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The Primarch Chronicles Part I: The True Betrayal


I had this dream a few years ago and it really touched me, but other events interceded and I slowly forgot about it. Then I had it again a few days ago and felt I just had to write it down. It's not entirely accurate to the canon timeline of the Horus Heresy, but I knew I couldn't change it or the story would lose all its meaning. So please 40K fans, accept it as it is and enjoy the story presented. It is a tale of family, destiny, and the question of where betrayal really starts.


Warhammer 40,000: The True Betrayal

They entered the atmosphere of Eskrador a dozen at a time, engines screaming a litany of joyous hate with every smoking contrail. They were accompanied by a thunderous chorus of ship-mounted weapons that carved the world the way a butcher might carve a prize bird. They glowed cherry red under friction's massages but as their blessed hulls cooled they revealed their true colors of proud blue and faithful white. They were the Thunderhawks of the Ultramarines, and they came bearing death and judgment.

Even as their thrice-blessed landing gear touched the ground with all the delicacy of a lover's kiss, their doors swung open and the men inside leapt upon the world with the eagerness of the righteous. But these were no mere men. They were the Space Marines, the Adeptus Astartes, the Angels of Death. And furthermore, these were not simply any Marines; they were the Ultramarines of glorious Macragge, men who could break any army, sunder any barrier, withstand any assault, weather any barrage and never say quit. Surrender and cowardice were not words in their vocabulary. Defeat was simply not a part of the equation. They were the finest of the Emperor's troops, and they would bring honor to His name by destroying those who had dared to profane His faith.

As the Ultramarines fanned out and proceeded away from their landing zone, one man rose head and shoulders about the rest – literally. His armor was without flaw. His naked sword was without blemish. His golden hair fell about his face and in the light of the day, it seemed to glow, framing his noble features with a halo of light. No motion was wasted. No step uncertain. No trace of anxiety showed on his face. Beneath his armor, his heart beat a steady pattern where any lesser man's might have raced to the point of breaking. He breathed easily. No fat lined his muscles. No diseases choked his entrails. He was, put simply, perfect.

He was Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion, and he was here to lead his men in battle against perhaps the deadliest enemy they had ever faced.

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The galaxy burned. Worlds were torn by war and slaughter. The Imperium's once-glorious armies turned in on themselves and fought tooth and nail against men they had once called 'brother' and 'friend.' Nine Legions of the Adeptus Astartes had turned upon their leader and had now brought their blasphemous war machine to the very steps of Holy Terra in their foul quest to destroy him. The forces of Chaos sang a song of joy and elation as they watched the human race hang between destruction and survival. What had once been a wondrous golden age and turned sour and wretched, and even if the forces of goodness and order somehow managed to carry the day against the impossible odds that seemed stacked against him, the once-great Imperium would never be the same again.

--------------------------------

Brother-captain Jet-Lai cautiously entered the darkened room like a frightened child approaching a stern and reproachful father. His twin hearts thudded in his chest and only with conscious effort did he slow their pulse. "My lord," he said aloud.

"Yes?" came the calm reply. Although no lights were switched on, Jet-Lai realized he could make out a source of light. No, two sources. Although dim, there was clearly a pair of glowing green dots he could pick out of the darkness. He swallowed slowly and stood at attention.

"The Ultramarines have arrived."

"Yes, I know," the voice replied.

"Sir," Jet-Lai added. "Guilliman is with them."

There was a pause and the twin orbs seemed to brighten almost imperceptibly. "Is he now?" the voice asked curiously.

"My lord. He led them from their landing zone personally."

"I see," the voice replied. The one-word answer was followed by a short, nerve-wracking laugh. "How generous of him to come to me. Are the preparations complete?"

"Yes, my lord," Jet-Lai responded without hesitation. "All the men have painted the camouflage scheme onto their armor and all the pits are finished."

"Perfect," the voice replied in a husky whisper, unseen lips forming the word delicately. "Then to your station, captain. If Guilliman himself is here, it would not do for us to be caught unprepared, would it now?"

For a moment, a smirk tugged at the corner of Jet-Lai's mouth. Then he snapped even straighter, if that were possible, and threw a salute that would have left the most onerously-drilled Guard regiment falling over themselves with envy. With that, he turned on his heel and marched out.

Behind him, the laugher again echoed in the quiet room, followed by a word.

"Finally."

---------------------------------

Guilliman's eagle-keen eyes did not miss a single detail as he walked. Against an opponent such as this, any rock, any tree, any blade of grass could conceal a cunningly hidden trap. And given the caliber of his enemy, that trap would not be anything but fatal. "Report," he said into the microphone built into the collar of his armor.

"Nothing, Master Guilliman."

"Nothing yet, my lord."

"No sign of them here, sir."

Roboute pressed his lips together in consternation. "Remain alert," he said firmly. "They are here somewhere. They have nowhere left to flee. In the name of the Emperor, we will show these traitors the error of their ways with the blades of our swords and the shells of our guns."

His eyes scanned the surrounding area. Not a single structure rose from the ground here. Behind him, the forest closed in around his troops. Ahead of him, there was only bare soil with naught but thin blades of grass rising from it. And it was quiet. Too quiet for Roboute's liking. He resisted the urge to take a deep breath.

Then the ground ahead of him exploded as a human figure sat up, firing a bolter. Brother-captain Archeus' head exploded before Roboute could even inhale to shout a warning. As if cued, the very ground around the Ultramarines seemed to heave and shift as more figures burst from it, already firing their weapons. Within seconds, a veritable army had emerged as if by magic.

But Guilliman did not panic, even for a moment. Trusting his warriors to react in the proper fashion, he brought his storm bolter to bear and executed the man who had killed Archeus. Gunfire erupted in every direction as the Ultramarines fought to react to the sudden ambush.

The communications network was full of scattered voices:

"-in the ground!"

"They're on the left flank!"

"-coming out of the trees!"

"Watch it, they're in-"

Within mere seconds, the most disciplined assault force in the history of mankind had been reduced to panic and chaos. Guilliman scowled, the twist of his lip the only visible sign of his burning anger. "Consolidate!" he yelled into the mike. "By the Emperor, if you men allow yourselves to be taken by this cowardice, you deserve to be slaughtered! Form up with massed fire and watch for traps! Courage and honor!"

"Courage and honor!" an uncountable number of voices shouted back. With just his voice, the primarch had reinstated order through sheer charisma alone. Now, the Ultramarines did not fall back, did not panic, did not forget themselves, but fell into disciplined fire-teams and began to push back against their attackers.

Of course, Roboute did not forget his own part in the battle. His storm bolter did not chatter and spew rounds like some, but cautiously fired one round at a time, each shot finding its target and more often than not dropping the unlucky enemy to the ground. Inwardly, Guilliman cursed himself for falling into the trap. He had underestimated his opponent and his men were paying the price for it even as they valiantly strove to escape the noose that was tightening around their necks.

The gunfire kicked up dust as explosive shots detonated and stray rounds kicked up clouds of dirt. Their enemies seemed to vanish in the swirling melee and Roboute mentally admitted they had been wise to repaint their armor. The dull greens and blacks blended into the cloud with ease, making them difficult to see. A lesser man might have suspected he fought with a different enemy than he had expected, but Roboute knew better. Only one Astartes Legion fought like this, and though they no longer bore their traditional colors of silver and violet, Guilliman knew them for who they were.

The Alpha Legion.

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Within the great span of the Imperium, there were many forms of combat, many concepts of war, and many treatises on how orders of battle should be organized. Even the Legions of the Astartes embraced different methods of attack and defense as dictated by their primarchs. The Iron Warriors specialized in siege warfare, the brutal method of attacking a well-defended point and crushing it into the dirt. The White Scars were experts at fast attack, appearing from nowhere on their screaming bikes, chewing an enemy to pieces, and vanishing again before a counterattack could be organized. The Ultramarines held themselves to the most rigid command structure and the most extensive manual on warfare, the Codex Astartes, composed by Guilliman himself.

The Alpha Legion was different, following yet another path. Their insignia was the legendary three-headed hydra, and their fighting style emulated it to perfection. They could attack in an instant at multiple points from multiple directions in multiple fashions, throwing their enemies into confusion and ripping them to pieces in the ensuing chaos. Fiercely independent, their individual squads could operate out of touch for weeks at a time and still close a vice with precision timing. It was said that fighting them was like fighting the legendary hydra itself, an impossible feat of grappling with dozens of serpentine heads and continually writhed out of one's grip to strike over and over again, bleeding an opponent dry.

But fighting style was not all that made the Alpha legion dangerous. They were also ferocious warriors, determined warriors, warriors that demanded perfection from themselves and their peers and drove themselves mercilessly to achieve their goals. They were a legion of brothers, inducted by squad or not at all, who knew each other as well as they knew themselves. There was no bickering or infighting in the Alpha Legion, and woe be to any outsider who tangled with one, for he was tangling with all.

To have such a foe turn upon the Imperium was a frightening reality indeed.

---------------------------

The roaring chainsword brought low yet another traitor, and Roboute nearly swore he could hear the machine's spirit singing a hymn of praise. The weapon glowed with its own inner light even through the thick blood that coated its whirling blades and as Guilliman brought it down to bite into another enemy's armor, it flashed and discharged a burst of debilitating electricity. The Alpha Legionnaire yowled in pain but remained on his feet, desperately bringing his bolter to bear on the Ultramarine primarch. The bolt never arrived as one of Guilliman's bodyguard lashed out with his own holy weapon, driving it into the traitor marine's torso and bringing him to the ground. Roboute did not offer him a word or even a glance of thanks, knowing that he needed all of his concentration to stay alive in the vicious firefight. Further, the marine did not expect one, for he knew his holy duty and it was thanks enough to fight alongside the blessed primarch. A moment later, Roboute regretted that fact as a well-placed bolter round tore the loyal marine's head apart. Before his body hit the ground, Roboute had used his last three bolter shells to kill the marksman who had fired the shot. Dropping the spent weapon, he grasped his blade in both hands and waded deeper into the melee, the praises of the Emperor on his lips and the destruction of his enemies on his tongue. His chaplains followed his lead, spitting hellfire and damnation as though their very words were weapons that could crush their enemies.

Yet, despite their words, despite their faith, despite their stalwart lines, the famed Ultramarines were losing the battle. Their advance had bogged down completely and after a minute of confused chatter they had determined they were surrounded. They had walked right into the Alpha Legion's trap and now they were paying the price with every battle-brother that fell to the ground and did not rise again. The Alpha Legionnaires fought like wild dogs, without tire and without quarter, and though the Ultramarines gave as good as they got, they could not find any break in their opponents' defense.

Then the reports turned truly grave:

"Holy Emperor, it's-"

"Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!"

"-dodged my bolter round!"

"-moving so fast-"

"-chainsword, it's got a chainsword!"

"-heading for the primarch!"

Those last few words brought Roboute into focus. He shook his now-matted hair out of his eyes and spun in a full circle in an attempt to spot this new threat. At the least moment, he saw it leap out of the swirling cloud, bringing a chainsword to match Roboute's own towards his head. Knowing he could not block, the master of warfare bent his torso sideways and allowed the blade to pass harmlessly over his head. As he rose again, he brought his own blessed weapon up to chop at the figure's midsection. It spun, confounding him, and their blades sparked, electricity flashing as they discharged their energy from the screaming metal. Within the span of a few heartbeats they had exchanged a dozen blows, neither even managing to touch the other's armor. Around them, the battle began to slow as marines on both sides were inexplicably drawn to watch the clash of the two mighty warriors.

As the dust began to clear, Roboute caught flashes of his opponent. Black and green armor, painted in much the same fashion as the Legionnaires'. A tall frame, even taller than his own, though lacking the same sheer muscle mass. Jet-black hair, cropped short, that whipped like blades of grass in a hurricane as his opponent threw himself to and fro to dodge Guilliman's blows. Green eyes in a handsome face, a face too perfect to be any normal human.

They fought to a standstill, chests heaving and hearts pounding, their blades screeching in protest as they pressed the roaring weapons together. Guilliman recognized the face and he fought the urge to spit on it; he would need all his energy for the coming duel. It was a face he had seen more than once over the past years, though those green eyes had never seemed so unnaturally bright. It was the face of his youngest brother, and he felt compelled to speak his name aloud.

"Alpharius."

"Hello, Roboute."

------------------------------------

When the Emperor had created the mighty primarchs, a terrible catastrophe had scattered them across the galaxy. They had all arrived on different worlds and in time, had grown to dominate them, each in their own different fashion, by virtue of their great intellects, physical perfection, and accelerated growth rate. As the Emperor's Great Crusade went from world to world, the primarchs were found once again and they were celebrated as heroes, always met personally by the Emperor Himself and brought into the fold to take command of the Legions crafted in their various images.

Alpharius had fallen further than the others and by the time the Great Crusade had pushed far enough, the Emperor had retired to Terra, leaving the reins to Horus, first and mightiest of the primarchs. Horus had discovered Alpharius the day his ships were attacked by unknown fighters. Alpharius had actually fought his way to the bridge and met Horus face-to-face before recognizing him as a brother and halting the attack. Horus took him back to the Imperium, knowing for certain that the Emperor would be most impressed by this fiery young man. Instead, both of them were confounded when their master barely deigned to meet Alpharius and hand over his Legion with a minimum of fanfare.

Determined to prove his worth, Alpharius threw himself into the command of his legion with almost maniacal intensity. The Alpha Legion became better, stronger, more solidified under his control until they could match any other legion in the Imperium. Yet it still wasn't enough. The other primarchs looked down on Alpharius, chiding him the way older brothers might chide a sibling caught roughhousing when he should have known better. Rather than forcing him meekly into line, their barbs only drove Alpharius on further as he became more determined than ever to shine alongside them.

And no criticism was harsher than that which issued from Roboute Guilliman.

---------------------------------

The two glared at each other, a smirk twisting Alpharius' features. Roboute was now certain that his eyes were glowing. "You're corrupted," he snarled.

"Yes," Alpharius replied.

"You disgust me. You've thrown aside all that had meaning and embraced that which threatens our very civilization."

Alpharius grinned broadly, fatalistically. "Damn you, Roboute Guilliman, and damn your civilization along with it. Meaning? What meaning did I ever get from you or our dear father than contempt and neglect?" The smile began to dissolve. "I poured my soul into the Alpha, and my warriors pushed themselves to their greatest limits in our quest to join you and the others in the hearts of our people. And when I looked to you for some word of praise or thanks, all you showed me was scorn. So why not? Why not turn to Chaos? What have I got to lose?"

"You were a primarch! You were one of the greatest men to traverse the stars and stand with the Emperor!"

"And what did it mean? Nothing!" Alpharius shrieked. "My life was my legion! My life was my men! My life was my drive to be better! So when you scorned me and your dear father ignored me, it was as though my life was nothing! My legion meant nothing! We were nothing but whipping boys to the rest of you! When you took worlds, people celebrated your names! When we did it, you looked down your noses and said you could have done it better! I built my Alpha with the dream I could one day stand with you and your Ultra, and you sneered and told me I could never do it! Damn you! Damn you and your legions! Damn you and your Imperium! Damn you and your Emperor! You call him father but he was no father to me!"

Roboute stared into Alhparius' eyes as they glowed brighter and brighter. How could I have been so foolish, he asked himself. How could I have been so blind? "There is still time, my brother," he said gently. "Renounce this dark path and darker allies and be known as a true hero."

"Hah," Alpharius spat. "Now that I have your men surrounded, you change so rapidly. Now you speak softly. Now you call me brother. Now you bribe me. Why you do you think I want to be a hero of your damned Imperium, Roboute? The Imperium weighed me and found me wanting, through no fault of my own. Now I weigh you, and you are the one found wanting. No, Roboute, I will not turn back now. I am pledged to Horus, my true brother and my true emperor, the only one who ever really gave a damn about me. And if I must sell my soul to walk the path with him, then by thunder I'll do it." He chuckled darkly. "And even if I am on the path straight to hell, oh does it feel like heaven."

Roboute seethed and any thoughts of charity fled. "So be it then. Let us forgo the niceties. Kill or be killed, Alpharius."

"For once, Roboute Guilliman, I am in complete agreement."

They sprang apart and circled. All around them, the intense battle had abated as both sides watched with baited breath to see which of the two titans would emerge the victor. Guilliman held his sword in a two-handed grip, his body assuming the traditional stance practiced by the duelists of Macragge for hundreds of years. Alpharius took an easier stance, sword held in one hand with the other palm out, the smirk still on his face. As they circled with each feeling for a weakness in the other's stance, Roboute noticed the air growing colder. At first the drop was not precipitous, but within a few seconds his breath was clouding in the air. Alpharius' fingers twitched and Guilliman noticed a slight eldritch glow that matched the one coming from his eyes. As he watched, frozen in equal parts horror and disgust, the glow became more substantial. Around Alpharius' hands formed ethereal teeth, a set of jaws, a scaly neck. Heads like those of the mythical dragon formed, melding into his shoulders and Roboute recognized the Hydra insignia of the Alpha Legion springing to life in the air around the fallen primarch. He clenched his teeth as his rage became more and more pronounced. His hands trembled with anger and finally he could take no more. He drew in a great breath and bellowed.

"COURAGE AND HONOR!" he screamed as he raised his sword and charged forward.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!" Alpharius replied mockingly as he met the charge. As their two swords came together, they nearly exploded with power and though the primarchs were unaffected, the grass below them was instantly burned away to nothing and a few unlucky marines on both sides who had happened to be standing too close were knocked to the ground. The two demigods exchanged blows at a rate too fast for even the enhanced marines to track, and the air itself sputtered with electricity as they engaged in combat as only primarchs could. Their duel took them whirling through the ranks of their assembled armies and men who had been mortal enemies mere seconds ago suddenly became brothers again as they threw themselves out of the way of the murderous titans. They moved so fast their bodies could barely be seen and only the constant explosions of energy from their blades made it possible to follow the course of their battle. Then suddenly they became visible again as they halted, pressing their swords together, a steady stream of lightning arcing and screaming from the metal weapons as they forced all their muscle and weight into the clash. Then their weapons slipped apart and they simultaneously struck each other glancing blows, Roboute barking in pain as his arm was torn open through his armor and Alpharius yelping shortly as his leg was gashed. They spun and again locked together. Alpharius seemed to rage with power. By contrast, Guilliman seemed to be weakening. Incomprehensibly, the primarch of the mighty Ultramarines, author of the blessed Codex, defender of Macragge...was losing the fight!

"Courage, and honor," one of the Ultramarines whispered. Another picked up on it. "Courage and honor!" he shouted. "Courage and honor!" a few more replied. The chant spread through the ranks of the Ultramarines until all of them were shouting at the top of their lungs, "Courage and honor! Courage and honor! COURAGE AND HONOR!"

Roboute seemed to gain strength from the credo of his legion and he forced Alpharius back a step. Within heartbeats several Legionnaires had thrown their fists into the air. "Victory and grace! Victory and grace! Victory and grace!" they bellowed and one of the Alpha Legion's favorite chants spread throughout the assembled Legionnaires just as quickly as the Ultramarines' cry had. As the two primarchs stood locked together, they were assaulted from both sides by the cheers of their men.

"You hear that?" Alpharius all but whispered. "The men you said could never equal your legion…are now matching them in every way."

"Every way but one," Roboute growled. "Mine are still loyal!" The two released each other simultaneously and stuck blows, Alpharius to Roboute's forehead ripping loose a flap of skin, Roboute tearing a ragged slash in Alpharius' shoulder. They both cried out in pain but that did not stop the two of them from continuing to rain blows down upon each other. Now there were no practiced stances and no careful feints but only the two giants laying into each other with everything they had. Armor was sundered, muscles and tendons slashed, bones chipped and even broken under the strongest blows. Yet neither of them yielded despite having taken blows that would have killed a dozen men. Both knew that there was no yield here and no retreat; only death awaited the loser.

They did not stop suddenly. Rather, there was a gradual lessening in the strength and ferocity of their blows until finally they stood gasping for breath, bleeding from numerous injuries. Roboute's arm hung at a wrong angle. Alpharius could only stand by driving his sword into the ground as a crutch. His power had waned. The Hydra no longer hung about him and even his eyes were their normal green again. With the layers of cynicism and bitterness gone, he looked to Roboute like nothing so much as a lost and frightened young man. He longed to forgive, but Alpharius had voluntarily gone down his path; it was too late to redeem him. He staggered forwards, one step at a time. None of the warriors nearby dared to intervene but only watched with their breath rattling in their lungs.

"In nomine Imperator," he ground out as he reached Alpharius. "I reject thee and call thee diabolus. Thy soul is tainted and thou art cast from my sight and the sight of the holy Emperor in whose name we were all of us conceived." Shifting his weight, we began to raise his sword.

"All I have done, I do not regret," Alpharius said, blood flecking his lips. "I only regret that I will not stand with my brother Horus upon the field of his victory. I am proud to have done my part for him."

Roboute's sword reached up into the sky above his head. "Damnatio tuum," he said. "I am sorry, Alpharius."

For an instant, Alpharius' eyes once again blazed green. "Brother, avenge me!" he cried out.

The sword came down.

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The Battle of Terra had reached its highest peak as the hordes of Chaos battered at the Imperial Palace. Above the battle floated the mighty battle barge of Warmaster Horus himself. He stood upon the bridge, calmly directing the battle to destroy his former master and brothers who still remained arrayed against him. Then, he suddenly straightened and even gasped slightly. The crew of the bridge immediately looked to him, fearing his wrath. But Horus only looked out the bridge windows, and only the slightest tremble in his hands gave away his anger.

"My lord?" one of his retinue dared to venture.

Horus did not answer immediately. His hands slowly clenched into fists and for a long moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear leaking out to roll down his high cheekbone. "No," he whispered almost imperceptibly.

"My lord? Is something amiss?" The marine asked again.

"No," Horus ground out. Then he turned from the windows and stalked to the center of the room. "Lower our shields," he ordered curtly.

There was a long moment of silence during which the air seemed charged with electricity. "But...my lord," the master of shields slowly managed. "That will leave us vulnerable to teleportation...you know that He will come."

"Yes," Horus agreed without looking at the man. "He will come. He has no other choice now but to take the risk. He will come. And when he does..." Horus raised a hand and looked at the blood stained claws mounted upon his gauntlet. "When he does..." He slowly clenched his teeth and smiled grimly.

"When he does, I will kill him myself."

*applauds*

130 views and only one reply? Nobody else has anything to say?

Kuja wrote:130 views and only one reply? Nobody else has anything to say?

As soon as I've got time (and enough sleep to read without my eyes getting bleary) I'll type something up.

Kuja wrote:130 views and only one reply? Nobody else has anything to say?

Well, see, it has that whole problem of being just fucking amazing. I mean, what's to say? It's an awesome thing of awesomeness.

That, and how much do I actually post?

The actual battle being highly anti-climactic (in fluff anyways) I'm glad to see a rather good spin on it.

Keep up the good work.

Fantastic.

A good prelude of Horus' reasoning and the battle between the two Primarchs.

Kuja wrote:"You hear that?" Alpharius all but whispered. "The men you said could never equal your legion…are now matching them in every way."

"Every way but one," Roboute growled. "Mine are still loyal!"

Great line!

Marvellous read. The only non canon aspect I could see was that the way the story was written, Horus was still kicking. This could easily be explained by the inticacies of the warp.. Alpharius's cry could of gone back in time giving Horus an inkling of what would happen.

This was wonderful. More please Kuja.

I'm glad you all liked it.


So, who would like to see more such tales of the fallen primarchs?

My hand just went up so fast you'd have thought I was a Nazi.

I don't know what to say. This could have been culled from official fluff publications, that's how well it's written.

I could hear the Obi Wan vs Anakin duel music from Episode III in the background as I read it. If you have more in you, get them out ASAP. There's too much shitty fanfiction out there for things like this to be delayed.

COURAGE AND HONOR!

By the way, my friend who I am working with on Jaded Chronicles says your work is very awesome

Tell him I appreciate the compliment.

Very nice. I might bash out a one-off 40k sometime; something relating to a Chapter I made up for the old 40k RP. Of course, it'll suck.

SirNitram wrote:Very nice. I might bash out a one-off 40k sometime; something relating to a Chapter I made up for the old 40k RP. Of course, it'll suck.

I call bullshit on that one. I've read stuff you've written; you have an excellent sense of imagery, and your prose is engaging. I would love to see you right more often.

Kuja wrote:Tell him I appreciate the compliment.

Heck, for a while when we were talking, we were actually quoting your stuff.

Like:

Me: "Courage and honor!"

Him: "Victory and grace!"

And there's the ever cool: "Every way but one. Mine are still loyal!"

My Alpha versus your Ultra.

The Primarch Chronicles Part II: Blood and Honor

This wasn't as easy to write as True Betrayal, partly because this one wasn't inspired the way that was, and partly because writing dialogue for the Emperor is a bitch. But still, it was fun to write and I hope I got the emotions down well enough to suit you readers. Enjoy.


Warhammer 40,000: Blood and Honor

"ANG-RON! ANG-RON! ANG-RON! ANG-RON!"

The stadium shook with the cheers of ten thousand people. At ground zero, beneath the translucent blue of the interference field, ninety-nine men and women in a motley assortment of armor and wielding close combat weapons exchanged nervous, angry looks at each other across what would very soon become a killing ground.

"ANG-RON! ANG-RON! ANG-RON! ANG-RON!"

The crowd was relentless. The Winter Games had already been delayed a half hour and the bloodlust had reached a dangerous peak. If there was not killing in the area now, there would be in the stands within minutes. Just inside one of the tunnel mouths that opened into the area, a meek little rat of a man gulped as the giant next to him finished bolting his armor into place. "G-g-good l-luck, ch-champion," he stuttered.

The other man snorted. "I don't need luck," he said smoothly. With that, he walked out into the light. Within moments, the crowd was on its feet, screaming wildly, the chants vanishing in the tide of noise. He thrust a clenched fist into the air and they screamed like children. A broad smile blossomed on his handsome face and many of the women in the crowd cheered so loudly they found themselves short of breath.

He strode easily across the sand of the area as though he had not a care in the world, joining the large circle of gladiators and completing the ring. Although youngest by years, he outmassed and towered over them all, his solid wall of muscle sheathed in gold-plated armor that cost more than even the finest female slaves. His dirty blond hair was tied back in a long warrior's queue that covered the ugly scar from his implant surgery and with that sole disfigurement concealed, he was every inch the romantic figure most thought of when they imagined gladiators.

A small drone the size of a man's head descended from the sky, moving slowly enough to pass through the interference field and fly towards him. He regarded it with a sardonically raised eyebrow and the crowd hushed as rapidly as they had stood to cheer. Their faces turned from the arena to the holographic display at the northern wall of the stadium that displayed his features.

"Champion Angron!" a voice boomed out. "One hundred of the finest warriors have been gathered here today, and you are the one predicted by all to walk away victorious! Do you have any words for your admirers?"

He reached out, hand moving too quickly for the drone to pull away. He brought it right to his face, giving the audience a perfect view of his trademark smirk. "I have words," he said, voice strong and even. "And my words are...LET THERE BE BLOOD!" He spiked the drone into the ground hard enough for it to fragment and once again the crowd was one their feet and screaming for all they were worth, some even going so far as to leap into the air in their excitement.

"GLADIATORS, DRAW YOUR WEAPONS!" another voice bellowed. The one hundred warriors moved in near-perfect synchrony, each drawing some type of mace or bladed weapon with one hand and various pistols with the other. Angron's choices were a silvered long sword he wielded with his right hand and a compact bolt pistol held in the left. As he drew them, he surreptitiously shot a glance to a gladiator standing three places to the left. The short man nodded almost imperceptibly as he clicked the charger on his plasma pistol. Angron fought the urge to let his smirk broaden and as he innocently rolled his shoulders, he shot another glance at a woman standing in the circle almost directly across from him. The brunette, pretty but for a scar across her face where an opponent had once tried to knife out her eye, slowly winked at him. There was no flirtation in the gesture but even so, Angron felt his heart race.

"GLADIATORS, RECITE YOUR CODE!"

Each of them raised their weapons to the heavens and shouted, "FOR BLOOD AND HONOR!" The crowd replied with cheers, but quieter now as they eagerly awaited the beginning of the battle.

As he lowered his weapons, Angron made eye contact with a man seated just at the lip of the arena at a large switchboard. Completely innocent, the man stretched his arms and looked up at the sky briefly before huddling back down.

Angron felt his blood pulse with excitement. In the back of his mind, the implanted circuitry came to life and he felt his muscles tense in expectation.

The crowd was chanting now as the massive stadium clock counted down the last few seconds. "FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE!"

Heartbeat.

And the voice boomed, "GLADIATORS, FIGHT!"

Heartbeat.

And one hundred men and women took their fighting stances.

Heartbeat.

And the crowd roared.

Heartbeat.

And the interference field vanished.

Before anyone in the crowd could recognize the enormity of what had just happened, Angron and his fellow gladiators spun, firing their guns up into the crowd. With such a mass of targets, no shot could possibly miss. Screams of anticipation turned to horror and agony as the bloodletting the people had so desired was brought right to them. Angron burst into a run and leapt, clearing the four-meter arena wall and landing amongst the lower rows. Glowing with crimson light, his sword bit into those nearest him without resistance, cleaving through muscle and bone alike as though slicing through warm butter.

The guards of the arena belatedly moved to stop the sudden insurrection but some of them, former gladiators themselves, turned upon their fellows and drew the attention off the warriors, many of whom were still out in the open arena firing into the crowd. A moment later that situation changed as the mechanical stairs mysteriously lowered, granting them all a way into the crowd. Angron didn't concern himself with that. They knew the plan and they knew what they were about. What concerned him far more right now was the blood. It covered his sword and splattered across his armor as he laid stroke after stroke down. He raised the pistol, aimed, and fired in one smooth motion and a fat man's head vanished in a fountain of gore. "Gladiators!" he shouted. "To me!"

By now, everyone was in a mad dash for the exits. Those who were not killed by the rampaging warriors were often done in by their fellows, who trampled them to death in the frenzied rush to escape. Aided by the guards they had cajoled, pleaded, or bribed into joining their cause, the gladiators made short work of the unarmed and unprotected civilians. Their work went even faster as certain gates opened seemingly of their own accord, releasing even more penned-up gladiators into the mix.

Within twenty minutes, nearly all of the ten thousand spectators had been mercilessly slaughtered. As he bore one last fleeing man to the ground, Angron heard a whoop of joy and he turned to find the short gladiator approaching him, a smile on his blood-streaked face.

"We did it!" Grerius crowed. "We're free!"

Angron smirked. "For the moment, my friend. Gather round!" They came at his call, more than three hundred gladiators, nearly a hundred guards with their rifles who had torn the livery from their uniforms, another hundred of the stadium slaves armed with any makeshift weapon they could get their hands on. And finally, one nervous-looking switchboard master with a laspistol cradled in both hands. Angron spared a moment to nod courteously to the one who had made the entire plan happen and then addressed the crowd. "Everyone!" he shouted. "We are now freemen!"

They roared in approval but quieted when he raised his arms for silence. "For the moment," he added gravely. "And if we do not move quickly, we will soon be either back under the heel or dead. Now. There are three more stadiums in this city and with the Winter Games, all of them will be full." He raised his sword. "Who will go with me to rescue our comrades?" They cheered and he swept his sword around to point at the exit. "Let's move!"

-----------------------------------------

The sack of the city was finished before the sun had set. The gladiators had met little organized resistance thanks largely to the speed and sheer brutality of their attack. A few errant refugees, the lucky ones who had escaped the point of a sword or shell of a gun fled in all directions. Thousands lay dead in the streets. Within days, the stench would be so bad that the relief workers dispatched to clean things up would have to do their jobs wearing gas masks.

The gladiators didn't think about that. They left the city through the largest of the northern gates, an army nearly two thousand strong. Many of them wore armor that bore scars from the recent battle. Many more were blood-soaked, be it their own or someone else's. None of them really knew where they would go. But despite all that, they were happy. Many of them sang. A number of them took droughts from barrels of ale they had looted.

Angron walked near the head of his new followers. Their good mood rubbed off on him and he felt a spring in his step that had been vacant for years now. Things could not have gone much better, he decided. Already he'd managed to form them into a loosely-structured army rather than a sheer mob. The ex-guards and police that had joined them had become riflemen of sorts. Many of the former servants handled caravans of food and supplies they had stolen. The gladiators worked in groups of fifteen, a larger squad size than normal but one that suited them. And Angron had noticed that even without being ordered to, his own squad had formed a loose-knit circle around him, ready to protect him from any threat. He smiled and let his heart be at ease.

Then he felt someone pluck his shoulder. He turned to see the scar-faced woman standing there grinning. "You know, I have to confess something," she said.

"What might that be?"

"After all the harebrained stunts you've pulled, I never expected this one to work."

His smiled broadened. "Neither did I."

Her eyebrows short towards her hairline. "You're joking right? What-why-"

He reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to pull her a little closer. With his other hand, he gently tapped the scar that wound down the right side of her face. "I never give up," he said. "You should remember that better than anyone."

"Point taken."

----------------------------------------

The office was deathly quiet. The only sound was the creaking of a chair as the heaviest of the three men shifted his weight. "Well, this is a fiasco," he finally said in an attempt to provoke a reaction.

"That's putting it mildly," hissed the man who stood at the window. "I want this situation dealt with. Now." He turned from the glass, his gaze spearing the third man in the room. "Well?"

The third man uncomfortably cleared his throat. "We're assembling the local army at Fort Gran," he said. "Most survivors report that the gladiators left heading north. I'll send out the scouts and see what they pick up."

"Yes, you do that," the man at the window said as he leaned over his desk. "I'm in the process of a full lockdown. Nobody gets wind of this, you understand? Officially, Arlon is under quarantine. Nobody gets in or out. I don't want the other provinces to find out about this disaster, is that clear?" Both men nodded. "Then that's all. I need to prepare a press release." He turned back to the window and waved the others towards the door. As they left, however, he suddenly said, "and general?"

"Yes sir?"

"How long do you think it will take to run these psychos into the ground?"

"No more than a month, I think, sir," the man said confidently.

"Good. Then if you fail to bring me Angron's head by the end of the month, I will have a new general reporting to me."

The man swallowed. "I understand, sir."

----------------------------------------------

Almost four years had passed. Angron lay on his back, idly wondering when the next attack would come. If he cared to stand up, he could see soldiers from at least three of the provincial armies camped out along the crags and ravines at the base of the mountain range. His army, one that had once swelled to nearly five thousand in number, was down to less than two thousand strong. His armor, once polished to a shine, was dirty and dented. Morale was low and not just because of the rain clouds overhead. A feeling hung in the air that this was it; this was the end of everything. For nearly four years Angron had maneuvered his ragtag army from one province to another, freeing more slaves and gladiators and pounding on anyone who tried to stop him. Now, though, the gladiators were outnumbered six to one and backed into a metaphorical corner. Angron smiled.

He heard footsteps and he looked up to see Grerius approaching. His old friend had collected a good number of new scars in their four-year run, but he still walked with a spring in his step. Right now, though, he wore an anxious expression on his face.

"What is it, Grerius?" Angron asked, sitting up as his friend reached him and crouched.

"Angron," he said, "there's a man wandering around the camp."

Angron waited for him to continue and when he failed to do so, he raised an eyebrow and prodded him with "and?"

Grerius licked his lips. "I don't quite know how to put it. Nobody recognizes him, but he's not a provincial as far as anyone can tell." He paused again. "And...he's walking around, ministering to the injured, and...Angron I think you need to see this guy for yourself."

Angron frowned, troubled. Then he stood and nodded. "Lead on."

They made their way through the patchwork tent camp. As they walked, Angron noted the dirty, depressed expressions on many of the faces around him and was forced to wonder just how many of them would fight when their final hour came. Then he shrugged. Whether they fought or not, they were all dead men. All they had to do now was see how many they could bring down with them. He smirked at that thought. When the time came, Angron had a few surprises ready for the provincial boys.

"That's him," Grerius said softly, interrupting Angron's train of thought. His eyes followed the older gladiator's pointing finger to where someone was kneeling over an injured gladiator.

Angron opened his mouth and then closed it a moment later as he heard the man speaking to the fallen soldier. Although he couldn't make out any of the individual words, whatever the man was saying seemed to be the right thing to say as the gladiator was listening with wide-eyed amazement.

Angron took the moment to study the strange man's face. He was assuredly handsome with an eagle-straight nose, proud chin, and raven-black hair tied in a warrior's queue similar to Angron's own. There was also something unearthly about him, something that made Angron feel uneasy. As he looked at the stranger, Angron thought he could feel an uncanny calm settling over him. And along with that came another feeling, the feeling that this meeting was, somehow, pre-ordained...

Did he know this man?

Without realizing it, he had begun to walk towards the strange and yet familiar man. Curiously, at the same time Angron began to step forward, the man stood up and the gladiator beneath him nodded a farewell. The man turned to see Angron coming, but seemed distinctly unsurprised to be approached by a giant in once-golden armor wearing an expression of almost childlike curiosity. "At last we meet, General Angron," he said, and his voice was both smooth and mellifluous.

Angron hitched. For a moment, his vocal cords simply refused to work. "Who are you?" he finally managed. Then, realizing how foolish he sounded, quickly tacked on, "you're clearly not one of my men."

The ghost of a smile touched the man's features. "Do you recognize me, Angron?" he asked.

Flustered, Angron groped for a reply. "Well, I, you, yes, I think so," he floundered. Then he blurted, "But it doesn't make sense. I know I've never seen you before."

"True," the man said stoically. "But if you will allow me..."

The man calmly reached out towards Angron's temple. The moment he made contact, Angron's eyes and ears overloaded with a thousand flashing images and a million different voices. The man was a psychic, one more powerful than Angron had ever heard of. And through him, Angron saw-

-not born here, another world-

-not born at all but created along with nineteen others-

-scattered-

-and found-

-by their father-

-the Emperor of Mankind-

-to lead a crusade-

-and unite the stars-

Angron felt something wet on his face and tasted blood. Wiping away the drip running from his nose, he looked back up at the no-longer-unknown man through what he suddenly realized were bleary eyes. "Are you serious?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Angron's father nodded solemnly. "I never intended for you and your brothers to be lost in such a fashion, but...well. Events happen."

"So you came looking for me?"

"Yes. Angron, I sensed your presence from light years away and came as quickly as I could." The ghost of a smile touched his features. "In time to see the last few weeks of your campaign. You are quite an accomplished tactician."

The almost fatherly note of praise touched Angron and he swallowed hard. "So...you're here to...take me home?"

Another nod. "Yes. Angron, you and the rest of your brothers in exile do not realize how desperately you are needed. All of humanity is splintered like the provinces here, and we must either unite them or allow our entire race to fall apart."

Angron felt his heart lift for the first time in months. "Well then, what are we waiting for? Just give me time to spread the word-"

The emperor's face turned somber again and Angron felt ice touch his heart. "I'm sorry Angron, but we can't take your army with us."

"But, but why not?" Angron sputtered. "You tracked me across how many light years of space, hell, created me in the first place-"

"But, Angron, you must realize that when I sensed you, I came immediately. I did not take the time to gather a proper fleet." He gestured upwards. "I have only one ship in orbit and it is far too small to accommodate an army of any size."

Angron refused to give up. "But you can help us here, right?" he asked. "You have soldiers that can turn the tide of this battle."

A sad shake of the head. "No. Angron, you must realize that had I know you would be victorious, I would have let events take their course and allowed you to claim your victory. But now, that course of action is denied to me." He gestured to the enemy camps at the base of the mountains. "This is a fight you cannot win. I cannot let you perish here…so I have come to take you home."

Angron's features slowly turned to stone. "So you'd have me abandon my friends...my comrades...my ever-loving brothers just to take me away to fight for...what? Your empire?"

"Angron, I realize that the truth of the matter is not a pretty one. But back home, back on Terra, there is another army depending on you. An army of warriors crafted in your own image. A full ten thousand."

Angron licked his lips. "How quickly could they be brought here?" He glanced around at his men. "In time to-"

"No." The reply was short and laced with sadness.

Angron closed his eyes and seemed to deflate. "So be it, then."

The man held out his hand. "Come with me, Angron, and-"

"No."

For the first time, the emperor blinked in surprise. "No?"

Angron looked up and there was a fire brewing in his eyes. "I refuse to leave my men."

"Angron, your loyalty is touching but you don't understand-"

"I understand perfectly," Angron snarled. "You want me to tuck my tail between my legs and run while I leave over a thousand men to die like animals behind me. Men I pledged my life to. Well, I don't know how things are done on...Terra, but here a man lives up to his word." The gladiator drew himself up to his full height and looked down at his father. "I cannot and will not leave. Tell my brothers I am sorry. Tell them I had to stay here. If we're truly brothers...they'll understand."

"Angron, I cannot afford to lose you like this."

"Well, then, you should have intervened sooner. Now it's too late."

"Angron!" a voice shouted. "The provincials are moving!"

"Right on time," he growled. Then he looked his father in the eyes. And took his hand and shook it firmly. "Goodbye." Then without another word he turned and began to run away. "Up, and to your weapons, you apes!" he began shouting. "You all wanted a blaze of glory, now here it is!"

Left behind, a sudden hardness filled the eyes of the Emperor. A moment later he was speaking softly into a small machine strapped to his wrist. In the confusion of the massing army, nobody saw him vanish into thin air.

-------------------------------------

The provincials were carefully marching up three of the largest mountain paths. Shield men were out in front, followed immediately by pikemen and riflemen. Angron nodded in savage glee. It was exactly as he'd expected. "Grerius!"

"Here, Angron!"

"Get the left and right echelons into position! Alexus! Slash the ropes and make ready the boulders! Vorgal! Get the riflemen up onto the crags and tell them to start picking off anyone who looks like an officer!" He looked around and bellowed, "THIS IS IT, MY BROTHERS! SHOW YOURSELVES WELL!"

"BLOOD AND HONOR!" they chorused back.

----------------------------------

"Do you have a lock on him?"

"Yes milord. But the inclement weather is scattering the signal somewhat. May I request that we lower the range?"

"Helm. Bring us into standard low planetary orbit."

"Yes, your majesty."

"To where shall I bring him, your majesty?"

"Right here. I want to be the first one he sees when he materializes. Guard detail, sheath rifles and be ready with shock batons. I don't want him killed or injured too grievously, but he may be a bit...upset upon arrival."

------------------------------------

The rain was beginning to fall. Angron didn't mind, since it washed the dirt off his armor and made it ready to be splashed with the blood of the provincial armies. He stood at the very forefront of his army, where the hammer would no doubt fall first and hardest. The riflemen were beginning to exchange shots, but at this range they were still largely ineffective.

"Angron?"

"Grerius?"

"It has been an honor to fight with you. As freemen."

He smiled and clapped Grerius on the shoulder. "And it has been mine as well, my friend." Angron looked like he was about to add something else when there was a flash of light, a popping sound, and a blast of air. And he was gone. Grerius immediately looked around in concern.

"What the hell was that?"

"Where'd he go?"

"Grerius?"

"I don't know. Angron? ANGRON?!" Concern began to devolve into panic. "Where the hell is he?"

"It must be the provincials! They disintegrated him!"

"No, he must be around here somewhere!"

"Grerius, here they come!"

The provincials were beginning their charge.

"What do we do?"

"Stand firm and be ready!"

"Didn't Angron want to do something with those boulders?"

"Yes, but I don't know what! He didn't tell me when to release them!"

"We've got to back off and consolidate!"

"No! Stand ready!"

Then the provincials were upon them.

-----------------------------------

"And never forget Grer-" Angron cut himself off as a thousand fireworks exploded in his face and he was suddenly elsewhere. Caught completely by surprise, all he could do was goggle at his new surroundings. From the rainy mountainside, he had been moved to what looked like the control room of an arena. In front of him was the man who called himself an emperor. And behind him-

The curve of the world.

"Oh my god," Angron whispered. "Where..."

"Angron," his father began. "You are aboard my ship."

"But how?"

"A teleporter. The same way I came to visit you."

"But why? I need to be down there with my men..." Horror began to dawn in Angron's mind. "Send...send me back!"

"I'm sorry, Angron." And he really did look sorry. "I can't do that."

"You couldn't possibly-you kidnapped me?!" he shrieked. "No! Send me back!"

"Angron-"

"Send me back, damn your eyes! You backstabber!" Angron clenched his fists and his implant began to hum, filling his arteries with adrenaline. "How could you?!"

"I do what I must-"

"You god-damned robot! You spoke to me like a son and now you do this?! What kind of monster are you?" Another horrifying thought struck him. "My men! My army! They won't know what to do!" In a panic, Angron turned from the so-called emperor and began rushing from screen to screen on the bridge, shoving the crewmen out of their seats in his rush to find a view of the battle. He found it at the teleportation console, which showed a bird's-eye image of where he had been when they had taken him. The provincials were swarming over his army, slaughtering them with contempt as they pressed forward. "No, no, you idiots!" he screamed, forgetting in his rage that they couldn't hear him. "The boulders, you have to set the boulders loose!" He looked back up. "You have to send me back!"

"No."

"YES! SEND ME BACK!"

"No."

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"

"I have no other choice."

With a wordless cry of rage, Angron leapt over the console and charged at his father. One of the bridge guards attempted to intervene, but Angron struck him so hard he fell to the deck dead. A moment later he was upon the Emperor, beating on the man with all his strength. But even in his rage, a part of Angron recognized the feel of armor underneath that robe and realized his exertions were useless. The Emperor stood silently and let his son vent his wrath, slowing until he slid to his knees, gasping as tears streamed form his face. He reached up and clutched the front of the Emperor's robe. "Please," he whimpered. "Please, send me back. Don't make a liar out of me."

The Emperor knelt and took his wayward son into his arms. "I'm sorry, Angron," he said softly. "Had I any choice, I would not have let this happen." He looked over to the helmsman. "Take us home."

"Yes your majesty."

"Angron," he said, again returning to his softer tone of voice. "Some day, I hope you will understand why I had to hurt you like this. And some day, I hope you will forgive me. But for now, you must be ready for the army that awaits you back home."

Angron sobbed as he thought of Vorgal, Alexus, and most of all, Grerius. He briefly thought of continuing the fight, but part of him-the sly part-knew it would do him no good. "As you wish...my lord," he choked out.

I will never forget this, he swore to himself. Ever.

---------------------------------

They stood in perfectly ordered rows and columns. Ten thousand soldiers, each of them with the fighting potential of fifty ordinary men. Together, they filled the massive chamber of stone, one that had been built to resemble the temples of ancient empires. Each man, each space marine had dutifully maintained his armor of white trimmed with blue, the colors of the Twelfth Legion. Only recently had they added the insignia of the blue and green world being crushed between a pair of iron jaws.

Only recently had they adopted their true name.

Angron stood before this army, his face neutral. His hair had been shorn so that his old warrior's queue was now gone. However, his new armor had been crafted so that the scar of his implant surgery was still concealed. As he looked over his assembled legion, he admitted to himself that they were every way the better of his old army. And in time, he would be as close a blood brother to them as he had been to his old friends.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention away and he looked to see the Emperor approaching. Unlike the men, the Emperor wore his golden armor. No longer the simple shamanesque persona Angron had witnessed back home, now he more resembled a god. Angron's hate had long since receded and now he was at least able to look upon the man with a modicum of respect. With that in mind, he snapped to attention. "All present and accounted for, my lord," he said stiffly. He'd never get used to this uptight way of doing things, though.

The Emperor smiled, and it was radiant. "They are more impressive than ever, Angron," he said. "You have done wonders with them."

"Thank you."

"And I see they finally have an insignia on their armor. "Have you given them a name?"

"I have." He turned to face his men and his heart raced as he addressed them.

"WORLD EATERS! RECITE YOUR OATH!"

"FOR BLOOD AND HONOR! BLOOD FOR THE EMPEROR!"

I suppose that with the exception of Horus, this could wind up being about 8 tales of supremely crafted betrayal. What I have to ask is why didn't the Emperor use his power to throw the enemy's army into the warp or somthing? Or strike them down with lightning. Or do SOMTHING. He's the God-Emperor of man for Christsake! Is it just that his son's men aren't worth his time?

Kuja, I salute you. You're a genius.

The Emperor is a dick!

Well, amorality is always a good thing. And the Emperor clutsing about and not being rah all goodzness is good, too. But why couldn't he use his l33t warp powers on the bad guys?

Shroom Man 777 wrote:Well, amorality is always a good thing. And the Emperor clutsing about and not being rah all goodzness is good, too. But why couldn't he use his l33t warp powers on the bad guys?

The Emperor of Mankind is powerful, but he is not omnipotent. He is precognizant and a genius, but he is not omniscient. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he saw Angron as an idealist, and tried to teach him a lesson about pain and loss that are nescessary for true victory. Perhaps he failed?