imperialpalacearchives

[imperialpalacearchives]

The Sehkmet Terminator Cabals were among the deadliest warrior-sorcerers of the Thousand Sons. However, even with full access to their psychic powers, four of them died for every one Custodes they slew. The arrival of the Sisters of Silence only increased this ratio in the Custodes’ favour…

Taken from The Horus Heresy: Book Seven - Inferno.

[imperialpalacearchives]

“The three of them charged forward, taking the Iron Warriors off guard. Close assault with shields by the Adeptus Astartes in either voidship or fortress would have been conducted step by step with return of fire, as dictated by Roboute Guilliman’s great codex, only followed by a charge when the enemy line was disrupted.

They were not Space Marines.

The Custodians hit the Iron Warriors with the Emperor’s own wrath, swords wielded with practised economy. Despite the close confines of the tunnel, not once did the three Custodians collide with each other. Not once did their blades nick the tunnel wall. They fought around each other, their individual styles making a complex dance. Their armour flashed gold, their plumes streamed behind them, and the Iron Warriors died.

Genetically altered to be physically superior to all men, with thousands of years of experience and granted strength by the Ruinous Powers, the Traitor Space Marines were among the most fearsome warriors ever known.

The Adeptus Custodes were better.

Faces flashed before Achallor. Horned helms, fanged maws, angled faceplates. All fell. Armour dating from the dawn of the Imperium split at last, cleaved by Prosektis. They fired at him from point-blank range, filling the combat space with blizzards of micro shrapnel. Few bolts got past his shield. Those that did detonated on his superior armour.

They pushed through the traitors, knocking them down. Varsillian took the only serious hit, his shield pincered in half by a champion wielding a power claw. Neither Achallor nor Vychellan took a scratch. Amalth-Amat and Aswadi fired between the comrades, each shot timed perfectly to pass between their bodies and strike down their foes. Achallor brought Prosektis around to finish one of the last, but the Iron Warrior’s chestplate erupted in white sparks and fire before the blade could bite, blood spraying after as he fell down into the deepening flood on the floor...”

— A trio of Custodians face the might of the Iron Warriors. Excerpt from “The Gate of Bones” by Andy Clark.

[imperialpalacearchives]

“I rounded the corner at speed, and saw my quarry. He was still running, going faster than his gunmetal-heavy armour would have suggested was possible. He might have been making for one of the pulpits higher up, hoping to find some vantage from which to launch a defence, but my pursuit had been too swift.

I opened up Gnosis' bolter, catching my enemy on the shoulder and sending him crashing to the ground. Above us both, banners swayed heavily, caught by the backwash from the explosion.

I raced after him, watching him twist back to his feet. He was a massive brute, crusted with ridged and tarnished battleplate. His helm-lenses glowed a dull red, like magma, and he carried a two-handed war-hammer. The stench of engine fuel hung over him. He might have even approached my own size, my weight, my strength - such were the perversions the warp had wrought on those who had once served the Throne.

We slammed together, and the impact rippled the stone around us. Our weapons crunched into a brace-lock, showering plasma over both of us. I swung away, hilt-first, and smashed him back a pace. He shoved back, aiming to ram the fizzing hammerhead into my chest.

He nearly connected. I judged his weapon was within a few microseconds of an impact that would have cracked my auramite breastplate. That interval, however, was comfortably sufficient to spin my blade over in my grip, ram the spear tip into the Traitor's gorget and fire at point-blank range.

The bolt-shell exploded instantly, blasting his head apart in a shower of blown metal-shreds. His war-hammer spun out of control, his limbs jerked apart and the momentum of my down-thrust sent his head-less corpse crashing to the ground.

I stood over him for a moment longer, breathing heavily, my spear gripped loosely. Blood, viscous as sump-oil, oozed from the rotten stump of his neck. His metal fingers twitched. The aegis of force around his warhammer flickered out. Slowly, carefully, I relaxed. The kill had been clean, with no damage taken.

I was not satisfied with how far this one had penetrated, though. On another run, I would have hoped to have downed him further out. I felt no particular emotion as I studied the body. I understood that my cousins in the Adeptus Astartes reserved an almost pathological hatred for their Traitor counterparts. I wondered if that made them more or less effective on the field of battle.

To me, the surviving members of the Old Legions were like bands of animals - feral threats to the Throne that required culling. I felt no discernible difference in my response to them than that I had experienced when hunting xenotype tyranids and eldar in these same tunnels - they were all dangerous, all worthy of study, but unworthy of expending emotional energy upon…”

— A Custodes faces a Heretic Astartes in the Blood Games. Excerpt from “Watchers of the Throne: The Emperor’s Legion” by Chris Wraight.

[imperialpalacearchives]

“Colonel Aldalon walked down the long chapel, past rows of Imperial Guard soldiers barracked inside. They looked up at him as he passed, hastily stiffening in respect for not only his rank but also the red bandanna he wore tied around his honestly ridiculously large bicep.

The Catachan Jungle Fighters were legendary among the Astra Militarum. In stories told to children they were almost as lauded as the Adeptus Astartes themselves, in a lot of ways maybe even more so, because the men and women of Catachan were just that ��� men and women. Everything they did, every storied battle they won, they did without all the advantages of the Emperor’s Space Marines.

Aldalon did not acknowledge the troopers around him in return. He had little time for soft-world Guardsmen, and these were worse than most…”

— The reputation of the Catachan Jungle Fighters. Excerpt From “Catachan Devil” by Justin Woolley.

[imperialpalacearchives]

“Not all opponents were so easily accounted for. As I crunched aside a reeling soldier in Arraigner colours, the drifting cordite ahead revealed a greater foe – one of the many Minotaurs stationed out in the nave, now barging through the throngs to intercept us.

This was one of the new ones – a Primaris, greater in stature and speed than any of his cousins, the great legacy of the primarch to his new Imperium. Ever since encountering the first of these, back during our campaign against the Splintered, I had speculated on what it might be like to fight one of them. Even amid all that was taking place, despite the necessity for speed, and the clamour, and the storm of flying shells, I felt a spike of anticipation run through my body.

He carried a bolt pistol, though it was of a larger marque than I had witnessed before, as well as a power sword. He fired a brace of shots at me, all perfectly aimed on the run, and I used my whirling blade to cut them from the air in a welter of mass-reactive explosions.

The distance between us vanished, and we smashed in close, my spear slamming down against his parried blade. For a split second we both thrust against one another, pouring on power, and I detected the morsel of greater strength there – an edge of resilience that his older counterparts did not quite possess.

Then we split apart, hacking at one another, our blades clashing and ringing like hammers on an anvil. He punched out with his bolter-fist, ramming the weapon-butt into my throat. I fell back, hauling Gnosis’ heel into his knee-guard, making him stagger. He thrust forward with his snarling power sword, going for my chest. I clattered the edge away, adjusting for the feint, then swung my spear straight down at his helm.

He was fast. He was powerful. On another day I might have savoured the contest a little more, aiming to discover more of this new breed of warrior, teasing out every scrap of knowledge in order to bring my own capability closer to perfection.

But there was no time. My brothers were grappling with their own opponents, and we were still not where we needed to be. I shifted my centre of gravity, kicking his bolter aside and following through and down from the momentum. Before he could slice down at my shoulder I had swivelled Gnosis around and thrust it upwards, two-handed, into his oncoming stomach. I wrenched the blade clear, spraying flecks of bloody armour with it, then rammed the bolter-unit into his vox-grille. I depressed the trigger and watched his helm explode into a cloud of burning fragments.

Not so very different, I concluded, leaping clear of the toppling corpse and ploughing onwards.”

— A Custodes faces a Primaris. Excerpt from “Watchers of the Throne: The Regent’s Shadow” by Chris Wraight.