Storm Heralds Reading List

Book1 Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stella, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur.

Book2 Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi.

Book3 Captum Ante, Veneum Filios, Locum Ignotum, Domus Discordia.

Book4 Cincere Tempestus, Ignis in Vacui, Indomitus Bellum, Falsa Verum, Redemptio Opus, Diem Infamia.

Book5 Speculum Enigmate, Festum Gladius.

Festum Gladius

Extract from Imperial crusades of the New Age: Vol I

Hail to the Victrix Guard! Hail to those noble champions who stood between the life of the Living Primarch and those who would see his blood spilled. Noblest of the noble and bravest of the brave, these champions strode the stars, ever vigilant for threats, plots and subterfuges against their gene-father. Countless were the foes slain upon their righteous blades and numberless were the assassins they confronted in the shadows.

While the Custodian Guard did lend their strength to the Indomitus Crusade it was only because they recognised its success was an essential step towards sustaining the God-Emperor's rule. The Victrix Guard by comparison served a more select function, to guarantee the life of Roboute Guilliman himself. Each of them was pledged to count their lives cheap when set against his and under the watch of their commander, the peerless hero Cato Sicarius, they fought back armies and cast down witch-cults and Daemons. Ceaseless was their vigil and most desperately was it needed. Many who pretended submission only feigned true featly to disguise malevolent intent and plots against the Imperial Regent abounded. The Victrix Guard was called upon time and time again to confounded poisoners, uncover knives in the dark and guard against deliberate accidents and engineered catastrophes.

All Astartes who pledged to the Crusade admired and revered these heroes and inevitably they started agitating to have their own champions join their ranks. Cato Sicarius however rebuffed all such entries, determined to trust his gene-father's life solely to those born of Ultramar. Few accepted these rebuttals with grace and tensions swiftly mounted between the ever proud Chapter Masters and Captains. As a concession to ease tensions Guilliman decreed that whenever a slot became available in the Victrix Guard's ranks, as it did with distressing frequency, other Chapters would be allowed to compete for places in his personal guard during a Feast of Blades.

Tragically the sons of Ultramar took this magnanimous gesture as an affront and approached every Feast of Blades as seriously as they would battle. Blood was spilled and lives ended as the scions of Roboute Guilliman fought to ensure the Victrix Guard would forever remain purely Ultramarian.

Festum Gladius Chapter 1

Novak stood in silent repose, measuring the counts of his breath. His eyes were closed under his helm as he centred his being, bringing his humours into alignment and honing his zeal. Each muscle of his genhanced body was quivering with anticipation, but he tensed them in a ritual pattern, keeping them limber and supple for the coming exertion. He knew it would be needed; the smallest flaw in his efforts would spell his doom. The coming bout would demand everything he had.

Novak was ready and turned his attention to his armour. His plate was Mark VII, but layered with additional golden ablative plates and countless marks of honour, Swordsman laurels and oath seals hanging from his pauldrons. His right hand held his power sword 'Honour's Edge', a silver blade inscribed with hexagrammatic runes. His left arm bore his combat shield, shimmering with a faint energy barrier and fitted with a broken rosarius in the centre, another trophy of war. His helm hid his burn ravaged face behind a golden wedged-front and the top was adorned with a small crest. He was a vision of splendour and the spirit of the Third made flesh, for Novak was Company Champion and he bore the honour of his Brothers upon his shoulders.

Serenely Novak opened his eyes and his autosenses filled his horizon with cheering crowds. The Champion was standing in a stadium, an oval arena filled with rising seats. It could have held ten thousand Transhumans and mortal serfs combined and today it was coming close to that measure. Throngs of cheering people cried out in eagerness, ready for the event to begin. Novak put it from his mind as he examined the floor. It was white and divided into two metre squares, creating a grid pattern. No clever tricks would win the day, this would require pure skill. The far walls were covered in frescos of gladiatorial conquests, musclebound Transhuman fighting naked as blood flowed freely. The night sky above the Fortress-Monastery was clear of cloud cover and the air was crisp with frost, but looming floodlights cast a brilliant glow and blotted out the stars. This was the Arena Victorum, a stage for the most epic clashes of honour and glory, reserved for the most triumphant of days and contests of valour. It had not been used by the Storm Heralds Chapter for eighteen centuries but today it was filled with life once more.

Novak cast his eye over the crowd and saw many faces, serfs by the thousand and Space Marines in lesser numbers. The majority of the ten Companies were absent, busy training to embrace the new doctrines and technologies brought by the Indomitus Crusade, but a Fortress-Monastery was never undefended. There were gunship pilots and tank drivers, Techmarines, Apothecaries and Chaplains, crippled training-instructors, raw Aspirants and shaven-headed Neophytes and more. In a private box sat the Librarians, the warrior-psykers given a wide berth by the fearful and superstitious rabble who kept well away. Many of those gathered were Primaris, the new paradigm of Space Marine but many more were Firstborn. Yet they were all Storm Heralds, sworn to the Brotherhood of the Chapter unto death.

Novak's examination was cut short as a procession marched into the cold night air. High above a regal box was swiftly filled by a party of truly glorious figures. Nameless Honour Guards filled in, their eagle-mask helms watchful and the power axes in their hands bared and ready for action. Next came ten standard-bearers in perfect formation, their heavy banners held firmly in Ceramite gauntlets. Novak spotted Lieutenant Smyth among them, a Primaris honoured to carry the flag of Third Company. Then came the familiar sights of Tenth-Captain Nimodes, Master of Recruits, his face bearing his customary sideburns and his face filled with pride. To his left marched First Captain Jemiel, another Primaris, barely known to the Chapter yet granted the second highest rank. Lastly came Chapter Master Phalros the Pure, resplendent in his artificer armour and with a Relic power fist of legendary repute on his arm.

Silence fell as Phalros looked over the arena then declared, "Ten entered this arena but now two remain. Who shall be the victor, who shall stand for the Chapter in the coming days?!"

The crowd roared in approval, calling out names and Novak was irked to note there were a lot more calling out the name Ramael than Novak. Phalros held up his hand and the crowd fell quiet as he said, "This decision is not ours to make but is in the remit of Him on Terra. Are you ready to face His judgement?"

From across the arena a deep voice issued forth, "We who are about to die salute His glory!"

Novak grimaced under his helm and cried, "Bring it on, before we die of old age!"

Phalros did an admirable job hiding his annoyance at the impudent quip and uttered, "He will reveal His will in the hallowed sanctity of combat. To the third blood, for the honour of the Chapter… begin!"

Novak put all else from his mind as he turned to face his opponent. Advancing towards him came another Champion, Ramael of Fourth Company. His armour was equally glorious but he had short white cape and matching helm, while a Crux Terminatus hung upon his left shoulder, reserved only for those who had fought in the First Company. His right knee bore the Laurel of Exactitude, signalling Ramael had ended an entire war with a single thrust of his blade by Taking the head of the Eldar Autarch J'swinde and ending his campaign of woe. Ramael was everything a Champion should be and his hands bore twin power swords.

Ramael advanced steadily and lifted his hands high. He began spinning his blades in a helicopter motion, cutting the air with whooshing noises of metal and the crackle of disruption fields. The crowd sighed in awe but Novak wasn't impressed and he wasn't fooled. This move was flashy and sloppy and Ramael was too good to make that mistake. The pair of them had seen off eight other Champions and neither of them had done so by showboating.

Novak stepped back, shield and sword held tight as he retreated. Ramael followed step for step, keeping their distance even. Novak spared a second to consider his foe. Ramael was Firstborn and a veteran to boot. Novak would have preferred to fight a Primaris; they were young and sloppy, too accustomed to fighting from a position of strength. Firstborn had spent ten millennia fighting against impossible odds, always outnumbered, outgunned and outmatched by the horrors that lurked behind the stars. Such a history begat spines of adamantium, unyielding tenacity and zeal that could not be broken. That spelt trouble in Novak's book.

Suddenly Ramael lunged; both his swords sweeping left and then coming straight back for Novak's flank. It was a bold move but the Champion had been expecting it. He skipped sideways and angled his blade diagonally to counter, catching one sword and letting the other sail past without touching him. Energy flared as the two disruption fields met, showering sparks that made the crowd coo in amazement. Instantly Novak attacked, going for the centre mass with a vicious slice but Ramael twisted left and caught the sword in an 'X' made of his blades. He pushed away and then was on the attack again.

Novak fell back in surprise, for defence with two swords was a troublesome prospect, only a fool or a master would attempt it. Ramael's skill became more obvious as he pressed his attack, a flurry of sweeping slices and thrusts that created a whirling dervish of spinning metal. Novak parried with his sword and blocked with his shield, fighting to the utmost to keep the Fourth Champion at bay. Normally he liked to play dumb, fighting slowly at first to lull his foe into a false sense of security, but against this foe that was not an option. Ramael was pure aggression, insanely skilled and determined to win at all costs. Novak was fighting to his utmost yet barely holding his own.

In a dazzling display of skill the two champions danced across the arena, hands moving so fast the mortals in the crowd could not even see what was happening. Two supremely skilled swordsmen skipping across the floor, equally matched in speed and strength. Two artists in their element, paired dancers in a ballet of deadly force, one that Novak knew well. This was what separated him from most of his kin, he understood war was an art. All Space Marines were superior combatants but most treated war as a science of destruction, or an intricate machine or even as the trading of punches until one fighter fell over. So few grasped the tempo and the grace of fighting but Novak did. He moved with lightning speed, always in motion and his feet skipped and jumped like a dancer's.

By comparison Ramael was a raging bull, always attacking but never in the same way twice. Intuitive, adaptive and sly, he combined forms and styles with ease, creating intricate webs of thrusts and lunges that should not be possible. Novak fended off countless blows for his heart, blocking with his shield and sword as energy flared from each contact. He could see Ramael was indeed the superior swordsman, he would be a fool to deny it, but he was growing to understand that skill hid a weakness. Ramael's attack was contemptuous in nature, scorning defence and disregarding his opponent's ability to hit back. Ramael was proud, staggeringly proud, he fought to prove his superiority in all things and such a soul could not bear the thought of not being held in awe.

Novak blocked a thrust with his shield, as he countered another lunge with his sword, then jumped back shouting, "Are you done limbering up yet or shall we warm-up a bit more?"

Ramael advanced in fury as he spat, "Shut up."

Novak pranced away as he laughed, "Don't tell me you've been seriously trying, I thought you were supposed to be good."

Ramael swung widely as he roared, "Be silent!"

Novak let the blow sail past as he mocked, "Maybe I should fight one-handed to give you a chance."

"No one mocks me!" Ramael roared as he lunged with both blades.

Novak saw his chance and acted. His feet spun him about and his blade stabbed low, tearing through Ramael's thigh armour with a quick thrust. Ramael staggered and Novak's sword lifted, slicing over his right arm, leaving a trail of blood running down his forearm. Novak was elated but his joy was shattered as Ramael recovered and swept about. Faster than any Transhuman had a right to move his swords lashed out, tearing across Novak's back. The Champion was already leaping away but he felt the pain in his flesh, a few more centimetres and his spine would have been severed. Ramael wasn't' fighting to win a trophy, he was trying to kill Novak.

Novak jumped clear and spun about as Ramael sneered, "You're bleeding."

"So are you," Novak commented snidely, "Two each, next blow wins."

"Just the way I like it."

Ramael advanced, twin swords held low at his sides. Novak tightened his defence as Ramael threw himself into the fray. This time he did not go for the heart but came on with a flurry of roundhouse blows. Left low, right low, left high, right low, right high, right low, right low, left high, without pattern or reason. It was all Novak could do to hold him off, fighting with every last dreg of speed and strength. Each impact on his defence sent sparks flying and his arms grew numb from the constant hammering. His limbs burned from the effort, even a Space Marine's physiology tested sorely by the furious pace of the combat. Every blow came a hair closer to his body, each attack nearer to spilling his blood. His world shrank as the crowd disappeared and all else was lost save the flurry of flashing swords around his form. Growing smaller and smaller as Novak was battered down to nothing.

Novak knew he was losing and fought for space, sending forth a kick to the groin. It was a poor blow and Ramael easily swayed back as he growled, "You're running out of moves loudmouth."

Novak braced for the next onslaught as he retorted, "You're not half as good as people say, how did you beat an Eldar pirate with these sloppy moves?"

"Autarch!" Ramael snarled furiously, "I best an Autarch with my own two hands!"

There it was again, that wretched pride and Novak suddenly saw the way. He lifted his voice and uttered, "One Autarch, Is that it?! I've traded blows with the Dusk Prince; I stood at the heart of the defence cast the legions of Chaos from our home. I stood with the Primarch's Own against Lessall and I have fought under the gaze of our Gene-father. Yes, Roboute Guilliman saw me fight and he gave me a nod of approval!"

That last part was a lie but it sent Ramael into a rage. Roaring with punctured pride he threw himself forward, blades lashing for Novak's throat. Novak was an inch from death but he did not retreat, he stepped forward and stabbed for the hearts. At the last instant Ramael abandoned his attack and crossed his blades to block, but Novak suddenly veered off. His blade sailed high and Ramael overbalanced, his wrists crossing with no attack to block. Instantly Novak's shield hand darted forth, catching both wrists in a ceramite gauntlet. Ramael jerked back but it was too late as Novak heaved the arms downwards and then drove his helm forward in a headbutt.

Ceramite rang on ceramite and Novak saw stars but Ramael was staggered by the dirty blow. He stumbled for half a heartbeat but it was enough for Novak's sword to dart low and slice across the back of his greaves, cutting armour and spilling blood. Ramael collapsed to the floor and the crowd gasped in shock at the unexpected reversal.

Novak stepped back, chest heaving with exertion. His hearts thundered in his ribcage and his vision swam, his Transhuman body tested to the limit. Yet he uttered, "Third… blood…."

Ramael spat, "I thought you had grace but that was a low blow, unworthy of a Champion."

"That kind of thinking is why you lost," Novak quipped.

Novak did not humiliate Ramael by offering his hand; a Space Marine would be shamed to need assistance to stand. Instead he turned to the regal box and lifted his blooded sword high to proclaim, "For the Third, I claim the victor's laurels!"

Phalros looked down from on high and if he was vexed by this outcome he gave no hint as he pronounced, "Thus is the Emperor's will made known, may none question His wisdom. Brother Novak shall represent the Storm Heralds as Chapter Champion in the upcoming Feast of Blades and fight for a place among the Victrix Guard!"