, the Zeldor threat was quelled, most of their population decimated. Yet as always, some always remain where the men of Drassilia cannot find them. In ten years, the same will happen again, and the brutish hordes will unleash their raw fury and sheer numbers on the Drassilian forces and the Ursine creatures. Peaceful, the Ursas were always nomadic, migrating around their forests and grassy plains to the best areas for food, water and shelter, though unfortunately that wasn’t to last long.


Driven into a blind rage for unknown purposes and reasons, the Ursa population suddenly grew much larger, to the point where they were overflowing the countryside, raiding Drassilian PDF and Imperial Guard alike, burning towns to the ground, and covering their faces with their victms' blood. Although their weapons and tactics were barbaric and simple, the sheer number, especially after leaving the Drassilians weak from the Zeldor raids and campaigns on Kreig, overwhelmed the men of Drassilia without much resistance at first. Fort Tarentum was the first to fall, then Thraxia, then Cerulea, and eventually the whole of the underground of Yggdrassil was invaded by the savage bear-creatures, leaving only the Hive-City of Falheim on the planet’s surface as the last human bastion.


That was until, they came.


Like angels they soared from the skies in such a small number, but with devastating consequences for the foe. Every man, no, God, that washed onto this world came in a blazing flurry of bolter fire and chainswords, ripping apart the savage Ursas in large scores, receiving little to no casualties. At first, the Drassilians were filled with glee to see someone had arrived: Their saviour.

It was not to be.


The Zeldor and Ursa populations were obliterated. The Libertate Pugantium led by Lucan Darkeye burned a hole straight through the woodlands and drove them to extinction, to many peoples’ distaste, though Titus and Marius were overjoyed to see the threat finally quelled for good after centuries. Unfortunately, however, once the bolters had stopped pointing at the Ursas, they pointed at the Drassilians. Relieved, at first, much of the population left the city of Falheim to meet up with the steel-eyed angels of death to offer them tributes to show their gratitude. They stood no chance. Their superpowered suits charged forth, chainswords and bolters ripping through the innocent troops and civilians now regretting their choice, covering the countryside in a new river of blood to add to the centuries of warfare.


The ships in orbit then began to fire, destroying all Drassilian warships and then bombarding Falheim with all their might, though utter destruction wasn’t what the Libertate Pugantium renegade Chapter was looking for. These forsaken Crusaders were looking for the artifact, the “Core of Drassilia”. It’s blessing was said to empower the man who weilded it by tenfold, and Lucan Darkeye wanted that more than anything.


Titus Mannheim, the planetary governor, sent out a distress signal in all directions hoping that the renegade Space Marines could not intercept them all, only moments before his building was raised by rockets from Thunderhawk Gunships, leaving General Marius in charge of the scattered, terrified, beaten population of Falheim. Marius knew that what he lacked was numbers, though he still had a chance of victory if he could hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The Drassilian Guard had all been eradicated, leaving only the scattered Planetary Defence Force and random civilian and militia groups, though Marius’ force that had been united and accounted for as Falheim came under attack numbered at five hundred hardened Drassilian guardsmen, and the weapons factory and artillery units were still under his command.


Confident, Marius ordered the weary civilians to either enlist or work in the factories to begin creating weaponry straight away, and also his artillery officers to train men how to use the Basilisk artillery piece, with twenty at his command he could do a lot of damage, especially now that he had the high ground. Lucan Darkeye of the Libertate Pugantium renegades knew that General Marius was all that stood between him and the Core of Drassilia, and knew that once he was out of the picture, there would be nothing standing in his way. It would be an easy task, he thought, and all the power would be his…. And his alone.

Chapter 1 - Awoken

Dried blood covering his face, Colour Sergeant Octavian Rothmere’s eyes shot open shakily, twitching and darting left and right worriedly. With a grunt, he lifted his head, observing the shattered Aegis Defence Line around him, his dead brothers mixed in with it, their black and red carapace armour glinting in the sunlight. Struggling, the veteran sergeant reached for a nearby lasgun, and gripped it fiercely, pulling himself up onto his feet in a crouched position. He ignored the pain of broken ribs and slashed thighs, and gazed once more at his surroundings. His entire platoon lay dead. The Commander could be seen only a short distance away have crushed by a rockcrete block, spattered with blood.


The city was obliterated, thought Rothmere, as he peered over the rubble before him, though he was reluctant to climb over as he witnessed the execution given to a guardsmen at the hands of a brutish, axe-wielding marine twice the size of him, seemingly a common event these days. Reluctant to give his position, he held his breath as his heart began pounding in his chest, but it was too late: The marine had already noticed him. Of course he did, thought the Sergeant, he had ten times everything he had, he was ten times everything he was. There was no chance of him escaping his sight in time, or going unnoticed by his heightened senses.


The ginormous hulking mass that was this space marine of the Libertate Pugantium let out an ear-splitting howl, shaking Rothmere to the bone. Run, he thought. RUN. And so he did. Scrambling down the rubble, crashing onto his knees, the battered Colour Sergeant rushed away as fast as he could, as hopeless as it seemed. Just as he passed a part of a building that was seemly the corner of a war-house, the beast of a man crashed through the brick and concrete wall, sending lumps of concrete scattering in all directions, small pieces pattering off the Sergeant, and the shock of it staggering him.


With a sense almost like luck, he gathered his confidence and strode on, lasgun still in hand.
“You will die, Guardsman! Face me!” boomed the giant’s voice in a gruff and foreign tone. The Space Marine flew after him, axe held aloft in the air, yearning for the blood of the smaller man. With another stroke of luck, an opening had shown itself up ahead. A tunnel perhaps small enough for Octavian to fit through, but not the hulking marine. Grinning, the tiring Sergeant dived to the ground, dropping the lasgun, and scurried away into the darkness. The axe swung through the air and cracked off the ground, missing him by an inch, to the distaste and anger of the marine.
“You think you can escape so easily, you soft-skinned runt?!” he bellowed confidently. A smile widened on the grotesque man’s face, blood dripping from his bald skull and along his temple, as he tossed a frag grenade under into the tunnel after the Sergeant. It bounced, bounced, and bounced again, the sound echoing through the tunnel, landing right under the chest of Octavian.


Scrambling to get away, he knocked it back a few feet and moved forward a few more, scurrying and bashing his elbows and knees off the walls just to get away from it. The explosion shook the tunnel and knocked him to the ground, sending shrapnel ricocheting off the walls, even some shards towards the afraid guardsman. Grunting in pain, he looked back to see blood pouring from his thigh and calf as shards of the frag grenade embedded itself in his flesh. The blood turned his black trousers shiny even in the dim light and he punched one of the walls in anger.


Thinking he had taken care of the problem, the space marine seemed to have left, leaving Octavian to crawl through the tunnels and towards Falheim’s apparent last bastion: The Highwall. The grand prison of Drassilia had held many heretics, zealots, rebels, beasts, prisoners of war and even some of the Zeldor chieftains, over the decades. Thousands still remained there, and due to it’s impenetrable defences both inside and out, it not only makes it nigh impossible for them to escape, it also makes it a highly defensible fortress in times of war.


Of course, General Marius was on the parapets leading from the front as he always does, and if there’s any chance of survival, never mind victory, it’s there.

Chapter 2 - Insubordination in the Ranks


Blood Drinker Tacitus enjoyed the slaughter, especially with his brothers Trymian and Themistocles. The pure carnage was impossible to stride away from, and he knew it. The sheer death toll, the roar of engines and the curdling of blood. This is what he lived for, and better so he could do it in the name of his Lord, Lucan Darkeye, Grand Master of the great Libertate Pugantium and its followers. The Imperium was wrong. Only the Libertate Pugiantium could unite the galaxy under the true Emperor, even if they were only a couple thousand strong thus far. The Dark Lords of Chaos, the Imperium and all others would either join or fall under his axe.


“Incoming!” screamed one of the squad officers of the infantry platoon that had dug itself in on Street 17E from one side to the other, using whatever they can to build or dig a form of trench and wall combined. Yet it was not enough.


The warning was not fast enough, as the vindicators had already fired their three shots. Their screams were blocked out as the highly explosive shells detonated around them, destroying the already battered trenches and making way for Tacitus and the oncoming assault marines. As the heavy fog cleared, bodies could be seen littering the floor. Minimal survivors. Growling, Tacitus knew that this left a clear path to the basilisk artillery pieces, who already scrambled their lasguns and combat knives and anything else they could get their hands on. Unfortunately, it made little difference, as the assault marines flew over, their jump packs giving them the elevation to crash upon them like angels of death, meanwhile multiple others came from ground level, too. Smirking, Trymian waved his chainsword side to side. One was lucky enough to be decapitated instantly, the other, not so lucky, was grasped by the torso and simply crushed into the ground slowly, his silent screams of pain a sweet taste to the heretic marine.


It was no trouble, really. These small, scattered pockets of fighters were found all across the city, civilians and military alike. Those who had not made it to Fort Highwall with General Marius had to make a last stand in the best place they could make, even if hopeless. Very few of those in the outskirts of the city, the Western disctrict or the suburb disctricts ever made it to Fort Highwall, and were cut down or shot down beforehand. Those who surrendered were hanged a few hundred metres away from Fort Highwall as testament as to the Grand Master’s strength, and their “impurity” for not joining the Libertate Pugantium's crusade.


The Space Marines regrouped at the three vindicators as they trudged over the ruined trenches and artillery positions, though something rather unheard of had happened only days earlier. One of the Drassilian commanders, Field Marshal Reinhardt, had joined the Libertate Pugantium and had grown rather fond of Lucan Darkeye, and vice versa, therefore he was granted control over a small force. Tacitus’ force of assault marines and three vindicators and a small section of traitor guardsmen and fanatics loyal to the Libertate Pugantium were under his command, though Tacitus and some others weren’t awfully fond of Reinhardt’s demeanour, or being in command of an inferior man. The Field Marshal strode confidently along the semi-destroyed road of Street 17E, running his gloved hands along the side of a vindicator, staring down Tacitus as he let out a soft growl, forcing the space marine to lower his eyes, no matter how much he hated it.
“It has come to my attention that you’re slacking, marines.” he began, instilling rage into them. The terrible truth was, they were slacking. And if they continued to slack, they wouldn’t be able to do any more killing, as they’d all be dead. Therefore he enraged them in the hopes they’d take the anger out on the enemy. “In reprisal, marines, I have held back the guardsmen and flagellants that were meant to aid you. Test me again and you’ll go in without the support of the vindicator demolisher cannons here.”


Tacitus closed his hand into a fist, “You speak as though we needed them, ‘Field’. ‘Marshal’.” he bluntly stated. Not showing the slightest bit of facial expression, Reinhardt simply retorted with,
“Then go on, lead your pitiful men with you and take the gates of Highwall on your own then, Blood Drinker. Your insubordination shall only gain you more punishment, as it was in the Drassilian Guard----” However, he was cut off by the ill-mannered brute,
“THIS is NOT the Drassilian Guard, whelp! You are a weakling and a disgrace to the Grand Master!” Now he stood only a foot away from the Field Marshal, only just refraining from crushing his skull under his boot, or worse.


Frowning, Reinhardt simply tilted his head, “Ah, yes, Grand Master Lucan Darkeye, my close friend and ally. There are few men so worthy in these dire times. Now I wonder what he would say if a little bird told him that there were a handful of marines showing indiscipline and disobedience on the battlefield. My gut tells me he’d have your head faster than you can say ‘I’m an ugly dog’, eh?” And with that, the highly esteemed Blood Drinker, the giant beast of the Libertate Pugantium, formerly Space Wolves, backed down. Worriedly, Themistocles, always the wiser one, glanced at the other marines. He knew they could see his weakness here, and he also knew that any of them would have taken the Field Marshal’s head clean off, but Tacitus did not. Perhaps some of them were thinking of forming a coup or dethroning of the Blood Drinker, thought Themistocles.


“Good. Then onwards to meet up with the Third and Fourth Battle Groups so that we may scour the southern districts before the main assault on Fort Highwall. Any questions?” The Field Marshal blurted.


“Very well. Move out!”

Chapter 3 - Octavian's Endeavour



The sunlight came as a blessing to the sewage-covered Sergeant as he neared the end of the tunnel. His back sore from bending over for such an extended amount of time, he was relieved to have some rest. If only he could stretch out on his back, laying on the fields of Drassilia with the family he no longer has. Octavian sighed, then trudged onwards into the clearing. Not much longer to go now, one more minute and he would….


Bolter fire. The Colour Sergeant swore under his breath, remembering that he’d dropped his lasgun whilst under pursuit of the axe marine. As he neared the clearing, he would extend his hand to drag himself out, however he was unable as the gargantuan tracks of a Leman Russ trudged passed him, almost crushing his hand before he pulled it back, slipping it back into the tunnel. As the beast of a war machine lumbered by, Octavian searched around, peering and taking in everything as well as he could, planning where he could go where he would not be shot.


Panting, multiple guardsmen dropped into a small bunker-sized pot-hole in the ground from a prior explosion, meanwhile more rushed passed. Stupid boys, thought Sergeant Rothmere as they were easily gunned down by the advanced war machines of the Libertate Pugantium. There, he thought, as he gazed down at an empty aegis defence line, long abandoned by the Drassilian troops. There lay a crate of what looked like a crate of frag grenades and a melta gun beside it, and a plan began forming in his mind. Suddenly, he dashed out of the tunnel, black with grime and dirt, filled with vigour and faith that the Emperor may protect his poor soul.


A krak missile flew past, the space marines were concentrating most of their fire in the centre, where the sentinels and chimaera were. The aegis defence line was on the left flank on a slight slope, giving an advantage to Octavian, if he could only get there. Blasting it’s chin-mounted lascannon, a massive sentinel stomped forward, taking position not far from Octavian. However, the intense fire from the marines wasted it in only a matter of seconds. Driving on, Octavian dived between its legs, crashing hard over a lump of rockcrete and rolling over it as the sentinel burst into flames and began descending to the ground. Trying not to let the pilot’s screams disturb him, he began to ascend the slope towards the aegis defence line, though his injuries from earlier strained his legs, and he collapsed onto his face. On the contrast to what he thought, he was lucky as he luckily evaded a spray of bolter fire from the marines who had spotted him on the Libertate right flank.


Now, the Leman Russ began to slowly pull back as it came under heavy fire, and the guardsmen in the rubble were slowly were slowly decreasing in number, and were heavily pinned down. Shaking, Octavian crawled up the slope as a Vendetta gunship zoomed passed, hurling rockets down towards the marines on their right flank, or the Drassilians left flank, to the satisfaction of the vox caster guardsman near the back of the small formation, whooping and cheering, though they knew that it would be short lived as it only halted the advance temporarily.


Get to the top of that hill, Octavian told himself. They could blow all four of his limbs off and he would still make it to the top of that Emperor-forsaken hill. He grunted, and savagely rushed up the last bit of the slope, before crashing behind the aegis defence line. With a popping sound, the crate opened up, filled to the brim with frag grenades. Octavian chortled gleefully, and grasped the first one with a shaking hand. He pulled the top over and looked through the slit in the defence lines to see who would be his first target. His arm flung over the top of the defences.
“Bloody marksman, me.” he reassured himself as the small frag grenade toppled into a small pile of rubble. As it exploded, the shrapnel did little to no damage against the marines, though the fanatics that followed them were. Soon enough, he lobbed a second, a third, a fourth and a fifth without being noticed. The marines eyes were to the guardsmen, or what was left of them by this point. Only a dozen Drassilians and the Leman Russ remained. He had to act swiftly.
“I’d better get a medal for this,” he muttered, and slung the melta gun onto his back, and picked up the crate.


The bolter fire continued, and one marine let off a lucky lascannon shot, penetrating the side armour of the battle tank, setting it alight. The crew hurriedly climbed from the tank, only to be shot down as the marines were ordered to pick them off. Arrogant with pride, the marines were too caught in the slaughter to notice the Sergeant creep in from behind their formation and drop a crate of frag grenades in their rhino, as well as place others in certain areas nearby that would topple walls, street lamps and even send shrapnel towards the enemy. He even placed the melta gun in there hoping it would add to the destruction.


Unluckily, one of the marines did notice eventually, and turned to fire on the guardsman officer. Swiftly, Octavian ripped one of the tops of the grenades off and leaped away, sprinting, whilst counting in his head… “One… two…” He knew as soon as he said three he had to turn and lob the grenade, but just as he did, a bolter shot hit him directly in his other arm, blowing it clean off and hurling him to the floor. The grenade, however, fell from his hands and bounced, bounced, and bounced again until it was only four feet away from the rhino transport vehicle. The marine gasped and dived to the floor, realising what he had done.


Octavian smiled for the last time, and as the fire began to engulf him, his last words uttered from a true militant of the Imperium, “For the Emperor…”


The other marines stopped firing suddenly as grenades began detonating at an extremely dangerous rate all around them, in the places where Octavian had placed them. The large crate suddenly detonated, and thus so did the rhino. The building to the right, above the tunnel Sergeant Rothmere had climbed through himself, suddenly began to crack at it’s base, and slowly began to topple down. The guardsmen stood still, gaping in awe as this ghost managed to destroy an entire armoured space marine unit backed up by heavy weapons and zealots. One of the men lifted his bayonette-fitted lasgun into the air and cried,
“This is it, lads! It’s now or never, up and at ‘em, for Drassilia, for the Emperor!” And with that the last dozen guardsmen in this pocket of survivors charged forth, blasting lasfire into the remaining addled space marines, only a couple left, as the smoke cleared, and those who weren’t were hit by the plasma gun or krak grenades.


This was Colour Sergeant Octavian Rothmere’s day, and he earned that medal, though nobody would be there to remember it. Not his family, not his unit, not his commander. It was a minor victory, though the cost was worth the reward.


A true hero of the Imperium.

Chapter 4 - Thoughts from the General


Within the day, all remaining pockets of imperial forces had attempted to reach Fort Highwall, or die trying. For most cases unfortunately it was the latter. Now, over 800 men stood ready at Fort Highwall, with General Marius, alongside a dozen basilisks, a range of heavy weapons depots, and a few Vendettas, Sentinels and Leman Russ's, all united in order to save Drassilia from such a terrible defeat, as hopeless as it seemed. Many survivors had given up hope and in fact joined the Libertate Pugantium on their unholy mission to eradicate the Emperor's rule and create their own Imperium.

They numbered in the thousands, thought General Marius, and that's just the Space Marines, there are thousands more un-augmented humans aiding their cause willingly. The levels of heresy are beyond anything seen before on Drassilia since the great Heresy. Though nobody was expecting any aid. The distress signals had gone unanswered and the dawn of the final battle was nearly at the doorstep of Fort High wall. It'd take a miracle to achieve a victory in these conditions.

Though we are the men of Drassilia, and we shall take every one of the bastards that we can to the afterlife with us, whatever awaits us there, confirmed the General, lost in his own thought before turning to Lieutenant Varro to his right,
"Any news of reinforcements?" He asked plainly, no longer instilling a harsh tone of discipline and authority in his tone. The Lieutenant shook his head,
"Afraid not, General. We're doing the best we can, but the heretics are blocking our signals as best they can, too. We're in the dark, Sir." The General sighed. Well, at least he could die with a friend at his side. Nobody better to die with than Lieutenant Varro, known to be a socially awkward plonker who stated the obvious throughout the day who gained his position through his bloodline, though he was a good man at heart, with faith in mind and fire in his belly.

A shout came from below, "General! Our scouts report a large force of Renegades heading our way with heavy support backup! What are your orders, General?!" Shouted one of the Guardsmen. Tiredly, the General sighed in disbelief of what had happened to his homeqorld, and what was about to happen to end the conflict. Total and utter defeat. Something he has never tasted, and never expected to, though what could he do.

"General?!" The man boomed again from below. Smoke began to rise upon the horizon.

"And so it begins," he whispered. The drums of war began to beat as the rebels and marines stalked towards Fort High wall through the battered streets of Falheim, gargantuan tanks lumbering behind them.

"General Marius! What are your orders?!" He repeated for the last time, fear with the slightest hint of faith in his voice. Faith, hope? Now? He must be mad. Then again, nobody listens to you if you're not mad, thought Marius. And that was it.

Stern in the face of heresy and death itself, the General scowled, closed his fists, and turned to the guardsman.

"Tell the men to man the parapets, best marksmen in the towers, all lascannons on the walls to snipe at vehicles, artillery stationed behind the walls to slow their advance! Keep the women and children in the chapel, it will give them faith! Keep the Sentinels and tanks in reserve until I command otherwise! I want all ammunition and grenades on the ground, I want that damned armoury emptied and brought to our troops, do I make myself clear!?" He boomed, spit flying from his mouth, tendons sticking from his neck.

There he was, thought the Lieutenant. The General everybody knew. Now, there was hope, for woe is he who dares face such a man.

"We're going to end this, now, for the Emperor!"

Chapter 5 - The Onslaught begins


Dawn risen over the grand bulwark that was Fort Highwall, the shadows retreating as the light illuminated the courtyard. The off-putting chants, laughs and cries of the prisoners of Highwall began, jeering the men of Drassilia on sarcastically, attempting to lower morale, for the sooner they lost, the sooner they’d be liberated after years of neglect and harsh treatment. Yet it got dull, to the point where General Marius ordered they are starved of all food and the radiators were turned on to full. Meanwhile, the men were evacuated from the keep and began to assemble in the courtyard before the leading man of the last remaining loyalist troops. Once they were, the General proudly stood on top of the podium in front, testament of what true courage was in the face of death. The eerie silence was off-putting, and instilled even more fear into the normally gallant troops of Drassilia. Never had General Marius seen such unfaltering men turn to cowardice so early. That was soon about to change.

“We Drassilians are not as war-hardened as the Armageddon Steel Legion, as stubborn as the Vostroyans, as endless as the Cadians, as flashy as the Stormtroopers, as cold as the Mordians or as bloodthirsty as the Catachan. And yet we Drassilians still make them look bad. I would rather have one of you next to me than ten men from any other world, this is YOUR world, and it isn’t going down without a fight.

You are the last line. This is it. We are it. We are the Imperial palisade blocking such sheer heresy from taking this world. They think they have come to claim Falheim, claim Drassilia, claim us, but truly they have came to die. The immortal Emperor is with us and we are unstoppable, invincible. Every abomination that sets foot upon his walls shall feel the wrath of a thousand-thousand damned souls, yearning for vengeance that we shall so rightfully grant!


His soldiers will strike them down, his war-machines will crush them under their treads, his mighty guns shall bring the sky raining fire down upon them!

Once this was a fine city, a gleaming beacon of the God-Emperor’s light. Now gaze upon it. GAZE! Look what they have done to your precious families, your homes, your ancestry! They have denied you it, and we shall take it back, along with their lives!

Do you fear death, men of Falheim? Do you fear death?! What is there to fear of death, other than the incompletion of his master’s work! And if you die, you’d best have the joy of knowing our task is done! It is valiant to die in the Emperor’s name, rather than for yourself, as taught by the Commissars of the Munitorum!

We are the shield against terror and as long as we live, we prevail!


What we do today will be recorded in the annals of Drassilia. We are Drassilia reborn!

We are the Honour Guard, and this is our day!” By now he was booming, his neck tendons sticking out along with the veins on his head. His hands crushed into fists began to ache as he squeezed them tighter in fury that would no doubt be unleashed on the enemy as he, as per usual, leads from the front. Cheers and cries came from the crowd of hundreds of men, and with a wave of his hand, the General didn’t have to utter another word to give them their orders. They were Drassilian. They always knew what to do.

The basilisks were placed in the courtyard to fire over the walls, the mortars and autocannons were mounted on the hundred-foot-high walls of Fort Highwall. Whilst one side faced a cliff, the east, west and north were facing to different quadrants of the city of Falheim. Undoubtedly, the Libertate Pugantium and traitor Imperial forces would arrive soon in large number, wave after wave after wave. Lasguns and bayonets glimmered in the rising sun as the men lined up along the walls and towers of the mighty prison for heretics. Even General Marius himself stood amongst the 800 newly deemed “Honour Guards”, gazing sternly across the expanse of semi-ruined buildings and wartorn streets. Sickeningly, one could smell, nay, taste the blood from where they stood, and the eerie silence increased the uncomfortability as the minutes passed by without a single sound uttered. Not even the wind would sing and howl this morn, for its silence was a symbol of remorse and sorrow for those who would fall today. Yet they would not reach the heavens, for the great maws of the enemy warships high above would swallow their spirits whole, or at least that was how intimidating they looked.

A whistle slowly began to emit in the air, so quiet some of the guardsmen were checking their ears amongst themselves to make sure they weren’t hearing things. Though it seemed to multiply faster and faster, until they realised it was coming from above, but it was too late. Suddenly, bursting through the clouds from the heavens, the sky rained fire like never seen on Drassilia, and before anyone could dive to the floor, find cover or somehow avoid this mess, the shells slammed against the floor, walls and keep of the obstinate Fort Highwall. Within moments, everything was in disarray, and although fire was in the hearts of every guardsman, the sheer terror of flames erupting in all directions so suddenly was beginning to spread fear like wildfire, perhaps even faster than the flames.

Though that was only the beginning. Promptly after, smaller but more efficient shells were fired onto the grand walls of rockcrete, but this time from the surrounding city, mainly from the northern side. General Marius poked his head over the parapet for a moment, just long enough to witness the basilisks and vindicators firing from behind the moat. His eyes widened with fury,
“Those are DRASSILIAN Basili----” He was then cut off by bolter fire streaming along the walls, forcing him to duck back down.

Another wave of orbital bombardments came crashing down, this time pin-pointing the keep and towers, destroying one of them and blowing multiple holes in the prisoner ward. From there, the heretics had escaped their cells, their howls for blood echoing as loud as the shelling itself. If that were only it, three drop pods crashed down in the courtyard, tactical marines bursting from the hatches, laying fire into the loyalist basilisk teams, putting them under heavy pressure. Slowly, the Drassilian Honour Guard, no matter their bravery, were being whittled down. The vendetta gunships were taken by the escaped convicts, stealing the ability of air assaults by the loyalist troops, and the keep had been completely overrun, with the courtyard soon to follow if something wasn’t done. The spontaneous shots fired from the artillery on the ground burst open in front of both loyalist and traitor troops, blood spurting in all directions, creating pure chaos and anarchy as marines of the Libertate Pugantium began scaling the walls. Soon, all would be lost, and the General had little chance of stopping it.

Reserved for Part 6

First 3 parts are completed, we're half way!

Part 4 completed, part 5 shall be completed later on in the day.

I know my writing isn't awfully brilliant but I do try to have a good range of vocabulary and battle strategies.

The big battle's coming, as well as a couple of shocking things that will change the situation quite a bit

One or maybe two more parts to go!

The keep is held by the convicts, the courtyard fought over by artillery teams and the tac marines!

The walls are being scaled, even Tacitus, Themistocles and Field Marshal Reinhardt shall join the assault soon enough!

How will General Marius quell the threat? There is only one thing that can stop them..... for a terrible price.