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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.