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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.