Chapter 1- Holding the Line
Author's Note:
Hello, Fanfiction readers! This is my first ever Warhammer 40k and RWBY crossover ever posted on Fanfiction. After reading other Warhammer and RWBY crossovers on Fanfiction, I have been inspired to write one of my own. This is also the first fanfiction I have written for quite a while, as I have been out of the loop for some years. Finally, I have gotten back into it and I'm ready to start with this crossover. Here's the first chapter in my new fanfiction, "Fist of Remnant."
Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop and Black Library. RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth. I own nothing!
Enjoy!
Chapter 1- Holding the Line
"For The Emperor!"
These are the words that escape my lips as I raise my blood-stained chainsword to the smog-choked heavens. The cry is echoed from the throats and vox grills of my fellow battle-brothers.
The only thing close enough to match this in pitch is the endless gunfire and carnage playing out before us. My squad holds fast, as well as the other squads of our company. Alongside us, several regiments of Imperial Guardsmen stand with us, lasguns and grenade launchers trained at the enemy. A vast crater is all that separates our forces from the endless hordes of mutants that advance towards us. It is a great, jagged, black scar that stretches across this battle-torn city. Fat clouds of thick, greasy smoke billow from gaping holes in ruined hab-blocks. We stand upon our barricades of rockcrete, steadfast and unbroken, as we destroy all those on this world who would defile it with their inhuman presence.
I am Kraeton, Sergeant and leader of Tactical Squad Kraeton of the Imperial Fists 5th Company. My brothers and I are one of many at the forefront of this battle. We, along with the other squads of the valiant 5th Company, are the bulwark against which this army of deformed wretches bleeds itself upon this day. The machine spirits of our bolters roar as we fire into the enemy ranks, blowing thousands of mutants into bloody chunks.
Upon our battlements, we stubbornly hold our positions, raining death upon the foe with aid from dozens of Imperial guns. The trenches beneath us overflow with the broken bodies of fallen mutants and Guardsmen alike, a vast sea of bleeding and charred corpses. The metallic tang of blood can be smelled, even from a distance. For a whole week, the proud battle-brothers of the 5th Company have assisted the Imperial Guard regiments stationed on the hive-world of Thebus Prime in repelling this inhuman rabble. For a whole week, we of the Imperial Fists, the stoic and noble sons of Rogal Dorn, have brought death to these misshapen dregs. For a whole week, we have held the line, not faltering for a single minute.
My chainsword screeches to life once again as I carve a lumbering mutant in half from its chest to its lower torso with an upwards slash. It's bulging arms feebly grabs at my power armour, only to fall in two halves of shredded meat. Another one leaps at me with unnatural speed, only to be decapitated by a downwards slash of my weapon. Smoke hisses from the circular barrel of my bolt pistol as I send another bolt round into the bulging throat of a disfigured mutant. The fiend's swollen head explodes, as well as most of its chest, and the dead miscreant crumples into the sea of bodies. Next to me, my battle-brothers take aim and fire, reducing yet another wave of mutants into nothing but smoldering gore that splatters upon the battlements. On my left, brother Norek takes down mutant after mutant with each shot, blowing up the wretched filth before they can climb up into our barricades.
On my right, brother Garvez stands his ground as more degenerate fiends come before him, only to be swiftly cut down by quick blows from his chainsword. His bolter is out of ammunition at the moment, and he slays every mutant that dares to approach our position before reloading his weapon. Two rush towards him headlong in undisciplined strides, and he quickly splits them both in half with each swing of his chain weapon. While he reloads his bolter, Garvez reaches out and stops a hairy mutant that rushes towards him. My battle-brother grabs the abomination by the throat, and the mutant struggles helplessly in Garvez's gauntlet.
With a sickening crack, Garvez breaks the filth's shaggy neck like a rotten twig and tosses the corpse into an incoming mutant before finally slamming a fresh magazine into his bolter. He stands firm like all of us, not letting a single one of these bastards get past him. My chainsword and his chainsword sing in perfect unison as we carve up every mutated wretch that comes forth. Our battle-brothers Borias and Koren give us supporting fire, sending more bolt rounds into the chests and skulls of incoming mutants.
"No Mercy!" I shout, as I plunge my chainsword down into the hairy chest of a stocky mutant. It screams in pure, raw agony as the whirring teeth chew through its diseased skin. I pull my blade upwards, cutting through the mutant's humpbacked shoulder, and I proceed to behead the abomination. Blood sprays from the ragged stump of its shredded neck, and I kick the headless body over the barricade. Join the rest of your fallen brethren, filth. It is no more than you deserve.
A lanky mutant with a rusty butcher's blade leaps towards me like a rabid beast, only to meet the growling teeth of my chainsword in its repulsive face. It barely has a moment to shriek in surprise. Leathery, malnourished skin and green blood spray in all directions, while it's muscles twitch and spasm as my chainsword finally saws through its neck. I swat the mangled body aside and reduce a fat mutant's head into nothing but a shower of black and red gore with one shot from my bolt pistol. It falls and rolls to the ground in a crumpled heap, proceeding to be trampled into battered meat and pulp by its brethren as they try to scale our barricades.
Let them try. They face the Angels of Death. They face the sons of Dorn.
Nearby, the Devastator squad under Sergeant Teron opens fire. The rounds from their heavy bolters tear through the mongrel army, cutting down hordes of mutants. Empty shell casings fly from their heavy bolters and rattle on chipped rockcrete as my battle-brothers mow down rank after rank of the loathsome degenerates, making the endless fire from the Imperial Guardsman's machine guns seem inferior. The heads and arms and legs of countless mutants explode in showers of crimson gore and shattered bone, raining all over the vast ditch. Streams of tainted blood jet from their gaping wounds.
Alongside us, hundreds of Guardsmen fire their lasguns and rifles into the enemy, piercing scores of unprotected mutated flesh. Brave men and women stand firm, their faith and courage bolstered by the mere presence of Rogal Dorn's proud sons. They add to our firepower, making a deadly combination of explosive bolt rounds and hot, searing pain. Their supporting fire gives our squads the chance to reload our bolters, and a chance to unleash their loathing of the foe with scores of las-blasts. Squads of hulking, muscle-bound Ogryn bellow as they fire their Ripper guns into incoming mutants, tearing open bulging stomachs that burst with ropes of bleeding innards. Heavy Weapons Squads obliterate entire mobs and gangs of the foul deviants with heavy bolters and lascannons, providing extra support to the other Guardsmen squads. Other teams rain down high-explosive shells farther into the enemy positions with Mortars, blowing many to bloody pieces and keeping many more of them pinned down.
Yet the mutant hordes do not relent. They scream, howl, roar, bray, shriek, and bellow as they charge onward without care or heed of their own safety. They are hideous beyond comprehension, deformed from a lifetime of suffering, radiation, and corruption. A vast horde of disgusting outcasts and hated renegades gathered from the deepest cesspits of Humanity. The vast majority of these degenerates are misshapen cretins that look more monster than human. Several of them are hunchbacked and crooked like ancient old men. Others are hulking and massive like Ogryns, while others are lanky, short, or terribly obese. Many wear clothing made from worn rags or stolen uniforms, while many go into the fight utterly naked, exposing their various mutations and deformities. Many have several pulsating eyes on different parts of their bodies, while others have various protrusions, like gore-stained horns, pus-filled cysts, and bleeding humps. Several of these wretches have extra limbs with animalistic hands and claws that drip with the blood of slain Guardsmen. Many more have been twisted by the ruinous powers, turned into gibbering and howling abominations. They wield various weapons like whips made from chains, rusty carving knives, clubs with iron spikes, flintlock pistols, stubbers, krak missiles, and weapons stolen from different Imperial regiments.
It is enough to fill any pure-hearted servant of The Emperor with disgust and righteous hatred.
"Right flank!" I shout out to my battle-brothers. "Cut these bastards down, like the revolting deviations they are! For Rogal Dorn!" Our squad turns right, where another vast wave of mutants charges recklessly towards us in a undisciplined stampede. Many struggle to run over the sea of bodies, or simply grind the corpses of the fallen into pulp under hundreds of misshapen feet. We take aim once they are in bolter range, and fire into the wave of monstrosities. "Bring them down, brothers!" I shout this as I pull the trigger of my bolt pistol, giving several incoming mutants a taste of Imperial Fist hatred focused through discipline. My battle-brothers do the same as we fire into their ranks, and hundreds upon hundreds of the bastards are slain in mere seconds. Those that are hit die screaming in great showers of red meat and tainted flesh. Bolter fire blows up among the mutants, blasting off limbs and ripping bodies open. Our Devastator squads inflict the most damage, firing inscribed bolts and blasts of hot plasma into the larger masses of the enemy. One huger mutant is instantly vaporized by a round of plasma, leaving nothing but a burnt skeleton and sizzling body fat.
I swing my chainsword outwards once again, cutting two mutants apart in one clean stroke. Their blood splashes all over the gore-soaked barricades and my yellow power armour. Our weapons are lethality incarnate, bolter and chainsword alike. Beneath our barricades, the bodies of our foes pile higher and higher with every death. The mutants try to use one of these bleeding mounds of bloody limbs and torn carcasses as a rampart to scale us. They charge upwards, only to be destroyed from more bolter-fire and the slashes of our chainblades and power-weapons. My weapon tears more enemies of Mankind apart as they approach, the motorised teeth biting deep into their malformed bodies. With each stroke, I saw through muscle, sinew, and bone. Green horns are reduced into fragments of chipped bone, and pulsating eyes burst as I plunge my growling weapon into their skulls. More enemies charge, and they lose arms and legs as Garvez cuts them apart with his chainsword. One mutant reaches up with a spotted hand, trying to climb up the barricade. I bring down my ceramite boot, turning the abomination's hand into a miniature eruption of wet gore before tearing it's skull open with a bolt-round.
Yet the oncoming mutant hordes do not give in so easily. They fire their stolen guns into the ranks of the Imperial Guard, and many soldiers at the front are killed, while other humans fall back clutching at flowing bullet. Other mutants shower nearby Guardsmen with Expander rounds that shred their bodies open on impact, and these human soldiers perish with massive exit wounds that burst with gore and innards. Other human guardsmen hurtle frag grenades that explode amongst the mutants, yet it does little to slow the wretches. Mutants hurtle their own stolen grenades into the Imperial defenses, which explode and take the life of any Guardsmen in their range. Others fire hijacked missiles that blow several humans apart into red gore that showers their comrades.
Among the ranks of the vile miscreants, an enormous reptilian brute fires wildly into the Imperial Guard ranks, wielding two large heavy stubbers in each of his gnarled hands. Several brave men and women are killed in an instant as they try to go over the safety of our fortifications and take the fight to our enemy. The giant abomination continues firing into our barricades, tearing open the chests and shoulders of Imperial Guardsmen. A nearby Ogryn in blinded, while the Guardsmen near him have their heads and throats blown apart in a shower of red. A stray bullets hits the grenade of a fallen sergeant, causing it to blow and take every brave human nearby with it. The lizard-like monstrosity howls in delights as he cuts down more and more Guardsmen by the minute, allowing more of his misshapen brethren to advance.
The mutant's killing spree is short-lived. With well-trained precision, I point my bolt pistol at the filth's muscular arm, take aim, and fire a single bolt-round. A single shot is all it takes. The reptilian mutant's entire right arm, as well as his entire shoulder, head, and upper chest erupt gruesomely, splattering the ocean of corpses in green and red blood. The muscular body falls over, yet the left arm still grasps the heavy stubber in it's hand as well as the trigger, no doubt from some remaining muscle spasm. Bullets spray out, causing much havoc among the mutants. Legs, ankles, and feet are blasted apart, making the enemy fire off their own guns into their misshapen allies. Several crash into one another, sowing discord among their ranks. More and more revolting deviants fall dead, all because of a single shot from the bolt pistol of an Imperial Fist.
The bastard's supporting gunfire, however, has allowed many of the slain mutant's kin to advance. Abominations jump into the trenches, while some other mutants slam into barbed wire and howl as sharp razor wire cuts into their hideous skin. Their well-earned pain is short, as other mutants trod over those snared in the barbed wire. Brutal close-quarters combat ensues as Guardsmen fight with tooth and nail to repel the enemies of the Emperor. Mutant heads are cracked open by the butt of las rifles. Guardsmen throats are ripped open by rending, inhuman claws. Bullets split open chests. Stolen blades and army knives clash, sending off sparks. One Ogryn bellows as he swings his Ripper Gun, breaking the heads of several mutant scum and sending other degenerate filth tumbling to the ground in crumpled heaps. Another hulking Ogryn spears a mutant on the bayonet of his Ripper Gun while filling it's belly with bullets as it squirms in agony. Guardsman tackle malformed wretches into the dirt and carve inhuman brains open with chainswords. Mutants snap the necks of brave men and women. One Guardsman, seeing the brutal carnage before him, whimpers and drops his lasgun. The cowardly soldier turns and tries to flee, only to die quickly as a Commissar puts a bullet through the Guardsman's chest. The stern officer points his pistol at anyone else who has a thought of fleeing the field. More Guardsmen fall in behind him, guns aimed at the foe and any amount the ranks of the local Imperial Guard regiment who would try to run. All the other human soldiers, either in fear of the Commissar or spirits raised by his presence, charge back into the fray and blast holes into the mutants that dare try to assault the forces of The Emperor.
My battle-brothers and I open fire once again, ready to destroy the next wave of abominations. The rampart of bodies grows higher and higher with each fallen mutant, slain by either a thrust of the blade, or brought down by a round from a loaded bolter. A mutant taller that any man rushes up towards me, wielding a makeshift club with bloody spikes and rusted nails jutting out. It swings its crude weapon at me, squawking in some bastardized form of Low Gothic. I dodge the blow easily, and I bring my blade downwards. With a great swing, I chop both of the fiends legs off, as if harvesting fresh grain. The legless abomination shrieks as it tumbles down the rampart, it's pitiful wails only silenced as it's brethren crush the wretch underfoot. The mutant leading the renewed charge roars at me and leaps like a deranged animal, spittle flying from the corners of an amphibious mouth. I swing my bolt pistol once it gets close enough, and the filth's barbed head cracks open like an eggshell. The other mutants nearby are torn apart by the blades of my battle-brothers.
The rampart of dead bodies is slippery, and the mutants struggle in their climb to reach us. Many shove and push their brethren aside. They come right towards us, only to erupt in a fresh shower of blood and tattered organs as bolter-fire cuts them to pieces. Their troubled climb makes it easier for us to target them as they struggle and slip on the bodies of their hideous kin. Every one of them that falls adds to the bloody rampart.
All of a sudden, a gigantic brute of a mutant bursts from underneath the rampart, evidently not as dead as it should have been. It is far larger than any Ogryn, with arms like thick young tree trunks, and hands as large as Power Fists. Greasy warts, black boils, bleeding pockmarks, pale blisters, oozing scabs, and red scars dot its massive body, while knives and daggers litter it's greasy hide. The massive hulk shoots out a slab-muscled arm and grabs a nearby Guardsman by the neck in one of it's enormous paws with surprising speed. The frightened human soldier gasps and chokes, struggling in terror as sharp claws tear into the flesh of his throat. With a great bellow, the hulking monstrosity tosses the Guardsman over its hairy shoulder with ease. The shrieking human soldier goes flying and disappears in the seething horde of mutants, who tear him apart in mere seconds.
The gigantic mutant rises up from the rampart, bodies sliding and rolling aside. The brute knocks aside other mutants with a large sledgehammer, roaring as it prepares to assault us. It raises its weapon up high, cruelty and hatred blazing in both of its piggish eyes. Just as the monstrous behemoth lifts its hammer over its swollen shoulders, a shot rings out, and the enormous fiends head erupts in an explosion of bloody meat and wet brain matter. Chunks of its huge arms are blown out as well. The hulking body sways back and forth, thick gore and foul pus spewing from the massive hole where it's head once resided. Then, hammer sliding from it's muscled paws, the gigantic corpse falls backwards and downwards like a fallen tree. Several other mutants are crushed under the brute's swollen muscles, their diseased and twisted bones snapping and breaking under such heavy weight.
The shot was fired from none other than Chaplain Ranor, who's bolter still hisses from its barrel. His armour is as jet black as the darkest night, and only his left shoulder pad is painted in the golden yellow of the Imperial Fists, along with the Chapter's symbol of a clenched fist. Skull devices adorn his armour amongst a welter of wax-sealed purity parchments that detail catechisms of the Chapter, as well as dozens of Chaplain's honours. I myself have similar purity seals attached to my own power-armour, as do my fellow battle-brothers. His skull-mask gleams brightly in whatever sunlight that manages to penetrate the smog of this war-torn planet, sending a wave of fear and awe amongst any nearby Guardsmen. In his right gauntlet, he carries a Crozius Arcanum, his sacred badge of office. The handle itself is almost as long as a fully-grown man, wrapped with parchments and litanies of prayer. His crozius is topped with the gilded wings of the Imperium and a golden fist grasping bolts of lightning. It has been crafted so that every enemy of Mankind that falls beneath this powerful weapon can see the symbol of Rogal Dorn as they die. Chaplain Ranor is the one leading us on this mission, as his purity of spirit makes him the ideal commander to lead our battle-brothers in the face of such a horde of depraved abominations. He is a brother I have always known who can arouse the spirit of any Imperial Fist, and one who can instill the hearts of his fellow battle-brothers with courage and unwavering hatred for the enemies of Mankind. His mere presence is death.
Chaplain Ranor lowers his bolter and walks up to my position. The other members of my squad salute him as he passes them, while the others stand ready to mow down any incoming deviants. His demeanor is the same as mine: grim and undaunting, like a true son of Dorn.
"Chaplain Ranor." I salute our company Chaplain proudly.
"Sergeant Kraeton." He returns the salute as he stands next to me, his old and stern voice amplified through all the vox grills of our squad. It is a voice that my brothers and I have listened to for so many years in our long service to The Emperor of Mankind, and one that always sets my twin hearts beating with zeal and fortitude.
"How do the other squad of our company fare? Any losses?" I ask him.
"Wounds received," Ranor says. "None dead, and all can fight."
I nod before turning forward to blast a mutant into thick red chunks of flesh and blood, still talking to our Chaplain. "Good. We have been lucky these past few days."
Garvez impales an obese mutant on his screeching chainsword. He pushes the bleeding corpse off of his weapon with a boot to the gut, and snaps off a shot with his bolter that tears open the chest cavity of another abomination. "Indeed. None of these malformed scum are worthy enough to provide a real challenge. The Emperor smiles upon us."
"Aye," Ranor nods, "The Guardsmen have done well for their part, adding to our strength."
Brother Norek opens fire, and three mutants wielding stolen chainswords explode simultaneously, their black blood staining our barricades. "They have taken heavy losses, though."
"Fresh Imperial troops reinforcements are already arriving now," I speak, as I slam a fresh magazine of ammunition into my bolt pistol. "The other half of the local Guard regiments are eliminating other pockets of resistance elsewhere in the city, and we must hold this position until they come. These brave Guardsmen have their part to play in this battle, and so do we, my battle-brothers. Will you join us, Chaplain?"
"I have finished instilling zeal and fervor in the rest of our company squads, except for yours, Sergeant." Ranor says through the rictus of his skull-helm. "The honour would be mine."
As he finishes speaking, another large mutant stomps forward, roaring in wild fury as it brandishes a crude pole-arm as long as a man that drips red with human gore and rattling chains. Without flinching, Chaplain Ranor snaps a shot at the deformed wretch, blasting it's lower legs into goblets of splattering gore. The mutant howls as it tumbles flat on its face before us. The stumps of its legs gush with blood and bone marrow, while the abomination struggles to get up. Chaplain Ranor merely walks forward to the bleeding deviant, as well as I. The mutant growls and bellows as it looks up to meet the crimson lens of Ranor's skull-helm. It's bulging nose has burst open after falling on the chipped rockcrete of our barricade, with mucus, cartilage, and pus seeping from broken nostrils.
"You should have remained in your cesspit," Chaplain Ranor says. The mutant glares up at him, roaring a gutteral bellow of pure outrage. Our company Chaplain merely activated his crozius and brings the power weapon down upon the deformed freak, shattering it's entire head. Blood and bone fragments splatter on our power-armour once more.
Chaplain Ranor's crozius blazes and crackles with arcane energy, blood sizzling and evaporating on the weapon's power field. He and I raise our weapons as fresh waves of grotesque mutants shamble and lumber towards us. Ranor dispatches one by lunging at the filth, slicing it in two from shoulder to hip with a swing of his crozius. At the same time his staff of office slays the abomination, I lunge with my roaring chainblade, slashing a mutant's fat throat open. The deviant choked and gurgles as it clasps it's ruined throat, and I kick it aside with utter contempt. The teeth of my weapon howl as another vile mutant leaps at me like an enormous toad. My chainsword flashes in my gauntlets as the bastard's arms go flying off at the elbow. With my bolt pistol, I fire into the mass of incoming mutants, loosing off three shots and reducing them to eruptions of red mist and torn gore.
Behind us, our fellow Imperial Fists take position and let loose another round of bolter-fire upon the encroaching mutant hordes. Brother Horgo unleashes a wave of fire from his flamer, bathing any wounded mutant that tries to climb upwards with promethium fury. Next to us, more Imperial Guardsmen fire their lasguns into the foe, their spirits bolstered by the awesome might of our Chaplain. Las-blasts tear into the screaming miscreants, while Guard Sergeants hack down approaching deformities with their own chainswords. The guns of Tactical Squad Kraeton and the aid from the Guardsmen reaps a heavy toll upon the foe. Scores of mutants die in mere seconds as bolter shells rip through the first misshapen bodies they strike, tearing them apart into thick welters of hot, steaming gore without detonating before finally exploding and reducing their targets to a ruin of twitching gristle. Their dead increase the growing rampart of bodies, and the debased scum are so densely packs as they climb up that we barely have to aim our shots. Along the rest of the Imperial lines, the other squads of the 5th Company hold out well. Devastator Squad Teron cuts down another mob of twisted degenerates in a wave of heavy bolter fire. Assault Squad Theodorov holds their ground as well, raining fire down upon incoming mutants and scything down their foes with revving chainswords.
As our battle-brothers gun down the swathes of miscreants, Chaplain Raynor and I mow down those of the foe that our brothers leave to those amongst us who can handle the scum in close combat. Blood erupts from the thick chest of my next opponent as my chainsword carves open the ugly mutant's rib cage. I draw my weapon out in time as I stamp down on a swollen brute's foot and plunge my screeching blade into the mutant, it's chain teeth grinding through spine and rib cage. Many of them are slab-muscled bruisers who could tear a regular man apart with their bare hands, and they attempt to bring me down with their brute strength alone. They fail, as my boots are firmly planted to the rockrete of this barricade, like a true Imperial Fist. I cut through their hideous mutations, carving out twisted horns, bursting insectoid eyes into globules of stinking paste, decapitating two-headed deviants that squeal like demented swine, and chopping off multiple limbs that squirm like maggots after being torn from their unnatural bodies. I save my bolt rounds for bigger foes, blowing ragged holes into their greasy flesh and twisted skin that spurt wildly with corrupted blood and shattered bone. One of my bolt-round cuts through two mutants at once, before finally detonating in the obese stomach of a greater brute with multiple eyes.
Chaplain Ranor smashes a gnarled mutant aside with another swing of his crozius, and the filth tumbles down the rampart of bodies, causing many enemies to trip and stumble and fall. He swings again, pounding the next corpulent abomination back into its diseased brethren before severing the next abomination in two bloody halves. The sparking force field around the power maul's head flashes as it reacts with opposing kinetic force, amplifying it's already inhuman strikes to insane levels of strength. One mutant is already dead before it can swing it's crude axe, it's skull utterly obliterated in a flash of scarlet gristle, as it flies into two of it's depraved kin. Red, crimson blood splashes all over his black power armor. Raynor's grinning skull-helm gives me and my battle-brothers strength, as it always has in countless past battles. "Abominations!" he bellows out to the foe, "Deviations! Filth! You DARE to invade worlds of The Emperor, spread your cancerous taint to our hive-cities, and murder proud Guardsmen? You will all die this day at the hands of the Imperial Fists! Look upon the Angels of Death and die, wretched worms!"
The discharging of his crozius' power field is like a lighting bolt falling into the countless enemies of Mankind. Chaplain Ranor hacks more of the mutants to bloody pieces with his power mace with it's gilded wings and skull and symbol of our Chapter. It flashes in his gauntlet as if he is battling the unclean with with a shard of pure lightning. All who see it fight proudly under it, as if it is an omen sent from Rogal Dorn himself. Each mutant that lumbers or leaps at Ranor dies as his crozius annihilates their misshapen bodies. He grips his weapon once again, and swings at three monstrous deviants before him. They are hurled back from the mace's crackling power field, all three slain by the impact with their thick-muscled chests cracked open, each tumbling down the rampart to end in limp, lifeless heaps. One hairy mutant shrieks as it pushes it's brethren aside and charges at Ranor with it's iron club raised. Our Chaplain's response is to knock the unlucky filth upwards in a righteous arc. The impact from his sacred weapon is so powerful that the hairy bastard's carcass flies above our heads, leaving a thick arc of oily blood and burnt grease in its wake which rains down upon our barricades like crimson rain.
Ranor and I then take turns snapping shots at incoming monstrosities. We watch each other's back, ducking and bending to let the other one fire a bolt-round into one mutant after the next. We kill and destroy the impure, and our fellow Imperial Fists do the same. More smoke hisses as I slam a fresh magazine into my bolt pistol. As I do so, I take notice of something among our enemy. Despite the various mutations that these abominations have, there is one detail that they all share in common. Upon their malformed bodies are symbols, carved into their wretched flesh with ritual knives and talons, painted with the blood of fallen Guardsmen, or riveted to their warped skin in plates of scrap metal. It is a symbol that my battle-brothers notice as well, and it is a symbol that fills us with disgust and rage: the eight-pointed star of Chaos. The mark of the Ruinous powers.
"Sergeant! Chaplain! LOOK OUT!"
Before Ranor and I are able to turn, a stray missile flies from the launcher of a towering mutant that sails over to our position. It hits our barricades. The missile fails to hit us, but the impact knocks us to our feet. Shards and chunks of rockrete go flying, as well as several Imperial Guardsmen. Before the hulking piece of infested grox-shit can fire again, one of our battle-brothers takes the mutant out with his own missile. The arrogant heretic is blown apart into pieces of burning gristle and stinking gore. The mutant's brethren, however, roar in monstrous glee, and several rush towards our position. Chaplain Ranor recovers his crozius, but his bolt pistol is out of his reach. I grab my own bolt-pistol and fire into the approaching upstarts, daring them to come forth and die.
"Chaplain, catch!" Brother Horgo tosses his flamer, to Ranor, who catches it in his gauntlet. Just as the wave of mutants is upon us, our Chaplain points the nozzle of Horgo's flamer towards the snarling creatures. Without a moment of hesitation, he pulls the trigger.
"BURN, HERETICS!"
In seconds, a sheet of fire envelops every last one of the approaching mutants, coating them all in hot, flaming death. Gurgling screams and howls fill the air. Thick brown smoke billows up in great clouds. The mutants shriek and wail as the blue-white cone of flame rips through the closest bodies as sure as any bullet, rendering all of the cringing filth before us into shriveling, flailing limbs and charred meat. The fat and grease of their deformed bodies bubble and melt, leaking out into the sea of corpses.
The lens of Chaplain Ranor's skull-helm blaze with wrath and fury as he incinerates the mob of abominations. "Die in the flames of righteous purity and hatred!" These mutants made the error of believing that an Imperial Fist would be so easily cast down and defeated. They have paid dearly for it, as all of these cesspit-dwelling heathens shall pay as well for daring to set foot on this world.
I help Ranor to his feet as our battle-brothers cover us and snap off shots at any incoming mutants. Our Chaplain hands Horgo back his flamer. "Thank you, brother," he says through his grim skull helm. Brother Garvez quickly hands Ranor his bolt pistol. Regaining our position, we all turn towards to the oncoming horde of Chaos-worshiping mutants, bolters raised in defiance.
We need not fire. The air is torn apart by the sound of shells slicing through the smog and gloom from far behind us. Scores of mutants are blown apart by human-sized shells that create vast craters in the gigantic horde. Bodies are ripped apart in deafening explosions as the sea of corpses becomes pock-marked with wet, ragged holes that turn fallen bodies into burning meat, pulp, and gore. The Imperial Guardsmen cheer as Imperial reinforcements arrive. Growling Leman Russ tanks, Baneblades, and Basilisks roll up the road to our position and rain death down upon the unclean heretics.
"It seems as though the other half of the city has been secured," Brother Borias says as he watches a basilisk fire and blow dozens of abominations into oblivion, "and our reinforcements have finally arrived."
"Damn," Brother Koren grumbles as he loads a fresh magazine clip into his bolter. 'Just when I was getting warmed up."
"The battle is not yet over, my brothers," I say as I reload my bolt pistol as well. "While a single enemy of The Emperor still dates to draw breath on this world, there can be no rest."
We turn our attention to the fleeing horde of mutants. The once fearless army of heretical scum flee from the wrath of Imperial artillery as more shells tear through their ranks. Many more run about the sea of corpses in total disarray, leaderless and blind. Several trip over the ruptured bodies of their dead in their desperation to flee. Several of the more daring mutants charge onward, only to be scythed down into meat and gristle by Imperial lasguns and Space Marine bolt-rounds.
"Then let us pursue our foe," Chaplain Ranor says "and crush them in the nest that they dared to crawl out of."
"I couldn't have said it better myself, Chaplain."
Shaking thick chunks of gore and blood from my chainsword, I open the vox channel and speak to all the squads of our company. "Brothers! The enemy has challenged us, but now he flees like a whipped cur instead of standing, fighting, and dying like real warriors! Let us punish these misshapen heretics for their cowardice, and make them fear the day that they dared to set their unsightly feet upon the sacred ground of Thebus Prime! Pursue them in the name of The Emperor and Rogal Dorn!"
Every Imperial Fist shouts in agreement. Knives are drawn from sheathes as Tactical Squad Kraeton leaps down from the Imperial barricades, landing upon broken, bleeding bodies that crack and snap under our impact. The rest of the squads follow behind us, weapons raised as the 5th Company descends onto the field of battle and cuts down or blows apart the minions of Chaos. The Imperial Guard cheers as well and follows. "Forward, brave men and women of Thebus Prime!" The stout Commissar shouts as he points his power sword in the direction of the enemy. "Let us show these bloated grox-fraggers what The Adeptus Astartes and The Hammer of The Emperor can do! CHARGE!"
With a great cry, the Imperial Guardsmen: Men, women, and bellowing Ogryn, charge forth from their trenches and barricades, lasguns at the ready and spirits ablaze. Space Marine and Imperial Guard surge forward and cut down any foe that stands in our way.
The Imperial counterattack has begun.
"Yes...it is almost time, my children."
The Chaos Sorcerer grinned with sadistic glee from behind his horned helm. In his spiked power gauntlet, he held a long black staff that glowed and smoked with raw energy from the warp. His power armor was purple-red, like the mists and clouds of insanity that churned in the Eye of Terror and the nightmare oceans of the Warp itself. He could feel all of the power coursing through his superhuman body, ready to be used at his command. He paid little heed to the dozens of cultists, witches, mutants, sorcerers, and magicians that chanted endlessly around him. Still, he admired their devotion to his cause.
His had long forgotten his own name, having lost all knowledge of it from his countless centuries of roaming the Eye of Terror. That meant little to him, however. His only goal in his long existence was to serve the Gods of Chaos he had pledged to worship and appease, to carry out their divine will. Even in his power armor, the sorcerer could feel long strings and coils of ruinous energy snaking in and out of his soul and through the walls of his mind. The ceramite of his armor was twisted beyond mortal comprehension, with almost every imaginable mutation one could become afflicted with while dwelling in the Eye. Curved horns jutted from his spiked pauldrons, while quivering eyes blinked on the warped fleshmetal of his dark ceramite, and the lenses of his daemonic helm flared in blue malevolence like daemonic crystals from a world devoted to the Pleasure Prince. From his long arcane staff, ghosts, or what looked like ghosts, poured out from the top and slowly descended onto the dry earth of Thebus Prime like a black fog made of tortured nightmares. The sorcerer was tempted from time to time to look upon the work of his countless underlings, but the ordeal he was orchestrating required all of his senses.
The Chaos sorcerer, and all of his most psychic mutants, witches, magicians, stood standing in a great ring of stone obelisks carved in words written in devotion the Dark Gods. Merely trying to read even a single letter of the burning words would have destroyed a lesser mind thrice over. Torrents of flame burst from eye sockets and mouths as devotional prayers were uttered. Every one of them gibbered prophecies even as their lungs and hearts and bones burned to the very core of their being. Several had gone mad already, gouging their eyes out or ripping out their own entrails. Many were chained to the obelisks against their will, their life energies being slowly sucked out of their withering bodies. In the middle of the circle, untold madness was being born.
The sorcerer smiled at what was his most ambitious achievement. Before him, a great sphere of pure blackness was slowly growing larger and larger with each passing second. Cracks of violent lightning swirled within its murky depths, palpable for every living creature within reach to feel it's corrupting touch. Screaming daemonic faces appeared, disappeared, and reappeared, trying to burst out like writhing maggots from a festering corpse. Blood and gore and more goblets of tainted flesh swirled within the sphere of Warp Energy, melting and regrowing into searing orbs that burned like the forges of Khorne. It was Chaos. Pure Chaos, or it would be soon enough. The sorcerer's fleshmetal mask peeled into a long fanged grin, revealing rows upon rows of twisted barbed teeth and bleeding gums, while a reptilian forked tongue slithered from one corner of his mouth and across this tattooed lips. This would be a warp gate from which daemons would be able to pour into reality. He was the conduit, and every living servant of Chaos here was fuel for it. He had gathered many of the deformed mutants from several worlds of the Thebus system, and their numbers were more than enough to aid in his plans. Each had sworn an oath to the Dark Gods, pledging their very souls to each the Ruinous Powers in order to take revenge on the Imperium which had kept them down and hunted them for as long as they could remember. While he did think of them as lesser beings, he still admired their devotion to the Gods of Chaos. Their devotion and loyalty to his cause was all he needed.
The sorcerer closed his eyes and continued to channel his energy into the growing daemonic sphere that would become a warp gate. Every life lost among the mutants who had pledged their lives to the cause added to his seething power. He could hear their thoughts, their pain, their memories, and their cries of torment passing through the warped meat of his mind. It was a good pain.
"My lord! My lord!"
A cultist wrapped in bloody robes, followed by two more cultists and three shambling mutants, rushed up to the Chaos sorcerer. His horned helm stayed fixed on the growing maelstrom, but he regarded his servants. "Why do you intrude?" His voice was wet and cracked, like an ancient Terran reptilian creature of old, yet his words were unfailingly calm.
The leading cultist's eyes were wide with fear, and his lungs were sore from running. The runes daubed in his pale skin bled from fresh ritual scars. "My lord, the Imperial scum have fresh reinforcements! Our forces are pulling back to our base, but the loyalist, scum will be upon us soon-!"
"Tell our forces to hold back the Imperial lap dogs, just as I ordered them to do." The sorcerer snapped, making the cultists and mutants flinch. "Their souls belongs to the Dark Gods now, as do yours. We have more than enough bodies to keep the loyalist filth away from our ritual. Throw all of our faithful into the meat grinder if you must, but they must not interfere. Now go! Slay the roaches of The Corpse Emperor in the name of the Dark Gods, my children!"
The cultists bowed, and they, as well as the mutants, rushed to deliver their master's orders to their fellow children of Chaos. The sorcerer kept focusing on the growing mass of warp energy and smiled.
"Very soon, my children...very soon, and the Dark God's will shall be done…"
"Die, mutant scum!"
Another swing of my chainsword cleaves three mutants in half: one through half of it's skull, the other through it's swollen belly, and the third from it's legs and arms.
Besides me, my battle-brothers do the same, cutting down scores of mutants or gunning them down. I call upon my brothers and I to slay the enemies of Mankind in the name of The Emperor and Rogal Dorn. The sound of chainblade and power knife hacking through flesh, as well as bolter-fire stitching a pattern of death across mobs of deviants is thick in the air. One of my brother picks a large target and lets loose a handful of shots from his bolter, rendering his foe into chunks of bloody ruin. I tear through unclean deformities, each one more vile than the last. With every swing of my chainsword and shot from my bolt pistol, I bring and end to the suffering of their miserable lives. Short enough that it was. I lay into the foe again and again- gnarled limbs are lopped off, heads are shredded open, torsos are split in twain and fall to the ground in wet splats. Garvez duels with a brute of a mutant wielding a sledge, dodging it's swings and finally plunging his chainsword into its unprotected chest. He cracks open a fat mutant's jaw while filling another fiend's belly with bolt-rounds.
I let loose more shots into a gang of mutants, the kick of my weapon feeling good and heavy in my gauntlet. Streams of autogun fire ricochet of my yellow power armor and leave small scars. I charge into the ones among the foe wielding firearms, breaking their crooked bones with my enhanced strength and pauldrons. I give one creature a bloody uppercut, smashing green fangs and tusks from a sundered jaw. Chaplain Ranor raises his crozius arcanum once more and crushes four mutants at once, their ugly bodies cracking open in fat explosions of rich gore that paints the ground and his black ceramite boots red.
The Imperial Guardsmen fighting alongside us let loose volleys of red and white lasfire into the abominations, burning their tainted flash and aiding us in delivering The Emperor's justice. Other Guardsmen skewer mutants with their bayonets or hurtle grenades that blow up among incoming enemy forces, peppering the monstrosities with shrapnel that tears open their twisted bodies and hideous limbs. One large Ogryn fires his gun into the enemy while carrying an injured Guardsman, as the hulking abhuman is determined to utterly exterminate the ones who would dare to harm his comrades. The commissar himself scythes down mutants far larger that himself or blasting open necks with his pistol, showing no fear as he leads brave men and women into the fight. They follow his example, as their morale has been boosted to its fullest this day.
There are newcomers in the enemies ranks: cultists. Debased worshipers, the lost and the damned. Many wear ragged straps of clothing, like their mutant comrades, while others are clothed in robes daubed in runes dedicated to the Ruinous Powers. They die all the same, as I saw one in half, decapitate the next one, and blow a third into scraps of red meat. My brothers take notice as well, our hatred of the foe rekindled by the mere sight of these bastards. They deserve nothing except the most painful death we can give to them.
Our banner carrier, Steinaf, snaps off bolter rounds, cracking open necks and blasting off limbs. One mutant fires off several rounds into Steinaf's leg, gouging holes into the weak points of his armor and almost making him collapse. The blood of Dorn trickles from the crack is his ceramite armor, yet he dares not drop the 5th Company Banner. Determined not to let our company banner fall, Steinaf yells an oath to Dorn and rushes the defiant abomination. Once he gets close enough, he stabs the bastard in the gut with the sharp end of the banner. The mutant howls and chokes as Steinaf pins the squealing deformity to the blood-red earth and plants his boot on the dead corpse in defiance while the banner of the Imperial Fists 5th Company stands proudly for all of our battle-brothers and allies to see. "None shall stop the Sons of Dorn!" He yells. "Come and die, you filthy bastards!"
At last, we have approached what appears to be the enemy base: a ruined cathedral fixed with chunks and slabs of broken stone and rusted metal. Everywhere, along the rows of damaged walls and from inside shattered windows, the blasphemous symbols of The Ruinous Powers are plain to see. Many are painted in old flaking blood, while others are carved into the flayed corpses of Guardsman that hang like macabre flags. Mutants of all shapes and description rush out of man-made holes from below the cathedral walls like foul excrement from a disposal pipe, clashing with Imperial Guardsmen. From top of the enemy walls, mutants and cultists in gun emplacements fire down upon our Imperial Guard allies, shredding humans into pulp and gore. I vox our Assault Squads, telling them that there are foes upon the wall that need to be thrown down and crushed. Soon enough, Imperial Fist Assault squads leap through the smog and crash down on the enemy gun emplacements. Mutants and cultists are crushed under the powerful impact of ceramite boots, while those that are remain are put to the sword as our battle-brothers wade through them and rip the heretics apart.
With the enemy guns disabled, our Assault squads retreat so safer positions for Imperial Guard tanks and basilisks to open fire. The Guardsmen quickly move to cover on our orders, and we cover their backs as mutants try to assault them. Massive shells tear down the enemy walls one by one. Huge slabs of rockcrete and corroded metal come crashing down upon the twisted heretics like massive javelins, as if cast from the sky by The Emperor and Rogal Dorn. Towers spill open with dozens of screaming mutants pouring out as if they were the putrid innards of this desecrated fortress. Huge clouds of dust billow in the wake of falling columns of rubble and dented iron. Those of the heretics that manage to flee the destruction are cut down by our guns and blades. Once the tanks cease their firing, we know that know is the time to cut down the leader of this rabble once and for all.
I point my chainblade in the direction of the exposed inner fortress. "Onward! Slay the foe in The Emperor's name!"
The Chaos sorcerer felt himself being lifted from his spiked ceramite boots by the energies of the warp gate. It's seductive grasp was consuming him as the final sacrifice to activate the portal that would invite the creatures of the warp to Thebus Prime. His mutants and cultists had done well in sacrificing their lives to activate the warp gate. Already, the writhing mass of daemonic energy had increased ten-fold, gorging itself on their ripped souls, fresh life-blood, and thick gore. Now, all he had to do was-.
His thoughts were interrupted, however, as the massive walls of his fortress came crashing down under heavy artillery shells from behind him. Scraps or red rusted metal exploded into tangled heaps while shards of rock crushed his minions. Some of the massive shards of stone embedded themselves into his various cultists and mutants, pinning them to the earth while huge blocks of rubble smashed handfuls of his underlings left and right. In a matter of minutes, his desecrated fortress was reduced to nothing more than a vast heap of broken rockcrete and twisted iron.
No, this wasn't supposed to happen! He could not fail, not after all his schemes and pacts were finally coming to fruitation! Then to his final horror, he saw the last thing he had ever hoped to witness: The Loyalist forces advancing upon him, making their way through the ruins of his wrecked fortress, obliterating the tattered remains of his army, and several squads of yellow-armoured Space Marines were pointing their bolters at him. Worst of all, he had been so focused on using his energy on the warp gate that he had no way of trying to defend himself.
"No! NO!"
The sorcerer's final words ended as his entire body erupted into chunks of twisted ceramite and mutated gore. His entire world erupted into blood and pain. His spiked gauntlets were blasted open, while his twin hearts and other multiple organs burst into tatters of quivering flesh, and his various mutations were reduced to nothing more than twitching gristle upon the dust and rubble. Once he had died, his promise unfulfilled to his dark gods, the warp gate began to collapse in on itself in utter madness. Thick lashes of daemonic energy whipped out like the arms of a great sea beast, killing and slicing Guardsmen left and right.
"Move!"
I help my brothers up as the winds grow stronger and more violent thanks to the vortex of the warp that erupts before us. It is a swirling orb of pure insanity, sucking up fallen bodies and enormous slabs of rubble that disappear into the seething blackness. Guardsmen who are too close to the collapsing gate are sucked in, their screams drowned out as the mass of warp energy consumes them in mere seconds. Those of the remaining Imperial troops not driven mad by it's sheer presence flee for their lives, being led by the Commissar to safety. Already, the battle-brothers of our entire company are getting ready to evacuate on one of our thunderhawks. Suddenly, before one of the thunderhawk can land to retrieve us, a bolt of black lightning lashes out from the swirling mass of chaotic energy and pierces it, sending the gunship falling to the ground in a crash of dust and blood. Long tentacles of crackling power lash onto the thunderhawk, slowly pulling it towards the screaming portal.
"Stay away from that thunderhawk!" Chaplain Ranor calls out.
"Brother Berek! Brother Berek is still in there!"
The gunship is as good as done for, but I refuse to abandon one of our own. There is still a chance to save him. I turn towards the damaged thunderhawk before looking back at Garvez."Brother, get the squad back with the rest of our company!"
``Sergeant, wait!"
Wasting no time, I run as fast as my enhanced legs can carry me towards the damaged thunderhawk. Dust and chips of rockcrete crunch under the weight of my ceramite boots, turned to powder. Chaplain Ranor and Garvez follow behind me, but they fail to stop me as I leap into the open door of the thunderhawk.
I rush through the doors, almost falling over as the thunderhawk shakes and groans. Crates of munitions topple to the floor, which I either kick or toss aside with powerful blows. I can hear voices and screams blowing through the gaping holes where the lightning struck, growing louder and louder all around. Mustering all of my willpower, I ignore the creeping sounds as I focus on saving Berek. He will not be taken by the foulness of the Warp this day; not while I have anything to say about it.
Finally, I make it into the cockpit and find Brother Berek still engaged to the pilot's throne. "Hold on, brother!" With all of my strength, I haul Berek from the throne, power feeds snapping from the connection ports in his yellow power armour. He spasms and twitches, half-conscious from his perception being melded with the gunship's machine spirit. With a final yank, I tear my battle brother from the throne and leave the pilot's cockpit as fast as I can, carrying Berek with me. The door to the thunderhawk is still open, and I quickly manage to hand Berek over to Chaplain Ranor. Suddenly, another bolt of daemonic lightning strikes the earth forcing all of my battle-brothers back before the thunderhawk jolts and I tumble backwards into the gunship.
Suddenly, the world turns into a sea of insanity and dark lightning as the thunderhawk is pulled into the collapsing warp gate. The gunship's door is forced shut by a wave of dark energy, followed by a shriek of tortured metal.
"SERGEANT!"
Norek shouted at the top of his lungs as he tried to throw himself at the damaged thunderhawk, while Garvez struggled to hold him back. Chaplain Ranor held Berek tightly, while Borias, Koren, Steinaf, and every space marine of the Imperial Fists 5th Company could only watch helplessly as the thunderhawk that held their brother was sucked into the daemonic portal. With a crack of thunder, the Warp gate disappeared in a flash of crimson blood and purple smoke, leaving nothing but a smoldering crater of blackened ash.
And that's the end of Chapter one, as well as the beginning of my newest project: "Fist of Remnant." Does Sergeant Kraeton live? If he does, where will he find himself? I told you that this would be full of action! I'm sorry if the ending was a bit rushed, but I still enjoyed setting up the stage for events to come. I really can't wait to write the next chapter of this fanfiction, and I would love any critique or constructive criticism to help make this an awesome Warhammer 40K/RWBY fanfiction.
Feel free to read and review! See you soon!