The White Scars and the Storm Eagles
They called themselves the People. And the land they lived on was simply called the World. It was a vast place, cold and harsh in the mountainous northern regions, warm and temperate in the central plains before becoming a cold desolate wasteland in the south. As far as they knew, throughout the millennia, the World was only inhabited by the People themselves and one other race. They seemed to be a stunted version of the People; but were wild and feral. They were animals, living on pure instinct.
The name passed down over the millennia for these wild animals was 'humans'.
And the humans were essential to the People's way of life.
The humans were the People's source of food; their meat and milk were dietary staples. The People made garments out of their skins, and they were invaluable as beasts of burden and war dogs.
The People raised the humans in vast herds throughout the World; their population easily many times that of the People's. This was the People's way of life over the millennia and they did not expect it to change.
One day though, the stargazers had noticed new stars in the night sky. They were wondering what this could mean when shortly after, falling stars had been sighted in the south. The clans living nearest to the event sent out their scouts to report anything unusual. A small scouting party was formed, along with human trackers. They set off at a leisurely pace, not expecting any dangers.
Weeks later, the trail led them into the frozen wastes of the south. After nearly a week in the cold weather, the scouts had to start thinking of turning back. Their thick hides enabled them to withstand the cold reasonably well, but the tracking humans were not so durable. Before they could turn back however, the scouts finally found what they were looking for.
They had not known what to expect, but it certainly was not what they had found.
A settlement.
A settlement so large that it looked as though it had been there for years. The scouts were amazed, which clan could have been insane enough to live in such an inhospitable location?
Curious, the scouts went for a closer.
They found their answer.
Humans.
But these humans were very different from the ones the People knew. Instead of moving about on all fours, they walked upright like the People. They wore clothes instead of going about naked. They were also clearly communicating in a form of language, something that only the People had been capable of in the World. The new humans were also working with machinery the likes of which the People had never seen before. More disconcerting was that the new humans were unsupervised by any of the People.
Though amazed, the scouts were not too troubled. Assuming that the masters of the strange humans were somewhere out of sight, they ambled down into the settlement, intent on taking a closer look. The humans gathered as the scouts approached, clutching odd, short staves in their hands. They shouted in their odd language which the scouts ignored, coming closer.
Up close though, the scouts noted the fierce faces of the humans. These were clearly guard-humans. The scouts decided to contact the humans' masters before proceeding. Their voices rumbled across the settlement as they called.
The humans shouted and pointed their staves at the scouts. Thin lances of fire shot out. The scouts cried out as they were struck, their knees buckling under the onslaught. Their tough hides withstood the attack, but the new, savage humans were many, and they were relentless in their assault.
The scouts were all killed.
So it was that the settlements of the People in the south had no warning when armies of savage humans descended upon them, destroying and killing everything in sight.
A great number of settlements and lives had been lost before the People rallied. Appointing a Warchief for the first time in living memory, the clans of the People united and fought back against the unprecedented threat.
The savage humans were many, and armed with weapons and machines that the People did not understand. But the People were strong, their physical strength equal to twenty humans. Their metalsmiths were highly skilled, creating armour that can take an extraordinary amount of punishment and weapons capable of inflicting damage upon the savage humans' war machines. And the People had their own loyal humans to make up for the lack of numbers.
Slow, bloody with great losses and either side, the war ground to a stalemate.
II II II
The unofficial name for the newly-discovered world was Giant's Land. The name was given due to the native xenos population's almost humanoid appearance and size, which ranged between fifteen to eighteen feet tall. Their hide was granite grey, their brow heavy and their eyes deep-set, glinting like black diamonds. Their arms were longer than their torsos, almost simian-like in appearance and their legs were as thick as tree trunks. Due to their appearance, Imperial scholars named them 'Giants', after the mythical beings from the legends of ancient Terra.
Their world had only one vast continent, and they lived in clans numbering in the thousands throughout the planet. The Giants were primitive both technologically and culturally. That, and their peaceful nature would normally mark them as low-priority targets for xenocide.
Except for thing.
The Giants enslaved humans.
That was the most palatable term Imperial scholars used, for what the xenos have done went far beyond mere enslavement.
The xenos had domesticated humans.
The humans were nothing more than cattle for the Giants; slaughtered for meat and skins, used as beasts of burden, guard dogs and war hounds; forced to breed so that their milk may be harvested and the young reared to perpetuate the xenos' supply of human cattle.
In the eyes of the Imperium of Man, such a thing was abominable, a transgression that cannot go unpunished. Extinction would be brought down upon the aliens for their crimes against humanity.
The 1990th Expedition had no contingent of Astartes attached, but given the xenos' primitive level of technology, the Expedition commanders were confident that the Imperial Army would be more than enough to deal with the aliens.
At first, it seemed they were right.
The settlements and larger strongholds in the southern end of the planet quickly fell before the Imperial Army, their inhabitants driven out or exterminated. The advance continued unchecked, sweeping across the central plains before slowing in the mountainous regions of the north.
There, the xenos had rallied.
Uniting under some sort of war leader, the Giants mobilised for war, and the Imperial Army suddenly found themselves hard-pressed. When roused to anger, the Giants proved themselves terrible enemies, ferocious and implacable. Their strength was astounding, capable of overturning the light tanks utilised by the 1990th Expedition, and sending men flying half a mile away with a single blow. For all their primitiveness, the xenos were highly skilled in metalwork; their armour capable of withstanding the las-rifles used by Imperial Army soldiers and heavy bolters. It took concentrated fire to bring the Giants down, and only high-grade explosives were capable of penetrating the xenos armour.
What was projected to be a short war quickly ground to a slow, agonising affair. Weeks passed, then months; the war dragged on for a standard year and a half, and losses were mounting for the 1990th Expedition. Deciding that the deadlock cannot continue, the commanders of the Expedition called for Astartes intervention.
Three standards months later, elements from two Legions responded.
The Storm Eagles and the White Scars.
II II II
The People found the savage humans waiting, as they always did, amassed in ranks and formations. The weapons of the enemy spat fire as they always did, but the warriors of the People lowered their heads and charged, enemy fire pinging off their armour. A score of the warriors were brought down by the sheer weight of enemy fire, but many more got through. They smashed into the humans' formations, laying about with their weapons. Around them, the People's war humans charged in, engaging their savage counterparts. It was always the same; the savage humans would buckle under the initial onslaught before rallying and holding their position. Mounting losses would eventually force the People to retreat, but not before they've carved a bloody swathe through their enemy's ranks.
But on that day, it turned out differently.
The savage humans broke. They began falling back, some of them fleeing outright. Slowly but surely, the human army was retreating. The Warchief, a great warrior among the People, was also wise. He found this sudden change most suspicious. The savage humans had fought fiercely throughout the entire war; for them to break so suddenly had the Warchief suspect a trap. He refused to over-commit, restraining his warriors from advancing too far. Later that day, runners from the other fronts brought reports that similar events had happened: the humans had retreated. Still suspicious, the Warchief gave the order to hold position.
Over the next few weeks, the humans did not mass their armies before the mountains. Instead, they fired their weapons from long range, bombarding the People's position. Given the protection the mountains provided, the strongholds of the People were well protected, so casualties were minimal. But it put the Warchief under pressure to act. His officers and warriors demanded it. They had fought the enemy humans nonstop for many moons, and this sudden passive approach did not sit well with them. Reluctantly, the Warchief agreed to launch on offensive, but only after coming up with a battle plan to coordinate a simultaneous assault on all fronts. Once that was settled, the People mobilised for action.
What followed was a resounding success. The People drove the humans back, retaking lost ground. They reclaimed many settlements and strongholds, though the savage humans had razed many of these to the ground. On they advanced, driving the humans south. Despite the success, the Warchief remained cautious, sending scouts ahead of every battle and focused instead on consolidating the ground they've gained rather than routing the humans. Still, the People's success continued, and before long, their armies had reached the southernmost edge of the central plains.
And then, they came.
Nearly two cycles of the World since the war started, on the flat expanse of land in the plains, the People came face to face with a different army of humans. These humans were nearly double the size of the ones the People had been fighting, and they were clad in white armour, red plumage flowing from the top of their helms. Their eyes glowed red. Many were on foot, but most were mounted on some sort of machine.
They were arrayed in perfect formation, as still as statues save for their crests rippling in the soft wind.
The Warchief considered this new development. The People had never encountered these new foes in all their battles against the savage humans. They looked more menacing, stronger and more capable.
Deadlier.
The Warchief was a great warrior with centuries of experience in warfare. There was a sense of danger about these newcomers that he had never felt before. However, he believed in the strength of his warriors, and with that, he ordered the charge.
Roaring, the first wave charged.
At the same time, so did the new humans.
This was unprecedented; in all their prior battles, the humans had always stood their ground, taking advantage of their weapon's range and firepower.
By contrast, the newcomers surged forward to meet the People's charge, astride their war machines that barely skimmed the surface, kicking up dust as they propelled forward with astonishing speed. They opened fire as they charge, most of it bouncing of the People's armour harmlessly.
Collision was imminent within seconds.
But at the last second, the humans parted before the People's vanguard. With incredible skill, speed and coordination, they wove around the charge, avoiding direct engagement. As they did, they hurled explosives into the People's warriors, causing great devastation.
It all happened within a blink of the eye.
Within moments, the humans had reformed their ranks behind the vanguard and were charging towards the main force of the People.
The Warchief ordered his warriors to tighten their ranks, anticipating that the humans would engage this time.
Instead, the humans parted just before collision once more, this time away from the People, firing their explosives. Chaos reigned among the People's ranks. Adding to the confusion was the dust kicked up by the humans' machines, obscuring vision. Unable to see, all the Warchief could do was order his warriors to lock their shields and weather the attack. However, in the confusion, some of his warriors failed to hear his commands and blundered off into the dust storm.
When the dust finally settled, the Warchief saw his losses.
His entire vanguard had been slain and his main forces had suffered significant casualties.
The humans had reformed their ranks. Silent and dangerous.
The Warchief's eyes were drawn to one particular warrior. He was taller than the others and his armour was far more elaborate. Despite the distance, the Warchief could see the warrior's eyes glinting like embers beneath his plumed helm.
As one, the humans raised their weapons and shouted. Though the People could not understand the words, it sent chills down their spines.
"For the Emperor! For the Khan!"
II II II
The Warchief did not know if he should be impressed or horrified. The humans had used their own as live bait to draw the People out of the mountains and down into the plains. The flat terrain favoured the new humans' way of fighting. They attacked with blinding speed, inflicting damage and wheeling away before the People could retaliate. It was not the most honourable way to fight, but it was effective.
Logically, the best move would be to retreat to more favourable terrain, but the humans also knew this and relentlessly harried the People's retreat.
The Warchief had sent out runners to the other armies to do the same, but he feared that they were not getting through. He had not received any word from the other armies and was more than certain that the runners were being killed. He feared that the other armies were in the same predicament.
The Warchief's own forces were suffering heavy casualties as they attempted to retreat across the plains; the rear was being picked apart as they lagged behind. By contrast, the enemy had suffered minimal losses. The Warchief knew the situation could no longer continue if the People were to have any chance at victory.
He had to be as ruthless as his enemies.
The Warchief had all the humans in his armies armed. From those bred for battle to those who served as mules, all the humans were armed. They were ordered to array themselves into battle formation and charge the enemy.
As expected, the savage humans rode down their kin without hesitation, not even bothering to flank them.
It was as the Warchief hoped for.
In the time it took the savage humans to cut down their kin, the Warchief had his warriors move in flanking positions from either side to envelope the enemy in a pincer movement. The bulk of the enemy humans had nowhere to manoeuvre and were forced to give battle.
The enemy reserves immediate deployed as the Warchief anticipated, attempting to break the flanking manoeuvre. Portions of the Warchief's warriors broke off to engage them, forming shield walls. The enemy reserves wheeled away, firing from range but were unable to break the shield wall.
Pleased, the Warchief turned his attention back to the where the bulk of the enemy humans were fighting his warriors. They were acquitting themselves very well, he had to admit. The humans they had fought before would not have stood a chance in close combat against the People, but these humans were different. The manoeuvrability of their war machines hampered by the close quarters, many of them had opted to fight on foot. They were fighting with coordination and discipline, using their quickness and teamwork to bring down many of the People.
Too many.
Roaring, the Warchief led his warriors into the fray, laying about with his mace. A human was sent flying, his chest pulped by a strike from the Warchief. Whirling around, the Warchief crushed another with a massive fist. Another swing knocked a human clean off his war machine. The Warchief was unstoppable, and his warriors followed his lead.
For a moment, it seemed that the tide would turn in favour of the People.
And then he came.
The mighty warrior that the Warchief had seen earlier, the warrior with fire in his eyes emerged from the chaos, felling the People with every stroke of his curved sword. The war machine he rode was far larger than any of the others, but no less agile for all that.
With lightning speed, he charged the Warchief head on.
Roaring, the Warchief met the warrior's charge with a well-timed swing.
The swing would have pulverised the warrior from head to waist, had the warrior been there.
The warrior leaped over the swing, vaulting off his machine, allowing it crash into the Warchief's warriors in a ball of explosion. The warrior brought his sword down, letting gravity amplify the force of his stroke.
The Warchief jerked back, so that sword sliced the front of his armour rather than his head. Still, the blade drew a long line of blood from chest to waist.
Snorting off the pain, the Warchief brought his mace down, anticipating that the warrior would dodge. His mace left a small crater where it landed, but the Warchief's hand was already moving towards where the warrior had dodged, intending to crush the warrior in his fist.
The warrior whirled gracefully away from the Warchief's hand and into his range, well within striking distance of the Warchief's head.
The curved sword flashed in a silver arc.
The last thing the Warchief ever saw was the fire smouldering in the warrior's eyes before his head fell from his body.
II II II
With the Warchief dead, the People quickly collapsed into chaos. They still fought fiercely, but without the Warchief to coordinate their efforts, every front devolved into chaos and were routed.
Given time, the People might have been able to select a new Warchief. There were many warriors capable of the role, but their communications were cut off from each other, leaving each army to fend for itself, to be swiftly picked apart by the humans, who intensified their attack.
Before long, the retreat turned into a rout, and the rout devolved into a massacre.
The survivors who made it back to their strongholds were weary but determined. In their fastness, they would dig in, they would endure.
They would get their revenge.
Or so they thought.
The survivors of the People found their mountain strongholds burned, their inhabitants slain and laid into an obscene pile of bloody hills. Above every devastated stronghold soared wing creatures the likes of which the People had never seen. Riding the creatures were humans very like the ones that had defeated the People on the plains.
Only instead of white, these humans were armoured in deep blue.
At the main stronghold soared the largest of the winged creatures. On its back was a human in the same blue as his warriors. However, he wore no helm, and his dark billowed in the wind. A cruel smile was on his lips as he gazed down at the surviving People who stumbled upon their ruined stronghold.
Behind them, the human warriors in white had caught up.
Thus the millennia-spanning history of the People came to an end on the edge of human steel and fire.
II II II
The flames raged across the mountains, fueled by the corpses of the xenos. The stench was overpowering, but the rebreather grill of Gwaine's helmet filtered out the worst of the smell.
Deor flapped his wings strongly, easily staying above the inferno and smoke. The Storm Eagle flew surely, guided by his rider.
Gwaine knew that his Primarch was angry. The 1990th Expedition could have ended the war without Astartes intervention, but had bungled the whole thing by underestimating the Giants. Because of their foolishness, the Expedition commanders had caused too many needless deaths of the brave men and women of the Imperial Army.
Gwaine knew that Thorondor would ensure that the Expedition commanders were soundly punished.
Wordlessly, Gwaine guided Deor down to the ruins of the xenos' main stronghold. The Storm Lord stood on the roof of the main keep, resplendent in his battle-scarred blue armour as only a Primarch could be.
Beside him stood another being of equal measure.
Jaghatai Khan stood with the poise and magnitude befitting a king. A black fur cloak flowed over the shoulders of his white armour, which glowed red in light of the fire and his top knot flowed like a war banner. His face was impassive, but his dark eyes glinted with fierce joy at the utter annihilation that had been bestowed upon the xenos.
The Khan had been among the first of the new wave of newly discovered Primarchs to distinguish himself quickly. Thanks to the combat doctrine he had brought from Chogoris, the Fifth Legion had developed a reputation for their lightning-fast assault and utter ruthlessness to their enemies.
Thorondor and Jaghatai had quickly established a close bond due to their similar reverence for their respective homeworlds. The fact that Khan was so similar yet completely different from Leman Russ, the Wolf King and one of those dearest to Thorondor, had helped.
As he landed on the roof, Gwaine could not help but compare the Khan to the Wolf King. In similar circumstances, Russ would be singing some off-tune bawdy Fenrisian war song in celebration of victory as he swigged down copious amounts of mjod. By contrast, the Khan carried himself with a quiet dignity not unlike Sanguinius or Roboute Guilliman. In his hands, Jaghatai held a cup of wine which he raised in toast with Thorondor.
Both Primarchs drank deeply before smashing their cups by their feet.
Thorondor turned to face Gwaine, who noted the red eye emblazoned on the Storm Lord's chest plate with pride.
There was no official hierarchy among the Primarchs, nevertheless, one still existed. Horus of course was highest in the Emperor's favour. But the other Primarchs also enjoyed varying degrees of closeness with their father. But there were those that the Emperor depended on more than the others.
Thorondor and the Second Legion had served successfully over the recent decades, bringing worlds into Imperial Compliance, liberating human civilisations and exterminating xenos at an incredible rate. Only the Luna Wolves and the Blood Angels had been as prolific in the same period of time.
To honour the Primarch of the Second Legion, the Emperor had a new power armour made for Thorondor, with the Eye of Terra emblazoned on the chest plate.
As far as Gwaine knew, Horus and Sanguinius were the only other Primarchs who had the honour of carrying the Eye on their armour.
At that moment though, looking into Thorondor's eyes, Gwaine's pride in his Primarch gave way to fear. He knew Thorondor was angry with the Expedition leaders' clumsy handling of the campaign, but there was something else brewing in the storm that was the Primarch's eyes.
Thorondor was enraged.
And Gwaine knew the reason all too well…
"My lord, we've confirmed the final tally."
Thorondor nodded. "And?"
"Approximately five billion, my lord."
Five billion.
That was the number that made up the human population on Giant's Land. Humans who should have been embraced by the Imperium. Humans who could have been working to build a better future for Mankind.
Humans, who had been xenos slaves for millennia, had been reduced to cattle.
That was the source of Thorondor's rage.
"Their reaction to us now that the xenos are dead?" asked the Primarch.
Gwaine shook his head. "Asghar reports that they variously fear us or are indifferent. They have no means of communication, no culture...my lord, they are little more than animals."
"Don't say that!" snapped Thorondor, turning away. Gwaine watched him with concern, and though his face remained impassive, so did Jaghatai Khan.
"What should I do, Jaghatai?" asked Thorondor. "What would you do?"
"You are in command of this campaign, brother," the Khan voice was deep, and he had a dignified way of speaking. "I will defer to your judgement."
Thorondor was silent. In truth, there was only one course of action, but as always, the Storm Lord tried to make the best of it.
That was why Gwaine loved him.
"Take those aged 6 standard and below. Have the iterators establish reeducation camps. Perhaps...no, we will undo the damage the xenos have inflicted on the people here."
Gwaine nodded. "As you will, my lord."
The air was thick with tension. There was another matter to attend to, and there was only one action they could take. Gwaine knew it.
So did Jaghatai.
"Thorondor, my ordu can…"
"No, Jaghatai," Thorondor's voice was a rumbling storm. "It is my duty."
"My lord," asked Gwaine. "What of the remaining people? Those too old for reeducation?"
When Thorondor's answer came, his voice rumbled with rage, self-loathing and hatred.
"Kill them. Kill them all."