Warhammer 40,000: All That Remains
Chapter 1: The day Terra burned.
So, how's it going, folks! I have returned from my foray unto the Dark Souls fanfiction page a better writer, and now I hope to use these newfound skills to create something unique. Welcome to All That Remains, a Warhammer 40k series about the 42nd millennium, and what awaits mankind there.
Essentially, this 'fic is Alpha Priority for me. Nothing else will be worked on until this is at least established with a few chapters. All that aside, let's get started!
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Terra.
What else needed to be said? Terra, a word of beauty, a word of wonder, a word of hope.
Terra. The name of the birthplace and cradle of mankind. While other races warred and fought, attempting to rule the galaxy, man enjoyed the peace of its, at the time, insignificance.
But that had all changed. Terra, once a world of grand palaces, of wide, flower filled avenues filled with chanting, robed monks and joyous people. Terra, a world of enormous cathedrals and towering golden spires, of humble, but clean markets and enormous malls.
Terra. A world of beauty, a world of glory. A world that, mere weeks ago, was in the midst of its regular existence.
Terra. A world at war. A world in the grips of a conflict so important it threatened the survival of mankind as a species.
Terra. A world on fire.
xxXXxx
"Fire!"
The order split the hustle of the deck as the command was obeyed, the pulling of a lever resulting in another shell the size of a Hab-Block blasting from its housing and into space, before splitting into a new housing. The primary lance cannon of a Sword class frigate, moments before it fired.
The lances batteries overcharged, and the resulting blast of energy tore the ships hull asunder, ripping a gaping hole in the side, hundreds being sucked into space, the vacuum quickly silencing their cries and snuffing out their lives like candles in a windstorm. Those who weren't torn to pieces by the blast, or melted to goo by the heat of the overcharge, anyways.
The commander, a captain named Alcados, briefly savored this small victory as the frigates hull gave way, the ship splitting into two halves, each end disgorging its share of crew like candies from some sick, twisted version of a childs piñata.
Then Alcados was no more, his life ended by the sheer power of a plasma torpedo that his ships sensors had missed the presence of. The torpedoes raw payload turned his small cruiser into a thousand molten giblets of metal, each one flying in a different direction.
Alcados' ship, the 'Bold Vengeance', was but one of thousands of warships lost in the grand battle of Sol. Millions of warships, from tiny Viper class cruisers to immense flagships dueled across the backdrop of stars. Two enormous fleets, one of the Imperium, the other of Chaos, engaged each other. One would hardly believe that these were mere fractions of their former might, whittled away like the bank of a mighty river.
No warship, however, matched the sheer size and magnitude of the largest vessel there. The ship that was the size of a moon, that was a massive chunk of a destroyed world. The Rock. Bristling with guns and thrusters, the planetoid sized warship maneuvered like an ogryn. Slowly, but where it went, destruction followed. Dozens of smaller Chaos vessels were simply smashed by the ships enormous bulk, not even mentioning the dozens more lost to its guns.
But, for all its might, it was still just one ship, and the Imperial fleet was greatly outnumbered. The sheer size of the Chaos armada was staggering, and for every ship blasted apart by guns or smashed by the rock, several more would eagerly take its place. But still The Rock fought on.
Cannons pounded away, shells the size of buildings and blasts of energy capable of turning a city to dust cut swathes through the Chaos fleet. Dozens of Ravenwing Nephilim fighters screamed through space, gunning down numbers countless.
But even these mighty displays of power were nothing compared to the event happening deep within The Rock, beneath thousands of tons of rock, over ten miles deep, something was happening. And the galaxy would change because of it.
xxXXxx
Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of miles away, Terra was embroiled in war.
It was an irony not lost to Abaddon, the destroyer of worlds, as he laughed. Few dared to even ponder this event, however. Woe to the one who attracts Abaddons attention. Especially when he didn't like you.
So Abaddon laughed, as his crew around him hammered away at consoles, showing tactical information. Results of assaults, unit numbers, and, most importantly, their progress in the assault on the Emperors Palace.
But Abaddon did not laugh in anger, or in joy, or even in hatred. No, Abaddon laughed because, it seemed, he would surpass his father. He would beat Horus, do what he could not. He would be the one to kill the Emperor.
His allies were all down there, the 'Mournival of Chaos'.
Typhus, lord of plagues and host to something called the Destroyer Hive. Representative of Nurgle, he was in charge of the overall fleet battles, or at least he had been. Now a man under his command, Charinthis, was in charge of Abaddons fleet.
Lucius, the Eternal. A name Abaddon hoped he would one day put to the test. He was commander of the Emperors Children, and in charge of eliminating enemy commanders. Already his blade had claimed the life of over a hundred Astartes captains and several Chapter Masters, as well as countless Imperial Guard commanders.
Kharne, in charge of… well, in charge of leading his Berserkers in countless suicide assaults against the Imperial defenses. Even then, the man wasn't even in command of himself, let alone his forces. But he was a monstrosity in battle, slaughtering thousands, and Chaos be dammed if Abaddon wasn't going to use that.
And last, but so far from least it was ridiculous, Ahriman. Ahriman was in charge of everything both Daemonic and Psychic. He was tasked with bringing down the immense psychic shields over the Palace, as well as summoning droves of daemons to their aid.
All four of them, all upon the surface, fighting their individual battles. All of them great champions of Chaos. All of them naught but pawns.
xxXXxx
"Die, heretic!" Belial, Grandmaster of the Deathwing roared, his blade but a whirl of death in his hand. He was in command of the eastern defenses, alongside Sammael, and damned if he would let them fall.
His Deathwing, his brave, glorious Deathwing, fought with the strength of lions, and they would no doubt do their primarch proud, if he were here to witness it. Their bone-coloured armour reflected the fires of battle, making them an eerie red hue.
The rest of the Dark Angels fought too, bolters roaring with righteous fury as jump packs screamed like enraged eagles, the three sacred banners of Retribution, Devestation and Fortitude standing proud over their lines, filling them with courage.
The Deathwing banner stood on the back of Sergeant Moreus, locked in battle with a heretic champion, whose blade crackled with lighting. Moreus' Blessed weapon, the sacred Flail of the Unforgiven, however, smashed the Heretic flat, his blade snapping beneath the onslaught of might.
"Moreus! To me!" Belials voice bellowed across the battlefield, cutting over the sounds of battle.
Moreus saw his commander, and gestured for his squad of Knights to follow. He reached him minutes later, shield by his side.
"You called for me, my lord?" He said with a slight bow, a bolter round deflecting off his shield.
"Yes. Follow me. There is a lull in their attack, this is an opportune moment to retake the Chapel of Saint Eirik."
"Of course, sir. Who will lead the attack?"
"The Guardians of the Covenant have already reached Sirrick Plaza, and are ready to mount the assault."
"Is that wise, sir? The Guardians are, no offence to them, a rather… unproven chapter."
"They are still brothers to us, and children of The Lion, Emperor preserve his name. I trust them. Their commander, that Carolus, is a good man. I want you to serve as my honour guard as I rally our fellow Deathwing and march for the Chapel. The Seventh stand ready to replace us on the line."
"Of course my lord, forgive me."
"Forgiveness granted. Now, let's go show these heretics how battles are won!"
xxXXxx
++Eastern Wall, Palace of the Emperor++
"For in the Emperors eyes we are all but specks of light! Let us shine brighter than the rest, and prove ourselves worthy of his gaze!" Asmodai roared as he led the Third company into battle.
The green armoured warriors smashed through the Chaos line like a ram through an ancient wall, crushing those before them. Hundreds of heretics were gunned down or torn apart as the warriors of the company continued onwards.
Asmodai beat several Chaos cultists to death in a few swings of his crackling crozius, the eagle headed mace tearing a bloody swathe through his foes. The chainsword of his fellow Interrogator-Chaplain Merrik reaped a bloody toll amongst his foes ranks, as the two fought back to back, their black armour and skull helmets making them look like terrifying specters of death, causing the heretics to slowly back away, until all that was left facing them was a single individual.
Clad in his horrifying power armour, covered in screaming faces and flesh, his face a mess of scar tissue, stood the icon of sin; Lucius the Eternal.
"Well done brothers! Truly the firstborn of the Emperor have not fallen into disgrace!" He said, his voice like a snake wrapped in silk; soft, but deadly.
He grinned, the expression causing the scars upon his face to shift, making him look like a puzzle of flesh and blood, some horrifying childs jigsaw, on the verge of falling apart, yet staying together, almost by will alone, it seemed.
"Come now, will you not show your face? Grant me that small honour at least."
Asmodai stood, unmoving, as he stared down the champion of Slaanesh. His blackened eyeholes showed no expression, until he removed his helmet.
Even Lucius' eyebrows rose for a moment. He had evidently expected some old, scarred face, but Asmodai defied that expectation. He had no facial hair, short cut black hair, a pale but handsome complexion, and a perfectly formed facial structure, but all of this wasn't the only oddity. For Asmodais eyes were a deep, dark blue, like the midnight sky, so dark they were nearly black.
All in all, one could easily describe him as… beautiful. The opposite of what you would expect a stone cold torturer to look like.
"We are no brothers to you, slave of the Dark Prince, but you were right about one thing; the sons of the Lion have not fallen. Now, 'Eternal', shall we fight?" He replied, nodding his head slightly.
"My oh my, Asmodai, but aren't you the looker? Truly my lord would love a man such as you by his side." Lucius stated, looking with a mixture of lust and hunger, in equal measure, at Asmodai.
"I have no interest in anything you offer, Lucius, but your head. I ask again, will you fight me?"
"Oh well, what a shame to waste such a specimen, but I suppose it is inevitable."
And with that both warrior took up their weapons as thousands watched in awe.
Lucius opened with a brutal forward lunge, launched at such a speed could have outrun a bolter round, but Asmodai waited until the last second before hammering his crozius down upon the oncoming blade. The strike forced the weapon to dig into the ground as Asmodai swung his weapon upwards, but Lucius backstepped and the weapon found nothing but air.
Lucius performed a right cross-slash, but Asmodai's crozius lunged up and caught the blade, before the grim chaplain went to hammer his fist into Lucius' face. Lucius took the blow, partially shocked by the speed of its delivery, before his tentacle-arm came up and lashed around Asmodai's left wrist, pulling it down.
Asmodai fought the grip of the tentacle, his armours servos screaming in disagreement and effort, before he finally tore his arm free, as well as the tentacle itself. Lucius screamed in true pain as the mutated limb was torn from his shoulder, before performing a wicked backhanded swing across Asmodai's ribs.
The black blade tore through Asmodai's chestpiece and through his ribs, and Asmodai faltered, knowing it was a killing blow. Lucius released his grip on his blade, using his sword arm to pull Asmodai close, in an almost romantic embrace.
"Oh my, but you truly are skilled. Of course, you have failed, but oh well." Lucius whispered sensually into his ear.
"No… I haven't." Asmodai grunted.
"What do you…?" And with that Asmodai revealed his failsafe, a plasma grade det-pack, now sticking the two together. Now this wouldn't have been so bad, if not for the fact that the safety pin was held within Asmodai's left hand.
"This… this weapon is meant to tear through fortress walls and ship hulls… what do you think it will do to you…?" Asmodai said, gripping Lucius with as much strength as he could muster, the chosen of Slaanesh pulling at his captors grip.
"No… No! I am the Eternal! I am the champion of the Dark Prince! I cannot die!" He roared in fear and anger.
"Before this goes off, know this, Lucius."
"What?!"
"I… take no pleasure… in your death…"
And with that, the det-pack exploded, the high grade plasma tearing through both warriors armour and flesh reducing them to little more than dust.
The Eternal was dead, and gone, forever.
But, before he had died, Lucius had looked at the chaplains face, praying to his god for even the slightest glint of pleasure to appear in his killers eyes. But to no avail.
For the deep, dark eyes of Asmodai had held nothing but steely determination.
xxXXxx
++Western Wall, Palace of the Emperor++
The Fist of Dorn rose and fell, and blood flew from it as it continued its relentless slaughter.
Lysander roared in hatred at the fools standing before him, the bloated and mutated host of Nurgle marching relentlessly forward. Lysander raised his shield hand and lowered it sharply, the signal clearly recognized by his men.
The following roar of bolter fire was so loud it drowned out all other sounds, the woosh of artillery and missiles forming a melodious backing to the rhythmic banging of the bolters.
The results were almost immediate, Plague marines being blasted to pieces, limbs torn off in a shower of blood, pus and other substances Lysander didn't really want to guess the origins or purpose of. Marines were being torn to pieces by the sheer weight of fire.
The western battlegroup, Lysanders unit, was formed entirely of the Imperial Fists and several of their successor chapters, including the reformed Crimson fists and the relatively new Burnished Guantlets, as well as a few more units.
The entirety of the Space Marine host was split between the four main defensive lines. To the west, the Imperial Fists, to the north, the Salamanders, to the south, the Blood Angels, and to the east, the Dark Angels. Each of these units was being backed up by an entire army of Imperial Guard.
The Adepta Soritoras were assembled in their entirety, as well as the Inquisition, the Deathwatch, the Rogue Trader fleets and even the ever mysterious Legion of the Damned were making sporadic appearances across battlefields, suddenly appearing from what seemed to be thin air before vanishing just as quickly.
The Palace of the Emperor was well defended, no doubt. Every facet of the Imperial military was assembled in full strength, with countless more units arriving to reinforce their lines, units like the Raven Guard, Space Wolves and the entirety of the Catachan and Valhallan armies were en route.
But the Chaos forces were receiving reinforcements just as quickly, if not faster, and Lysander knew they wouldn't last much longer. But there was hope. Alongside the frequently arriving ships, filled with soldiers, munitions or supplies, there were reports of an enormous Crusade-Era Warship arriving in system less than an hour ago. It bore but one mark.
The symbol of the Imperial Fists.
xxXXxx
Abaddon stood on the brink of victory, and all that stood in his way were four foes.
Azrael, grim leader of the Dark Angels, armed with the ever mysterious 'Sword of Secrets', stood alongside a group of Astartes heroes, the 'Lions Wrath' humming quietly in its holster.
To his left stood Dornath Lysander, the thunder hammer 'Fist of Dorn' crackling in his hand. His golden-yellow terminator armour was scratched and charred from battle, yet he somehow managed to look almost radiant.
To Lysanders left stood Vulkan He'stan, the 'Spear of Vulcan' hissing with flame as he looked at his foe, his cloak flapping in the psychic winds of the Golden Throne.
And at their head stood the oldest loyalist Astartes alive. His Death Mask of Sanguinius shined in the light of this holy room, the 'Axe Mortalis' sitting easily in his hand as he watched Abaddon. Alongside his allies, Lord Commander Dante stood ready to fight.
Abaddon began his walk to the Throne, and his foes reaction was immediate.
Dante fired up his jump-pack, screaming high into the air as Lysander rushed him and Azrael readied the 'Lions Wrath'.
Abaddon backstepped the descending Dante, his axe slamming into the ground mere inches from Abaddon. The Despoiler only grinned momentarily before brutally kicking Dante in the chest. The Supreme Commander was sent flying through the air, before slamming into the steps of the Golden Throne.
Lysander unleashed a brutal downwards smash that would've crushed Abaddon's skull in a moment, had he not caught it with his gauntlet. The energies within the two weapons crackled and sparked, until Abaddon pushed back, and the 'Fist of Dorn' went flying over his opponents head.
Lysander roared in anger and went to punch Abaddon, only for Abaddon to use the opening by jamming his sword in his guts. The blade punched right through the Tactical Dreadnaught Armour and buried itself deep in his stomach.
Lysander went down.
Azrael chose this exact moment to unleash a barrage of plasma fire, several white-hot globs of the substance flying towards Abaddon. He sidestepped and the shots winged past, before he turned and charged.
Azrael drew the 'Sword of Secrets' in a two-handed grip, slashing downwards. Abaddon caught the blade with his own, before kicking forwards, throwing the Grand Master back. Azrael stood up immediately, swinging his weapon again, but Abaddon was quicker, and slashed with his blade, leaving a long gash across Azraels chest.
Finally, Vulkan charged him with his spear, forcing Abaddon back. The Forgefather used his weapon to his advantage, keeping Abaddon away. He actually managed to nick him with the blade, but it was little more than a scratch. Abaddon eventually grabbed the spear with the 'Talon of Horus' and lunged forwards… right into a spray of flame.
Abaddon cursed as the flames scorched his armour, blindly slashing with his blade. He felt it hit something, but it glanced off. He roared in frustration, before stabbing forward, feeling his weapon strike again, this time biting deep into its target. The flames abruptly stopped, and the Forgefather fell forward, a gaping hole visible in his chest.
Abaddon marched forwards, ducking a swing of the 'Axe Mortalis' before lashing out with his talon, feeling it slide through his foes armour, before the Blood Angel crashed to the ground.
And now Abaddon stood before the Emperor himself.
"I have waited for this day. For ten-thousand years I waited, and watched, as your precious 'Imperium' descended into barbarism. For ten-thousand years have planned this moment, running it through my head. I thought up magnificent speeches, glorious statements to be written in the history books for millennia to come. But in the end, all I can say is this." Abaddon said, raising his blade.
"You lose."
And with that, the sword impaled the Emperors rotten corpse, sliding into his chest with ease.
And then the world stopped.
xxXXxx
All around the galaxy, thousands wailed as portals to Chaos, rifts leading into the Empyrean, disappeared.
The Eye of Terror, filled with Chaos warships, shrank to the size of planet, than a moon, than an asteroid, then a small building, then a pinprick, until it was gone.
All around the galaxy, Daemons were suddenly torn from existence, disappearing before terrified peoples eyes.
And with no warning, no sirens or sounds, the Astronomican fizzled out of existence.
And high above, in a steeple whose name was forgotten by thousands, a lone bell tolled.
And it tolled not for humanity, but for the Warp.
xxXXxx
Abaddon looked around him as the voices of the Chaos Gods, ever whispering secrets and lies, vanished from his head. As his daemonically possessed blade fizzled and sparked, turning to a regular sword.
Suddenly, the smell of ozone filled the air, as a rift opened up in front of him.
And out of it stepped his worst nightmares.
"N-no. It cant be… you're dead!" Abaddon said, eyes filled with fear for the first time in his life.
Azrael looked up, hand clenched across the gash in his chest as he stared at the new arrival.
"It… it… But…"
"Rest easy, my son. For I have returned at last." Spoke the grim voice of Lion El' Johnson.
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Well, that was fun! See you later!
(I'm an arse, I know.)