A World Fallen - A Knights Angelicus Story

Knight-Marshall Wilhelm Brandt sat in the blasted remains of what was once a grand cathedral to the God-Emperor, and considered his hands. Around him the world burned and crumbled, demons uncounted and heretics unnumbered slaughtered all they found. It was a doomed world, and all that remained to do, all that COULD be done, was save those few left who were alive.

“Brother Wilhelm.” The Knight-Marshall looked up, as he was approached by another marine. The black and red livery of the Knights Angelicus was marred by scarring and damage, chunks of the ceramite plating had sloughed off like snake skin, revealing circuitry and fibre-bundles beneath. Knight-Brother Konrad Vogt, a dutiful and diligent marine, one of his own.

“We have finished an accounting of our remaining ammunition. Between all remaining, partially used magazines, there is less than sixty bolter rounds remaining.”

Wilhelm nodded solemnly at the information. His gaze drifted out to the window high up in the stone building he was in. At one point it may have held a gorgeous window of stained glass, filling the room with the emperor’s light…but now it was a smashed ruin of sharp edges, the only light that filtered through a harsh, cruel red from the world that died outside. A moments pause, a reflection on what was lost, before he turned his attention to Konrad.

“One of us will use the remaining ammunition. For the rest of us, our strength will have to do.” He replied, his attention turning back to his hands. Gingerly, he attempted to close one fist, watching his fingers twitching and shake. He knew what had poisoned him so, as side still ached with the freshness of the blow. A Slaaneshi blade, slipping past his exhausted defenses and scarring his side, had left behind a venom that coursed through his veins. With time and an apothecaries touch it could perhaps have been treated, but as it stood, there would be little chance of amelioration.

The feudal world of Sakanna had been under their charge, protected by the Knights Angelicus and orders of their own warriors. But an assault by forces of chaos, Slaanesh cultists and khorne madmen and hordes of demons, had caught the world unprepared. Wilhelm and his warriors had scrambled to save what they could, passing from desolated village to desolate village. Though they looked, nothing remained, all had been burned, every corpse they found a testament to their growing failure…
But some had survived.

In a desecrated village, no different than the last, Wilhelm’s squad had come across a small gathering of children, saved by the sacrifice of their parents and practically buried beneath the rubble of their desolated home. It wasn’t much, but if they couldn’t save everyone, they could at least save these innocent souls.

Two score of Sakannan Knights, and one squad of Knight Angelicus, all to protect a few poor children. Fifty men against a world, and they were down to four. Brandt, Vogt, a large and cantankerous marine named Richter, and an exceptional Sakannan Knight named Lorenz. At the cost of forty-seven lives, they had made it this far, a few hundred meters from the rendezvous.
But it was too far.

“The children are tired.” The exhaustion in Lorenz’ voice was undeniable, as it should have been. He had come just as far, faced just as many challenges as the others, but his body was not Astartes. For all his courage and will, he was mortal, and it was beginning to show.
“They are injured as well. There is no way they will be able to make the journey.”

“Then we will carry them, if need be.” Wilhelm could hear the wavering conviction in Knight Lorenz’ voice, and did not blame him. What he had done, what he had been through was above and beyond what he could have reasonably been expected to do. But no amount of duty would save these children, only actions. He needed to put an end to this concern, keep them focused.

“There are far too many to carry, let alone fight.”

“Then we will fashion a cart from the remains, and drag them if need be.”

“I am not a pack animal to drag passengers.” It was Richter’s turn to speak, marching over to join the gathered trio, a note of arrogance in his voice. Richter was a capable marine, but perhaps a bit too invested in his own nobility, so to speak.
“And I am not unaware of the presence of your blood kin among those rescued.” Wilhelm frowned at Richter’s accusation. It was true. Among the myriad of children they had gathered, there was one he hadn’t expected. A child, only of a few years, bearing a pendant identical to one of his own. It had been a gift from his parents, hand carved by loving hands. But of course, there were no parents when he had found the child, as none had survived…

“It is not a matter of importance.” Wilhelm growled. “We will do our duty. And you will do yours, regardless of what is asked.”

“Sir.” That was the end of it. Richter was bold enough to speak his mind, but he was loyal, and would do what needed doing.
“What of your hand, Knight-Marshall?” It was Konrad’s turn to speak, drawing his attention back to the Knight-Marshall’s twitching hand. Ah, yes, that problem. Wilhelm considered them once more. His left he could close and open with some strength, but his right resisted him. The nerves twitched and fought with waves of agonizing pain, making it difficult to control, difficult to hold anything. That would have to be rectified.

“Bring me rope, from the rubble yonder.” He motioned, Konrad nodding and complying. As he did, Wilhelm looked to the side at the weapon that rested against the stone wall near him. Sturmbecher was its name. It was a magnificent sword, shaped in the style of the knights of this world, but enhanced with the technology of the stars. It would glimmer a powerful blue when alight with its power field, no armor or artifice proof against its cutting edge. It was truly beautiful.

Or at least, it was beautiful.

Endless battle without chance for reprieve or repair had sullied its once gleaming surface, and the corrupted ichor of hellish beings ate it at like acid, leaving it a fragment of its former glory. Such a weapon deserved all the care and attention that a master could adore it with, but none would be forthcoming, as its dignity faded with each stroke.
But it would have to do for one last fight.

As Konrad returned, Wilhelm reached out, placing the hilt of the weapon in his right hand, forcibly closing his fingers tight, with the other binding them around the weapon.

“Tie the rope around my fingers.” He ordered. “As tight as you can.”

“Knight-Marshall…” Konrad protested, but complied, beginning to bind the rope tight. “…you will lose the use of your hand.”

“I have no more need for a hand.” Wilhelm replied grimly. “But I have yet a need for a sword.”

The weapon was bound firmly, as Wilhelm stood, measuring his brother’s work. A cursory swing, and the rope did not give. This would do.
“My lord, let us be realistic.” Lorenz had earned the right to speak in such a fashion, in blood and courage, as he stepped forward. “The odds are not with us. The three of you alone might be able to make it, sprinting and moving with all your strength. But with the children and….me…” His face dropped, acknowledging his limitations. “…then we shall all perish. It is what it is. Better that we stay here, and give you a chance, then to all die in the open.”

“Are you afraid, mister?”

A soft voice turned four heads to find a small child, standing at the feet of Knight Lorenz, bravely squeezing a small doll in one hand. Somehow, someway, the gathered warriors were made silent as she spoke.

“It’s okay. The priest man says whenever you’re afraid, think of the Angels! They will always come to save you if you believe enough. They never give up, and they are never afraid!”

No one spoke, as the knights listened. The girl then pointed her fingers at Richter.

“See! He’s an angel! He will never give up, you’ll see!”

Without a word, the four men moved to their task. From that point on, there was no fear, no danger, no monster of the warp that would stop them from seeing their duty done.

The door to their hiding space was shoved open, and four warriors stepped forth. From behind, Richter dragged a cart full of children, hastily repaired from the remains of the ruins around them, and bearing a bolter and the squads remaining ammunition. To the side, Konrad, his chainsword beginning to rev in violent anticipation of the coming conflict, his chipped and stained combat knife in the other. Smaller, but every bit their equal in intent came Lorenz, his greatsword held high. It had barely an edge left, but what remained of its master-forged lethality would be put to use here and now. In the front, marched Wilhelm, his determination iron, a knife in one hand, his sword bound to the other.
Almost immediately the gathered group was detected, as dark things begin to swarm. Mutated cultists in endless numbers, daemons cackling among them, began to pour from the cracks of the ruined city, abandoning whatever torments and destructions they were laying upon a hapless world to see to these fresh victims, and deprive them of their salvation. But they found not the battered, broken survivors of a dying civilization, but warriors, knights, forged in fire and wrapped in will of steel. Knight-Marshall Wilhelm stepped forth, raising his sword in a solute.

“KNIGHTS ANGELICUS, WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” He called out, his voice amplified by his vox into a world-shaking roar.

“OUR NAME IS HONOR.” Came the reply, two voices, but they sounded like a thousand. Wilhelm extended his sword forward.

“KNIGHTS ANGELICUS, WHAT IS YOUR DUTY?”

“OUR DUTY IS ETERNAL.” The marines moved into a jog, Lorenz starting to run to catch up, heading towards the gathering mass. Wilhelm lowered his sword into a prepared stance.

“KNIGHTS ANGELICUS, WHAT IS YOUR OATH?’

“OUR OATH IS WRATH.” The hordes of hell surged forth, and the Knights rose up to meet them.

Wear and strain had dulled their blades and weakened their bodies, but their resolve was unmatched, and their dedication insurmountable. The bolter flared, swords and knives swung, and the forces of chaos died, carving a path of blood, a red sea parted by their blades. But for all their deeds, none could stand beside Wilhelm, a warrior apart. His blade sang as if wielded by the hand of the Father of Angels himself, moving with a skill unmatched in his life, or the lives of those who witnessed it. He had become a lord of the sword, and all he touched came to ruin. Where this angel of red and black moved, the waves of hell stilled, and slowly, surely, they advanced.

In the distance, their destination, their salvation, approached. A landing pad still untouched by the ravages of war, and a lone Thunderhawk, circling, ready to land at the last moment to recover what it could. If they could only make it, they could be freed. They need not kill every monster…just a few more. But a furious cry shattered their escalating triumph, as eyes turned to see Konrad, impaled through the chest by not one, but two hellblades, driven through his armor by cackling daemons that mocked his dying breaths and reveled in the spilling of holy blood. As his life faded, he grasped one horned head and jammed it into the spinning blades of his chainsword, rending it to mulch in one final act of defiance, as Lorenz stepped in and, with a weak but desperate courage, drove his sword through the face of the other.

"My Lord!” Lorenz gasped, ripping the sword from the ruined body as he turned, looking at the Marshall, and up the steps to the landing pad. “We might yet make it. We are almost-“

He had no more words to speak, only a look of shock, the smallest moment of realization, before the sliver of blood circled his neck. His body collapsed, his head rolling off, bouncing down the staircase. And in his place, unholy death strode forth.

Thus far, the knights had only to content with madmen and lesser daemons, minor things that could be cut down and cast aside, but the beast that strode forth was of Astartes blood, a traitor marine, an equal in strength Wilhelm and his kin. The macabre face of this monstrous man was split with a fanged grin, kicking the corpse of the lowly human from out of his way as he stepped forth in challenge to Wilhelm, a wicked blade of Slaanesh in one hand, a thirsting axe of Khorne in the other.

“RICHTER, GO!” Wilhelm commanded, taking of a stance to face the warrior, who turned to circle him.
“Brother I won’t-“
“DO NOT STOP UNTIL THEY ARE SAFE, GO!” There was a certain desperation in the Knight-Marshall’s voice, a break from his usual steady demeanor; a desperation Richter could not help but notice, as he obeyed his commanders wishes, sprinting up the steps as quickly as he could, children in tow. The warrior of chaos charged forth, and Wilhelm met him, blade to blade.

As master of the sword, Wilhelm had few equals, trained in years of dedication and honed by a focus and commitment that only an Astartes of his caliber could possess. But what he faced across from him was a rare equal, matching his skill, his speed, his strength. But Wilhelm was wounded, his body exhausted, his weapons chipped and dulled, his armor cracked. His foe, this cackling murderer of a man, knew no such limitations, his weapons howling with daemonic fury as the knight found himself giving ground, his defeat a possibility, then soon, an inevitability. But if he could buy just a minute longer, a moment more of the warrior’s time…

The rope that bound his hand to his sword slipped, loosened, and for a moment the weapon slipped from his grasp, betraying his defense, a defense the chaos marine eagerly exploited. With a flash of pain, Wilhelm gasped, the crumbled, feeling the deep cut across his side, carved by, perhaps most cruelly, the blade of Slaanesh. The Knight-Marshall collapsed on the ground, his body betraying him in agonizing sensation, paralyzed by the poison of the weapons edge. He could hardly move, hardly fight, and all he could do was listen to the cackle of his slayer’s mocking laughter.

Blinking, Wilhelm turned his head, wondering why there was no finishing blow, as he looked up the stairs. Dragging a cart full of struggling children made Richter slow, his passage laborious and struggling. Not so for the warrior of chaos. Grinning in gleeful anticipation, he began to stalk upwards, moving far faster than Richter and the children could escape. Without a weapon to defend himself and a bolter deprived of ammunition, Richter would fall to the marine, and the children would die before his eyes.

Wilhelm lay there, helpless, as he felt frustration and agony well up within him. He had failed. He would watch his warriors die, watch his blood brother be slaughtered before him, and there was nothing he could do. This frustration sank deep, turning into rage… a rage, that stirred something within him. Wilhelm knew this rage well, as it was a curse, a malady of his bloodline, and one every Knight Angelicus had come to fear. He had trained to quell that rage, to control it, bury it deep beneath…but not this time. He did not bury that rage, but reached down and grasped it, holding on tight and dragging it to the surface. In that moment, he abandoned his oaths, his convictions, his training. He evoked every memory, every lost brother, every burned city, every scar and wound upon his body, and then pulled, drawing that blackness to the surface, and descending into it, like a dark and boiling pool of water, losing himself entirely.

Little Otto had never known his older brother, born so far apart, though he had heard stories of him, this noble first son who had joined the Angels. So, to meet him was a strange occurrence, one his young mind could hardly comprehend. This older brother of his was distant, aloof, incomprehensible, less a brother to him than his pet dog had been. But in all the horrors and terrors of their journey, big brother Wilhelm had kept him safe, and he had trusted that, shaking off any fear in faith of what the Angel could do.
But as that horrifying scream poured up the stair case, it shook the poor child to his core. He couldn’t help but look, gripping desperately to the cart but compelled by instincts to follow that overwhelming sound. But it wasn’t coming from the fallen angel that stalked after them, as he too had turned back, looking behind him.

It came from his brother.

Wilhelm stormed up the staircase, moving as if he had never been injured, his face lost to a black wrath as he crashed upon the warrior of chaos. Where once that vile swordsman had dominated their duel, now he could only defend, fighting back against a flurry of blows no human should be capable of delivering, nor so swiftly or with such force.

Richter only paused for a moment as he heard the scream, before redoubling his efforts, dragging the remains of the children up the stairs. As the world burned around them, the Thunderhawk landed, its ramp dropping even before it touched the ground. Without warning, Richter grabbed the cart and, with a howl of exertion, hurled it into the gunship, sending wood and children tumbling inside; they would be unhappy and injured, but they would live. He did not wait, leaping in and slamming the button to close the door behind him.

“Big Brother Wilhelm!” Otto cried out, stumbling to the edge, only to be stopped by a hand from Richter. As the Thunderhawk rose up into the sky, the door closed, giving them the last few glimpses of the battle raging below.

“what…what happened to him?” He asked. Down on the stairs, Wilhelm screamed in rage, his body a tornado of blade and fury, daemons gathering around him in growing hordes, as he stood atop the headless remains of the warrior of chaos.
“He has broken his oaths, and given himself to rage.” Richter spoke, as the door shut at last. “So that we…so that you, may live.”