3rd War for Armageddon

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop

Chapter 2: Preparations

Few ships in the Imperium of Man matched the lethal grandeur of the Lupercal's Fury. Some ships sailed the heavens like the seaborne vessels of ancient Terra, journeying between the stars with solemnity and measured grace. The Lupercal's Fury was not one of these. Its engines raged, streaming plasma contrails in their wake as they powered the vessel from world to world in an echo of the Emperors Great Crusade. And the Fury was not alone. The Battle Barges Stalwart Defender and Night's Vigil burned their engines hard, striving to keep pace and fall into lance formation with their Flagship. In the wake of these behemoths of war, a wing of support frigates formed the rest of the lance. Seven in total, each of these faster interceptor vessels powered forward with less of a struggle to maintain formation with the Lupercal's Fury.

The ship burst back into reality, trailing discoloured warp-smog from its protesting Geller Field, the brilliance of its plasma drives flaring with gaseous leakage that misted around the void shield of the vessels which slammed back into realspace just behind.

Ahead of them lay an ashen globe, darkened by unclean cloud cover, strangely at peace despite the turmoil surrounding it.

If one were to look into the void around the bitter, punished world of Armageddon, one would see a thriving subsector of imperial space where even the most prosperous hive planets bore more than their fair share of slowly-healing wounds. The hives of Armageddon reached into the pollution-rich cloud cover that wreathed the world in perpetual twilight. No wildlife howled on Armageddon. No beasts stalked their prey outside the ever-growing hive-cities. The call of the wild was the rattle and clank of ten thousand ammunition manufactories that never halted production. The stalking of animals was the grinding of tank treads across the world's rockcrete surfaces, awaiting transport into the sky to serve in a hundred and more distant conflicts.

It was a world devoted to war in every way imaginable, made bitter by the scars of the past soured by the wounds gouged into its face by humanity's enemies. Armageddon always rebuilt after each devastation, but it was never permitted to forget.

The first and foremost reminder of the last war, the almighty Second War that saw billions dead, was a deep space installation named for one of the Emperor's Angels of Death.

Deradelon they called it.

It was from there that the mortals of Armageddon stared into the blackness of space, watching, praying that nothing stared back. For fifty-seven years, those prayers had been answered.

But no longer. Imperial tacticians already had reliable figures from early engagements that confirmed the greenskin fleet bearing down on Armageddon as the largest xenos invasion force in the history of the segmentum. As the alien fleets closed around the system, Imperial reinforcements raced to break the blockade sector and land their troops on Armageddon before the invasion fleet arrived in the heavens above the doomed world.

In Orbit about the planet are hundreds of ships. Many of whom bear the livery of the Legiones Astartes. Emperors Children, World Eaters, Alpha Legion, Night Lord, Sons of Horus, Iron Warriors, Word Bearers and even a Strike Cruiser of the Thousand Sons. Grimaldus once again stood on the Fury's bridge and watched the gathered Fleet through the Windows. Captain Helbrecht sat on his Command Throne clad in his Artificer Armour. One of the Legion Serves looked up from his screen. "My Lord we are hailed by the Sword of Oldon." Grimaldus looked at Helbrecht. "Isn't the Sword of Oldon the ship of the XLI(41)Company?"

Helbrecht stood up and nodded to the Servant. "Open a Link." The Mortal bowed and worked for a few seconds on his consol. Then a hololithic Picture appeared. But it didn't showed Captain Verant Ortys but someone else in the Sea Green of the Sons of Horus. "Captain Helbrecht it is good to see you. "

Helbrecht remained silent for some time. "I expected to speak with Captain Ortys. Who are you?"

The other Son of the first Warmaster unlocked his Helmet and put it away. "I am Captain Carab Culln chosen successor of Captain Ortys and you just in time for the council of the Sons of Horus where we choose our leader for the coming war."

Hebrecht looked confused. "No Mournival-Lord is in the System. We gather in the thousand for the first time in decades and no Lord of the Legion is leading us?"

Helbrecht looked on the projection as Culln nodded and spoke again. "I must once again demand that you get aboard my ship. All other Captain's currently in System are already on board.

Helbrecht looked enraged and had a dangerous look on his fellow Captain. "I and my Brother-Captains will arrive shortly." With these words, he severed the connection and began to walk. "Come with me Grimaldus." The High-Chaplain didn't said anything and just followed his Lord.

The Legion Servant lead Helbrecht, Rickard, Almerich and Grimaldus into the Strategium where the meeting was held. There were 13 other Captains and countless lesser Astartes inside. Captain Culln sitting on a Throne in the middle of the Amphitheatre a place that belonged to him as the Lord of the Battle Barge. Helbrecht took their places and were immediately greeted by the other Sons of Horus. Grimaldus standing on the Wall where the other Chaplains stood ready to intervene should the tempers of the Astartes run too hot. The highest ranking Chaplain on board took a step into the Light and began to speak. "We are gathered here to choose the one who will lead the efforts of the Sons of Horus in absence of one of the Mournival-Lords. So cast your votes honoured Captain's."

An old Captain stood up. "I nominated Captain Helbrech of the to lead us in this glorious war." Many agreed and Helbrecht nodded in thanks to his fellow Captain.

But before the voiced died down another Captain stood. "Helbrecht is a very experienced leader and a worthy son of Horus, but we need someone dynamic and so i nominate Captain Culln." That moment followed two hours of furious argument. The Chaplains standing silent knowing that as soon as the battle would begin the Men would fight without problems. After the votes, who brought no solution. The Chaplains stepped in. Grimaldus and Cullns Chaplain stepped forward in unison and spoke. "As the sacred traditions of our Legion demand, the Matter that can't be solved by words must be solved by the Blade." The the Captains stripped of their Armors and they received a blade. Grimaldus was handing Helbrecht the Blade. "Remember Captain it is only a fight to the first Blood. Keep your rage in check." The fight was over in mere minutes. Helbrecht disarmed Culln and cut a small wound. Quickly Grimaldus stepped between the two. "The matter is decided the war effort of the Sons of Horus in the Armageddon-System will be lead by Captain Helbrecht." His fellow Marines answered in a loud choir. "For the Emperor! For Lupercal! For Honor!"

Grimaldus returned with his Lord back to the Lupercals Fury to prepare for War.

My brother's names are Artarion, Priamus, Cador, Nerovar and Bastilan. These are the Warriors that have waged war beside me for decades. I watch them, each in turn, as we make ready for planetfall. Our arming chamber is a cell devoid of decoration, bare of sentiment, alive now with the methodical movements of dead-minded servitors machining our armour into place. The chamber is thick with the scholarly scent of fresh vellum from our armour scrolls, coppery oils from our ritually-cleansed weapons, and the ever-present cloying salty reek of sweating servitors.

I flex my arm, feeling my war-plate's false muscles of cable and fibre buzz with smooth vibration at the cycle of motion. Papyrus scrolls are draped over the angles of my armour, their delicate runic lettering listing the details of battles I could never forget. My fingers twitch as my gauntlet locks into place. That was not intentional – a nerve-spasm, a pain response. An invasive but familiar coldness settles over my forearm as my gauntlets neural linkage spike sinks into my wrist to bond with the bones and true muscle there.

My brothers go through the same rituals of checking and rechecking. A curious sense of unease descends upon me, but I refuse to give it voice. I watch them now because i believe this is the last time we will go through this ritual together. I will not be the only one to die upon Armageddon. Artarion, Priamus, Cador, Nerovar and Bastilan. We are the Warriors of Squad Grimaldus. Within his veins, Cador carries the blessed blood of Horus Lupercal with what seems like weary honour. His face is shattered and his body tormented – now half-bionic due to untreatable wounds – but he remains defiant, even indefatigable. He is older than I, older by far. His decades within the Justaarin are behind him now; he was released with all honour when his advancing age and increasing bionics left him less than the exemplar he had been before. Priamus is the rising sun to Cador's dusk. He is aware of his skills in the unsubtle and undignified way of many young warriors. Without even the ghost of humility, his roars of triumph on the battlefield sound like cries for attention, a braggart's declarations. A blademaster, he calls himself. Yet he is not mistaken. Artarion is ... Artarion. My shadow, just as I am his. It is rare among our numbers for any proud son of Chtonia to lay aside personal glory, yet Artarion is the one who carries my banner into battle. He has joked more times than I care to remember that he does so only to provide the enemy with a target lock on my location. For all his great courage, he is not a man blessed with a skilful sense of humour. The mangling wound that fouled his face was a sniper shot meant for me. I carry that knowledge with me each time we go to war. Nerovar is the newest among us. He holds the dubious honour of being the only Warrior I chose to stand with me, while all other was appointed to fight by my side. The Squad required the presence of an Apothecary. In the trials, only Nerovar impressed the rest of us with his quiet endurance. He labours now over his arm-mounted narthecium, blue eyes narrowed as he tests the flickering snap of surgical blades and cutting lasers. A sickening clack! sounds as he fires his reductor. The giver of a merciful death, the extractor of gene-seed – its impaling component snaps from its housing, then retracts with sinister slowness. Bastilan is last, Bastilan, always the best and least of us all. A leader but not a commander – a inspiring presence, but not a strategist – forever a sergeant, never fated to rise as a Captain or Commander. He has always said his role as such is all he desires. I hope he speaks the truth, for if he is deceiving us, he hides the lie well behind his dark eyes.

The skies over Armageddon were rich and thick with a sick, greyish-yellow cast. Sulphurous cloud cover was nothing new to the population, with their hive walls treated and shielded against the storm seasons downpours of acid rain.

Around each hive-city across the planet's surface, vast landing fields were cleared, either hurriedly paved with rockcrete or simply ground flat under the treads of hundreds of landscaper trucks. Around Hades Hive, rain scythed down onto the cleared areas and sparked off the dense heat-shimmer of the city's protective void shields. Across the world, the heavens were in turmoil, weather patterns ravaged by the atmospheric disturbance caused by countless ships breaking cloud cover every day.

Yet at Hades Hive, the storms were especially fierce. Hundreds of troop carriers, their paint already melted to reveal bare, dull metal in places, endured the rainfall as they rested on the landing fields. Some were disgorging columns of men into the hastily-erected campsites that were spreading across the wastelands between the hives, while others sat in silence, awaiting clearance to return to orbit. Hades itself was little more than industrial scar tissue blighting Armageddon's face. Despite efforts to repair the city after the last war over half a century before, it still bore a ragged share of memories. Toppled Spires, broken Domes, shattered Cathedrals – this was the Skyline after the death of a hive.

A Stormbird lead a Squadron of smaller Thunderhawks as they pierced the cloud cover. To those manning the battlements of Hades, they were a flock of crows winging down from the darkening sky. Major Mordechai Ryken scanned the gunships through his magnoculars. After several seconds of zoom-blur, green reticules locked on the streaking avian hulls and transcribed an analysis in dim white text alongside the image. Ryken lowered the viewfinder scope. He led it to hang from the leather cord and watched as his men worked on an Anti-Aircraft Turret some way down the battlements. "Sir?" one of them voxed. Ryken knew who it was despite the shapeless overcoats they all wore. Only one of them was female. "What is it, Vantine?" "Those are Legiones Astartes gunships aren't they?" "Goods eyes." And they were, at that. Vantine would've made a sniper a long time ago if she could aim worth a damn. Alas, there was more to sniping than seeing. "Which one?" she pressed. "Does it matter? Legiones Astartes are Legiones Astartes. Reinforcements are Reinforcements." "Yes but which one?" "Sons of Horus." Ryken took a breath, tonguing a score cut on his lips as he watched the fleet of Drop Ships touching down in the distance. "Hundreds of them"

An Imperial Guard Column rolled out from Hades to meet the newest arrivals. A command Chimera, flying no shortage of impressive flags, led six Angron battle tanks, their collective passage chewing into the newly laid rockcrete. Bulky troop landers were still setting down elsewhere on the landing field, the wash from their engines blasting wind and gritty dust in all directions, but General Kurov of the Armageddon Steel Legion did not make a personal appearance to greet just anyone. Despite his advancing age, Kurov cut a straight-backed figure in his grimy uniform of ochre fatigues and black webbing, with flack paddling on the torso. Here was the man that had lead the Council of Armageddon for decades, and earned the respect of his people by wading knee-deep in the sulphur marshes and bracken forests after the last war, hunting xenos survivors in the infamous ork hunter platoons. He stomped down the ramp, setting his cap to guard his eyes against the heatless, yet annoyingly bright, afternoon sunlight. Kurov lead them to the waiting Transports, each of which was still emitting a dull machine-whine as their boosters cycled into inactivity. Eighteen Thunderhawks and one Stormbird. Kurov knew that from the initial auspex report as the Sons of Horus had landed. They sat now in organised unmoving ranks, ramps withdrawn and bulkheads sealed. Their undersides, blunt noses and wing edges still showed a glimmer of cooling heat shields with the after-effects of planetfall. Three Legionnaires Astartes stood before the gunship fleet, still as statues, with the Stormbird standing behind them giving a hint from which vessel they had disembarked from. As he looked upon them two disengaged their helmets. One in the normal sea green of Sons of Horus the other in an arterial Red marking him as a Champion. The last of them made no move the continued staring on Kurov through ruby eye lenses. "Are you Kurov?" one of the Legionnaires demanded. "I am." The general replied. "It is my h-" In unison, the ramps of the first rank of dropships opened and out marched ranks of Terminators and Warriors in regular Power Armour forming a disciplined rank. Kurov took an involuntary step back, not out of fear but surprise. The Astartes stood there, Banners held high and completely silent. Now the three officers moved drawing their weapons and kneeling down. The Space Marines weapons went live in a humming chorus of wakening power cells. Lightning, controlled and rippling, coated the killing edges of the three artefacts. The first was a giant clad in armour of gold against green, the surface of his war-plate inscribed with retellings of his deeds in miniscule Gothic Runes, as well as trinkets, trophies and honour badges of red wax seals and papyrus strips. He clutched a two-handed sword, its blade longer than Kurov was tall, and drove its point into the ground. The Warrior's Face was shaped by the wars he had fought-square-jawed, scarred, blunt-featured and expressionless. The second Astartes, clad in plainer green war-plate, wore a cloak of dark weave and scarlet lining. His sword in no way matched the grandeur of the firsts Warrior's relict, but the long blade of darkened iron was no less lethal for its simplicity. This Warrior's Face lacked the expressionless ease of the first. He fought not to sneer as he drove the tip of his blade into the ground. And the last, the Astartes still wearing his helm, carried no blade. The rockcrete beneath their feet shivered slightly under the pounding of his war-mace.

"We are the Emperors Crusaders," the giant in the ornate Armour intoned. "We are the warriors of the Eternal Crusade and the sons of Horus Lupercal. I am Helbrecht, chosen Commander of all the Sons of Horus Forces in System. With me is Bayard Champion of my Company and Grimaldus, High-Chaplain. At their names both Astartes nodded in turn. Helbrecht continued his voice a growled drawl. "Aboard our Vessels in Orbit are more than 15.000 Sons of Horus. We come to offer you our blades, our service and the lives of Lupercals Sons. Kurov stood in silence. 15.000 Astartes since the Crusade of Macharius hadn't the Sons of Horus gathered in such strength in one Place of War. He had greeted all commanders from the other Legions in recent weeks, but none had brought such strength with them. "Commander," the general said at last. "There is a war council forming tonight. You and your warriors are welcome there." "It will be done," the Commander said. "I'm glad to hear it," Kurov replied. "Welcome to Armageddon."