Warhammer 40k Soldier Novels & Stories

A soldier approached, young, maybe twenty, with a crossbow slung over his shoulder and burns covering half his neck. His eyes flicked between us, landing on me with barely concealed horror. "What... what happened out there? Where are the others?" Marcus didn't answer, he just kept walking while the soldier followed. "Marcus, I asked you a question. Gregor, Hale, the triplets, where are they?" "Not now, Davies." "Not now?" The soldier's voice rose. "We sent thirty-two warriors with you! You come back with this outsider and half your face burnt off, and you tell me to wait?"

Mestre Escuro gave Lady Escuridade a meaningful look before walking down the winding path. At a clearing below the Corrompido soldiers are gathered, waiting instructions, bathed in the warm flow of a low, golden sun. the large formation of Corrompido soldiers stand in tight ranks, their back to the coast. They wear heavy, blackened armour– matte and battle worn– with rounded helmets, shields at their sides and weapons sheathed or held at rest. Their posture is rigid and discipline, reflecting their readiness and anticipation for battle. Mestre Escuro stands slightly elevated on a rocky outcrop, his stance is firm and commanding, facing the army directly.

Zark finally regained his composure and used a deliberately low tone of voice to give his warning “… .Ingrid, Nyos. Stop fighting immediately. " Surprisingly they trembled, but they nodded their heads "I am sorry!" Zark nodded without much haste accepting his apology, then continued "You came, Horus." "Upon receiving orders from Lord Zark, of course he would come immediately." As he spoke, Horus's facial expression did not change, this was obvious, what simulated his face was actually the helmet of his exoskeleton that served as skin. Although his appearance did not show it, Horus belonged to the Warlord class. If Zark's generals were ranked by his use of weapons and command ability, it coul

Her reliable blast rods were holstered to her thighs, with fast loader clips and extra shells all in easy reach. “Good morning, Captain” A voice emerged from the dressing room’s doorway. Their stood a voltiir officer, in full battle gear. Bulletproof chest plate, ridged infantry pauldrons over a stab guard cloak. The soldier wore a brace of ammunition pouches and carried a blast staeve that was slung on his back. Unlike the rest of the line infantry which usually carried their arm shields on their left forearms, the officer’s bracer was a plate emitter instead. An arcane shield that was capable of levitating a quartet of metal rods that protected the wielder from immediate danger. He didn’t

Each soldier held my gaze for a heartbeat longer than usual, a silent promise passing between us before they moved on to prepare. The dawn was just beginning to break, casting a faint light over the frosty landscape when the armies gathered, ready to leave. The world was cold and still, the air sharp but filled with a quiet sense of promise. Warriors stood in steady lines, their faces serious, their breaths misting in the cold.

Scattered around the destroyed hovertanks were power armored soldiers. Or at least, parts of them. Some had been blasted to pieces with such force that their heads or arms or legs were flung far across the city itself. And then there were the regularly armored combatants - the common soldiers. Usually, the kind that was conscripted or enlisted. They had taken the brunt of enemy weapons fire, and were brutalized to such a degree that many were mangled beyond identification. Their limbs had been blasted to shred and torn away. Their chests had been ripped or burnt or blasted wide open. Their guts and their brains intermingled openly on the streets, and swam in the blood of countless others.

Crying children sat next to the only homes they had ever known while their dazed parents tried to console them. “You!” someone snapped behind me. “Move along.” I leisurely turned around to look at the human soldier. “Move along where? The last time I checked this was still a free country.” “This is a classified military site now.” “I didn’t see any signs,” I calmly informed him. The soldier faltered. He leaned in closer. “Are you one of them?” he whispered. I laughed. “One of what?” “You know? A commander. One of those super soldiers.”

Tavish stood behind him. “Name,” I said. The soldier said nothing. I pulled out the chair opposite him. “Let’s try again.” He smiled. “You’re wasting your time.” “Who is Crispin Halloway?” His smile disappeared. “You know exactly who he is.” “I want you to tell me.” “He’s the man who’s going to fix this world.” Tavish scoffed. “By attacking hospital transports?” The soldier looked at him. “By preventing another war.” I leaned forward.

It was a powerhouse about the age of 35 years old who appeared young, energetic and exuded an extremely powerful presence. “God’s Soldier!” someone called out the name, drawing the attention of everybody else. They expressed their astonishment upon noticing him. “I thought you’re already dead. How is it that you’re back again?” God’s Soldier, Romel, was a multiracial person with a square face. He was very good-looking, and he wore a suit that made him appear polite and graceful. He did not look like a fighter but more like a businessman. Romel smiled nonchalantly and mocked, “How am I dead? I faked my death during the last mission and deceived all of you.”

A message for him. He stared at it, and the wind was driven from his body. Two words. STOP DIGGING, SOLDIER. The world shrunk to hard, green letters on the dark screen. The whine of the climate control receded to a fading roar. Soldier. Not Mr. Stalker. Not the consultant. Soldier.