An Oath to Hashtor

Chapters

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue

Chapter One

An Oath To Hashtor

A flash in the void. Followed by another.

Ships; thousands of small fighter craft engaged with warp-tainted vessels and creatures as they left the docking bays of their strike cruiser and surrounding support vessels.

Lieutenant Stormhoof did not shift as his thunderhawk gunship jostled from side to side. Explosions bursting around their transport, he eyed the marines assembled before him. The ponies under his command had been hand picked-and specifically selected for their martial prowess. Their goal was to board the enemy flagship, Spear of Silence along with the rest of their battle-brothers, and finally put an end to the Nightgallopers warband.

The Lamenters had managed to ambush the traitor marines after tracking them for seven Equestrian years, they seemed to be very well-versed in the art of stealth, and most irritatingly, Stormhoof thought, they always seemed to be able to slip away just as the Lamenters were on the verge of victory. There were no words that needed to be spoken. Every warrior here knew his role, and they all knew there was a chance they would not return. Nevertheless, Stormhoof decoupled himself from his saddle-harness and stepped forward, the transport bay shaking and shuddering as the thunderhawk’s pilots expertly dodged the incoming barrage.
Walking down the line of stallions, he mentally made his mark 2 helm decouple and collapse, revealing his face, his left hoof stomping at the floor once, the ponies standing to attention
He knew that his Captain would not approve of this sudden strike. That they would be better-suited to destroying them with their ship cannons rather than boarding the enemy. But Stormhoof did not care. He needed a fight. He could feel it in his blood.

He did not speak, instead, studying the helmets of those in front of him. Ten Astartes. Ten of some of the finest ponies he had served alongside were under his command. They had all begun their journey as a space marine at similar times to each other, but not to him-he was simply their lieutenant because he had survived where others hadn’t. All of their red eye-lenses were turned on his face, awaiting his word. What would he say to these ponies, what could he say to them?
He cleared his thoughts as another explosion rocked the outside of the craft. The time for personal doubts was not now. “Brothers.” He began, his voice slightly raised over the clamor of the outside battle. “Hear me now. You have all been chosen to undertake this boarding mission because you are some of the greatest warriors I have ever had the honour of fighting with. You have all read the augury scans. Our breaching site will be the most hostile out of all others during this battle. With our armour we shall bear the brunt of their fire, and with our swords we shall slay them. My oath today is that I will protect the citizens of ponykind from any threat, in the name of the Emperor and our Lord Sanguinius.”
At their mention, the warriors roared their names, and each stomped their left hoof once on the metal-grated floor. “For the Emperor, and our Lord Sanguinius!”
Stormhoof smiled grimly, and reactivated his helmet, locking it into place. His artificer crafted mark 2 armour purred as he trotted back to the rear of the assault bay. Many of them would not return from this battle and he did not rate his own chances. All he could hope for now was an honourable death in battle for the Emperor, and for the recovery of his geneseed in order to ensure the survival of his chapter. His thoughts were snapped back to the present as he received a call over a private vox channel. It was one of the pilots.
“My Lord!”
“Speak brother, what is wrong?”
“Our scanners are picking up enemy craft that had been previously hidden behind us-throne, there are too many of them for us to counter, requesting permission to ask for aid from-”
The vox-link was severed as the transport bay was filled with light. For a moment, there was no sound. Stormhoof did not have time to react as he was blown back through the doors into the access way of the ship. The oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the bay, and he tumbled back the way he came, managing to activate his mag-locks and steady himself before he joined his brother ponies. He grimaced as he looked back through the doorway. There was no transport bay left. It had been torn away by the explosion to be replaced instead by the void of space. He assessed the situation; his brothers were gone, most likely dead. The thunderhawk had sustained heavy damage, enough damage for its stabilization thrusters to cease working, judging by the spinning he saw through the doorway, and he could see a planet below, an inhabitable world outside of Imperium space.

His vox crackled to life again as he analyzed the scene. “My L-Lord. I am sorry.” It was the pilot from before the explosion.
“Be at ease brother, it was not your fault. Tell me, are you hurt?”
“I am, but it is of no issue my Lord.”
The Lieutenant knew he was lying. “Very well. What of the other pilot?”
“Dead, my Lord. I assume that if you are still alright, the Transport bay must be intact?”
“Yes.” he lied, hoping that the pilot would not have the mental fortitude at the moment to check himself.
Breathing an audible sigh of relief, the pilot began running diagnostics checks. The craft was in no condition to fly-in fact, it was unlikely it could ever be repaired if it was recovered. The explosion had cut power to the main engines-engines which were no longer part of the ship. Assuming that vox contact could be re-established with the strike cruiser, it would be several hours in the midst of a space battle before they could be retrieved, and when they had been struck they had fallen into the gravitic pull of the planet below.
“My Lord, we will be unable to escape a landing on the planet. If we are to survive, I will need your assistance.”
“Acknowledged, moving to the cockpit now”

Sliding open the doors, he was greeted with the sight of floating blood droplets. It was worse than he had feared. The glasteel windows had been shattered by a piece of debris, jettisoning everything not bolted to a surface out into the void. The pegasus pilot on the right side’s head was missing, replaced instead by a stump of torn gore that ended in the neck seal of his undersuit. The pegasus on his left was not much better-alive, but he would not be for much longer. A large shard of steel had pierced his battle-plate through the chest and out the other side, pinning him into his chair, and into the floor. The pilot’s head slowly turned as his Lieutenant spoke via a shared vox-link. “You are alive? How can this be?”
“I live to serve, my Lord” He voxed back, the Lieutenant could tell that one of his lungs had been pierced.
“Tell me brother, what is your name?” he asked, still unsure of what he was seeing.
“My name is Fluffybean, my Lord. It was an honour to serve with you. My final duty will be to deliver you and the others safely onto this planet, so that you may all live on in your service to the throne.”
Stormhoof was glad he had not told him the truth. “Thank you, brother Fluffybean. Your sacrifice will be noted and recorded in our chapter archives.”

It was tough work, a lot of the repairs required to safely land on the world below were meant to have been conducted by servitors, or the tech-adepts of mars, not a marine lieutenant in ceramite-clad hooves, though at least he could use his horn. Stormhoof and Fluffybean spoke over the vox. Fluffybean giving him directions, and Stormhoof keeping him from slipping into suspended animation. As Fluffybean climbed out of the cargo bay to manually realign a landing flap, he stopped. The battle was over. He had seen over the partially repaired auspex that the Nightgallopers had begun a fighting withdrawal at least two Equestrian hours ago, with the Lamenters in hot pursuit. So why could he see searchlights moving about in the debris?
After a few more hours’ work, the ship still would never fly again, but power had been restored to what few systems remained. The thunderhawk was no longer spinning in the void, but was now on a straight descent to the planet that awaited them. The main engines had been destroyed in the explosion. Upon inspection of the exterior of the hull, Stormhoof had discovered that one of them had simply vanished, the others torn open and left to bleed their debris across the void. Repairs were conducted on the hoverjets as more were brought back online. It was far from ideal, but Fluffybean had reassured him that it would be enough.

Any attempts to make contact with the broken vox-broadcaster had been useless, despite the searchlights he had seen in the void. Whoever, or whatever was out there was not responding to short-range vox communications. He did not like it. Not one bit.
“My Lord” came Fluffybean’s voice over the vox. He was straining. He was dying.
“Speak”
“We are ready for planetfall. I recommend that you stay in the corridor with the door closed, in case I lose consciousness before we land.”
Cutting his vox-link, Stormhoof sighed. The Lamenters would return for him, but only once they had either destroyed the Nightgallopers, or had lost them. And he now had time for neither.
“Very well then brother. My thanks for your sacrifice. I will tell the others of your deeds this day”
There was a pause. Only the muted crackle of slight static filled the silence.
“My Lord, I noticed that there has not been any vox-traffic between those in the assault bay. We have been here for hours. There were no other survivors, were there?”
And then, the world around him caught fire.

There was no sound-not to begin with. Re-entry was a peculiar thing. One moment he was watching the curve of the planet below, and then all of a sudden he could see nothing but flames licking the hull of the ship. The roaring began not long after. His helmet had quickly moved to dampen the noise but it was still deafening. Atmosphere raged around him, pulling the ship down. He attempted to vox the pilot, but the sound of static was all he was met with, so much that he had to shut off his link altogether.
He knew Fluffybean was still alive halfway through their descent-the hoverjets had begun to alter the angle of their fall as the flames flickered out, slowing their descent slightly, and putting them on a better landing course. Nevertheless, the thunderhawk gunship was never a glider, plummeting towards the planet below, all Fluffybean had really been able to do was take the edge off its terminal velocity. “Brace!” he called instinctually to nobody but himself.
The thunderhawk hit the ground hard, Stormhoof was flung to the ceiling as the floor ripped up, still attached to the bottom of his mag-locked hoof-boots as was the force of the crash. Metal screeched as the ship crashed through trees along its way, shearing off more and more of its armoured panelling. Stormhoof struggled for purchase as it spun around him, one of his eye-lenses cracking as his faceplate struck a steel bar.
Then, as suddenly as the crash had started, it stopped. The ship grinded to a halt. Panting, the Unicorn-Lieutenant rose to his hooves, switching off his mag-locks, he stumbled towards the door. It stopped halfway, and he was forced to push it open himself.

Fluffybean was finally dead. The force of the crash had driven the piece of debris even further into him-so much so now that the top half of his body lay scorched and cracked on the floor. The apothecaries would have a difficult time recovering his geneseed, but Stormhoof knew he would see that it was done.

Chapter Two

Night had fallen and the sun had risen again before Stormhoof had noticed a plume of smoke on the horizon. He had been following a nearby stream downriver since he had left the crash site-stopping only to take coordinates of the Thunderhawk’s wreckage that had been scattered out across the land.
The way had initially been easy to traverse. The crash had wrought a great gash across the deciduous forest-great trees that must have been centuries-old had been torn out of the soil they had lived in for so long, or had simply been sheared in half. A fire had sprouted and had promptly died out-why the forest had not been plunged into a blazing inferno, the Unicorn could not say.

The gouge had ended after a few hours of walking, the trees being packed together too tightly for his massive power armour to navigate until he had found the river. Walking along its bank, he studied his surroundings. This planet was unnamed. It was lush, fertile land-with a bit of work removing the forests, it could make a decent agri-world. Alien birds twittered and played overhead as warm sunlight trickled between the branches of the white-barked trees. The plant life was surely the most diverse of any world Stormhoof had ever seen. Strange ferns and moss littered the ground, crunched under his massive boots as he clopped through the forest-perhaps a paradise world would be a more deserving fate for this place when the Imperium finally came to claim it. He had heard noises of larger creatures-beasts moving in the forest behind him. Every time he’d instinctively brought his horn’s glow to the hilt of his power sword, but had never ceased trotting. Something big was out there, but whatever it was, his hyper-enhanced hearing could determine it was back in the direction of the crash-site, too far away to worry about for the moment.

A pony marine such as he had no place here. Being a gene-son of Sanguinius had given him an appreciation for beauty, but he knew his role was to be a weapon until he no longer could, not to trot the forests of an unknown world whilst his brothers chased down the heretic astartes he had been sent to slay in the first place. He growled. His brothers. His squad, they had followed him-all of them had been asked by him to join, of course, but all had accepted. Had he not asked them personally, maybe they would not have been on that thunderhawk, maybe they would still be alive-if he had not moved back in time-or had not activated his helmet in time, perhaps he would have been among the dead, lying frozen in the void. Shaking his head, Stormhoof realised that he had stopped walking. He snorted and continued. Not now. He thought. He could feel himself growing angry, and for many of his brothers, anger had led them down a path he could not afford to trot down right now.

He came to the edge of the woods when the sun was directly overhead. A field of alien creatures he could only guess was a form of livestock greeted him. Perfectly still save for their ever-chewing mouths, grazing at the grass beneath their hooven feet, their heavy lidded stares all fixed on the knight of yellow who had emerged from the treeline before them.
He walked around the wooden fence towards the source of the smoke. A simple habitation awaited him. It was one-storey, wrought of hoof-cut stone that he could only assume was from a nearby quarry. The smoke poured gently out of a chimney on the peaked roof, derived from the same materials. He stopped. He hadn’t noticed it before, as he had been observing the scene in front of him. Tilting his helm down, he finally noticed the figure standing just below his initial line of sight, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “Oh. a Pony.” he said, more to himself than to the farmer.

The farmer yelped and bolted, galloping into the cottage, slamming the worn wooden door behind him.
“Oh. a Pony…” he sighed. Moving towards the door.
Using his horn to fully float off his helmet in order to appear less like a machine to the somewhat primitive and potentially superstitious farmer, he knocked gently on the door with a hoof. “Greetings farmer-I assume that is what you are. I have landed on your planet and do not intend to stay here long. Do you know if there is anyone I can talk to that will be able to help me understand where I am?”

He could hear movement inside, hushed tones whispered to someone, the thick stone dampening the voices more than his ears could make out. He noticed that his breath misted in front of him, and finally recognised the dampness on his slightly furred hide, the beads of water trickling down his armour, and the cold in the air.
The door opened again and his head snapped back, then down.
“Greetings, little one.”
Before him was a child, a little filly, no older than six Equestrian years of age as far as he could tell. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, but unlike the farmer, it was awe more than fear.
There was a moment of silence between the two of them before she spoke; “You look strong, are you one of the Jousting Knights my Dad said protected us from the monsters in the forest?”
“I am” he said, adjusting to the low gothic she had spoken in. “I am one of the Emperor’s knights. I am one of those that keep all of ponykind safe-and that means you.”
She smiled at that, then turned “Dad, he’s not here to hurt us, he’s one of the Knights, like you said”
It took a moment, but shakily, the father’s muzzle poked around the doorway, seeming to relax-ever so slightly at the sight of an equestrian one. “You’re not like the other Jousters, Lord”
He internally noted how even this stallion, who had never even heard of a space marine, saw him as ‘lord’. “How so?”
The farmer gulped, but continued “The other knights are big machines, larger than a house, with pilots from our own people. Your face does not look like it is from here.”
“You are correct, I am not from here. My name is Lieutenant Stormhoof, of the Lamenters space marine chapter. I am a warrior of the Emperor, he who sits upon the golden throne of Terra, and my sole purpose is the protection of ponykind by His will.”

Suddenly, the farmer stiffened. “Come inside, quickly!” He held the door open as Stormhoof stooped low to enter. “What is wrong?” he asked, as the farmer began bolting the door shut, and pulling the simple curtains closed on the windows.
“It’s a Skazelink attack, don’t worry, they’ll take a few of the cattle, and then leave in about an hour’s time. All we have to do is stay here and be quiet.”
“A…Skazelink? I do not understand.”
The farmer sighed as he watched his daughter move over to a wooden chest in the corner of the room, pulling out a simple toy that Stormhoof recognised as being carved to resemble an Imperial Knight Jouster of Gallant specifications.
“Skazelinks are a type of forest creature.” He said in a hushed tone. “They usually stay amongst the trees and hunt other animals that live in there, but as of late they’ve taken to attacking livestock from here and the other surrounding farms.
They never come alone, and they’re vicious. Two weeks ago we had the first attack we’d had in these parts for a hundred years. My wife wanted to protect our animals, she wouldn’t listen to me. They tore her apart before I had the chance to do anything but hold our daughter and run. They camouflage you see, their fur is capable of blending into the trees, the rocks, whatever they want.”
Stormhoof did not know how to react to this information. He should feel sorry for the stallion, but did not know what to say. What to do however, he did know.

“I will be back.” He said, floating his helmet on and trotting towards the door.
“Don’t go out there! Did you hear what I said?” the farmer hissed, being gently pushed aside with ease by one huge, armoured hoof.
“Do not worry” Stormhoof’s voice boomed, not angrily, but stern enough for the stallion to wince back. Stormhoof opened the door, then stopped. Looking back, he saw the little filly, her eyes were shining, looking at him.
He gave a nod, and leaned down to exit back outside.
Making sure the door was closed behind him, the space-stallion peered out over the scene.
The space was empty. Two of the cattle lay dead already, the others huddled together in the middle of the paddock. As he watched, twin slashes appeared in the side of one of the beasts, causing it to groan out in pain. What caused the slashes was unseeable, but it was there. Drawing his power sword with his telekinesis, Stormhoof switched his visor to preysight, and the thermal outlines of the Skazelinks were revealed to him.

There were four of them in total. He watched as they stalked, feline-like in circles around the huddled cattle. He could hear their low growls as they slashed again at the wounded animal, bringing it down with a gouge to its neck. Stormhoof turned on the power field of his sword, the crackling sound did not go unnoticed. Moving together as one, the Skazelinks fanned out around him. He stood his ground, deliberately tracking them with his eyes rather than his entire head-they did not yet know he could see them, better to keep that advantage, after all.
Suddenly, one of them appeared at the corner of his vision. It was large, larger than him. Its head bobbing up and down, studying him, trying to find a weak point in his armour to strike at.

Before it got the chance to, his power sword swung, fast, too fast for it to react. Its head was lopped off cleanly, the sword slicing through with barely any resistance. As it collapsed to the ground, ichor sprayed out of the neck stump, coating the side of his armour. He turned around and pushed himself backwards, using the bulk of his body as a ram to the face of the second pouncing enemy. He heard a whimper as it fell to the ground, its claws scrabbling for purchase as he crunched down on its skull with his hoof, the creature’s flailing cut short under his weight. Stormhoof turned, the third beast had left the scene, stopping on the edge of the clearing, it turned, and growled at him, before racing off into the trees. He almost went after it-the rage eating at the edge of his vision. He managed to bring himself back under control just before he remembered. There were four of them.
The third beast had provided an ample distraction. Stormhoof spun around just as he was knocked off his hooves by the body of the fourth. His sword fell out of his magical grip as he was barrelled into, and he distinctly remembered the time he had spent with the Black Templars, and how they chained their weapons to their armour so they could never be thrown too far away from them. The Skazelink slashed and bit at him as they rolled in the dirt, its razor sharp teeth and claws scratching into the painted ceramite. It was strong, able to hold him down as it battered at his armour, accidentally scoring a slash in the undersuit of his right back-leg between the plates.

Snarling, he stopped one of its paws with his hoof as it tried to bat at his helmet. With the striking of the two appendages, he heard bone break as the Skazelink yelped, stumbling back off of him. It hissed, not putting any weight on its injured limb as Stormhoof stood up on his four hooves, and hovered his sword over, advancing on the creature. He broke into a gallop, parrying a slash from its other claws as he drove the sword deep into its chest. It reeled back, trying to free itself, before the Lamenter dragged magically upwards, spilling its steaming guts all over himself and the ground around him. It struggled on the floor, its life ebbing away as he scanned the treeline. The third Skazelink that had provided the distraction was there, its head cocked to one side. It blinked once at him, and turned around, disappearing into the forest.

He stayed there, watching, waiting for it to reappear, but it did not.
“Thank you, mister”
He spun around, sword raised-then relaxed. It was the little filly, somehow, she didn’t even flinch.
“You are…not scared?” He asked after magically removing his helmet. Realizing just how much Xenos blood had been sprayed over himself.
“Why would I be? You saved us from the monsters like you said” she giggled. Stormhoof was not sure how to react.
Her father came close behind her.
“Thank you, my Lord, for protecting us from the Skazelinks.”
“An oath is an oath”
“I am but a poor farmer, and am unable to offer much, but I know that if you travel north for about three days by cart you’ll reach the town of Altheheim. You can meet the Jousting Knights in the fortress at the heart of town.”
Gently, the Lamenter placed one hoof to his chest. “My thanks, I will leave now. Tend to your cattle, and keep this little one safe” He added with a slim smile, looking down at the beaming filly hugging her father’s foreleg.
“Of course my Lord. Know that you are welcome in our humble cottage any time you like.”
There was a pause as Stormhoof envisioned himself staying in the tight cottage, it would be a nice life for a pony, a simple life, one that the Lieutenant could never have.
“Yes.” He answered.
Sheathing his sword, he turned, and trotted North without another word.

Chapter Three

Flowerprance stormed into Dovewing’s room about half an hour before his training, to say that she was furious would have been an understatement.
“What did you do to the shock absorber of Lightningblade’s left foreleg? You will anger its soul if you keep damaging it-you feel its pain as much as you feel your own, why did you not tell anyone?”
Despite being the same age, she was his mentor and he her squire, she was a noble-the one who was assigned to teach him the ways of house Hastilude. Her enraged appearance captivated him-her beauty no secret. She was the youngest noble the house had seen in seven centuries. Her jet-black mane had been cut short-as was necessary for a knight pilot, and she was already in her bodysuit, the pale lighting of the fluorescent lights shining off the gleaming silver and magenta armour panels. He wondered every day if the two of them would be more than warriors of the house one day, if they would be together for life. If she was interested in him the same way he was in her.
He tried to concentrate on her words, pushing thoughts of their compatibility away-he was being told off, he should probably be paying attention.

Dovewing’s duties as a squire were even more monotonous than he had first imagined. As a jousting knight of his house, he had been trained in ground combat from a very young age. Clad in his sacred armour, the rites to become a scion had required that he beat his enemies, as well as close friends in the tournament of blades-a festival held only once a scion died. The last-an elder, had died of his aging, and a new festival had been thrown in his honour. Dovewing had won the tournament, he had been elevated to Scion, and had found his place as a squire of House Hastilude.
He’d been assigned to be Flowerprance’s squire-something that he was quite pleased with. She was a veteran of the house by now, and had protected Altheheim and its surrounding villages for almost a decade. The slaying of the creatures that threatened their ponies was a rite of passage for the members of House Hastilude. Monstrous creatures the size of a toad, to the size of one of the few Cerastus pattern centaur knights the House had roamed the mountains, forests, and plains. Those that lived and travelled by the oceans spoke of beasts that lurked below the waves, scales and fins that glittered in the sunlight when they surfaced.
The oath of the Knights of House Hastilude was to protect their families, their peasants, and their townsfolk from all that may threaten them.

Donning his hallowed Scion armour, Dovewing left his room. Peering out the windows he passed by on the way to the repair bay where artificer and technician unicorns worked tirelessly on Lightningblade he saw that a market was on in the town. Colourful stalls had been set up by the townsponies as others milled around, peering at the oddities on display. Fruit baskets and various meats hung on hooks displayed on some of the stalls-others featured hoof-crafted wooden bowls, spoons, and cups. Some boasted copper pots and pans. This was juxtaposed by one merchant who sold artificial light-globes and another who sold las-packs for home-defense lasrifles. Dovewing wondered often where this disparity in technologies had come from. He supposed that many of these devices had been left behind by the sacred Forefathers-those first to come to Hashtor, as well as those that had arrived during The Visiting. As time had gone on, the residents of the planet had forgotten how to make almost all of the technologies save for the few small manufactorums that still ran across various parts of the world. Nobody knew how to repair the machines save for the Sacrisants who maintained the walkers, and Dovewing felt fearful for a time when his planet would need this knowledge.

He stopped, squinting. Something was coming down the main street-a bright smear. ponies were beginning to form a throng around it-Dovewing could see that although it was taller than them-taller than any pony he had ever seen, it still had equine features. It got closer, he got closer. Dovewing watched with rapt attention as he grew closer and closer to the base of the tower’s walls. This new type of knight wore mustard-yellow armour, his massive pauldrons betrayed a checkered black and white pattern-at the centre of which was a red shape Dovewing could not quite make out from where he was, and though tough to spot, the Scion saw a long sword at his side-longer than some of the ponies following him were tall. He could see the ponies around the broad-shouldered warrior.

There were showcases of devotion to this being. Everywhere he looked he saw ponies lowering themselves, throwing themselves at his hooves, climbing over each other to touch him with a hoof or showering him with gifts-most of which were turned away unless they managed to snag on some part of his armour-he watched as a mare managed to toss a ring of flowers over his head and around his neck.
He saw some of the guards out at the fortress’ gate move towards him and attempt to disperse the crowd to little avail. The knight in yellow stopped before them for a moment as the crowd parted at his words-Dovewing witnessed as a moment passed, and then the guards both lowered themselves as well. He had seen enough.
Galloping down the stairs, Dovewing swerved past a very confused Flowerprance, and bowled into a group of Scions. Ignoring their protests, he pushed off of them, and continued. He had to know who this newcomer was, wether he was of this planet, and most importantly, if he posed a threat to the ponies under his protection.

~ ~ ~

Stormhoof stopped before the gates of the fortress. It was masterfully built-so much so that he wondered if his cousins in the Imperial Hoofs had once been here long ago. The crowd had watched with bated breath as he confronted the guards, and had all exhaled a sigh of relief when they had allowed him entry.
A moment passed, then another-Stormhoof wondered if he would have to find his own way behind the walls. Finally, the portcullis groaned open. He watched as the heavy adamantine gate lifted up, Turning back to the crowd, he turned up the volume of his helmet’s vox-speakers, and boomed ‘Thank you, citizens of Altheheim for your hospitality. Know that the Emperor’s knights will always defend humanity from its greatest foes even in the darkest of times. Now please, go back to your homes.”

At his command, the crowd reluctantly dispersed. ponies trickled back to the markets, glancing back at him. He did not like how the ponies had treated him. It was as if they viewed him as a deity-he had even heard one of them call out that their father was deathly sick and that only his holiness could heal him.
Turning back towards the open gate, a series of figures had gathered. There were figures clad in ancient silver carapace armour, some featured purple markings and crested helms. Others were in a different type of carapace armour, similar to the bodygloves worn by Imperial Knight jousters. All were marked with purple and silver. The pilots did not have their helmets on, and as he clopped closer, one of them-a mare, approached him. She held his gaze better than any of the townsponies had.
“Greetings Warrior. You are not from here, but have treated our ponies with respect-you may take the necklace off now if you so wish, it will not cause any offence”
“My thanks.” Responded Stormhoof, removing the flower necklace, and then his helmet. A few of the guards stiffened upon seeing his features. He was stoic, square-jawed. On the left side of his forehead were three metal studs, one of which was almost covered with the front locks of his golden mane.
“My name is Stormhoof. I am a Lieutenant of the Lamenters Space Marine chapter. My ship was shot down by traitors a few days ago. I have heard that an Imperial Knight house resides here and I have come to talk with you.”
“I apologise, Lieutenant, but what do you mean by Imperial Knight?”

~ ~ ~

Captain Rocksteady was furious. The Nightgallopers had escaped his fleet again. Although the Spear of Silence had been destroyed, the warband’s leader had not. He had managed to flee by some accursed warp abilities, and the rest of his fleet had simply kept running. They had lost ships, they had lost brothers, however, the Lamenters were still on the cusp of victory-even now, closing in on the enemy fleet.
The marine Captain turned as one of the Imperial Navy officers hailed him. “Speak.”
“M-my lord. Many apologies, but I have picked up a message from where our boarding action commenced.”
“What does it say”
“It is barely understandable, Lord, but I believe it is a threat from the Ork breed Xenos. They say they are threatening the planet below.”
The Captain stopped, confused.
“Why would we care?”
“W-well my lord, Further scans of the newly discovered planet indicate that it is a feudal world, a world of Ponies.”
The Captain paused, he wanted to pursue the Nightgallopers further, every fibre of his being was telling him they had them on the run, that the Lamenters were on the cusp of victory.
“How many ships?”
“Enough for a full invasion force, my Lord”
He cursed under his helmet, slamming his hoof into the railing in front of him, leaving a dent and causing most of the ponies on the deck to look back at him in fear. He knew what he must do, but that did not mean he had to like it.
“Very well then. Send a message out to the fleet, we are withdrawing back to the initial engagement zone of our latest battle. The Ork menace has chosen us for its war. Let us give them the fight they so desire.”

Chapter Four

Stormhoof was surprised at how readily the ponies of Altheheim had accepted the word of the Emperor. For at least nine millenia, the ponies of this planet had been searching for answers-who had sent them here? Where had their technologies-their Knights, their weapons and armour come from?
They even had ships-Stormhoof had informed them when they had shown him that they were light cargo shuttles-Arvus Lighters. They had about six of them still in operation, all of which had not run out of fuel as nobody on the planet had known how to pilot one for the last few thousand years.
Now they finally had their answer. The superstitious populace was easy to sway when he informed them that He had sent their forefathers. An unfortunate side of this was that if the ponies had not seen him as a holy figure before, they certainly did now. In their eyes, he was a blessed angel sent by the Emperor to spread his enlightenment and protection to their ponies, and it unsettled him.

The contingent from house Hastilude had shown him the way to their vox-beacon at the top of the tower. It had been calling out one message across the stars for the last ten millennia, on a now long defunct vox-channel that had not seen active use since then. In the voice of a long-dead ghost of a soldier, it simply said “Planetary garrison established, awaiting further orders.”
Now, with some persuasion from the elders of the house, Stormhoof had been allowed to finally change the message. Switching it to a channel often used by the Lamenters, the marine spoke into the microphone; “This is Lieutenant Stormhoof of the Lamenters. I have survived a crash-landing on this planet, dubbed ‘Hashtor’ by its pony occupants. If there are any of the Imperium’s soldiers out there, I am requesting a pickup to return to my chapter. Repeat Message.”
Tuning his helmet to receive updates from the powerful vox-beacon, Stormhoof stood, and waited for a response.

The Lieutenant stayed there, spending a day and night, waiting for a response before he was hailed by Flowerprance. “My Lord.”
The Lieutenant removed his helmet and turned to face her slight frame as she came up the last of the stairs. She was one of the few who had not started treating him like an angel, and he liked her spirit. “Speak, Baroness.”
She was the head of this lance of House Hastilude, all the other knights that called this fortress home were vassals under her. She continued trotting towards him. “We are hearing reports of strange noises, and lights in the darkness of the forests to the south.”
“The forests from whence I came. I can hear it in your voice, and you are correct. I have been followed here.”
“My apologies Lord, but I must protect my ponies. Tell me. What is it?”
Stormhoof stopped. Remembering the floodlights he had seen in the void. “The enemy.”
Flowerprance’s face grew grim. “I see. The forest is too dense for our knights to travel through swiftly, and so I must go myself to investigate. I will bring a contingent of Chevaliers with me.”

“I assume you are telling me this, because you wish for me to travel with you.”
She nodded “Yes Lord, if you would not mind. Nobody knows any off-planet enemy as well as you do, and it would do well for the guardsponies to see you in action.”
He gave her a slight smile. “Very well.”

The best of Hashtor’s ground troops were known as the Chevaliers. Despite their age, their carapace suits were more well-protective than most guard regiment armour he had seen, although he noted that while once their suits had been void capable, over the millenia their frayed cloth segments had been patched up so many times that they would likely never be able to be worn in the vacuum of space again. These Chevaliers were both expert sword and marksponies-their hoof-to-hoof training was a little lacklustre, but Stormhoof had been informed that they did not need to train with their hooves, as it was un-chivalrous behaviour. Upon whether or not such codes were respected on the battlefields of the 41st millennium, the Lamenter did not feel the need to comment.

Then there were their regular forces. Militia recruited from local towns. These were clad in gothic style hoof-wrought, metal, yet still flexible armour, and the amount of protective gear worn by individuals was seemingly random.
The marine Lieutenant was glad that he would not have to deal with these Militia men-at least, not yet.
He moved in front of the Chevaliers, inspecting their ranks. As he clopped past each one they all turned and saluted him with their armoured hooves to their open faceplates. He studied each of their muzzles through his cracked, red eye-lens, searching for signs of fear or doubt in their eyes. Everywhere he looked, the faces of the Chevaliers were proud and stalwart. Reaching the end of their number, he nodded, and returned to his position in front of them, next to Flowerprance. “Very good.” He remarked.

She smiled, looking up at him. “I am glad that my Chevaliers will suffice.”
“They will do more than that, ponies are fascinating. They are both the most fearful, and fearless species in the galaxy. I have spent 392 years fighting alongside them, and their deeds never cease to amaze me. To be a pony in this universe is not easy, to be a warrior is even less so. I have been made into a weapon, but a pony can be so much more.”
Flowerprance felt a little uncertain at his words, this galaxy her warriors would be stepping into seemed less and less hospitable by the day. She was always one for progress, but would this departure from their bubble prove to be too much for her ponies?

Stormhoof, Flowerprance and the Chevaliers had been walking at a brisk trot for days, tracing the path the Lamenter had taken. The trudging of the soldiers’ horseshoes on the dirt roads was broken up only by the thumping of Stormhoof’s boots, and the mechanical stomping of the Atheon walker that had been sent to accompany them. The walker was a curious vehicle. It was of a pattern of Sentinel now lost to the Imperium, in fact, these walkers were as ancient as the suits of armour the Chevaliers wore. Artificers were trained in repairing vehicles from a young age on these machines. Once they had shown they were capable enough, they graduated to the maintenance of the Armiger knights, and after that, Questoris. This was the way it had been for millenia, and Stormhoof had to admit that if the knights were still as operational as their Scions claimed-the tradition was at the very least a practical one. Every town they passed through, the ponies were delighted to hear the word of the Emperor, and to see that truly the Angel they had seen days before was on their side. Surprisingly, Flowerprance received just as much attention if not more so than Stormhoof. Everywhere she walked the ponies lauded over her, and the two of them became cause for much celebration. Flowerprance was hailed as intelligent for siding with the Angel and accepting his word. Meanwhile, the Lamenter was seen as kind and beneficent for coming to them from above to battle their enemies.

The group stopped. There was smoke on the horizon-more than the amount that would come out of a chimney. Stormhoof stiffened, Flowerprance sensed his tensing before he took off, galloping at breakneck speed towards the direction of the cottage he had stayed at several days before.
The Chevaliers looked at each other, bewildered, a few looking to Flowerprance with the same expressions. She met their gaze, a determined look. “Well? Double time stallions, let us show this Space Marine what the Hashtoran Chevaliers are made of!”

Stormhoof knelt next to the ruins of the house beside the body of the farmer. He had been torn open by a crude weapon-a blunt one-his guts spilling out from under his barrel. His lasrifle was on the ground, next to him, and in the treeline lay a series of bodies that originated from the Ork breed xenos. He had died fighting. That was all that could be asked of him.
The Orks had brought with them a small, purple-painted shuttle that featured a large searchlight on the front. Crudely bolted to the side was a huge mechanical arm that haphazardly held a long-barreled weapon-a thunderhawk’s turbo-laser destructor. The gun looked as though it had been torn off of a vessel, and the Lamenter had no doubt in his mind it had been taken from his crashed thunderhawk. Stormhoof turned, sensing movement from the rubble. He drew his sword, spinning to face the source of the noise-and stopped. There was a faint knocking coming from beneath the floorboards-boards that had since then burned away to reveal a metal hatch, large enough for a pony to fit inside. Stormhoof moved over swiftly, sword still engulfed in his magic, and ripped the hatch off of its hinges revealing the little filly inside, clutching her wood-carved knight. She was not crying.

“You’re here!” She exclaimed, hugging his foreleg after climbing up the ladder. Stormhoof saw that inside the hole there had only been enough space for her, not for her father as well. A newfound respect for the stallion dawned in the Lamenter.
He did not know how to comfort anyone-let alone a foal. She had seen her dead father. Stormhoof knew it. She did not cry-although looked like she had been for hours. The Lieutenant stayed with her until Flowerprance and the Chevaliers arrived.

He had done this. The Orks and their scrapper vessel had been attracted to the planet by his thunderhawk crashing. They had followed his path through the forest and had come here, looking for a fight. Although several of them were dead, Stormhoof knew that there were others out there. The rage bit at the back of his mind. The rest of them had to die, and he knew that he had to kill them. His face contorted and he snarled. No more ponies would be killed because of his failure. Horus had to be slain, he was out there, somewhere. And Sanguinius was coming to end him.
“My Lord!”
The blackness lifted, reduced to a dull thrumming at the back of his head. Stormhoof turned, Flowerprance was crouched next to the little filly, who had pulled her into a hug. She was afraid. Afraid of him.
“M-my…Apologies.” He managed to push out, before sighing. “I was…lost in thought.”
“What are these…creatures?”
“These are Orks. a vile and barbaric race. They exist only to fight, they scavenge weapons and vehicles from fighting forces and twist them into crude parodies of what they once were. They are an ancient enemy, a foe that we have been fighting since the Dark Age of Technology. They are…stubborn beasts, but simple-minded. Preferring brute-strength and higher numbers over tactical thinking…They must have been attracted to the system by our war, and by extension have been brought here to scavenge pieces from the crashed ship I came in.”
Flowerprance was silent for a moment.
“More are coming.”
“Yes.”
“Then we had better get moving.” She stood up, and directed two of her Chevaliers to take the little filly back to Altheheim.
“What will happen to her?”
“You care about her, don’t you?”
“She is a pony, it is my sworn duty to protect her.”
“It is more than that, perhaps you have more emotion than you give yourself credit for.”
He paused, eyeing Flowerprance, as the Scion wondered for a moment if she had overstepped her boundaries.
Finally, his face cracked into a slim smile. “My Genesire would have enjoyed hearing you say that.”

Chapter Five

To say that Flowerprance was an adequate combatant would have been an understatement. Through the snippets of her that Stormhoof caught between the swing of his power-sword, she was an elegant fighter, dancing between autogun shots, dodging and ducking beneath the swings of enemy cleavers and claws, parrying and riposting attacks against creatures that knew only of brute-force, and not of skill.

There were more of them than Stormhoof had first thought there would be. The scrapper-craft had not appeared adequate enough to house the four that had been killed by the farmer, although the Lieutenant had to admit that Ork technologies were a mystery to even the most gifted Mechanicus Adepts.

The Chevaliers had taken up firing positions on the treeline at Flowerprance’s order. A singular lasrifle shot was not enough to kill an Ork in the best of circumstances, so, like many guard regiments, the Chevaliers employed a focus fire technique. This allowed their lasrifles to drown an enemy combatant in a sea of shots-most would not land anywhere important, but enough of them would.

Stormhoof’s armour was more than enough to shield him from any stray las-shots that might strike him in the melee, but when asked, Flowerprance and her troops had insisted that she too would be fine. The Atheon that had accompanied them was unnecessary for this mission-save for its destruction of the orks’ scrapper-vessel. It stood at the edge of the clearing, waiting for the opportunity to fire its weapons again. Stormhoof knew that in the coming days, it would not have to wait for long.

The battle was over quickly. The mindless xenos had not lasted long. Flowerprance sighed and stood after slaying the last of the enemy. The Space Marine they had taken with them was fierce. His speed was unmatched-even by her and the many augmetics she had inherited or bought with her wealth. He was wrath, barrelling into the enemy and ripping two of them in half before the Orks had even had the chance to react. Spinning, he had blocked three of their counter-attacks, and had sliced the head off another before she had caught up to him and joined the fray.

He was unlike any warrior she had ever seen. His armour was impenetrable-several times throughout the fighting she saw him take hits on his shoulder pads or backpack deliberately, and the Orks’ weapons did nothing but scratch the mustard-yellow paint. Several las-burns had appeared on the surface as well, without even slowing down his advance.

Her warriors stared at him in awe when he eventually returned to them. When he spoke, he was not even out of breath; “That is all of them for now, but-” he stopped, turning around. Flowerprance could hear the muted clicks of vox-chatter in his helmet. He turned back to them. “My fleet is returning to the system now. Unfortunately, theirs is already here.” He gestured to the pile of Ork carcasses laying around the clearing with his floating sword. “I have new orders. I will stay with you in the defence of this world. I am to help you prepare. We will start now.”
Flowerprance’s mind was reeling at all of this information. “How many of them are there?”
“Too many.” The marine said quietly.

“I do not understand, why does your Chapter not send more of its number to aid us?”
Stormhoof closed his eyes. Him, Flowerprance, and her top officers had been planning this defence for a day now. And he had thought they had put this argument to rest.
“As I have stated previously, Baroness. There are not enough of our number for the defence of a planet. There are enough of your Chevaliers, however. The newly named ‘Battlefleet Hashtor’ will translate in-system in approximately three days. Once they have arrived, there will be more than enough Astartes to make up an effective extermination force for the remainder of the Ork menace . I have been placed in command simply because I am here. Had I not crashed onto this planet, I would have remained in orbit with my brothers.” And the Orks would not have been attracted to this place. He said to himself, hurriedly pushing the thought away.

Stormhoof stood up, trotted to the glassteel window, and gazed out at the courtyard and the surrounding town of Altheheim. The troops were training hard. At Stormhoof’s order, several Chevalier units had been disbanded-in their stead, these veterans would be sent to lead a militia squad each. Their expertise should hopefully lead to fewer militia casualty rates, smaller rates of desertion, and overall increased effectiveness of standard units. The next thing Stormhoof had demanded was that the Arvus Lighters would see active service again. This meant that pilots had to be trained, the running costs of these vehicles-fuel, power had to be taken into consideration. How many of them were still in operation? How many more could the Artificers and Technicians get running? Some of them needed a specific piece only one merchant had access to, so how much would it cost to purchase them from him? If too much and the merchant unwilling to part with it, could the piece be taken forcefully?

Altheheim was a point of safety, but due to being the largest garrisoned force and thus the most attractive for the war-loving xenos, was also the part of the planet the majority of the Ork Rokks were landing at. The surrounding villages and farms had everything of value stripped from them, including their ponies, and were taken into the defences of Altheheim-many of the able-bodied among them above the age of fourteen Terran years were pressed into militia service.
Stormhoof ordered the production of thousands of kilometres worth of barbed wire-an innovative technology that astounded the manufacturers of the planet in its simplicity and effectiveness. This barbed wire was produced by manufactorums all over the planet, and as trenches were dug, duckboards placed, and defensive guns mounted, the wire was unravelled in front of every defensive line Stormhoof ordered dug.

It pained Flowerprance to see her world forced into war. Much of the beautiful forests that surrounded Altheheim had been cut down to create clearings and killing-grounds. She did not doubt the effectiveness of Stormhoof’s defences, but if it meant the destruction of their planet, would it be worth it?
She silenced her doubts. Whether it was worth it or not no longer mattered. The protection of her ponies was her utmost priority, and she would keep them safe at all costs.

Stormhoof stood on the walls of the fortress. Its architecture fascinated him-it was clearly no typical equine-built structure. He turned to the Scion next to him-a squire that had been assigned by Flowerprance to take notes and keep her posted on any of his musings on the battle to come throughout the day, he seemed useful.
“You, Squire. This fortress is of Imperial design and thus was not built by your ponies. I see the moss and lichen that grows at its base. Who built this?”
Dovewing winced at being referred to, no longer was he so doubtful of the astartes as he had been. “M-me? My Lord?”
The Lamenter looked around the empty rampart comically, a smile on his lips “No, I meant the other Squire.”
“O-of course, my Lord.” Dovewing said hurriedly, cursing himself internally. “You are not the only of your kind to come to this planet before.”
“You mean of the Imperium?”
“I mean of the Space Marines, Lord”
Stormhoof stopped, and finally looked at him. “Explain.”
Stiffening at his sudden shift in tone, he continued; “W-well you see, ten millennia ago, an event transpired, we call it ‘The Visiting.’
The Lamenter stayed quiet, listening, although he could probably guess what had happened.
“This was where other ponies came in their Chevalier armour. They were our first ground troops. And they trained us in their ways. When they died, our ancestors inherited their armour and kept their traditions alive.” He explained, growing more confident as he spoke. “For our Knight training, we learn the history of our house and our planet. This fortress and the many others all over the planet were built by warriors like you. They wore the yellow and black as you do-albeit much less of it. Their primary colour was that of silver. Our Knights bear that colour as a mark of tribute, as well as the purple of the Chevaliers that came to us with them. Once their fortresses had been built, they left behind the garrison of Chevaliers, and continued on their ‘Great Crusade’ as they called it.”

The space marine was silent. This news…troubled him.
“When your planet finally joins the wider Imperium, do not tell them of this.”
“Why not, my Lord?”
Stormhoof put his helmet back on. “Because some of those in the Imperium do not look back on the past as fondly as your ponies do.”
There was another pause, Stormhoof turned to leave, then stopped himself.
“What is the name of this fortress?”
“The Magna Turris, Lord.”

~ ~ ~

Captain Rocksteady stood on the deck of the Battle Barge Blade of Wrath as it continued on its three-day journey back to the wreckage of the Spear of Silence.
Stormhoof had been placed in charge of the Hashtoran Crusade. Rocksteady remembered the pony from his days as a scout-back then he himself had been a Lieutenant. He had followed his journey-checking in on him every now and then as his deeds grew until he had become Captain. Since then, Rocksteady’s schedule had grown far too busy to spare any time for individual marines.
Now he thought of him. He alone was in charge of the defence of this world-until they arrived, at least. He was a skilled warrior, but the Captain was not sure how apt a tactician he truly was. This war would reveal that, he mused.
“My Lord, the Nightgallopers have just translated out of the system.”
He growled in frustration, his helmet hiding the noise from those around him. Remaining still so as to not betray his anger, he stood in silence.

They had lost the Nightgallopers. They had used Warp travel to leave the system, and now there was no telling as to where they could be next.
“Acknowledged.” He muttered.
In three days’ time, Stormhoof’s defences would be bolstered by a force of fifty Astartes. Until then, he had to hold out.

~ ~ ~

Stormhoof gazed down at the town of Altheheim. He had sent a group of menials directed by technicians to carefully disassemble the thunderhawk in its entirety. They did not have the parts nor the time to repair it fully, but they could cannibalise it for all that it was worth. Slabs of ceramite-some still painted yellow, others burned black by reentry, were carried by menials and small lifter-suits and left in piles. From here, Orderlies and worksite officials directed more pony labourers to carry them and place them to make up small walls or shields that were scattered around the trench-line. The two lascannons were pressed into service-the thunderhawk’s reactor still able to provide them enough power to take out any armoured targets. The six hellstrike missiles were added to the Magna Turris’ ancient magazine stores-to be saved in case of even heavier vehicles.
To the four main firing corridors, a heavy bolter was sent. They were simple enough to operate on their own. In storage were ten Aethon walkers to add to the already active eight. Stormhoof ordered each of these to be sent to different sectors around the town, some placed closer together where anti-armour weapons were less prevalent.

More of the fire-shields and even a few log-spikes had been built from the wood of the trees that had been cleared, and were placed alongside the barbed wire.. When the Lieutenant had protested, he had been assured by Flowerprance and the others that the wood was both extremely flame and blast-resistant. So, he allowed the Hashtorans a bit more of a say in their own defences. The Lamenters were not a chapter that specialised in fortification or siege warfare, nor were they an exceptionally stubborn one.
Ancient Leman Russ tanks , two Malcadors, and Medusas of patterns Stormhoof had never seen before had been started up for the first time in Ten Millenia, their ancient engines coughing and sputtering as they rolled out to the front lines.

Night had fallen, and Stormhoof and Flowerprance were stood atop the ferrocrete rampart of the Magna Turris’ main wall. The Lieutenant stood next to the Baroness, both looking skyward as a thin meteor shower played about in the heavens above them. “It is…Beautiful.” Flowerprance breathed, viewing a light show that she had never once seen in all her years.
“It is. But it heralds the arrival of our enemies. Look there.” he raised a hoof at a group of them. As Flowerprance followed his foreleg, she saw it. There was a pattern there-a haphazard one, but one that was growing closer.
She watched as they fell further and further, until finally they disappeared over the horizon.

“We should go down, make sure the warriors are prepared.”
“They already are. I have ensured that they are in position. Currently, they are taking shifts watching the clearing we have cut. You do not need to join them yet. You and your Knights should rest easy. The battle will not begin until at least tomorrow.”
“I do not understand, some are landing close enough to hit Altheheim’s farmlands.”
“They have strength in numbers. They will overwhelm our defences. The question is not if they will, but when they will defeat us.”
Flowerprance thought on his words. “Then we had best hope your chapter arrives before we are beaten.”
“That would be ideal, yes.”

Chapter Six

Dovewing was lying awake in his bunk, restless. The battle was to begin soon, and yet neither him, nor Flowerprance or the other Knights of House Hastilude were at the front lines, waiting for the enemy as the Chevaliers were.
He had not seen them. Tales told of foes with green skin, horribly muscular, their huge, hulking bodies capable of ripping a stallion in half with ease. Dovewing had not seen them, but Flowerprance had told him they were nothing to worry about, and upon seeing her beautiful form as she had interrupted his debrief with the troops, he had believed her.
Now his thoughts turned back to their descriptions. Lord Stormhoof had said they would be able to hold out against the enemy, but seeing the sheer mass of their crude landers that had arrived, Dovewing was doubtful. All of those not conscripted had been sent within the walls of the Magna Turris-Altheheim’s last line of defence-although the Lamenter had told them they would never fall back this far, Stormhoof had deemed it a ‘necessary precaution’ should the worst come to pass.

Flowerprance was still awake-she had to have been. Dovewing held no doubt in his mind that she would be fussing over every tiny detail, ensuring that everything that could, would be perfect. She had never had to prepare for a war. Nobody on Hashtor ever had. During the Visiting, the Imperials had been accepted with open hearts. Although, upon seeing the Space Marine that had come to their planet, the Squire had no questions as to why.

Stormhoof clopped down the trenchline, his helmet had been floated off to hang at his belt. Dawn was breaking. The air was cold, many of the militia soldiers he walked past were shivering as they stood to attention. He liked the ponies of this planet. They had never had to fight a war, and yet here they were, prepared to do whatever they could to defend their homeland against an enemy they had never encountered. He could see it in their faces when he walked by. They looked to him as if he bore a standard of the chapter. He was a symbol to them-a symbol of hope. Whenever he moved past them, doubtful faces turned to ones of duty and pride, their fears put to rest by the sight of the perfect warrior before them. Some prayed to him-a few times, the militia ponies and even some of the Chevaliers had thrown themselves before his hooves in worship. He had caught a few of them being preached to about his ways by another. On all occasions however, he was able to gently guide them towards worship of the Emperor, rather than that of one of His Astartes.

He moved back down the line to a small command post he had set up at its centre. He stood, gazing out at the defences they had laid, at the hopeful muzzles of those who looked up at his. The log wall was at their backs, with the clearing the orks would be attacking from laid out before them. They believed that they would be safe, because they were with him. He wished this were true-if that were the case, he would not have crashed onto this world. His squad and that pilot, Fluffybean, would still be alive, and he would not be destined to die in the defence of a planet he had landed on less than a week ago.

No. He thought. I will not let doubt cloud my judgement, nor will I allow anger to consume me.
It was time for a new oath.
“My Lord!”
He turned, looking down at a member of the militia-an officer.
“Speak, Colonel.”
“My Lord.” she said again, clopping her hoof to her breastplate twice, curious. “I am worried.”
He could not feel fear, but he could empathise with the mare, he had seen it before.
“What is your name?”
“I am Colonel Brightmane, and my troops are afraid. They need to be inspired, I was hoping that you could accomplish that for them.”
He smiled. “That can be arranged.”

“Hear me, defenders of Altheheim.”
Stormhoof’s vox-boosted voice carried over the quiet trenchline, and all eyes turned to him as the sun rose behind his figure.
“You are here today, for even the quietest corners of the galaxy are not to be left alone by holy Equestria’s enemies.”
The air was still-even the birds overhead had stopped their early morning twittering.
“You are here today, because a tide of alien filth threatens your world. Because these xenos scum believe that they will have an easy victory. Because these…creatures dare to cross the paths of the Hashtoran Chevaliers.”
A small cheer erupted from the trenches, Brightmane had hoped for more.

And then the sun crested the horizon proper, and Lieutenant Stormhoof’s figure was engulfed in a ball of holy light.
“You are all here today, because your ponies have lived for millenia, training, fighting, dying against your planet’s creatures. And now, more monsters threaten your families. I ask you this, will you stand idle when they trample through your homes, and raze your cities? Will you allow them an easy victory? Will you take a humiliating defeat against these sub-pony beasts?”
The silence was shattered by the yell of “NO!” from a Chevalier, then another, then a militia stallion, then more and more until every defender had joined the chorus.

Stormhoof bowed down, three of his armoured knees kissing the ground, still holding himself upright with his left foreleg, as did the rest of the defenders.
“What is this? Rise, defender of Altheheim”
Confused, the soldiers did not.
“I said arise, there will be no day in which you will bow to me.”
Slowly, they rose, giving each other quizzical glances.
Stormhoof knew of their knightly ways, their culture, and their honour.
“I vow to thee now. I will defend this world. I will defend your families. I will fight and die for this cause. I make an oath to Hashtor, and bow to its will. I pledge myself to this planet, and to all of you. Will you accept my fealty?”
“Yes!” Cried Brightmane.
“YES!” Yelled the defenders.
Stormhoof stood, and turned, facing the sun. Through his helm’s prey-sight he could see a mass of heat moving in the trees. It was time.
He lowered the volume of his vox-speakers, talking only to the Colonel. “Did that suffice?”
She was speechless, he could tell.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”

The Orks broke the treeline. Heavy bolters fired, autogun rounds pinged off Stormhoof’s armour, but he remained motionless, the closest of the Chevaliers looking up at him in awe. Over the vox, the Lieutenant ordered Basilisk anti-infantry bombardment of the largest groups of the enemy.

Many Orks died before they even got into lasrifle range. Scores and scores of las-fire scorched the Orks as they moved closer, Stormhoof drew his sword and bolt pistol in his horn’s aura, snapping a few shots off-each one a kill.
Ancient autocannons spooled to life, mowing down the charging forms of the Orks. Several of their crude tanks had been spotted, each of them being dealt with by the Leman Russ tanks. And still, they drew closer.
It was not long until they had hit the first line of barbed wire-a defensive measure that proved to be extremely effective. As the enemy were caught and cut by it, they thrashed around, sinking themselves in further before being picked off by las-fire.

The Orks fired their own guns back, many militia soldiers were killed around their comrades. Brightmane watched, dismayed, as an ork missile found its target in one of their tanks.
As more of the xenos grew tangled in the wire, they became a bridge for their brethren, able to rush over their bodies, they were now in engagement range.
A tide of the brutes forced their way to him, Stormhoof moved with even more power than they did. He thrust his sword through the chest of one of them, ripping it out to quickly slash at another. A shell landed close to them, a little too close. Perhaps more test-fires of this ancient equipment should have been performed, he mused, kicking another off of his feet before stomping his head into a paste under his armoured hoof.

He stood between two of the fire-shields. To their credit, they were still standing, a few splinters flying off them as auto rounds struck their wooden surface. He goaded more to come for him, pointing a hoof at their leaders and champions, each one felled by his blade.
His section of the trench was holding. But the same could not be said for some of the others.
“My Leige!”
“Report!” He snarled over the vox, headbutting one of his attackers and stabbing him with his horn.
“The Orks have launched their own via crude rockets into the northern side of the trenchline, they are wreaking havoc behind our lines. Requesting reinforcement.”

“Acknowledged.” He spoke, jumping back into the trench, and galloping down the line towards the point of contention.
He moved quickly, many soldiers had to dive out of his way as he raced down the line, many more who were left standing in his wake cheered as he passed them by.
Firing two shots with his pistol, he felled an ork that had just landed, launching himself into another just as it skewered a Chevalier with a chain-bayonet. Tearing his sword up, he spun around and decapitated a pair of them before they had time to react, kicking away another with his back hooves.
He called to a squad of cowering militia to charge them with their bayonets, and at his command they did. Each of them surprising themselves with the effectiveness of their weaponry.
“You needn’t be afraid of these alien dogs!” Stormhoof roared, and in his presence, the militia troopers no longer were.
Stormhoof stopped as an ork missile crashed into the ground in front of him, but did not detonate. He did not allow for a second’s thought, diving on top of a militia pony just as the missile exploded, shredding everyone in the trench with shrapnel. Stormhoof felt a few pieces slip in between the plates of his armour, scarring his flesh. He grunted, and stood.
The soldier was crippled-crushed between his weight and the hard rock he had landed on. The stallion was screaming, Stormhoof was unsure how to react to this. He would live, but he would never gallop again. This was more than could be said for the rest of the ponies and Orks that had been in the trench at the time.
Stormhoof called for a medic over the vox. And turned. ”Belay that order.”

Before him stood a giant ork war machine-somehow, he was perplexed as to how had missed it. It was a mismatch of purple armour plates. On one hand, it featured a huge claw, the other appendage was a massive gun-arm. On the same line as its hunched shoulders was a huge, piggish head-above which sat a twin missile firing platform, one of which was missing. Stormhoof could guess where it had gone.
Swinging his sword into a ready stance, the lamenter growled, raising his guard before he heard the unmistakable blare of a knight’s war-horn. He twisted back around to see a Cerastus Knight Lancer galloping towards him, twin Armiger Helverins at its four heels. The brilliant silver and purple caught the dawn light, and the Ork scrap-titan raised its weapons to a new target. It fired its remaining missile, its shells, and its autocannon rounds at the lead knight as it raised its shield and absorbed it all. Its stride passed over Stormhoof as it cleared the trench with ease, and it smashed the enemy’s claw to the side with its titanic ion gauntlet shield before plunging its shock lance straight through the heart of the machine-beast. The momentum of the charge knocked the angrily roaring titan over before the knight slowed to a halt, turning back to face Stormhoof.
“Greetings, Lord.” Flowerprance spoke over the vox, she sounded almost jubilant.
“Flowerprance, of course.” He muttered. “I assume that this is Argent Hastae then.”
“It is indeed.” she chuckled, then gestured with the lance at the two Armigers. “This is Undaunted Pilgrim and Lightningblade.” At their mention, they both blared their war-horns, they sounded more hollow than the Argent’s.

“I appreciate the aid, but I had not given the order for your knights to take to the field.”
“You sound disappointed, Lord. I heard your speech. We all did. Did you think you were the only one to make an oath to the defence of this planet?”
He pondered this. “You would best be spent protecting other places at other times. You are too invaluable to lose yet. But…thank you.”
“The Orks are retreating, i can see it.”
“I doubt there is little you cannot see from way up there, Baroness”
She was right. The Orks’ numbers were thinning. Many were running back into the trees, being shot in their backs by the defenders. Stormhoof climbed out of the trench to watch their retreat as the guardsponies of Altheheim cheered at their victory. And for once, the lieutenant’s smile was genuine. The indomitable Equestrian spirit he thought. There is a reason we are still alive.

Chapter Seven

They were one Equestrian day away from contact with the Greenskin fleet. The Orks’ ships would be easily outclassed by his, and he knew it. Captain Rocksteady just hoped that they could beat them back in time to save the planet from invasion, every minute spent travelling was another minute the enemy would have to kill another pony, to destroy more infrastructure, and to establish a larger hoofhold on the planet.
“We are receiving a transmission from the xenos, my Lord. It is a live vid-feed from their leader.”
“Accept it.”
The speakers crackled, the grainy feed switching on as the ugly features of a cybernetically enhanced Ork’s face filled the screen. He was a monstrous creature, growling and snarling, before realising that the feed had been established.

“Oy, you, space marine.”
“What do you want, Ork.” Rocksteady responded, but it was not a genuine question.
“What does Warboss Bloodtoof want?” He asked, yelling angrily in his terrible gothic.
A silence followed this, Rocksteady raised one eyebrow. If the warboss had been expecting a response from the Captain, he would be sorely disappointed.
“Wot we want, is a zoggin’ fight!” And then the Warboss roared, as did the rest of his crew. Rocksteady rolled his eyes. Typical Ork brute.
“I see. I doubt if we asked nicely you would pull your ground troops offworld so that we could settle this ourselves.”
“Dat’s right! Da Orkz wanna foight, and we iz gonna foight on the planet, not let our big ships do the fightin’ for us!” He grinned dumbly, a big, toothy snarl.

“Very well then. I am Captain Rocksteady, of the Lamenters. Your Ork brethren down below are being slaughtered by Lieutenant Stormhoof and the defenders of this world. I will meet you in battle, Ork. And I will cut you down.”
There was another pause, and then Bloodtooth smiled.
“Good. I am Ork Warboss Bloodtoof. My boys are down there and they’re gonna break through your puny ponies and their stompy gitz, and i’m gonna keep your head on one of my spikes.”
The ork leaned down, and a series of spikes along the ridges of his armoured shoulders came into view. Several of them had skulls on them. Some militarum, a marine, even one Rocksteady recognised from the tyranid breed xenos.
The marine was from the blood angels. The Captain didn’t like that.

“Hear me now, Ork. You are outnumbered. Outgunned. Your fleet will be destroyed once we arrive. You must see that you cannot win here.”
“I don’t care.” He sneered. “I’m ‘ere to crush, and to kill all da ponies I need to. I’m gonna kill all you space marines, and we is gonna prove that da Orkz is best!” At that, he roared again, and the vid-feed was cut.
Rocksteady was not impressed. “Mindless beasts.” He muttered, before trotting back to his command throne.

~ ~ ~

The Militia and the Chevaliers were celebrating, and yet, their victory had come at a cost. Many of their soldiers had lost their lives in the battle, and it was just the beginning. The trenches would not stay in Imperial hooves by the end of the next attack. Stormhoof knew it.
“You did well, my Lord.”
It was that squire again-Dovewing. Pilot of the Lightningblade.
“So did you, squire.”

Stormhoof had watched as the armigers had fired upon the hordes of Orks and their remaining vehicles as they retreated. The Orks were a barbaric race, and the Lamenter had been worried that the defenders would have been fearful of them after seeing so many of their own number die. He was pleasantly surprised when they appeared stalwart in the face of the enemy, their morale had not crumbled, although, he supposed, if the planet was at stake, where would a deserter even flee to?
He could not understand the concept of fleeing-it was simply not within a space marine’s nature to do so. He had been taught the importance of morale to regular ponies, when working with them, a marine was to make sure that they provided a beacon to those who might find the battlefield to prove too much for them.

Stormhoof watched as the ancient, grey Leman Russ tanks rolled single-file to their newly assigned positions. The ponies did not need him to raise their hopes, he watched as a gas masked figure rose out of the top hatch of a Russ, only to begin waving a hoof and shouting his praises to the defenders-defenders who shouted their own back to him. The Lamenter looked on, almost smiling. The soldiers had been assured of their own victory, they no longer needed him to raise their morale, they could do it themselves.

“My Lord!”
Stormhoof was brought out of his thoughts by the vox-cast. “Colonel.”
“Thank you, my Lord. The Baroness is summoning a ‘high command’”
“Very good, I take it I am part of this?”
“Yes, Lord. As chief defence strategist, you are required to take part in this meeting.”
“Chief defence strategist” He chuckled to himself. “A fine title. I take it, you will also be attending?”
“Of course, Lord.”
Meeting her at the gates of the Magna Turris, Stormhoof studied her. A few bullet holes marked her armour, and the top of her brow had bled down to her muzzle, although that had stopped by now.
“Are you hurt?” he questioned her “Do you require an apothecary or a…’Surgeon Primus’ as your ponies call them?”
“My thanks Lord, but no. I am fine.”

A small troop carrier rolled past behind them as they stood outside the gates. Stormhoof turned back, and watched as it was followed by a monstrous Gorgon Armoured Assault Transport.
Brightmane watched the marine for a moment, and sighed. “I know that we are not the greatest army you have had the courtesy of fighting with. I know that we are seemingly a rag-tag formation to you, one that does not correspond to your standard doctrines or the modern battlefield. But we wish to become that. We need you to teach us your ways in order for us to survive in this dark millennium we have been brought into.”

A huge, yellow hoof was placed on her shoulder, she stiffened. “Colonel. I understand that your ponies are trying their best. Regimental doctrine, units, strategies…They mean nothing if the army trying to use them has no spirit. Your ponies have heart, Colonel. And if they keep it, that fire, that honour, that…hope. It will see them through this millennium, it will see this planet and its ponies saved. By the Throne, your place in the Imperium has already been set. All you must do now is win this war, and take it.”

The Magna Turris’ strategium, aptly codenamed ‘Castellum’ was bustling with activity. The tower’s artificers had toiled through the previous night’s assault in order to bring the ancient systems back online. The hololith projectors, whilst they would occasionally flicker, painted a clear image of Altheheim. At Flowerprance’s command, a technician brought up a live feed of the defences, the numbers of both enemy and friendly troops, any orbital assets, as well as a map of the planet itself. Stormhoof watched as several red circles appeared at various parts of the planet-places where the Orks had landed.
Dovewing, as ever, was by Flowerprance’s side. He would marry her. That was obvious, but there was one problem. He was her squire. Until he could pilot a Questoris or higher pattern knight, he would be unable to propose to her, as it would be frowned upon by the rest of House Hastilude-they would never let a marriage ceremony between a knight and her own squire take place, and would likely lead to them both being penalised, or worse, exiled.

Perhaps if he performed an heroic enough deed during this war he would be elevated to the status of a full Jousting Knight, no longer just a servant, but one who had his own squires.
Stormhoof blinked. “What is that?”
The strategium fell silent, every head turned to look at the marine, and then to where his hoof was pointing.
Flowerprance glanced at Dovewing, who simply shrugged, she walked over to the astartes.
“The Orks have landed on all of our moons.” she stated, although she was confused, looking at the red dots displayed on the three moons of Hashtor. “Sario, Alphar, and Dyzana have all been invaded now. How do we…have this information?” She questioned, and all but Stormhoof looked confused.

“You have stations on each of your moons. The sensors have automatically picked up on the Orks’ arrival. I assume that you did not know of this because of the state of disrepair your systems have been in for some time.”
“We have…stations on our moons? Bases?” Flowerprance cursed the generations of her planet for being vehemently against understanding such useful systems and maintaining the knowledge of how to run them.
“They are probably just sensor stations, although this one-” He pointed to the furthest moon from the planet, Dyzana. “With the elliptical orbit is probably a mining station. If the marines that came here before I did built fortresses of this quality, all over the world-this is where they acquired their building materials, and other minerals not native to this planet that are used here.”
“It does not matter now anyway. The moons have been invaded, and a scrap-fleet surrounds them. The only void-capable craft you have in any working condition are the Arvus Lighters and they are not meant for combat. We cannot reach your moons in time, and even if we could, we would not be able to perform an adequate counterattack. Therefore, we consider these moons lost, and move on.”
There was no response, and so he returned his attention back to the map of the town.
“This is your main street. You had wondered why I erected such a long corridor here. My plan now is to funnel the Orks through here. If they attack again on all sides, we will fall. Better to have them break in at one place than all over the city.
This will be a major firing corridor. The holes that have been drilled through the wooden walls I had your labourers build will allow your warriors’ weapons to fire into the pathway, killing any Orks that may break through. I can guarantee that it will not be perfect. Orks are unpredictable, and they may blow holes in various parts of our line. This, however, is not something that can be resolved. We do not have the time nor resources at hoof to properly stop them from breaking through the lines, but we can at least maximise their casualties.”
Flowerprance stepped in. “I understand that it is time my Knights properly took to the field.”
“It is. Rally the Knights of the Altheheim Lance. We have heard reports that the majority of the Orks’ scrap-titans have now been built. They will be baying for blood, your roles are to ensure that they are destroyed before they can damage our defences properly. Of all of the weapons the Orks have brought, their titans are the most able to break through the Magna Turtis’ walls.”

The strategic conversation carried on through the night. All the while, the guardsponies were leaving the trenches, walking in lines to their new positions, the muddy duckboards squelching underneath their hooves as they moved up and out onto more stable ground. Adjudant officers were ordering troops and their equipment according to the orders issued by Castellum command. They had never fought a war, and these tactics were alien to them, but if it kept their city safe, they would listen to the strange warrior from the stars who had come to them.
The ponies' morale had been shaken, but they remained strong. The Chevaliers had proven apt leaders for the militia stallions under their command, and although they had all seen comrades die around them, they were steadfast in their loyalty.

The armoured transports were virtually useless in this field of war-there was nowhere for the Hashtorans to go, and as such they were moved into storage, or had their ancient fuel syphoned to be used in other tanks, and their ammunition stores repurposed.
The trooper was blonde maned, blue-grey-eyed, and exhausted. Mud and soot caked her clothing, and she trudged ahead on weary hooves. She had been pressed into service by the war, the ill-fitting militia uniform she had been given hung loosely on her slight frame. Her las-rifle was slung over one shoulder.
Nevertheless, the flame she had always felt was still there-in fact, it had been stoked into a fire by Stormhoof’s speech. She had had three days worth of training before the battle, as had the rest of the squad she had been a part of, and she knew that the flame was the reason why she was the only survivor. Swiftly, she had been moved into a new squad, with the muzzles of others she had seen in her life before. Their faces were changed now, as hers must have been too. They had greeted each other quietly, exchanging solemn looks before being pushed ahead by Adjudants to their new positions.
The soldiers of her squad moved in columns to the firing corridor down the main street of their beloved home. Their only thoughts now were to keep their loved ones safe, and this would only be accomplished if the Magna Turris still stood.
Trooper Shimmerheart shivered in the cold of the night. Peering through the firing slit, the clearing was only lit by the light of the three moons. Barbed wire lined the walls, the huge logs of the Ferrum Lignaes genome were casting shadows of their own over the huddling squad. She hoped that they would hold, but knew that they couldn’t forever.
They just had to push the enemy away until aid could arrive, more of the Space Marines had been promised, and she hoped that the Emperor the warrior had spoken of would keep her safe, wherever he was.

“Oy Shim, you gonna finish that?”
She was startled out of her daze by trooper Clearskies. He was a tall Stallion, and had been telling grim jokes since their squad had formed. He had been a peasant before the war and she had lived in the city, now they were all in the same boat. She had always hated that nickname, and he’d figured that out quickly.
She looked down at the piece of roasted Hildebeast they had been given as their rations for the evening, and almost gave him her meal. Then she suddenly remembered how hungry she was.
“Fuck off, Sky..” She grinned.

Chapter Eight

The silver tinted log walls had held up well against the small arms fire of the orks-even their flamer weapons had proven ineffective at burning through them. The ponies of Hashtor had always been taught from a young age that if they were ever lost in the woods, they shouldn’t make their fires from sticks that fell around the base of the silverwood trees, many had died from the cold of winter, blaming their own skills for being unable to start a fire, when it was actually the fuel itself that was at fault.
Working the wood was another ordeal entirely. Each tree grew deep within the forests, and where they congregated, they created mystical clearings, beautiful places. There were creatures on Hashtor that burrowed into the wood of trees to survive, monsters that sharpened their claws on the sides of others, and even some that would slash open and drink the precious sap contained within. The Ferrum Lignaes tree had adapted to the harsh fauna, hardening themselves against everything nature could throw at them. They were difficult to build homes out of, but once built, the house would last longer than any bloodline had. Special diamond-tipped wood saws were required to cut through one of these trees, to fell one, however, was a tragedy. Each one used on the wall had been at least a century old, their strength and the little time the defenders had to cut them down had meant that they couldn’t cut down any that were older, and larger. These trees were Hashtor. A strong, silvery resolve, forged into something that had to withstand everything that would be thrown at them.
But the wall could not last forever.
The Orks on their ‘feet’ had been gunned down by the defenders through the firing slits. The Hashtoran tanks, Artillery pieces, and Knights had done their best to take out as many of the greenskins' cannons as they could, but the Orks had simply brought too many for the defenders to handle. Many Leman Russ tanks had been destroyed, and once the Knights had been pulled out of the withering barrage of ordnance, the enemy had begun to shell the firing corridor. It did not matter to the Orks whether they killed their own or the enemy, Warboss Bloodtoof had told them that their job was to ‘blow up the wall wot is keepin’ all our boys out’, and they knew the price they would have to pay if they failed their leader.

Stormhoof blinked his eyes as the shockwave dissipated, and rose to his hooves. He could hear something buzzing in his ear, but could not figure out where it was coming from. The rage was there. It always was. He bit down on it, hard, he could not show weakness now. An Ork approached him, swinging its huge scrap-blade around madly. He reached for his sword with his mind-but it was not at his side. His bolt pistol had run out of ammunition an hour ago, and the beast before him’s speed was only increasing. He tensed as it cannoned into him, punching its axe-wielding arm hard with one hoof, he spun around, and hauled the Ork over his back. Screeching, it flew over him, and landed, impaled on a shard of destroyed leg from an Atheon walker. It lay there, squirming around, trying to free itself despite the pain it must have been feeling. Stormhoof walked over to it, snatched up its scrap-axe in his magic’s aura, and with one swing, took the Ork’s head off.
He inspected the axe. It was a crudely designed weapon. The whole thing was covered in blood and rust. Spikes extended out of the top of its cutting edge. A metal pole had been split open on one side, and a sharpened slab of steel had been forced into the opening, then bolted into place.
The blood on the blade was the Orks…but some of it was pony blood too. He had killed at least some other defenders before running into the space marine, possibly many of them. This alien filth was not worth the lives of those that he had slain, not ten of it, nor a hundred of it would ever be worth the life of a single pony. He tasted smoke, and ash on his tongue. Enraged, he stomped on the Ork’s severed head. It exploded around his armoured hoof, but still he grew angrier. He swung the axe down into the monster’s body. The Great Enemy. Again and again he swung, switching to the blunt pole end of the axe. He crunched bone, and tore one of the beast’s arms off with his powerful magic, and yet the anger was not sated.
Horus had to die. Horus had to be destroyed beyond the point of recognition. He swung down, roaring. Sanguinius. Thud. Horus. Slice. Horus must be slain. Crack. The death of the genefather. Blood pumping. The Eye of Horus. Blood pooling. The death of His perfect son. Spear meets claw. Blood draining. An incessant whining in his ears. Blood-
“Stormhoof!”
The space marine was snapped out of it immediately. He looked down at the bloody pulp that used to be an Ork. His hooves were shaking. Ponies were around him, watching him fearfully. He realised that he must have been shouting.
He blinked the rage away, and moved down to one knee. “Forgive me…a moment’s weakness, guardsmare.”

The whining had been the vox. Those in the area had dispersed, the Hashtoran defenders still wary of him.
They had been reluctant to approach when they had found his blade, buried under a pile of rubble. It took three of them to lift the greatsword over to him. He had taken it, gratefully, but he recognised that they moved away from him as quickly as they dared.
“Yes, Brightmane.”
“My Lord, we are being pushed back. The Orks have destroyed most of our section of the wall. We have slain thousands of them, Lord, but more just keep coming-” She was cut off, and the sound of las-fire was all that could be heard over the vox.
Stormhoof was already galloping in her direction. He passed through ranks of guardsponies, they cheered as he thundered past. They had not seen the monster he had been a moment before.
He still held the Ork’s axe in his aura, as well as his sword. So many had died, and he had been the one to command them. The Orks were not the greatest threat to Hashtor, he was. A cold, calculating Astartes commander should not be the one leading these ponies. He had brought war to this planet. He was sending young mares and stallions to their deaths. He could not even control himself-forced to battle against the rage at all times.
He skidded to a halt, brought back to his senses. A group of Orks had surrounded the Colonel’s makeshift command post. Many guardsponies were dead, but a hooffull remained within, including her. He realised that he had been noticed.
Stormhoof struck. Each blow a kill. Orks fell, it was all too easy. The axe in his aura he left buried in the spine of a slain enemy. Some ran, many were gunned down by the remainder of Brightmane’s squad. He was an Astartes. He could not save everyone. But he could save a few. Jumping down into the command post, he surveyed the scene.
Most of the command squad was dead, all were injured. Still, they let out a cheer as he arrived. Stormhoof took off his helmet, and moved towards Brightmane, who smiled at him.
“I thought I was going to die, Lord.”
“You do not have my permission yet.”
She laughed. “A joke? Finally. I knew there was something pony still in you.”
He thought of this for a moment.
“I have been the cause of all of this.”
Brightmane’s smile faded, and she shook her head.
“It is not your fault, Stormhoof. You did not ask to crash on our planet. You didn’t bring the Orks here on purpose. You’re just…trying to do your best. Like I am. Like we all are.” She looked over the scene, ponies were dead. Orks were dead.
“You could have left at any point. Gone back to your brothers in orbit in an Arvus, don’t look at me like that, you know as well as I do that the Ork blockade wouldn’t have been sufficient to cover the entire planet. You stayed. Because you care, Stormhoof. You’re one of us, a pony, a Hashtoran. You chose to defend us, not because you were ordered to, or because you didn’t have a choice, you always had a choice. But you made the choice that you would fight with us, that you would give us a chance. Stormhoof, you-”
And then something-a piece of shrapnel struck her in the neck. She looked shocked for a moment. Stormhoof reached out to her with a hoof, and caught her falling form. The blood flowed out of her neck freely. The marine looked down at her, numb. She smiled faintly, before her eyes glossed over, and didn’t see any more.
Gently, he lowered her body onto a pile of ammunition crates.
Evidently, Brightmane had not been one of the few he was capable of saving.
He drew his blade again, and wordlessly left the entrenched position.

~ ~ ~

Captain Rocksteady bellowed orders as Blade of Wrath’s cannons roared.
They had begun to fire upon the Ork scrap-fleet at their maximum range an hour ago, and had already destroyed many of their vessels. Their ships were cobbled together, and many did not take much to destroy-how the majority of their fleet was even void-capable, the Captain did not know.
There was one unlike the others though-their flagship. It once had been a Battle-Barge owned by the Adeptus Astartes, now it was the flagship of the enemy, Warboss Bloodtooth was on board. Captain Rocksteady hoped that he would be able to board quickly, slay the enemy leader, and put an end to the merciless killing going on down below.
“Lord, we are receiving communications from-”
“Accept them” He sighed, talking to the Ork Warboss had grown quite tiresome-several times since their first interaction, the Warboss had messaged them, taunting and goading. The Captain had always acted indifferent, angering the Ork further.
“Oy, you, space pony!”
Rocksteady remained deadpan.
“I’ve had it up to ‘ere with this sittin’ around and shootin’ with our big ships, I challenge you to a foight!”
The Captain looked at him, quizzically. “And just how do you plan on reaching me?”
“I’m not gonna go to you, you’re gonna come to me!” He roared, beating his armoured chestplate with a huge power-claw.
“I will be boarding your ship shortly, Ork. You will not have long to wait”
Bloodtooth grinned, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna meet me on my ship, space marine, i’m headin’ down to that rock, and that’s where i’ll bash your brains in!”
The communications closed. Rocksteady watched as one of the scanners picked up a small contingent of landing craft leaving the Ork’s battle-barge.
The Captain scoffed. He had hoped that they would keep their fighting outside the planet’s orbit, but clearly, that was no longer an option. “Their leader has clearly seen the futility of the battle in space. Send a message out to the fleet, clean up the rest of this rabble. I want our Astartes in drop pods now, and I will be joining them.”

~ ~ ~

To say that the marine was fierce would have been an understatement. Trooper Shimmerheart had seen him fight very briefly before, but now it was different, now he was like a beast that had finally been let off its leash.
Everywhere, he was throwing himself into the thick of it. Wherever there were the most enemies to kill, he was always there, charging and reaping without hesitation. She tried to get her squad to cover him whenever he ran into a group of Orks that seemed far too many for even him to destroy, but he simply moved too fast for them to support him. Clearskies pointed out that Stormhoof didn’t really need the help anyway.
Stormhoof swung. Again, and again he brought the Orks to heel by his blade, his horn, or his hoof. She watched the great warrior as closely as she dared. His armour was cracking, he was bleeding, pushing himself to his absolute limits, even so, the Orks kept coming, pressing him and the defenders to the walls of the Magna Turris, to their sheltered loved ones. To the home of the Knights.
A group of greenskins scattered ahead of the marine, looking up, Shimmerheart saw why.

A small dropship with two support-craft was landing here, even in the midst of the battle. She looked back at the walls of the Magna Turris, wondering why its anti-aircraft guns hadn’t shot them down, only to find that they had all but been destroyed by the Ork’s crude cannons. A Knight Crusader, bounding along on four legs, took a sideways shot of its Thermal-cannon, missing the dropship by a hair’s breadth and bringing one of its support vessels crashing down in flames. The Crusader’s charge slowed to a stop as it turned its torso and readied its weapons to fire again, before it was forced to focus on a group of tanks that had opened fire on it instead.
The defenders on the walls opened fire with their lasrifles as the hatches of the two remaining ships opened. Stormhoof braced himself for the oncoming tide as the Orks spilled out en masse, a few of the smaller ones dying before they even touched Hashtor’s soil, many more racing forward into the melee. Those that followed this first wave were big, armoured brutes. Some hauling massive cannons over their shoulders that he knew had been brought to destroy the Magna Turris’ gate, others forming a crude shield-wall around them as they marched forward. Their huge hammers and maces crushing any unfortunate enough to get in their path, friend or foe alike.
At the back of this wall came the largest Ork by far.
Upon the top of his heavily armoured back was a row of spikes, impaled upon which were pony and Xenos skulls, as well as the helmet of a Blood Angel. The Lieutenant was almost overcome with the rage then and there.
Half machine-half monster, the beast roared his orders to the other Orks as they began marching towards the shut portcullis, his huge claw lifting an unlucky Chevalier off the ground, before it closed fully, slicing him into three clean pieces.
The Lamenter drew his sword. He fought at the rage that threatened to overtake him. This Ork was clearly their leader. End it, end the war.
Suddenly, the brute turned, and grinned. Its red cybernetic eye was trained on the marine. The Warboss stepped out from behind the shield wall, and it roared a challenge.

Stormhoof took a deep breath, and accepted.

Chapter Eight

The silver tinted log walls had held up well against the small arms fire of the orks-even their flamer weapons had proven ineffective at burning through them. The ponies of Hashtor had always been taught from a young age that if they were ever lost in the woods, they shouldn’t make their fires from sticks that fell around the base of the silverwood trees, many had died from the cold of winter, blaming their own skills for being unable to start a fire, when it was actually the fuel itself that was at fault.
Working the wood was another ordeal entirely. Each tree grew deep within the forests, and where they congregated, they created mystical clearings, beautiful places. There were creatures on Hashtor that burrowed into the wood of trees to survive, monsters that sharpened their claws on the sides of others, and even some that would slash open and drink the precious sap contained within. The Ferrum Lignaes tree had adapted to the harsh fauna, hardening themselves against everything nature could throw at them. They were difficult to build homes out of, but once built, the house would last longer than any bloodline had. Special diamond-tipped wood saws were required to cut through one of these trees, to fell one, however, was a tragedy. Each one used on the wall had been at least a century old, their strength and the little time the defenders had to cut them down had meant that they couldn’t cut down any that were older, and larger. These trees were Hashtor. A strong, silvery resolve, forged into something that had to withstand everything that would be thrown at them.
But the wall could not last forever.
The Orks on their ‘feet’ had been gunned down by the defenders through the firing slits. The Hashtoran tanks, Artillery pieces, and Knights had done their best to take out as many of the greenskin’s cannons as they could, but the Orks had simply brought too many for the defenders to handle. Many Leman Russ tanks had been destroyed, and once the Knights had been pulled out of the withering barrage of ordnance, the enemy had begun to shell the firing corridor. It did not matter to the Orks whether they killed their own or the enemy, Warboss Bloodtoof had told them that their job was to ‘blow up the wall wot is keepin’ all our boys out’, and they knew the price they would have to pay if they failed their leader.

Stormhoof blinked his eyes as the shockwave dissipated, and rose to his feet. He could hear something buzzing in his ear, but could not figure out where it was coming from. The rage was there. It always was. He bit down on it, hard, he could not show weakness now. An Ork approached him, swinging its huge scrap-blade around madly. He reached for his sword with his mind-but it was not at his side. His bolt pistol had run out of ammunition an hour ago, and the beast before him’s speed was only increasing. He tensed as it cannoned into him, punching its axe-wielding arm hard with one hoof, he spun around, and hauled the Ork over his back. Screeching, it flew over him, and landed, impaled on a shard of destroyed leg from an Atheon walker. It lay there, squirming around, trying to free itself despite the pain it must have been feeling. Stormhoof walked over to it, snatched up its scrap-axe in his magic’s aura, and with one swing, took the Ork’s head off.
He inspected the axe. It was a crudely designed weapon. The whole thing was covered in blood and rust. Spikes extended out of the top of its cutting edge. A metal pole had been split open on one side, and a sharpened slab of steel had been forced into the opening, then bolted into place.

The blood on the blade was the Orks…but some of it was pony blood too. He had killed at least some other defenders before running into the space marine, possibly many of them. This alien filth was not worth the lives of those that he had slain, not ten of it, nor a hundred of it would ever be worth the life of a single pony. He tasted smoke, and ash on his tongue. Enraged, he stomped on the Ork’s severed head. It exploded around his armoured boot, but still he grew angrier. He swung the axe down into the monster’s body. The Great Enemy. Again and again he swung, switching to the blunt pole end of the axe. He crunched bone, and tore one of the beast’s arms off with his powerful magic, and yet the anger was not sated.
Horus had to die. Horus had to be destroyed beyond the point of recognition. He swung down, roaring. Sanguinius. Thud. Horus. Slice. Horus must be slain. Crack. The death of the genefather. Blood pumping. The Eye of Horus. Blood pooling. The death of His perfect son. Spear meets claw. Blood draining. An incessant whining in his ears. Blood-
“Stormhoof!”
The space marine was snapped out of it immediately. He looked down at the bloody pulp that used to be an Ork. His hooves were shaking. Ponies were around him, watching him fearfully. He realised that he must have been shouting.
He blinked the rage away, and moved down to one knee. “Forgive me…a moment’s weakness, guardsmare.”

He skidded to a halt, brought back to his senses. A group of Orks had surrounded the Colonel’s makeshift command post. Many guardsponies were dead, but a handful remained within, including her. He realised that he had been noticed.
Stormhoof struck. Each blow a kill. Orks fell, it was all too easy. The axe in his hand he left buried in the spine of a slain enemy. Some ran, many were gunned down by the remainder of Brightmane’s squad. He was an Astartes. He could not save everyone. But he could save a few. Jumping down into the command post, he surveyed the scene.
Most of the command squad was dead, all were injured. Still, they let out a cheer as he arrived. Stormhoof took off his helmet, and moved towards Brightmane, who smiled at him.
“I thought I was going to die, Lord.”
“You do not have my permission yet.”
She laughed. “A joke? Finally. I knew there was something pony still in you.”
He thought of this for a moment.
“I have been the cause of all of this.”
Brightmane’s smile faded, and she shook her head.
“It is not your fault, Stormhoof. You did not ask to crash on our planet. You didn’t bring the Orks here on purpose. You’re just…trying to do your best. Like I am. Like we all are.” She looked over the scene, ponies were dead. Orks were dead.
“You could have left at any point. Gone back to your brothers in orbit in an Arvus, don’t look at me like that, you know as well as I do that the Ork blockade wouldn’t have been sufficient to cover the entire planet. You stayed. Because you care, Stormhoof. You’re one of us, a pony, a Hashtoran. You chose to defend us, not because you were ordered to, or because you didn’t have a choice, you always had a choice. But you made the choice that you would fight with us, that you would give us a chance. Stormhoof, you-”
And then something-a piece of shrapnel struck her in the neck. She looked shocked for a moment. Stormhoof reached out to her, and caught her falling form. The blood flowed out of her neck freely. The marine looked down at her, numb. She smiled faintly, before her eyes glossed over, and didn’t see any more.
Gently, he lowered her body onto a pile of ammunition crates.
Evidently, Brightmane had not been one of the few he was capable of saving.
He drew his blade again, and wordlessly left the entrenched position.

~ ~ ~

“I’ve had it up to ‘ere with this sittin’ around and shootin’ with our big ships, I challenge you to a foight!”
The Captain looked at him, quizzically. “And just how do you plan on reaching me?”
“I’m not gonna go to you, you’re gonna come to me!” He roared, beating his armoured chestplate with a huge power-claw.
“I will be boarding your ship shortly, Ork. You will not have long to wait”
Bloodtooth grinned, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna meet me on my ship, space marine, i’m headin’ down to that rock, and that’s where i’ll bash your brains in!”
The communications closed. Rocksteady watched as one of the scanners picked up a small contingent of landing craft leaving the Ork’s battle-barge.
The Captain scoffed. He had hoped that they would keep their fighting outside the planet’s orbit, but clearly, that was no longer an option. “Their leader has clearly seen the futility of the battle in space. Send a message out to the fleet, clean up the rest of this rabble. I want our Astartes in drop pods now, and I will be joining them.”

~ ~ ~

To say that the marine was fierce would have been an understatement. Trooper Shimmerheart had seen him fight very briefly before, but now it was different, now he was like a beast that had finally been let off its leash.
Everywhere, he was throwing himself into the thick of it. Wherever there were the most enemies to kill, he was always there, charging and reaping without hesitation. She tried to get her squad to cover him whenever he ran into a group of Orks that seemed far too many for even him to destroy, but he simply moved too fast for them to support him. Clearskies pointed out that Stormhoof didn’t really need the help anyway.
Stormhoof swung. Again, and again he brought the Orks to heel by his blade, his horn, or his hoof. She watched the great warrior as closely as she dared. His armour was cracking, he was bleeding, pushing himself to his absolute limits, even so, the Orks kept coming, pushing him and the defenders to the walls of the Magna Turris, to their sheltered loved ones. To the home of the Knights.
A group of greenskins scattered ahead of the marine, looking up, Shimmerheart saw why.

The defenders on the walls opened fire with their lasrifles as the hatches of the two remaining ships opened. Stormhoof braced himself for the oncoming tide as the Orks spilled out en masse, a few of the smaller ones dying before they even touched Hashtor’s soil, many more racing forward into the melee. Those that followed this first wave were big, armoured brutes. Some hauling massive cannons over their shoulders that he knew had been brought to destroy the Magna Turris’ gate, others forming a crude shield-wall around them as they marched forward. Their huge hammers and maces crushing any unfortunate enough to get in their path, friend or foe alike.
At the back of this wall came the largest Ork by far.
Upon the top of his heavily armoured back was a row of spikes, impaled upon which were pony and Xenos skulls, as well as the helmet of a Blood Angel. The Lieutenant was almost overcome with the rage then and there.
Half machine-half monster, the beast roared his orders to the other Orks as they began marching towards the shut portcullis, his huge claw lifting an unlucky Chevalier off the ground, before it closed fully, slicing him into three clean pieces.
The Lamenter drew his sword. He fought at the rage that threatened to overtake him. This Ork was clearly their leader. End it, end the war.
Suddenly, the brute turned, and grinned. Its red cybernetic eye was trained on the marine. The Warboss stepped out from behind the shield wall, and it roared a challenge.

Stormhoof took a deep breath, and accepted.

Chapter Nine

The drop-pod rattled around them. Captain Rocksteady and his elite personal guard were falling onto Stormhoof’s position, reconnaissance craft having identified it as being right outside the gates of what he had been told was the Magna Turris, a fortress built in the heart of one of the planet’s archaic towns-Altheim.
Rocksteady hoped that he wasn’t too late. Since this war had started, the Captain had grown fond of the marine. Remembering him and the way he had seen things when he had been training under him. The Lieutenant had always been focused on saving pony lives. His Equestrian nature had not been bled away from him completely when he had been reforged into a space marine. The same could not be said for Rocksteady.
Now, he had been hearing daily reports from Hashtoran officials about Stormhoof’s leadership and had seen the Lieutenant’s strategies play out. Rocksteady was pleased. He had been holding their town for about as long as a son of Sanguinius could wish for. Of course, this could not last forever.
He sighed. Rocksteady could only hope that he would not be too late.

~ ~ ~

Blades swung. Lasrifle and autogun rounds whizzed by. Beasts roared and ponies bellowed to match them.
Death. Around them was death. Between them was death. What they were was death.
The warrior and the beast fought. The Lamenter swung his crackling power sword around, two hooves pounding the earth as they spun around each other, swinging at the Warboss with all his might, the Ork blocking with its power claw.
Both opponents knew any hit could be fatal. Stormhoof’s armour was good, but it was not good enough for him to survive the beast’s claw, and yet he knew that one clean sweep of his sword’s power field would be enough to carve through the Ork’s armour plating and win the bout.
Any friendly or enemy trooper that had stood between them during the first few seconds had been mangled. Stormhoof had fought for three hundred and fourty-two Terran years. Three hundred and fourty-two years in which he had yet to be slain by an enemy in single combat, and yet this Ork could match every one of his blows and then some. It frustrated him. It angered him. He feinted one way, striking the other side of the beast as the Warboss blocked it with his arm mounted cannon. Swinging it around like a bludgeoning weapon, and knocking the over-extended Stormhoof back-the impact finally shattering his already cracked eye-lens. He stumbled, finding his hooves just in time to block the Ork’s claw.

The Lieutenant was exhausted. He had been fighting for days. He had been bleeding for days. The Ork was fresh. A strike against the enemy. Parried back with three swift claw blows that took all of his strength to defend. He could not carry on like this. He could feel the rage building. It tantalised him with its release. It would be so easy to let go. To use the rage to win the duel. Horus was stood before him. No. He had to stand. For the ponies he was defending, but he had to stand as himself, not as his Genefather. It pained him to think in this way, but it was all that was keeping him from breaking.
“Hah! Puny Space Pony, yous all think you’re strong. But you’re not. Orks is strongest! I’ve killed a Space Marine before, i’ll do it again!” The beast before him roared, before it did something Stormhoof had never seen an Ork do before.
It feinted him.
So tired was he that he could not react in time to fully dodge the strike. The beast roared as its claw snagged on his left foreleg, shearing it clean off.
The lamenter stared numbly at the stump that had been left behind by the claw.

Stormhoof’s vision darkened. He roared, leaping towards the beast. His sword barely being blocked by the claw, but slicing into the Ork’s armour and piercing its shoulder-meat. The beast only grinned.
“That’s more like it, give us a good fight!”

~ ~ ~

Flowerprance lunged at a scrap-titan, ignoring the blaring of her jousting knights’ alarms. The Argent Hastae’s shield had been destroyed by an enemy claw, and numerous blows to the four legs of her knight had slowed her down.
The shock-lance pierced through the scrap-knight in front of her. It was such a shame. She recognised the Questoris Knight chassis that had been stripped for parts and crudely bolted back together by the brutish engineers of the Orks. It was an affront to her very culture, and it had to go.

It fell with her weight on top of it. The spear bursting out the other side. She rode it down to the ground, before realizing that she had overextended herself. She was past the line of knights that had been drawn around the town. She watched as a hatch on another titan opened up, a massive harpoon launcher rising up out of its shoulder, the head easily the size of her knight’s fist.
“My Lady!”
It was Dovewing. He was coming. What was that idiot doing here? “Get out of here Dovewing, that is an order!”
“I am afraid it’s too late, my Lady. I am already here.”
She struggled to rise, the shock-lance stuck underneath the destroyed knight she was on top of. She could not move. The harpoon swivelled around to face her knight, despite the hail of fire Lightningblade was raining upon it.
“Dovewing!”
He leapt up. Between her and the Ork titan. The speed of the Armiger propelled him forward, and as he leapt. The Ork fired.

“My Lady, I-”
The reactor of his knight was pierced, immediately exploding. It continued through his debris, striking the Argent Hastae in the front leg. She screamed in pain as she experienced her own leg being stabbed, before being torn off back towards the scrap-titan.
Barely able to breathe through the pain, she knew she had to disconnect. Uncoupling herself from the feed-cables, Flowerprance fell sideways out of her seat, slamming into the wall of the cockpit. She wheezed, breathing in the faint whisps of smoke. Feebly, she kicked out at the top hatch of the knight, before remembering to hoof the latch. Bursting out, she tumbled to the grass, before lying still, staring up as shells flew around above her.

~ ~ ~

Sanguinius breathed heavily. The rage was all around him. He was lost in it. The Arch-traitor was all he could make out in front of him, and behind him was the light.
He roared an unintelligible battle-cry as he lunged for him. The Talon of Horus fell just before him, but he did not flinch. The Primarch of the Blood Angels advanced, pushing the enemy back. The Talon speared out towards him, and this time, he took it.
He felt cold. The Talon was through his waist, and out his back. Groaning through the rage, the Blade Encarmine shot out, directly into the face of Horus.
I am me.
The battle was still for a moment.
I am me.
He fought against it. He tried to stay as the primarch of the Blood Angels. He had achieved victory.
I am not me.
The primarch turned, and gazed fondly upon a son of his own. Clad in yellow armour, the marine was from a different time. It was colder, but there was still hope.
I am him.
And then, the primarch turned, and moved towards his gene-son.

Trooper Shimmerheart peered over the edge of the shell-hole. It was a gruesome sight.
The Orks’ leader and the warrior from the stars lay together, as if embracing. Neither were moving.
It was over. The Orks’ leader may have been slain, but so was theirs. Her family. Her ponies.
Movement. A groan.

She watched, dumbfounded, as the three-legged marine struggled to rise.
She skidded down into the hole, as fast as she dared. “My Lord!”
“I am Stormhoof.” He muttered. She could see his body was failing him.
“Please Lord, rest, we can get a Surgeon Primus, just vox for one-”
“My duty-is not yet done.” He wheezed out, finally collapsing against the Ork’s claw beneath him.
He stared up at the sky. I am Stormhoof. I cannot yet die. My duty-
The sky. Something flashed up in the sky. Then another flash, then three more.
Drop pods. Astartes drop pods.
Watching, his breathing growing shallower, he could only stare upwards as they left his vision, one landing just before the Magna Turris’ gate.
He listened to the sound of bolt-fire. Knowing the path that was being carved through the attacking Xenos. “Please! Lords! Save him!”
Shimmerheart scrambled up to the edge of the hole, waving at the marines as they strode past, clearing out the remaining Orks that were now fleeing before them. They were magnificent. Their armour immaculately clean. Decorated with wax seals and skull motifs. Blood droplets on each of their helmets, their huge shields weathering any incoming fire, and their crackling axes making short work of any who dared come too close.
Their leader stopped. He turned his knightly helm towards her.

Stormhoof’s mind was slowing when he saw the grey-bearded face of Captain Rocksteady above him. “Captain. You are…here. We have not lost?” He tried to salute, but found he could lift his front right hoof as easily as he could his left.
Gently, Captain Rocksteady removed Stormhoof’s helmet, before tossing it aside.
“Yes, Stormhoof. You won.”
“It…almost took me. My Lord. I tried to-”
“Be still, brother. It did not.”
There was silence. Hashtoran defenders had left the battlements, some moving over. Shimmerheart stared with rapt attention.
“I…Am sorry, Lord.”
The Captain looked at him, confused. “What is there that you could possibly be sorry about?
Stormhoof strained. “Leading my own force to strike at the traitors. I knew you would not approve. But I did it anyway. I killed those ponies. Those pilots-Fluffybean. Remember that name. Record that name. He is the reason I survived the crash. I killed that farmer too, Colonel Brightmane. All the soldiers that died were drawn here by me.”
“Lieutenant. None of this is your fault. Look at how many you have saved with your actions! These ponies owe you their lives. Every living creature on this planet owes you their life. You have achieved victory.”
Stormhoof grew still upon hearing this.
“I was him Lord. I was our Genesire.”
Rocksteady pondered this for a moment.“You are not him. You are Lieutenant Stormhoof Turit of the Lamenters. You will meet him soon.”
And then Stormhoof breathed in, one final time. “My Oath is fulfilled. I die as me.”
The street was quiet.
Shimmerheart did not know what to say. “There was truly nothing you could do?”
Rocksteady stood up, his face dark, still looking at the body before him. “Fetch one of the Apothecaries”. He called to one of his elite guard.
“His geneseed will be recovered to create another warrior like him.”
The mare could feel tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “But he gave us everything. He fulfilled his oath. It is not fair that he receive death in return.”
“He had an honourable death in battle for the Emperor. What more could a warrior of the Imperium wish for?”
Rocksteady turned, and stalked out of the crater, leaving Shimmerheartwith the body of the Ork and the Marine.

Epilogue

Flowerprance was still stretching after a long day of training exercises piloting Argent Hastae. Striding along the battlements of the Magna Turris’ main wall, she stopped, looking out over her city.
Ships were taking off from the docks to the west. Moving into orbit, they would carry supplies and troops to the Dauntless-class cruiser that had just made contact with their orbiting dock two days ago.
The economy was booming. Hashtor had a wealth of ancient technologies the Imperium were willing to pay exorbitant prices for-and then there were the Rogue Traders.

She watched as a pair of servitors and their techpriest master trotted through the front gate towards the knights’ repair bay. She did not much like the members of the Adeptus Mechanicus that had come to Hashtor, but she could appreciate their abilities at maintaining and repairing Knights and other technologies, after all, they had repaired her own Jouster after the Hashtoran War. And for that, she would always be in their debt.
She heard footsteps, and turned her head as another approached, wearing her perfectly-fitted dress uniform. Colonel Shimmerheart of the Unified Hashtoran Guard bowed her head in greeting. There was little formality between the two-the extra years of hunting down any Ork stragglers together had seen to that.

“Baroness. A pleasant summer evening, is it not?”
“It is indeed.”
They stayed silent for another moment.
“How is she?”
“Berrycakes? She is performing her duties well. She’s on track for earning the title of Chevalier within the next two years.”
Flowerprance smiled proudly. “Perfect. Thank you for keeping an eye on her.”
“I’ve barely had to, you raised her well.”
“I was unprepared, but I felt that I had to. For his sake.”
The two gazed down Brightmane Way towards the town centre. A huge, brass statue of a Space Marine, staring upwards, heroically saluted with a hoof to its chest. Its gothic style armour contrasting with the bolt pistol at its belt.

“He saved her life, the best I can do for him is give her one.” the Baroness remarked.
“A life of military service…not one many often wish for.” Chuckled the Colonel.
Flowerprance pondered this. “Perhaps in better times. But not now. Our armies need soldiers, Colonel, and our Knight house needs more squires. One day, I hope she will join us.”
“If you keep giving her that blade training, i’m sure she will.”
“It is a dangerous galaxy out there. She will be deployed soon. I fear for her.” The Baroness said suddenly.
Shimmerheart was silent for a moment.
“I suppose we’ll just have to see if the soldiers we’ve forged for this galaxy will be able to survive it.” She responded simply.
“She will make her oath to Hashtor soon. She will pledge herself to her world and to the Emperor one final time. Then, she will be shipped off to wherever light is needed in the darkness.”

“To fight and die a glorious death in the Emperor’s name. That is all we can hope for, is it not, Shimmerheart?”
“Yes. I suppose you are right, Flowerprance.”