Chapter 6: "Do You Think You Can Hurt Me?"
Horus merely shifted slightly, easily dodging the fatal blow. The Warmaster's eyes blazed with fury as he held the traitor before him.
"Traitor!" The word erupted from Horus's throat like thunder rolling across the broken landscape.
His power sword sang through the air, toward Eugan Temba's skull. The corrupted figure twisted with unnatural fluidity, but even his tainted reflexes could not fully escape the Primarch's wrath.
The blade's edge carved through rusted armor, biting deep into flesh and bone. A massive diagonal wound opened across Temba's torso, sending him hurtling backwards into the rubble.
Temba's chest heaved violently, each ragged breath weaker than the last. Through the gaping wound, his internal organs were falling out, including the hanging single heart. He was just a normal human, not one of the Emperor's Angels.
"Heh heh... whoever loves this rotting Empire can be buried with it!" Fanaticism gleamed in Temba's eyes. "I have received blessings Horus, power beyond your comprehension!"
Horus just looked at the man with cold disdain. "You could not withstand a single stroke of my blade, and you speak of great power?"
His voice in tone of mockery. "Do you truly believe that crude dagger in your trembling hands could harm a son of the Emperor?"
"The greatness of the Imperium is beyond the understanding of parasites such as yourself!"
The Warmaster raised his power claw, its energy field crackling with barely contained destruction.
Temba's grin widened into something inhuman. The massive wound across his torso suddenly transformed, becoming a gaping maw lined with acidic fangs that spewed torrents of viscous green liquid. Toxic vapors rose from the putrid discharge as it splashed across the ruins.
Horus with his speed, avoided the corrosive spray. But as he did so, the ground around them began to crack. Decomposing hands burst through the earth, the fallen dead rising once again.
Previously slain traitors and Astartes stood with jerky, unnatural movements. The moment the green vapors touched their flesh, rapid necrosis set in. Boils and abscesses erupted across their forms, filling the air with a nauseating stench that would have killed any other lesser being.
"Hahaha... Come Primarch! Embrace the arms of the ■ ■ ■ ■!" Temba's laughter echoed with madness as he called a name but to Horus ears it was gibberish.
Terra - Spaceport
Francis arrived at the spaceport to find Astartes warriors in purple power armor patrolling the perimeter. Golden stripes adorned their ceramite plates, and the chalice emblazoned upon their shoulder guards immediately identified them as Soul Drinkers, his own gene-sons.
What struck him as peculiar was how thoroughly armored they remained. Unlike other Chapters who might remove their helms in secure locations, these warriors kept every piece of their battle-plate sealed tight.
"Do not be concerned, this is no infection, remove your armour, let me examine you," Francis announced as he approached.
The nearest warrior recoiled as Francis approached with obvious intent to examine their equipment. "Who are you? Don't touch me!"
The Soul Drinkers had responded to the call promptly, only to be confronted by what appeared to be an unhinged individual demanding they disrobe for inspection.
Bang!
Francis seized the warrior's vambrace and yanked it free with Primarch strength, revealing the mutated flesh beneath, an arm covered in black, spider-like fur that writhed with its own malevolent life.
Sarpedon immediately snatched the armour piece and reattached it. "There, have you seen enough, you insolent?"
The other Soul Drinkers closed ranks around their Chapter Master, battle-ready despite the apparent non-threat.
"Are you staging some kind of rebellion?" Francis pointed at his own unmarked face with genuine surprise. "Do none of you recognise me?"
Murmurs rippled through the assembled warriors.
"There's something familiar about him..."
"I feel it too, but I cannot place it."
"Chapter Master, do you know this one? Perhaps an old veteran?"
"He's no veteran—look at his face. Not only unmarked by battle, but he appears almost youthful. How could he be an ancient warrior?"
"Exactly! Look at all the scars covering the Chapter Master's scalp—that's what a veteran looks like."
The discussion continued until Sarpedon's voice cut through it.
"Silence, all of you!" The Chapter Master straightened and offered a formal salute. "Greetings. I am Sarpedon, Chapter Master of the Soul Drinkers. We all sense a familiar presence about you. Are you...?"
A voice whispered in Francis's mind with gentle authority: "Their memories of you have been completely purged from their consciousness."
Memory erased? Francis felt isolation settle in him. His own sons did not remember him, and his father had seen fit to imprison him. At least his current freedom offered some small consolation.
Francis placed a paternal hand on Sarpedon's shoulder and smiled. "I am your father."
The silence that followed was profound and uncomfortable. Though the Soul Drinkers could not recall their Primarch clearly, they remembered well that many of their battle-brothers had been purged in recent times. Their feelings toward their gene-sire were... complicated.
"I was grievously wounded and recall little of my past," Francis spoke, though he felt nervous around his own sons, which he suddenly got. "But I do remember this, Sarpedon—you went bald."
Sarpedon's expression remained carefully neutral.
Seeing their lack of enthusiasm, Francis conceived what he hoped was an inspired solution. "Come then, all of you, face me in combat. Let me see if your prowess has declined or not."
At this, the Soul Drinkers' eyes lit with genuine interest.
"Hold! This is merely a Chapter sparring match! You there, set aside that power hammer! And you, no Bombs, why do you even have them here?!"
Seprodon restricted his brothers, notably that one among them, with an obsession with explosions.
The restriction on weapons dimmed their enthusiasm considerably, but they complied. Noting that Francis fought bare-headed, they thoughtfully removed their own helms in response.
Once preparations were complete, Francis cleared his throat. "Are you ready?"
"Ready!"
"Excellent. I count to three, then we begin."
"Understood."
"One... two... three!"
Francis moved with inhuman speed even by Astartes standards, deploying what he privately termed his "growth potion" while simultaneously activating an intense light projector.
"What sorcery is this?"
"Emperor's bones, he's ambushing us!"
"Wait—Chapter Master, you have hair again! And I can't control mine!"
In moments, writhing green tendrils had covered the entire group. As they prepared to burn themselves free, Francis activated his newly crafted biological gauntlet. Razor-sharp claws swept in arcs above their heads.
Francis came back to his spot. Turning with nonchalance, he said, "There, you are all dead."
"We... lost?"
"Just like...that"
"Ughhh... should have used the Bombs"
The Soul Drinkers stared in bewilderment. They had intended a friendly bout with their Primarch, only to find themselves thoroughly outmanoeuvred.
"Each of you will provide a blood sample later. I will examine what you all have been infected with."
Francis waved dismissively as he walked toward the ship berths.
A thunderous roar split the air as a massive Gloriana-class battleship descended from orbit. The ship was a monument to Imperial might, its deep grey-black hull layered with ceramite and adamantium armour, while the prow rose like a predator's fang.
Weapon batteries lined its length like the spines of some great beast.
The Hrafnkel bristled with lance turrets and laser arrays, each weapon system calibrated for maximum destruction. Even at rest, the vessel radiated controlled violence.
The boarding ramp lowered, and Leman Russ emerged to greet Francis.
Seeing their gene-father welcomed by another Primarch, one who clearly knew advanced genetic manipulation, finally convinced the Soul Drinkers of Francis's identity.
"Our Primarch hasn't abandoned us!"
"He wants our blood samples to heal us!"
"See! We have a father who cares, too!"
The recently freed Astartes stood in silence until Francis's voice broke through their thoughts.
"What are you waiting for? Board the ship!"
They obeyed without question. As Sarpedon came up the ramp last, Francis seemed to remember something.
"Sarpedon, you should have the Adeptus Mechanicus make you eight-legged trousers."
Sarpedon didn't understand the reference but nodded respectfully.
Francis put his arm around Leman Russ's shoulders. "Are we not departing? Everyone from my Legion is aboard."
"We're waiting for those assigned to protect you."
"Did Father not send you to guard me?"
Leman Russ shook his head with grim humour. "Hardly. My Space Wolves are gathering powerful psykers across the galaxy. And I only brought a few hundred with me ..." He shrugged. "The task needs more than one Legion."
Francis felt his father's distrust again. Now he could understand why the primarch in lore felt so distrustful of the emperor; apparently, in the emperor's eyes, even Leman Russ wasn't enough.
"Look," Russ said, nodding toward the sky. "They're coming."
[End of Chapter]