I have always wanted to write a book, and the Horus Heresy and Gaunts Ghost's books really gave me the bug to get on with it.
So here is my first attempt, it doesn't have a title yet, and this is only 3000 words (give or take) but it's from the first chapter.
Be kind. Well, don't be kind but appreciate my spelling isn't the best in the world.
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“They can rot in the pits of the abyss for all I care. Kill them, burn them, and utterly destroy them.” – Majir Tor’Grath
The first dawn had passed on Zyphas, the planets sole star passing overhead to warm the bitter cold ground from the nightmare that had been the dark hours. Men and women cowered with fear as the last remnants of the evening vanished, allowing them a brief moment of almost peace – the calm before the storm as it’s often called. As Morgaph looked out over the frail forms of nearly thirty survivors making the journey to the fields and shanty towns down river, he paused for a moment to look up to the sky. As the light from the dawn broke the darkness, the scene reminded him of a childhood story where light fights the dark, and eventually a hero emerges and destroys the darkness forever. Never had he thought the story could come true, until they arrived.
“Who are they? Will they hurt us? What do they want?”
The voices of the survivors rattled around the small confines of the shanty town hall, the largest building in the area capable of holding such a rabble in any formality. Morgaph was the first to break the noise with a calming yet overpowering voice – “They will be here soon, the landing was not far from here and we know of no other settlement that has survived. We need to find shelter, we don’t know which side they are on”
As he spoke, the gathering quietened, the look of sudden understanding spreading like fire throughout every face in the room. Not one soul needed reminding of the terrors that hunt in the night on Zyphas, the thought that something worse had come for them in the daylight didn’t sit well. A riot broke out, first just a scream, then panic and rushing to exit. The larger of the survivors pushed through the masses and inflicted more harm than good, bones breaking and any sense of order diminished – a free for all riot of fear and the very real need to escape taking over the small amount of control that remained.
Morgaph exited from the rear of the building, lighting one of the very last smoke sticks he had left. All things considered, he thought to himself, there may not be another chance. The stick never made it to his lips, his body fell backwards with a small wound just starting to trickle blood down his brow. Slumping to the floor, Morgaph died. Nobody saw his killer, and nobody would remember his death.
Watching in complete silence, save for the voice in his mind, Ancronir the silent studied the scene. The human had been easy, he had to die as he showed the traits of one who could lead the rabble. That would only detract from this exercise and delay the coming of the Majir. He settled the scope of the long rifle, breathing gently as he sourced his next target. The voice in the back of his mind suddenly came to the fore “Do it… Kill it!” “Quickly!” Ancronir fought the urge to just shoot everything wildly, remembering less often that his body was own his and his skills were still useful to the Majir, despite the growing voice within to forget the past and just shed blood. No, this time he thought to himself it would be his way, not the voices way. Ancronir put pressure to the trigger grip, squeezing slowly as if savouring the joy of every moment, watching down his scope as he sighted the next prey, he felt the mechanical pull of the spring beneath the grip, the inner workings of the long rifle as if in slow motion – the sudden acceleration of the projectile firing down the barrel. He held is breath just enough to watch the moment of impact, a split second after pulling the trigger the prey fell.
“You missed.” Hissed the voice in his head.
Moira fell, bloodstained from a wound to the back of her neck that sprayed blood over the children running in front of her, two boys – no older than six standard years. Their faces dirty, pupils like pin pricks in the whites of their eyes, they ran on, Moira put her hand to her neck and tried to apply pressure whilst herding the boys to safety. Turning the corner of the hut they thought would hide them, she took note of what was going on. Dust was flying up from the ground as the few survivors fled from the area of the impromptu meeting and ran from the possibility of being attacked. She realised too late that that possibility was a reality, as she finally stemmed the wound from bleeding out.
“Why us… Why?” she stammered, hoping someone would answer but knowing otherwise. The boys tried to comfort her, but they were dazed, the fear and panic ruining any chance of comprehension they may have had. Daring a look out of the window, Moira looked to see who had shot her. She saw nothing but the final few survivors running into the distance, the dust began to settle and a strange calmness took over the shantytown. A single figure on the horizon clad in darkness and standing as tall as a normal man, strode into the town. He carried a rifle and had bags hanging from his body, clearly not a survivor – Moira held her neck and took another look.
“No… Please… No!” Moira picked herself up and gathered the boys to make a quick exit.
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Would you be interested in more?