The War of Blood
by Mort McShort
INTRODUCTION
Hi. I'm Mort McShort. By the way, that's not my real name. Anyways, I'd just like to mention that Space Marines, Blood Angels, and any other stuff I mention about Warhammer 40k are registered trademarks of Games Workshop (that goes for Warhammer Fantasy, too). This is my very first fanfic, so I hope you enjoy it. If there's anything wrong with it, or if you thought it was good, please review it, because I need feedback from readers like you to know what to change when I write my next fanfics. Thanks a lot.
This fanfic dedicated to Grass McAss, Beast McFeast, Hut McNut, Hefty McLefty, and any of my other friends with screwed up nicknames.
* * *
Prologue
It was a day like any other. Wake up, hit the snooze button, go back to sleep, then have a scout sent to my room to yell at me for not waking up on time. You know, it's pretty damn hard to wake up after a night filled with the blood of those Dark Eldar scum splattered all over your power armour. I woke up with great misery and walked down to the mess hall of our basic base. I sat down to eat my daily bowl of grey stuff that was supposed to have a bajillion vitamins in it, thinking about the horrible taste of the crap I was being fed, and recounting what had happened over the past month or so.
This is the 41st millennia. More specifically, Year 40,000, Month 8, Day 21. But I could still remember the grim events that all started in Month 7, Day 14...
* * *
I was only one of the Blood Angels Squad 8 sent to the Ruins of Albion to see what the hell happened there. There were 7 of us: Sargeant Reed, Tkchar, Juman, Milhouse, Sompar and Arier (both on bikes, if I may add), and myself, Tarem Mirar. The Sarge said we were to follow the Belarus River to the crash site, but some of us disagreed when we came to the patch of land where the path to the Belarus River forks off to another path that leads to the Ruins of Albion. Milhouse, Arier, and I argued that we could be ambushed if we were to take the Belarus River. Orks were rumoured to have a couple of camps in the forest there.
"If we take the Belarus River path, we don't know what will be ahead!" yelled Milhouse.
"At least we know where we're going," replied the Sarge with a slight sneer detected in his voice.
"It'll be safer the other way, thought." I couldn't help but agree with Milhouse.
"Hey look, I'm the Sargeant here, and you'll do whatever the hell I tell you to do. If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you run, you run. If I tell you to rush right into the middle of a Dark Eldar encampment, you better do not. If anyone here doesn't agree with me, they'll deal with my chainsword." He snapped the switch on and off, which made the blades whirr for a second. Squad 8 was a squad not to be reckoned with when it came to the subject of determination, but even Tkchar - the most stubborn of the group - knew when to shut up.
We walked down the grassy path, on the alert for any Ork ambushes. Everything was silent except for the occasional screeching of Lemmin Owls, and the gentle hum of the bikes. Those who had knives slashed the long branches of trees in the way, while others had their boltguns at the ready.
"Hey, what's that up there?" whispered Arier. He pointed towards two Ultramarine helmets protruding from a bush about 20 meters away.
"What the hell are they doing here? They're supposed to be battling with the Tyrannids in Rathgor! Tkchar, go up there and see what they're doing," barked the Sarge's commands.
Tkchar slowly walked over to the bush. He only got 3 meters away from it before a long stick with the one of the heads impaled on them plunged straight into his chest. He stumbled a few steps before exploding into a bloody mess. We were all shocked. None of us could raise our boltguns and pull the trigger. That is, until the second head-on-a-stick came flying towards us.
"It's a Stikk Bomm! Retreat! Retreat!" yelled the Sarge at the top of his lungs. You see, turning around and running isn't exactly the easiest thing to do, especially if you're wearing power armour. Sompar and Arier had even more of a problem because of the bikes.
Blood Angels Squad 8 ran as fast as they could. I envied Arier because of ability to get as far away even quicker than we could. Sompar, however, wasn't as lucky. With an IQ of only 95, he wouldn't even be able to figure out a simple riddle that a child could easily answer. Being an easy target, the Stikk Bomm flew straight towards him. Or at least that's what we thought. It hit the gas tank, and the bike blew up right in front of our eyes. We were a pretty far distance away from him, but some of us weren't gonna the oncoming flames. We ran even harder, watching as Sargeant Reed tripped and was overtaken by the fiery explosion. I can still remember his screams of agony as he was burned to the bone.
Usually, the rest of us would become un-coordinated because the Sargeant was killed. Except for the fact that now, the only command would be to run.
by Mort McShort
INTRODUCTION
Hi. I'm Mort McShort. By the way, that's not my real name. Anyways, I'd just like to mention that Space Marines, Blood Angels, and any other stuff I mention about Warhammer 40k are registered trademarks of Games Workshop (that goes for Warhammer Fantasy, too). This is my very first fanfic, so I hope you enjoy it. If there's anything wrong with it, or if you thought it was good, please review it, because I need feedback from readers like you to know what to change when I write my next fanfics. Thanks a lot.
This fanfic dedicated to Grass McAss, Beast McFeast, Hut McNut, Hefty McLefty, and any of my other friends with screwed up nicknames.
* * *
Prologue
It was a day like any other. Wake up, hit the snooze button, go back to sleep, then have a scout sent to my room to yell at me for not waking up on time. You know, it's pretty damn hard to wake up after a night filled with the blood of those Dark Eldar scum splattered all over your power armour. I woke up with great misery and walked down to the mess hall of our basic base. I sat down to eat my daily bowl of grey stuff that was supposed to have a bajillion vitamins in it, thinking about the horrible taste of the crap I was being fed, and recounting what had happened over the past month or so.
This is the 41st millennia. More specifically, Year 40,000, Month 8, Day 21. But I could still remember the grim events that all started in Month 7, Day 14...
* * *
I was only one of the Blood Angels Squad 8 sent to the Ruins of Albion to see what the hell happened there. There were 7 of us: Sargeant Reed, Tkchar, Juman, Milhouse, Sompar and Arier (both on bikes, if I may add), and myself, Tarem Mirar. The Sarge said we were to follow the Belarus River to the crash site, but some of us disagreed when we came to the patch of land where the path to the Belarus River forks off to another path that leads to the Ruins of Albion. Milhouse, Arier, and I argued that we could be ambushed if we were to take the Belarus River. Orks were rumoured to have a couple of camps in the forest there.
"If we take the Belarus River path, we don't know what will be ahead!" yelled Milhouse.
"At least we know where we're going," replied the Sarge with a slight sneer detected in his voice.
"It'll be safer the other way, thought." I couldn't help but agree with Milhouse.
"Hey look, I'm the Sargeant here, and you'll do whatever the hell I tell you to do. If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you run, you run. If I tell you to rush right into the middle of a Dark Eldar encampment, you better do not. If anyone here doesn't agree with me, they'll deal with my chainsword." He snapped the switch on and off, which made the blades whirr for a second. Squad 8 was a squad not to be reckoned with when it came to the subject of determination, but even Tkchar - the most stubborn of the group - knew when to shut up.
We walked down the grassy path, on the alert for any Ork ambushes. Everything was silent except for the occasional screeching of Lemmin Owls, and the gentle hum of the bikes. Those who had knives slashed the long branches of trees in the way, while others had their boltguns at the ready.
"Hey, what's that up there?" whispered Arier. He pointed towards two Ultramarine helmets protruding from a bush about 20 meters away.
"What the hell are they doing here? They're supposed to be battling with the Tyrannids in Rathgor! Tkchar, go up there and see what they're doing," barked the Sarge's commands.
Tkchar slowly walked over to the bush. He only got 3 meters away from it before a long stick with the one of the heads impaled on them plunged straight into his chest. He stumbled a few steps before exploding into a bloody mess. We were all shocked. None of us could raise our boltguns and pull the trigger. That is, until the second head-on-a-stick came flying towards us.
"It's a Stikk Bomm! Retreat! Retreat!" yelled the Sarge at the top of his lungs. You see, turning around and running isn't exactly the easiest thing to do, especially if you're wearing power armour. Sompar and Arier had even more of a problem because of the bikes.
Blood Angels Squad 8 ran as fast as they could. I envied Arier because of ability to get as far away even quicker than we could. Sompar, however, wasn't as lucky. With an IQ of only 95, he wouldn't even be able to figure out a simple riddle that a child could easily answer. Being an easy target, the Stikk Bomm flew straight towards him. Or at least that's what we thought. It hit the gas tank, and the bike blew up right in front of our eyes. We were a pretty far distance away from him, but some of us weren't gonna the oncoming flames. We ran even harder, watching as Sargeant Reed tripped and was overtaken by the fiery explosion. I can still remember his screams of agony as he was burned to the bone.
Usually, the rest of us would become un-coordinated because the Sargeant was killed. Except for the fact that now, the only command would be to run.