Blood and Iron: An Iron Juggernaughts Story

*Carne Imperius* stood out over the blasted ruins of the wasteland around, a centerpoint of ferrocrete and vileness among an endless snaking web of trenches and fortifications. It was a fortress of chaos, the command center of the forces of the khorne-worshipping Imperium of Blood, and its pronouncement of faith was etched in crimson along its walls.

Lokan Dall was one of ten thousand plus corrupted souls that protected this great grey construction, moving through its dark halls like a rat in a maze. It was a dank, unwelcoming place to live, but for Lokan, it was home, and he was flush with pride.

Lokan was a young man, though it was hard to tell, as his body was covered with scars, some fresh, some old. Bloodletting was a holy ritual to these warriors, offering theirs to the Red God, often on the eve of battle…and there was always a battle. He strode through those long halls, in a line of a hundred men, covered in flak armor that itself was dotted with cutting edges and blades, all the better to shed the blood of any who dared get too close to the holy warriors of the Imperium.

As he passed aside a look-out, Lokan stared through a viewport a meter thick into the no man’s land beyond. The land was pockmarked with holes and craters from years of artillery barrages. Somewhere, in that thick sea of mud, were the servants of the Corpse-Emperor, the so-called Imperial Guard, worshippers of a false-deity, who had come to reclaim their world from holier hands. Lokan could hear the moans of their soldiers, not beyond the fortress, but inside it; crucified to the walls behind him were rows of prisoners, their bodies cut in a thousand painful, superficial wounds as their blood seeped down onto the floor, disappearing into culverts as rivulets of red, further sanctifying their impenetrable fortress.

*Carne Imperius* had stood against their attacks for years, withstanding assaults, orbital bombardments, and enough shelling to move continents, and it had not been moved. So as the ground shook around Lokan, he knew no fear, for none could break this fortress, as it if was wrapped itself in the bronze armor of the Red God.

“Look forth, Warriors of Blood!” The Priest cried out, as he stepped up onto the battlement, Lokan and a thousand warriors taking their positions. “The servants of a dead lord, a false god, gather once again to try and root us from our dominions!”

He pointed outwards, into the sea of mud. Artillery cracked against void shields in the sky and blowing geysers of dirt in the air, as vast armies move in the darkness beneath. “They have faith, oh, yes, my brothers in Red, they have faith. But it is faith in a lie, faith in an illusion, nothing more. Their god is a corpse. Our god is real, and he is strong.”

The gathered throng of warriors cheered, a growing chorus, and Lokan among them, drowning out the whimpers and moans of the tortured men dying on the walls behind them, even eclipsing above the explosions the cracked against the invincibility of their fortress.

“They will come, and we will cast them down, for the thousandth time, and a thousand times again! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD.”

“SKULLS FOR THE THRONE OF KHORNE!” Came the resounding cry, and Lokan raised his autogun high in a cheer of defiance. They could come, but they would never break their will, none could stand before the Red God.

“Orbital bombardment incoming!” Came the shout down the line, and to a man the Blood Guardsmen took a knee, preparing for the loud impact of the blasts upon the shield above. Lokan looked up, spotting the flickers of light in the distance. The fortress had been bombarded a dozen times since he had arrived, but this was…different. It was too slow, too dark, it almost looked like…

The systems defenses figured it out moments after he did, but it was too late. Massive autocannons turned and churned, attempting to align as quickly as they could with the incoming threats, filling the air with a hailstorm of shells. But the incoming transports were coming in too fast; slow enough to pass through the void shields unharmed, but swift enough the anti-air defenses couldn’t respond. Lokan’s eye went wide, as he was able to see it, the incoming transports. It wasn’t a landing ship, it was…

His world exploded, the fortress shaking as if it had been hit by a hammer swung by the Red God himself, knocking him and all those around him onto their feet. Ferrocrete blasted into the air around them, a chunk of the fortress collapsing inwards, crumbling in response to the sudden assault. Lokan’s ears rang, and his vision swam, blinding him to the world briefly as his senses were knocked aside.

Voices screamed, and boots rang past, as he gradually found his feet, grasping at the autogun he had almost lost. Whole armies of men scrambled past him, hundreds surging towards a great crater that had been carved into the heart of their impenetrable. Those voices were orders, shouts to charge and attack. But it wasn’t alone, the staccato ring of autogun fire, the steady drum of something deeper, heavier, and the explosive, sudden sounds of death. But there was something else, a rhythm that rose above the death and violence, that shook him to his core.

**“Bid bol ükhliin naimaachid.”**

It was a deep and terrible throat singing that reverberated through the structure, as if screamed by a thousand voices, amplified as it passed down the ferrocrete halls.

**“Bid olzoo nekhekh gej irlee.”**

The sound alone of it made Lokan want to flee and cower, but the pressure of his companions surging forth gave him courage, as he whispered to strength from the Red God, grabbing his weapon, and charging into the ruined crater.

Finding a chunk of crumbled wall to hide behind, Lokan dived into cover, peeking around the corner at what was attacking them, as he bore witness to destined death itself. A great, teardrop shaped ship had smashed into their castle with such force it had crushed it in like an aluminum can, several floors of fortress smashed downwards into great piles of pulverized ferrocrete. The vessel had then opened up like a flower, five ramps dropping down, discharging the warriors within.

Lokan had heard stories of these Adeptus Astartes, these gene-enhanced space marines. The priests had called them dangerous but foolish, their commitment to an empty deity making them nothing before their own holy might.

But the warriors he saw struck only fear into his heart.

They were massive brutes, covered in iron-colored ceramite, and lined in bronze, a strange runic symbol etched into their pauldrons. Pelts and fetishes dangled from their shoulders and waists, reminding him of some ancient, feral warrior from their distant past. But the weapons they wielded were not so primitive, though they barked death like ferocious beasts.

The space marines moved from their vessel in a circle, spreading outwards at a steady, unstoppable pace, fire flaring from their bolters as they sang a dirge of war. Autogun rounds by the thousands blinked harmlessly off their impervious metal shells like hail off a roof, but the return fire was no less harmless. Like a scythe through wheat, every bolt round fired struck a warrior, exploding them in a mist of flesh as the flurry of shots carved away at the defenders by the dozens every second, the space marine advancing like implacable juggernauts of steel.
Lokan rose above, shouting a warrior’s cry and ready to add his fire to the mix, before a flash of red blinded him. As he blinked his eyes free, he caught sight of the torsoless corpse of the guardsman that had stood beside him only a second ago, the remains of him now staining the his armor.

“FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” came a rallying cry, as emerging from where they were hidden behind cover the priest and a dozen men charged, ambushing one of those iron giants. The blood priest had a great chainsword in his hands, miraculously closing the distance in moments before their enemy could align to cut him down, and swinging the eviscerating weapon in a great, killing arc.

Not that it mattered.

Moving with shocking speed for a being his size, the space marine tossed his bolter aside, as if reveling in the chance for hand-to-hand combat, turning to face his new assailant. The blow never struck, the weapon caught in the lightning-fast grip of the giant, as he simultaneously threw a catastrophic punch at the priest’s head. Lokan wasn’t sure if it was the vicious indentation in his face, or the fact that his neck was now turned and an impossible angle that killed him, but the blessed speaker of the Red God crumbled to the ground, lifeless and weak. Drawing a wicked blade as he moved, the marine descended into the charging men like an avalanche on a forest. They had knives, bayonets, axes and all the faith in the blood god in the galaxy, but it meant for naught in the face of such implacable violence. One guardsman was sent tumbling from a back hand, body snapped in half from the solid blow. Another took that knife to the chest, sliced into two clean pieces as the marine ripped his weapon from that hapless body. One attacker found a bit of luck, driving his bayonet into the side of the marine…only to watch in horror as it deflected off harmlessly. With almost contemptuous ease, the marine body checked the awestruck guarsman into the wall, moving on as the red paste of his victim’s body slid down the ferrocrete wall. Never once did the marine stop his constant, deathly singing, nor did their voices break in the midst of the endless killing.

It couldn’t have been a minute since the drop pod had landed and the marines disembarked, but already over a hundred dead circled the crater, and there was no evidence they had even slowed the advancing juggernauts. Let alone accomplished anything but consume ammunition.

A glorious roar drew Lokan’s rapt attention from the meat grinder in front of him, as he turned to the sound of great, pounding footfalls. Surging from the depths of the fortress was an enormous beast, technically a man but so far removed from such a thing as to be unrecognizable. An ogryn, dedicated to chaos, and mutated by blessings from the Red God into a horrifying monstrosity of flesh and fury. It held in its hands great, edged blades, perfect for unsubtle cleaving, and it was covered in armor so thick it might as well have been a tank.

Lokan’s heart surged, and he, along with a dozen warriors around, shouted in praise to their god, encouraging the roaring beast on as he charged towards the invaders. Finally, a blessing to even the score; even these horrendous warriors could not stand against such holy might!!!

Lokan watched as the beast sprinted into the crater, as immediately a trio of bolters turning on the great red monster. He grinned in satisfaction as he watched those deadly rounds bounce off the beast’s armor; your weapons were no match for the strength of the Red God, corpse-worshippers, Lokan thought. The ogryn bee-lined for the marine he could only assume was their commander; his pelts and fetishes were the largest and most glorious, and he bore a bolt pistol in one hand, and a great, glowing power axe in the other. Crush the commander, he thought, and break these giants’ will. Blood for the Blood God!

The ogryn closed the gap, taking a monstrous swing that could rend a tank, but the Iron Marine moved with shocking grace, effortlessly side stepping the blow. As he did, he brought his axe up from a low stance, raking it across the thigh of the ogryn, sending a fountain of blood in the air. The massive warrior tumbled to the ground with a thud, losing its footing from the crippling strike. Before the enormous being could right itself, the marine stepped over, casually bringing the axe down, severing the beasts head. It hadn’t even struck a blow.

The futility of it all was beginning to sink in to Lokan; it didn’t matter what they did, nothing seemed to stop these Marines. It seems though, his allies still thought different. Another great shout, and this time a horde of flesh poured over the wall in a tightly packed line, surging into the crater. Lokan recognized them, the Fanatics; those men and women who had lost themselves to holy fervor for their god, who would charge at their enemies with no sense of self-preservation, cutting them to pieces in holy, bloody close combat.

Maybe this was it, Lokan thought, picking himself up to get a better look. There were scores of them, packed into a great, charging mass. A bolter and blade could only kill one at a time, and there was no way they could kill them all before the gathered throng would drag them to the ground and shove their blades up every vulnerable nook and cranny of their armor.

The Astartes, though, disagreed.

Each warrior moved to grab at a frag grenade at their belt, hurling them underhand with the same casual ease that one might pass a drink to a friend. These grenades soared as if launched from a cannon, and despite it all Lokan couldn’t help but be amused as he watched the front line of the charging Fanatics crumble from the impact of the volley, bowled over by the massive strength of the throws. A half second later, a dozen frag grenades exploded, and the entire mass, what must have been over a hundred fanatics charging in a single line, vanished in a flash of blood and gore.

They couldn’t be stopped.

Lokan began to panic, heart racing. In less than two minutes these iron giants had carved through hundreds of his allies, effortlessly overcoming their monstrous champions, smashing aside their defenses, and they had yet to be injured or even slowed, their horrifying, endless singing driving fear into the hearts of every man and woman in the fortress. They couldn’t stop them. They…they were going to kill them all!

He had only started to run, when an explosion of ferrocrete to his side send him tumbling to the ground. An iron fist had punched through the wall, grasping at the neck of a guardsman just beside him, before slamming him back into it, crushing him against the very place that he had been trying to hide. A moment later, the whole marine came through, smashing through the ferrocrete like a wrecking ball, his iron form untouched, his pelts billowing. The marine raised his weapon, barking death, as around him, more and more of his companions cried out and died.

So like those around him, Lokan ran.

“THE BUNKER, GET TO THE-“ the man next to him screamed, before his body exploded. That was his only option, he and a dozen others scrambling towards the slowly closing adamantium doors of the shelter within. Bodies scrambled to make it past, Loken along with, as the gathered mass of retreating soldiers was thinned out, bit by bit, from the marines unceasing fire. Lokan’s breath was ragged, his legs weak, his head pounding with panic and fear, as a hundred other warriors sprinted around him, each lost to cowardice, desperate to save themselves.

Lokan made it just as the door was closing, squeezing in in the last second before tumbling into the dark room beyond as the great, adamantium door was closed shut. Too few had made it, the rest left outside to die.

Exhausted and covered in blood and viscera – none of it his – Lokan found his feet, stumbling against the wall, shocked by the strange silence of it. The walls muffled the sound of violence outside, but this close to the walls, he could just make out the sounds of screaming men, banging on the door.

“HELP US!” Came their cries, damped by steel…but no one in the bunker dared move, dared risk opening the door, as the sounds of dying continued, the steady thump of bolter fire resuming unabated.

And then, silence. No more banging on the door, no more cries for help, no more barking of bolter fire. Lokan listened, realizing a klaxon was blaring for the first time, as he looked around the room, staring at a hundred other terrified, shaken men, who had found refuge here along with. Okay. Lokan thought. They were safe for now. It would take some time for the marines to breach the bunker doors, and they could do something. They just needed time. Time to prepare. Get heavier weapons setup. They could do this. The Red God was with them. Lokan looked around, spotting a missile launcher with ammunition in the corner. Yes, okay. They could set that up. Ambush them if they got in. They only had to kill one. Just one and that would be it. Yes, Khorne was with them today. He could die a hero, Blood for the-

An explosion of noise turned his and the head of every guardsman in the bunker, as chunks of ferrocrete blasted inward, a space marine shoving his way inside. It took far too long for Lokan’s brain to register this wasn’t the result of a blasting charge, or heavy weapons fire, or sieging tools. This enormous marine had just…bullrushed his way through a half a meter wall of ferrocrete like a battering ram without slowing down, bypassing the door by simply going through the wall.

Lokan wasn’t the only one stunned by the absurdity of it, the gathered warriors too shocked to move…but the marine wasn’t. He immediately raised his weapon and began firing, every shot finding and killing a victim, carving into the gathered mass of craven warriors with contemptuous ease. Immediately panic overtook them, screams of fear and pleads for mercy falling on deaf ears as they died, one after the other.

For once, Lokan didn’t move. There was nothing he could do, no where to run. It was futile, to try. Nothing could stop them, nothing could slow them down.

What could a man do against an Iron Juggernaut?