Hello everyone !

Just finished Vengeful Spirit by Graham McNeil. It is good. That's all I can say without spoiling it for you.

Here is another chapter of the Forsaken Sons' story. In this one, I am trying something a little different, but I will return to more 'classic' chapters after.

I would like to thank the following people for their reviews :

Heir of the Void : glad that it pleased you. And yes, that was the purpose of the Storm. By the time it dies off, the Sons will be ready to survive in the newly-reformed Imperium of Man.

Killerison : thank you ! I will keep this story going for a long time, I think.

Lightning King : Yes, character development for Chaos characters is something a bit lacking in Warhammer 40k fiction. They are mostly used as one-dimensionnal villains - and, well, it makes sense, because they are villains. Still, there are books about them, like the Night Lord serie by ADB and the Word Bearers by Ben Counter.

Well, that's it for now. I will see you again at the end of the chapter !

When the warp-storm hit the Mulor system, it made its arrival known in the typical fashion of all things that hail from the Empyrean : in screams and death. Millions died in the first hours, and many more in the following weeks.

The astropaths aboard the ship Lover of the Moon died in agony when daemons ripped them apart from within. The ship, that had carried food from the agri-world to the hives of Mulor Prime and Secundus, was lost to the creatures of the Warp, the agony of its crew fueling the tempest. In the hive-cities, ten million people would suffer the throes of famine as the supplies they needed never arrived.

The few ships that the system still had for its defence were lost when hundred of crew members went crazy and detonated the Warp engines of their ships, weakening the veil between reality and the Empyrean even further.

On the forge-world C2746-DSS885, or Mulor Tertius as the Administratum called it, a single line of randomized code suddenly gained self-awareness, and began to spread to all systems of the planet, causing entire forges to stop working and two of them to explode. Dozens of servitors had their program overwritten by the anomaly, and began to attack the tech-priests who were already faltering from the scrap code assaults on their own systems.

In the hives of the twin hive-worlds, nightmares plagued the people, driving them to insanity and causing riots that set entire districts in flames. The earth shook under the hold of the Empyrean's powers, sending towering buildings to the ground. The Arbites sent to restore order were met by thousand of crazed rioters, screaming unholy words and brandishing primitive weapons. The governors decreted martial law, and sent the PDF troopers to quell the rebellion. Soon, reports came back of entire platoons of Arbites and PDF joining the madness, starting to kill everything they came across.

The Mulor system had been spared the worst of the war between Horus and the Emperor. They had sent soldiers to help the Imperial war effort, but the people hadn't seen any battle themselves.

That peace was over.

Lord Governor Valens Tarsis, ruler of Mulor Prime, once General of the 147th Libertis Regiment, was a man who had fought many wars during his time in the Guard. He had fought for the Imperium in the Great Crusade as part of the 742th Expeditionary Fleet, alongside a Company of the Iron Hands. He had helped the Astartes to free the people of the Mulor system from their tyrannic overlords, establishing instead the reign of the Imperial Truth. The wounds he had suffered in the final assault on the overlords' stronghold, however, had meant the end of his military career. He had lost his right leg and arm in the explosion of his command Chimera, and the right side of his skull had been so horribly damaged that only the personnal intervention of the Iron Hands' Apothecary (or Iron Priest, as he had called himself) had saved the old soldier's life. But the heavy augmentics he now wore in replacement were mainly focused on keeping him alive, not making him able to fight again. Other generals would have kept their command, but Valens believed that a commander ought to be able to fight at his men's side if he wanted to be worthy of their obedience, and he had resigned from his prestigious position. In return, he had been granted governorship of the world he had freed, and had ruled it since then for almost a century. The augmentics and juvenat treatments meant that he was still as physcally fit that he had ever been since he had been crippled, and his mind was as sharp and unforgiving as it had ever been. Valens 'Iron Teeth' Tarsis wasn't exactly loved by his people, but they did respect him.

'What in the name of bloody Terra is that supposed to mean ?!'

The Governor's iron fist crushed on the table, sending cracks on the priceless marble. The communication officer who had just delivered him his report looked at him, visibly intimidated.

'The … the PDF are formal, my Lord. Some of the troops we sent to quell the riots have joined the rebels. They … they said that the men in question looked … "possessed" '.

'I heard you the first time,' grunted Valens. Seeing the man cringe, he sighed. 'That was a rhetorical question, don't worry about it. Stay focused on what's actually important. Do we have any news of the squads sent to retake control of the Astra Telepathica's tower ?'

'Only a few words in the last hour,' answered another operative. 'We cannot establish a stable vox-liaison with them … but it doesn't seem to be going well. Should I send them reinforcements ?'

The Governor pondered the question for a few seconds. He had taken command of all military forces on the planet when the Warp storm had hit them, but he didn't have much to work with. The Arbites and the PDF, alongside his own honor guard from his old regiment … all in all, he had perhaps twenty thousand soldiers. On a planet that supported ten billions people, that was but a drop in an ocean of potential rioters, but the world's compliance had gone without an hitch once the tyrannic dynasties had been toppled, the people acclaiming their liberators. They had seen no reason to leave behind a strong complement of troops, and the regiments that had been raised from the world had long been sent to help the Imperium.

So, as much as he hated the idea of letting his men die, Valens couldn't afford to spread his troops even more thinly. On the other hand, if the few reports they had about the tower were correct, preventing the situation there from worsening could very well be the most important battle on the entire world. Valens didn't believe in daemons, but he had heard reports of the horrors unleashed by the Architraitor Horus and his servants during what was coming to be called the Heresy …

The Governor took his decision. Turning his glance to another operator, he said in a stern voice :

'Send this message to the artillery : the tower of the Astra Telepathica is to be considered lost to the enemy and impossible to salvage. Raze it to the ground.'

'But, my lord, we have soldiers inside the tower !'

'And I fear that they will be grateful we give them a quick death. Do it!'

The operator turned back to transmit the Governor's order. Valens knew full well what he had just ordered. Without astropaths, even when the Warp storm ended, they would still be cut off from the rest of the Imperium. He would have to hope that some of the private psykers used by the richest nobles on Mulor Prime would survive the chaos …

Wait. What was that, in the sky ? Wasn't that a trail of flame coming down, amidst the madness of the Storm ?

'Throne of Terra,' breathed Valens. 'These are drop-pods !'

'My Lord ?' asked one of the surrounding officers. 'What's wrong ?'

'Give me that auspex !' he shouted, ripping it off the man's hands. He pointed the engine toward the trail of fire, and magnified the image. Yes, these were Astartes drop-pods. A flare of hope rose in his chest. With the help of Space Marines, he could still save this situation. He could …

Valens Tarsis recognized the emblem on the falling crafts, and a cold hand tightened around his heart. This was the heraldy of the Sixteenth Legion, the greatest traitors of all.

The Sons of Horus had come, to avenge the death of their father at the Emperor's hands.

If the old man had known how wrong he was, he would have been even more worried.

I feel the Butcher's Nails scratching at my brain, sending surges of pain through my mind. This is Angron's gift and curse, and to bear it is to be a slave to the urge to kill. The crude implants can never be removed, and they gnaw at our brain, stimulating our bloodlust while suppressing all other pleasures and joys.

I see Alexandre before me, clapsed in the wall of the drop-pod. He is leader of my pack, for he is strong in battle. But he is a fool. I heard him challenge Arken's authority, and this enrages me. The Awakened One knows better than us how to wage war. Once, we could have planned it ourselves … but that was before the Eightfold Path, before the Nails … before Angron.

The Nails punish me for daring to doubt the one who gave me to them, but I cling to my thoughts stubbornly. It is difficult, more and more so as time passes. Constant pain has eroded my mind, and I know it. It is not a pleasing knowledge.

Only in battle can we find peace, only in blood can we find release. I remember Alexandre as he was once : a great commander, lord of a thousand of us. Look at him now : little more than an enraged beast, that must be contained by its master's will until it is time to unleash it. His warriors have splintered, forming the packs aboard the Hand of Ruin. This is what we have become … this is the Twelth Legion's new face.

The world below us is aflame with chaos and destruction, even before we first step foot on it. These animals have turned against each other in an heartbeat of the Empyrean. To think that we once thought for such cattle ...

My brothers think that we are being honored by being sent first, but they are naïve. I know why Arken sent us first. He wants to know if we can still be useful in spite of the rage that rules us now … if we can still be controlled. My squadmates and the other World Eaters deployed in this strike at the enemy's command force are a trial of our capability.

I do not want to be found wanting, but the Nails care nothing for Arken's designs. All they want is blood. Arken knows that. Sometimes I wonder if there is anything he does not know.

A drop-pod's fall isn't precise. We will crash away from our target, in the middle of a district filled with civilians. This is Arken's intent. Can we ignore the urge to kill long enough to find our prey ?

I do not know, but this will be interesting, at least.

Valens watched in mute horror as the drop-pods fell across his city. He had heard the reports about the Massacre of Isstvan, about the Heresy and how it had ended. But the Traitor Legions were supposed to have been pushed back into the Eye of Terror, trapped in that hellish realm ! How could they be here ?!

'My Lord,' said one of his guards. 'We need to get you to safety.'

Valens turned to the man.

'I will not abandon my people, soldier. They need me here to coordinate the battle.'

'These are Astartes, my Lord ! They are going to tear through our defences like paper. If you die, the planet will be lost !'

The man's words burnt with the acid of unwelcome truth. Only his authority had prevented the terrified Imperial forces to break apart. As much as the notion repugned him, he needed to escape or there would be no hope of mounting any resistance against the traitors.

'Then where you suggest we go ?'

'We need to leave the palace. If we can hide in the districts that have not yet fallen to the chaos, we can set up another base of operations. You ! Hurry up and take the portable vox ! We are leaving !'

Less than a minute later, Valens was led by his guards through one of the palace's evacuation tunnels. The imposing building had been constructed under the command of one of the dynasties of the pre-compliance era, and was ripe with such hidden ways. The one they were following would lead them to the cave of a bar in the neighbourhood, opposite to the point where the drop-pods had landed.

The drop-pod hits the ground, and the shock is enough to nearly knock me out. But the Nails won't let me fall unconscious, not when there is so much prey at hand. I can smell their fear; it is a scent that pleases my mechanical tyrants …

The doors open, and we are released. Arken has sent us all to this place ; he must hope that at last one of us will remember the orders he gave. That is smart of him.

I raise my chainaxe as I charge out, following Alexandre's lead. The weapon is in a perfect state : I have found out that maintaining my gear is one of the few activities that diminish the pain of the Butcher's Nails. Not a lot, but enough to make it bearable between the kills.

But now, it is time to spill blood. There are mortals around us, running away from the impact. Ignorant fools, no one runs from the World Eaters !

I am on them, my chainaxe bites into flesh, I tear them apart, I hear their screams of fear and pain, the taste of blood on my tongue is intoxicating …

NO ! I must stay in control ! I force down the rage, the fury. The pain redoubles, made even worse by the fact that I was almost free of it for a moment. The Eightfold Path demands me to kill, to abandon myself to the red veil's embrace, but I deny it. It is a futile struggle, and I know it. Many among the Legion tried to resist the changes wrought upon us by the Nails, but even an Astartes cannot live in endless torment without something breaking. In the end, those who do not die soon enough will become mindless beasts, capable only of killing and killing and killing and …

Stay. In. Control. Focus. On. The. Mission.

I look around myself, still wet in the blood of my victims, and find the scene I was expecting. Most of my brethren have lost control of themselves, and are indulging their bloodlust upon the helpless populace of this city. The wind brings me the scent of ashes and blood, and I can taste the power of the Warp in it. The Storm has touched this world too. It has driven the people of the slums insane, forcing them to kill to alleviate the pain … Just like us.

I am surprised to see that Alexandre, too, is still in control of himself. He looks at me, and each of us recognizes that the other is still sane. There is no time to waste, our quarry must already be running. We make our way toward the palace, ready to kill. There is only two of us at first, but more of the Astartes deployed follow us as we advance, drawn to us like sharks are drawn to blood as we tear apart the defenceless mortals that dare to stand in our way. My brothers know, on some primitive level, than following us will give them the opportunity to kill more worthy foes. That, too is an image of my Legion's future. I am glad I will not be here to see what happens to the bulk of the Twelth's forces in the Eye of Terror. Perhaps … perhaps they are already all dead, after killing each other while screaming to the skies of a warp-consumed world ? Perhaps we are all that remains of Angron's sons ?

The Nails tear at me, and I launch myself forward. There is a barricade before us, blocking the entrance of the castle, manned by human soldiers with las-guns. They see us charging them and they raise their weapons, shooting against us with no hope for their frail guns to hurt our power armor.

These are no cowards. They do not run, nor do they beg. I can taste their fear, its stench is overpowering, almost stronger than the smell of blood, and yet they do not break.

A commendable effort, but ultimately futile. I am on them in a second, and they are dead in the next. Alexandre is just behind me, and I can feel his gaze upon my back. It makes my scar aches, the one I suffered when we ran from Terra. It is a mark of shame among my brothers, to carry a scar on this part of your body.

There are whispers in the wind, over the tune of the Nails. That is the Warp speaking to me. I know better than to listen, of course, but they do not try to tempt or distract me. They are telling me where is our prey. It is trying to escape us, running away ? Why ? One who leads soldiers such as these should be ready to die at their side, should he not ?

I break from the rest of my brothers, letting them run toward the castle's center. Alexandre notices my move, but he makes no attempt to stop me. He must think I am giving in to the Nails, and searching for closer prey than our quarry … perhaps he is right. Perhaps the whispers are merely a trick of the Nails to make me break sooner. I do not know if that is the case. I do not even know if I care any more.

I walk through the corridors, no one standing in my path. The walls are covered in dried blood … the palace has been breached before. How long have the riots outside being going on ? Weeks ? Months ? I do not remember how long the journey lasted from Islea, and even if I did, it would not tell me how long this planet has been under the Storm.

The whispers lead me forward, and the pain of the Nails recedes as I follow. I am not sure I could stop following them now, even if I wanted. The relief from the pain is just … overwhelming.

I sense something on my right, and I hurl my chainaxe at it without a thought. There is only a wall on its path … but it collapses under my weapon, revealing a hidden way through the palace's walls.

The whispers turn into shouts, and I know that the quarry is there. I howl in answer to the voices of the Warp, and start running down the tunnel. The voices have led me here so that I may accomplish Arken's will … It seems my lord has the favour of the Octed.

That is what the whispers were : the voice of the Warp, driving me to my prey. The warp-born have taken hold of this planet, and in their grip all shall offer them skulls, be them their foes' or their own. It does not matter to the Eightfold Path.

All that matters to them is that blood keeps on flowing. The sons of Angron are devoted to fulfill this urge and now we do no longer have anything to restrain us. This is our purpose. This is our way. This is freedom : to kill anyone daring to oppose us, to unleash our fury against our foes, to …

To ...

No.

This is no "freedom".

This. Is. Slavery.

And I know, deep into my soul, that I will never be able to escape these chains.

The group stopped in its tracks when they heard the dreadful sound coming from behind them, quickly followed by the sound of ceramite boots hitting the ground in broad steps. The soldiers took position, half of them preparing to make a stand while the others forced the Governor to continue.

But Valens took a glance of the enemy before he was forced to start to run as well as his augmentics allowed him. It was a single towering giant in power armor, wielding a chainaxe and covered in blood. Despite the gore, Valens recognized the color pattern of the traitorous Astartes, white and blue, and his fears were made real as he confirmed what the fragmented reports he had received from the soldiers left upstairs had told him. This was a World Eater, one of the Twelth Legion's warriors. A son of Angron. Death made flesh, driven to insanity by forbidden techno-arcanes that had nearly brought censure to the Legion even before the Heresy.

Valens' guards were quite possibly the best soldiers he had under his command. Like him, they were veterans of the Imperial Guard, dispatched to serve as his retinue after their predecessors had retired. They had fought together on a dozen campains before being sent to him. There were ten of them, armed with the best weapons the Imperium could provide to normal men, willing to give their lives to defend their lord. The old man felt a surge of pride at the sight.

In perfect synchronization, they raised their weapons and opened fire.

The weapons of the paper-skins are more powerful than those I have faced before, and I feel the pain of las-burn on my chest. The pain is laughable, however, compared to what I have endured under the Butcher's Nails.

These soldiers are wearing actual armor instead of the dresses that the others had to go with. They move like fighters, too, used to the arena of war. They will make good sport.

I strike at one of them, but he dodges and I miss. I miss ? This is not normal. This is not supposed to happen. I am Astartes, and a son of Angron. A mere mortal shouldn't be able to avoid my blows. That is impossible, and yet it has happened, and the Nails bit in my brain for that failure to draw blood.

The soldiers keep firing at me, and at such a close range their shots are actually hurting me. The possibility that I may very well die here dawns on me, and for a fraction of second I am tempted to simply let them kill me, to let go of this existence, to find true peace at last ...

The Nails sense my weakening resolve, and it makes them scream. The pain is unbearable, I want it to stop, and there is only one way to make it so …

The Red Veil falls on my eyes, my thoughts are stopped by the rage, I cannot think anymore, kill, kill, killl !

Everything goes red … and I am lost to the tune of the Butcher's Nails.

Governor Valens winced as he heard the screams of those he had left behind. He felt tears forming in his only biological eye, but forced them back. There would be time for mourning later, if they ever get out of this tunnel alive.

He had little doubt that the planet was lost. If Traitor Astartes came on top of everything else, they wouldn't be able to maintain order, and the entire world would fall to chaos and anarchy, easy prey for the renegades. But by the Emperor's name, he was going to make them fight for it. They would pay a price in Astartes' blood for the planet that had been placed in his care.

They emerged amidst ruins, the building atop the tunnel having be destroyed in the earthquakes that had followed the opening of the Storm. The air resonated with the screams of the dying and the mad, and the sound of bolter fire from the palace. It appeared the kindred of the monster that had followed them in the tunnel had found the rest of the communication officers, those who had stayed behind to help monitor the retreat of the forces dispatched across the planet.

'Where do you suggest we go now, lieutnant ?'

'We have to go to the rendez-vous point, sir. All forces who received our last message must be disengaging and retreating to it. There, we will be able to determinate our next course of action.'

That actually made Valens chuckle. The soldier looked at him, afraid that the old man had finally lost his mind after all he had seen this day. But the Governor-general shook his head, and said :

'There is only one course left to us, boy : we fight until we die, and hope to take with us as many of these bastards as we can.'

I wake up suddenly, the veil lifted from my mind. All of my body hurts, except my head. For the first time in decades, the Nails are silent.

I force myself to stand, feeling blood dripping from my many wounds. I can taste the coppery liquid in my mouth too, the rich flavor of Astartes' life. Did the humans' weapons cause internal bleeding ? I had not thought their lasguns capable of doing such damage. Aren't las-bolts supposed to cauterize the injuries they inflict ?

I look around, and I see the corpses of my victims. The soldiers have been hacked apart like cattle, rended limb from limb. It is difficult to see in such a mess, but I know that none of them tried to flee. They fought like true warriors … and I killed them like a beast. A rabid animal.

…

The prey has escaped. I must find it. It cannot have gone far.

I try to reach the rest of my brothers, to warn them that our quarry is away from the planned zone, but my vox only returns static. I do not know if that is because I am too deep underground, or because it has been damaged. It does not matter, though. I will continue even if I have to do it alone.

You are not alone.

What was that ?

Their journey through the streets wasn't an easy one. Several times, Valens and his guards had to open fire on the rioters who were hurling themselves at the armed men, screaming insanly before being promptly gunned down. Somehow, the Governor suspected that the invaders were to blame for the madness that had overtaken his world. It seemed impossible : one couldn't control the Warp. It was pure chaos and madness, and only the mutants of the Navigator Houses could peer into it without losing their very souls.

But the betrayal of Horus had seemed impossible too. In a universe where the Emperor's brightest son could turn to darkness, everything was possible, especially the worst.

Survivors who had somehow clung to their sanity joined them. At first, the lieutnant was opposed to letting these people slow them down, but a glare from Valens had convinced him otherwhise. The Governor may consider his planet doomed, and its people with it, but he would be damned before he abandonned them.

'What's happening, lord Governor ?' asked one of the men that had joined with them. 'Why is everyone going crazy ? Has the Emperor abandonned us ?'

Valens shook his head. He didn't understand how so many people had started to refer to the Emperor as some divine entity since the civil war. But it gave them hope, something to cling to in a galaxy that made less sense every day. So, he didn't say that the Emperor couldn't help them because He was trapped on the Golden Throne, maimed by His son. He didn't tell them that the Imperium couldn't help them because of the Warp Storm. Instead, he put his flesh hand on the man's shoulder, and said :

'I do not know, citizen. But whether or not He can still hear us, we will fight in His name. Heretics walk this world, doubtlessly responsible for the trouble we endure. I can promise you this : they will pay for their crime. The Imperium will punish them.'

He didn't say that, although he believed his own words, he doubted very much that the retribution would be enacted in time to save them.

We will do our best, he thought. If that isn't enough … may the Emperor protect them.

Suddenly, a blood-chilling scream filled the air, freezing the little convoy on place. A few seconds later, the soldiers snapped out of their trance and turned in the direction of the horrible sound. Valens thought that he recognized the howl, that it was that of the Astartes that had found them in the secret passage, but it couldn't be. That scream was too inhuman to be coming from a Space Marine, traitor or otherwhise.

He turned as well, and saw something out of his darkest nightmares. A lurching creature, wearing a parody of the Astartes' armor the color of freshly spilled blood, covered in thorns and spikes. It stood, immobile, a screaming chainaxe held aloft it. Two chiropterean wings rose from its back, and two horns had torn through its helmet, while two orbs of red fire burnt through the helmet's visor. This wasn't a Space Marine … but it bore some twisted likeliness to the World Eater Valens' bodyguards had sacrificed themselves to slow. In fact, the Governor could see the image of a world being chewn on by a great jaw on the creature's shoulder. The color of the armor had changed, but this was the emblem of the Twelth Legion.

In an instant, the creature moved, and it was on them. Its chainaxe ripped apart the soldiers that rose their weapons against it, while its free hand, clawed like the paw of an ancient death-world alpha predator, cut through the civilians' flesh with ease. Valens felt his heart scream at the sight, and he knew in his soul that he wouldn't survive this day.

So be it, then. If he was going to die, it would be fighting. The old man drew his own ceremonial chainsword with his metallic arm, and brought the weapon to life. Instantly, the infernal creature shifted its gaze at him. The old man held the glare of the creature, his weapon held steady. He would not show it his fear. He would die standing, in honor.

The beast jumped at him, and he barely managed to deflect its first assault. The shock nearly sent his weapon away from his grip, but the Iron Priest's work held steady. He avoided another hit, then a third, while the rest of the people around him either ran or, in the case of the few soldiers remaining, tried to take aim at the creature without risking to harm him. Valens wanted to scream at them to take the damn shot, that to bring that monster down would be worth his life, but he couldn't. He could sense that a moment's distraction would be all it would take for the creature to end him.

Then, he was forced to block the enemy's weapon directly. With a scream of agonized metal, his chainsword shattered under the impact, and the backlash sent him flying away, crashing on the street with his metallic arm ruined. He tried to stand, but felt the burning claw of the creature close on his neck, lifting him up until he stared directly in the burning pits of its eyes. He felt the breath of the beast, hot and reeking of blood.

The moment seemed to stretch into eternity. Looking at the twin flames, Valens felt as if he was looking at the destruction of his world. Despair overwhelmed him. What hope was there for his people, when such monsters walked under the enemy's banner ? This wasn't a foe human soldiers could hope to defeat. This was an avatar of war, death and bloodshed. It would kill him, and then nothing would stop the traitors from doing with Mulor Prime as they wanted.

Valens Taris knew that he had failed. He felt the cold certainty of that fact fall on him and drap him like a mantle. Strangely, it also felt liberating, to no longer be able to fight. To no longer have to force his old body to keep going. Here, at the treshold of death, he could finally let go. Surely the Emperor would forgive him ?

Strange. Now where had that thought come from ? He wasn't a believer. He didn't trust in the words of the Lectitio Divinatus that all things were part of the Emperor's design. After all, how could He have known of his son's betrayal and not acted to prevent it ? That made no sense.

It took true faith, he guessed, to believe that life still had a purpose in a galaxy like the one they lived in. Well, now he had an answer for one question that had tormented him since he had heard of the «Church of the Emperor»'s existence.

But there was something else… something he needed to know. Something that had been gnawing at him since he had first learned of the great Warmaster's betrayal of all he had ever held dear.

'Why ?' he asked, his voice a barely audible whisper. 'Why are you doing this ? What do you want ?'

The daemon paused. It tilted its horned head, as if trying to figure out the question's meaning.

What does he mean ?

What do I want ? Isn't that obvious ? I want ...

I want …

To kill.

That voice again. It has not spoken since its first words in the tunnel. As I walked through the ruined city, hunting my quarry, I felt it hum, though, singing to the tune of the Nails. Every moment during that walk has been a torture, my body burning with white-hot fire as it twisted itself into a new form. I am changing, that much I realize. But I do not understand. What is that voice ? And what is it that I am becoming ?

I am the blood that runs through your veins. I am the death that you deliver to all those who stand in your path. I am your future, your destiny, as ordained by the Bloodfather. I am one of the Anointed, the Chosen of Khorne. I am the hunt of the prey, the fury of battle. I am the death of all things and the neverending war. I am …

Heker'Arn.

The voice speaks again, and I see my reflection in the quarry's eyes. I look like a monster, a creature of the Warp. The pressure of the Butcher Nails falter for a fraction of second, and in that instant, I understand what it is that I am now. I have seen it before, first on Isstvan V, then during the shadow war across Ultramar and the Siege of Terra, and finally, during the Exodus. I know it, and recognize it, and know I am damned.

I am as the Gal Vorbak of the Seventeenth Legion are. In superstitious cultures, I would be called a possessed man. But superstition has become reality, and a deamon runs in my blood now. It is not that surprising, in truth. The whole planet is bathed in the power of the Empyrean, and the slaughter of millions must be driving the warp-born crazy. Even though I am no psyker, it must not have been hard for the creature that is the voice to find a way into my soul.

And in that terrible moment of realization, I also understand what the answer to the quarry's question is.

I open the jaw that has replaced my mouth, and I speak, the sound coming out a fusion of my own voice and the one in my head :

'We want the galaxy to burn.'

A few minutes later, the street was covered in blood and the remains of the dead. Only three beings yet lived. The Possessed Marine, the daemon within him, and the old man who had once ruled Mulor Prime. The ex-Governor laid down in the rubble, his augmentic leg ripped off his body. Pain tore at his nerves, and he couldn't even gather the strength to crawl. He looked up at the monster that stood nearby, unmoving, and spat, in a voice ripe with despair and impotent rage :

'What are you waiting for ?! Kill me already !'

'You will not die yet, mortal. Not by our hand.'

'What are you saying, beast ?!'

'Our lord wants you alive. He has … plans for you.'

The Traitor, twisted Marine reached to its gorget with its clawed hand. It must have activated some kind of vox, for after a few seconds of static, Valens heard a new voice :

' … squad, report.'

'This is Hektor. I have him.'

' … very well. Stay where you are. We have a lock on your sure he is still alive when the transport arrive.'

'I understand.'

'Do you now ? … Interesting. I am coming down myself. Our ETA is of ten minutes. Over.'

The monstruous Astartes cut the link, then simply stood there, immobile like a statue. Valens asked :

'What is this about, traitor ? Are you hoping that I will aid you or your master in whatever mad goal it is you are pursuing ? I would rather die than aid a traitor !'

There wasn't any answer. For a few more minutes, the old, crippled man spat out insults at the creature, hoping to push it to kill him. Somehow, he felt that this would be a better fate than whatever the voice at the other side of the vox-link had in mind for him. But the traitor didn't move a muscle. Only its wings moved slightly under the winds caused by the burning of the city.

Then, out of the ruins that surrounded the improbable pair, other Traitor Marines emerged. They wore the colors of the World Eaters, although some of them had painted their shoulder paldrons black, hiding the heraldy of their Legion.

There were dozens of them, all covered in blood. Valens had seen Astartes fight many times during his time with the 742th Expeditionary Fleet. But the World Eaters showed nothing of the discipline and cold control of the Iron Hands. They walked like predators, sharks circling their prey, unsure of whether or not they should attack. The Space Marines were supposed to know no fear, and the berserkers of the Twelth Legion even less than the rest of the Emperor's Angels of Death, but these warriors were clearly wary of the monster that had called itself Hektor.

One of the growling Astartes walked near Valens' immobile body, his chainaxe twitching in his hand. Valens felt a surge of hope and fear mixed as he thought that the bloodthirsty warrior was going to kill him right now …

But the monstruous Astartes turned and stared straight at the transhuman soldier, forcing him to retreat with the lone pressure of its gaze. Still, other Traitor Marines were closing in on the fallen governor, their eyes filled with bloodlust. Valens could feel their intent to kill, even from several meters away.

The winged creature walked to his side and stood there, like a twisted, nightmarish parody of a guardian angel. But the other World Eaters weren't deterred.

I see them enclosing on us, and I can feel that they are gone. All of them have given in to the Nails, only the impulse to kill matters to them now. The quarry is wounded, defenceless; even I am feeling the urge to crush him, to bathe in his old blood and take his skull …

This one is a worthy foe. Old and wounded, yet cunning and tenacious. His skull would claim a place of honor on the Blood God's throne.

And you aren't making it easier. Arken wants him alive.

What do his wishes matter to us ? Only the spilling of blood matters.

Arken. Is. My. Lord. And. He. Wants. Him. Alive.

It is only by my power that you aren't feeling like your brain is on fire right now. Only I have the power to calm the pain, Hektor. You would do well not to deny me.

If we kill him, Arken will kill us, or at least not use us ever again in such a critical mission. Would you deny us the right of taking hundred of skulls just so that the Bloodfather can have this one faster ?

The future doesn't matter to the Blood God ! TAKE HIS SKULL !

I force the voice away, silencing its pleas with all my will. It is not easy, but my mind is trained in resisting the temptation of bloodshed … oh yes it is. The daemon goes silent, and the pain starts to come back, but I welcome the change. The pain of the Nails is familiar, at least.

As I turn my attention back to my surroundings, I see Alexandre getting closer. He is holding his weapon with both of his hands, and the control I saw in his eyes earlier this day is gone. It is the Nails that control him now. His eyes are devoid of any emotion, any thought, any urge safe that of killing. This is what a son of Angron looks like when the Red Veil falls on his eyes … and only blood can lift it.

Alexandre wants to kill the quarry, but I cannot let him. He can feel that I am an obstacle on the path of butchery, and it enrages him even further. It won't take long now …

My brother attacks, his axe aiming at my throat, seeking to decapitate me in a single blow. He is as fast as any Astartes can be, but to me, it seems that he is going in slow motion. The changes in my body are still in effect, even with Heker'Arn silenced.

I block the attack with my bare hand, catching the blade between my clawed fingers. He tries to pull the weapon back to him, but I hold it in place. Shock finds its way on his face through the bloodlust.

He dared to attack me ?! We must destroy him ! I am his brother ! We will take his skull for that ! Has our Legion already fallen so low ?! We are no longer of the World Eaters …

We are of the Forsaken Sons !

My right hand rises, still holding my own chainaxe. I cannot stop it. Alexandre sees it, and begins to push at his weapon with all his strength, trying to force his way through. The urge to kill is back, overwhelming my senses. The pain, the voice, they are both here, and I have no order to oppose them, no reason that may stall my … our hand …

Valens gasped as he saw the towering monstruosity cleaves its own comrade apart. Astartes' blood spilled on the ground, burning through the pavement of the street. His mind reeled, failing to accept what he had seen. He knew, on some intellectual level, that Astartes had killed Astartes in the past. But it was something entirely different to witness such an utter betrayal with his own eyes. In a way, it was even worse than watching his planet die. This was the death of brotherhood, of all that the Imperium had ever stood for. This was the ultimate proof that the rebellion had been in the wrong, for even their own ranks were afflicted with fratricide.

'You will not touch this man, or we will take your skulls ourselves ! Are we clear ?!'

The beast roared, and the rest of the World Eaters scattered back amidst the ruins, no doubt seeking easier prey. Valens hated himself for the hint of relief that he felt at the sight. It would have been better to die there and now, he repeated to himself.

'Do not be so certain about that, mortal,' said the demonic Astartes as if it had read his thoughts. The Warp-born are crowding this world. If you were to die here, your soul would be claimed by them, and only torment would await you. Enjoy your continued existence for as long as Arken allows you to keep it.'

Valens didn't answer the creature. How was this possible ? Had the monster read his mind ? Was it a psyker ?

As he pondered these questions, Valens heard a sound he had not forgotten : the sound of an Astartes' aircraft incoming. The last time he had heard it had been when the Iron Hands had reinforced the position where he had been injured.

This wouldn't be such a joyous occasion, of that he was certain.

A Thunderhawk wearing the livery of the Sons of Horus landed amidst the ruins, its pilot expertly dodging the larger pieces of rubble. Its engine slowed down but didn't stop. Valens recognized this for what it was : the sign that the craft was here for a pick-up in hostile zone, and not intending to remain here for any longer that was needed.

The door of the craft's bay opened, and Valens laid the eyes on the being responsible for the destruction of his world. Next to him, the monstruosity bowed its head to its lord in sign of respect.

We should kill him.

He is strong. He deserves our allegiance.

The Anathema was strong, too.

It is different. He is our brother, not some distant, treacherous, cowardly bastard.

We are the destroyers of worlds ! We should not bow before anyone !

He owns my loyalty, daemon. He earned it.

So did Alexandre. Will he meet the same fate ?

I ignore the daemon's further taunts, and focus on my lord. He is not alone, of course. Damarion and the rest of his Terminator guards stand at his side. That much is to be expected; after all, he is walking a warzone. Even the Primarchs take guards with them on the battlefield, if only for the sake of appareances. Only Angron didn't. The Devourers, who should have assumed this fonction, were never more than a joke at the expense of the Legion's best warriors. They are all dead now, ripped apart on Terra. I remember seeing them die. Some of them fell to the Imperial Fists' guns; most, to Angron's own axe.

Arken is bare-headed. I have not seen him wear his helmet since the events on Isleas. I have heard rumors aboard the ship, though. The crew whipsers that our lord hears the voices of the Warp, and that if he was to don his helmet, the voices would overwhelm him.

My lord walks to the remnants of Alexandre. He lowers himself, and pick up the former Capain's severed head. As he rises, he holds it aloft, staring in the dead eyes of my brother.

'Ah, Alexandre,' he says, his voice as emontionless as ever. 'I had such hopes for you … but it seemed you weren't the one.'

He drops the head, and turns to me. He is smaller than I.

'And what is your name, warrior ?'

I force myself to speak alone, banishing the daemon's influence on my voice :

'I am Hektor, lord.'

'Hektor,' he repeats, nodding to himself as if recognizing my name. 'Yes, I remember that name.'

He approaches, and turns around me. I stay immobile, but I cannot stop a nervous spasm when I feel his armored hand stroking my wings. An image flashes before my eyes – I see him ripping my wings off – and vanish the moment he takes his hand away. He circles all around me and faces me again. Once more, he nods to himself, before looking at the quarry. A dead smile appears on his lips.

'You found him, I see. Good.'

He lifts the mortal as if he weighted nothing, and peers into the old man's eyes. Despite the pain that robs him of the ability to speak, the former Governor still radiates defiance and rage. My lord examines the augmentics that make almost half the man's body, noticing that the arm has been ripped off.

'Merchurion,' he says in his vox. 'I have found him. He is alive, but … damaged.'

I do not hear the reply, but I know the magos isn't pleased at the news.

'Yes,' he answers. 'All the parts are here, at least. I will make sure they are brought to you.'

He gestures at the torn metal arm on the ground, and one of the Terminators takes up the piece of machinery. The Astartes then walks to my lord, and relieves him of the quarry. The prey has fallen inconscious, the pain finally forcing his brain to black out. I am envious of that. There is no escape from the Butcher's Nails. Sleep is denied to us, and the only oblivion we can find is that of death. The Nails do not let us fall for any other reason.

Arken turns back to me. The daemon in me feels his satisfaction, even though nothing on his face betrays it.

He knew. He knew what would happen.

I agree with Heker'Arn. That is the only possibility. My lord knew that one of the World Eaters would receive the … 'blessing' of the Empyrean.

He thought it would be Alexandre ? That fool was unworthy of such a blessing. Offering his skull to Khorne is honor enough for him.

But how could he know …?

I feel the daemon prying into my mind, looking for information. When it finds out what it is looking for, it is not happy.

Sorcery ! Cowardice ! He is unworthy !

I feel my armed hand rise without my command, and I struggle to stop it, but the daemon is too strong ! Arken' bodyguards aim their weapons at me … I cannot blame them for that. Only a firm command of their lord stops them from opening fire.

Arken looks at me, unmoving, as if wanting to see how far I will go. I gather all of my will, and stop the chainaxe, blocking the weapon in place.

Let me kill him ! He is weak ! Those who need to use sorcery are unworthy of our allegiance !

I fight, with all my will, trying to put the weapon down … but the daemon and I are of equal force, and the chainaxe stays immobile. Then, my lord speaks :

'You will not harm me, nor anyone under my servie … Heker'Arn.'

The daemon releases its hold on my body, and I can hear it screaming in rage and disbelief. My lord knows its name, and thus can command it. No doubt he learnt it in the Oracle's Chamber, and to be defeated in such a way only furthers the rage of the devil in my soul.

I bow my head to my lord in wordless thanks. He nods, then turns toward the aircraft, gesturing for his guards to follow. Half-way, he stops, and looks back at me.

'Your brothers are still out there ?'

I nod in answer. He knows what they are doing, of course. They are killing. That is the Twelth Legion's way, the only one we know.

'Would you rather come back to the ship with us, or stay here ? The second phase of the invasion will start soon.'

The second phase … I remember it from the briefings. Now that the Imperial forces are leaderless, Arken will send packs to high-value targets, with orders to loot everything that can be of use. These places may be defended yet. They may provide the opportunity of a worthy battle. Here, there are only defenceless civilians waiting to be butchered. My brothers could spend days hunting them, indulging their bloodlust, until the Nails release them and they can be taken back to the Hand of Ruin. They are useless to him now : a one-use weapon in the campain that has just begun.

That battle is not worth fighting. True enemies await for us elsewhere on this world.

Heker'Arn speaks once more, drawn from its brooding by the perspective of battle. I agree with it. True battle awaits us elsewhere.

'We will come with you, and aid in the conquering of this world,' me and the daemon say together. After all, we both want the same thing :

Blood. Blood for the Blood God.

The Possessed Marine followed his lord in the Thunderhawk. Sitting at the command station, Perseus felt himself starting to sweat. The … creature … they had picked up alongside the Governor had an unnerving presence, to say the least. Perseus understood that the Astartes needed every weapon they could use, and the Warp-touched were powerful weapons indeed, but … It seemed too dangerous to use them. They bore within them the very monsters that had made the Exodus such an hellish journey.

Not that he would dare to say that out loud, of course. He may be the favorite pilot of the Awakened One's chief bodyguard, but he would still die the moment he doubted the lord's decisions.

He flew the craft back to the ship without incident.

Valens' flesh eye opened slowly, pain forcing him back into the realm of the living. He tried to move his head, but found out it was held in place by metal restraints. All his limbs were similarly bound.

'You are awake. Good. The procedure cannot be complete if you are not awake to report your sensations during the extraction.'

The voice was cold, metallic and entirely devoid of feeling. Valens knew that kind of voice, though this one had an hint of something far more sinister behind it : this was the voice of a tech-priest.

In the dim light, the former Governor saw his jailer.

I am dead, he thought. I am dead and the Church was right : there is an hell after all.

The creature had the visage of a daemon, crafted in adamantium and looking at him with luminous , red eyes. A set of mechadendrites rose from its back, clacking and twisting as if hungry for his blood.

'Now, let the experiment begin.'

AN : Aaaaand here I am again.

I know Valens is a bit strange for a Governor, because he is - schocking ! - actually competent at his job. That's not something that's supposed to happen in the WH40K universe, I know. But this is just after the Horus Heresy, when the Imperium is actually manned by people who are good at their jobs and not their inbred descendants.

In this chapter, I wanted to take a look at how the World Eaters see the Forever War. It is a strange question, you may ask, because they are followers of Khorne, and thus want only to kill and are happy so long as the fighting continue.

You would be wrong.

The World Eaters are, in my opinion, those of the Traitor Legions who drew the absolutely shortest straw. They were turned into barbarians by their Primarch, who was such a bad father figure that they tore open their own skulls with the Butcher's Nails, hoping that this would help them understand him.

The usual traitor Space Marine fights for glory, for revenge, for survival. The Emperor's Children fight because they get high on sensation. The World Eaters ?

They fight because it is the only way to make the pain stop. That's not a way to live that let you keep your sanity for long.

Hektor knows the fate of his Legion is to devolve into mindless monsters. Well, I made sure that he would escape this fate ... and to do that, I had to make him into an even worse monster. Well, frak.

Anyway, in the next chapter, the conquest of the Mulor system will continue. Right now (as if, when I am typing this), I have not decided what will happen next. I have a lot of ideas, though. I am going to be on vacation from college in a few days, so I will be able to read and write a lot more.

As usual, please review if you liked what you read. Seeing that people enjoy what I write really helps me to keep going (if you have ever written something on this site, you know what I am talking about). If you didn't like it, tell me why !

Zahariel out.