We must no longer concern ourselves
with the God Emperor's disapproval regarding our methods

In the service of Lord Khorne, we have found the perfect outlet for our rage

-Chaplain Xabreith of the XII Legion



Chapter One
The Long War

According to a series of papers written by the late Inquisitor Thrax, the armies of Khorne fight for the thrill of battle and the pleasure of vanquishing one's opponent. This is not entirely true.

Slaughter Brother Erezak was a sight to behold. His armor was the vibrant blood red, brass edged plate of the World Eaters. Hydraulic tubing ran about his form, plugging into outlets that were carved to resemble the eight pointed star of Chaos. Skulls, some human and others daemonic, were mounted on trophy poles and swaying from rusted chains. The brass icon of Khorne and the outlandish symbol of the World Eaters, a verdant blue and green world caught in the maw of some sort of fanged beast, were built into every facet of his armor. In one hand he clutched a whirring chainaxe, it's rending teeth stained a dark, gore red from 10,000 years of slaughter, and in the other hand he held an archaic bolter pistol, fed a by a belt of warp cursed ammunition.

He and a thousand other Berzerkers just like him came crashing into the Imperial Fists' position, screaming bloody praise for their mad God.

Subtlety was not the World Eaters' strong suit.

It was snowing ash following the initial orbital bombardment. The nuclear winter had blotted out the sun, pitching the world of Sekia III into eternal night. Sekia III's only light source came from the orange hell-glow of it's burning cities. Radiation poisoning had taken care of the Guardsmen regiments stationed at the miserable world, reducing proud veterans of a hundred campaigns to pale and bald, skeleton thin wretches begging for death. Now the only thing that stood between the Black Legion and Sekia III was the half company of Imperial Fists entrenched in what was once the Planetary Governor's palace. So, by the decree of the Warmaster himself, the World Eaters had been unleashed.

Erezak leapt over a tank trap and charged his way through a patch of barbed wire. It tangled around him, catching on the spikes jutting from his armor. Not that he paid that any mind; all that mattered was blood. There was blood to be shed. A solid slug round ricocheted off his armor, throwing him off balance. He stumbled through the ruins, barely keeping his footing. The alarm runes of his heads-up-display blinked angrily as it pinpointed the source of the shot. ENEMY AT 3:34. He turned to see an Imperial Fists scout, decked out in mustard yellow carapace armor and a black cloak. The scout had taken up a position atop a small mountain of rubble, surrounded by the corpses of his squadmates and the Berzerkers they'd slain. He held a sniper rifle that was taller than him.

Red hot rage consumed Erezak. Rage towards this weakling for daring to fire upon him. Rage towards this weakling for being yet another pawn of the Corpse Emperor. Rage towards the Emperor for abandoning and betraying the Legions. Rage towards the Gods for the fate of the World Eaters.

Rage towards an ultimately uncaring universe.

Erezak came flying at the Scout, fueled by 10,000 years of festering bitterness and hatred. The Scout let his rifle fall to the ground, drawing a blade just in time to meet Erezak's ax. Frothing into his vox-grill, the Berzerker knocked knocked the Scout's blade back with his ax and raised his bolter pistol so that it was no more than an inch away from the Imperial bastard's face. The bastard's head disappeared, leaving behind a bloody mist. His carapace armor held his headless corpse up until Erezak attacked with his chain ax, sending the corpse tumbling down through the rubble.

There was no satisfaction to be taken from this carnage. Slaughter Brother Erezak was already moving on, prowling for another foe. The battle would be over soon and then the World Eaters would be rounded back up by their Black Legionnaire masters. There would be no fighting back against them; all of the Dark Pantheon, even Erezak's patron deity of Khorne, were unified behind the Black Legion. Resistance would only squander the Traitor Legion's resources and further draw out the Long War.

As stated earlier, the World Eaters do not fight for the thrill of it. Pleasure is anathema to them. They fight because hyponotrinsic conditioning, 'psycho-implants' surgically grafted to their cerebral cortexs and the dark blessing of Khorne have perverted them so that they know only rage. They fight because bloodshed and warfare should be an outlet for their rage, but it isn't. The World Eaters can never cast off the rage that consumes their minds. They will never know true peace or happiness.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

Very impressive well done!
One seldom reads about this legion in such a well made style. Keep it coming

Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company had found another worthy skull to add to his collection.

He strode forth clad in a suit of crimson Tactical Dreadnought Army, easily dwarfing the Berzerkers around him. Every slow, deliberate footstep thundered against the metal grate floor. It seemed impossible that he could even support his tremendous bulk. While regular Berzerkers were terrifying, Kaalek's appearance was more awe-inspiring. Those who looked upon him just wanted to look away, yet his presence demanded their complete attention. His head was slanted forward and feral in appearance, reminiscent of a Terran hound. Twin rows of trophy poles ran down the curvature of his hunched back. Each pole was around five feet tall and filled to the brim with skulls, only a small fraction of which were human. There were tusk mouthed Orks and leering, asymmetrical Daemon skulls adorning the poles too.

Erezak should have felt loyalty or at the very least, respect towards such an esteemed Champion of Khorne. Instead, he felt only rage. Lord Kaalek was unworthy and unfit leader, having led the 3rd company into ruin and handed over what was left of them to the Black Legion. A small part of himself understood that Kaalek had been handed an impossible task. The Berzerkers of Khorne couldn't be led; they were incapable of taking orders or performing any battlefield tasks beyond blazing straight into the enemy. A quote from Kharn the Betrayer illustrated this well; "Attack is the only order worth remember."

An Imperial Fists Captain, clad in yellow terminator plate not unlike Kaalek's, was the last survivor of the World Eaters attack. In one hand he held a gore-encrusted chainfist, an Imperial Aquila engraved into the back of his hand. His other hand was missing, having been loped off by a power ax. He stood atop a pile of the Berzerkers he'd slain, beads of sweat running down his scarred face. The slaughter he'd inflicted on the World Eaters had made his skull a worthy trophy for Lord Kaalek.

Kaalek ascended the mound of corpses with unnatural speed. The Captain was ready for him, throwing a brutal punch at Kaalek the minute the World Eater came within range. Batting the his chainfist aside with a shimmering power-ax, Kaalek swiped at the Captain's head with his lightning claw. The servos of his armor clanking and groaning at the unfamiliar movement, the Captain just barely managed to duck beneath the lightning claw. Kaalek swung straight past the Imperial bastard, throwing his balance off. It gave the Captain just the opportunity he needed. He jabbed his chainfist as Kaalek's torso. Just as the rotating blades were about to meet the ceramite plate of Kaalek's barrel chest, his arm went limp.

A crazed Berzerker had slit the tendons of his forearm with a well placed slash of a power blade.

Lord Kaalek put all his strength into the blow. His power mace hit the Berzerker hard, shattering his chest plate and sending him flying. The crater in his torso trailed dirty black smoke as he tumbled off the mound of corpses. He had stolen Kaalek's kill, and he would have to pay for this. When the Berzerker hit the concrete ground his former comrades fell upon him like a pack of feral dogs. Erezak plunged his chainaxe into the Berzerker's ruined chest and thrust it forward, into the pulpy remains of his organs. He was showered with chunky gore.

The Imperial Fists Captain, now missing both his arms, stumbled backwards away from Kaalek. He stared at the twin stumps where his hands once were in disbelief, then looked up just in time to see the power mace speeding towards his face. The collar of his terminator armor caved in, belching sparks and flame. His head more or less disappeared, leaving behind a thick past. Though the World Eaters' bloodlust was far from spent, the battle was over.

Erezak heard a rough, grating voice in his head. It was familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He'd heard it before, somewhere.

It took him a moment to realize it was his own.

He'd been running so long on pure feral instinct that he'd forgotten what thinking was like.

Oh my......Did you just make me develop a mancrush you!

Ho... lee... crap. That was an awesome fight. I kinda feel sorry for the Imperial Fists, though. It seems like there's way too many stories where they get the snot beaten out of them. Otherwise, this is gold!

Fear was lost to Erezak. He hadn't been graced by it in over 10,000 years, since he was just a mortal ganger living on Terra. Though he was capable of paranoia, anxiety and worry, he could never feel true fear. When he heard something slithering around in his quarters in the middle of the night, he didn't panic like a mortal would. Rather, he calmly assessed the situation and acted on his assessment, usually by flying into a rage and charging at whatever it was he heard.

He could remember fear though. To him, fear had been like drowning. You can't breathe, you can't think and you're completely helpless. It was one of the most extreme sensations, one that he imagined would be euphoric compared to his unending rage. Erezak couldn't help but think that his memory of it may have eroded over the years, and it hadn't ever been as pleasing as he'd remembered it to be. The mortals who were still graced with the gift of fear seldom appreciated it. Most loathed it, even going as far as to envy Astartes like himself.

Furthermore, fear was forbidden.

Fear was sensation and sensation was anathema to Khorne. Rage, the kind of mindless blood-lust of the World Eaters, accomplished great things. It was rage that tore down the walls of the Imperium Palace and brought the Emperor to heel. Sensation on the other hand accomplished nothing. The sensory addicts of Slaanesh were thoroughly self-obsessed psychopaths, aspiring to and achieving little to nothing. Simultaneously, the World Eater's rage was both a boon and a curse. It motivated them to do great things, at the cost of their sanity and eternal souls. They viewed it as one would view generosity; it is a self-destructive virtue, but its for a greater cause.

A rich man is morally obligated to give some of his wealth to a poor man.

A World Eater is morally obligated to give his chain ax to a poor man's face.

Erezak sat in his quarters dead silent for many hours, fighting the temptations of sensation. He repeated the mantras of Khorne again and again to himself; "Sensation is self absorption. Self absorption is weakness. Weakness is failure." Soon he had spoken the words so many times they had lost all meaning, becoming just an aimless string of syllables.

The mantras might have worked, had the World Eaters not been in the exact same situation as the Emperor's Children. For all their rage and blood-lust, they were just as broken and weak. They were splintered into thousands of competing warbands, most of which were enslaved to the Warmaster's Black Legion. Khorne had turned his favor towards the renegade Red Corsairs of the Maelstrom, as had Slaanesh, leaving their once chosen Legions.

Erezak stood up and approached his quarter's sink, each step slow and deliberate. He clogged and the drain and turned on the faucet, which then began to pour filthy water. It was an orangish color, having been contaminated by rusting pipes. For about ten minutes Erezak watched the sink fill. When it began to overflow, he turned the faucet off and submerged his face in the water. There was the initial 'shock' of coldness that caused every muscle in his body to tense. On reflex he opened his mouth, struggling to breath, the water rushed in. His teeth ached horribly from the coldness, and the water's bitter, polluted taste caused him to gag and cough uncontrollably.

It took only thirty seconds without air for his super-human body to begin suffering from the effects of oxygen deprivation. Fatigue and light-headedness consumed him. He couldn't think, just like during the battle. Whenever Erezak needed his mind most, it left him. Unable to keep his head submerged any longer, the World Eater wrenched his head out of the water and stumbled back across his quarters, gasping for air.

He still hadn't felt fear. True fear left you feeling completely helpless. Erezak was in full control of the moment; he could've brought his head up any time he wanted.

Yo, alright so the last entry got zero comments which means it was probably bad. I've learned that on Dakka, most people are too polite to tell me when my writing sucks. So, I edited the entry and hopefully its better. Thoughts?

It was not bad, just very unusual description of the legion we all know as frothing mad men, I think you actually managed to somehow portray them somewhat vaguely human even this sounds rather far fetched. Just my thoughts on it

I see what you mean. Erezak, even if he's certainly not sane, isn't insane enough to be a normal World Eater. In the next entry I'll try to fix that. Maybe I'll make it so that he's an anomaly for his Legion; most World Eaters aren't as sane as him.

Thanks.

 LoneLictor wrote:
I see what you mean. Erezak, even if he's certainly not sane, isn't insane enough to be a normal World Eater. In the next entry I'll try to fix that. Maybe I'll make it so that he's an anomaly for his Legion; most World Eaters aren't as sane as him.

Thanks.

No problem, that sounds like a very good approach to it. It dose indeed sound like he is a anomaly amongst his brethren of the World Eaters

I like it alot LoneLictor. I think you're view is unique, their truely needs to be more to the world eaters just that frothing madmen. Is Erezak suicidal? He seems disgusted with himself, not even being able to control himself when he needs to. Keep this going. Awesome work

Erezak sat on his bunk, watching the seconds tick by on the blinking chronometer of his heads-up display. He mumbled fervent prayers to the Blood God, praying to be absolved all of all sin and all weakness. He prayed for the strength to resist the temptations of Slaanesh, and a painless death if he could not.

His eyes glazed over. Ten thousand years of warfare caught up with Erezak in an instant, and fatigue overcame him. His limbs felt too heavy to move. His breathing became slow and labored. Erezak had gone too long without combat. Without the din of battle to distract him, his body's weakness had become apparent. He hadn't eaten or slept for years. But Erezak couldn't allow himself to rest and recuperate. He was still angry. Erezak's rage wasn't towards one particular thing, but the whole universe around him for condemning him and his Legion to such a miserable fate. He couldn't just allow his rage to fester; he needed to go out and do something, anything. The Berzerker needed to claim yet more skulls for the Blood God and unleash the horrors and suffering on the Imperium he'd been promised. There were mortals to be slain and empires to be toppled. He was a Slaughter Brother of the World Eaters 4th Company, a soldier geneo-engineered to be the perfect killer and blessed by the God of Warfare himself; the universe was his for the taking.

Despite all this, Erezak remained seated on his bunk.

Slaughter Brother Zero-Zero-Five-Nine, stand up and place your hands on the wall.

Erezak blinked and his vision returned. His chronometer indicated that six months had passed. Six months of brooding in complete solitude. This wasn't the first time this had happened. That didn't make it any more bearable; it was always unnerving when time seemed to skip. Of course, time didn't really skip. It had just passed without him. There were entire centuries he couldn't remember, where he'd gone into trance-like states and suddenly entire years had passed him by.

Slaughter Brother Zero-Zero-Five-Nine, stand up and place your hands on the wall.

The voice was harsh and inhuman. It belonged to an adapt of the Dark Mechanicum. No agents of the Dark Mechanicum served the World Eaters. The Black Legion and Iron Warriors were the only Legions that held significant Dark Mechanicum presences. The other Legions relied on raids into the material or sorcery for their resources. In the case of the World Eaters and Emperor's Children, they simply didn't collect resources at all, being content to simply watch their Legions being whittled away by the years.

Slaughter Brother Zero-Zero-Five-Nine, stand up and place your hands on the wall. We are coming in.

Yes, he remembered where he was now. He was with the rest of the 4th Company, fighting in the service of the Black Legion somewhere in the Cadian sector. It was the 13th Black Crusade, which was very little different from the other ones. The Great Crusade, the Horus Heresy, the Armageddon Campaign, the Gothic War, and the 13th Black Crusade were all the same. Erezak killed because he was angry, as did his comrades, and when he could not kill he felt his mind giving way to insanity.

"My name," he said. "Is Slaughter Brother Erezak."

His quarters' door slid open, hissing steam. A Black Legionnaire stalked inside, keeping his bolter fixed on Erezak's head. Moisture clung to his bronze-trimmed warplate. On the surface, the Legionnaire was unblemished by mutation, but he stank of the warp. Beneath his warplate, the Legionnaire likely resembled a seven foot tall scaly abortion. Following the Legionnaire was an Adapt of the Dark Mechanicum, his form a mass of hydraulic cabling and swollen musculature held together by an adamantium frame. The Adapt's face was slanted forward, making it reptilian in appearance. Wispy grey hair clung to his skinless scalp. He licked his cracked lips, revealing a mouth full of metal teeth.

Understood, Slaughter Brother Erezak. Stand up and place your hands on the wall. Please remain calm.

Erezak hadn't heard the word 'please' in a long time. He reluctantly stood up, the servos of his armor whining after six months of lethargy. His limbs ached. Erezak put his palms flat against the wall and sighed, preparing himself for his upcoming humiliation. The Adapt retrieved a pair of over-sized handcuffs from one of the pockets of his heavy robes. It fit around Erezak's wrists perfectly, locking into the ceramite plate of his armor. The worst was yet to come. Trying his best to keep his mannerisms and expression neutral, the Adapt procured a length of brass chain and locked it onto a metal loop jutting from the collar of Erezak's armor. The Adapt had given him a leash.

Chuckling, the Black Legionnaire took the chain from the Adapt's hands. He gave Erezak a light tug, gesturing towards the doorway.

"You will see the error of your ways when your skull is claimed for my master's throne," Erezak said. It was difficult to muster the patience to speak in full, elaborate sentences. Most Berzerkers were incapable of it.

"Considering that I'm the one holdin' yer leash, I'd say that I'm yer master," the Black Legionnaire said. He tugged again. "Come on, its time to go."

"Where?"

"To war. I thought that's what you guys liked."

Very good, I find myself cheering for this fine servant of Khorne!

Excellent addition as always LL

Only thing if I may is

It belonged to an adapt of the Dark Mechanicum.

Ty for the comments, Bobakos and Trondheim. They're much appreciated.

Bobakos wrote:

Only thing if I may is

It belonged to an adapt of the Dark Mechanicum.

Oops, I'll fix this.

Oh thought Private Keele as the rotating teeth of a chainaxe tore into his brain. Oh my.

He had been born on the world of Mackan, which was of value to the Imperium because of its adamantium deposits. Keele's parents were both miners. As a child, Keele had always dreamed of becoming a Space Marine. Mackan was the homeworld of the Rampagers, a Chapter of Land-Speeder riding hero extraordinaires. Their exploits were legend; it was said that a single Rampager can annihilate an entire Waaagh! barehanded. When those dirty xenos saw the flying red banners of the Rampagers, they sure wished they'd stayed in bed that day. The Rampagers recruited often from the local populace, but they never picked Keele. It wasn't that he was unhealthy; he just wasn't exceptional. Space Marines were supposed to be exceptional people, from exceptional swordsmen to exceptional rapists. Keele wasn't really exceptional at anything. His mother was killed in a mining accident, and his father's growing lung problems prevented him from work. To pay for his father's medical treatments, Keele signed up for the Imperial Guard. How bad could it be?

As it turned out, very bad for an unexceptional person like himself.

Erezak wrenched his chainaxe free of Keele's skull. He'd forgotten his helmet; he could feel the warm blood on his face. He didn't like it; this battle wasn't supposed to be a sensory experience. Some small part of himself did like it, and he didn't like that either. Erezak would have to redeem himself with his next kill.

He slashed upwards through a Guardsmen's groin, hoping to bisect him vertically. His chainaxe became jammed in the man's abdomen. Blood and excrement fouled the man's clothing as he fell into convulsions; the pain was too much for his mortal body to bear. Erezak yanked on his ax, pulling the man closer, and gave him a hard right hook to his jaw. His fist made contact and the Guardsmen's jaw shattered. Another punch sent it flying clean off. Erezak then wrenched his ax downwards, clearing it from the man's abdomen. The man's intestines came spilling out in a bloody flow, piling at his feet. He made a strange noise that was his attempt at a scream. A good, clean ax blow to the neck shut the Imperial dreg up.

Looking around, Erezak saw that the last of the Guardsmen were dead. His pack was already moving on in search of more prey. Sergeant Nulr, his foetid daemon body barely contained by the red and golden plate of his armor, led them in this pursuit. He sprinted on cloven hooves, flapping his useless wings madly. Undersized leathery wings had grown from the exhaust vents of his backpack, too small for any practical use. Nulr didn't seem to notice this. He gestured towards a wall of crumbling masonry.

"Blood," Nulr said over World Eaters' private vox channel with his wet, burbling voice. "Smell blood."

As if on cue, a Hellhound came crashing through the wall. It went roaring over the mound of rubble left in the collusion's wake, shaking dust and debris off it's haul. Almost immediately, the Berzerkers flew into action. They charged as fast as their legs could carry them, yelling bloody praises to their mad god. The Hellhound's hull-mounted, snub-barreled heavy bolter began blazing away. It fired the an ammunition similar to the one used by the Traitor Legionnaire's bolter pistols: tiny rocket propelled grenades that were intended to lodge within a victim and explode inside, shredding the victim's organs to a bloody pulp. Most of the round detonated harmlessly against the World Eaters' armor. Even the rounds that penetrated were of little danger to an Astartes' superhuman biology. Only a few Berzerkers fell, and in Erezak's mind those that did were weak and therefore deserved it; losing them would be no major loss. Erezak felt a round hit his chest hard, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled back, gasping for breath, and then renewed his charge.

Still speeding towards them, the Hellhound let loose its inferno cannon. A torrent of searing flame blinded all who saw it. Not renowned for their their tactical prowess, the Berzerkers chose to charge through it. Nulr lead the way, rasping and coughing over the vox as he made his way through the flames. The red and gold of his armor blackened, while the various trophies and fetishes that adorned it were incinerated. He hit the front of the tank hard and tumbled over it, landing besides its Inferno Cannon. Its cannon still blazing, the Hellhound went over a bump and nearly threw Nulr off. He lodged his ax in its armored hull, clinging on for dear life.

The Berzerker that followed Nulr wasn't so lucky. Rather than tumbling over the Hellhound, he was crushed beneath its treads. At first the Berzerker was pressed into the rubble beneath him, and when he could sink no further his armor buckled in. A thick jam of gore was squeezed out through the cracks in the blood red ceramite. Qul, a Slaughter Brother Erezak recognized, leapt over the heavy bolter and took a round to the cabling that covered his abdomen. Oily hydraulic fluid mingled with his blood. Qul rolled straight over the Hellhound, falling somewhere behind it. His flame-weakened armor made a horrible cracking noise when he hit the ground; he was likely dead. When Erezak had been a Neophyte, he and Qul had been in the same squad. They had fought back to back on the world of Calos, surrounded on all sides by Orks. Qul had kept making bad jokes to try to lighten the mood and distract from the fact that the they were most likely doomed. Erezak was disturbed by how little remorse he felt for his comrade's demise. For every Berzerker that managed to successfully leap onto the tank, another either missed it or was slain trying.

Erezak went through the flames like the rest of his comrades did. The fire wreaked havoc with his armor's sensory systems, leaving him blind, deaf, and dumb. The only way to tell when he reached the Hellhound was when it ran into him, cracking the ceramite of his chest plate and snatching his breath from him. Like Nulr, Erezak was just barely able to roll over the blow. He tumbled blindly, grasping for handhold, but settled for the foot of another World Eater

The World Eater looked back at him. "Erezak," he said through his vox-grille, rather than bothering to open up a private channel with him. "Brother. Much blood today."

He didn't recognize his comrade in the slightest. Erezak disregarded him, turning his attention towards the Hellhound. Six other Berzerkers clung to its armored hull. The Hellhound was plowing down a steep, debris-strewn hill an attempt to shake the Berzerkers off, but they refused to budge. After the trouble they had gone through trying to get on, they were by no means willing to get off. Nulr, wielding an energy-wreathed power claw punched his way through the hull. This forced the crew of the Hellhound to take a more drastic course of action. The tank's Inferno Cannon turret swiveled towards Nulr, who was now peeling away the metal layers of the hull. Two Berzerkers dropped their weapons and grabbed onto the cannon, trying to wrestle it away from facing their Sergeant.

The Berzerker whose leg Erezak held unclipped a krak grenade from his belt. It had been forged in the visage of a screaming metal skull, its pin sticking out from its leering maw. "Perhaps today is a good day to die," he said, pulling the pin free. "Blood for the Blood God!"

Good show, this just keeps on getting better! Well done, now return the favor

"Oh thought Private Keele as the rotating teeth of a chainaxe ate into his brain. Oh my"

I see what you're trying to convey here, but 'bit into' would be better, or even 'tore into' to get across how vicious the chainaxe is. 'ate into' Doesn't really make much sense, either. When was the last time you 'ate into an apple pie' as opposed to 'ate an apple pie'?

'as the rotating teeth of a chainaxe ate his brain' Doesn't sound like it fits. 'Ate' is too mild of a word to use to describe a chainaxe, and although it personifies the weapon, it casts it rather timidly. If you want to go down the deeper route of personification, then would it fit more if a chain 'ate'? Or if a chainaxe 'consumed'? The former makes it sound like it was just having a meal, the latter sounds like it fits a chainaxe better.

For the 'Rampagers', jetbikes were utilised by the Imperium on a large scale only before and during the heresy. Post-heresy (the only point at which the Rampagers could come into existence, and even then only during foundings where records are lost or incomplete), the last remaining jetbike in use is Sammael's.

"Blood and excrement fouled the man's clothing as he feel into convulsions"

Feel should be 'fell'.

"As if on cue, a Hellhound came crashing through the wall. The Hellhound came roaring mounds of rubble, shaking the dust and debris off of it. Almost immediately, the Berzerkers fly into action. They charged as fast their legs could carry them, yelling bloody praise to their mad god. The Hellhound's hull-mounted, snub-barreled heavy bolter began blazing away. It fired the same ammunition used by the Traitor Legionnaire's bolter pistols, tiny rocket propelled grenades that were meant to lodge inside of an enemy and explode within their organs. Most of the round detonated harmlessly against the World Eaters' armor. Even the rounds that penetrated were of little danger to an Astartes' superhuman biology."

A few small things here. The Hellhound first comes crashing through a wall, and then in the next sentence, comes roaring [through] mounds of rubble. I'd join these two sentences together, and have the hellhound come crashing through the wall, and having rubble bounce off it in the same sentence, otherwise you have a slight issue with how it enters, since it can't enter twice.

I also think that, since this is written in third-person, that the berzerkers 'flew' into action, as opposed to 'fly'. I further think that they charged as fast 'as' their legs could carry them, yelling bloody 'praises'.

Heavy bolters don't fire the same ammunition as bolters or bolt pistols. True, it's similar, but heavy bolter rounds are fired faster and are of a higher calibre. The rounds are much larger than bolter rounds, and have a lot more stopping power. I doubt that they'd explode harmlessly on power armour. Yes, they'd probably not penetrate it easily, but the sheer force of impact would stagger a space marine, especially one that is under a constant stream of heavy bolter fire. I'm also not sure that a penetrating bolt is so easily ignored by a marine. Even though they have enhanced biology, an exploding bolt to the gut will deal fatal damage; even moreso from a heavy bolter.

"while the various trophies and fetishs that adorned it were incinerated"

Fetishs should be fetishes.

"He hit the front of the tank hard, tumbling over the front of it and landing beside its inferno cannon turret "

This would probably flow better if 'he hit the front of the tank hard and tumbled over it, landing beside its inferno cannon'.

"the Hellhound went over bump and nearly threw Nulr off"

It probably went over 'a' bump.

"The fire wrecked havoc with his armor's sensory systems"

'Wrecked' should be 'wreaked'.

"He tumbled blindly, grasping for handhold. He found himself clinging onto another World Eater's foot."

This is probably better off saying something like 'He tumbled blindly, grasping for a handhold, but settled for the foot of another World Eater.'

"The Hellhound was plowing down a steep, debris strewn hill "

I'd say it should be 'a steep, debris-strewn hill'.

"they were by now means willing to get off"

'Now' should be 'no'.

"wielding an energy wreathed power claw"

I'd say 'energy-wreathed'.


Overall, quite an action-filled addition, and a few of the points I noted were just a few missed letters or misspellings, but I do have a qualm with how many short sentences you use. They can be useful for setting a quick pace in a story, but at other times they just serve to unnecessarily break up perfectly good sentences. There are a few times where you can easily drop the full stop and join two sentences together to make a better one.

I pretty much agreed with everything you said.

I'll edit the part in the next few hours to fix the mistakes you pointed out. Thanks for such specific criticism; that really helps me improve.

Chapter Two
One Of My Turns

Beneath the ironclad boots of Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company, corpses squelched.

Many of Lord Kaalek's brethren had seldom put much thought in their daemonic allegiances. They just saw Chaos as a means to an end; the Pleasure God would empower them to indulge every whim and desire, while the Blood God would empower them to strike down their enemies with inhuman strength. The Rot Lord and the Change Lord would empower them to truly live, driving them to greater and greater heights. These Astartes, which were especially prevelant among the Undivided Legions, rarely considered the perspective and thoughts of the Gods. Many didn't believe the Gods to be sentient at all, viewing them as forces of nature. "The warp", they called it, not Chaos. No, just "the warp". Even those who acknowledged the Gods referred to them by mortal names with shocking disrespect. "Khorne," they said, as if a single syllable could express all that the Blood God was.

Kaalek was not one of these Astartes. When the Blood God had first whispered to the World Eaters, Kaalek hadn't immediately consigned himself to damnation. He refused to act as mindlessly as the men under his command did, allying themselves with Chaos without even the slightest understanding of what it was. Kaalek had required persuasion.

Chaossss.... the daemon had drawled, snorting in disgust at the word. Mortal terms were so barbaric. Is the expression of... emotion. Yesssss, pure emotion. You, Kaalek, will be unbound by order. Free from the physical laws that constrict your realm. Free from unjust rule. Free from the Anathema's suffocating light. That is Chaos. And you, Kaalek, are wrathful. Your realm has wronged you greatly, and the Anathema has held you back from vengeance. Order has held you back, forcing you to swallow your indignation, forcing you to swallow your rage. No longer.

A body, its torn and bloodied flesh caked with dust, moaned beneath Kaalek. It was too disfigured to identify its gender, but the World Eater suspected it was male. Most Guardsmen were. The Imperium preferred males for almost all occupations, save those related to child-rearing. Gender was such an unpleasant and alien subject to Kaalek. The sole purpose of gender was sexuality, which was pleasurable and therefore intolerable. Through daemonic manipulation and ritual mutilation, the World Eaters had been freed from it. They would not allow themselves to be ruled by lust.

Kaalek rested his foot on the moaning body. He shifted his weight, and the Guardsmen beneath him made a wet crunching sound. Reaching down, he grabbed the Guardsmen by the scalp and tore its head free from its broken body. A mortal could survive for a few scant seconds following decapitation. Kaalek intended to make these seconds count. He held up the head so that its last sight would be him. His sloped, canine helmet. His tusks of dry, dead bone. His narrow eyes, burning with daemonic flame. Kaalek wanted this mortal to know who had claimed his skull.

He made his hand into a clenched fist, and his power fist mimicked the motion. The mortal's head ceased to exist.

With some irritation, he noted that twelve World Eaters were requesting to open vox-channels with him. Their names, alongside their official pre-betrayal ranks, were blinking on his head's-up-display. He neglected the first three requests, seeing as they were not from his Chosen. Whatever they had to say, he had no interest in it. In the heat of battle, Kaalek only had time to communicate with the most skilled and most essential Astartes, his Champions, Pack-Leaders and Lieutenants. The only names of note he saw were those of Sergeant Nulr and Third Slaughterprince Maliki. The way Maliki spoke, always gagging and choking on something he could never quite fish out of his throat, irritated Kaalek. He chose to answer Nulr's request.

"Lord," said Nulr. The Sergeant's voice reminded him of the daemon that had swayed him to Chaos. He regretted opening the channel already. "My squad is atop a Hellhound, peeling back its metal flesh."

"So?" Kaalek said.

"It heads in your direction."

"How close is it?"

The Hellhound came roaring over a hill, around a half dozen Berzerkers clinging to its haul. An Inferno-Cannon turret was rotating to face them, belching smoke and flame like a wyrm of old. Its treads, which whirred and clicked angrily at the damage they'd sustained, left the ground for a fleeting moment, revealing the Hellhound's scarred underbelly. It'd clearly run over a landmine; the silver-grey metal had been scorched charcoal black. The darkest patch was within a web of cracks where the landmine had detonated, just barely failing to penetrate the haul. The Hellhound hit the ground hard, kicking up a storm of dust. Its treads sunk into the debris, wrenching it to an almost-but-not-quite halt. One of the Berzerkers was flung before the tank. He hit a beam of adamantium feet first, shattering both his ankles. Already the Hellhound was picking up speed. The Berzerker was slashing his gore choked chain-ax haphazardly in one last act of petty defiance. The tank reached him and his ax clattered against it, as its treads bared down on him with, crushing him beneath several tons of steel. His armor caved in and his bones followed shortly.

"Fairly close," answered Nulr. The Sergeant's dry sense of humor irritated Kaalek. He cut the vox connection.

Its Inferno Cannon rotated to face him, and Kaalek realized that the Hellhound was now hunting him. The tank was already swarming with Berzerkers and on the verge of breaking down, yet its crazed driver was still intent on bringing the God-Emperor's retribution to His enemies. Kaalek could've run; the Hellhound was fairly distant from him and, in its crippled state, was incapable of any difficult maneuvers. If he had just hidden behind a support beam or some other fairly large piece of debris, it would've sped straight past him.

Kaalek locked the joints and servos of his legs. He extended his power-fist as though he were punching the air, and then locked its servos too. The fist's energy fields came to life, sparking and cracking with killing energy. Daemonic faces with leering maws and too many teeth faded into and out of existence by the thousands on the fist's crackling energy sheath. They laughed and screamed hysterically, forming a terrible chorus.

He saw the Hellhound, still roaring towards him. Its Inferno Cannon turret seemed to be quaking. It could have just been the tank falling apart. It also could be the driver's hands quaking on the turret's controls, as he steeled himself for the impact. Kaalek showed no such fear; Astartes were not made for it.

The Hellhound broke against him.




He saw light, like the sun shining hazily through a shroud of smog-grey clouds. The clouds began to part, and Kaalek saw what they had been hiding. Rays of brilliant light burned into him, eroding him away into nothing. He opened his mouth to scream but his throat was already turning to dust. Where the sun should've been there was instead a great canker sore in the sky, swarming with maggots.

Here was a realm where the daemons that buzzed about his fist were all too real. They had become tangible, something that you could reach out and touch. Something that could reach out and touch you. Seemingly billions of them formed into one inescapable mass, which swept over Kaalek in a burning tide. Black smoke rose from his wounds and the creatures engorged themselves on it. He saw others like him, other souls freed from their prisons of flesh. Some were the Guardsmen he'd slain, now being killed a second time. With mouths, pincers and other grotesque appendages, the daemons devoured them, competing with one-another for the precious soul morsels. Kaalek, and the Berzerkers who had died in the crash alongside him seemed brighter than the Guardsmen. Ten thousand years of daemonic exposure had already brought them close to the Empyrean, entwining their flesh with it. Their icons of the Blood God, emblazoned onto their armor and branded into their flesh, glowed brightly here.

Hunched crimson beings, with slanted reptilian faces and cold eyes, seemed to have universal claim to their souls. Other daemons, for whatever reason, gave the Berzerkers a wide berth. Kaalek tried to resist the crimson things, but he couldn't. Already several of his comrades had met their demise, the things having chosen to eat their faces first. They ate messily, always chewing with their mouths open so that scraps of gore were always falling out. The way they looked at him... it was the way he looked at Guardsmen.

Now Kaalek could scream.




They dragged Kaalek free from the smoldering wreckage. As they pulled him, he seemed to slough off his broken armor and then his flesh. His skinless, eyeless face was agape in a scream. Where there should've had a mouth instead there was a bloody tear in his head, one with blackened teeth and what used to be a tongue.

Erezak remembered little. He had been wrestling a grenade away from a warrior, because he wanted to live. There were still empires to be laid low, worlds to be burned and skulls to be claimed. The Blood God had promised him the galaxy, and he would not be denied it.

An excellent addition to an excellent story.

Great work man!

Very well done LL! This realy made the story shine

More please, I don't really like reading chaos but I like your story keep it up.

Kaalek awoke to darkness.

He couldn't see, but he could feel the bundles of segmented cabling that pressed against his eye sockets. Whenever he shifted his head, it felt like his eyes were crawling with tiny black ants. He imagined them hiding beneath his eyelids and in his eyelashes, burrowing into the fleshy pink corners of his eye sockets. Sometimes his eyes felt unbearably hot and wet, like they were welling with tears, which he hoped would flush the ants away. When this didn't work he would struggle against his metal coffin, screaming soundlessly and reach up with his misshapen stump limbs as though they had any hope of reaching his face, let alone somehow getting the ants out. The servo-harness around his neck and the steel rod locking into the back of his head prevented him from moving too much.

He couldn't hear either. Kaalek wasn't entirely sure if he even had ears anymore. The back of his head was numb. It didn't itch like his eye sockets, or even ache like his phantom limbs. Maybe the back of his head had been scorched away, when the adamantium hood of his armor had begun to slouch under the heat. Maybe molten adamantium had seeped into the pores of his flesh. Sometimes Kaalek heard muted voices, voices that spoke in regal, clipped Terran accents. They were auditory hallucination, he told himself. Nothing more. He didn't like how clinical and detached the voices sounded.

He could smell though. His coffin stank of ammonia and nutrient rich ooze long turned foetid. If he forgot to breathe through his mouth the stench would make him feel like his coffin was tottering, stuck on the verge of falling over. Sometimes he smelled blood. Kaalek lived for those fleeting moments, when the coffin stench was drowned out by sweet blood. In those moments he could relive his past triumphs and almost forget where he was now. Sensation is anathema to the Blood God he recalled. After glimpsing into the Empyrean, Kaalek cared little for the Blood God's wishes.

To keep himself distracted, he told himself stories. Once upon a time there was a boy named Kaalek. He grew up on Terra as a gutterhound, which is Imperial slang for an impoverished child ganger. Kaalek was big and strong, so he was recruited into the World Eaters Legion. He had to go through trials, along with other gutterhounds to become a Legionnaire. He tried really hard, and he won. The Red Angel, Primarch of the World Eaters, blessed be his name, decreed that all Legionnaires will have anger implants. Kaalek got anger implants, and they made him bigger and stronger. The Emperor was mean to the Red Angel, so the World Eaters turned away from the Imperium. They worshiped the Blood God, because he was like them but even bigger and even stronger. Kaalek lived happily ever after. The end.

The muted voices were talking again. Kaalek didn't want to hear them; he didn't want to go crazy. Here, in this wretched and crippled state, his mind was the only thing he had left. He couldn't afford to lose it.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Kaalek. He grew up and became a Traitor Legionnaire. He was a World Eaters Captain, leading over ten companies, each one containing one hundred men. After Skalathrax, the World Eaters didn't have clear ranks anymore. Kaalek called himself a Lord, and he ruled over three thousand men. But he couldn't recruit like the Black Legion, and his numbers dwindled. The Black Legion took over him and took away his freedom. They made him into a slave. When his men failed, they blamed him. When his men succeeded, they took responsibility for the success. Kaalek kept fighting though, because fighting was all he had left. And then-

His hand itched. He knew that he didn't have hands anymore, but that didn't help. If he still had that hand, he would've cut it off just to rid himself of that infernal itching.

Once upon a time, there was a little freak named Kaalek. He was an idiot, so he suffered and suffered and suffered. First the Emperor, then his Primarch, then the Warmaster and then his God abused and degraded him until there was nothing left of him. They wore the proud Kaalek, Lord of the World Eaters 3rd Company, down to a little nub.

It was impossible to keep track of the passage of time. His new Dreadnought body had been deactivated since his entombment. No one had bothered to turn it on. Perhaps they didn't want Kaalek to know what was going on. Perhaps they were afraid of him in his new glorious body. Without the Dreadnought's chronometer, he couldn't tell how long he'd been here. Perhaps he had been waiting in here for years. Perhaps it had only been a few minutes of sensory deprivation, and that was all it took to drive him insane.

Once upon a time there was a glorious Traitor Legionnaire, Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company. He was laid low in combat and entombed by his so-called allies. Rather than falling victim to despair, he vowed revenge. His new body would be christened with the blood of his enemies, and his name would once again be feared.

That was a story Kaalek could appreciate.

Oh my, dreadnaugth! I feel sorry for the loyalists now

Wow that poor World Eater is really going insane, like for real this time. Nice read, I hope to hear more from the Dred.

As ashamed as he was to admit it, Kaalek didn't care about blood anymore. All he wanted now was human contact. No, not human contact. Sentient contact. He just wanted to talk to something, anything. He'd read somewhere that humans were social animals. They were meant to live and die together. Not alone, like this.

He tried to kill himself multiple times, by holding his breath. It never worked.




"Captain Eqeurius of the 8th is dead," said his former comrade, Captain Skchalick of the 1st. He wore the old colors of the World Eaters, pure white and a soft blue. His helmet was off, showing a normal face, one with a sharp jawline and piercing blue human eyes. Over the next ten thousand years, Captain Skchalick's handsome features would gradually be perverted into a snarling daemon mask., one with gnawing mouths for eyesockets and and a crown of rotted horns. "He was slain leading the charge at Ghhivh. He died like a true Astartes should."

"Who will take his place?" asked Captain Tezz'ract of the 7th. In thirty eight years Tezz'ract would be slain at the walls of the Imperial Palace, howling challenges to the besieged loyalists within. They would mount his head on a pike in an attempt to ward off the World Eaters, but this would only spur them to further violence.

"It will be Kharn," Captain Dedirek of the 5th said. The others glared at him. In four years Didirek would be flayed alive during the Night of Skins, where the World Eaters cemented their loyalty to the Blood God. "I mean, Sergeant Kharn," Dedirek corrected. "Apologies for my disrespect." Captain Skchalick would later wear Captain Dedirek's tanned flesh as a cloak.

"Sergeant Kharn is a mediocre swordsman and an even worse Sergeant. I simply don't understand how the Red Angel sees him as Captain material," said Captain Risus of the 9th. In ten thousand years, when the 13th Black Crusade raged and the galaxy was in flames, he would lead the largest free World Eaters warband, lording over twelve thousand frothing Berzerkers with an iron fist. He would still hate Kharn.

"Agreed," Captain Kaalek of the 3rd said. In ten thousand years he would be entombed within a Dreadnought following the disastrous Assault on Kyros, where his warband was nearly destroyed. His Lordship would be usurped by Qul, a Berzerker of little note who was initially thought slain in the combat.




Kaalek woke up screaming. His throat burned. He tasted blood with what was left of his tongue. When they finally released him into combat, it would be glorious. He imagined charging into enemy lines with suicidal bravery. The enemy rounds would blow open his Dreadnought body, and it would look like flowers with steel petals were blooming on his chest. Death would be a release at this point.

No, death wouldn't be enough. He told himself the story again. Once upon a time there was a glorious Traitor Legionnaire, Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company. He was laid low in combat and entombed by his so-called allies. Rather than falling victim to despair, he vowed revenge. His new body would be christened with the blood of his enemies, and his name would once again be feared. Revenge came first, then death.




"The meaning of anything I say will be lost on you," said Kaalek. "You are a naive mortal, one who knows nothing of warfare."

"Then enlighten me," said the remembrancer, whose name escaped Kaalek. She seemed fearless, like an Astartes. Kaalek could respect that about her, but nothing else. She was a mortal, and an especially frail one at that. Kaalek imagined it would take little effort to snap her bones.

Kaalek snorted. "No. Find someone else to annoy, mortal. Perhaps Captain Kharn. That glory hound seems like the type who would enjoy answering your incessant questions."

"Captain Kharn of the 8th slew the last remembrancer to speak with him."

"Good for him. He's finally starting to act like a World Eater."

"And what do you mean by that?" On the surface she was calm, but Kaalek could taste her fear. Her pheromones reeked of it. At that moment, Kaalek was consumed by hatred. He couldn't stand the way she presented herself, her faux courage and her droning voice.

"It means," said Kaalek, slow and deliberate. His eyes burned with barely restrained fury. "That you should find someone else to annoy, or I might just reach over there, tear out your guts, and hang you by your own intestines."




Kaalek could see again. The bundles of segmented cabling forcing their way though his eyesockets were feeding his brain blurts of sensory data, which his mind processed as 'seeing'. But it wasn't. His new vision was in ugly shades of dark red, as though his eyes were filling with blood that he was powerless to blink away. The computers that slaved to his new body categorized and labelled everything he saw. Ahead of him stood an Astartes. The computers picked out the Eye of Horus emblazoned on his right pauldron, identifying him as a Black Legionnaire. They also picked out the eight pointed star of his left pauldron, identifying him as a slave to darkness. They made special notes of the weakspots of his armor, noting where exactly he should shoot. In the center of his abdomen, which was running with exposed cabling, the Black Legionnaire's armor was in need of repair. One bolt from his twin-linked autocannon could penetrate this spot with ease and then detonate within the Legionnaire's organs.

Unfortunately, the autocannons weren't responding. They registered as being fully loaded and in no need of maintenance, but they refused to fire. The computers had already made note of this, determining that the next best course of action was to smash the Legionnaire with his powerfist. It was a cumbersome weapon, and it was possible that the Legionnaire might be fast enough to get out a shot with his holstered plasma pistol before being slain. If Kaalek open fired with its built-in flamer, it could blind the Legionnaire.

Unfortunately, neither his powerfist nor its built-in flamer were responding. At this point the computers hadn't the slightest idea what to do. They were panicking, wracking their databases for ideas. Kaalek supposed he could trample the Legionnaire---if his damned legs would respond. Whoever this bastard was, he'd turned on Kaalek's dreadnought but kept it disconnected from its limbs.

"Greetings Kaalek."

Greetings Markov.

"It is Lord Captain Markov, to you."

I will tear out your guts and hang you by your own intestines, Lord Captain Markov.

"That's better."

Chapter Three
When The Tigers Broke Free

Qul cracked open the Guardsmen's bones, still slick with fresh blood, and drank the marrow within. He ate the ropy lengths of intestine like sausage, which they weren't too far from in taste. The Guardsmen's brain was thick and wet; it had to be chewed like gum. Despite appearances, this wasn't cannibalism. Qul had read the definition of a species was a group of beings that could mate with each other. Two breeds of dog might look different, but they were the same species (dog) because they could still breed. On the other hand, a cat and a dog might look similar, but they're different species because they can't breed. Astartes like Qul couldn't breed with humans like the unforntunate Guardsmen. Therefore, they were different species.

So it wasn't cannibalism. It was predation.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't afford to eat all of the Guardsmen. The Imperials were tracking him with hounds, ones with artificial legs and snapping jaws powered by servos that could bite with the bone-crunching strength of a Tyranid warrior-beast. These dogs could pick up the scent of corruption from miles away, and the Imperials could bring to Qul the Emperor's Mercy™, in the form of cleansing fire. Qul was forced to mask his scent with gore. Everything smelled like gore here; the hounds wouldn't be able to pick his scent out.

He stuffed the gore anywhere it would fit in his broken armor. Qul ringed his armor's collar with the Guardsmen's spin, and slicked back his hair with the Guardsmen's blood. He took a hunk of bloody thigh meat and shoved it into his abdomen, amid all the tore cabling and cracked ceramite. His left leg, the one that had been broken and regrown, would smell the worst to the hounds. It had grown back as a strange, twisted thing with knotted scarlet flesh and cloven hooves for a foot. He rubbed the gore onto it like a thick lotion, making sure that the hounds wouldn't get a damned whiff of it.

"Throne."

Qul looked up to see two Guardsmen, frozen in place by fear. They wore uniforms similar to the one worn by the man he'd just eaten. He could only imagine what he looked like to them: a horrible fusion of daemon and machine that seemed to have been drenched in blood, completely unrecognizable as Astartes or human. Qul glared up at them with feral yellow eyes, eyes that gleamed like those of a predator lurking beyond a fringe of firelight. He bared his pointed teeth at them. From his kneeling position at the half eaten corpse, he rose to his full height. He towered over the mortals by a good three feet.

They looked up at him. He looked down at them.

One of the Guardsmen started to raise his lasgun. Qul kicked the Guardsmen's crotch with all his daemonic strength, shattering the mortal's pelvis and driving his groin up into his abdomen. The other mortal was smarter. He dropped his lasgun and ran. Qul was immediately after him, The mortal sprinted down a steep rubble hill in what was more of a controlled descent than a run. He stumbled and tripped with practically every step, barely able to remain standing. Clumsy mortal thing. It was embarrassing for Qul to think that he was once one of them.

He grabbed the Guardsmen by the hair and wrenched him back. "Don't," said the Guardsmen in a tiny, strangled voice. "Don't kill me."

Normally Qul would've made an attempt at wit, maybe quipping, "Is that an order?" But not today. Today he was too tired and too angry to speak. He threw the mortal to the ground and stomped on his neck. The mortal's throat buckled in and it made a half gagging, half wheezing sound that was uncomfortable just to hear. His face began to take on a soft purple shade.

Qul sat down besides the dying mortal. Now he had three bodies to eat. He wondered if his brothers were doing as well as he was. After he'd fallen off the Hellhound, they'd gone on without him. Maybe they thought he was dead. Or maybe they hadn't cared enough about him to retrieve him during their retreat. They were his brothers, but they weren't his friends. Who needed the bastards anyways? They'd fled. True disciples of the Blood God would've never given up the fight. The World Eaters Legion was in short supply of true disciples now. They were losing sight of what really mattered, rage, and falling victim to the traps and pitfalls of self-indulgent pleasure. The Blood God couldn't be blamed for his distance from them.

The mortal was taking considerably longer to die than Qul had imagined. Qul didn't like the way he was staring up at him, judging him. Mortals, especially Imperial mortals, always held an elitist air of faux moral superiority. The little gaks assumed that just because they were weak and soft that they were virtuous. Like a declawed housecat looking down on a lion for hunting. Qul leaned over the mortal and sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of his throat.

Woah! Had some reading to do

Anyway, LL the additions were amazing!!!

Just a small observation if I may

...seems him as Captain material...

I think you meant to say sees not seems

Its on the post dated on : 2012/10/28 00:05:06

Eager and thirsty for more my friend

Nice, I liked it when you were stating names you also gave a little info on their fate, and loved the Dred again. More please

Ty for the comments. @Bobakos, I fixed that, thanks for pointing it out. I need to proofread my writing more, lol.

Awesomness! We need more munching on Guardsmen! And the dread needs to stomp that pesky captain flat!

Agreed, that fething Captain needs a showdown with Dred, maybe the Capi can get beat to death with the soggey end of his demonic leg lol.

No kill like overkill! MAKE IT HAPPEN MORTAL!

They're World Eaters, they don't know the meaning of over kill, just - where do you want me to stack the bodies now, that piles full.

I know but still

I would like the Dred to go on a rampage, maybe something like this?...(you fool, you are imobilized and at my whim to do with as I please, how can you carry out your oath of vengence upon me when all you can do is lay there and suffer my scorn and contempt. He threw back his head and laughed a cackling howl to further torment his victim unawhere of the power fist stretching out to crush him in it's powerful paw) cue Dred going on a rampage.

Sorry that Kaalek isn't in this entry. He'll be in the next one, I promise.

Qul awoke, feeling re-energized and ready for a new day. The brilliant orange sun was just beginning to rise, and the hive city's skeletal frameworks cast long and thin shadows over the rubble landscape. These skeletons were all that remained of the city, following the orbital bombardment. He was angry---Berzerkers were always supposed to be angry---but he had the feeling that they was going to be a good day. Today he was going to get vengeance and the galaxy that had wronged him, and claim yet more skulls for his master's throne.

The corpses he had hid beneath were swarming with flies and bursting with maggots. They weren't red anymore; now they were a rotting brown shade, and had the texture of runny gak. Qul congratulated himself on his cleverness. Underneath the corpses, the hounds hadn't been able to smell, hear or see him. The Imperials had sent out more of them, following the disappearance of more Guardsmen. Qul hadn't the slightest idea of how many he'd killed, though he knew it was at least a dozen. Maybe more. Really, there was no distinguishing between the Guardsmen he'd killed. Mortals all looked and tasted the same.

He set off towards the Imperial camp. It was just over the nearby ridge, which had once been a three hundred story Administratum cathedral. It'd been swarming with almost a million mortals the day it had collapsed. Now, under the heat and pressure, their corpses were becoming fossil fuels like oil that the Imperium could use to fuel its on wars. If the 13th Black Crusade succeeded, by the time the oil was suitable for drilling the Imperium would've been cast down and the Corpse Emperor finally slain.

Qul reached the top of the ridge and surveyed the camp below him. There were rows of tents and tanks encircled by a perimeter of patrolling Guardsmen. Mortals were swarming the place, like vermin. They were busy all right, preparing for a long campaign. Steamrollers were flattening rubble, so that it would be suitable for building on. Trucks were driving too and fro, carrying oversized loads of ammunition and rations crates. Guardsmen were flirting unsuccessfully with Sisters of the Orders Hospitaller. A group of sweating and cursing Guardsmen were assembling a barbed wire fence while a Commissar with a ridiculous peaked cap barked orders at them. Despite the poor working conditions, Imperial moral was high after their recent victory. Why shouldn't it be? Ordinary mortals had beaten back a force of daemonically infused Traitor Legionnaires, and lived to tell the tale. Even the Commissars seemed more relaxed than normal, occasionally taking breaks from enforcing orders to mingle and joke with their men.

The Berzerker stood up as tall as he could at the top of the ridge. With the sun behind him, all the Guardsmen could see was his monstrous silhouette. Some looked up and squinted, trying to make how the thing's shape. Qul took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then roared. He sounded like a chorus of diseased wolves all howling in unison through throats choked with bulbous tumors. Now the Guardsmen were scared. The Commissars, alongside the Generals, Lieutenants, and all their Junior Officers, went crazy. As Qul raced down the ridge and towards the camp, he saw them making frantic gestures and screaming only half-heard orders.

Bright lights through off his vision. His armor started to feel unbearably hot. It took Qul a moment to realize that the Guardsmen were open-firing on him with their shoddy lasguns, superheating the ceramite of his armor and cooking the flesh beneath it. THREAT his HUD declared in migraine red text, as if Qul was too dumb to realize it. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea.

He swung his chainax in a wide arc, gutting a half dozen Guardsmen. More Guardsmen were in his way, blazing away with their tiny lasguns. Qul cut them down too, hurdling through the ranks of Imperials with unstoppable momentum. He couldn't stop if he even wanted to. He ran straight through a patch of barbed wire and became tangled in the stuff, but he kept moving. The Guardsmen were still firing, but they were hitting eachother more than anything else. Burnt corpses, with peeling black flesh and smoking organs, were piling at Qul's feet. Against unarmored mortals, lasguns could be surprisingly dangerous. "Stop firing!" someone was shouting. "Stop firing! For Throne's sake, STOP-"

His voice was cut off by the explosion of a grenade, hurled by Qul into the mass of Guardsmen around him. It started to rain body parts. Something hard, probably the butt of a lasgun, smashed against the back of Qul's head. He feel to his knees and the Guardsmen seemed to be everywhere, shooting, bludgeoning, and stabbing him from all sides. Qul swung his ax, amputating three Guardsmen's feet at their ankles. He rolled over so that he wasn't face down anymore and screamed at his attackers, flailing his ax gracelessly. One Guardsmen's belly was hacked open in the chaos. The ropy contents of his abdomen came spilling out onto Qul, causing two Guardsmen to vomit. Squeemish mortals.

Qul managed to stand up. At nine feet, he towered over the Guardsmen around him. His head stuck out in the crowd, and he realized that standing up was a mistake. A lasgun shot him in the face, blinding him. By this point, there were too many Guardsmen pressed around Qul for seeing to matter. No matter where he swung his ax, he hit someone. He could be blind, deaf, and dumb and he'd still be massacring the bastards.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SOULS FOR THE SOUL EATER! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

Was that his voice? Probably. Qul doubted anyone else here would be shouting that. The Guardsmen around him were trying to flee, but the crowd was pushing them towards Qul. Commissars were butchering their own men in a pointless attempt to control them. The mob was too panicked and unruly to be controlled. Qul's presence had put the mortals into fight-or-flight mode, and they were acting just like the mindless animals they were. In one eye Qul's vision was starting to return, but it was faded and blurry. His face stung like hell. He licked his licks, and they tasted like medium rare steak. Maybe he'd underestimated the strength of those lasguns.

There were less Guardsmen now. Most of them were fleeing and screaming, while Qul was hacking them down from atop a mound of corpses. That was when Qul heard the distinctive sound of a tank engine firing up, and the clanking of tank treads. The mortals were willing to destroy their own camp just to take out this one Berzerker. Qul was flattered. He sprinted through the crowd, knocking Guardsmen aside with his ax and leaving a trail of corpses in his wake.

Qul leapt onto a tank that was less of a tank and more of an artillery platform on treads. It's crew, which had been loading shells into a cannon that was longer than the actual tank, started to flee. The tank's engine started to rumble, and its treads began to crawl at a snail's pace. Qul assumed that the other tanks couldn't fire on him while he was standing atop such a valuable piece of machinery. Whatever this tank was, it looked rare and priceless. If it had a cannon that big, it had to be worth something.

Other cannons rotated to face him, and Qul realized he was wrong. Now he had to choose between a glorious death, and an ignoble retreat. He was fearless, like a true Astartes, and he was angry, like a true World Eater. But Qul didn't want to die. There was so much to do, see and kill.

He leapt off the artillery platform just as the other tanks open fired. The explosion gave him a hot push that sent him flying. When his feet hit the ground, he ran faster than he'd ever thought possible. Muscles and servos broke down as Qul ran, but with the flames, corpses, and tanks behind him, he refused to slow down. His chainax had been wrecked in the fighting, and it would never function again. Blood was pouring out from a dozen holes punched in his armor. Half of his face seemed to be sloughing off. With the half of his face that he was left, he grinned. The grin didn't come from pleasure---pleasure was anathema---but from the feeling of accomplishment. Qul couldn't understand why his fellow Berzerkers had retreated when, out here, he was having the time of his life.

Nice chapter, could be done with a read through to correct the 1 or 2 mistakes in there but on the whole I realy liked it.

Oh my.... I think I need to change pants!

But in a moer serious manner, well done LL. well done

Read the most recent part and although i actually find the description of dozens upon dozens of guardsmen being killed distasteful, it was well written. I enjoyed some of 'Qul's' character beats and some of the imagery was very interesting.

However like Manwithplan I also noticed a fair few syntax errors, Spell checker has made us writers Complacent! Luckily they werent as 'Game-breaking' as mine usually are so i was able to substitute and figure most of it out for myself. Give it another couple of readthroughs, i'm sure you'll spot 'em. (i.e. sorry but i cba listing them Unless you ask me to )

I like the metaphor of the fossil fuels but being a disciple of 'Hard' sci-fi i couldn't help but feel it was innaccurate. Most Fossil fuels are from the Carboniferous (spelling fail) period which was about 200 million years ago. Maybe adjust the metaphor slightly to take the millions of years into account?

Could i suggest an interlude with some herioc Guardsmen? I think you owe the poor buggers after the staggering bodycount so far.

Thanks for the criticism Perkustin. I've got to work on grammar. Goddamn the English language. I'll try to write up a Guardsmen interlude later. First I'll finish up the chapter on Qul, then there will be a Black Legion focused chapter. After/during the Black Legion chapter, there'll be some Guard stuff.

 Perkustin wrote:
Read the most recent part and although i actually find the description of dozens upon dozens of guardsmen being killed distasteful, it was well written. I enjoyed some of 'Qul's' character beats and some of the imagery was very interesting.

However like Manwithplan I also noticed a fair few syntax errors, Spell checker has made us writers Complacent! Luckily they werent as 'Game-breaking' as mine usually are so i was able to substitute and figure most of it out for myself. Give it another couple of readthroughs, i'm sure you'll spot 'em. (i.e. sorry but i cba listing them Unless you ask me to )

I like the metaphor of the fossil fuels but being a disciple of 'Hard' sci-fi i couldn't help but feel it was innaccurate. Most Fossil fuels are from the Carboniferous (spelling fail) period which was about 200 million years ago. Maybe adjust the metaphor slightly to take the millions of years into account?

Could i suggest an interlude with some herioc Guardsmen? I think you owe the poor buggers after the staggering bodycount so far.

Silence weakling! Tasy Guardsmen makes for tasty meals But alas I do hope for some heroic man to show up.

Already send you a PM with some of my observations.

Now, the story is very nice. I am eager for more!

Chapter Four
Ascension

Lord Captain Markov reclined into his onyx throne, surveying the bridge of Wrackhound from a dais in its center. The throne was perfectly fitted to his armor. Onyx and ceramite plating clicked, locking in together. Through ports in his warplate, Markov was supplied with a thin nutrient paste and a variety of sorcerous elixirs. This throne had sustained him through the Long War, and Markov imagined it would continue to do so for a very long time. It was from here that he recuperated from battle, commanded his vessel, and relaxed.

The fiery orange Eye of Horus emblazoned on his chestplate seemed to stare down his crew into submission, following them with its unblinking gaze. They avoided looking at him, and pretended not to notice him while they toiled.

"Lord?" A young Officer, appearing no older than thirty, had piped up. He would've been handsome, if it weren't for his toothy eyesockets.

"Yes?"

"We have a Thunderhawk coming in. They claim to have found a World Eater, Slaughter Brother Qul, who demands an audience with his fellow World Eaters." The Officer paused. "The crew say that he's more daemon than man now."

Markov's helmet hid his expression, and his vox grill took all emotion for his voice. For this, he was grateful. When the Emperor had said "And they shall know no fear", he had lied. Astartes felt fear, they just didn't panic and act on it like mortals did. To them fear was something strange and distant, baggage from their past lives as mortals. At that moment, Markov felt like a mortal again. If this bastard, whoever he was, was a Daemon Prince - that would be the end. The crew would rally behind him, calling him a "vessel for the Gods". Markov's own Black Legionnaires might very well turn on him.

"Officer, what is your name?"

The man began to sweat. Traditionally, Markov only paid attention to the mortals beneath him when he was planning an execution. "Jaroem, Lord."

"Jaroem. That's a Cthonian name, correct? Then you've been with the Black Legion since the days of our Primarch."

"Yes, Lord," said Jaroem, quaking with fear. "I saw him once. On Ullanor."

Markov put a great deal of thought into his next words. "Good, good. What you are about to do, as meaningless as it may seem, is highly important. It will determine your future, as well as my own. Ask the Thunderhawk's crew how Qul is a daemon, and repeat back exactly what they say."

"Yes Lord." Jaroem leaned into his vox caster. "How is Slaughter Brother Qul a daemon?" He listened. "They say, his flesh is mixed in with his armor and he's got a face like a daemon, and hooves like one, and claws like one. They say that his voice hurts their ears even when he speaks softly. They say that if they look into his eyes, they see themselves burning."

Markov sighed in relief. Plenty of Traitor Legionnaires met this description. This bastard wasn't a Daemon Prince, just an especially monstrous Berzerker. He wasn't anymore of a threat to Markov's reign than Nulr, or the Half Mad.

"Very good, Officer Jaroem. Tell the Thunderhawk that it may dock in Hanger 12, and that the World Eaters will be awaiting it." Markov turned to another Officer. "Release the Berzerkers in Hanger 12. Tell their leaders, whoever they are now, that if they misbehave we'll start muzzling and kenneling them like dogs."





"I rule 3rd company now. Lord Kaalek is gone, and may his soul rest in peace," said Qul, gesturing to the Dreadnought. It was a stout and bulky thing of barely human shape. Both its legs were far apart, as though it were squatting. Its chest met its pelvis at a ball-and-socket joints of strange design, one that seemed dangerously unstable. The thing had no head, but rather a visor slit in its chest that Kaalek could see out of. One arm was a twin barreled reaper autocannon, and the other was a powerfist with a flamer under-attachment. "3rd Company needs a new leader now, and it is I."

I am not dead, the Dreadnought said. It sounded almost like thunder.

"Yes," Nulr drawled. He was obviously drooling within his helmet. "3rd company needs a new leader. But is Qul really the best we have to offer? Qul has served in my squad, under my command, since the days of the Great Crusade and I can't think of a single accomplishment of his."

I am not dead, and I am still the Lord of 3rd Company.

"Not a single accomplishment? I butchered Guardsmen by the dozen on the surface, while you were hiding up here. In one hour I accomplished more than our entire Company did in battle. Stand down Nulr, while you still have your life."

I AM NOT DEAD.

"Silence, dead one! It is I, First Slaughterprince Tirek, who will lead this company!" Tirek stepped forwards besides Nulr and Qul, his burnished red plate shining in the hanger's dull light. On his helmet was a golden crown, embedded with priceless crimson jewels.

You have no right to do this to me. I was appointed by the Primarch, the Red Angel, to lead this company. You would all defy our Primarch's will, just to satisfy your own petty ambitions? How dare you?

"Someone turn him off. All you have to do is rip that cable, and his vox goes out," said Nulr.

I WAS APPOINTED BY OUR PRIMAR-

"That's better."

"Qul, you are an unaccomplished idiot. Nulr, you led the retreat planetside, and you are unfit to be a World Eater. Tirek, you will never lead anything," Zerithmuel said, stepping forward. His armor was patchwork of half-painted broken plating, blackened by lasfire. "I will lead, not because I desire to, but because if I don't one of you will. I care too much about this company to allow this to happen."

"An honor duel," said Tirek, slowly and deliberately drawing his blade. "That is what must be."

Nulr's powerfist came to life, sparking and cracking with killing energy. Zerithmuel drew twin bolter pistols, each one baring defaced Imperial iconography and extended barrels. Qul gunned his chain axe.






The duel is already over; the rest is just details.

Tirek is faster than Qul will ever be. His warplate is a second skin to him, and his blade an extension of his arm. Nulr is easily stronger than him, his daemon enhanced musculature capable of insane feats of strength. Zerithmuel is the most dangerous of all the World Eater's 3rd Company, having found a strange sense of cunning in his insanity. He anticipates the enemy's moves before they make them, and counters appropriately.

Qul will kill them all with ease, because Tirek's quickness, Nulr's strength and Zerithmuel's cunning matter little to the Blood God. What Qul has is rage, and that is precisely what the Blood God wants. Tirek will lose his agelessness, and his 10,000 years of experience will be little more than chains draped around his neck, bending his neck before the axe. Nulr's warp infused musculature will fail him and his final moments will be a vivid reminder of what its like to be mortal. Zerithmuel's second sight is already blurring, and for the first time in years even the immediate future is unclear.

Zerithmuel dies. Qul's axe flies at his throat, like a viper delivering a venemous kiss.

Tirek dies. He sees Qul's extended arm, and lunges. In what is the most pathetic moment of his life, his legs give out from under him. As he falls, Qul's axe catches him by the neck. His head hits the floor first, and then the rest of him.

Nulr dies. Unlike the others, he manages to get a blow in. He sees Qul's axe speeding towards him, and he raises his powerfist arm to block him. Qul changes the angle of his swing ever so slightly, so that instead of deflecting off the powerfist the axe instead tears straight though Nulr's wrist. With his remaining arm, Nulr punches Qul in the gut. It does nothing. The axe hits Nulr in the head.

Amazing !!!

Hungry for more!!!!

That Dred is guna be real pissed now, quick somebody attach his legs. Nice chapter and discriptions all round, yes more please

I sense a horrid case of smashed legionare coming soon! Well done and a great read LL

"What should I do?" said Markov at long last, breaking the silence. It pained the Lord Captain to show such weakness, baring his throat to such a dangerous and alien creature.

The Half Mad dragged its armored bulk from the shadows. His body was a twisted mass of broken armor plating and exposed cabling, held together by stringy pink flesh. "My master," it said. "Was very clear. This vessel, the Valiant, needs to be docked and resupplied. Its air is warm and stale, having been recycled far too many times. We should've docked long ago, before this new campaign ever began." The Half Mad shuddered. "It is a bad omen, for us to have to breath in the same stagnant air where a thousand last breaths have been drawn."

Markov responded with a dismissive snort. "And this helps me how? I don't give a damn about the ship's air. I'm asking about the Berzerkers."

"If you disagree with what I'm telling you," said the Half Mad. "Perhaps you should commune with Lord Tzeentch yourself."

"Ha ha. Very funny."

"I'm not joking. Lord Tzeentch would be more than happy to oblige such a prominent warrior as yourself, if you would just welcome him with open arms. By following the Undivided Path, you've lost the favor of the Gods. In their heavenly wars, there is no middle ground; you must take a side."

"No," Markov said, his already low voice brought even lower by impatience. "You don't. Brother, you haven't taken a side in the war between Slaanesh and Khorne, or the war between Githrax and Yalthraki, or the war between B'kri and Nedel. You're just trying to convert me again."

"Those aren't Gods. Slaanesh and Khorne are too primal, too savage to be considered anything more than especially powerful Daemons. The others are even worse. The Gods I'm referring to are Lord Tzeentch and the enemy Nurgle." The Half Mad leaned in closer to Markov. Its mouth had no lips. "Why eschew Lord Tzeentch's favor?"

"When the Warmaster promoted me, he warned me about this. He said that worshiping one God is a symptom of being.... I don't know the term, emotionally unbalanced? Each God is a facet of humanity, and by worshiping only one, you become something less than human. You've seen the World Eaters, and their opposites, the Emperor's Children. You know what I'm talking about."

The Half Mad seemed genuinely hurt. "You would accuse me of being something less than human?"

"Brother, look at yourself. Look at what 'Lord Tzeentch' has done to your body."

"You don't need to be in the driver's seat," it said softly, looking down at its talon fingers. "To enjoy the ride."

There was a moment of silence that felt much longer than it actually was.

The Half Mad spoke again. "I am sorry. You are my Lord Captain, and I should know better than to question your religious beliefs. Perhaps I could speak with you not as a vessel of Lord Tzeentch, but as a friend?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"The World Eaters, Qul in particular, directly violated your orders by killing one another. They've forced your hand, and you can't afford to show any weakness. Following through on your threat. Muzzle and kennel them all, like dogs."

You just know that they just arn't guna heel I liked the chapter, is that twisted one like Horus' es-quir-ry (?) from the Heresy or is he the same person?

Again LL I am amazed!

Very nice work (short and teasing) but very nice regardless!

Well done, you never cease to amaze me.

A Chaos Space Marine Bike is a site to behold. There are a limited number of them throughout the galaxy, perhaps no more than thirty thousand. They run on STC template engines, whose inner-workings are beyond the comprehension of even the Adeptus Mechanicus. As far as the Tech Priests are aware, these motorcycles are powered by the Machine God himself. They can propel a fully armored Space Marine, weighing about a ton, to death defying speeds up to two hundred and sixteen miles per hour. On a full tank of fuel, they can maintain these high speeds for up to twelve hours.

In addition to serving as a means of transportation, these motorcycles are also fully functional weapons. On the vehicle's prow, located between its handlebars, is a twin-linked bolter. Some Space Marines have replaced these bolters with even more dangerous weapons, such as a meltagun. Meltaguns, like Chaos Space Marine Bikes themselves, are wholly misunderstood by the Adeptus Mechanicus. A popular custom among Chaos Space Marines is to mount a horned skull, usually belonging to a xenos, on the motorcycle's armored prow and have the two bolter barrels emerging from the skull's empty eyesockets. Another popular custom is to decorate the bike with trophy poles mounted with the skulls and helmets of Imperials they've slain.

Chaos Space Marine Bikers are not like Raptors, who are connected by a secretive cult and almost identical in appearances to one another. The only thing that connects Chaos Space Marine Bikers is the fact they ride a motorcycle. Some have become fused to their bikes, most notably the Hemlock Riders of the Emperor's Children, and revere their bikes as the 'Gods of Speed'. Others, such as the Alpha Legion, treat their bikes like just another piece of machinery. The Legion in possession of the most bikes is the Black Legion, which is noted as having twelve fully motorized companies. One of these was 10th Company, led by Lord Captain Markov. It was home to one hundred Black Legionnaire Bikers, and their [amount unknown] World Eater slaves.






With the deaths of 3rd Company's elite, there was a new found surplus of equipment. Under Kaalek's reign, it would have been distributed equally to his Champions, who would then have distributed it among their squads as they saw fit. This was how Nulr had received his powerfist and Tirek had received his blade.

Qul didn't care for Kaalek's system. It was that kind of complacency that had brought 3rd Company low. Under the reign of Lord Slaughterking Qul the Ascendant, self proclaimed Avatar of the Blood God, things would be different.

Two World Eaters Qul didn't recognize fought under a spotlight, with their Brothers watching from the shadows. One had a chain axe, like Qul's own, and was fighting like a man possessed. He fought with no regard for his own safety, only the death of his opponent. Again and again his axe scraped across his opponent's warplate, dulling its own teeth more than anything else. The other World Eater, the crazed one's opponent, was fighting more defensively. He held his chainsword close to his chest, only moving it to parry. Qul didn't like the defensive one. If he didn't die soon, Qul decided he would intervene against him.

The crazed one swung his chain axe two-handed, and managed to lodge it in the back of the defensive one's knee joint. The wound was stained an ugly brown by blood and hydraulic fluid. An axe in his knee, tearing the ligaments of his kneecap to shreds with its whirring teeth, the defensive one roared. Staggering forward and putting his weight into the blow, he drove his chainsword into the joint where his opponent's left thigh met his crotch plate. The two crippled warriors slumped against each other. Their disgraceful embrace didn't last long. The defensive one wrenched his chainsword back, along with all the organs and gore that had become entangled with it. His opponent, who was losing a copious amount of blood from his crotch, fell to the floor.

"What is your name, son?" Qul asked. He was kneeling at Zerithmuel's corpse, disassembling his power armor and skinning the body beneath. Qul had always thought that Zerithmuel's flesh would make an excellent cloak.

"Slaughter Brother Hael, my lord," the defensive one answered.

"Hael, you command Nulr's men now. You may claim his power fist, if you so choose to do so." Qul looked up from his bloody work, and saw that a crowd of World Eaters were hanging on his every word. "If any of his men would disobey you, you have my permission to kill them. Kill the whole damned squad if you need to, I don't care."

It was at that moment that Qul heard a hissing noise, and saw that a pale white gas was spraying from the hanger's vents.

"HELMETS AND REBREATHERS ON, NOW!"





So far seven World Eaters without functioning rebreathers had fallen prey to the gas, choking and gagging until they slipped into unconsciousness. According to his HUD, they still had lifesigns. Whatever the gas was, it could knock Astartes unconscious without killing them. The Imperium wouldn't be willing to take Traitor Legionnaires alive, so it wasn't Imperial boarders that has gassed the hanger. It had to be the Black Legion.

If Qul chose to fight back, he'd have to take control of the Valiant itself and stage a coup against Lord Captain Markov. The World Eaters outnumbered the Black Legionnaires to be sure, but the Black Legion was better organized and better equipped. Furthermore, they controlled the ship. They could lock off certain areas, alter the artificial gravity, or the Valiant's oxygen content. Even if Qul managed to somehow take the vessel, he'd have to worry about other Black Legionnaires. The Warmaster took any betrayals against his Legion very personally. There were stories of Astartes skinned alive and hung from meat hooks for daring to act against the Warmaster's treasured pawns.

But if he took this lying down and allowed the Black Legion to continue subjugating the World Eaters, he would be no different than Kaalek. He'd be just another spineless Captain, taking orders from the Warmaster and forgetting everything about the freedom the Blood God stood for. It wouldn't be an easy decision to make.

Because he was Lord Slaughterking Qul the Ascendant, there was no dilemma at all.

"Hael, have your men get inside those Thunderhawks!" Qul gestured to a row of five angular ships with undersized wings and a design not unlike that of an ancient navy war-vessel. "I don't care how; shoot it open if you have to. I want control of those guns.

Gaius, have your men set up a barricade at the first two hanger doors! Use anything you can find, especially munitions crates!

Erezak and Tyth, wake up the Dreadnought. I don't know or care how, just do it!

Everyone else; with me!"

The third hanger door was the largest, and it was almost certainly the one the Black Legionnaires would use. Being bikers, they preferred to fight in wide open spaces. The first two doors, were five feet wide each, not at all what they wanted. It could fit maybe one or two bikers in at a time. But the third door was at least four or five times the length of the other two. The Black Legion would come in all at once, their roaring engines drowning out the Berzerker's maddened screaming. That was how they would come in.

"Barricade the door!" Qul said. "Here, use the corpses! And the unconscious ones too! Tack on frag grenades to the door!" Qul congratulated himself on his stroke of genius. When the door retracted into the ceiling, the frag grenades would be crushed and detonate, showering the bikers with shrapnel as they drove in. They wouldn't be able to see the barricade, and they'd go straight into it. "Tack on krak grenades, munitions crates, and any other explosives you can find to the barricades! I want this place to light up like Cadia!"

On his HUD, a Lord Captain Markov offered to open up a private vox channel with him. Qul accepted.

"Blood and skulls," he found himself drawling. "And blood and skulls, and blood and skulls, and blood and skulls."

"I see."

"Heh heh heh, blood and skulls, and blood and skulls, and blood and skulls..."

"Well," said Markov. "In the off chance that you Berzerkers decide that you won't like being muzzled and kenneled, I suggest you stand down immediately."

"I'll peal your face and staple it to my helmet, so that when I'm gutting you like a fish, you'll see yourself laughing. And then I'll tie you up with your own guts, and leave to bleed out! In your own command throne no less! You'll die faceless and gutless, bleeding out in your command throne while you watch the World Eaters take control of your precious ship!"

Qul was planning on cutting the vox channel after getting that last word in. Markov cut it before he could.

The third door's barricade was uneven. In some places, the barricade reached up the top of the door and was made entirely out of highly temperamental explosives. In other places, there was no barricade at all and the bikers might be able to slip right through. "I want this to be uniform!" Qul shouted. "Fix it! Gaius, have your men work on this door now. Doors one and two are finished. Hael and Erezak, I want progress reports on your respective operations."

"Lord Kaalek is not waking," said Erezak. "His sarcophagus has been disconnected from his Dreadnought body."

"Then connect it! How hard can it be? I don't care how you do, just do it!"

"There is a slight problem with the Thunderhawks, my lord. We've broken inside two of them but there appears to be... no ammunition, my lord. My apologies, my lord," Hael said.

For the first time since the Black Legion gassed the hanger, Qul was silent. The silence seemed to last forever. Finally, he spoke, his restrained voice belying his rage. "After this battle, Hael, I will kill you for incompetence. This is not a threat; this is a promise. But, until I kill you, I want you to get ammo from the munitions crates. Is that too difficult for you? Is it too hard to ask that when you're out of ammo, you get new ammo from the crates piled all around the hanger? Is it just too much?"

"No, my lord."

"THEN DO IT!"

The door groaned, then let out a steady pneumatic hiss. Steam rose and smoke wafted from the naked machinery off to its side. Gears clanked just beneath the walls, the dull noise resonating through the hanger. Slowly and steadily, belying the machinery's strength, the door began to recede into the ceiling. Behind the rising door, Qul could hear the roaring of engines. The Black Legion had come.

Very nice my friend Very nice indeed

Come on Dred, wake the fek up lol. Excelent, I'l be awaiting the next installment eagerly my heritic brother.

Im loving your storytelling LL. Superb knack for keeping me completely engaged. I know that took you awhile to write but damn it man i inhaled it in one sitting.

Very tough subject to balance the power of marines and the extreme nature of khorne, yet balance it you do. Weird yet i really am warming to your characters and hope they get that bird in the air and cause some devestation on their way out.

And please, get that dread going

We need moar! And please for all that is unholy unleash the dread soon!

Dread! Dread! Dread! Dread.........etc.

Just read this in one sitting. I like the World Eaters and dreads both, so I'm double-happy with this.

You've got a good grasp on the kind of psyche I imagine the World Eaters would have, and I like the insights you're showing.

The violence is Grimdark Tarantino, anf none the worse for it.

Unleash the dread!

MORE PLEASE.!!!

Chapter Five
The Thin Ice

The Black Legion rode in, guns blazing. The bikes' infernal engines roared with the souls of bound daemons, drowning out even the sound of bolter fire. Their riders' monstrous faces could barely be seen behind the smoke and flame generated by bolters on full-auto. Some of their helmets were built in the likeliness of skulls, and others were built in the likeliness of saurian predators. Some of the Black Legionnaires wore no helmets at all, just triangular rebreathers, exposing their mottled flesh and patchy grey hair. Though the rebreathers covered their mouths, it was obvious they were grinning.

The door retracted further into the ceiling, and all of a sudden the grinning ceased. Grenades detonated by the dozens, raining superheated shards of metal. The first wave of bikers, blind and deaf, crashed straight into the barricades - barricades reinforced with krak rockets, capable of punching through a solid foot of concrete, barricades reinforced with promethium canisters, capable of melting through even bone, barricades reinforced with plasma charges, capable of blasting through an Astartes with the strength of the stars themselves, and barricades reinforced with good old fashioned bolter shells, which were infact miniaturized rocket propelled grenades.

The barricades ceased to exist. So did the first wave of bikers. In their place was a very long strip of smoldering wreckage lying directly before the door. Which the second wave of bikers rode straight into. Some wiped out, crashing amidst the wreckage. The World Eaters descended on those fallen bikers like pack animals, tearing them to shreds. Other bikers just kept going, sailing straight through the molten metal, bolters still blazing. It slowed them down a great deal, and the World Eaters fell upon them too. With chainsword and bolter, the bikers fought to their last breath. They made sure that if they were going to die this battle, they were going to take some damned Berzerkers with them.

Erezak wanted to fight with his brothers, after what the Black Legion had done to him. They had bound and shackled him like an animal, not like the daemon-blessed god of warfare he truly was. But, orders came first. Qul had decreed that Erezak and Tyth were to awaken the Dreadnought, and that was the end of that. Even now, with the World Eaters rebelling against the Black Legion, he was still taking stupid orders rather than fighting. Maybe the World Eaters would rebel against Qul too later.

As he ran to the Dreadnought, he realized how wrong he was. Not about Qul, it was a definite possibility that Qul would be slain by his own men. He was wrong about the World Eaters rebelling against the Black Legion. This was one company, less than one percent of the World Eaters, rebelling against an insignificant detachment of the Black Legion. Across the galaxy World Eaters would keep taking orders, completely unaware of 3rd Company's glorious rebellion. Mutiny was a better term. All they were doing was taking command of one ship.

Erezak and Tyth met up at the Dreadnought. "How do we do this?" Erezak said.

"Ehhhh...." ventured Tyth. He gunned his chainaxe. "Blood and skulls, blood and skulls, blood and skulls..."

"Lord Kaalek. We need to awaken Lord Kaalek."

Tyth gestured with his axe to a panel on the wall, one covered with switches, buttons, and blinking runes. "Tech priests wired Kaalek into that. Wires everywhere. Flipped some switches, rewired things. Then his limbs, they rewired them too."

"What do we do?"Erezak realized he had gunned his own chainaxe, and he was drooling. A familiar pressure was building up in his temples. The battle was over at the door, and here he was doing a Tech Priest's job. The battle was calling. Blood had to be shed.

Tyth roared, and his voice was deeply unsteady. Like some starving lion, beaten half to death in a failed hunt, pretending to still be the great hunter it once was. He laid waste to the control panel, tearing through exposed machinery and bundled cables with the whirring teeth of his chainaxe. Though Erezak understood on some level that this was a bad idea, he joined in. If he couldn't have blood, then broken circuits and machinery would have to suffice. The Tech Priests would probably weep over the loss of such potent and misunderstood machinery. Let them. Tears would also work as a substitute for blood.

There wasn't much left of the control panel anymore. Tyth stopped, and Erezak stopped too.

"Ehhhhh.... sacrifice?"

"Sacrifice?" Erezak repeated.

"Yes, sacrifice," Tyth said. "To appease the Blood God. Only way Kaalek will awaken, is if he appease the Blood God. The warp worms its way inside Dreadnoughts. The warp decides whether or not they awaken. Not bitch Tech Priests that clank when they move."

Tyth took a step towards Erezak. His chainaxe was sparking with the broken circuitry lodged in its teeth.

"I am stronger than you," Erezak said. His voice was unsteadier than he had hoped it would be.

He had struck a nerve. Holding his chainaxe overhead in two-handed grip, Tyth charged. Stupid. Tyth was too used to fighting mortals, and even in his prime he had never been an exceptional warrior. He'd just barely passed the trials to become an Astartes in the first place, some 10,000 years ago. Erezak sidestepped, and Tyth's axe hit only empty space. Maneuvering behind him, Erezak lodged his axe in the back of Tyth's neck and severed the bastard's spinal column. Tyth's knees buckled in, but Erezak grabbed him by the collar before he could hit the floor.

"Erezak, brother. I can't...." Erezak propped him up against the Dreadnought and held him there. Tyth's head was tilted to the side, because he lacked the strength to hold it up. "...can't feel my legs. Take off my helmet. I don't... I don't want to..." He saw Erezak draw his bolter pistol and for the first time in a very long time, Tyth spoke with clarity. "Erezak?"

Erezak wasn't sure if Tyth's words were supposed to carry any significance. He didn't know Tyth very well, and he didn't particularly care about him either. Without hesitation and without remorse, Erezak pulled the trigger. The pistol's muzzle flared, and a bolt ripped into Tyth's vox grill. It detonated in his mouth. The twisted and broken remnants of Tyth's jaws tried to spit on Erezak to little effect. Erezak let Tyth fall to the floor.

The Dreadnought was still asleep. Lord Kaalek had been useless in life and he was still useless in death. Erezak wasn't sure why he evened called him 'Lord' anymore. He was just Kaalek now, a dead body that the Black Legion had wasted a Dreadnought on. Furious, Erezak raised his pistol and open fired on the Dreadnought's torso. The bolt pinged off its metal haul.

Then he heard a low mechanical rumbling. The Dreadnought's visor, a slit in its sarcophagus, lit up. Its clawed powerfist arm clenched, then unclenched. Something clicked in its autocannon. It took one ponderous step and then another.

You are in the way of battle, it said to Erezak. Move, or I will go through you.

wOOOt! Go Dread! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE! In other words. Well done and this is really shaping up to be a real meatgrinder.

GO DREAD GO!

Agreed nice work, let the blood fly.

What did we learn from today's story kids?

When something does not work shoot it!!!



Loved it man! Keep it going

 Bobakos wrote:
What did we learn from today's story kids?

When something does not work shoot it!!!



Loved it man! Keep it going

Or hack it up, why? because you can and your a World Eater and know no better

Kaalek's new form was devoid of any grace. His movements were rigid and thoroughly mechanical. It was a disgrace to have to fight like this. Admittedly, Kaalek had never fought with much finesse. He'd wore a bull helmed suit of Terminator armor, and had won with brute force more than anything else. At least then he'd still moved like a human.

Kaalek didn't question why the World Eaters were fighting the Black Legion, or why Qul was giving orders as though he were in command. He didn't care about his former Legion in the slightest. Let them bleed themselves out in their war on a galaxy that hated them, fighting the Imperium, the other Traitor Legions, every Xenos empire they came in contact with, and even themselves. Now Kaalek understood why their Primarch, Angron, had abandoned them after Armageddon. Angron had forcefully implanted every World Eater with anger enhancing implants, so that he wouldn't suffer alone. The Primarch had done it under the guise of 'being for the benefit of the Legion', but the truth was clear enough. And then he'd realized how much he hated his own company. If Angron already hated himself, what good was it in lording over a Legion of equally deranged freaks?

It was shameful to be a World Eater. Why couldn't he have been inducted by another Legion, like the Ultramarines? Kaalek would give anything to be one of those self-satisfied smirking little gaks, living in ignorant bliss.

A biker, whose skull faced helm was topped with a spike, went roaring over a sloped piece of wreckage. The wreckage had once been one of his brothers, but the heat had softened it to the point of being unrecognizeable. With a toothy grin emblazoned on his helmet, the biker lifted off the ground and was sent hurtling towards Kaalek. He relinquished his grip on the handlebars, instead unsheathing a pair of combat glaives from a belt at his waist. All the while his bike's stormbolter fired, letting off a stream of bolts that detonated uselessly against Kaalek's chest. Kaalek pivoted on his waist axis and raised his claw arm - just in time to catch the biker. The claws, wreathed in killing energy, softened ceramite and steel. The biker almost seemed to lose his shape as Kaalek's grip tightened, half melting and half crumpling. Molten dolloping metal ran over his claws.

Though his red eye lenses offered nothing of any emotion, the biker's wheezing scream seemed to indicate that he was in a great deal of pain. He brought one of his glaives down on Kaalek's wrist joint, lodging it within a nest of wires and reducing the joint's already limited mobility. If Kaalek could've grinned, he would've. His claw's built-in flamer came to life, drowning the biker in liquid fire. The bike's engine detonated, letting out a torrent of hellfire. Normally the biker would've been sent flying by such a catastrophic explosion, but Kaalek's claw held him in place. Instead, his body lost all shape and form. Kaalek was sprayed with a light mist.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" That was Qul. His voice sounded like a chorus of diseased wolves, howling in imperfect unity. Other World Eaters took up the cry. Kaalek didn't share in their enthusiasm. He wasn't fighting for the Gods; he was fighting for himself. His war against the Black Legion was personal. "SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

The bikers had taken heavy causalities. Anywhere from twenty to thirty of them had been slain in their abortive charge. The rest of them were taking up a defensive position just outside the door, shielded by the smoldering barricades. There were somewhere between forty and fifty of them left ripping into the World Eaters with stormbolters. One World Eater took a shot to the throat, and his head was sent flying. Another was clambering over a biker's corpse when his backpack's central energy motivator was hit, blowing his spine open. Holding a Black Legionnaire's dismembered torso up like a shield, a World Eater charged only for his knees to be shot out from under him. He collapsed just before a biker, who drew a power blade and impaled him to the ground.

Kaalek raised his autocannon. He didn't bother to aim, choosing instead to sweep back and forth with the weapon while screaming. It was suppression fire more than anything else. To the bikers though, it was a blinding hailstorm of stinging bolts. The impacts against their armor grabbed their attention and threw them off balance, giving the World Eaters a window. For added effect, he fired his flamer. The hanger door looked like a portal to hell, piled with human wreckage and blackened by flame. World Eaters were pouring out by the dozens, clambering over and stumbling down wreckage. The fire glinted in their red eye lenses.

"Riders, withdrawl!" one of the Bikers shouted, pointing with his blade to a nearby hall.

It was Legion protocol never to use the term 'retreat'.





Markov was falling into his element. High stress situations were his forte. He sat at his throne, watching a live pict feed of the battle as status reports came trickling in. The crew was in chaos. Deckhands were shouting and screaming, scurrying about in all directions. The only thing that separated mortals from vermin was that vermin complained less. Until the World Eaters reached the bridge, they had no reason to panic. Not that they understood this.

The 10th Company was one of the Black Legion's Thorns; a small detachment of Legionnaires, sent off to some remote yet valuable system to act as a thorn in the Imperium's side. Markov couldn't expect any reinforcements from nearby Black Legion forces, because there were none. He was alone out here. Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were Imperials nearby.

He was aware that he was probably to blame for this. When he had taken in the Berzerkers some time ago, he had been aware they were a ticking time bomb. But he had been eager to prove himself to the Warmaster and he had taken in far too many than he could handle. They outnumbered his bikers some ten to one. Now they outnumbered his bikers by even more. The odds were stacked against Lord Captain Markov.

"Once my riders reach Sector A, void seal all bulkheads," he said. "Leave Sector B open though, so that they'll be steered into the engine rooms. Now, transfer all energy to the aft engines. I want to maneuver behind the moon. Alert the Half Mad that we may be entering warp transit soon."

On a pict screen, he watched a fleeing biker take a shot to the engine. For a fraction of a second the feed went out. When it returned, he saw an explosion of oversized crimson pixels driving the biker into the ceiling. His power armor crumpled like a tin can. There was a bright flash and the feed went out again, this time permanently.

Hehehehe payback time Markov!!!




Keep it coming m8!

I always enjoy reading your stories, if you decide to get published I'll definitely buy!

Awesome sauce LL. Action is great, even better now after you developed the characters for us.

Nicely choreographed mayhem. A sane (ish) Chaos dread's a fearsome prospect.

The wait for the Dred was well worth it, and yeah that Markov has what ever's coming to him the fool though I'm sure he has one or two tricks up his sleeve. More please because this is great!

Forgot to ask, will there be a show down with the Dred and Qul?

Chapter Six
In The Flesh

The ship was quaking. In the Half Mad's chamber, candles flickered. An overhead illuminator swayed back and forth, and the pool of light it generated moved with it. It was like a spotlight swerving drunkenly around the room. When the ship finally calmed, the pool of light came to center on the Half Mad.

He had abased himself before his personal altar. The altar was a small thing, a brass and gold chest with the icon of Lord Tzeentch painted on in the color of tan flesh. Within the chest was just fertile soil and a few flowers. The flowers were beautiful things, with vibrant blue petals and the sweetest scent. That was what the Changer of Ways, Lord Tzeentch, was the God of; life and hope. It was the God of faith in a fair and just universe where good would triumph and evil would be vanquished forever. Nurgle, his opposite, was a miserable freak who believed only in the inevitability of death and the perseverance of entropy. He preached that his followers should live life to the fullest while they could, because they might very well drop dead tomorrow. The Half Mad never understood how someone could be so hopeless in such a beautiful universe.

The flowers were evidence of his faith in Lord Tzeentch, and they were also evidence of his faith in the universe as a whole. Even on this cursed ship where madness and evil reigned, flowers could still grow. After all, hope springs eternal.

Once, in a dream many years ago, Nurgle had come to the Half Mad. In his sibilant voice he had whispered, "Even you will die someday."

The Half Mad had just laughed. He'd laughed in the face of a God, and he'd held his ground. "I am 10,000 years old," he said. "I have lived longer than any human or Astartes was ever intended to. I have survived a thousand different massacres on a thousand different worlds, and I have survived wounds that could have felled Dreadnoughts. Now you come here, and you mean to tell me that I will die someday? I am the unaging and undying vassal of Lord Tzeentch, and I am the bane of entropy."

"No one lives forever," said Nurgle. At the moment he'd caught a glimpse of the God, and it wasn't anything like he'd expected. Nurgle was a foetid battlefield were the ground was made up of fatty tumors, and long greasy hairs acted as trees. Vermin scurried about in their shade. People were weeping as they sunk into the sticky decay. Their flesh seemed to shrivel on contact with it. "Even Gods die. What makes you different?"

The Half Mad couldn't remember exactly what he'd said after that. After all, it was impossible to remember dreams perfectly. But he was sure he said something scathing and witty.

His chamber's comm. unit came buzzing to life. "Lord... er... uhh..." The voice was high-pitched and uncertain; it belonged to a mortal.

"Half Mad," he said. "Everyone calls me that. You should do the same."

"Yes, Lord Half Mad. Lord Captain Markov has ordered me to inform you that we will be entering warp transit soon," the comm. unit's disembodied voice said.

"And am I to navigate the ship, steering the Valiant through the tides of madness while our Lord Captain sulks on the bridge?"

"Umm..."

"There is no need to be nervous, boy," the Half Mad drawled, letting out a throaty chuckle. "I assure you, I'm completely and utterly harmless. Could I please speak with our Lord Captain?"

Static crackled over the comm. unit.

"This is Markov. What is it?"

"I would have had the mortal tell you this, but I fear you would've killed him. I will not be able to steer the ship for an indeterminate amount of time. You will have to make due."

"What," said Markov, though he wasn't asking a question at all. Even over the static choked comm. network, his voice communicated pure murder. The Half Mad wondered if Markov's anger had anything to do with the quaking of the ship.

"I have other matters to attend to. I am afraid I will be sealing my chambers and deactivating my comm. unit as well as my vox to guard against interruption. I will inform you when I am done."

"We are entering warp transit, whether you like it or not. And if you don't steer, we'll all die. So drop whatever the feth you're doing."

"I'm sorry Lord Captain, it appears you're breaking up." With a twist of his mind, the Half Mad deactivated his comm. unit. It was nice to be a psyker. He couldn't imagine not being one.

The candles had been arranged in a perfect pantheon star, to represent the many paths offered by chaos. Not like the one path of servitude and hopelessness offered by the Imperium. The Half Mad didn't like that they flickered; it was a sign of disrespect. He supposed that the flickering might inadvertently draw more daemons, angered by his gall. Nine mortals had been slain to slake the warp's thirst. The Half Mad could hear their souls screaming themselves into oblivion now, as the warp claimed them. Torn free from their prisons of flesh, they had nothing to protect them from the gluttony of daemons. No one would notice their absence. The Valiant was home to at least forty thousand mortals, most of whom were of no value. The average mortal performed no job at all for the Black Legion, instead just trying to eke out a quiet existence in the ships' bowels without being noticed by the Traitor Legionnaires.

The Half Mad felt that he understood daemonic psychology better than most beings, even better than daemons themselves. To daemons, the material realm was a frontier land where even the lowliest of them had a chance of striking it rich. Not like the warp. There was a saying that, in all order there was some chaos, and in all chaos there was some order. The Gods of the Warp, by enforcing their will on their domains, had inadvertently established order in a realm that should've been pure chaos. There were now rules and regulations, places a daemon could and couldn't go, things a daemon should and shouldn't do. The material realm, where mortals lived, was an entirely different matter. It was a realm constantly in flux, caught in the greatest war existence had even known. Anything could happen in the material realm.

When a being offered his body up for possession, daemons were all too eager to possess him. Possession was a chance of entering the material realm and gaining a stable body there. Daemons loved it.

So, as the Half Mad had done many times before, he let go of everything. He offered up all that he had, his body, his power, his rank, and above all else his mind, to the warp. As a token of appreciation.

Having a hopeful soul and wearing the brand of Lord Tzeentch warded off most Nurgilite daemons. The more intelligent of them understood the risks of possessing that kind of body. That kind of disrespect could draw the ire of Lord Tzeentch himself, even if that was an admittedly rare thing. But all other daemons, ones in the service of one God and every God and no God at all, were drawn to him him. They encircled him, like sharks of the ethereal sea. With snapping jaws and foaming mouths, they descended on him. Good. The more eager they were, the better.

Two daemons slipped in. One was an ugly little thing known by the title of Curseclaw, born of pure rage. It appeared as a horned and bald rat with the coldest eyes. Curseclaw was barely even sentient. The other daemon was more potent. Steelflame was its title, and it was a daemon in the service of Lord Tzeentch himself. It looked like a headless torso with a torrent of flame in favor of legs, and two wiry arms that ended in fire breathing mouths. Its chest was covered in mouths too, ones with razor sharp teeth and long coiling tongues.

Curseclaw was the first to die. The Half Mad clenched his fist, and his will was reality. With a wet crunching snap and an outpouring of chunky bile, Curseclaw disappeared. Grinning to himself, the Half Mad found that his own mind had become slick with daemon blood. Steelflame realized what was going on quick enough. It didn't curse or pout like a lesser Daemon would; it just lunged. Its whole body became wreathed in flames, and the Half Mad felt a growing pressure in his skull. His eyes, which were welling with tears, had grown unbearably hot.

The Half Mad sent a pulse of cold stillness in the daemon's direction. Steelflame went out like a candle. Its smoking remnants came crashing into the Half Mad. One jaw closed down on his ankle, while another latched onto his face. He smelt burnt hair; he could hear his blood trickling in the material realm. Now he was angry.

He grabbed one of the daemon's tongues and wrenched. It didn't tear out cleanly. Strands of gore were hanging from the tongue's end and from the mouth it'd been torn from. Wracked with pain, the daemon couldn't think or move. This gave the Half Mad the perfect opportunity to shoot into its wounded mouth with a bolt of arcing lightning. A hole was blown clean through Steel Claw. It flailed, and the Half Mad caught a wrist in each hand. His grip tightened, and a spiderweb of cracks formed on the daemon's frail bone.

"Lord Tzeentch," said the Half Mad, speaking almost softly. "I would like to apologize for striking down one of your servants. I have faith that you will see this is for the greater good."

Steelflame was convulsing. Its skin was losing its color, turning from a soft blue shade to a greyish white color. Its blackish veins seemed to be going dry. The snapping of its many mouths was now a sluggish and pathetic affair, more reminiscent of yawning. All the while, the Half Mad was shuddering with its new found power. It was draining the life from the daemon, and it was enjoying the whole ordeal. There was nothing more empowering than daemon ichor.

Finally, when Steelflame was just a pale and lifeless husk of a being, he let go of it. Even its yellow teeth had lost color. How delightful.

Returning to his body, he found that he was in okay shape. His face had been torn badly, but it would heal. As would his ankle. The wounds were only superficial; to such a horribly mutated being like himself, they were barely wounds at all. His eyes ached badly, and it was difficult to shake the compulsion to rub them on his gauntlets. His pain distracted him from the regular thudding against the door; it took him quite some time to notice it.

So the guy is absorbing daemons...ummm tastes like chicken!!!

Very nice LL Keep'em coming please

this is excellent, more please !

Hmm I wonder where this is going, what is he going to do with this new found energy of his? I guess I'll have to wait and see

How amusing LL! Well done!

Markov had undoubtedly sent someone to apprehend the Half Mad. He would've never gone himself; there were matters to attend to on the bridge. Even if there hadn't been matters to attend to, Markov still wouldn't have gone; he didn't want to take any chances. No one knew the true extent of the Half Mad's powers; it was possible that he was barely a psyker at all, only capable of cheap parlor tricks. It was also possible that he was a physical God.

Still, someone trusted would have to be sent. Someone with the skills to apprehend him, and someone with the strength of mind to not fall prey to the Half Mad's sorcery. Not just any Black Legionnaire would be sent.

Markov would send Caeroc.

Caeroc was an old school Luna Wolf, the kind who carried out orders faithfully because he respected his superiors both as men and as commanding officers. If he hadn't been a traitor, he would've been the perfect example of what the God-Emperor wanted for the Astartes Legions. He was cool, calculating, and, above all else, completely selfless. In his mind he wasn't a person; he was part of a Legion. Caeroc couldn't be bribed or bargained with, or even subtly manipulated. He was just too stubborn for it.

The Half Mad stood up and drew out a long, shuddering breath. Letting his scaly eyelids droop, he pressed an activation rune on the side of the door.

The cold steel barrel of a plasma pistol was shoved under his chin. A gauntlet made up of interlocking obsidian armor plates curled around the back of the Half Mad's head, holding him tight against the plasma pistol on his throat. Staring down the Half Mad was a Black Legionnaire with a ram horned helm and cold red eyelenses that offered nothing of compassion or mercy. He strode forward into the Half Mad's chambers, forcing the Half Mad to stumble over backwards. Several candles were knocked out of place, ruining the pantheon star. Two other Legionnaires, both armed with bolters, followed Caeroc inside.

"Captain Markov has requested your presence on the bridge," Caeroc said. His voice was forceful, but it wasn't angry. It was just tired and impatient. "Are you thinking about resisting?"

The Half Mad's saurian features cracked in a smile. One of his checkbones shifted awkwardly and made a sharp, popping sound. "Not at all," it said, speaking as quickly as it could with its unshapely jaws. It swallowed some of the bloody spit that its mouth was starting to fill with.

"I don't believe you," said Caeroc. He looked back at one of his men. "Do you believe him?"

"Maybe it's because his face looks like a rat fethed a spider, but no I don't," the Legionnaire answered. "He's got some set-up in here. It looks like he was trying to summon something."

"He sounds nervous," said the other Legionnaire. "Whatever this thing is, he isn't a Space Marine."

Caeroc pushed hard with the plasma pistol, upping the already nauseating pressure on the Half Mad's throat. He gagged horribly. "I think," Caeroc said thoughtfully. "That you were about to summon something. Were you planning on overthrowing Captain Markov with it? Is that it, huh? Is that why you were afraid to let us in?"

"I am not.... afraid," the Half Mad wheezed. It sounded like an old man speaking from the bottom of a well. "Just... uncomfortable."

"He's uncomfortable." Caeroc laughed, a series of deep and throaty grunts. "The sonovabitch is uncomfortable."

His grip tightened on the back of the Half Mad's head. Caeroc pulled back his plasma pistol, and flicked a small switch. It's energy coils lit up; it began to thrum with energy. The air around it soon grew distorted by heat. He raised the plasma pistol, which was now steadily shaking with energy. It seemed to be shivering with anticipation. With superhuman strength, Caeroc brought the glowing pistol down on the Half Mad's skull. Flesh evaporated from the weapon's energy coils, as if retreating from the heat. Bone charred and cracked. Thick, oily blood came leaking from the Half Mad's smoking and crackling flesh.






"Whatever Caeroc did to your face," said Markov, high up on his onyx throne. "It seems to have been an improvement."

His army of sycophants, from his toiling slaves and bridge officers to his mustered Legionnaires, laughed. The slaves laughed the loudest, almost hysterically. You didn't need to be a psyker to tell that they were terrified.

"In another life he could've been a plastic surgeon," said the the Half Mad, playing along. No one laughed. Black Legionnaires stood on either side of him, armed and ready for combat. They were in a sour mood from their recent loss to the Berzerkers, and were looking for any excuse to kill someone. It was a bad time to be on less than favorable terms with Lord Captain Markov.

The Half Mad wondered how high up the dais's stairs he could sprint before they gunned him down. If he was fast enough, he could reach Markov. Then they wouldn't dare fire.

Markov's face darkened. "I request an answer for your recent disobedience."

"Is that an order?" the Half Mad asked.

His left arm was beginning to twist and drip, becoming more streamlined and more pointed. Bone groaned and flesh flowed. A psychic burst of nausea and confusion might slow the Legionnaires down. They might not realize what was happening until it was too late.

"No, its just a polite request." This elicited a few nervous chuckles from the audience. No one was sure if they were supposed to laugh at that. "Of course its an order."

"I had matters to attend too. Very important matters, concerning the well being of the Black Legion as a whole."

The Half Mad's arm was taking on the shape of an organic stalactite. While the Legionnaires just stood, listening, he was amping himself up for the sprint of his life. His breathing was beginning to quicken. Ugly nostrils flared with each breath.

Markov's scowl become a self-satisfied smirk. "Then tell me, Half Mad, what these very important matters were."

With his mind, he gave the trigger of a bolter a slight nudge; just enough to set it off. A Legionnaire suddenly found that he'd gunned down a slave, leaving nothing of his head but red mist. Someone screamed. An officer, who had been showered with blood, threw up. All eyes turned to the commotion. Simultaneously, the Half Mad turned a dial with his mind by a fraction of a degree. The dial controlling the artificial gravity, to be precise. Everyone in the room felt as though they were jolting upwards ever so slightly, with the artificial gravity decreasing just enough to make their heads swim and throw them completely off guard.

The Half Mad elbowed the Black Legionnaire to the right of him, hard. His ceramite chestplate cracked, fracturing the Eye of Horus emblazoned on it. And then he ran. His cloven hooves clicked on each of the dais' steps. It felt like there was a long eternity between every click. Markov started to rise, started to reach for his sword, but it was already too late. The Half Mad was hurtling toward him like a furious meteor.

A bolt took out his right knee. With his left leg, the Half Mad gave himself one last push - just strong enough to reach Markov. His left arm, bulging with dark veins and shimmering with psychic energy, seemed to slide into Markov's chest. It fit perfectly, almost like a puzzle piece. Almost like another of Lord Tzeentch's plans falling into place. The Half Mad grinned.

Markov was screaming, and with each long scream more blood was pouring from his throat. "TAKEHIMALIVE!" he screamed, his face wracked with pain. "TAKE HIM ALIVE!" Blood sunk in between his teeth, giving each tooth a more pronounced appearance. Blood washed over his cracked lips, staining them a deep and dark red. Blood streamed down his chin in tiny rivulets.

The Half Mad let his stalactite snap off. His bicep burst like a balloon full of amniotic fluid. From his broken shoulder, worming tentacles were already starting to appear. They would be his new arm. He turned to face a Legionnaire charging up the stairs and gave him a good kick to the crotch, shattering his codplate and his pelvis along with it. The Legionnaire's groin was sent up into his abdomen. Tumbling down the stairs, the Legionnaire knocked over another one coming straight behind him. A third Legionnaire jumped over his two falling comrades, a chain sword in each hand.

Cancer. That was what the Half Mad decided to give him. Lord Tzeentch was the God of Life, and cancer was just cells that refused to lie down and die. Instead, they kept growing and multiplying against all the odds. It took a great deal of energy, but the Half Mad's will became reality. Great bulbous tumors formed beneath his armor, crushing him against it. The Half Mad decided that he wouldn't die for a week, until a large enough tumor finally broke his skull against his helmet. He could suffer until then.

Something bright shone out of the corner of his eye. The Half Mad turned to see Lord Captain Markov, still impaled against his throne by the Half Mad's arm, unsheathing a power sword. Even on the verge the death, he was still an opponent to be feared. Before the Half Mad could react, the sword came flying at his chest. It burned. It felt like he'd swallowed the sun, and he was cooking from within. He could smell his organs smoking. So, he didn't the only thing he could. He leapt - off the dais.

The Half Mad crashed into a control panel. Broken machinery sparked and whirred beneath him. He looked up to see Caeroc, gauntlet in one hand and plasma pistol in the other. His broken face half cracked, half crunched beneath Caeroc's boot. A dull aching pain came with it. Blood flooded his eyes and ears. The Half Mad let out a pulse of barely controlled force, sending Caeroc hurtling into the wall. He rolled off his back and got on his hands and knees, brackish blood dripping from his broken face. Someone kicked him in the gut.

"Master..." He was crawling away from the Legionnaires, dragging his wreck of a body through the bridge. Officers abandoned their posts as he came near, screaming for anyone to save them. Somewhere, a bolter fired. "Save me..."

"TAKE HIM ALIVE!"

"Save me..."

Hand were all over him. Cold ceramite hands. Gauntlets. Chains were being pulled around him too. Things were being hung around his neck and branded into his flesh.

"Lord Tzeentch, Bringer of Hope, Master of Fortune, and Changer of Ways! SAVE ME."

Laughter. He heard the dark laughter of a thirsting God, exulting in yet another plan brought to fruition.

Wow that was cool, I loved it, great job LoneLictor.

Man this is...AWESOME!!!


Though I got confused at one point:

The Half Mad turned to see Lord Captain Markov, impaled against his throne, holding an energized blade.

The way I read it was that Markov was impaled by an energized blade...It got me confused...on the other hand English are not my first language so I may be wrong on this.

Regardless, it was an excellent addition!

Oh, I'm sorry that sentence is unclear.

Basically, Markov grabbed his own powersword, but he's still impaled to his throne by the Half Mad's arm.

I'll edit that entry and reword it.

EDIT: Also, I recently wrote a gakload of stuff (like 2,000 words, which is a lot by my standards), but I accidentally deleted it. So it might be several days before the next update.

No worries man, I got it by context on the next paragraph. Thank you for clearing it up!

Well told LL; Half Mad is rather intresting.

I really enjoyed that!

Thanks for sharing it

What a nutbag, half mad indeed.

Loving the mini story lines you are weaving together, great stuff.

Nice visceral depictions of the Half-Mad's changes. The whole thing read really well.

The Valiant hurtled forward at break-neck speeds, crashing through wave after wave of screaming souls. It flew too fast to go any direction other than straight forward; even the slightest shift in course would send the Valiant spinning out of control. So, it was forced to crash through every obstacle in its path. It had once been a wickedly sharp blade of vessel, burnished to a shining black. Now its edges seemed to have been dulled, and its haul was scarred a dark grey. Long scrapes were left where daemons had dragged their talons across it.

Like his vessel, the Captain of the Valiant was also a broken thing. He teetered between life and death, never fully awake or asleep. His men treated him with a reverence he'd never known in life, waiting on his every word. To them, he was a martyr that hadn't died yet. Lord Captain Markov symbolized all the pain inflicted on their company and their urgent need to for vengeance. He remained seated on his throne at all times, still impaled to it by bone stalactite in his chest. His apothecaries couldn't remove it; they feared it was the only thing holding his chest up, the only thing keeping his organs in the proper place. Dried blood caked his face, cracking whenever he moved to speak.

In the bowels of the Valiant, Berzerkers made kill after kill. Markov had steered them to that place, knowing full well of the danger it presented. Its walls often grew superheated, pipes often leaked either freezing or burning coolant fluid, and all too often the warp meshed with reality. Led by Qul the Berzerkers rampaged through the place, murdering the crew and wrecking the machinery of the vessel they intended to run. Markov's Bikers waited ahead of them, laying traps and setting up ambushes.

The Berzerkers were the reason for the emergency warp transit. Lord Captain Markov was running from them. And, across the galaxy, a different breed of renegades awaited his arrival.

They weren't Traitor Legionnaires, honed by 10,000 years of warfare into the most cynical, spiteful, and dangerous warriors the galaxy had ever known. Neither were they piratical mortals with delusions of grandeur, believing themselves to be the Chosen of their benevolent Gods. The renegades that awaited Markov were Astartes Chapters gone rogue. They had never bore witness to the triumphs of the Great Crusade or the terrors of the Horus Heresy. They had never even seen the God Emperor alive. Thin-bloods, the Traitor Legions called them. Unrightful interlopers in the Long War.

The majority of the renegades were members of the Bleak Brotherhood, over two thousand in all. They wore black armor that glowed the ghostly flame, and were notorious for their complete lack of morals. The Bleak Brotherhood didn't fight for vengeance against the Imperium, or for the freedom that the Chaos Gods stood for; they fought only for their own wealth and power. Up until recently they had been avowed enemies of the Black Legion, and had come into conflict with them many times.

The rest of the renegades were some two hundred and fifty Mantis Warriors, who had once served as the 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 8th companies of their Chapter. Their numbers had dwindled greatly. Like the Bleak Brotherhood, the Mantis Warriors were a source of derision within the Traitor Legions. They had betrayed the Imperium once in the Maelstrom Schism, and then they had broken yet another oath and betrayed their Red Corsair allies, surrendering to the Imperium in the process. These Mantis Warriors were the ones who had been too proud to abase themselves before the High Lords of Terra and renounce their treacherous ways. Instead of surrendering, they'd fled. With the Bleak Brotherhood they'd established a fortress on the remote world of Lotheen.

This outpost would assist the Black Legion in exterminating the World Eaters and resupplying the Valiant. In addition to this, they would loan their finest apothercaries and surgeons to Markov. And they would do all of this free of charge. In the past, neither the Mantis Warriors nor the Bleak Brotherhood would've worked with the Black Legion as anything less than equals. They would've demanded a handsome payment, and would've likely double crossed them too. With the 13th Black Crusade, everything had changed. There were rumors that Cadia was gone, blown out of the sky by the Warmaster Abaddon's Planetkiller. Supposedly, the resulting storm of rubble had taken out half of the Segmentum Obscurus fleet, including the entirety of Battlefleets Cadia and Corona.

Now, the Bleak Brotherhood and the Mantis Warriors were desperate to be on good terms with Warmaster Abaddon, the soon-to-be Supreme Overlord of the Galaxy.

The Half Mad knew all of these things because, as much as they hated him, Markov's Bikers were dependent on him for relaying astropathic messages and navigating through the warp.

The door slid open to the Half Mad's cage and the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of an Astartes appeared. One of its arms was a clawed gauntlet, with long multi-jointed talons. Undoubtedly, the Astartes was Caeroc. From its hunched squatting position, the Half Mad rose to its full height. It was taller than Caeroc by a good half a foot.

"My back still hurts," said Caeroc, taking a slow and deliberate step forward. "You almost broke it, you know."

"For that, I apologize. Throwing you was..." The Half Mad's broken face took on an almost quizzical expression. When it healed, it would be easier to emote. Until then, with its shattered bones, it would just have to make do. "Uncalled for, I suppose."

The talons curled into a fist. "You suppose?"

"Well," drawled the Half Mad. "It's impossible to know anything with one hundred percent certainty. You only know what you're flawed senses tell you, and it could be wrong. Its possible that you aren't even standing there, and I'm imagining you. It's also possible that you're imagining me. I said 'I suppose' because supposing is all that I'm-"

His head jerked to the side, twisting his neck. There was the hard smacking sound of ceramite on flesh, and the crunch of already broken bones. Waves of pain and nausea flooded the Half Mad. It stumbled back and turned its head, just in time to see Caeroc's fist coming at it again. His jaw took the brunt of the impact. Two and half teeth fell to the floor. The Half Mad swallowed an additional three. Caeroc still wasn't satisfied. He put a hand on the Half Mad's shoulder and punched the stab wound in his gut. A thick fluid came pouring out in slapping chunks.

The Half Mad slumped against the wall. Its face was red and blue, forming dark shades of purple where the two colors met. The way it moved its broken face moved seemed almost fluid. Through its mouth and nose it was losing copious amounts of blood. It looked up at Caeroc, and there was no hatred in its dark eyes.

"I..." It gagged, then forced itself to swallow something. The Half Mad's voice was wetter than usual. "I pity you. I'm not angry just... disappointed."

Half of its face, the less broken half, curled into a smile. Even with the five teeth the Half Mad had lost, it still had a great many. Caeroc couldn't tell that any were missing.

"Do you have anything else to say?" Caeroc asked.

"You should know better. Markov is dying, and under his leadership we've been forced to beg thin-bloods to save us from our own slaves. Perhaps its time to put Lord Captain Markov out of his misery, and institute a new leader. A leader who is a skilled psyker and an equally skilled combatant, one who single handedly navigates the ship and manages all communications. Don't you agree?" The Half Mad was trembling.

"Did you really think you could change my mind?"

"No..." It put its head down. "I knew you were too prideful to ever understand. I just wanted to be able to say I gave you a chance to serve under me, and you denied it. I just wanted to be able to say that killing you was perfectly justifiable."

Caeroc snorted. "Lord Captain Markov has ordered you to steer again. This time, don't shake the ship as much."

Well cant say i feel sorry for Markov! Poor poor half mad

I only wonder what the Half-Mad has in mind...surely a follower of Tzeentch has an ulterior motive behind every move he makes...

Keep it coming LL

I'm liking this Half Mad character, lets hope his plan works before the World Eaters tear the ship apart. Keep it coming please.

Back when he had a name and a rank, before he was known as the Half Mad, he had known a Techmarine by the name of Lividus. While Lividus worked he was prone to thinking out loud. The Half Mad liked that. Just listening to Lividus was a good way to learn about everything Techmarine related, from the inner workings of machinery to the politics of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the logistics of the Great Crusade.

Once, Lividus had explained how to determine whether or not it would be more efficient to have a damaged Rhino repaired or scraped. The renowned STC responsible for the construction of Rhinos only actually built the chassis, and the Tech Priests of Mars were responsible for building the rest. As long as the chassis was intact, it was more efficient to repair a Rhino than to scrap it. Similarly, if the chassis was imperfect in anyway, it was more efficient to scrap it. Though the technology existed to repair or construct a chassis without using the STC, it was costly and inefficient enough so that it it was rarely, if ever, used. Some Tech Priests even regarded it as heresy.

A Rhino that's been reduced to charcoal black skeletal frame could be repaired, and a Rhino with a two inch dent in its side could be scraped.

The Half Mad's face was starting to collapse, the way bad fruit does. Some parts were too just broken to heal. He decided that it was time to cut out the broken chassis. Putting a claw to his face, he felt where it sunk in. His left cheekbone and almost all of his lower jaw was shattered, with fragments of bone piercing his flesh whenever he moved to spoke. He was deaf in his left ear, which was hanging on by a thread. His right eyesocket was on the verge of caving in, and that eye would sometimes go blind for hours on end.

He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and put both hands in. Just like at the dentist's he thought, steeling himself for what was about to come. With both hands, he wrenched downward. Part of his jaw just slid off - and they rest of it hung on by the Half Mad's right cheekbone. The Half Mad grabbed on and, with wide eyes and trembling fingers, tore it off. Something wet and foul ran through his fingers. The pain was sharp, like needles sliding in and snapping off in his mouth. In his gums, in his tongue, in the roof of his mouth, and in his throat, it felt like he was full of stabbing needles.

The Half Mad wasn't nearly done. Next came his ear. After that, his eyesocket. He put two fingers in through his eye and pulled outwards, tearing out the broken bone. From there, he moved onto his chest. His guts had been ruined by Markov's sword; the wounds had been cauterized by the heat, meaning that they could never regenerate. He tried just pulling on his intestines, hoping that they'd unwind like yarn. Instead, they just ripped. The Half Mad pulled out his guts in bloody handfuls.

Chapter Seven
When The Tigers Broke Free, Part Two

With your nerves in tatters
As the conch shell shatters
And the hammers batter down the door
You better run
-Found scrawled on the ruins of the Saint Clarine Cathedral directly following the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

The corridors were designed for humans. Qul had to hunch awkwardly to move through them without hitting his head. On either side of him, instead of walls, were solid masses of piping and cabling. Corpses were strewn at his feet. His World Eaters had been hunting through this place for days, and there were still mortals to be found. Some played dead, others hid in the piping or even the vents. One mortal was found clinging to the ceiling vent. When a Berzerker passed through under him, he dropped onto the Berzerker and stabbed him in the throat. Ingenious for vermin. When the World Eaters cornered him, this cold-blooded murderer was reduced to a blubbering wreck. At least vermin had the common decency to die quietly.

A corpse twitched. Qul wasn't taking any chances; he stomped on its head. Mashed brain spilled out onto the grated floor. The gore smelled like copper. An intellectual at heart, Qul wondered why blood smelled like that. He dropped the question because it bored him and because there more skulls to claim for the Blood God. One of the supposed corpses let out a shrill scream. Realizing what it'd done, it started to scramble for safety.

Qul walked after it, holding his ax in a loose grip. The mortal turned over to face her murderer. Lord Slaughterking Qul the Ascendant, self proclaimed Avatar of the Blood God raised his ax and - she was beautiful. The girl was drop dead gorgeous. Blood drenched clothing clung tight to her body, exposing her hourglass figure. Where her clothes were torn, Qul could seen her flawless porcelain flesh. She looked up at him, with terror in her bright blue eyes. A girl like her could've been a model in another life. Qul licked his cracked lips.

His shook his head, and his dazed grin twisted into an ugly grimace. Seductress he thought. Pleasure was weakness. It led to complacency and recklessness. Even in the smallest doses, pleasure couldn't be tolerated. Temptress. Slut. Whore. Bitch.

But when Qul looked into her eyes, he couldn't bear to look away. A terrible, shameful itch was building up in his crotch. No one will know.

He brought his ax down on her head, and her perfect face shattered. Like a priceless stained glass window. Qul was misted with blood. Destroying her face wouldn't be enough, her body still remained to tempt him. He hacked her to pieces. Her body didn't tear cleanly; his ax's whirring teeth tore a great deal of her to shreds. When there wasn't enough of her left to stab, he drew his bolter pistol and riddled the gore slicked floor with bullet holes.

At that moment, Qul felt like he was standing in the shadow of something terrible beyond comprehension. In its presence he was forced to remember every life he'd every taken. It chilled him.

His chestplate cracked open, and the two halves of it pulled back in opposite directions. Looking down on the crack, Qul saw that it was full of teeth. A mouth had formed. His biceps swelled to terrible proportions, sloughing their armor off. Armor pauldrons stretched and distorted to fit his huge shoulders. They grew leering mouths and spiraling horns. Following his biceps, his forearms bloated grotesquely. Their armor stretched too, jutting sharply off his forearms to protect his elbows. Skeletal faces formed in the armor, growing long teeth that stretched out from his wrists to his knuckles. His gauntlets seemed puny compared to his arms.

Hands exploded into talon-fingered claws, dripping with venomous blood. Metal spikes protruded out from his knotted knuckles.

His legs grew longer, and his foot that wasn't a cloven hoof cracked into one. Knees tore and buckled, then wrenched backwards. Brown hair grew in rough patches from his mangy flesh. Qul had the legs of a goat, but swollen with superhuman musculature.

Daemon Princedom was something that few Traitor Legionnaires didn't lust for. It was a gift from the Gods themselves, bestowing a mortal with some of their divine power. Few were ever granted it. Even some of the greatest warriors and heroes were denied it. There were tales of Sorcerers trying to artificially become Daemon Princes only to be struck down by the Gods themselves, and there were tales of men fighting their whole lives for it only to die without the Gods even knowing their names. Apostle Karios of the Word Bearers had famously butchered a string of hive worlds in the hopes of attaining Princedom, only to be rewarded with spawndom instead. According to his men he'd look like a mass of half-digested tentacles.

The girl must've been put there for him as a test, and he'd passed. Now the Blood God himself had bestowed Qul with a morsel of his divine power.

Life just kept getting better and better.

Mmmmm daemon prince at large...though I must admit I expected the whole daemon-princedom a bit more...dramatic? I don't know. I cant actually express it...

On the other hand...Half-Mad needs a plastic surgeon asap

WTF is the Half Mad doing, changing? rumble on the bridge with Qul and the Half Mad me thinks is coming

Dear lord, that was very nice. But I agree that half mad is getting more and more whole sane

The World Eaters met in a vast boiler room, just barely large enough to house them all. Even the Dreadnought Kaalek had come, though the doorway had been too small to accommodate him. He'd simply torn through it, leaving a pile of debris in his wake. His new mechanical body fit right in with the rusted machinery lining the room. Wires snaked their way up the walls, and exposed systems of gears shown beneath broken plating. Cylindrical boilers were stacked against the room's south most wall.

Where is Qul? Kaalek boomed. He rotated on his waist axis, his red visor sweeping across the room.

"Silence dead one!" Hael said. Though Qul had sworn to kill Hael for incompetence, he'd never made good on the promise. "You would best address our Lord as Lord Slaughterking Qul the Ascend-"

You bore me. Where is Qul?

The crowd was silent. Someone shrugged. It was dangerous to keep this many World Eaters in one place; already some were swaying on their feet and breathing heavily. They were on the risk of entering psychotic trances. Since his entombment, Kaalek had experienced little of this. Being kept in a metal sarcophagus kept him too detached to grow angrily as easily as he did during his glory days. Still, sometimes his temper flared. When he'd hunted through the bowels of the ship, Kaalek had charged straight through a wall of hydraulics system and into a crowd of fleeing mortals. He hadn't even been mad at them, he'd just needed an outlet for his rage.

Once Kaalek had thought that it was unfair for the Imperium to condemn the World Eaters for their actions. They couldn't be expected to control themselves. His entombment had made him think about the issue from perspectives besides his own. Rabid dogs also couldn't be expected to control themselves though, and they weren't exempt from punishment. They were put down for the good of the community. Someone should've put the World Eaters down too. It was entirely possible that the God-Emperor had been planning this, but had been disrupted by the Horus Heresy.

Something dropped from the rafters. It landed in the room's center on cloven hooves. The thing was like a World Eater, but it's flesh had grown beyond the extent of its armor into something monstrous. Though humanoid in shape there wasn't a trace of humanity in its asymmetrical face. Its eyes were dark, beady things half-hidden by angry furrowed brows. Instead of a nose, it just had two gaping nostrils above its mouth. Cracked lips opened to reveal sharp piss-yellow teeth, glistening with acidic saliva.

It made its way over to Kaalek, its movements made awkward by its hunched back. The thing lowered its head, so that its eyes were at the same level as Kaalek's visor.

"Recognize me?" it said, speaking with Qul's voice. Lord Slaughterking Qul licked his lips. "In 10,000 years you never once gained the favor of the Blood God, yet here I am... I've had this rank for no more than a week and I've already accomplished more than you ever done. How does it feel Kaalek, to be a complete and utter failure?"

You hold no rank, Qul. The Red Angel never promoted you, nor showed any desire to. He never even knew your name. Believe what you like, but your titles mean nothing.

"I answer to a higher power than the Red Angel."

The Blood God? You think that Daemon Princedom means anything? You will not be the first Daemon Prince to die an ignoble death, and you will be far from the last. Having horns and fangs makes you no better than the rest of us.

"Dead one, I knew that your corpse had sustained a head injury, but I'd never known the full extent of it until now," said Qul. He chuckled at his own wit. "The higher power I speak of isn't the Blood God; its me. I answer to myself, and myself alone."

"Lord Slaughterking Qul only answers to himself!" Hael shouted, raising a fist in triumph.

Qul reared on Hael, his jaw practically unhinging as he screamed. "DON'T SPEAK FOR ME. Do you think that I can't speak for myself? Do you think I'm some kind of idiot that has to be spoken for? DO YOU?"

Hael fell to his knees, head lowered in reverence. "I mean't no disrespect, my Lord."

"What did you mean then?"

Qul, Kaalek said sharply. Don't hurt him.

Qul spun to face the Dreadnought, putting his speed and momentum into a hard roundhouse punch. His spiked knuckles met the ceramite of Qul's chest, and the ceramite buckled in. Kaalek's top heavy body was thrown onto its back. His cannon of an arm rotated to face Qul, but the Daemon Prince caught it by its twin barrels. Qul rested a hoof on the sarcophagus and glared down at it. For a moment he just stood, not basking in his triumph but rather recovering from his surging adrenaline. He breathed short and hard through grated fangs. Huge shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

He relinquished the cannon. Kaalek let it rest, falling beside the rest of his prone body. The Daemon Prince stepped back from the Dreadnought, its monstrous face having taken on a more serene appearance.

"Those who would defy me, I will warn you now. I've been blessed by the Blood God himself. Some say that Astartes are gods amongst men. If that's true, then I'm a god amongst gods. We are going to renew our quest against the Black Legion, and this time with focus. No longer will we waste our days here, in the ship's stinking bowels, hunting worthless mortals. Now we're going straight for the throat; the bridge. Markov will be throwing every obstacle he has in our path. As we get closer, he won't be shy about wasting his precious bikers anymore. As such, we can expect a great deal of skulls. We won't need to repaint the Valiant in the colors of the World Eaters, because by the time we've conquered it, it'll run red with blood."

The beast that was now Qul, but was now a great deal more, said, "It will be glorious."

Yeah, rumble on the bridge I was right! but who will be on the bridge to greet Qul, the Half Mad or Markov? Poor Dread, nice chapter don't keep me in suspence for long please.

Very nice LL cat wait for the next part!

This keeps getting better !

Qul had to die.

He had to.

Kaalek let loose his reaper autocannon, aiming in the rough direction of the mortals. He'd stumbled onto a pack of the vermin, trying to make their way to the bridge. As if the Black Legion could protect them. As if the Black Legion even would protect them. The cannon's duramite solid shell rounds punched through metal and tore gaping bloody holes in flesh. One shot punctured a pipe, spraying the mortals with scalding steam. Skin bubbled and crackled away, eventually just sloughing off the mortals. Beneath it, bones were blackened to a charcoal hue. Kaalek couldn't help but think of the Hellhound, belching smoke and flame like a Wyrm of old, coming crashing into him. He'd looked like the mortals did now.

He didn't like that. A mortal's head disappeared, misting his comrades with blood. Another took three shots to the chest, cracking bones and pulping the organs within. One mortal lost both her legs, one at the knee and the other halfway up her shin. The mortals tried to flee; the floor was slicked with blood and strewn with corpses, and the survivors were being blasted with steam. They didn't make much progress. Kaalek marched towards them, one ponderous step at a time, all the while laying into them with his cannon. He was beginning to run out ammunition; soon or later he would have to force one of the World Eaters to reload him. That wouldn't be pleasant.

Realizing that brought his thoughts back to Qul, the little bitch with piss-yellow teeth and mangy goat legs, the false Lord of the World Eaters 3rd Company.

Qul had to die.

He didn't know how, but Qul had to. The more unpleasantly, the better. If Kaalek had still had hands, rather than a drum shaped bludgeon with claws and a rather large cannon, he would've cut Qul up piece by piece. Starting at the feet. First he'd cut up the bastard's hooves, then his ankles, and so on. He'd draw it out, nice and slow. Maybe hook him up to a life support machine, so that he'd be alive until Kaalek had finally worked all the way up to brain.

Something squelched beneath his foot. Kaalek looked down, and saw a corpse. Help me, it mouthed voicelessly. It was amazing that the thing was still alive, considering its chest had been crushed. Kaalek blew its head off.

Chapter Eight
(Don't Give In) Without A Fight

The bridge was empty, save for the presence of one Astartes.

The bridge was soundless, save for the Astartes' pained, shuddering breaths.

His hair was matted to his scalp by sweat. His flesh had gone sickly, jaundiced yellow. As had his eyes. Both his knuckles were white, but they were hidden by the clenched gauntlets of his power armor. Bedsores ached alone the length of his spine, but the rotting spike just beneath his ribcage kept him from moving. They were only getting worse. He could imagine it now, his swollen red spine jutting out like a row of spikes draped with flesh.

"Caeroc," he hissed, his voice sharper than he intended. "Caeroc. I need you."

There was pheumatic hiss of a door sliding open. Markov craned his neck, pressing half of his face flat against his throne's backrest. Armored boots thundered against the metal floor, echoing through the empty chamber. It could be Caeroc; it could also be an assassin, whom Markov would be powerless to fight back against. Finally, the figure came within view. It was Caeroc alright, his gauntlet stained a dark red with the Half Mad's blood. Caeroc made his way to Markov's dais, which he kneeled before.

"You called for me, my Lord," Caeroc said, his voice blandly polite as per usual.

"Yes. You may rise." Caeroc did. "How close are we? To Lotheen?"

"The Half Mad says we're no more than a day away."

"Ah yes, the Half Mad." Markov said. "He hurt your back during the battle, didn't it? Is it any better?"

"Still hurts like a bitch. I broke the Half Mad's face for it."

Markov grinned. "Apothecary Validus has a large quantity of pain-killers, which he's been holding out from the rest of the crew. You have my permission to take as many as you like."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Caeroc, I'm not going to lie to you. As you know, things have been... slipping lately. First the World Eaters' rebellion, and now the Half Mad living up to his name. Even if I somehow survive this ordeal, it is entirely possible that the Warmaster will... not take kindly to what's happened here. He may blame me for this, and he may kill me. After all, other commanders have kept even larger Berzerkers aboard their vessels without mutiny or rebellion.

I would go out, and correct things myself if I could. I barter with the Bleak Brotherhood and the Mantis Warriors, and I would make them observe my will. But, my condition prevents this. Caeroc, you're the only one I can trust now. It's up to you, to deal with them. They will try to circumvent our will and betray us at every opportunity, even with the Warmaster's latest successes. Its up to you to keep them in line. Everything hinges on you.

After a long moment of silence, Caeroc finally said, "Is there anything else, my Lord?"

"Yes. If I die, I want you to keep 10th Company's name. I want us to still be known as Markov's Bikers." He grinned bitterly. "It was one of the few perks of the job. And make the Berzerkers pay. Especially Qul. Skin him alive and cut him up piece by piece. I should've shot down his Thunderhawk when I had the chance."





An orb of broken steel, man-made buildings and walkways jutting at sharp angles from its cracked surface, was caught in the orbit of Lotheen. It was a spacehulk, a collection of ships lost to the warp and fused into one great mass by its burning tides. The Bleak Brotherhood had colonized it, putting almost a million slaves to work reinforcing and building onto it. No more than a hundred thousand survived the operation. Genestealers, apex predators infesting the hulk's haul, insane mutants that once crewed the lost ships, freak construction accidents, and human incompetence had managed to claim almost nine hundred thousand lives. It was rumored that their spirits haunted the hulk; the Bleak Brotherhood liked this idea.

The Valiant came gliding towards the hulk, broken engines sputtering. It left a trail of smoke and debris, flakes of the ship's skin.

In the hulk's shadow, two engines flared. Two glossy black frigates sailed towards the Valiant, their gunnery crews following the broken ship's every move. Thousands of cannons tracked the Valiant in perfect unison. Another vessel, not a frigate but a full fledged battle barge, left the hulk's shadow. It was painted in garish shades of yellow and green, and a score of scars and dents in its haul marked it as a veteran of the Long War.

"Master of Auspex, I want the names and classes of every vessel. Master of the Comm., open a two-way channel with the north most frigate." Markov licked his teeth, feeling the rough and broken enamel. "Gunnery crew, stand-by."

"The south-most frigate is the Nova-class vessel Icon of Purity, constructed for the Emperor's Swords Chapter in m.36 on Helios. The north-most frigate is the Hunter Destroy-class vessel Liberation, constructed for the Justicators Chapter in m.39 on Gryphhone VI. The battlebarge is the vessel Spear of Flame, constructed for the Mantis Warriors Chapter in m.37 on Graia."

"The Icon of Purity has connected with the channel. Standing-by..."

"This is Lord Vladimir of the Bleak Brotherhood," a voice crackled over the vox.

Markov wanted to redirect all power to the Valiant's broken engines on one last chance power-drive, ramming through the Icon of Purity and into the hulk. The engines would blow out in no more than a few seconds, taking out all of the Berzerkers alongside the aft of the ship. The resulting explosion would propel the Valiant into the Bleak Brotherhood's ship at a suicidal velocity. They'd just have enough time to divert all power to the shields, which the Valiant's prow would be destroyed against. At that point, the shields would overheat, allowing what little remained of the Valiant to be destroyed against the Icon of Purity's bridge. Lord Vladimir would spend the last few miserable seconds of his life confused and angry, venting his frustration by screaming at his crew.

That'd be better than the slow death from the spike in his chest. That'd be better than watching your body fail one organ at a time, while all the while your crew talks about you as though you're already dead.

"Repeat, this is Lord Vladimir of the Bleak Brotherhood."

"This is Lord Captain Markov of the Black Legion 10th Company, more commonly known as Markov's Bikers. Take those puny guns of yours off my ship, or the Warmaster will have all your heads," he spat.

"No need for hostilities, brother. We are all comrades in the Warmaster's Black Crusades." The guns shifted downwards, like a guilty child staring at his feet.

"You won't address me as 'brother', Vladimir. To you, I am Lord Captain Markov. I thought I made this clear. When you've spent 10,000 years butchering the dregs of the Imperium and have worked your way up to a Captaincy in a Legion, not in some sort of therapy group like the Bleak Brotherhood, you have my permission to call me 'brother'. Understood?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Say it again," Markov said. The crew looked at him worriedly.

"Yes, my Lord."

Heh That's a nice bluff there Markov. I wonder how he is going to barter with them...

Markov is feked one way or the other, as soon as the Mantis and Beak Brotherhood marines see him why should they listen to a dead man, and there's the Half Mad and World Eaters to sort out to.

Come on Dread you can do it, don't fail me now! As you can tell I like your chapter

Caeroc had his helmet off, so that they could see his easy smile and his trustworthy face.

In another life, he could've been an investment broker or an insurance salesman.

A glass proboscis extended from the spacehulk. It had a rusting iron frame that looked as though it'd turn to dust if touched. Everything traitors touched seemed to either rot and rust, or grow out of control. Think bloody flowers of flesh and bone, blooming on iron girders. Everything turned ugly. Traitors eventually became a product of the ugliness that followed them. They became hollow shells of their former selves; some lost their sanity. The Black Legion was only able to stave off madness through finding a purpose; the destruction of the Imperium and the death of the False Emperor.

The False Emperor had enslaved them to his cause, the Great Crusade, and expected the Astartes Legions to live and die for him without any reward or recognition. Then, he'd abandoned the Great Crusade that had been his idea, leaving it in the Warmaster Horus' hands instead. Terra's bloated bureaucracy, with the False Emperor's blessing, grew out of control. It wormed it's way into the affairs of Astartes, stripping away their power but refusing to accept any of the responsibility that came with it. This great injustice couldn't stand.

When the False Emperor died, the Black Legion would lose any purpose.

With perfect mechanical precision, the proboscis locked onto a voidsealed doorway in the side of the Valiant. The door slid open, and a cool breeze rolled in. The moment Caeroc had stepped inside the proboscis, the door snapped shut behind him. He was in the custody of the so-called Bleak Brotherhood now. So be it, Caeroc decided. Caeroc of the Luna Wolves and then the Black Legion had his orders, and he would follow them.

Two renegade Astartes awaited Caeroc on the opposite end of the proboscis. One was a member of the Bleak Brotherhood, his glossy black armor detailed in ghostly flame. Twin bandoleers of ammunition ran down his chest, crossing to form an 'X'. He wore a ram-horned helmet with a 'T' visor, and was resting both hands on the pommel of a power sword. The blade's sharp tip rested precariously on the glass floor. The other Astartes was a Mantis Warrior, wearing the yellow and black camouflage of the Tranquility campaign. He held his helmet, a streamlined and beaked Mark VI model, in the crook of his arm. A sniper rifle was held against his back by a sling around his shoulder. His scarred face was expressionless.

They looked as though they were contemplating killing him.

Caeroc strode towards them, unfaltering in pace.

"Brothers," he said. "I am Caeroc, an envoy of Lord Captain Markov. On behalf of the Black Legion, I would personally like to thank the both of you for your respective warbands' hospitality." Still smiling warmly, Caeroc extended hand towards the Bleak Brother. "I believe you are Captain Vladimir."

Vladimir took one hand off the pommel of his blade. He and Caeroc gripped each other's wrists in a ceremonial Astartes greeting. Captain Vladimir's voice was blandly polite and artificial sounding. "Thank you, Lord Caeroc. We are honored by your Legions' presence."

Chuckling, Caeroc said, "I am no Lord. I've managed to go 10,000 years without one promotion; Captain Vladimir, I believe I'm below you in rank." He turned to the Mantis Warrior. "And I don't believe we've met. You are?"

"Captain Audir of the Mantis Warriors 2nd Company," answered the Mantis Warrior, gripping Caeroc's wrist tightly.

"The Mantis Warriors performed admirably during the Badab War. You may not know this, but Warmaster Abaddon himself has expressed the desire to fight alongside your kin someday."

Audir's face cracked in a grin. "As much as I want to believe that, I don't think I can. Us Mantis Warriors don't have the best reputation, especially among the founding Legions."

"So, I take it that you two are the commanders of your respective kin in this place?" said Caeroc.

"Not quite," Vladimir said. It was clear why the Bleak Brother wore his helmet; he didn't trust his face to not give him away. "Captain Audir is the Lord of the Mantis Warriors here. Though I represent the Bleak Brotherhood, I am one of its two commanders. Myself and the Captain Sevastian are the joint leaders of the Bleak Brotherhood here."

"Why don't you just kill him?" Caeroc said, in the friendliest sounding way possible. He was genuinely curious.

"Because we aren't barbarians."

Though Caeroc was a very patient and understanding individual by the standards of Black Legion, he had little patience for being lied to. If that answer had come from a Word Bearer, a Death Shadow, an Iconoclast, or even a Night Lord, he might've let it slide. But this was a member of the Bleak Brotherhood, one of the most ruthless warbands, claiming that its members weren't barbarians. They'd butchered and raped the population of Cilthos and they'd dissected the children alive, just because the concept amused them. If any warband could be considered evil to the point of ridiculousness, it was the Bleak Brotherhood.

"Bullgak."

Vladimir started to say something, but cut himself off. Awkward silence reigned. Still smiling warmly, Caeroc stared down Vladimir. He didn't need to say anything; the Eye of Horus on his chest spoke for itself. Caeroc was a member of the Black Legion, and for that he commanded respect.

It was Audir that broke the silence. "Captain Vladimir, perhaps we could give our brother Caeroc a tour of our installation?"

"That'd be excellent," said Caeroc.

The halls had been sterilized to the point of lifelessness. There was nothing but the gleam of cold steel; there weren't even rats. Identical looking slaves with black robes and shaved heads paced the facility, heads bowed in reverence. Their fingertips were made of soft white scar tissue, and devoid of fingerprints. Caeroc didn't ask why. It was a bad idea to be openly snooping and asking questions.

It was all posturing. Audir and Vladimir wanted to show off that they had a working facility, swarming with slaves and rich with all sorts of rare and valuable resources. Vladimir explained that mining operations were regularly made into the hulk, for the purpose of obtaining ceramite. It was clear what he was insinuating; the Bleak Brotherhood was building new suits of power armor for newly recruited Astartes. In addition, they had pens of Genestealers. The creatures had been fitted with shock collars, and their blue carapaces had been repainted black and detailed with ghostly flame. According to Vladimir, they were just like any other animal. With the proper training, they could be put to work as attack dogs. They were loyal, he stressed. Though he never outright stated it, it was clear that he was contrasting them with the rebellious World Eaters.

Once, during the Great Crusade, Caeroc had been tasked with giving some sort of Terran bureaucrat a tour of the latest world conquered by the Luna Wolves. Caeroc had been careful to not show the bureaucrat the cities blown to bits and the hospitals full of widows and orphans. Now, Caeroc felt like the bureaucrat. No one was outright lying to him, but he couldn't help but feel that things were being omitted during the tour. There was a thoroughly unpleasant sensation of malaise creeping up on Caeroc.

"We'll need your finest Apothecaries and surgeons, in addition to your cooperation in the elimination of the World Eaters and the repairing of the Valiant," said Caeroc as the tour was nearing its end. "And ten thousand bolter rounds, one hundred bolters, servitors, one ton of raw steel, another ton of ceramite, and a half ton of adamantium, five intact suits of power armor, replacement tires and engines for bikes, and a navigator. I'm sure this won't even put a dent in your fortress' vast riches."

"I assure you, the Black Legion will pay you back," Caeroc lied. If the Bleak Brotherhood ever came demanding repayment, the Warmaster would have them all butchered like animals. "We're working out a loan here, not tribute. Your presence here is just as valid as any Legion presence."

"What you're asking for..." Vladimir paused. "Is a lot. Even more than we were expecting. Ten thousand bolter rounds? A navigator? Five intact suits of power armor?"

"Our navigator, a sorcerer called the Half Mad, attempted a coup. We'll need a replacement for him. As for the bolter rounds, we used up a great deal of ammunition against the World Eaters."

"What about the power armor?"

"I thought you had vast ceramite reserves."

"Yes... but, making ceramite into power armor is extremely costly. Its not just pouring the ceramite into some sort of mold and having a suit of armor pop out. Servos and engines need to be installed, cable bundling and nerve ports need to be outfitted, and-"

"The logistics," said Caeroc. "Are for you to work out. All we care about is getting the armor. Its only five suits; that's not even enough for a full squad."

"What about the half ton of adamantium? You think that's going to be cheap?"

"A spacehulk is full of adamantium."

"The only way to mine it is using diamond edged tools!" Vladimir was starting to sound exasperated. "You don't seem to understand the difficulties involved in any of this."

"I'm sure you have a great deal of diamond edged tools," was all Caeroc said.

"Can't we negotiate any of this?"

Caeroc grinned. It wasn't the warm smile he'd worn earlier. It was the tooth baring grin of a saurian predator.

Hmm what are they hiding, and why boast about what you got then can't deliver? tut tut. Nice chapter, more soon I hope.

caeroc is awesome.... for a traitor. haha

Vladimir, still pouting, remained silent.

"I'll escort you back to your ship," the Mantis Warrior, Audir, said.

Caeroc had been hoping someone would say that. The installation was a maze of claustrophobic halls and walkways. It'd show weakness to have to ask them for directions.

"So," he said as he walked. "Is it true that Chapters only have a thousand Astartes? Or are they like the Legions?"

"Like the Legions?" Audir repeated. He and Caeroc passed by a line of servitors, equipped with long barreled lascannons. They looked almost like lances.

"Every Legion was created with one million Astartes. At one of his many speeches during the Great Crusade, the False Emperor mentioned that the Legions were only one hundred thousand Astartes. No one wanted to be the person who contradicted the so-called God Emperor. From then on, all Imperial papers recorded the Legions as having only one tenth of their actual numbers, to fit with what the False Emperor said. When the Ultramarines reached two million Astartes, the papers said that they had two hundred thousand. And when the Emperor's Children fell to five hundred thousand Astartes, the papers said they had fifty thousand."

Audir smiled, genuinely amused by what Caeroc said. "You never hear those stories about the Emperor," he said. "I can only speak for the Mantis Warriors, but yes, we were a great deal more than a thousand Space Marines. First, we stopped counting Scouts as Space Marines, and then we were allowed to add another Company of a one hundred Marines. Then, we stopped counting the reserve companies, because they weren't in combat so they shouldn't count. We were allowed to add another four companies. Then, we stopped counting our two Sniper companies, because snipers weren't mentioned by the Codex Astartes. Then we stopped counting all the special personal, the Chaplains, Librarians, Apothecaries, and Dreadnoughts, just for a handful more Marines. I think we were closer to three thousand Marines when the Badab War started."

"That's still puny."

"This, coming from you? Your 10th Company is maybe a hundred Bikers."

"Firstly, we have an additional three thousand World Eaters and another ten thousand mortal soldiers we can call on if we need to. Secondly, we're one of the Black Legion's Thorns. We're supposed to be small, so that the Imperium won't be able to track us down."

"Had World Eaters," Audir corrected. "They rebelled; they aren't yours anymore."

Caeroc knew better than to discuss that topic; even in a seemingly friendly conversation, he couldn't afford to show any weakness. He'd been sent on diplomatic missions before; Warmaster Abaddon himself had told Caeroc, Whatever you do, never bare your throat. "So, will you Mantis Warriors be making any of the payments? Or are you letting the Bleak Brotherhood pay for everything?"

"We'll be giving you our Navigator and our Apothecaries, and we'll be doing a great deal of work against the World Eaters."

"Are your Apothecaries any good? We only have one, and he's a useless git. Spends most of the time shooting himself up with painkillers."

"His name is Carid. He's damned good. Its like he has a sixth sense for... surgery I guess. Its hard to explain; when you look down and see a limbless and faceless corpse, he looks down and sees a patient that needs X medication and Y operations."

Audir and Caeroc reached the glass proboscis. The Valiant's door was open, waiting for him.

"For a small payment," Audir said. "I can have Carid kill Markov. It'll look like an accident. No one will know, except us."





Caeroc's quarters were best described as spartan. His only possessions were a filthy cot and a nightstand with a tusked Xenos skull atop it. By the standards of the mortal slaves that served under him, he lived like a king. When he died, they would fight over his cot. When he died, they would probably use his skull as a chamberpot.

The slaves under him didn't exactly like him.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," Caeroc said.

It was one of his slaves, whose name escaped Caeroc. He was carrying a piece of parchment. His face was covered in bandaging, save for his bloodshot eyes. The slave's pupils were white. "My lord," the slave said. "Lord Captain Markov, while going under anesthesia, dictated this to me. He called it his 'epilogue'. I was not entirely sure who I should deliver it to. Forgive me if parts of it are... incomprehensible. I only wrote what I was told to write."

Caeroc snatched the parchment from him.

There is the assumption that freedom comes with power, and that a king can do as he pleases, the paper read. Vandire did as he pleased. Curze did as he pleased. Freedom catches up with everyone, in the end. I am not afraid.

No repentance. No remorse.

Some among the Traitor Legions claim to be morally superior to the Imperium. This isn't true. We are just as every bit as depraved and cruel as they are. But we are stronger. We are stronger, and our grudges, our yearnings, our desires, come first. It is the destiny of the strong to rule the weak, and the weak to be ruled by the strong. I waver between strength and weakness, never quite landing on either one. Everyone is watching me, but no one listens to what I say. I am the corpse in a murder mystery.

Us Astartes are taken away from our homes before we're mature. We spend our lives looking for replacement parents, because none of us really grew up. Some of us were content to accept the Emperor as our father. Some weren't.

If I die, keep the name. Markov's Bikers. We need to known as Markov's Bikers. As long as the name remains, I am never truly dead. My spirit lives on. Part of me wants to be remembered, and part of me looks back on a lifetime of betrayals and doesn't. All of my friends are dead, and those that are alive want to kill me.

If you do change the name, I understand. Caeroc's Bikers has a nice ring to it.

"He was reeling under the affects of the anesthetic," the slave said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "The Mantis Warrior apothecary said that he should've been unconscious, but he wasn't."

Caeroc opened a vox channel with the apothecary. "Yes?" crackled the apothecary's voice. The connection was poor.

"He's already dying, and he doesn't have more than a few days left. No point in killing him," Caeroc said.

"So, I shouldn't kill him? I should save him?"

"Sure."

Caeroc couldn't shake the feeling that he was making a mistake.

Wow was there really that many Astartes per legion?

A shadow whispers from the dark. "Hail Caeroc, king! Kill him! kill him now! and I will bless your flesh with godly gifts and set you apart from all others"

Nice chapter chapter, politics at play. I hope the World Eaters wash them all away in a tide of blood, but we will see.

The blood flows and such the lord of skulls is pleased! Well done

Very nice additions m8 ! I really enjoyed the political play, a nice break from the slaughter...Now enough with the break, Lord Khorne demands blood and skulls for his throne!

I've been suffering from writer's block, so I haven't been able to write much lately. I'm working on Chapter Nine, which is about the extremely violent and bloody last stand of Markov's Bikers. No more politics.

Dakka, I need you're help. I've been having trouble with writing Space Marine characters. I've been trying to balance them between being inhuman and being sympathetic. I'm worried I made the Space Marines, the World Eaters especially, too human while I was trying to make them sympathetic. What do you guys think? Like Qul. He's a Daemon Prince, who hasn't been human for 10,000 years, but I'm worried he acts too human.

Hmmm I persoanly like that kinda traits in smal doses, and yes. Its quite hard to portray Sm or Csm in a unhuman way. I find myself more times than not drifing into the eralms of the common man when tyrying to dos aid thing. What I have found to work best is to either portay them as absolut removed from any kind of emotion barred of hate & zeal or as more down to earth characthers.

And as far as Qul well.....I dont think snacking on humans and loling at getting shot in the face are even remotly human.

I just go on how they sound in the first three heresy books as i liked the way they were portrayed - human but a step or 2 removed and missing a few emotions that only seems to come across when they talk to Joe blogs (Jon doe). I think your doing a fine job, carry on the way you've started my good man.

I believe they are as human as they should be. Plus being a Khorne believer does not mean a mindless killer (ok not at all times anyway)

I think this is going great. Do not rush it and take as much time as you need to write the next part. We ll be waiting

More Erezak! He reminds me of Scaevolla from Honour Among Fiends, in that he isn't a mindless CSM and actually dislikes his situation a bit, but is still a homicidal psychopath.

That story is in Heroes of the Space Marines, where all the stories about CSM and Renegades top the stories about loyalists haha.

Take your time, I like the story so far! As to how to write the marines, I always found it interesting that they were indoctrinated as teenagers to become marines. So while they are masters of the sword and bolter, as well as skilled tacticians, they have the psyche of juiced up teenagers.

So even after fighting for 10,000 years, they are still an 18 year old at heart. There isn't exactly time for emotional development when you are eviscerating your enemies. But that is just my take on it!

Thanks, all of your suggestions helped.

Chapter Nine
Waiting for the Worms

"Let me think, just LET ME THINK! Alright. Sevastian, this is Vladimir! The Black Legion is firing on us, repeat, the Black Legion is firing on us! We need backup!"
-Captain Vladimir of the Bleak Brotherhood, at the last stand of Markov's Bikers.

Before battle, the Emperor's Children would torture slaves. They'd brand them and beat them until their blood was rich with endorphins, the body's natural painkillers. Once the slaves were so high that they didn't even react to the beatings anymore, the Emperor's Children would slit their wrists and drink their endorphin soaked blood in all its salty deliciousness.

Before battle, the Word Bearers would prey fervently and offer choice sacrifices to the Gods. They never settled for slaves; more often than not, the sacrifice was a powerful Champion, equal in strength and cunning. Sometimes Word Bearers volunteered, hoping the Gods would see their selflessness. Sometimes they were taken in the night, and brought before an altar. Their face would light up at the dawning moment of realization, when they realized that they were about to be burned, branded, flayed, and castrated. They would scream until their throat burned raw, and then they would beg and plead in a distant rasping voice.

Before battle, the World Eaters would kill each other until their Lord manage to harness their aggression in the direction of the enemy.

Erezak placed a foot on his brother's crimson helmet. Its red eye lenses glared up at him with nothing of forgiveness or understanding. Erezak could imagine his brother's wide eyes and grated teeth. He could imagine the veins throbbing on his brother's forehead. Holding the head in place with his foot, he pried his axe from his brother's neck. It's whirring teeth had gotten stuck on his brother's spine.

"Help," said Erezak's brother, his rasping death-rattle of a voice magnified by his helmet's vox grille.

He felt shameful, like he should curl up in a ball somewhere and die. It felt wrong on so many levels to kill a brother. Rationalizing it was easy when the brother attacked him, but in this battle he'd been the aggressor. Erezak had chosen to attack him, and he'd chosen to deliver the killing blow.

The teachings of the Blood God eased his conscience. Rage demanded suffering. Without rage, the World Eaters would have nothing. Humanity would have nothing. It was rage that laid tyrants low, and it was rage that brought murderous justice to the pleasure-seekers of the universe. Not killing his brother would've been an even greater crime than killing him.

"Help," his brother repeated.

Erezak kicked the head hard. Its already broken neck snapped, and the head flew for maybe ten feet before hitting the ground with a satisfying thud.

The battle seemed to be lulling. No one was charging at him. He wondered why. Then he heard a deep voice resounding through the chamber.

"Brothers," Qul said, prowling towards the World Eaters. He wasn't as intimidating as before. By now the World Eaters were used to seeing him, in all his mutant glory. "We're close now, less than an hour away from the bridge. The Black Legion can sense this. Have you noticed their distinct absence?" The crowd was silent. Erezak glanced towards the headless corpse at his feet. "HAVE YOU?" screamed Qul. He wasn't fond of being ignored.

"Yes," several dozen World Eaters answered in unison, including Erezak.

"The Black Legion is absent because they're mustering their forces," continued the Daemon Prince. "We can't allow them to establish a proper defense. We have to strike quickly and decisively. Hael, explain the plan."

"We kill them all," Hael said. A soft and wet sound came from his vox; he was licking his teeth.

"Don't do that," Qul snapped. "Unless you want me to eat your face. Like sausage. Now, World Eaters, what does it mean if we have to strike decisively? Does it mean that we waste our time here, killing each other?"

Erezak felt like Qul was addressing him personally. He looked up from the corpse and into Qul's burning eyes. It made him feel naked and cold, standing in the wind. His breathing quickened and his hair stood on edge.

"WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"

"Yes," several dozen World Eaters answered in unison, including Erezak.

The World Eater next to Qul died. Qul struck him with the back of his hand, or more accurately claw, with enough strength to shatter his chestplate and the ribcage within. Shards of bone and ceramite pierced through his lungs and heart.

"Listen to me, or you all die. We are attacking the bridge now. If I catch any of you not moving towards the bridge, you die. If I catch any of you killing each other, you die. If I catch any of you licking your teeth, you die. Now move out. I have a Captain to slay and a ship to command."

Erezak ran. His boots pounded on grated decking, along with the boots of another thousand World Eaters. He ascended up steep and claustrophobic staircases, and he ducked under rusting pipes running along the ceiling. An alarm went off, which was the Black Legion's way of showing that they knew the World Eaters were close, and they were waiting for them. High pitched klaxons blared. Migraine red lights flashed and blinked with furious intensity. Distant, echoing gunfire and shrill screams could occasionally be heard.

He threw open a door and hurled a Mars MK variant krak grenade inside. The grenade had been built on Mars itself during the Great Crusade, and would've been worth a fortune in any museum. It was designed to tear open the hauls of tanks, but it was just as well suited to tearing open people. The mortals inside the room began screaming, but their screaming was drowned out by Erezak's roaring bolter pistol. The grenade, fashioned in the visage of a horned skull, went off. Red-hot superheated shrapnel flew in all directions, whizzing straight through flesh and embedding itself in the room's steel walls.

Another World Eater threw open a different door, and was sent hurtling into the wall by searing plasma. A serf, holding an over-sized plasma gun at the hip, stood in the doorway. Her face was a patchwork of ugly scar tissue, and she wore a Black Legion medallion on her flat-chest. It marked her as a veteran of the Long War, having fought against the Imperium just as long as the World Eaters have. The weapon was too huge to be aimed conventionally, and she had to swing her whole body to aim at a new target. The gun let loose another roaring bolt of plasma, which blew off a different World Eater's swordarm. He fell to the ground, howling in pain. His broken stump of a shoulder was smoking.

Erezak threw a krak grenade at her, screaming something about the Blood God. It beaned her on the face, cracking her nose, and landed somewhere inside the room. She stumbled, firing carelessly. This bolt did nothing but rip a smoking hole in the wall, and overheat the plasma gun. Glowing energy coils caught fire, and the metal around it bubbled. The serf dropped the weapon, but it was too late. Both her hands had been scalded and she was screaming incoherently. She desperately keyed the door's control rune. With infuriating slowness it began to close, gears clanking and pipes hissing. Erezak squeezed the trigger of his bolter, firing in the woman's general direction.

A shot pierced through her chest, dropping her to the floor. The door started to close on her already broken chest, cracking her ribcage. Then the krak grenade behind her went off. All-in-all, it was a glorious tribute to the Blood God.

Hael punched Erezak hard, right in the face plate. His HUD went out for a movement, and his visor was flooded with static. "Erezak!" Hael shouted. "The bridge is that way! We're only wasting our time against these mortals!"

"Ehh," Erezak said. "Blood is blood."

"Not all blood is equal," said Hael. A muted clicking sound came from his helmet as he accepted a vox channel. He stood in complete silence for several seconds, just listening.

"World Eaters!" Hael called. "Follow me, or you all die!"

He started running, and there was a certain urgency to his movements. Erezak and around ten others World Eaters followed him, sensing that he would lead them to worthy prey. They followed Hael through a dank hallway, where the warp had bled through and the walls were runny flesh. It reminded Erezak of a womb. They reached a narrow and rusted staircase, which collapsed under the first Berzerker to step on it. He fell several stories, his impassioned screaming growing more and more distant with each floor he passed. Hael then declared that they would no longer use the stairs, and instead use the lift.

It couldn't carry the weight of a dozen Astartes. The World Eaters, with sword and axe, tore their way through the ceiling. Pipes snaked their way up the walls of the elevator shafts, like metal vines. They climbed up the pipes, making slow but steady progress. Evidently someone entered the lift, because it started to move up, towards the climbing World Eaters. One of them decided to swipe at the lift cable with a power axe, which he'd recently looted. The cable melted at the axe's burning touch, and the lift went hurtling down the elevator shaft like a missile. Hael shouted at his followers to keep moving.

They reached a door in the side of an elevator shaft. Hael, sporting a looted powerfist, pried the door open and clambered his way inside. He waited for the others to catch up with him, screaming at them all the while. Erezak wondered when Lord Qul would finally get around to killing Hael. Did Lord Qul even remember the promise he'd made, about butchering Hael for his incompetence? Erezak wanted to believe that Qul was infallible, but he just couldn't make himself like his brothers could.

The World Eaters ran through a pristine hallway. It was in good condition, which meant it was close to the bridge. All of the hallways Lord Captain Markov used were kept in excellent condition. Every few months, crews armed with flamers would sweep through and purge any warp flesh. Markov didn't like it when the floors bled and the walls literally had eyes.

Erezak heard bolterfire nearby. It was close enough so that he could almost smell the smoke and taste the gunpowder's rich, ashy flavor. One World Eater let his bloodlust get the better of himself. He charged ahead of Hael and rounded a corner. His head snapped back and his faceplate shattered. The bolt lodged in his broken eye lense detonated, pulping the Legionnaire's brains. He spasmed, then went limp like a ragdoll. His corpse landed amid several other bodies, all of which belonged to World Eaters.

"Halt," said Hael, raising a hand. Hesitantly, the Berzerkers complied. "Does anyone here remember being trained for a Scout squad? Just after you passed the Astartes trials, but before you'd ever gone into combat?"

"Aye," Erezak said, after realizing that no one else was going to answer.

"Remember the pack fighting exercises, where we learned to fight as one?"

"Aye."

"That's what we'll need to do here. First, we let loose a controlled volley of frag grenades, then we charge as one. Kill them all. Understood?"

This time, several Legionnaires besides Erezak acknowledged what Hael said. Several said, "Yes" or "Aye", and others just nodded their heads. A few still stared ahead blankly. To them, Hael's words were little more than static.

"Alright. Everyone, get ready. On one. Five... Four... Three... two... one."

Around half of the assembled Berzerkers charged, and the other half hurled grenades. Erezak realized he'd thrown a krak grenade into the crowd of his brothers. The six World Eaters who had charged disappeared in a cloud of shrapnel and bolterfire. Erezak managed to catch a glimpse of one, bolt after bolt punched into his cracked and broken armor. Hael started screaming in a less than coherent fashion, then threw his powerfist at a nearby World Eater in a roundhouse punch. The Legionnaire he'd attacked dodged the punch. He stabbed clumsily at Hael with his chainsword. Whirring teeth clattered against the reinforced ceramite of Hael's breastplate. Hael threw another savage punch. He hit the Legionnaire square in the throat, inadvertently decapitating him.

The bastard's headless corpse fell past the corner, where it was torn to shreds by bolterfire.

His body was added to the growing mound of corpses.

"Brother, why would you kill one of our own?" a World Eater asked, his voice oddly clear for a Berzerker. It was the one with the power axe. "Qul has forbidden it."

Erezak looked down at the two remaining krak grenades on his belt. He wondered where he'd gotten so many. In all likelihood, he'd killed someone for them. That was a disturbing thought. In the past he'd been emotional and often irrational, but he'd at least been coherent. He'd always known what he was doing. Now, he may have killed one of his own brothers without even remembering or acknowledging it. Erezak worried that he was beginning to slip.

"He disobeyed," said Hael. "He threw a krak grenade. I had to kill him."

"He didn't throw the krak grenade! Erezak did!" the clear voiced Berzerker shouted.

Erezak looked up. "No," he lied.

"Then who did?"

"Kalarg. The brother Hael killed," Erezak answered. At least he was still coherent enough to have conversations.

"I saw Kalarg; he didn't even have any grenades. He just stood there in a trance until Hael killed him."

Suddenly, Erezak found himself disliking the clear voiced Berzerker.

"Silence!" Hael shouted. "Enough is enough. We can deal with this later. For now, we have to work on the problem with the Black Legionnaires around the corner. How many of us are left?"

"Six," said Erezak. The correct answer was seven, but he had forgotten to count himself.

"We can take them. Alright. On one. Five... Four... Three... Two... One."

The World Eaters rounded the corner as one, yelling and screaming. Some howled, some gave praise to the Blood God, and some just spat barely coherent threats. Around the corner was a formation of seven Astartes, standing behind a makeshift barricade of empty crates and steel sheets. They wore modern armor designs, painted in yellow and black camouflage. Many of them had beaked helmets, which hadn't been developed until thousands of years after the Horus Heresy. These Astartes certainly weren't Black Legionnaires. Bug-eyed mantis heads had been painted onto their right shoulders.

Six of the Astartes were equipped with long barreled bolters, designed for accuracy rather than strength. The seventh had a tripod mounted, snub barreled heavy bolter. All seven Astartes open fired simultaneously.

Initially, the battle seemed lost for the World Eaters. Three Berzerkers, including the clear voiced one, were taken out by the volley of bolterfire. Two had taken carefully aimed shots to their exposed joints, and though alive, they were no longer fit for combat. The third had been shot in the throat. Hael tossed a frag grenade, throwing off the Astartes' aim. Before they could recover, he came crashing through the barricade. With a wide sweep of his powerfist, he annihilated one Astartes' chest and broke the skull of another. The Astartes with the heavy bolter rotated to face Hael, but before he could take proper aim Erezak reached him. His axe passed through the wrist joint of the Astartes' right hand. With his other hand, the Astartes reached for a combat knife.

Before he could grab it, Erezak kicked him hard in the face. He was sent reeling back. As he lay on the floor, his head swimming, Erezak opened fire with his bolt pistol. The Astartes' thigh-plate was blown open, and the flesh beneath it was reduced to a mess of shattered bone and torn muscle. Another shot hit the elbow joint of his good arm, ripping through the joint's ligaments and ruining his arm. Wracked with the worst pain he had ever felt, he could do little more than moan and wheeze pathetically.

Erezak looked around. The other Astartes had already been slain, but at a steep price. Him, Hael, and a Berzerker he didn't know were all that were left.

"These weren't Black Legionnaires," Hael said. "These were Mantis Warriors."

"Mantis Warriors?"

"Loyalist dogs, and one of the worst breeds. I need to tell Lord Qul."

The Berzerker who had been shot in the throat undid the seals of his helmet. With a great deal of effort, he gripped it by the face-plate and pried it off. Beneath the ceramite, his face was slicked with bloody spit. He'd been gagging it up uncontrollably, and it'd begun to fill up his helmet. Every muscle in his face was tensed, locking it in an ugly grimace. Through watery eyes he glared up the ceiling lights. He refused to blink. After trembling for a few moments, his face relaxed. His eyes rolled back in his sockets, and his armor's lifesign readings went dead.

Erezak realized that he could've just as easily died like that, drowning in blood and spit. His face began to feel hot. Pressure was starting to build up behind his temples. He clenched his fists and grated his teeth.

"Death to the False Emperor!" he bellowed, unaware that the Mantis Warriors he fought were renegades. He sprinted off, seeking more skulls to claim.





Erezak didn't know where the bridge was. He ran aimlessly, throwing open random doors and sprinting down random halls. There were very few living people where he was, and a great deal of corpses. Though some of the corpses were of Mantis Warriors, others were of Black Legionnaires and World Eaters. A few belonged to a strange fourth faction Erezak didn't recognize. They wore glossy black armor, detailed with green flames. He stole a meltagun from one corpse, and a plasma pistol from another. Though he was forced to discard his bolter pistol to carry so much gear, he didn't particularly care.

At one point he found a power sword, but was unwilling to part with his chain axe. It had a certain sentimental value to him. In order to keep it, he was forced to find a chain and tie it around his waist. It clattered against his leg when he ran.

On static ridden and choppy vox feeds, he overheard screaming and bolterfire. The battle was still going on somewhere. Erezak just didn't know where.

At one point he found a legless Mantis Warrior, its severed chest trailing gore and intestines, dragging itself across the hall. The thing was so pathetic that for a moment Erezak's hatred was overcome by pity, even if it was a loyalist dog. He blew its head off with his plasma pistol, allowing it a clean death. Someday, Erezak hoped someone would be willing to do the same for him.

He kept on running.

Later, he came upon a dark metal door, reinforced by thick bars of durasteel. Presumably the Black Legion was keeping something valuable in there. Inside, there could be suits of Tactical Dreadnought Armor, Great Crusade era jet-bikes, or even nuclear arsenals. Erezak pulled the trigger on the meltagun. It didn't need time to charge, and there was no recoil. The weapon hissed, and the air before it was distorted by heat. Instantaneously, and with a roaring blast, the door was reduced to dolloping molten slag, barely clinging to the doorway.

He fired again. The roaring blast left a gleaming puddle of liquid metal, interladen with smoking wreckage.

"Have you come to kill me?" drawled a wet, burbling voice.

The liquid metal was already starting to cool and solidify. Rising heat distorted the smoky air, making the room seem like something out of a nightmare. Erezak stepped inside, clutching the meltagun tightly.

Something stood in the corner of the room. It had roughly the shape and appearance of an Astartes, but it was something much different. Its flesh had bonded with its armor, and it looked like a shambling wreck of a person. Exposed cabling ran about its broken form. The thing's face was leering and draconian, with too many teeth and beady eyes. Some parts of him were scaly, like a lizard. Other parts of him were wrinkled and sagging. And in some areas, his flesh was soft and smooth, like a baby's.

"What in the name of the Blood God are you?" Erezak said.

"I am the Half Mad. I am this vessel's navigator and, I assure you, I am more valuable alive than dead." Its face twisted in an ugly grin, baring its many fangs. "Kindly put down the meltagun, please."

yusss, more Erezak, he is awesome.

Zomg! This was very, very good!

Very good! more soon please.

The Half Mad stepped out from the smoking room, and it was no less horrific when Erezak could see it clearly. Astartes couldn't feel fear; it'd been bred out of them. Instead, Erezak felt a mixture of unease, disgust, and very palpable dread. One of its arms was a bundle of knotted and twisted tentacles. The other was a claw, with knobby fingers that were far too long. Its posture was hunched and its spine twisted, but it was still a good six inches taller than Erezak. It looked down on Erezak with gleaming eyes and tilted its head in a quizzical way.

"And you are...?" it said. The Half Mad licked his cracking lips, which had been stretched thin in a smirking grin.

"Slaughter Brother Erezak, of the World Eaters 3rd Company."

"Its a pleasure to meet you, Erezak." The Half Mad extended its claw arm.

Erezak gripped it by the wrist, in a traditional Astartes greeting. Its flesh seemed to squelch ever-so-slightly. Wrinkled leathery fingers coiled around Erezak's wrist, and squeezed. The Half Mad's nails scrapped against the ceramite.

"I take it the World Eaters are attacking the bridge now?"

"Ehh... Maybe. Don't know," Erezak said. The Half Mad spoke in a slow and deliberate droning way that made him nearly impossible to listen to. Erezak's attention was already to starting to slip.

"I so-dearly loathe being the bearer of bad news, but I'm afraid the World Eaters will destroy themselves against the Mantis Warriors and Bleak Brotherhood. Their only advantage was their numerical superiority, and with the arrival of these thin-blooded renegades they seem to have lost it."

"Mantis Warriors," the Berzerker echoed. "Where are they?"

"It depends. If the World Eaters are mounting their attack now," it drawled, licking its thin lips. "Then the Mantis Warriors will be defending Lord Captain Markov on the bridge. If the World Eaters have already been defeated, then they'll be hunting the few survivors through the bowels of the vessel."

"I am lost. Take me to the bridge."

"I fear that if I return to the bridge, I'll be slain. My last discussion with Lord Captain Markov didn't end well. I nearly killed him, and he nearly had me killed."

Erezak pressed the barrel of his meltagun against the Half Mad's chest, fixing it on his two hearts. At such a close range, his flesh would evaporate. It would create a vacuum in the Half Mad's chest, which his other organs would seek to fill. Charred organs would squelch together, and his chest would fill with a stew of bodily fluids.

"Take me to the bridge," Erezak hissed, his voice born of pure resolve.

"As you wish."





All the halls seemed the same. The Half Mad led Erezak through one identical passageway after another. Though the Half Mad moved with a sense of purpose as if it knew the place, Erezak couldn't help but doubt the creature. He didn't like anything about it. He hated its long-winded way of speaking, its ugly skin, its hunched back, and its little beady eyes.

They came across a broken barricade. Dead members of the Bleak Brotherhood were strewn about, lying on sheets on broken steel and soaking in puddles of their own coagulated blood. There were two World Eater corpses. One was missing both legs and a great deal of its abdomen. Its broken armor was charred black. The other was impaled to the wall by a chainsword.

Erezak sorted through the corpses. He found a bandoleer of frag grenades, which he slung around his shoulders. In addition to this, he found several strips of spare teeth for his chainaxe. He hung them on the grenade bandoleer. All the while, the Half Mad watched him patiently.

"You don't scavenge," remarked Erezak.

"I prefer not to associate myself with the dead. Touching corpses is something I would rather avoid."

"Heh. An Astartes who's afraid of corpses." One of Erezak's gauntlets was starting to lock up. He began to disassemble the wrist and hand of a Bleak Brother's armor, carefully unclasping and deactivating the mechanics.

"Everyone has their quirks," the Half Mad drawled. He sounded like he was drowning in spit. After removing the Bleak Brother's gauntlet, Erezak began to remove his own. "I've never spoken with a World Eater before. I've seen your kin around the Valiant, but I never had a legitimate conversation."

Erezak fitted the new gauntlet over his hand. Though it fit perfectly, it was having some difficulty interfacing with the rest of his armor. The new gauntlet was approximately ten thousand years younger than the wrist it was supposed to be connecting to. "All Astartes have a poor relationship with sex," the Half Mad continued. "We're circumcised to reduce pleasure, inadvertently sterilized by hormone treatments, then pumped full of chemicals to stunt our sex drives. But the World Eaters are exceptional. No other Legion, save perhaps the Dark Angels, loathes sex with the tenacity they do. No other Legion has declared a war on pleasure and happiness."

Finally, with a loud whirring and then a series of clicking sounds, the new gauntlet connected. Erezak touched his thumb to every finger in rapid succession. "The World Eaters claim to look down on pleasure. But I think that, in reality, they envy it."

Erezak started paying attention. He rose from his crouching position at the corpse, and rested his new gauntlet on the handle of his holstered plasma pistol. "What. Did. You. Say."

"World Eaters envy pleasure, and that is why they hate it."

The Half Mad found himself staring down the barrel of a plasma pistol. Its energy coils lit up in a bright green shade, and the weapon began quaking in Erezak's grip. He swallowed some the spit building up in the back of his mouth, and licked his lips.

Erezak tried to blink away the pain building up in his skull. He wanted to blown the thing's ugly smirking face off. But, more than that, he wanted to prove it wrong. His breathing started to accelerate, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't slow it down. Each shuddering breath came quick and hard. Erezak struggled to put his thoughts in order, to make them into something coherent.

"No," he said. "I hate pleasure because... because.... its a vice. A vice that only the most selfish and wicked men can afford. In this universe, you have to choose between pursuing pleasure, and justice. The World Eaters have suffered wrongs that can not be allowed to stand. We must be avenged.... The universe has wronged us. This can not be allowed to stand. We must wrong it back."

"Fair enough. I sympathize with your viewpoint, but I can't honestly claim to side with it." Slowly, Erezak lowered the pistol. He stood trembling before the Half Mad. "Are we still going to the bridge?" the Half Mad asked.

Qul will kill him Erezak thought. And then we'll need a new navigator.

Ooo nice edition

I agree, Half mad seems to be going for the mutant take on things! I approve

this is a good addition, very nice

nice to see you overcame the writer's block

Lets see what happens next now!

Chapter Ten
Young Lust

Caeroc squeezed the trigger and the pistol let loose a bolt of searing energy, burning with the strength of the stars themselves. The plasma bolt was an incandescent green, though its center was pure white. Even with his helmet's HUD reduced the glare by 80%, Caeroc still couldn't look at it. The bolt hurt just to glance it.

It hit the Berzerker's breastplate, blowing it open. The Berzerker was sent crashing into a wall with a sickening crunch. Smoke wafted lazily from the smoldering crater in his chest. He tried to scream, but with the thin tissue of his lungs being burnt away, he could rasp menacingly.

The second Berzerker came at Caeroc, axe raised. As the World Eater brought his axe down, Caeroc raised his gauntlet. He knocked the weapon aside with his clenched fist, wreathed in a thin layer of ice blue energy. Before the World Eater could recover, Caeroc pistol whipped him. The glowing energy coils of his plasma pistol burnt into his face, blackening his visor and softening ceramite. One solid punch was all it took to fracture the World Eater's skull.

The World Eater with the hole in his chest stumbled drunkenly towards Caeroc, too furious to just lay down and die. Already, four more Berzerkers were coming through the hallway towards Caeroc. Even more would be coming soon. He grabbed the wounded Berzerker by the shoulder and pulled him close, shoving the plasma pistol into the crater. The World Eater groaned, his voice brought low by excruciating pain. Each breath tore at the fabric of his lungs, bringing him closer and closer to death. Caeroc pulled the trigger.

Roaring into existence, the bolt passed through the wounded Berzerker, and hit one of his brothers instead. It blew the World Eater's helmet off and the resulting headless corpse went limp, like a puppet off the strings. Caeroc fired again. A World Eater fell to his knees, clutching at a burning hole in his gut.

Its coils white-hot, the plasma pistol was on the verge of overheating. The weapon shuddered violently, tiny gleaming bubbles forming on the barrel's steel surface. Caeroc sighed. It was a rare and valuable weapon, one that'd saved his life on many occasions. The pistol almost seemed to have a personality. It shivered and quaked before every shot, as if it couldn't stand the anticipation. When its plasma charges were renewed, it let out a long hissing sigh. Caeroc realized how stupidly sentimental he was being.

Caeroc pulled the trigger for the last time and threw the wounded Berzerker back, the melting pistol still lodged in his broken chest. There was a blinding flash of the most pure white Caeroc had ever seen, and the deafening boom of a catastrophic explosion. The explosion was loud enough to bleed into Caeroc's other senses; he could feel it beneath his armor, and smell the ashy smoke even within his voidsealed helm. Just on the tip of his tongue, he could taste something metal.

The Berzerkers were dead, blown to bits. Their smoking remains, more reminiscent of charcoal than the warriors they once were, was strewn about the hallway. Caeroc collapsed against the wall, panting. The afterimage of the explosion had been burnt into his eyes. Everywhere he looked he saw it, the throbbing silhouette of a blast caught in the center of his eye. The Cthonian street gangers, the ones that the Luna Wolves had been recruited from, had a term for it. Napalm flower they called it.

"Get up," Caeroc told himself. More Berzerkers would be coming, attracted by the noise by moths to a flame. "Get. Up."

The World Eaters had forced the Black Legion's hand. They'd reached C Deck faster than predicted, and the Black Legion hadn't had the time to set up an intricate trap for the Berzerkers to stumble into. Instead, all they'd had time to do was summon the renegades and bunker down for the upcoming battle. While Markov was in surgery, no less. That meant that Caeroc was in command. Which meant that he had to get his bike and rendezvous at the bridge with the other bikers. Easier said than done. His bike was in storage, in World Eater territory.

A Berzerker rounded a corner and entered the hall. In one hand he had an energized artificer axe, cracking and sparking with killing lightning. In the other he had a chainsword, teeth whirring. He wore no helmet; Caeroc could see the Champion's unblinking yellow eyes. The Champion snarled, revealing a mouth full of metal barbs. He ran his tongue about his teeth, slitting it in the process. Bloody drool ran down his chin.

"Oh gak," said Caeroc.

"RAAAAARRRRL," said the Champion.

Suddenly, Caeroc found that he had the energy to run. He sprinted for his life, the reinforced joints of his armor snarling with every leaping bound. The Champion was right on his tail, no more than a few feet behind Caeroc at any given moment. Snarling and frothing, the Champion lashed out with axe and blade randomly. There was no grace or finesse to the Berzerker's movements, only unbridled strength. Caeroc could tell this one had been waiting to rebel against Markov for a long time.

He leapt over a staircase, flying some ten feet before hitting the ground. Grated floorplating buckled beneath his feet, nearly killing him. If he had been a fraction of a second slower, he would've fallen through the floor. Instead, he kept running. He passed through a hallway where the floor was choked with torn and sparking cables, ones that annoyingly snagged on his feet at the worst possible times. The Champion dragged his axe as he ran, its axe-head sparking and squealing against the floor. Ducking beneath an overhead pipe and then leaping over a girder jutting from the floor, Caeroc entered a lift.

Frantically, he hit the 'CLOSE DOOR' button. With agonizing slowness, the thin grated door began to close. The Champion was closing in on him. Caeroc grabbed his bolter, shoving a fresh magazine in. He hadn't used the weapon in some time; it might not even work. Aiming from the hip, he open fired on the Champion. In such a claustrophobic space, it was hard to miss.

One shot detonated against the Champion's chest, knocking the wind out of him. He barely slowed down at all. Another shot took him by the knee, inflicting a real injury. Ligaments and musculature were torn to shreds, and bone was cracked open by the bolt's detonation. With a ball-and-socket joint like that, the Champion would never make a full recovery. His best bet of walking without a limp would be a prosthetic leg, which were notoriously shoddy. Screaming, the Champion hit the ground. A third shot hit his shoulder. Its detonation sent blisteringly hot shrapnel into his face. His ear was bisected and his cheek torn open. One bolt fragment lodged itself in his eyebrow, drowning the eye in blood.

The Champion threw his axe. It hit the elevator door pommel first, and was deflected by the flimsy grated metal. As the lift disappeared up the shaft, the Champion let out of blood curdling cry of impotent rage.

Caeroc slumped against the door opposite to the wall, still clutching his bolter. I should've killed him he thought. Would've got my tally up to an even ten. The tally was, of course, the number of Berzerkers slain. He wasn't even sure if he could count the first three, considering how unsportman-like he'd been. The ceiling was unstable and when Caeroc took out the load-bearer with his plasma pistol, six tons of duramite came crashing down on the Berzerkers. They probably weren't even dead. Odds were that the Berzerkers were still alive, pinned down and wasting away beneath a mound of rubble.

Caeroc tried to connect to the vox again. It still wasn't working. He'd taken too many head injuries over his long-life, and his helmet didn't work like it used to. He still did though. Over the years he'd seen armor rust away into nothingness, xenos reclaim untold worlds from the Great Crusade, and the universe blossom into something he didn't remotely recognize, all without aging a day. Chaos was the Traitor Legion's Fountain of Youth. It had no doubt wormed its way into his body, sustaining him through all the Long War. Caeroc didn't like taking his armor off; he didn't know what he'd see beneath it. His armor might not even come off, having gradually fused to his skin.

With the screech of metal scraping against metal, the elevator came to a halt. Through the grated door, Caeroc saw that the hall before him was empty. There was a lone corpse, its broken armor stripped of any valuables. The looting's already started he realized. The Valiant had received the promised goods from the Bleak Brotherhood just before the battle; despite its damaged state, the ship was worth a hundred fortunes. It was probably worth more than most worlds. Whoever won the battle would be rich.

If Markov died and the World Eaters were beaten back, it would all be Caeroc's.

The pragmatic thing to do would've been to have Markov killed, as originally planned, and then wait out the battle. Hide somewhere safe. Of course, Caeroc was too loyal. Even then, he wasn't above the temptation.

He stepped out from the relative safety of the elevator. His bike was only a short distance away. He resumed running.

Running seemed to clear his mind. Even though his chest ached and his legs were sorer than he thought possible, he felt better. He wasn't as melancholic about the Traitor Legions anymore. Maybe it was a combination of fatigue and recent head injuries, but things didn't seem so bleak anymore. He'd spent his entire life fighting the Imperium, and now it seemed to be on the verge of falling. The Black Legion was stronger than it had ever been before. Maybe the Great Crusade, when the Horus still lived, wasn't the Golden Age. Maybe this was.

His bike was waiting for him in pristine condition. He opened the storage room door and there it was, basking in the shadows. A ram skull, with long curling horns, had been built into the bike's prow. A bolter barrel emerged from each empty eye socket. Rusted spikes protruded from the wheel's rims. Twin engine exhausts twisted into stone gargoyles with unhinged jaws, belching smoke and flame wherever Caeroc drove. Caeroc got aboard the bike, and it fit him perfectly. Rider and steed became one.

Tires screeched on the cold floor. Caeroc pushed the bike as fast as it would go, and then a little faster. Every Berzerker he saw he just sped past. They chased after him, but they didn't have a shot in hell of catching up.

He sped down a stairway. Going down the steps was a jarring experience, with every one them of rattling his skull. Going up was only slightly better. Some passageways were narrow, and the Berzerkers couldn't be avoided. They had to be gunned down, or run over. As he neared the bridge, they became more and more frequent. Even then, he knew that he'd only seen a fraction of them. The bulk of them, hundreds, maybe a thousand, would be gathered around the Daemon Prince, Qul.

Paying less and less attention to his driving, Caeroc rounded a corner with his foot on the accelerator. This wouldn't have been as much as a problem if the hallway had been empty.

Instead, there were two figures. One was a Berzerker, his red and gold armor in pristine condition. A chain axe was tied to his belt, and it clashed against his thigh with every step. In one hand, he held a power sword in a lax grip. In the other, he had a plasma pistol. A meltagun was swaying from a sling around a shoulder. The other figure was a wreck of an Astartes, even taller than the Berzerker, whose flesh melded with his armor. His face was snarling and predatory, with too many teeth and little beady eyes.

The Half Mad.

A pulse of psychic energy speared towards Caeroc. The air distorted with its passing. He tried to swerve away, but only drifted towards it. The exact moment the pulse hit him, time seemed to slow. He felt like he was drowning, with something flooding all around him. Caeroc gasped in shallow breaths, but didn't take in any air. His head began to swim. Then the ship seemed to tilt and the floor moved beneath him. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, the wall was hurtling towards him.

His spine made a loud crack, like a whip. When the wall hit his head, he was overcome by a profound nausea. A hot, stuffy pressure was welling up in his skull. He started choking; his chest was contracting against his will. Vomit came up in thick slapping chunks; it tasted sour. His nose burned. Soon he was drowning in the vomit, the sour chunky stew of stomach acid, half-digested food, and gak. He moved his arm up to tear off his helmet.

It refused to cooperate, because it was broken in three different places, was held in-place by broken power armor, and was pinned against the wall by his bike. His other arm was better. He couldn't undo the clasps on his helmet fast enough. By the time he got it off, it felt like hours had passed.

"You hurt me," said the Half Mad. "You tortured me."

No.

"You know him?" the Berzerker said, regarding Caeroc quizzically.

"His name's Caeroc. He's Markov's right-hand man." The Half Mad's face cracked in one of his frequent and ugly smiles. His jaw wasn't meant for it. "I hit him with pure psychic energy. I dragged the immaterium into the materium and blasted him with it."

"Ehh." The Berzerker held up his plasma pistol. Caeroc missed his own. It would've been useful in this circumstance. As the weapon charged, its energy coils began to glow. The weapon shuddered with anticipation, like a horse before a race.

"No," purred the Half Mad. "I want to do it." The pistol's light faded. With slow precise movements, the Half Mad approached Caeroc. He knelt over the Black Legionnaire, and looked into his eyes. "How," said the Half Mad. "Do you justify torturing me? What made you think it was okay to inflict such pain on a brother?"

"Freak," Caeroc spat. He shook his head, trying to get some of the vomit off. It felt like he was rocking in the ocean; he could almost hear the waves. "You... freak..."

"You are of no importance to the Gods. Your soul will dissolve in the immaterium without being claimed by any of them. Be thankful for that."

"Kill 'em already," the Berzerker said.

"Close your eyes." The Half Mad exhaled. His breath felt wet on Caeroc's face. He unholstered a bolter pistol. "And let me take the pain away."

Caeroc kept his eyes open.

The Half Mad pulled the trigger.

Ah damn it Caeroc's toast...Oh well...Now things are not looking good for the black legion...not one bit...Btw how come Ezerak has not blown Half-Mad's skull to pieces???And why is he still so rational???Hmmmm...

Very nice addition LL keep em coming please!

Oh my go half mad!

That was a very good read, liked the bit with the champion and the end of the chapter, but the predictive writing of your computer is messing with the flow of your story. Apart from that no complaints, more please.

Awwww, no more caeroc :( i wants erezak to kill the half mad, it will be glorious !

I like how the half-mad slides between twisted and compassionate behaviour, it makes reading his character difficult.

Thank you guys. All of you're comments are really appreciated. Just saying anything helps.

 Bobakos wrote:
Ah damn it Caeroc's toast...Oh well...Now things are not looking good for the black legion...not one bit...Btw how come Ezerak has not blown Half-Mad's skull to pieces???And why is he still so rational???Hmmmm...

Very nice addition LL keep em coming please!

The main reason Erezak didn't kill the Half Mad, was because the Half Mad didn't react when he put a gun to his face. Erezak, even if he's saner than the average Berzerker, has a horrible attention span. For a fraction of a second he paid attention to the Half Mad. The Half Mad wasn't reacting to him, and his attention started slipping.

If the Half Mad had begged or fought back, Erezak would've killed him.

 Themanwiththeplan wrote:
That was a very good read, liked the bit with the champion and the end of the chapter, but the predictive writing of your computer is messing with the flow of your story. Apart from that no complaints, more please.

Sorry, but I'm not completely sure if I understand what you're saying. Can you show me an example so I can fix it?

2nd paragraph, 2nd from last line - missing the word -only-

6th paragrapth, 4th line - missing the word -not-

7th para, 4th line - it instead of his

The 9th small para, first line - by instead of like

11th para, 4th line - fell instead of full

18th para, 6th line - for instead of through

I'm calling it the 22nd para lol - his bike was waiting for him 'in' pristein condision

24th para, line 1- missing a jarring 'ex-spear-re-ence'and each one of 'them'

28th para, 2nd line stuff'y'

Not sure about the last one and sorry if I seem to be nit picking. I don't think it was your predictive text (my bad) just you writting quick. I hope this helps instead of seeming like a womans lady parts.

Thanks, I'll fix that stuff.

Well can we expect more?

The bridge had seven entrances. Eight, counting a largish hole blown through the wall by a plasma cannon.

Black Legionnaires used their bikes as turrets, hiding behind their bikes armored prows and laying into the Berzerkers with twin-linked bolters. They formed into neat rows and formations, completely sealing off hallways. The Bleak Brotherhood operated in a more standard, Codex Astartes reminiscent way. Assembling barricades from wreckage and corpses, they held off the Berzerkers in small 10-man squads. They laid down suppression fire with flamers, all the while firing their bolters in controlled volleys. Not enough Mantis Warriors were left to play a significant role in the defense. Those that still drew breath tended to hang around the Bleak Brothers, supporting them with sniper fire.

Every entrance was sealed off. The bridge was secure, for the immediate future. To keep the mortal crew calm, Captain Vladimir had given them noise-suppressing earphones and horse blinders. He tried to keep from bothering them. For worthless mortals, they knew what they were doing and they did it well. Each one had a little simple job that they performed to the best of their ability. All together, they were like cogs in a machine.

Lord Captain Markov lay slumped on his throne, surrounded by mortal attendants and medical servitors. A Mantis Warrior apothecary, Carid, was wrist-deep in Markov's chest. He'd removed the stalactite, but was having trouble stabilizing the Black Legionnaire. Carid had made a stupid mistake, one that could be expected of servitors but not prodigies in the field of medicine like himself. When he'd given Markov the painkillers and anesthetics, he had forgotten to take into account Markov's failing kidneys and liver. Markov's body hadn't been able to process the medicines properly. Now he was overdosing.

Vladimir could tell it was bad, because Carid was praying.

"Gods in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, I beseech thee for guidance; Nurgle, who seeks to stave off death for yet one more day; Tzeentch, whose shining light of hope may never dim; Slaanesh, who ensures the happiness of the universe; Khorne, who pursues justice in all its forms; I call on thee! Demigods in Heaven, though young, strong like no others, I beseech thee for guidance; Kaal'tarik, who strives for conformity in an individualistic realm; Tarik, who calls on the universe for individuality and free expression; Nel'garak, who..."





This is Markov's death. His body is flooding with painkillers, and his body is trying to throw up. His torn abdominal muscles and his shredded diaphragm contract and relax in perfect synchronization. With each furious pump, he loses more blood. Its pooling in his gut and overflowing. Strands of gore and viscera float to the top of the stew. It comes sloshing out onto Carid's feet, like extra chunky tomato soup. This is goldmine for bacteria; this is as good as it gets. His open chest is wracked by a hundred different infections, each one worse than the last.

Some parts of his body are already rotting, falling victim to gangrene. Its creeping up his spine and down his crotch. Flesh bloats, turning rancid and green. Blood isn't going to his legs anymore. They're dying too, being starved of oxygen.

Markov's death will be the spark that sets off the Valiant's fall.

His body is on its last breathe now.

Soul, please standby to evacuate body.

Three... two... one...






Markov's lifesigns went out, and the flatline rang out through the vox of every Black Legionnaire. Someone shouted, "You killed him!" Mob mentality took hold.

Carid's helmet snapped back on his armored collar. His faceplate exploded, as did his face. In a half-hearted and thoroughly defeated fashion, he slumped over. His hands were still in Markov. Markov's corpse tumbled onto him, spilling out all its guts and blood in the process.

Captain Audir commanded two hundred men. To put this in perspective, two hundred men was an amount small enough to be beaten back by most Planetary Defense Forces, which were notorious for being underfunded and understaffed. He knew each of the soldiers below him by name, and valued all of their lives. So, when he saw a Black Legionnaire shoot Cadir in the face, he acted without thinking.

"KILL 'EM ALL!"

Snipers turned their long-barreled rifles away from the Berzerkers, and towards the Black Legionnaires. Kneecaps were blown out. Necks were torn open. Eye lenses were punched through. It was a sound display of discipline and professionalism that would've made the Emperor proud.

Engines roared, as the Black Legionnaire's bikes came to life. They had no place to run, and no hope of winning. All they had left was bitterness. If they were going to die, so be it. They were going to inflict as much pain and suffering as they could, while they were still alive. This would've made the Warmaster Horus proud.

Markov's Bikers were experts in the art of mayhem and destruction. It was role they relished. One sped towards Vladimir, twin bolters blazing. Shot after shot slammed into Vladimir, cracking his breastplate and the ribs beneath. With bloodslicked fingers, he grasped for his powerblade. His foot on the accelerator, the Black Legionnaire ran Vladimir down. Vladimir was sent sprawling on his back, limbs splayed and face wracked by pain. Laughing, the biker ran over him. Studded tires tore into his cracked armor.

Ten other bikers backed away from one of the bridge's entrances, allowing the Berzerker's to spill inside. They formed a wall of motorcycles, firing carelessly into the Berzerkers and steering them towards a cluster of Bleak Brothers. The Bleak Brothers, who had already been defending one entrance, found that Berzerkers were surrounding them from all sides. Howling, the Berzerkers fell upon them. One Bleak Brothers' cry for help was cut off midsentence following his decapitation by a chainaxe. For a fraction of a second, his vox broadcast the amplified roaring of a chainaxe and a Bleak Brother's wet choking.

Vladimir dragged himself towards his men, who were rapidly falling back towards the center of the bridge, where the mortals were. The mortals were screaming and sobbing, and they stank of fear. Their scents inadvertently broadcast their fear, loathing, and desperation for every Astartes to smell. Oblivious to his pain, Vladimir's men were demanding orders. They were as close to panic as Astartes could come.

"Let me think, just LET ME THINK!" Vladimir screamed, his voice choked to a whisper by broken ribs. He tapped into a new vox channel, belonging to the thousand some members of the Bleak Brotherhood still stationed aboard the spacehulk. "Sevastian, this is Vladimir! The Black Legion is firing on us, repeat, the Black Legion is firing on us! We need backup!"

Something huge and powerful charged through an entrance, knocking Berzerker and biker alike aside. It was an Astartes, swollen to grotesque proportions and made inhuman by the warp. In the battlefield's hell-light, its razor sharp talons glinted. Through a canine and thoroughly daemon face, it screamed like a pack of diseased wolves howling in unison. That had to be the Daemon Prince. That thing had to be Qul.

From then on, the last stand of Markov's Bikers were a senseless orgy of violence. Any semblance of formation or organization was lost on all sides. There was just a press of bodies, hacking eachother to pieces. A Berzerker was lit ablaze by a flamer, and crashed into a control panel. Broken machinery sparked and whirred beneath him as he flailed mindlessly, slashing with his axe in all directions. He attacked a passing biker, throwing his axe at the spokes of the bike. The biker, screaming in frustration, wiped out. He tried to clamber away from the flaming wreckage, but was trampled. One thudding impact after another forced him to the ground and held him there.

Qul threw a Mantis Warrior onto the ceiling. The impact wasn't enough to kill him, nor was the fall back to the floor. He landed on a Berzerker, crippling the both of them. A meltagun obliterated the corpses, and left a burning hole in the floor. Speeding through the carnage, one careless biker drove into it. As his bike sped through the hole, he was decapitated by it's white hot metal edge. His bike's daemonic engine detonated when it hit the ground.

A torrent of hellfire rose up through the hole in the floor, hot enough to melt steel. That was what it did. The floor begin to lose its shape around the hole, sloping towards it. It was like a carnivorous plant that ate Astartes rather than bugs.

Astartes near the hellfire torrent were slain. Their armored joints were fused shut, and the ceramite plating began to loose shape. Molten metal flooded their bodies. It seeped in through their eyes, scorched away their flesh, and blackened their bones. Their runny corpses, which were becoming more and more liquid by the second, tumbled down the slope and through the floor's hole. They left gleaming streaks of molten metal, lubricating the trap. Pushed into it by the crowd, Astartes of all allegiances came sliding down it. They scrambled for grips on the wet metal as they slid, rapidly gaining speed.

Gradually, the Berzerkers found that they had less and less people to slaughter.

The Mantis Warrior Captain, Audir, was pressed up against the wall along with three of his men. For a few seconds, they were able to hold the Berzerkers back. Someone hurled a frag grenade at Audir's feet. It went off, obscuring them in a cloud of smoke and debris. They fired blindly, unwilling to accept their own imminent deaths. A Berzerker without a helmet sunk his metal teeth into Audir's throat. Audir thrashed in the Berzerker's grip, reaching for a bolter pistol. Pressed up against a wall, his right arm was impaled to it by a clumsy swing of a chainaxe. With his remaining arm, Audir choked the Berzerker on his throat.

Vladimir was found cowering under a corpse. Before he could be killed, Qul knocked away any nearby Berzerkers. In his words, he had a special plan for Vladimir.

When all was said and done, the bridge was choked with smoke and slicked with blood. Corpses lined the floor, alongside broken machinery. At the bottom of the trap were close to twenty bodies. Some were reduced to molten slag. Others were still alive, their pained moaning forming a dreadful chorus.

"Vladimir," said Qul, holding up the broken warrior like ragdoll. "You lead the Bleak Brotherhood, correct?"

"Yes..." Vladimir swallowed. "Don't... don't kill me."

"Call off the Bleak Brotherhood. Tell them the battle is won. The Black Legion, in its incompetence, greatly overestimated the number of World Eaters. They were beaten back with ease, and the battle is over."

"Anything you say..." He tapped back to the spacehulk's channel. "Sevastian, we won. There were less World Eaters than we thought. They're all dead... so's the Black Legion. We killed 'em all. Yeah, I know. I guess we don't need those reinforcements. We'll deal with Abaddon later. Look, we won, and we'll deal with him later. It'll be years before news reaches him. Yeah. Listen, I've gotta deal with this right now. We've got to... erm... cement our control over the ship."

"Did he believe you?"

Vladimir looked into Qul's eyes. He saw a quivering body, its skin being torn off in ragged strips. "I don't know."

Another chapter yes? Can't believe the World Eaters made it to the bridge, who would of thought they would have made it that far.

Now to the bat mob-beil....um, the space hulk....what?...no I didn't, I definatly said space hulk the first time, I don't know what your talking about.

This was a great addition !

Agreed with warp angel.

Chapter Eleven
Empty Spaces

Qul curled his long, almost talon-like fingers around the collar of Vladimir's armor. Each joint was twisted and knobby, the flesh having been wracked by Qul's daemon ascension. Below, in the pit at the center of the bridge, dying Astartes moaned. Their dreadful chorus was laced by the clicking of broken machinery and the crackling of flames; the siren song of chaos.

With slow ponderous steps attesting to his great bulk, Qul ascended Markov's dais. Gleaming blood ran down its steps. He dragged Vladimir along the way, seemingly oblivious to the Bleak Brother's crippled form banging against each step. Vladimir's gore-soaked cape trailed him.

The throne was broken, its backrest shattered the mechanics within encrusted with viscera. Qul tensed his arm, dark veins flaring on his crimson skin. He raised Vladimir, and placed him on the throne.

"How much time do we have? Before the Bleak Brotherhood realizes how you've betrayed them?"

"I've done everything you said." Vladimir's voice swelled with resolve. "Don't kill me."

"I asked you a question, flesh-thing. If you don't answer,"said Qul, in a slow meticulous way. It felt so natural, slipping into the role of a complete and utter psychotic. "I might feed you to my World Eaters. Cut you up into little chunks, from the feet up."

Vladimir's eyes widened.

"Astartes' bodies are resilient," the Daemon Prince continued. "You'll be conscious for a long time. We'll make our way up through your crotch and up through your gut, and you'll still be wailing. You might still be gasping and choking until we hit your hearts. Now, I will repeat the question. How much time do we have?"

"Sevastian is a hardass. You don't have more than ten minutes before he gets suspicious. He's got tamed Genestealers, with shock-collars. He might already be sending them out, as scouts."

Qul turned to the crowd of assembled World Eaters. "Do you hear that? He's threatening us - with xenos."

"No! Wait! I was just... Gods, I was just answering the question!" Vladimir's voice was whining and tremulous.

"I don't like know-it-alls, Captain Vladimir. Especially ones who try to kill me and my men. Don't we think we blame anyone besides you for the losses sustained during the battle. So, don't correct me." Inwardly, Qul complemented himself on speaking in such a regal way, and using so many big-words. "Someone tell the corpse-dreadnought, Kaalek, to take anyone who'll follow him and seal off the Valiant's ports. Be quick. We have twenty minutes."

"Erm... my Lord... it's... ten minutes," Vladimir said.

"DON'T SPEAK FOR ME," Qul said. His hand curled into a fist, his knuckles going a pale white and his nails digging bloody gouges into his palms. Belying his great bulk, his fist struck like a viper. Markov's throne was reduced to heap of rubble, and Vladimir was sent tumbling down the opposite side of the dais. Cracks cobwebbed up his bones as he fell, and already broken armorplating buckled in. Vladimir's shattered ribcage tore into his lungs.

"Someone check to see if he's dead. Someone else, gather up mortals. Get a new crew, find out if they can fly the ship." He looked down at the hole blown in the floor, and the broken machinery choked with corpses. "We might need to repair the bridge."

Hooves clicked in one of the bridge's entrances. Silhouetted by the flames lingering behind him, a tall figure approached. "Actually," it drawled, in a wet burbling way. "We don't need to repair the bridge or assemble a mortal crew."

It made it way to the dais. The thing looked like it might've been a Black Legionnaire, though it was almost impossible to tell. Its flesh and armor were one and the same. "I am the Half Mad, and I am not exaggerating when I say that I am the greatest navigator who ever lived. If we try to fly away from the spacehulk using conventional means, its turrets will destroy the Valiant. Fortunately, I am an expert in flying using unconventional means. The ship's warp-drives still work, albeit at 38% capacity. I can cut into the warp without a trace; the Bleak Brotherhood won't know what hit them."

Accompanying the Half Mad was a World Eater, one that Qul didn't recognize. An axe was held against his waist by a chain belt, and it clattered annoyingly against his thigh with each step. "You," said Qul, pointing towards him. "Is that thing lying?"

The World Eater shrugged.

"Unlike most navigators, the warp is a second-home to me. I can take you anywhere, without one stop or one moment of rest. Though it may be a long journey, I assure you that I will make it faster than any other navigator ever has or will.

"Vladimir's dead," said a Berzerker, hunched over the Bleak Brother's corpse. "Heart's stopped. Lungs too."

"We ought to go to Terra," one Berzerker shouted out. "Tear down the Imperial Palace a second time."

"We'll all be killed," another said. "Either the Imperium has won and they will kill us, or Abaddon has won and he will kill us."

"Since when have we feared death?"

"Death to the false Emperor!"

"No, death to the false Warmaster!"

"Tyranids! The galaxy is our prize! Ours to defile, ours to destroy! We must fight-"

"-disciples of Slaanesh, Khorne's true enemy-"

"The Red Angel will return at Terra's fall-"

"Conquer the spacehulk! Butcher the Bleak Brotherhood! Kill them-"

"SILENCE!" Qul's deep voice resonated through the bridge. All noise was extinguished. Even the moaning of the dying ceased. "The galaxy is swarming with our prey, and we have all the time in the world to harvest their skulls. My first priority, and therefore yours too, is reforging the World Eaters Legion. Until that task is completed, we are too weak to have any meaningful impact on the galaxy. We must reforge our Legion."

"Then," someone said. "Where do we go?"

Qul grinned. "The Eye. We return to the Eye."

"We are not fleeing again!" a World Eater cried. "We mustn't return to the Eye!"

Another World Eater had started shouting. "Khorne demands bloodshed. We must claim more skulls. We must-"

"-would be to admit defeat!"

Qul decided to step in, before the crowd grew too unruly. "Your whining is beginning to irritate me. We return to the Eye. We establish an outpost on a daemon world, where we repair the ship and assemble a mortal crew. We seek out any other World Eater warbands, and assimilate them into our own. Then, and only then, do we make our way towards Terra."

"Khorne demands-"

"I said, your whining is beginning to irritate me. Shut up, or I'll crack open your pelvis like wishbone, tie your spine in knots, skin your face, and eat your eyes."

I LOVE THIS, I'm on the edge of my seat waiting for more.

Very well written, I hunger for more!

Agree with the above !

So good! Better with every re read!

Awesome additions LL (had some catching up to do) I am very curious on Half-Mad's actions...Will it be just as planned? Or will he meet a horrible end and Tzeencth will say just as planned? I only wonder...

Oh my, this was well worth the wait. Well done LL

Three weeks later, the bridge was choked with mortals.

They had pale and recently shaven scalps, giving the bridge the appearance of a chemotherapy ward. When they grinned, they showed mouths full of pointed teeth. Under the World Eater's direction, each tooth had been filed down to the point of lethal sharpness. The metal files had gone an ugly shade of scarlet-brown, from grinding through so many nerves. Spiderwebs were tattooed about their bodies, crawling up their spines and building up around their sunken eyes. They were tattooed on in crude imitation of Qul's dark veins, which flared whenever the Daemon Prince grew angry. This happened a great deal.

Qul sat atop Markov's dais, his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees, like the daemonic shadow of a monk in meditation.

"Society," said Qul, in a droning and ponderous voice. "Is based around the manipulation of men by women."

He took in a deep breath. His breastplate, which had become fused with his ribs, rose in a sickly organic way. "Women manipulate, break down, and emasculate men, and are rewarded for this. Women are allowed to strike us without retribution. We're expected to care for them, free of charge, and pamper them like children. All they do in return is break us down, whittling us down into nothing."

"Lord Qul speaks the truth!" shouted a mortal, overcome by fervor. Qul allowed it.

"How does this happen, you may ask," the Daemon Prince continued. "How did men fall into this role, where we work endlessly and women reap all the reward? The answer is simple enough; withholding pleasure. Women withhold sex and use it as a bargaining chip; that's how they gain control. They conspire with our own balls against us!" Qul's eyes took on a terrible intensity. Each pupil looked like the blackened ruin of a world, wreathed in the crimson flame of his iris and hanging in the pale sky. Forked veins arced about the whites of his eyes, in the fashion of lightning.

"This cannot be allowed. We will not be manipulated and brought low by temptresses and sluts! As such, we are forced to take... drastic measures. This vessel houses thirty thousand mortals, maybe more. Half of them are women. All of them are to repent for their crimes, and then made ugly, so that they may never seduce a man again. We have acid, fire, nails, lye, and knives aboard the ship. All of them are at your disposal. Those women who do not repent - kill them."

Chapter Twelve
Writing On The Wall

The cables lining his eyesockets ached. They were rubbing the flesh were raw. Repeatedly, he tried to thrash his head. The rod holding his spine in place prevented him.

Living like this was impossible. Preserved on the verge of death, wallowing in his own cowardice. Depression was creeping up on Kaalek, and it was hard to bring himself to do more than brood in solitude. He couldn't forget how Qul had wronged him; he had to shake off this laze. Kaalek had to break free and Qul had to die.

Qul sat before him, evidently proud of his latest speech. The Daemon Prince ran his slimy tongue over his lips. "Dead-one," he said. "What did you think?"

It was eloquent, Kaalek lied. Very inspiring.

"That's good to hear. Some of my followers seemed excited. They were grinning and laughing, and seemed to enjoy it. That can't do. Pleasure is anathema to the Blood God," Qul explained. "This is a solemn occasion. We are righting a wrong that should've be righted long ago. The closest these men should come to pleasure is knowing that they did something right today. Those men - the ones who enjoy it - they'll need weeding out."

Is that why you called me here?

The computers slaved to his dreadnought body calibrated fixed a targeting reticle onto Qul's unarmored throat. He didn't dismiss it. His autocannons were already loaded and on target. All he had to do was give them the go-ahead.

"No, I can handle that myself. I'll find some World Eaters, no more than nine or ten, and have them executed. I'll accuse them of 'taking a sexual thrill from violence'. It'll show the mortals that even Astartes can die for feeling pleasure, and that they best watch themselves."

You're going to kill your own loyal men, because some of the mortals who obey you aren't following your orders for the right reasons?

"Brilliant, isn't it? Now, onto why I called you here." There was something infuriating about the flecks of spit clinging to Qul's upper lip. It seemed to speak for all the Daemon Prince's degeneracy and insanity. "I'm going to reforge the World Eaters Legion. I figured that I ought to have some perspective on how a Legion is run; how the Red Angel did it. I want to learn from his mistakes."

He was brilliant, but unstable. While I was a Lord, I often watched him design ingenious plans, only to abandon them on the moment of battle. His temper always got the better of him.

"Go on."

Kaalek wasn't entirely sure what else to say. He was a very distant commander. Even to his appointed Captains, Commanders, and Lords. Often times, we didn't know what to make of his orders. He was very vague.

The ensuing silence lingered for what felt like an eternity.

"Is that it?" Qul finally said. "I thought you were close to him?"

The truth is, the Red Angel scarcely ran the World Eaters at all. He made battle-plans he rarely followed, gave out vague and meaningless titles, and left the day-to-day work to the Captains and Lords beneath him. The Administratum called our Legion a bureaucratic nightmare during the Great Crusade.

"You do him a great deal of disrespect."

I don't deny his brilliance, nor his strength. He was a great man. But to deny his flaws, his failures, and his short-comings would do the truth a great deal of disrespect.

"Do you know," said the Daemon Prince, pausing to let out a long sigh. "Why he left us?"

Everyone knows. We lost at Armageddon.

"We lost at Terra and Skalathrax too. It doesn't make sense."

It was a rare moment of insight, and one that ever-so-slightly impressed Kaalek. Most World Eaters seldom thought to ask questions, especially brutes like Qul. I can only speculate. When the Emperor found the Red Angel, his gladiators were slain and he was utterly alone. There was no one else like him, with the psycho-surgery that is. He created us in his visage and he gave us the Butcher's Nails so that he wouldn't be alone... He hated himself. At Armageddon, our failures reminded him too much of himself. The similarity was too strong to bear. He fled, leaving everything behind. I suspect he killed himself.

Qul seemed to take the news well. "Disturbing," he said, in a matter-of-fact way. "That will be all, dead-one."





What are you writing? Kaalek asked.

Hael stood atop a metal crate, chisel in one hand and hammer in the other. He was leaning against Kaalek's form, impassioned chiseling something onto the Dreadnought's broad shoulder.

"Poem." Without pause, he recited it.

Blood jets from a throat
Explosions bloom in pale flesh
Give praise to Lord Qul

One of Qul's mortals was kneeling before the Dreadnought's left foot, sharpening its toes into claws. The other toes had already been sharpened. A mortal stood up near Kaalek's knee, painting a horned and screaming flame onto it. They scampered about him like parasites. A third mortal stood on Kaalek's chest, welding on brass spikes. He was being fashioned into something gaudy and terrifying.

I do not think that Lord Qul would appreciate poetry, he boomed.

"The Blood God is the Lord of Wrath. His domain is rage, and the expression of it," Hael said. "Poetry is just as much a vent for rage as bloodshed is."

You are just as terrible a poet as you are a World Eater. I regret saving your life.

"Saving my life?" repeated Hael, still furiously pounding away with the chisel.

The dent in my chest; Lord Qul struck me when I prevented him from killing you. By the time he was finished with me, he had forgotten all about killing you.

"Don't remember that."

The world has gone insane, and I am powerless to stop it.

Hael stopped chiseling. "You were a terrible commander. You allowed us to be enslaved by the Black Legion and kept in cages like animals. You have no right to judge Lord Qul!" he snarled. "When you were overthrown, no one objected. Not one World Eater objected to having a new leader. What does that say about you?"

It says that the World Eaters Legion has abandoned any pretense of sanity.

"No one listens to you, because you have nothing worth saying. All you do is complain, never offer any solutions. You had the opportunity to lead and you failed." Kaalek pivoted on his waist axis, throwing his shoulder at Hael. The World Eater took the impact badly. He sent sprawling to the floor, his backpack taking the brunt of the impacted. "Go ahead," Hael said. "Kill me, and Qul will tear you open and eat what's left of your corpse. I'm one of his chosen."

And I was wondering when we would read more It seems that Kaalek went from insane to sane in that Dread...Extremely interesting LL

And as always you kept me hooked until the last sentence.

Mhhmm perhaps more individuals in 40k would beneift from becoming a Dread? Well done.

I am beaming with joy, rebuild the World Eaters Lord Qul!

A chosen for what I wonder? nice lead on to the next chapter.

Very nice I love it, more of the same please.

Chosen? Kaalek snarled. The words were rendered flat and toneless by his body's deafening speaker.

"I am Lord Regent Hael! I answer to no one, save Lord Qul himself!" whined Hael, his voice undoubtedly higher than he'd have liked it to be. "I'm his 2nd-in-command."

The metal sarcophagus kept Kaalek cold and detached, as distant as he could be from the world around him. It deprived him of any passion. That was why he didn't have the strength to kill Qul. That was why he never had the strength to take a stand against the darkness all around him.

Hael's words reminded him of something. They reminded him of a time when he was more flesh than machine, and he led over degenerates like Qul rather than taking orders from them. Hael's meaningless new title - it was something that the Red Angel would give out. Rage flooded him. The Red Angel, the World Eaters' genefather, who hated them. Who abandoned them. Who abandoned him.

That memory was the spark he needed.

Kaalek's old strength returned.






"Mortal, write this down," the Daemon Prince said. "I've been thinking."

"Yes, my lord." The hunched and blindfolded creature at Qul's side removed a fresh piece of parchment from his satchel. It retrieved a quill too, which it dipped in a small pot of blood.

"Upon returning to the Eye, our first priority is to establish a daemon world. With the 13th Black Crusade, the Eye shouldn't be as crowded. Not as much competition. If Cadia truly is destroyed, then we can expect entire systems of ghost worlds. Our next priority is to meet up with other warbands. Again, if Cadia's gone, most will be gone. The only ones we can expect to be there for certain are the Skulltakers of Hans Kho'ren, who are too busy fighting the forces of Slaanesh, and the Bloodkings. Arkraghar leads the Bloodkings, and he's spent the past five thousand years trying to take Skalathrax from the Emperor's Children. He won't leave the Eye until he has it. And he'll never have it," dictated Qul. "You got all that?"

The hunched thing was quick to answer. "Yes, my lord." It sounded like it was speaking from a mouth full of dirt.

"The Skulltakers will be quick to follow me. Hans Kho'ren follows only the Blood God himself, and I'm one of the Blood God's favored. He made me a Daemon Prince after all. The Bloodkings... Arkraghar is insane. He rides a Defiler, and fights with a daemon blade in each hand. He might take some... encouragement to serve me. He can't be trusted either. Write that down. Never trust him."

"Yes, my lord."

The bridge had eight entrances. A few mortals, and no more than one or two Berzerkers were stationed at each entrance. At one of the entrances, Qul could hear the snarling of armored joints and the rhythmic pounding of a Dreadnought's ponderous steps. Wonder what the dead-one wants, Qul thought.

"Lord Qul is not taking visitors now," a Berzerker said, having been carefully trained to parrot that phrase.

Move out of the way.

"Lord Qul is not taking visitors now."

"Ooh," Qul said. "Slave, write down everything that happens here. Everything."

MOVE OUT OF THE WAY.

The twin barrels of Kaalek's autocannon barked furiously. The gunfire almost drowned out the sounds of bullets ripping through flesh, and dying men screaming. Berzerkers and mortals alike from every other entrance rushed towards the commotion. All the while, the autocannon kept barking. The mortals were cut down with shameful ease. With the Berzerkers it was a different story.

Qul heard the roaring of the Dreadnought's flamer, and the loud thrumming of a charging powerfist. Whirring chainaxes screeched against Kaalek's metal haul. Berzerkers were sent hurtling through the air by Kaalek's mechanical strength, their armor scorched and blackened from his powerfist's intense heat. Stray bolterfire resounded through the bridge. The fighting seemed to ease down, finally ending with the wet crunch of the very last Berzerker taking a powerfist to the head.

Kaalek walked inside.

He looked different. He'd been adorned with all sorts of brass spikes and trophy poles. Screaming skulls, flaming worlds, and roaring daemons had been painted onto him. The images were half drowned in blood. Apparently, the men he'd just slain had bled a great deal. The Dreadnought's visor reminded Qul of a narrowed and unblinking eye.

"Come here to die a second time?" said Qul. He chuckled out his own wit.





The targeting computers were sluggish. Thrown off by the disorienting melee, they calibrated with infuriating slowness. They weren't locking onto Qul, like they should've been. So be it, Kaalek decided. He'd just stall until the computers could recover.

I'm afraid you'll need new guards. I may have accidentally killed all of them.

"They're all very disposable creatures. Their deaths will be no great loss."

They died fighting for you.

"So they did," Qul said. "Now, dead-one, what do you want?"

The Daemon Prince was looking down from his dais. Markov's blood ran down the steps before him, a grim reminder of his temper. With his head low, angled towards Kaalek, his chin was obscuring too much of his throat. It was too small of a target for the computers to lock onto.

It's raining.

Quizzically, Qul looked up. Eyes fixed on the bridge's ceiling, he said, "Idiot, it can't-"

A solid-slug duramite round tore through Qul's throat. He fell back, his head jerking to a side. Another round blew his adam's apple off. The hunched slave at Qul's side was misted with oily daemon blood. Three shots pinged off his breastplate. A fourth was sent loudly ricocheting by Qul's massive pauldron. Two more took him by the face, compacting themselves against the Daemon Prince's reinforced bone.

Qul was sent tumbling down the dais' opposite side. Not taking a moment to recover, he scampered around the dais' top, moving about on four limbs. It would've been a lie to say he crawled; rather, he hurtled himself towards Kaalek in a series of leaping bounds. Whenever his claws touched the ground they tore ugly gouges in the dais' steps, tearing away the black paint and revealing the dull metal beneath.

As soon as he saw Qul, Kaalek was moving. He began stepping back, each step slow and ponderous. Though carefully coordinated movements of his waist axis and his arm's shoulder pivot, he tracked the Daemon Prince with his autocannon. The weapon blazed away, its twin barrels home to a continuous streak of heat and metal.

Qul's face was locked in a teeth-baring snarl. Pain and fury had tensed every muscle to the point of paralyzation. If it weren't for the movement in his eyes, he would've seemed lifeless. He caught the barrel of the cannon and wrenched it downwards. The spear-length barrels bent like cheap spoons. Already, Kaalek was angling his flamer towards Qul. With a screaming roar, it let loose a torrent of liquid fire. It drowned Qul, flooding his face's every orifice. The creeping flames soaked into his eyes and ran into his mouth.

It was at that moment that Kaalek saw the last thing he would ever see.

A Daemon Prince's gnarled claw, wreathed in flame, reaching for him.

Qul punched through Kaalek's visor. There was a tremendous outpouring of amniotic fluid as his sarcophagus emptied itself. He could feel it rushing past him. His cracked and broken flesh was already starting to feel dry. Overcome by rage, he threw his powerfist in Qul's general direction. It stopped moving in mid-air, and lost all sensory input past the elbow. His legs were still functioning, so he did the only thing he could do; he ran. There was a resounding thump when his body hit Qul. Evidently, he hadn't been expecting it.

His left shin plate buckled; he lost all sensory input to his left ankle and foot. Hopefully Qul was dying too. Again, he threw himself forward.

Kaalek fell.

Something caught him by his broken chest. The cracked and burnt ceramite tore like cheap paper. He landed on his back's exhaust vent, which promptly ruptured. His sarcophagus began to feel with thick smoke. It tinged the cracks running along his body, and it choked his rasping throat. The bionics in his chest, still running like clockwork, forced him to keep breathing. He took in one deep breath of smoke after another.

"Dead-one," said a half-drowned voice. "Rot in the warp."

Amazing as always LoneLictor.

Yay, I got my deul on the bridge with Qul and the Dread! What a shame Dread, better luck next time, oh wait you can't because your F.U.B.A.R.!

Very nice descriptions, I liked it all very much. More, I must have more.

END KAALEK. NO MORE KAALEK! traitorous scum..

this was a great additionn !

Indeed it was a great one. Too bad for Kaalek I started to like the dude...

Qul was angrier than usual.

He was angry because Kaalek was dead, and the pain hadn't gone away. The Dreadnought's smoldering corpse lay before him, and his wounds still ached. Ash had been rubbed into his blistered and crackling flesh. Tongues of flame had licked at his eyes.

He was angry because as his body made its pain-filled recovery, as it regrew itself over a long span fever blurred days, he still hurt. The wounds sealed themselves, and even the scar tissue faded. The pain refused to.

Qul was angry because, for all his strength, part of him would always lie in Kaalek's grip, drowning in flames.

Chapter Thirteen
Behind These Cold Eyes

Scyrak the Slaughterer, they called him. Scyrak the Mad.

He held the beast's reins in a lax grip, allowing it a degree of rest. The beast crawled about on six multijointed and steel plated limbs, each of which ended in an almost ball-like fusion of a claw and foot. Its back was a grated sheet of iron, boxed in by a fence of skull-bearing trophy poles. Its underbelly was a solid mass of charcoal black engines, furious pistons, clanking gears, and exposed circuitry. A long appendage, running with segmented cables, emerged from the creature's rear, and curled like a scorpion's tail. Instead of a poisoned stinger, it bore a twin barreled lascannon.

At the front of the creature was a great horned xenos skull, the closest thing it would ever have to a face. An organic tongue rolled out from its learing maw, glistening with oily hydraulics and machine sweat. Flanking the skull were two gargantuan limbs, each one ending in a blood slicked pincer.

Scyrak stood on the Beast's back, reins in hand, as the beast made its way towards the bridge. Imperials knew it as a 'defiler'. Scyrak, on the other hand, just called it the Beast. No other name seemed to fit.

It shifted slightly, glancing towards a prison tube. Held in a capsule of glass, a naked Astartes of the Emperor's Children writhed. His beautiful, chiseled form was marred with all sorts of scars. Each day, Scyrak's attendants took something new away from the Slaanesh enthralled freak. First, he'd lost his eyes. Then his hands. Then his ears. He was already close to cracking. By the time they reached his genitalia, he'd tell Scyrak everything. If not - he wasn't the only prisoner. There were plenty of others, still awaiting their own torment.

Scyrak wrenched on the Beast's reins, guiding it back towards the bridge. It had committed no crime; the only thing it'd done was glance at the prisoner. But Scyrak knew better than to treat the Beast with any semblance of kindness or mercy. Give a daemon an inch, he thought. And it'll take a mile.






This is Scyrak.

The other World Eaters can claim disadvantaged backgrounds and impoverished upbringings. Not him. He was born to a powerful noble, and raised in a luxury. From the 203rd floor complex of his parent's estate, he could look out the window and see a whole world of shoeshiners, doormen, waiters, secretaries, and beggars beneath him. Scyrak was raised to be his father's heir, and keep his family's name alive.

As of now, he doesn't even remember his family's name, though he is fairly certain that it started with an 'H'.

The World Eaters started using his family's homeworld as a recruiting ground. At age twelve, Scyrak was in exceptional shape, one of the strongest and tallest children the recruiters had ever seen. He was taken. It was an occasion of mixed blessing for his family. On the one hand, it was a great honor to have a children in the Adeptus Astartes. It demonstrated that one's family had superior health, and was free of any genetic taint. On the other hand, it meant that the World Eaters were taking little Scyrak away.

His family was rich. They could afford Astropathic messages to the World Eater's fleet, and pull political strings so that Scyrak could receive them.

He passed the trials and became a scout. After only six months in service, he was promoted to the rank of Slaughter Brother, and became a true Astartes. That was when he received the Butcher's Nails; the neurological implant responsible for the World Eaters Legion being known as Berzerkers, not soldiers. His family still kept in touch with him, even as his responses to their messages became less and less frequent. Angron displaced his father, and the Legion displaced his siblings. As for his mother, he'd never particularly even cared for her.

They stopped sending messages when the Horus Heresy broke out. By that point, Scyrak was a Sergeant.

A year into the heresy, one of his family's political enemies learned of their traitor son. He (illegally) accessed the messages they had sent him and found that many were sent during the World Eaters' descent into Chaos. Of course, Scyrak's family didn't know this. They were brought to court, where a judge found them guilty of conspiring with traitors. His father was executed, as was the man he dictated the messages to. His relatives were stripped of their titles and wealth.

When Scyrak learned of this, he didn't particularly care.

From as early on as he can remember, Scyrak has been different from others. People connect with him, but he never connects back. He never feels concerned with their well-being. Why should he? They're just maggots beneath his feet. The closest he's come to ever bonding with someone is wanting something from them.

Love is completely and utterly alien to him.

Anger though. That makes sense. There are plenty of things to be angry about. Scyrak can be angry that he doesn't have enough men beneath him. He can be angry that the Blood God has denied him of Daemon Princedom, after all of his successes on the battlefield. He can be angry that the Imperium still stands.

This is why Scyrak is such a dangerous foe. He feels no attachment, not even towards his genebrothers of the World Eaters. He feels no remorse, not even towards any of the great deal of warcrimes committed during his long career. His conscious is free from such things.

This is why Qul is going to regret dealing with him.

I am now your mortal enemy! I will miss the dread, but your skull will adorne my wall!

Yeah I liked the dread to, he was almost likeable, ah well least we got a new character and a new direction for the story.

Who is this fell rider that rides upon the beast of midnight black like a twisted night of old.
Who is he to defile the Imperium that has stood for 10,000 years and gave gift to his once noble form.
Who is he to deny the Emperor' vengeance to his flesh.
I will smite him if he ventures forth into my domain and my blade shall thirst from his blood.

Captain Evander 3rd Company of The Panthers Claws .

You will all fall before the migth of the Adeptus Mech! And ona more serious note. Well told LL, you really set a highy benchmark for us to jump after with this story

Very true^

Fantastically done. Subscribed!

More soon please.

It was a tremendous show of bravado on the Eldar's part, to meet him there.

He wore dusky grey robes, ones that seemed to flow about his form. His chest and shoulders were armored with shining obsidian plate, giving him an almost beetle-like appearance. Sharp edged runes, the color of bone, ran about the armor. Crimson gems, embedded into the metal, glowed softly in the bridge's dank light. The Eldar's helmet was tall and sloped, with a flowing mane of black hair and a bone colored faceplate. It stared at Scyrak, glass eyes narrowed and unblinking.

The Eldar stood on the bridge of Scyrak's ship, the Pureheart, surrounded by snarling and rasping Berzerkers.

"Monkeigh," the Eldar said at long last. It spoke slowly and carefully. "What brought you to call on me?"

Scyrak didn't like the awkward way it spoke. "I have a deal for you," he said.

"What kind of a deal?"

"Slaanesh is eating your souls, and you wear those things," said Scyrak, gesturing to the stone in the Eldar's chest. "To stave her off. Now, take it off."

Scyrak could hear the agitation and, more than that, fear in the Eldar's voice. "I can't."

"Eldar live a long time. Almost as long as us Legionnaires. You've lost it before, haven't you? Just for a little bit. Maybe you took a shot to the chest and it fell off, or maybe you were changing your clothes and you were careless. You didn't die; Slaanesh didn't get you. But you could feel her. Couldn't you? Now. Take it off."

"I can't," the Eldar repeated, voice steeled by resolve. "This is a sacred matter, of my kin. You show great disrespect."

"If you don't take it off, we'll destroy it." Scyrak placed a hand on his holstered boltpistol. Neither quickly nor slowly, he drew the weapon and held it up, barrel fixed on the stone. "I'll shoot straight through it. Take out your heart and soul in one shot."

The Eldar took in a deep breath and exhaled slow. He undid a clasp just above the stone, and let the stone fall into his hand.

There was a lingering silence.

Then, the Eldar spoke. "I don't feel it."

Scyrak laughed, deep and heartily. He rested a gauntlet on the Eldar's shoulder. "You can put it back in now. Or leave it out, if you like. It doesn't matter. Slaanesh can't reach you here. This is a sacred place, where the Blood God's power waxes strong. You see the flesh climbing up the walls? That's his flesh. You see the eyes in the ceiling, and the veins in the floor? Those are all his. Do you see my own World Eaters, with their flesh armor and their clawed hands and their cloven hooves? That is the Blood God's touch. The Blood God is Slaanesh's greatest enemy, and where he is strong, she is weak."

"We, my kin, have heard such things," the Eldar admitted.

"Well, I can give you something that's been blessed by the Blood God himself. His mere presence deters Slaanesh," Scyrak said.

"His?"

"Yes, his. He'd Daemon Prince, by the name of Qul. He's recently contacted me. We're going to have some sort of meeting, on the Tailstun Plateau of Skalathrax. Remember that. Because, I'm going to give you Qul's head on a plate," explained the World Eater. "I'm giving you this information, so that you can set up an ambush for him. I suggest taking him alive. I doubt his corpse will be worth much. All I want, in return, is for you to leave his ship and his men intact. I'm taking those for myself."

"We, my kin, will have to deliberate, on such matters. We do not like to... consort, with beings of kaos. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely. That being said, I'm not finished. Using him, you can die naturally. Now, I haven't tested this, but I believe that, by drinking his poison blood, you just die. Slaanesh doesn't get to claim your souls."

"Yes, but my kin must deliberate. I am not certain if we will, appreciate the Blood God's interference in our lives. Many of my kin protested this meeting. They, my kin, may not wish to meddle with kaos."

"Absolutely," Scyrak said. "But I assure you, you won't regret this."

I didnt see the eldar coming into this... should be cool to see where this goes.

 Warp Angels wrote:
I didnt see the eldar coming into this... should be cool to see where this goes.

Nobody sees the eldar coming.

Can't wait to see where this is going.

The tale takes a new twist, I like it.

Well done, now shed some Eldar blood!

Excellent addition m8! Keep it up!

Can't wait for more!