Storm Heralds Reading List
Book 1 Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, In Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur
Book 2 Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi.
Book 3 Captum Ante, Venenum Filios, Locum Ignotum, Domus Discordia
Book 4 Cincere Tempestas
Cincere Tempestas Chapter 1
Extract from Imperial Crusades of the new age: Vol I.
With the rise of the Lord Guilliman the people of Terra were galvanised as never before. This was in no doubt thanks to the millennia of veneration bestowed upon the memories of the Primarchs which meant none would gainsay Guilliman's command, at least to his face. With startling speed the masses dedicated themselves to the support of his military campaigns, creating new armies and fleets in addition to those that had already pledged their fealty.
Guilliman's genius for logistics and organisation was staggering and within one solar year he had turned a gaggle of mismatched armies and bitterly feuding Chapters into a supreme machine of war. The core of his armies were the newly introduced Primaris Marines, a most controversial revelation and one that required Guilliman's breath-taking diplomatic skills to prevent a rift forming within his own ranks.
Led by the Lord Commander the Indomitus Crusade surged out of the Solar System, engaging in brutal campaigns of liberation among the core worlds surrounding Terra. Many bitter foes arose and battles as fierce as any of those celebrated by later historians were waged. Yet even at these tentative stages Guilliman was already planning ahead, laying the foundations of campaigns that might not begin for years or even decades. To achieve this his first actions were to dispatch independent trail-blazing armies, comprised mostly of newly commissioned Primaris Chapters. These he sent out to secure key worlds and strategic positions.
Several of these were the primary warp routes between Segmentum Solar and the outlying regions. Most notoriously of all must surely be the Nachmund Gauntlet, leading to what was now called Imperium Nihilus. Yet equally important were the Whirling Gyre leading to Segmentum Ultima, the Vale of Sorrows leading to Segmentum Pacificus and the Saint Karyl Trail leading to Segmentum Tempestus.
The knife was black and even the wan light it glistened wickedly. He could see markings upon the length of it, eldritch runes that glowed with an infernal light. There was something fundamentally wrong about those runes, they twisted and writhed before the eye, seeming to squirm as if alive. Looking upon that blade gave rise to feelings of nausea, sickening dread and the disturbing sensation that it was looking back. It was evil, it was corrupted and it was coming right at his face.
Captain Toran hastily ducked back, letting the knife flash past an inch before his helm. Even through the ceramite he could feel it burning, making his face and eyes sting, an impossible sensation since one of those eyes was a glowing augmetic. Toran ducked and weaved, dodging blow after blow and as he did so his golden rank chains jangled and his red cloak billowed around his legs. Again Toran dodged the knife but this time he kicked out, landing his ceramite boot squarely in his opponent's midriff.
The enemy staggered off-balance and Toran was able to look at him properly. This foe was clad in Ceramite too but not like his own. The armour was covered in fell runes and scriptures of damnation, almost obscuring the gore-red plate with its hideous iconography. Black-iron chains hung from the enemy's belt, capped with shrunken heads and from his helm arose two twisted horns that almost met at their point. The left pauldron bore the visage of a Daemon's head, set within writhing flames but it was no mere painting. The flames moved constantly as if real and the skull chattered silently in a jeering taunt. This was the most hideous and damned of foes, reviled and feared in equal measure across the stars. A Chaos Marine of the earliest Legion to embrace damnation, the most fanatical and deluded of all Traitors: a Word Bearer.
The Word Bearer regained his balance and hissed as he stepped to the right, looking for an opening. Yet Toran now had room to manoeuvre and brought up his relic blade between them. It was an ancient electro-magnetic longsword, the Sword of Thiel, the most revered relic of the Storm Herald's Chapter. It had tasted Word Bearer blood before and Toran was determined that it would do so again today.
The visage of the Word Bearer lit a raging fire in Toran's hearts, an instinctive loathing instilled by his hypno-indoctrination. The Word Bearers were the most reviled enemies of his blood-line, a legacy of hatred inherited from the XIIIth Legion, at the inception of the Imperium. Yet even without the conditioned response, Toran would have hated this foe. The Heretic was a willing slave to damnation and a Traitor unto the Emperor and all humanity. The cur's very existence was an insult to everything Toran fought for and he yearned to end this filth with every fibre of his being.
The Word Bearer's voice was mashed, like he had fangs under his helm, as he roared, "The merest drop of blood on my knife and the Dark Gods will eat your soul!"
Toran shouted back, "Not if i kill you first!" as he threw himself forward.
The pair flew at each other, blades flashing to seek out the kill. The accursed knife flashed at his helm once more but now Toran had the advantage of reach. He expertly deflected the blow then followed through to ram the point of his sword into his enemy's breastplate. Ceramite parted, organs ruptured and reinforced ribs shattered as the sword plunged in and out the other side, but the Word Bearer did not fall.
Toran felt the knife score over his back armour, parting ceramite like it was tissue paper, one inch deeper and it would have touched his flesh. Toran pushed harder, driving his sword forward but the Word Bearer remained standing as he yelled, "For the glory of Lorgar and Chaos!"
"Why won't you die?!" Toran snarled between clenched teeth.
As the knife rose up once more Toran shifted his grip on his sword and adjusted his weight. The knife began its murderous descent but Toran pulled hard to the right, ripping his sword laterally out of the Traitor's chest in a shower of gore, almost carving him in two. The Word Bearer attempted one last feeble swipe but then finally collapsed, his entrails steaming and bubbling with black fluids.
Toran pulled back his sword and fluttered the power field to clean off turgid blood as he looked around. He was standing upon a balcony, looking out over a wide concourse. It was a round space, ringed with many levels that rose out of the scope of even his vision. On every level were miles upon miles of shelves, lined with dusty tomes and scrolls, interspersed with marble statues of wizened scholars and long dead Lord-Provosts. There were data-slates and plastek info-sheets, clays tablets and woven tapestries, maps and data-crystals, Hololithic tapes and laser-etched discs. Every form of data-storage one could imagine and more. This was a place of knowledge and understanding, a reverent place where the wisdom of the ages could be kept and preserved. It was a place designed for quiet contemplation and study, yet today it was a battleground.
Everywhere Toran looked blue-clad Imperial Space Marines grappled with gore-red foes, Storm Heralds against Word Bearers, Transhuman against Transhuman. They were not alone either, for at their feet ragged, mutant cultists grappled with bleeding PDF troopers, but their heaving mass was a mere sideshow in this clash of giants. The two sides tore into each other, blasting and gouging with wild abandon.
Assault Marines swung roaring Chainswords, Tactical Marines fired bolters at point blank range while from on high Scout-Novice snipers picked off cultist demagogues and champions. Caught in the crossfire whole shelves of tomes were obliterated, crystals were smashed and scrolls burned. Priceless, irreplaceable knowledge was going up in flames but nobody cared. That the enemy died was all that mattered.
Captain Toran assessed the battle with a glance and saw the warriors of his Third Company fighting with full fury. From above he spied Librarian Arvael on the ground floor, swinging his telekinetic Force-Morningstar to break any cultist who came near him. He cleared a space in the melee only to be confronted by a lone Word Bearer. Arvael raised an open palm and shoved forward, generating a telekinetic barrage that sent whole shelves tumbling like a row of dominoes. Yet the Word Bearer was unmoved, the parchments and chains bound to his armour merely crashing back and forward as he stood stock still.
The Word Bearer laughed mockingly, "The Dark Gods protect me!"
"Let's see them protect you from this," Arvael growled as he made a grasping gesture and pulled his hand back.
The Word Bearer paused, looking for the pending attack but seeing nothing. Then too late he looked up and saw a marble statue of some fat potentate, dropping right at him from five stories up. The statue slammed down and crushed the Traitor under its shattering bulk, pinning his broken body long enough for Arvael to dash over and shatter his skull with a blow from the Morningstar.
One level down from Toran the giant Chaplain Furion was battling a horde of cultists upon a broad flight of steps. He looked like a black mote in an ocean of filthy browns as scores of twisted degenerates threw themselves at him. Furion met them with a Storm Bolter in his left hand and a sacred Crozius in his right, clubbing and blasting them with mighty blows. Yet for every one he slew five more took their place, piling upon him in wave upon wave of twisted flesh. Furion was drowning in foes yet just as it seemed he must surely fall he thrust his Crozius high and cried, "Fear the light of the Emperor!"
A staggering flash of energy erupted from the shining eagle-head of his weapon, a searing brilliance that cast shadows far and wide. This was Storm-Heart, an ancient relic of the Chapter. Like all Crozius' it could unleash its concussive energy in one massive blast but uniquely this weapon could also discharge its might in a stuttering strobe-effect of blinding light and deafening noise. The effect was similar to a shock grenade, causing autosenses to blink and blinding anyone not so protected. The cultists screamed and fell down, clawing at their faces as their sight was robbed from them and their ears went numb. Furion wasted not a moment to annihilate them, crushing skulls and snapping spines with the weight of his Mark III armour.
Elsewhere the bloodthirsty Brother Jediah was lashing out with a Fractal-edged short sword, while to his left Brother Persion swung a red-hot Friction axe in one augmetic arm. They duelled a pair of Word Bearers who bore vicious flensing knives, giving and receiving the most terrible blows. As they fought Persion yelled, "I thought you said this would be easy!"
Jediah fended off a knife blow with one hand while thrusting forward with the other as he shouted back, "This is the easy part, just wait till we get to the hard bit!"
Suddenly a shining flash announced the arrival of Company Champion Novak, with his golden helm and ablative pauldrons. The Champion danced into the fray, his power sword a smear of silver light as he bounded between the duelling Astartes. Two quick slashes and both Traitors collapsed, missing their heads, as Novak quipped, "No need to thank me!"
Jediah tetchily snapped, "He was mine!"
Novak merely laughed as he ran into the next fight calling, "Try to keep up, oh venerable elder!"
Across the way from Toran, Apothecary Memnos was wrestling with a Word Bearer, his white armour smeared with blood and his forearms wrapped in the Chains of Shame. The Traitor was fast and strong but Memnos knew Astartes physiology like no other and his knife flashed to tear sinews and sever ligaments. Counter blows scored his plate but piece by piece Memnos dismantled his foe, as thoroughly as he would on the dissection table. The Traitor flopped helplessly as the Apothecary took him apart and could barely raise an arm as Memnos finally rammed the knife into an eye lens.
All this had occurred in barely a few seconds and Toran judged that the battle was turning the Storm Herald's way. With three squads and the support of their officers the loyalists were driving back their foes. The Word Bearers were outnumbered by two to one and they could not endure long, yet something was off. Toran was accustomed to Traitors beating hasty retreats in the face of overwhelming might, preferring to save their own skins rather than accept death but these Chaos Marines were giving no ground. They stood and fought to the last, seemingly willing to die for no real purpose.
Toran gritted his teeth and ran towards the nearest fight, determined to kill every last one of these filth if necessary. He saw a Chaos Marine leading a mob of cultists to beat down a Storm Herald, Assault Sergeant Lorath. The Sergeant whipped and lashed with his twin lightning claws, killing enemies left and right but he was surrounded on all sides and was about to be overwhelmed.
Toran gathered himself and leapt into the fight crying, "For Terra and the Living Primarch!" His mass bowled over a half-dozen cultists and his sword flashed as it ended their lives. Instantly Lorath spun about and slammed back to back with the Captain and the pair began to wreak carnage. Toran hacked and slashed at the wall of flesh, relentlessly driving the point of his sword into chests and throats but then he saw the Word Bearer barrelling towards him.
Toran's sword was tangled in the mass of cultists but he released one hand to grab a spare combat knife from his belt. Yet Lorath beat him to it, lunging with both lightning claws to impale the foe through the hearts. Lorath laughed, "See the weak scum fall!" as the Traitor sank into death and Toran redoubled his efforts, slaughtering cultists in droves.
The battle was going well but then from the ground floor came the thunder of heavy steps. Toran twisted about and saw five more blue-clad warriors entering the fray, with Thunder Hammers and Lightning claws flashing. They were insanely broad and heavy, clad in armour thick enough to stop a tank round. They were Assault Terminators and they marched to war with inexorable momentum.
Sergeant Lorath raised his voice and cried, "Ha, late as usual!"
Over the vox Terminator Sergeant Orath called back, "There was a whole army outside to deal with, my kill-count has grown immeasurably."
"Damnation, you're not besting my score this time!" Lorath roared throwing himself into the fray with abandon.
Toran paused to retrieve his spare knife then followed, calling out, "Forward Storm Heralds and give no quarter. There's plenty more where these scum came from!"