THE BLOOD BANNER

by
Ahmad Nabeel

* * *

The sky was a wild boiling mass of gray and black, a churning ocean of despair and madness. The
clouds were darker than the darkest of inks, roiling in a forever torrent of furious storms. There was no
sun, the only light coming from the myriad raging fires and infernos across the horizon which lit up the
angry sky. Echos of dying screams and thundering guns reverberated across the sparse landscape; a
place of desolation, devoid of any sign of life. A slight, sickly stench of blood hung in the air, clinging
to the skies like a fine red mist.

Where once this had been a place of glory and hope, this now was a place of doom and death.

He walked slowly but confidently, feeling the granite chips and pebbles crunch satisfyingly into dust
beneath his giant iron-shod feet. His every step sent a tremor across the earth, leaving a crater of broken
ground in his wake. He was a monster, at least four meters in height and half that in breadth. Clad in
the darkest of armor, festooned with hundreds of skulls and kill trophies, he was the living embodiment
of war and its infinite savagery; an unstoppable primordial force of untamed destruction. His face was
that of a terrible murderer; a doom-struck, horror-filled nightmare given form and life. Hundreds of
scars crisscrossed his ruddy visage; few bleeding, many heeled. He wore each proudly like a badge of
honor, each a reminder of the horrible death and unimagined devastation he had visited upon countless
worlds across the galaxy. His eyes, dark and sunk into the recesses of his wide skull, glinted with some
inner murderous desire like the fiery embers of blazing coal. A thunderous volcano of sheer,
unadulterated hate and violence seeped from every pore of his being like wisps of steam from some
ancient, arcane engine of war. Faces of foes and victims, stuck in moments of abject fear and terror,
their skins ripped off of their dead faces, were stitched together and draped across the shoulder guards
of his terrible armor, waving gently in the death-soaked breeze like a macabre cloak. Tiny rivulets of
blood traced small roads like a cartographer's map across his massive form, shaping unholy and
maddening glyphs of raw power. His two massive, blood-drenched chainaxes hung across his back; a
dozen or so knives and blades, some as long as a normal man's arm and promising a thousand deaths,
each dripping with human vitae and gore, decorated every available space across his front.

Untold billions had perished to slake his craving for blood, and only the Fates knew how many untold
billions more would follow.

He smiled; a feral, predatory creasing of his cracked, blood-slick lips. There was still so much death
left to visit upon this blighted world. His eyes were alight with an inner fire and he licked his lips in
anticipation of the upcoming slaughter, letting the excitement of savage murder rise and stoke his
already raging tornado of blood lust. Oh yes, so much more blood yet to be spilled upon this hallowed
ground.

He let out a wild, animal roar of pure, lustful joy that echoed for miles across the earth. The sound was
that of impending doom.

Thus did Angron, primarch and lord of the World Eaters, tread upon Holy Terra.
 * * *

Standing atop the impossibly high walls, he had a perfect view of the devastation the war had brought
to this world. Where there had once been entire hives, each teeming with millions of souls, there was
now the haunting silence of death. Cities which had been home to thousands upon thousands were now
burning ruins, their occupants now nothing more than ash and mists of bone-dust. Entire plateaus and
valleys were awash with blood, broken bodies were littered everywhere in their millions. The clammy,
bleak stench of death permeated from every stone and pebble.

Never in his entire life had he seen such wanton, yet methodical, destruction. He had seen thousands of
battlefields, been witness to countless horrors of war, but had never seen such complete obliteration of
life. This was not war, he realized, this was wholesale slaughter. There was no method or purpose for
such death other than to serve itself. There was no reason to scour everything in sight other than to try
and quench some impossible thirst for blood. So this is what they have sunk to, he thought to himself,
they kill simply for the sake of it.

He shuddered inwardly, horrified to think that his brother could fall so low, could turn away from the
grand ideals of their father and succumb to such bloody madness. He sighed to himself, feeling despair
slowly creeping upon him at the thought of how this came about, how easily his brother turned from
being a great champion into nothing more than a savage beast. But then again, he thought with a rueful
smile, Angron had always been a beast. A chained beast.

Until now.

Now, he had been unchained. Now, his infinite hunger for mindless murder had been unleashed. He
thought of all the worlds Angron and his legion had subdued during the Crusade, and how his bothers
and father had censured him countless times for using beyond-excessive force. The writing, he realized,
had always been there on the wall. Everyone had been acutely aware of Angron's legendary capacity
for violence, but had instead chosen to turn a partially-blind eye to it.

Now it was too late.

Now that legendary capacity of violence had been let loose and hurled against their father, and only
now he began to truly appreciate just how pathetically his bothers and father had underestimated
Angron's desire and appetite for blood.

As much as he loved his brother, he realized there was no other way to stop Angron other than to kill
him.

He sighed at such a bleak thought, his gaze shifting from the desolate, scoured landscape before him to
the soaring fortress around him. Once, this had been a grand palace of gold and burnished copper,
crafted with great care and reverence, with unmatched artistry and skill. Once, this had been a place of
great grandeur and culture, of breathtaking beauty and magnificence. Once, this had been a shining
beacon of Mankind's ascendency in the galaxy, a symbol of his birthright to tread and rule the universe
without fear.

Once, its mere sight had been enough to drive millions to tears out of love and devotion.

Now, it was ugly and brutal. Now, it was a monstrosity dedicated to the arts of war.
Where once had been towering pillars of gold that glittered even in the night, now stood grim columns
of thick granite bristling with guns. Where once had been exquisite esplanades were now deep trenches
with heavy bolter emplacements to provide effective crossfire over the fields. Where once had stood
lush gardens of exotic plants, labyrinths of razor-wire crisscrossed the immaculately maintained grass.
Alleyways and passages were rendered into choke points with ambush traps. Rockcrete pillboxes with
powerful lascannons dotted the open areas. Artillery placements and cannon turrets were in their
thousands. Sweet aromas and fragrances had given way to the stench of machine oil, unguents and
sweat. Even the wall he stood on, once made of gold and etched with platinum, had been torn down and
rebuilt using a lattice of reinforced granite, rockcrete and adamantium.

He paused and remembered as his brother, Rogal Dorn, had explained the defenses in detail. Dorn was
the Emperor's Praetorian, His Champion, and was responsible for the defenses of Terra. An expert in
siege warfare, Dorn had transformed the beauty which was the Imperial Palace into an impregnable
fortress. And although he knew that Dorn was somewhat proud of his achievement, he had detected a
trace of immense and deep sadness in his frost-set eyes.

He understood his brother's sadness, for he himself felt it quite keenly. To see the Great Crusade, their
father's destiny-shaping work, come to this was nothing short of being monumentally soul-shattering.
All the pain and suffering, the horrors of war, the death and destruction they had endured for centuries
had all been for naught.

This, he thought mournfully, was the final legacy of the Great Crusade; brothers against brothers, sons
against father. The dream that had been one of utopia had been shattered upon the anvil of anger and
madness. From now on, there will forever be war.

He shook himself from his reverie. He remembered who and where he was. Such musings, he said to
himself, were for a later time. Now is the time for war.

He looked down upon himself. He was in his full battle plate; exquisite golden armor with thousands of
carvings and engravings, trimmed in blood red. His golden hair, the hues matching his armor, framed
his darkened face. Strips of parchment bearing various oaths of moment clung to his form from waxen
seals and fluttered in the stiff breeze. His wings, usually decorated with glittering rubies and the soft
accents of mother-of-pearl, were bare. At his side hung his sword, a weapon of enough power to shatter
entire planets. In his hand, encased in gauntlets of beautiful design and intricate etchings, he tightly
clutched his spear, a weapon potent enough to rend the entire galaxy.

He was a sight of absolute battle in its more glorious, beautiful form; a dread angel of war who inspired
both dizzying courage and utter fear in equal measure. Normally he was a vision of supreme martial
splendor and might, a being who embodied the nobility and true valor of war; now he was the
manifestation of dark vengeance and holy retribution, an entity of sheer elemental fury and anger.

He looked once more over the walls and out into the desolation, quietly keeping his righteous might in
check, patiently waiting for the inevitable bloodshed to begin.

Thus did Sanguinius, primarch and lord of the Blood Angels, stand sentinel over his father's keep.

* * *

Angron approached the walls of the fortress at a slow pace. There was no hurry, no press for time.
The walls would break before him, he swore. Its defenses would crumble and rivers of blood would
gush from its innards, all by his hands. He will crush the skulls of each and every living soul within the
palace and bath in their blood. The fools cowering behind their walls think that they can stay the fury of
Angron! How truly foolish of them! He will make them pay for their petty hubris, make them suffer for
their pathetic, little, insignificant lives. He will drench this forsaken world in their blood and erect
monuments made from their bones!

Soon. Very soon.

Angron stood alone before the walls; bleak, towering edifices blistering with countless cannons and
turrets, enough to reduce any army to dust in one salvo. He saw and felt thousands of guns trained on
him, but knew none would open fire. He chuckled to himself. The self-righteous fools; adhering to their
stupid code of noble, honorable war! He would show them the true meaning of war!

Soon. Oh, so very soon.

“SANGUINIUS!”, he bellowed. His voice like the deep, echoing rumble of a great erupting volcano,
threatening to tear all reality asunder.

He waited for a moment, and filled his lungs once more to roar his accursed brother's name again,
when a loud clang echoed across the field. The gates before him slowly began to traverse open, inch by
inch. They were, he saw, great slabs of pure adamantium, almost a full kilometer in height and thicker
than the prow armor of any Imperial battleship.

Where normally it would have taken teams of thousands of mortals to work the gates or some of the
biggest engines of the Mechanicum to operate them, Sanguinius opened them alone with ease. He was
hunched slightly forward as if treading through a mild blizzard, pushing onward with his bare arms.
The gates groaned and creaked loudly, their screams reaching to ear-shattering levels.

Once open far enough, Sanguinius simply continued forward without breaking his pace. Angron's feral
smile now pulled back into a predatory grin, fangs and all, as a hunter would appraise his catch.

“Sanguinius! Brother!” rumbled Angron, almost with glee. “Perfect day for a slaughter, don't you
think?”

Sanguinius halted a dozen or so meters before him and looked upon Angron's terrible form. He was
easily Angron's height, but not as broad. Where Angron was a raw juggernaut of wild, unfiltered
malevolence, he was the sculpted form of sheer, focused energy.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he heard Angron's words. “I thought for you, Angron, every day was
perfect for a slaughter.”

Angron let out a laugh; a loud, guttural bark which reminded Sanguinius of some terrible earthquake.
“Aye! Very true.”
“First levity and now a display of parley.” said Sanguinius, gesturing around him, his voice level but
strong. “To what do I owe this unexpected display of civility?”

Angron's face suddenly darkened to the color of a great storm and contorted into a mask of murderous
fury, a thunder of violence flashing in his eyes, his form seeming to expand with utter rage. “Take care
of what you say, brother!” he growled, a sound like the low keening of inevitable doom; his anger-
infested fists slowly clenching his blood-thirsty blades. “I'm here at the request of the Warmaster! He
asks you to reconsider your...situation!”

Sanguinius felt his brother's hate emanating from him like great tidal waves, riding upon the crests of
death and blood. And that is exactly what he saw in his errant brother's sunken eyes; his desire to lash
out and bring death to all those around him. Angron was a mindless machine of utter destruction, with
no will or purpose of existence other than to kill everything before him. That he was standing still and
hadn't given in to his primal impulses, hadn't exploded into an unstoppable hurricane of violence, spoke
volumes. He was amazed at the supreme level of self-control Angron was showing.

Truly, how pathetically we had underestimated him, thought Sanguinius ruefully.

His lips curved into a slight smile. “You know my mind, Angron. I'm sure you told Horus what my
answer would be.”

“Don't be a fool!” retorted Angron, feeling his choler rising in his gorge. “You know as well as I how
this will end! There's no need for you and your legion to die defending the lies of that basta...”

Sanguinius moved with preternatural speed, too fast for even a primarch's enhanced sight to follow, and
in an instant he was suddenly standing mere inches from Angron, face level and eyes ablaze like orbs
of smoldering iron, radiating raw fury like the heat of a thousand caged suns. “You will not speak of
our father with disrespect, brother.” His voice was a soft, deathly whisper with a sharp, keen edge.
“You have spoken your piece. You know my answer. Now leave before I lose my patience.”

He stepped closer still, his anger barely in check. He peered straight into Angron's eyes, a hunger-filled
gaze of a great void-predator, forever searching for prey. His body shook with tiny tremors of chained
violence, fists clenched into taloned claws, eager to be unleashed.

“And believe me Angron, you do NOT want me to lose my patience!” he hissed dangerously.

“Then so be it.” growled Angron with utter, grim finality. “NO MERCY! NO SURRENDER!”

* * *

Captain Lysos stood next to his primarch upon the walls, overlooking miles and miles of open, broken
ground. The wind had slowly continued to rise in its fury, howling blindly at the thousands who stood
ready to defend their Emperor's keep. Like the rest of this legion-brothers, he was clad for war in his
black-trimmed blood-red Mark III battle-armor, gleaming and polished to a bright sheen. His left
shoulder-guard displayed the winged blood droplet insignia of his legion, and upon the other hung
dozens of strips of parchment, held in place by waxen seals. On his chest he proudly bore the Aquila,
symbol of the beloved Emperor and His Imperium. His bolter was holstered along his right thigh, ready
to dispense death to the Emperor's enemies. His helmet was held loosely in the crook of his right arm,
and in his left he held a burnished pole upon which, clutched in the talons of a gold double-headed
eagle and fluttering in the stiff breeze, hung his most prized charge; a gold-trimmed, blood-colored,
squared-off piece of cloth with the same winged droplet symbol as on his shoulder, the inset ruby of the
droplet glittering in the dim twilight with some inner, glorious luminance.

The Legion Standard. The Blood Banner.

He looked up at the swaying cloth and felt a wave of pride wash over him. To serve the Emperor as a
Blood Angel and wage war in His name was honor enough, but being the legion's standard-bearer was
a privilege beyond words.

A smile crept on his lips as his gaze went back to the open ground before him. His eyes narrowed and
the smile vanished instantly as he heard the distant echoing rumble from beyond the horizon. Although
through his gene-enhanced sight he couldn't yet see them, he could clearly hear the slow, rhythmic
clashing as they drew near.

The World Eaters were on the march, and wherever they went, terrible death followed in their wake.

He quietly stole a glance at the being of perfection he stood next to, and the mere sight of his lord sent
his heart soaring. It was but with the most spectacular control of will with which he kept himself
upright and did not sink to his knees in the presence of a being of such might and glory. He felt pure
joy just to be standing so close to him. And now, on the eve of the greatest of battles, he felt sheer pride
to be standing in the shadow of his beloved primarch.

Sanguinius. Noblest and greatest of the Emperor's sons.

“They are coming.” The words were whispered gently, but carried the power and torment of a storm.

“Aye, my lord.” replied Lysos.

He saw a sight shake of his lord's head, so slight that he thought he had imagined it. But then he
glimpsed into his primarch's eyes and saw a shade of the infinite sadness and despair that racked his
soul; the pain of having to fight his own brothers, the knowledge that he will have to kill whom he
loved, the grief at how things could have turned out so, and sorrow at the fact that the noble ideals for
which Mankind had fought and bled for so many centuries, now lay in utter and complete ruin.

The glimpse had lasted but for the briefest of instances, but in that time he saw nothing but cold, bleak
darkness.

Until now, he had looked upon this conflict as one of madness-afflicted sons taking up arms against
their beloved father, the Emperor. Until now, as per his Astartes training, he had slowly managed to
rationalize this war in simple black and white so as to better function as a soldier. Until now, he tried
not to think of what the true consequences of such a terrible conflict were, instead focusing on the here
and now, on the duty at hand.

But now, now that he had but glimpsed into the fathomless sorrow of his primarch's eyes, he realized
just how futile and insignificant his concerns actually were. Now, he finally came to understand the true
repercussions of this maddening war. Now, he finally saw the utter undoing of Mankind's glorious
destiny in its full, maddening form. Now, he finally felt the keen and sharp blade of a brother's betrayal
slice through his chest. Now, he finally saw the real pain and horror of a brother who must do the
unthinkable, all in the name of duty and right.

Tears slowly welled in his eyes, and as much as Lysos tried, he could not will them away. The sudden
surge of grief threatened to overwhelm him, drown him under crashing waves of uncontrolled emotion;
tears now forming and flowing freely down his face, tracing wet, slick lines across his sagging visage.
Then it suddenly dawned upon him; if he, a post-human gene-enhanced Astartes could feel such pain so
fully, what would his primarch experience, knowing that his beloved brothers had betrayed him; and
that there was no other way open to him than that of spilled kin-blood?

“That, my son,” said Sanguinius, turning to him, his voice ever so gentle and soft, “is my great
burden.” His eyes were mournful and a sad smile was upon his lips, his face was that of a deeply and
infinitely pained brother. “A burden which we all, true sons of the Emperor, must bear.”

“Forgive me, m...my lord!” stammered Lysos, feeling himself on the very precipice of losing control.
“I...I didn't know...”

“There is nothing to forgive, my son.” replied Sanguinius softly, placing a gentle hand on Lysos'
shoulder and speaking like a father administrating to the wounds of his beloved child. “This war is the
crucible upon which the future of the soul of Mankind will be determined. Everything that happens
here today will shape the outcome of our destiny forever. And although I dearly love my brothers, I also
equally hate them for their betrayal and for everything they have forsaken.” He sighed and turned once
more to look out towards the open fields, his deep sorrow now coming to the fore. The marching legion
of the World Eaters could now be seen over the horizon, rows upon rows of thousands of blood-thirsty
warriors; their white and blue armor now so splashed and covered in blood that it seemed that an army
of bronze and copper was advancing towards them.

“Look there.” gestured Sanguinius towards the incoming horde. “They were once your brothers, your
allies, your kin. But now,” infinite sadness filled his voice as if a great, terrible weight had been
suddenly placed upon his heart. “Now, they are the anathema of everything the Emperor has fought so
long and hard to achieve. They are here to undo all that you and I have sacrificed so much to help
create. The wars, the deaths, the pain...”

Suddenly the primarch's voice was of steel; hard and cold, filled with an infinite demand for
retribution. “If I must spill the blood of my brothers to save the future our father is trying to create, if I
must put them down like rabid dogs, even at the expense of my own life, then it is a price I pay gladly!”

Sanguinius' voice was now a raging torrent of mighty, terrible wrath. Lysos had never seen his lord this
way before. Truly now, standing before him, was the very manifestation of vengeance and furious
majesty.

Lysos felt his spirits lifting, his bout of grief quickly disappearing like morning mist before the
approach of dawn; the primarch's iron-weighed words granting him a clear, focused finality of the task
at hand. He knew his lord was correct; no matter what the reason, the fact remained that fully half of
the Emperor's sons and their legions had turned from His light. And no matter what manner of madness
possessed them, they could not be allowed to wreak all that Mankind had accomplished. If the price for
saving the the Emperor's dream meant drenching himself in his brothers' blood, no matter how painful
or abhorrent that concept felt to him, then it would be a duty he would continue to execute as long as he
drew breath.

He was an Astartes; the Emperor's chosen warrior, the unswerving pillar of the glorious Imperium.
Duty comes before all else, and only in death does duty end.

“Have the legion stand ready.” muttered Sanguinius through clenched teeth, his eyes flashing like wild
firestorms, twin blazing suns about to go nova.
“Blood Angels!” shouted Lysos over his shoulder. Ten thousand warriors clad in crimson armor
slammed their fists across their chests in salute, the sound like that of a massive earth-shattering strike
of some ancient god of war.

“Make ready!”

Ten thousand bolters were ratched ready in response, and ten thousand chainswords were revved in
reply. It was the sound of the awakening of a long-slumbering avatar of destruction, both terrible and
awe-inspiring to behold. Entire worlds had fallen before the might of the Blood Angels, and now, that
might shall once more be unleashed against the most insidious of foes; their own brothers.

The earth shall run red with Astartes blood today.

“The legion stands ready, my lord.” said Lysos, turning to his primarch and slid on his helmet in one
smooth motion. He drew his bolter and lofted the legion's standard upon his shoulder.

The roiling, blood-maddened mass of doom-hungry barbarians was now almost within range of the
fortress' guns; a stench of gore and death wafting around and before them like a clinging, sentient fog.
The artillery crew and Dorn's immaculate masters of siege warfare, manning the thousands of infamous
Earth-Shaker and Doom-Bringer long cannons and mortars, stood ready to let loose the Emperor's
judgment upon their corrupted bretheren.

“Captain Lysos.” said Sanguinius, his voice level and determined.

“My lord.” replied Lysos with equal amount of iron in his voice.
“You are the legion's standard-bearer?”
“That is my honor, my lord.”
“Good.” said Sanguinius. He continued to look out towards the marching traitorous legion, his eyes
never leaving the hulking, terrible monstrosity that led them like an elemental, unholy force of unlife.

“Raise the Blood Banner high! Let those bastards down there see who is going to kill them today!”

With that, all Hell was unleashed, and there was only war.

* * *