View Full Version : The Siege Of Kreonis IV - Orks vs Iron Hands!

24-06-2011, 03:39
Had this idea for a novel for a while, good old orks assault of a forgeworld, but the twist is that it is actually a competent warlord! If it doesn't turn out terrible by chapter 2, I may send to BL for the spring submission window. Will have orks in speaking roles as well as orky perspective. Any comments welcome :)

Edit 24-06-2011: Bah, posting after writing well into the night without checking to make sure it makes sense is a bad idea. Bunch of fixes and small additions.


The world around is a cacophony of sound.
This is augmented by the auto-senses of an Astartes helm to render the battle in crystal clarity, every bolt round, every thunderous retort of heavy munitions, every cry of dying men and every roar from xenos throats is filtered, muted or enhanced, and sent directly to the mind of the champion.
The landscape is a riot of light and colour. Shattered iron spars and piles of rockcrete which had once been walls cast maddening shadows throughout the ruins of the battlefield.
This too is filtered, by lenses of hate-red set into the faceplate, the smoke and flares of explosions no impediment to the vision of the champion.
Thick alien blood, still flowing with released energy, paints the nearest wall. Gobs of meat and metal, the mangled, barely identifiable corpse of an ork, slams into the wall's base several milliseconds later. Arcs of energy still dance between the charged metal of the body's crude, highly ineffectual armour as the champion reverses the swing on his mighty thunder hammer, sending it into a wide arc to take the next nob square in the chest.
There is a sound like the peal of thunder upon the frozen tundra of far off Medusa, and the champion cannot help but feel the memories of his world with every blow of the hammer. It helped guide his purpose, he believed, to always have a reminder of where you came from.
Blue light engulfs the world for a moment as the hammer's power field is unshackled. Corposant jumps from the impact through the ork, grounding to the walls and floor and for one glorious nanosecond the beast is lit from within by the blue light of judgement. The next, its torso simply vanishes as the enormous energy released vaporizes the ork's unarmoured chest. Almost comically, the remaining pieces of the creature's limbs and head flop wetly to the ground.
The champion pays the remains no heed and has already advanced upon the last of the nobs. With an uncharged blow from his hammer he staves in the filth's head and unceremoniously kicks the still-standing corpse through the damaged wall. Targeting cross-hairs jump about his vision as he gazes through the hole at a piece of the larger battle at hand.
The giant oily mountain of the void-shielded hive core and primary forges dominates the champion's view. Titan-class weapons fire crashes into it, the mammoth energies reduced to tiny pin-pricks of light at this distance. The damaged curtain wall can be seen ringing the base of the hive.
Once the hab blocks had stood high enough obstruct the view of much of the curtain wall from this level. No longer. The orks had seen to that.
Sparing a glance to the east the champion spots the smaller bubble of the titan works, as well as the shapes of distant titans battling ork scrap gargants.
Like giants of legend, trading blows across kilometres.
The sight gave the champion pause. The majesty and beauty of the Legio Oblivio's engines was pitted against the ugly, smog-belching monstrosities the orks had brought with them to Kreonis IV. Using his auto-senses, he zooms in on the distant battle.
A gargant, at least the equal of a Warlord titan in stature, judders to the side. Three titans of the Legio Oblivio track their weaponry and open fire in staggered salvos. Within seconds the ork behemoth begins bleeding plasma and with a final victorious shot from a volcano cannon the ork construct's reactor goes critical.
False dawn washes over the land as the gargant dies in nuclear fire. For hundreds of meters all around orks and smaller constructs are obliterated, burned away by the inferno or sent hurtling through the air by the force of the blast.
The champion quietly blurts a string of machine syllables, a prayer to the Emperor in thanks for being gifted such an inspiring sight.
The shuffle of feet and the stirring of debris catches the attention of the champion. He waits a moment, anticipating the approach of the foes who believe themselves hidden. He turns in a sudden movement, the whine of servos accompanying the hum of his powered up thunder hammer and ignited storm shield. Four orks draped in mismatched camouflage brandishing blackened blades stalked forwards with a larger fifth a few steps behind.
The largest rips at a pull crank on the enormous mechanical claw mounted on its hand. The claw comes to chugging life to join the roar issuing from the beast's throat. Its words are bastardized low gothic, slurring together into a barely intelligable roar.
A mechanical grip tightens upon the haft of the thunder hammer. Physical contact circuitry relays the champion's rage to the ancient machine spirit of the weapon, and the hammer returns it in kind. Targeting runes paint the orks in order, displaying distances and bullet-trajectories based on muzzel views.
Issuing a roar of his own, an ear-splitting machine wail, the binaric expression of pure hatred, the champion explodes into motion. He leads with his shield, trailing his hammer lazily behind him, ork pistol fire harmlessly disintegrating in small starbursts of light and puffs of steam on contact with the shield's energy field. Four strides brings him to the nearest ork, who receives a storm shield to the face as a reward for his eagerness. Energy flares as the force field amplifies the strength of the blow twofold, sending the ork tumbling back into rubble. The next fires its pistol frantically at the marine, managing to miss with every shot. For its incompetence, it receives a tap on the jaw from the thunder hammer. The shock field fires and thunder sounds as the third ork in the attack pattern is blinded by the resultant gore and bone fragments of its comrade's head and upper thorax.
The champion leaps over the headless corpse and brings the thunder hammer down in an diagonal arc upon the sputtering ork. It connects solidly with the xenos beast's shoulder and the shock field obliterates the majority of its left upper body, liquifying the remaining organs. The champion leaves it to die an ignoble death, gurgling in agony until even its alien physiology gives out.
The leader beast raises a combi-weapon touting a two-barrelled machine gun with a grinning rocket mounted to a rail underneath. It thumbs a trigger and sends the rocket corkscrewing towards to champion. He throws up his shield and bats the careening rocket out of the air, sending it spinning wildly to explode harmlessly into a wall behind him.
Solid slugs wrench his head to the side, throwing up sparks and chips of ceramite and plunging his world into momentary static as the remaining infiltrator fires off its pistol in a charge at the champion.
He steps low to meet the beast head on, turning its clumsy swing with his storm shield and bringing the hammer up in a viscous arc to cave in its side. The ork cartwheels away, dead before it hit the ground.
The champion turns to face the ork leader- to find it running as fast as it can in the opposite direction.
Irritation crosses the face of the champion, though the scowling mask he wears betrays no emotion. He breaks into a run to meet the cowardly xenos, but skids to a stop when he hears the telltale sound of a bolt shell piercing a brain pan. A heartbeat later and a dull crump detonates the beast's head in a welter of gore.
A giant armoured warrior steps up the remains of a foyer stairway into view, taking them comfortably three at a time. He wears ornate Mk VIII warplate, pitch black and trimmed in iron. Upon the left shoulder a white armoured gauntlet backed by a cog stood proudly, on the other a white cog inlaid with three hexagons in the centre. Markings mirroring those of the champion's armour.
The warrior salutes, a clenched bionic fist over the winged Mechanicus opus adorning his chest. He then relaxes and pans his head back and forth to take in the sight before him.
The voice that issues forth from the vox grille mounted at the base of his raised gorget is deep, edged with a metallic rasp.
'I see that you have been busy, brother.'
'Asirn.' The champion nods, 'There is hardly a shortage of xenos to slay. However, I have not satisfied mission parameters.'
'Nor I. I am starting to wonder if anyone is actually leading this scum.' The warrior reloads his bolter with quick, efficient motions.
'I will make my report to the commander. Have you new orders?'
'To find you.'
'I see.' The champion turns to one of the holes blasted in the outer wall of the former administratum building. He walks closer to the breach as his establishes connection to the command vox channel.
+Iron-Commander Vrakzez.+
+Dozeph. You are last to report. Your findings?+ the binaric voice of his commander buzzes over the channel.
+Mission failure. Assigned sectors fully searched. Still no warlord sighted. Ork forces are composed of disparate clans and tribes. Logically this would be the prime location for many of the ork leaders to congregate, being the largest offensive upon the planet, however this seems not to be the case. Something is not as it should be,+ this information is exloaded in a second-long blurt of code, as well as statistical and updated topographical data, +request new orders.+
+Regroup on my position, Druun will m-t yo- a-+ the vox link cuts out.
Dozeph strides to where his brother stands waiting, 'The vox has failed, we should-'
A sudden spike in temperature and pressure readings catches Dozeph's attention. Both Astartes crane their heads to the sky, visible through the gaping hole above the foyer where at least two floors had been removed by bombardment and lie resting in the streets below.
The heavily polluted clouds burn from within. A dull red glow above grows to a blazing orange as lightning fires off madly in the tortured sky. The clouds burn away as a massive meteorite tears its way violently through the heavens, bathed in the fires of atmospheric entry. The defenders on the ground can do nothing more than stare in awed horror as the ball of flames plummets unstoppably towards the heart of the hive.
The meteorite slams two kilometres up into the bubble of the void shield. There is a blinding flash as titanic amounts of kinetic energy is converted into sound, light and force. A star seems to blaze at the apex of the void bubble as the meteorite detonates with the force of an exploding starship. The shockwave travels at hypersonic speeds, preceded by a rolling cloud of dust and particulate matter, it slams indiscriminately into the world below. Buildings are reduced to dust and bodies are pulped before the scorching heat of the blast burns the land underneath to blackened glass. The shockwave screams forwards, losing strength, but never stopping as it moves to envelope the horizon. Much of the force of the blast is directed away from the hive, but even the mighty shields protecting the city and foundries can not stand up to such punishment and their integrity fails. As the light of the blast fades, fragments of the meteorite fall on smoking plumes, streaking through gaping holes in the critically weakened void shield, or sailing off into battles in the outer sprawl. Tens of thousands of lives are ended in the rain of fire.

* * *

Dazed, Dozeph rolls his shoulders and looses a fragment of masonry pinning him face down to find himself somehow outside and in the middle of a debris-strewn street. He could only assume that the building was leveled by the blast. Glancing at the flickering chronometer display, he sees that only twenty seconds had passed since the pressure wave washed over the building he and Asirn were occupying.
With no small amount of relief, Dozeph feels the weight of his hammer and shield still gripped in his hands. One eye lense returns only static and the other is marred by a crack down the centre, distorting vision. Dozeph yanks the helm off and mag locks it to his belt. A glance to the sky tells him that he is far from safe, as fragments of the meteor begin to lance into the ruins around. Plumes of dirt and debris hundreds of meters high rise from the larger impacts.
Minor suit damage information is transmitted to his mind, and through brain augmentation that is hardly standard among the Astartes, is displayed across his unhelmeted vision, but Dozeph's concern was for his missing brother.
+Asirn, come in brother.+ Dozeph cants into the vox.
A pile of rubble stirs twenty meters ahead. Debris raining down upon him, Dozeph runs to the movement. Setting down his hammer, he pulls at a large piece of rockcrete covering the victim. His sense of urgency is replaced with rage as instead of the black and iron of his brother, he is shown the blood-coated mug of a xenos abomination staring up at him.
'Filth' Dozeph hisses in gothic, before slamming the rockcrete slab brutally down upon the pinned ork. A piece of rock the size of a land raider slams into the ground fifty meters away from Dozeph, the force of the impact creating a physical wave through the roadway, knocking him to the ground. Cursing, Dozeph rises to his feet and breaks into a run in the other direction.
+Asirn, Druun, Vrakzez, come in.+
Nothing but static in reply. Given the vast electromagnetic interference released by the blast and the ash and dust choking the sky, that was hardly surprising.
Looking down he spots a white-cased bolter gripped by a mechanical hand buried in a pile of rubble. Sliding to a stop on his side, Dozeph immediately begins digging at the pile, revealing Asirn's body. His plate was dented, scratched and scorched, with massive sustained to the helm, and his boinic replacement leg was bent at a grotesque angle. Dragging him by the breastplate, Dozeph quickly manoeuvres him into the relative protection of a reinforced metal arch that is all that remains of a shrine to the Omnissiah.
Pulling the damaged helm from his brother's head reveals a massive gash showing a portion of Asirn's skull. Blood had clotted around the wound, though the removal of the helm had restarted the bleeding. Asirn was still breathing though, simply unconscious.
Dozeph was about to inspect the damage to Asirn's leg when the grainy cant of his commander sounded through the vox static in a compressed code burst.
+All Iron Hands forces, find shelter. This rain is only beginning.+

25-06-2011, 01:58
Hmmmm....not bad my friend, looks promising, we don't get many ork perspectives. After reading "fear the alien" I think it can be down well. Though I mainly read for the iron hands, gives me a nice take of how I'm going to portray them