“… For bravery in the face of the enemy, Corporal Ellen Quarrel is hereby awarded the Cadian Medal of Merit. Wear it proudly, and continue to serve Mankind and the Emperor!”
Ellen could barely keep the distain from her face as the puffed-up, overweight Colonel with the walrus moustache pinned the small medallion to her tattered uniform. His own uniform was bedecked with medals: small ones, big ones, shiny ribbons and gold stars. Half of them for being of noble blood, no doubt, she thought sardonically. Her own affair was much more modest than any of his; a small, stylized emblem of the Cadian gate. She remembered a time when she would have been proud of such an achievement. Honoured. All she felt now was hollow. Shanks was dead. She still couldn’t believe it was possible. She’d seen the sergeant survive worse. He’d kept fighting with a sword through his chest. He’d had a grenade blast put him through a brick wall. It didn’t seem real that something as simple as a fire and smoke inhalation could put him down. The sergeant had saved them all, saved her. He’d kept them going, kept them in the fight, for weeks after the initial massacre and scattering of the 122nd. Through constant artillery barrages, endless hordes of rebels, through hunger and thirst and extreme heat and bitter cold, through the dust and the mud and the blood and the senseless carnage sergeant Shanks had been there, biotic eye grinning madly, smoking his ever-present lho stick, a comforting, solid presence among the chaos and madness, a rock to cling to in stormy seas. With him gone it was like having her legs kicked out from under her. She felt lost, and afraid, and very much alone.

The officers and soldiers were applauding now. She hoped the award ceremony was almost over. All these empty uniforms infuriated her. Where had they been during the ambush? Where were they when she was dodging enemy patrols, camped in a ruined building in filth and squalor for more than a month, killing men in their sleep for a crust of stale bread and a few swallows of brackish water? These men puffed and preened and pretended like they knew warfare, but she doubted any of them had ever seen the front lines, had ever known hardship or terror or the loss of a true friend. A few loyalist officers of the remaining Khai-Zhan PDF mingled with the Cadians. They made her want to spit. She wished all the aristocratic slime of the Imperium had one throat, and she had her boot on it. She saw Badenhall on crutches limping towards her through the crowd, grinning a sheepish smile she wanted to punch as hard as she could. He wore stars on his collar now: the bastard had been promoted to Captain, despite leading them into an ambush that had gotten his entire command killed or injured. It made her sick. She pushed past a young major in the middle of boasting to his companions of his valour in battle and headed to where the enlisted men were billeted. She would rather face a thousand rebels unarmed then spend another minute in the company of those officers. At least with the enlisted men she could hit.

A rap on the doorway of her ruined shelter brought her awake and instinctively fumbling for a weapon in the morning gloom. Her father had always teased her about being a heavy sleeper when she was a child. No longer; on Vogen if you were a heavy sleeper you didn’t wake up one morning. She’d been plagued with nightmares recently, anyways, so sleep came hard and left easily. Just as well she slept alone, then. There was no shortage of ruined buildings for the enlisted men to camp out in, but they’d just been reinforced yet again and the secure area around the Arbite’s precinct was getting crowded. She’d managed to secure her own sleeping quarters, however – the back room of what used to be a clothing store. Her current favour with command and her reputation had both in part kept anyone from trying to move in on her personal space. Just as well, she preferred to be alone.

The figure at the doorway knocked again, and Ellen grunted her acknowledgement. It was just Havelock, one of the new raw recruits. Fresh off the drop-ship from Cadia, he’d spent time in the Whiteshields, just as she had, and just as she had, thought himself invincible. How long ago that seemed. Ellen just hoped he’d survive first contact with the enemy. Most didn’t. “Message for you, ma’am,” he said, a note of nervousness in his voice. She intimidated him. She’d heard the recruits whispering about her at meal times. “Come in, man,” she barked irritably. He did so sheepishly, turning a bright shade of pink and making a smart heel turn away when he saw she wasn’t dressed. Ellen rolled her eyes and put on a shirt for his benefit. She’d lost all sense of modesty while bunkered down with Shanks’ team, the only woman amongst two dozen men living in filth and horror for more than a month. “Spit it out, Havelock,” she sighed. He couldn’t be any older than she was, yet in the span of a few months she felt like she had aged a century. Havelock managed to hand her a communiqué without looking at her. She didn’t need to read it to know what it was – only one idiot in the 122nd bothered to send out written orders. Grumbling, she stood and slid into a pair of faded BDU pants, belted on her sword and pistol, and donned her worn and dusty flak vest. Havelock had turned crimson. She didn’t even bother to dismiss him as she shoved brusquely past, heading for the shelled manufactorum that served as the command building. She had to deal with a bigger idiot than Private Havelock today, and the prospect did nothing to improve her already sour mood.

Captain Badenhall grinned as Ellen stepped into the map room, forcing her way past a dozen aides scurrying to and fro carrying piles of scrolls and charts. He and five other men stood grouped around a chart table with what appeared to be an Imperial chaplet displayed on the hololithic screen. He beckoned her over. “Good! You’re the last to arrive. Come and take a look at this.” She grimaced and stepped over to the table. Just because she had to take his orders didn’t mean she had to like them. “Now, let me catch you all up to speed. Since additional elements of the 9th and 72nd Cadian have arrived, High Command has issued the order for further advances towards the northeast section of the city, culminating in a final siege and overthrowing of the Palace of Peace itself. We will be spearheading that advance.” Ellen glanced around in confusion at the other men, all officers and underofficers. Why did they want her? “This is the Church of the Emperor Triumphant,” Badenhall continued. “It is the largest and oldest temple on Khai-Zhan, and as such, is a potent symbol of the Imperial faith. Currently it is in the hands of the blasphemers. But, with your help, we hope to change that, and soon.” He was looking directly at her now. So were the others. She felt like she should say something, but wasn’t sure what. Fortunately – or perhaps not, she was not sure yet – Badenhall had already started talking again. “The Church is heavily fortified. They have gun emplacements, anti-tank weaponry, mortars, the works. We will need to coordinate attacks from several angels to dislodge them and pave way to the Church itself. It will be dangerous. But, Emperor willing, we will prevail.”

The officers were nodding. Ellen felt lost. “Lieutenants Gaius, Cromwell and Hartmann will take their platoons and advance from the south. Lieutenants Stern and Varnias will make horning attacks from both flanks. Then it’s a small matter of storming it and wiping the filthy curs out. That leaves you, Corporal,” he said, still smiling. They were staring at her again. What was she supposed to say? “You will lead a small squad through the ruins to the 122nd HQ on the far side of the city. We think the rebels might be listening in on our communications, and we don’t want them catching wind of this assault before it happens. You leave tonight. You need to make it to HQ before noon tomorrow, that’s when we make our move. Think you can do that?” She nodded dumbly, and he beamed back at her. “Don’t worry, rebel forces are concentrated in the northeast. They won’t bother you way down in the west. Should be an uneventful walk. You’ll want to get going, to gather your squad.” He was already turning to the Lieutenants around the chart table, discussing assault strategy. Ellen was confused. She had been so sure he was going to send her on some stupid suicide mission. Instead he’d given her command of a squad and an easy delivery. It was the kind of mission soldiers like her hoped for. So why did it leave her with such a bad taste in her mouth? Confused and annoyed, she left the command building, mind full of doubts.

They were less than an hour’s walk away from the Cadian 122nd HQ, and Ellen was nervous. She couldn’t pinpoint a reason for her apprehension, and that made her all the more nervous – they hadn’t run into any trouble all night, and despite her dogged insistence on taking back alleys and snaking through ruined buildings instead of walking along the rubble-strewn streets, had even made good time. The soldiers under her command were all young, inexperienced, arrogant. They chatted amongst themselves in a low tone, convinced she couldn’t hear them talking about her behind her back. Most of it was just normal soldier’s griping: on how they were tired, hungry, sore. How she wouldn’t let them take the ‘easy’ route. Now they spoke in hushed tones how she had single-handedly killed a Chaos Marine to rescue Captain Badenhall. She’d heard the rumours before, flitting around at mess or during reveille. Such nonsense. Still, she preferred those stories to the other unpleasantness whispered about her when they thought no-one was looking: that she was Badenhall’s mistress, and that had won her the promotion. The last soldier she’d heard make that accusation aloud spent a week in the infirmary at her hands, and she’d gotten ten lashes. It didn’t stop the rumours.

The 122nd HQ was within sight now, nestled against the city walls, sturdy plasteel and ceramite towers ringed with gun emplacements and battlements. It had taken a severe pounding from rebel KZ-PDF bombardment but was still standing, the battle-scarred regimental standard of the Cadian 122nd flying proudly from the ramparts. One of the troopers in her squad, a lanky young man named Grimes, let out a whoop and broke into a trot at seeing the building, stepping out of the alleyways and into the main street. Ellen cursed. The damn fool was going to get himself killed. “Grimes, get back in cover!” The private chuckled. “Relax, Corporal, we’re there already. No big bad heretics are going to jump out and get us.” A few of his squadmates laughed. Ellen wasn’t amused. “Grimes,” she growled. “Get back over here, now. That’s an order.” She stepped out from under the overhang of a bombed-out grocery market. “Ease up, ma’am,” said another trooper, a slender, noble-born named Brulla. “The Captain said there were no rebels in this sector anyways.” The others murmured their agreement. Ellen fumed. She had slid the laspistol out of its holster without even thinking. “Grimes, you are out of line,” she thundered. “Get back here, or I’m –” she didn’t get a chance to finish. The crack of a lasgun echoed through the rubble-strewn streets, and then another. Grimes spun backwards and fell, clutching his side even as the second shot blew through his eye socket, splattering blood and brains onto the dusty streets. “Sniper! Get down!”

She was already scanning windows for a muzzle-flash when she realized she had broken cover to lecture the dead trooper. The troopers in her squad were shaken, frightened by the abrupt violence of the attack. She turned, about to order them to keep their heads down, to look for muzzle flashes, to try and flush him out with grenades. She had no sooner opened her mouth when the long las barked again and she felt an invisible hand punch her in the left shoulder, forcing her to the ground. Pain flared through her side, sapping her strength. Her arm wouldn’t respond. Panic-ridden voices were all around her as her squad of rookies opened fire wildly. She coughed and tasted blood, trying to catch a breath that wouldn’t come. Bastard caught me through the lung, she thought. Her vision started to fade. She tried to lift her good arm but it was too heavy and she was too weak, so she just pulled her hand forward until she found the bolter shell around her neck and clutched it with the last of her fading strength. The ground was soaked with her own blood – an odd sensation. Her head felt so light, but the rest of her felt leaden. She thought of her mother and father back on Cadia, of Shanks. She thought of Badenhall and a flash of anger sparked another cough of blood. No rebels in the area, indeed. She was going to strangle him if she survived. She realized she probably wouldn’t, and the thought was oddly comforting. She would finally be free of Khai-Zhan, of this infernal city, of dust and mud and blood and misery. She stopped trying to fight and let the cold darkness pull her into oblivion.

She was falling. This time, the sensation was familiar. Falling slowly backwards into the yawning pit of eternity. Into the arms of the Emperor, as her mother would say. She had fought, last time. Fought to stay awake, to stay alive. She was tired of fighting. Tired of the endless war, the senseless violence. The hunger, the cold, the squalor and the filth. She didn’t even remember why they were on Khai-Zhan, why it was so important. It had all seemed so damned important, in the beginning. But she was done now, it was over. The sniper had shot her through the lung and she was bleeding to death on the barren streets of a dead city and she didn’t care. Her mother would be disappointed, she knew. “The only true fear is dying with your duty not done.” But Ellen was not afraid, not anymore. Someone else could deliver the orders, finish the mission. She had done enough, sacrificed enough. And now it was time to die. There were no voices this time, no faces, no memories. She simply fell into blackness, on and on. Was this it? Was this all the afterlife was? Had she been denied the light of the Emperor in death for failing in her duty? It made her want to spit. They had all forsaken her, even Him. So be it, then. This wasn’t so bad. At least she wasn’t on Vogen anymore. For once, she would be at peace. It was so easy, like slipping into a warm bath.

A flash of pain ripped through her, brutal in its abruptness. Her body burned, ached. Another surge made her convulse in agony. She wanted to scream but had no breath, no voice. There was nobody to hear her here, anyways. More pain. It was constant now. Her heart felt like it would explode. Her lungs felt like they were full of ice. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, could only fall through darkness as white-hot agony tore through her body. Her heartbeats quickened, then slowed. This was it then. The end, at last. A light shone in the darkness, beaming down from on high. The Emperor? He hadn’t forsaken her? She tried to reach out to it but the pain was too great and her arms were too heavy. Get on with it, she thought bitterly, gritting her teeth through tears of agony. Take me, or leave me, but let it finally end. There was a sound, a low, steady tone, ringing in her ears. She thought she could make out voices but couldn’t identify them. They seemed to echo down, as if from a great distance. She thought she heard her name. The tone was louder, and there was beeping now, slow at first, and then more steady. Another jolt of pain ripped through her. This time it was more than she could bear. She screamed, and her eyes opened.

boo

Ellen sat against a broken wall and smoked a listless lho stick as she watched soldiers and tanks run back and forth in the compound below her. She had been in a coma for almost a month, they had told her. A patrol had been sent out from the 122nd HQ to go look for her and her squad when they hadn’t arrived. All they found was her and Grimes’ body, the others had fled, scattered into the ruins. Deserted, most likely. The attack on the Church of the Emperor Triumphant had failed, they told her. The rebels had been ready for them. Spies, they thought, or maybe sorcery. It didn’t matter. Badenhall had caught a bolt in the brain when he led the charge. She had thought his death would have made her happy. It didn’t.

They had given her more medals. Half a dozen merit badges and accolades for bravery. Her name was even on a shortlist for the Medallion Crimson, one of the field nurses at the infirmary had told her, as if a ribbon with a hunk of metal on it was supposed to make her feel better about getting shot through the lung. They’d given her a new one of those, too – a bionic pump of some sort. It worked just like the old one, but her left shoulder seemed permanently stiff and sore. She hoped she’d still be able to shoot properly. She wanted to be back in active combat duty as soon as possible. Sitting around in base was getting her into trouble. She’d been disciplined four times in the few weeks since her awakening. Her back was still sore from the last batch of lashes. They’d paraded her around some officer’s banquet, a ‘symbol of the undying spirit of the common soldier’, they called her. Nonsense, she called it, and a waste of time and energy. A drunken colonel had groped her and she’d put his face through a buffet table. They’d given her fifty lashes for that one, and taken away some of her medals. She thought it a fair bargain.

There were Asartes on Vogen now, loyalist ones. Two full companies of Imperial Fists had arrived when they’d heard their traitor counterparts had been sighted in the city. Her father used to tell her stories about the Emperor’s chosen, His ‘favoured sons’ as he called them. About the time he’d seen a squad of them save an entire battle line of Cadians , driving back an army of Orks a hundred times their number. He spoke of them in hushed tones, reverential, as if they were the Emperor himself made flesh. The spent bolter casing he’d recovered from the battle was his most prized possession; he’d put it on a chain and given it to Ellen for her sixteenth birthday. She had seen more Asartes than just a squad, she’d seen hundreds of them now, and their war machines besides. They didn’t impress her as much as she’d thought they would. She thought they’d be taller.

“Quarrel! Front and center!” The stentorian bark snapped her out of her reverie and she rose, if a little awkwardly. A burly staff sergeant stood before her, sheaf of papers in hand. He thrust them at her. “New orders,” he grunted. “You’ve been assigned to acting-Captain Fane’s unit. They’re shipping out for the big push tonight. Get your gear and get your ass down to HQ. The Captain wants to meet you.” He saluted and stomped off, and she returned it, slightly dazed. New orders. The big push. That meant they were finally moving on the Palace of Peace. The war would be over. She could go home, assuming she survived. She couldn’t help but smile wistfully. She’d asked for a mission, and for her sins they’d given her one.

The air bristled with deadly pinpricks of light as lasguns on both sides cracked and spat. Artillery pounded out its steady, pounding rhythm, setting loose stones and dust to dancing on the rubble-strewn streets. Mortars coughed and autocannons let out their deep-throated roar as men screamed and howled to gods and daemons alike and lived or died in the cacophony of sound and violence. Ellen was running, the patter of small-arms fire filling the space behind her with hot lead music to her ears. A rebel with a skull-mask stood from the pile of rubble he’d been hiding behind and she dropped him with two quick shots to the chest, firing from the hip, her stride unbroken. She slammed herself against a broken brick wall and caught her breath. The rebel lines were less than a hundred yards from her position. More Cadians were pouring through the side streets and alleyways behind her, enfilading the entrenched ZH-PDF. Soon they would hit them from the front and the side at once, and there’d be nowhere for them to run. She grinned wickedly as she unhooked a couple of frags from her belt and motioned for the soldiers around her to do the same. The building across from them had been an apartment building before the bombardment. Now only two stories remained but it was the tallest building still standing in the square and the rebels inside had fortified it into quite the gun emplacement. It also overlooked their trenches. Ellen intended on seeing whether or not all those heavy bolters and autocannons they had up there could be trained on those very same trenches.

Timing them short, she lobbed the grenades into a second-floor window. They detonated with tooth-loosening force, two dozen ear-splitting bangs all at once that sent red-hot shrapnel scything through the ruins. Men screamed and howled and died as smoke and fire and blood poured out of every opening in the building. Ellen didn’t waste time. She vaulted over the brick wall, drawing her sword as she did, and flung herself through the doorway, squad in tow. They hit the surprised rebels like a thunderbolt. Still shocked from the grenade assault they barely had time to raise their weapons before they were butchered. Giving voice to her fear and rage Ellen howled as she slashed a tattooed rebel across the face with her sword. He fell backwards, spraying blood onto his comrades and she shot him in the gut and pressed on. They had to keep moving. A single grenade could stop the assault in it’s tracks. More rebels were pouring into the building even as the Cadians surged in, trying to prevent them from reaching the second floor and silencing those guns. A massively muscled rebel wearing a tattered KZ-PDF uniform smashed a young Cadian’s skull against a wall again and again, dashing his brains out. Ellen shot him until her pistol ran dry. They were sweeping around them, and in the melee telling friend from foe was getting confusing – they were all covered in dust and blood, all frothing at the mouth and screaming like animals. A rifle-butt smashed into the back of her knee and she fell with a curse. Her attacker loomed over her, bayonet raised to impale, a feral snarl on his twisted lips. She slashed him across the stomach and was momentarily blinded when a fountain of blood and gore erupted from his punctured organs.

Wiping her face clean she took his rifle and forced herself to her feet as he screamed and died. Setting the autogun to full automatic she sprayed fire into the advancing rebels and laughed as they were cut down. Her men had finished mopping up the rest of them. The first floor was knee-deep in carnage. She threw down the empty autogun and grabbed a shotgun from a rebel who would no longer need it. “Watkins! Mellish! Barricade the doors! The rest of you, with me! For the Emperor!” Her men echoed her cry, and they charged up the stairs to the second floor, guns blazing in the midday sun.

Ellen staggered through the camp, mess tin in one hand, a lho stick in the other. Every muscle in her body burned, ached. She was probably bleeding from a dozen wounds but she was too tired to care. All she wanted was to finish her meal and find a place where she could get a few hours’ shuteye before the next advance. There were more than a few fires scattered around the enlisted camp, but none of the soldiers by them offered to share. It should have bothered her, but it didn’t. She’d gotten a reputation for being insubordinate, and no self-respecting soldier wanted to be associated with her, for fear of getting into trouble. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want anyone’s company. She just wanted rest. “Corporal Quarrel?” She turned to see a pockmarked young private running towards her. He was waving a sheaf of papers around. She growled a curse. What was it now? “Captain wants to see you,” the private gasped between breaths. “His tent. You’d better hurry. He sent me half an hour ago, but I couldn’t find you.” She spat, and flicked her lho to the ground before heading off to the ruined courtyard where acting-captain Fane had his tent. No rest for the wicked, it seemed.

Oh neat, I fell asleep in the middle of it yesterday.

“Come in, come in,” the captain waved her over, bent down peering at a chart table displaying what looked like troop positions. Ellen had only met Fane once before. He seemed alright, for an officer. Scuttlebutt said he wasn’t a blue-blood, he was one of those rare breed that rose through the ranks the honest way, like her mother had. He was amicable enough, and charismatic, and the troops liked him, not least because he didn’t share his superior’s views on the expendability of common soldiers. He was shockingly young, even younger than her own 22 years. Apparently he was the youngest Cadian to ever receive the Macharian Cross, and Colonel Creed himself had tutored him in the tactical arts. For such a brilliant mind, he kept a messy tent - it was crowded with piles upon piles of charts, maps, pages of logistical data. Next to a small table with a comms-unit there was a basin full of water. She looked at it enviously – she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d bathed. Water was scarce. Another table held food and drink, much finer quality than the enlisted men were dished out. A bottle of amasec sat next to it. Both were untouched. She shook her head. Benefits of being one of the privileged, she supposed.

She stood at attention for a few more moments while he finished making notes on whatever it is he was looking at on the chart table, then turned and started, as if he’d forgotten she’d been there. He regarded her with clear blue eyes from under a mop of unruly blonde hair. Some of the women had called him handsome. To Ellen he just looked boyish, all arms and legs. He smiled now. “Corporal Quarrel! I wanted to commend you on your efforts. You did a damn fine job taking that building.” She nodded. “Just doing my job, sir.” He chuckled. “Don’t be so modest. You saved a lot of men’s lives today. I’ve recommended your name for promotion. You might even get a medal, if I get my way.” She sighed. Just what she needed. More useless ribbons. More award ceremonies. Her displeasure must have registered on her face, despite her efforts to disguise it. He laughed, and moved over to the bottle of amasec, pouring himself a glass. “My apologies, I forgot what happened the last time someone tried to pin a gold star on your chest.” He took a swig, blinking hard against the strong liquor. “Thrones, that’s good. Anyways, Corporal. I know you’ve had… difficulties… with officers in the past. You have quite a reputation for insubordination, you know.” He snatched up a scroll and read it aloud. “Four… no, five instances of administrative punishment, one for assaulting a senior officer. Over a hundred lashes, and they took your Medal of Merit. I’m surprised they haven’t shot you yet.” She said nothing. There was nothing to say. He put the scroll down and poured himself another glass of amasec, offering it to her this time. He seemed genuinely surprised when she refused. “No? Well. Shame to let good liquor go to waste.”

He downed that glass like the first one, and then walked back over to the chart table. “I called you in here tonight because I need to know I can rely on you, Quarrel,” he said finally. “You’ve been through a lot. Seriously wounded in the call of duty three times, and now they’ve got you breathing through a pump. Your psych report says you’ve been suffering from nightmares. You don’t sleep. You don’t associate with the other enlisted men. I need to know you aren’t going to break on me.” He turned back to her, seeming much older to her all of a sudden. “Can I trust you?” The question gave her pause. Could he? She had wanted to die, before. Did she still now? She didn’t know. She didn’t know if she could trust herself, anymore. Her hand rose and clasped around the bolter shell around her neck. It was warm at her touch, strangely enough. Was it a sign? She didn’t know. It sounded like Fane was giving her a second chance. Maybe she could give herself that same opportunity. She stood at attention, and saluted crisply. “I won’t let you down, sir.” He nodded, once. “Good. The coming days will be hard, and I’ll need soldiers like you with me, when we take the Palace of Peace.” He motioned to his cot. “I have to file some reports, and then make my rounds of the camp, see how my men are doing. Get some rest, you look tired. You can use my tent, nobody will disturb you.” Her face reddened slightly, and she spluttered a half-articulate protest. He waved her aside, donning a pair of gloves and his greatcoat against the cold. “Eat something. Get some rest. You will need it. Tomorrow morning, we resume the advance.” He pushed past her and into the night, a slight spring in his step, and Ellen swore in the shadows and swirling dust he looked ten feet tall.

The artillery barrage was like nothing Ellen had ever seen before. It was awe-inspiring, overpowering, splitting the sky asunder with flame and smoke as shell after shell after shell rained downwards on the thick fortress walls of the Palace of Peace. The thunder of the heavy guns even miles away was deafening and seemed to go on forever. Explosions rent the palace and shards of masonry flew hundreds of feet skyward, carried on plumes of fire. She crouched in a muddy makeshift trench with a dozen other men and women as the very sky seemed to fall and bury the entire sector with dust and mud and shrapnel. Her hands were sweaty on the grip of her lasgun, having long ago lost her gloves. First-sized chunks of stone and steel were falling all around them, making her glad for her helmet. Everything shook and vibrated with the destructive impact of the forces brought to bear against the remaining heretics. And then just as suddenly as it had begun the guns were silent. Through the ringing in her ears she could hear the shrill cries of officer’s whistles all down the line. A mighty roar rose up from the soldiers of the Imperium as they left the cover of their trenches and earthworks and charged towards the smoking ruins of the last ZH-PDF stronghold on the planet. The final battle for Vogen had begun.

>>8016875
A student of CREEEEEEEED? Uh-oh.

Walls of text.

>>8017053
Walls of awesome text.

They were less than a hundred meters away from the walls when the rebels opened fire. She didn’t know how anyone could have survived that lethal artillery barrage but apparently dozens had, hundreds even, and they peered their cruel skull-masks through cracks in the shattered wall and over broken battlements and brought their weapons to bear. The air was instantly filled with the roar of stationary gun emplacements, of the patter of small-arms fire and the screams of the dead and the dying as the Cadians charged the breech. A platoon of Adeptus Arbites, their burnished bronze armour shining like gold in amidst the flames and the smoke, roared their Litanies of Justice Served as they waved their power-mauls and shock-batons, some carrying scaling ladders and others protecting their comrades with riot shields. The Arbites had suffered terribly in the siege, their precinct being one of the few Imperial strongholds left in the city throughout the siege, and now the few that remained had been granted the honour of leading the final assault. On their flanks, squads of Imperial Fists strode forward heedless of the volume of enemy fire poured at them, giants bestriding the battlefield, their weapons holy instruments of the Emperor’s divine will howling defiance at the enemies of Man. And all around them waves upon waves of Cadian soldiers, some from the 122nd, more from the 9th and 72nd followed, guns blazing. The streets and alleyways towards the Palace of Peace were too narrow for Imperial tanks to support them. There was no time for subtlety, for trickery, for tactical manoeuvre. It was an all-out assault on the breech, with soldiers advancing headlong into enemy fire, using the bodies of their comrades as cover. They would conquer or die, but the orders from High Command were clear: the Chaos presence on Khai-Zhan would end today.

Muscles burning and veins pumping battery acid Ellen flung herself on her face as the rebels in the burnt-out guard booth opened fire. Two soldiers behind her fell and brought up her own weapon with a curse, snapping shots through the flimsy wall of the building until she was sure they were dead. Another group of rebels broke cover to their left and started firing wildly, calling out to their dark gods for aid. She rolled to cover them but Watkins got to them first. Bringing his flamer to bear the veteran trooper set them alight with a gout of liquid flame that clung to everything it touched. They screamed in agony and fell, the smell of charred flesh and burning hair strong enough to taste. More soldiers were pouring into the courtyard, Fane at their lead. They raised their guns to fire on the burning heretics but Fane stopped them short, yelling “Don’t shoot! Let them burn!”

The rebels were everywhere, hiding behind every wall, dashing out of every building, all of them screaming foul blasphemies. What had started as a gunfight was degenerating into a melee as both sides longed to get grips with the other. There was no quarter asked for and none given. A lasbolt hissed past Ellen’s face. She took a knee, snapping her own weapon up to her shoulder and returning fire, blasting the rebel out of a second story window. More were pouring out of the palace itself and the surrounding buildings. Fane had lost his plasma pistol and was fighting three cultists at once, his sword moving in intricate patterns as he kept them at bay. Watkins was down. A rebel with a chunk of masonry sat straddling him and was pounding his brains into mush. She shot him through the eye, then blasted down two more even as the captain skewered the third with a flashing thrust. Her gun was empty. Throwing it aside she drew her sword and pistol and ran to join Fane, a dozen more soldiers following behind them. An explosion rocked her off her feet and she tasted warm blood as her head hit the pavement. Fane was roaring orders, directing soldiers coming through the breach to clear the surrounding buildings of rebels. He motioned for her to follow him and they charged up the steps to the Palace of Peace itself, gunning down all who stood in their way. The heavy steel doors were shut but at a command a trooper with a meltagun blasted them off their hinges. He levelled his sword at the gaping entrance and roared “Let’s end this, men! For the Emperor!” “For the Emperor!” they echoed as one, and leapt into the Palace, hearts pumping and guns at the ready.

The main hall of the palace was empty and strangely silent, in stark contrast to the noise and the masses outside. Though they were the first into the Palace, it looked as if it had already been fought desperately over – the building was a charnel house of blood and gore, with bodies of civilians, rebels and PDF scattered everywhere. Once-brilliant marble columns were stained red and expensive tapestries hung half-torn from the walls. Crude eight-pointed stars and other heretical symbols were painted in blood and gore on every surface, and piles of skulls and rotting flesh lay heaped throughout the hall. The smell was nauseating even after the butchery outside. The interior seemed a calculated assault, an offensive against every sense. Ellen could scarcely imagine how anyone could have lived here for so long, insane and heretical or not. They advanced cautiously among the columns, scanning for any signs of movement, of life. “This place is dead,” a trooper whispered, fear lining his voice. “We should go.” “Steady on there, soldier,” Fane said, his voice strong and reassuring. “We’ve got a job to do. Check those corners and stay frosty.” They advanced to the end of the hallway, reaching another massive steel door. This one was open. Ellen listened intently for a full minute but could hear nothing on the other side. She took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves, then, at a nod from the captain, darted into the room.

It was pitch black. She could barely see her hands in front of her face. The only sound she could hear was her own breathing and her heart pounding in her chest. She fumbled for her lamp pack and clicked it on, spilling a pool of light into the darkness. The room, or what she could see of it, was much like the main hall. The floor was sticky with blood and offal. Mangled corpses in twisted positions littered the area. She searched the room but found nothing but the dead and the darkness. It felt… wrong, somehow, like the tenebrousness was a living thing, aware of their presence, and hostile. At her tap the rest of the squad filed into the room. “Golden Throne,” one trooper whispered. “Are they all like this?” “Soon they will be,” a thunderous voice boomed in the darkness, and the heavy door slammed shut with a clang. Ellen dropped the lamp-pack and snapped her laspistol up. Heavy footfalls echoed throughout the chamber, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Brutal laughter rang in her ears. She gripped the bolter shell around her neck in her free hand, and prayed. And then the light went out.

wow, i thought i had missed the rest. please continue, OP.

There was a whimper and a metallic thump as a terrified solder tried to claw open the metal door. “Stand tall, men!” Captain Fane called out. “For the Emperor!” More laughter greeted his words. “The Emperor cares nothing for you, manling” the voice boomed again. “He will not bestir himself to spare you.” “Speak not your blasphemy, heathen!” Fane cried into the darkness. “The Emperor is my shield and protector! In His name! Fire! Fire!” The room erupted in light as they opened fire as one, lasbolts burning white and hot against the gloom. The sinister laughing bruised her ears. The volley of gunfire in such an enclosed space was deafening. She didn’t care. She kept firing into the darkness, defiantly standing against the unknown, terrible forces arrayed against them. She would not falter. With an oppressive blast of heat and a nerve-grating shriek the meltagun spat once more, illuminating the entire chamber with the intensity of the blast. The walls shook and a shaft of pure sunlight lanced through the gloom. It had burned a hole right through the façade of the building. The darkness was dispelled. The shadows lifted. They stopped firing on Fane’s orders, and breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever foe faced them would have to do so in the light.

F5ing like a motherfucker

The mocking laughter rang out once more, followed by slow clapping, echoing through the chamber, seemingly everywhere at once. "Pathetic humans," it spat. "Facing your death in darkness would have been a kindness. You think yourselves worthy to face me in the light? So be it. Vogen is ours, insolent whelps, and soon everything will belong to my dark masters. Prepare yourselves for oblivion!" A heavy, metallic footfall set the dust and debris rumbling. They watched in horror as a massive shape seemed to detach itself from the shadows behind a white marble column and stride towards them. Twice as tall as a man, and built like a battletank, with eyes glowing fierce and red in the darkness. The very air seemed to still and the sunlight disappeared behind a cloud as the twisted figure stepped into view. Immeasurably ancient cobalt-blue ceramite armour chased in gold, painted with cruel lightning bolts and adorned with skulls and spikes. Long, greasy black hair framing a sunken, twisted face, aristocratic and arrogant, sallow skin and eyes like sunken pits with a smile that could curdle milk. A wickedly taloned gauntlet crackling with eldritched energy, grasping and ungrasping with jerky, spasmodic movements. A bat-winged skull displayed brazenly on breastplate and pauldron. Ellen froze, petrified in terror. Brutal, sinister laughter bruised her ears and turned her bowels to water as the monstrous figure advanced on them, taloned hand reaching out, to bring them all within his grasp, to tear them all to shreds.

>>8018155

QFT

>>8018783
i share this nameless persons sentiments exactely.

Love it.

Fane’s voice cut through the fog of terror and confusion. He unlimbered his sword and roared his defiance. “Courage, men! The Emperor walks with us! My armour is contempt! My shield is disgust! My sword is hatred! In the Emperor’s name, die!” he threw himself at the Night Lord. Almost lazily, the Space Marine swatted him aside and he slammed into a pillar with a sickening thud. His cry of pain washed over Ellen like a bucket of icy water. She had let Shanks die. She wouldn’t let the same thing happen to Fane. She took aim at the abomination’s face. It smiled at her and raised its taloned hand, and suddenly the world went white with agony. She went down hard, screaming, clawing at her face, hearing the others in her squad do the same as tendrils of pure corruption snaked into her brain and sinister laughter boomed all around her. “You are mine,” it laughed, cruel voice seeming to come from everywhere at once, penetrating her mind. “You are all mine.” She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe. All she could do is writhe in torment and scream as she felt her soul stripped bare and peeled away, layer by layer. Her vision went black. Memories, images, faces flew by, horribly twisted by the foulness of the Night Lord’s sorcery.

She was a little girl, frightened, trying desperately to hide under her bed as her father came towards her, face distorted in a rictus grin, knife still slick and wet with her mother’s blood. She was choking, gasping for breath as Father Palantine, the priest who had been so kind to her in her childhood, throttled the life out of her, laughing as he did so. She was screaming in agony, rolling herself into a ball as a group of young men and women in Cadian uniforms kicked her over and over, her squad through basic now jeering and howling prayers to the dark gods as they beat her to death. She wept with helplessness as Shanks forced her down into the mud, augmetic eye leering evilly at her as he violated her, burning her with the butt of his lho stick as his squad surrounded her, faces cloaked in shadow, hungrily staring down at her as they waited to take their turn. “I know all your deepest fears,” the voice whispered. “Let me show you them.” She clawed at her face, clawed at her eyes, wept and screamed and begged for it to stop, for the pain to end, to be allowed to die as the sorcerer forced her to watch images of every friend, every family member, everyone she had ever been close to kill her, torture her, savage her, and themselves be brutalized, over and over again, with endless mocking laughter ringing in her ears. “Give up,” he cooed, now the face of captain Fane, slitting his own throat with a jagged piece of glass, blood bubbling as he cackled madly. “Give in. Surrender. Renounce the Emperor. He has abandoned you. He doesn’t want you. This can all be over. Just say it. Say it!” The voice whispered seductively, passionately, angrily. She could feel blood leaking from her ears. The voice was everywhere. She couldn’t even move through the pain, couldn’t think. “Give up. Give in.”

From the darkness of her soul a surge of light burst through, a reserve of energy she didn’t know she had, a beam of pure radiance that cast aside the shadow. Her eyes focused, past the cruel images in her head. Her lungs took in a breath. She made a fist with both hands and with all the strength left in her heart and willpower she could muster forced a single word through her ruined throat and out into the open air, one last defiant roar in the face of evil. “NEVER!”

Ellen coughed blood and rolled on her back, drained. Her squad was dead. Fane was dead. She would join them soon. But she would never surrender, never renounce the Emperor. Never give in to the shadow. They could break her body, they could break her mind, but they would not break her spirit, not again. She had been through too much, see too many friends die, spent too long in darkness to allow herself to fall. She would die free; not for the Imperium, not for the Emperor, not for Vogen or for Fane or for Shanks. Not even for her parents. For her. Only for her. The visions had stopped. Her eyes burned from where she had clawed at them. Blood flowed from a dozen wounds, from her ears and eyes, from each cough that wracked her body and sent her into spasms. Her arms were leaden and she could barely move, barely lift her fingers to grasp the bolter shell around her neck. It was strangely warm.

oh! I just opened 4chan and guess what? writefag 2 the Glorious Rampage.
Cool, I can read the end of the story now.

A shadow fell over her. The laughing had stopped. She lifted her head painfully to stare into the sunken pits of the Chaos Marines’ eyes and saw anger there. Anger, and… confusion? Something had given him pause. She felt him reach down with and lift her, cold metal gauntlets closing around her throat. He lifted her, brought her to his face, twisted in a feral sneer, eyes burning with hatred. “Insolent bitch,” he hissed. “You think you can resist me? I will bring you to the brink of death a thousand times and thousand times, and and still not let you cross the threshold! I will flay the skin from your flesh and the flesh from your bones and crack your bones for marrow, and you will still not have suffered enough!” She gathered what moisture she had and spat in his face, a pitiful gesture of defiance, but defiance nonetheless. He snarled and she heard the click of a bolt pistol being chambered before a white-hot lance of agony shot through her right thigh. She screamed and writhed against his implacable grip as he laughed. “Your spirit is strong but your body is weak,” he said mockingly, bringing his leering face closer to hers. “It seems there’s still some screaming left in you yet. Good… I feed off your terror!” Their noses were almost touching.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the prayers they had taught her in training back on Cadia. “Mighty Terribilis, aid me in my plight…” She remembered the faces of her mother and father, not as the sorcerer had shown her but their true faces, smiling and filled with pride the day she had left in her new uniform. She remembered she still had her boot knife. She gathered up her remaining strength and slowly, painfully lifted her leg as the Night Lord sorcerer laughed in her face, his breath hot and foul. She felt the sweat-stained grip of the knife in the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around it. A cold, razor-sharp talon brushed her cheek, drawing blood as it slid towards her eye. She fixed the faces of her parents in her mind’s eye and in one smooth, practiced movement, ripped the knife free of its scabbard and plunged it towards the Night Lord’s face.

The next thing she felt was the cold stone wall slamming into her back as the sorcerer flung her away with pitiful ease. She thought she heard her shoulder pop as she screamed in agony and landed hard on her injured leg. The pain was dizzying but she fought to focus, forced herself to vainly grope around for a weapon, something to defend herself with. The sorcerer’s mocking laughter was everywhere. “Fool!” he roared, his voice dripping with contempt. “You are as an insect before me. Unworthy of death at my hands.” He lifted his pistol and levelled it at her. “Be honoured, cur,” he spat. “Be honoured, and die.” She knew he wouldn’t miss at this range, couldn’t. She was done. The sorcerer was too strong, too fast for any mortal. But she had kept her faith, her honour. She would die a hero’s death, killed by the Great Enemy but not defeated. She lifted her head in defiance and stared back at his sunken, pitiless eyes. “For the Emperor,” she whispered with the last of her breath. The sorcerer only laughed. “The Emperor is not here!” he snarled. But he was.

A blazing figure rose from the shattered rubble of a white marble column, armoured in light and robed in pure radiance, blinding them. His face, strong and beautiful and terrible to behold, eyes burning with holy fervour. A sword leapt up between him and the sorcerer, golden and wreathed in fire. He stood tall, taller than the Night Lord, tall as the room, golden wings of pure light beating softly, warming her. He raised his heavenly sword. The sorcerer turned, howling in confusion, trying to bring his weapon to bear but he was too slow, too slow by far. Everything seemed frozen, still, the blazing sword sweeping forward in an arc of divine judgement, the sorcerer’s sallow face twisted in incomprehension, even fear. It let out a sinister hiss and levelled the bolt pistol but he was far too late. The Emperor spoke with the voice of Captain Fane and said “Burn in hell, you filthy son of a bitch,” and then the sword let off a terrible shriek like a thousand voices all screaming in unison and a jet of flame so pure it seared her eyeballs engulfed the Night Lord, destroying him utterly. She closed her eyes and the light faded, diminished, and the great form of the figure robed in light shrank and grew dim until it was just a man, an ordinary man in a bloodied greatcoat, all arms and legs, matted blonde hair streaked with blood, clear blue eyes milk-white and torn from where he had tried to claw them out, just a boy really, clutching a battered meltagun. He sank to his knees, discarding the weapon, and slumped slowly to the ground, and Ellen smiled as the darkness claimed her once more.

There's Ellen's part in the battle of Vogen for you, folks. I hope you've enjoyed. Started off as flushing out my character's background and ended up a fucking 20-page short story. Thanks for reading.

thanks for writing bro

rolled 39, 90, 25 = 154

Thanks for sharing King. More writing than I could shake a stick at.

>>8019810
Quality writefagging, sir.

Awwwwww yeaaaaahhh....

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>>8019810
If she was shot in the leg with a bolt pistol, wouldn't she be missing that leg?

>>8021237
If she was hit higher than the kneecap, I think you can kiss that babymaker goodbye too.

>>8021237
>>8021971
LOGIC?! IN MY 40K?! GET OUT! GET OUT, BOTH OF YOUUUU!!

>>8021971
Not to mention the whole "bleeding to death" thing. Bolt weapons are nasty, even compared to other firearms.

>>8022016
There's logic, and there's "still having a functioning leg despite being shot in the thigh by a .75 caliber explosive round."

Emphasis on "EXPLOSIVE".

Even 40k has limits. Seriously, it should've blown the leg off. Maybe it would've made more sense (and would've been more in-character) for the Marine to slowly crush her leg in one of his fists...