Chapter 8: Double Accident
Magnus the Red's eye snapped open with fierce intensity, and his psychic grip crushed the data-slate in his hand to powder.
"Impossible! Such prophecies cannot be true!"
The Crimson King's voice carried anger and confusion at the message "Even if the Custodes come for me, it would be to escort me to my rightful place on the Golden Throne."
Right now, Magnus's single eye blazed with unwavering conviction. The prophecy wasn't false; it was just that his sons had misunderstood it. It has to be so.
He settled back into the lotus position, closed his eyes, and entered deep meditation. He would dig deeper into the mysteries of the Warp and master skills that even the greatest psykers could barely understand.
This knowledge would be his gift to the Emperor, proof that choosing Magnus had been the right decision.
But Magnus's renewed hunt for forbidden knowledge only made certain entities in realms beyond mortal understanding angrier.
In the darkest corners of the Immaterium, where reality bent to Chaos's will, decay and disease filled the rotten air.
A mountain of diseased flesh sat before a massive cauldron, brewing treats that could corrupt entire worlds. Nurgle's rotting features split into a delighted grin as he watched his rival's plans crumble to dust.
His own plan had worked perfectly.
The Plague Lord looked at his masterpiece with fatherly pride.
On the world of Davin, toxic green fog choked the air and made it impossible to see more than a few meters.
The Sons of Horus fought desperately in the poisonous mist, their bolter rounds chattering endlessly while warriors' battle cries mixed with the groans of plague-ridden dead.
"ROOOAAAAR!"
Horus Lupercal's enhanced hearing found the source instantly. Moving with superhuman speed, he dodged the zombie's clumsy swipe and tore the creature apart with his lightning claws.
Even cut in half, the upper body crawled toward the Warmaster with mindless hunger.
The sound of crushing bone echoed as Horus's boot destroyed the thing's skull. Only then did it stop moving.
"Eugan Temba!" Horus's voice carried across the battlefield like thunder. "Is this all you can do? Can you only command these rotting corpses to block my path?"
Rustling sounds came from all directions as dozens of reanimated bodies in broken power armor shambled forward with hungry roars.
The Warmaster's eyes widened in horrified recognition of the symbols on their corrupted armor.
His noble features twisted with rage as he bellowed, "Damn you, Temba! You defile the memory of my sons!"
"You shall suffer for this treachery!"
His great blade swept in deadly arcs, cutting through his former warriors with precision. Each strike carried both sorrow and fury, mercy for the dead, vengeance for their defiler.
The headless corpses stood still, confused by their sudden blindness.
As grief threatened to overwhelm the Warmaster's heart, a smaller figure burst from within one of the fallen bodies.
"Hahaha! Die, son of the Imperium!"
Madness blazed in Eugan Temba's corrupted eyes as he lunged forward. Horus reacted with predatory grace, and his backhand strike cut his former comrade in half.
But the anathame dagger flew true, its cursed edge seeking the Warmaster's flesh.
Horus raised his arm to block, expecting the familiar shower of sparks as metal met ceramite. Instead, he watched in shock as his armour began to corrode and bubble.
Under the Warmaster's astonished gaze, the cursed blade sliced cleanly across his forearm.
"Eugan Temba," Horus spoke with cold finality, "your suffering ends now."
Horus turned back to the battle, unaware that the wound that he had just dismissed had already begun to fester with unnatural corruption...
And the Gods of Warp laughed...
Heracla Fenrir
"These mutations are quite extensive," Francis observed, studying the Soul Drinkers' condition with clinical interest. "Tell me, do you experience unusual cravings during combat? A desire to eat your enemies' flesh and blood?"
"Yes, Lord Primarch, it takes all of my strength to resist these urges. I do not wish to bring shame and dishonour to our cause. Please save me!" The Space Marine's voice carried desperate hope.
Though his Primarch's treatments were agonising, anything was better than becoming some alien monster who feasted on its own kin. Even the greatest doctors on Terra had said their condition was incurable.
"Report to Conference Room Two. Sarpedon has been given enough guidance; he will do the surgery you need."
"Next!"
"Those are... impressive wing mutations."
"Forgive me, my lord, they are the mark of my curse."
"Three arms?"
"Tentacle appendages?"
"Is that a second face on your chest?"
"At least yours are just scales and feathers."
Francis found himself genuinely fascinated by the variety of flesh-change he saw. Reading about it was one thing, but seeing these bizarre transformations in person was quite another.
Suddenly, a strange feeling crawled up his spine, as if unseen eyes had focused on him.
He spun around but there was nothing.
The deck plates began to shake more and more. Strange hallucinations flickered at the edges of his vision, and Francis knew they were fake when his medical kit waved cheerfully at him.
"Hello there, brother!"
The vox crackled as Francis contacted Leman Russ. "Russ, what's our status again?"
A squad of Custodian Guards rushed to his position and formed a protective circle.
"We've been caught in Warp storm backwash," one Custodian reported, his voice barely audible over the ship's groaning hull. "The Navigator has collapsed. We're riding the current, hoping to break back into realspace!"
The ship's lights died. In the complete darkness, the Heracla Fenrir pitched and rolled like a storm-tossed boat. Everyone aboard was thrown against the walls and equipment.
Then, suddenly, an impact occurred as if the ship stopped instantly.
The sound of tearing metal filled the air. Oil began to drip steadily from damaged pipes.
After what felt like hours, the ship finally stopped moving.
Francis used his enhanced vision to find Leman Russ in the darkness. "Brother, where have we ended up?"
"Location is unknown." The Wolf King's voice carried its usual practical calm as he coordinated damage control teams. "Hull integrity is compromised, and the repairs will surely take a long time."
"How about I scout our surroundings?" Francis decided. "If we're near a colony world, we might find resources to speed up our repairs."
The Wolf King was already overwhelmed with emergency procedures when he turned to object; Francis had already slipped away.
"That damn is always fast on his feet", Russ muttered. He knew it wasn't an illusion; his brother, after recovery, seems to have become more...childish.
"Will someone go after the fool before he gets himself in trouble." Russ motioned to the custodes even though they were on their way behind Francis.
"Hmph, corn bastards"
Coming out of the Heracla Fenrir, Francis found they had crash-landed in a deep valley. Thick vegetation surrounded them, with massive fruit trees that showed no signs of human cultivation.
Heavy thuds behind him answered each of his footsteps.
Turning, he saw the inevitable escort of Custodian Guard and Soul Drinkers following.
"Could you possibly move more quietly?" Francis asked with mild annoyance. "If this is hostile territory, you're announcing our presence to every enemy within kilometres."
At Francis's direction, his guardians spread out in a search formation as they moved deeper into the forest.
Before long, Francis discovered something interesting.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!"
A large-mouthed creature that looked like an oversized, aggressive poodle barked furiously at the Primarch.
"A Squig," Francis muttered. "Which means..."
The beast's eyes gleamed with wild excitement as it wagged its tail and tried to bite Francis's power armor. Its teeth nearly shattered on the ceramite plating.
"Owwww!" It rolled on the ground, whimpering pitifully.
Sure enough, the Squig's cries brought its master, a massive, green-skinned Ork who charged forward while bellowing incomprehensible curses. The brute raised a crude club and brought it down toward Francis's skull.
A moment later, the Ork lay motionless on the forest floor.
The Squig nuzzled its master's unresponsive form with obvious confusion.
Francis quickly collected samples of the Ork's blood and tissue, then gestured for his escort to keep their distance.
"Stay back. We're in Ork territory now. I'll scout ahead."
Before anyone could protest, Francis removed his power armor and consumed the collected Ork blood. The taste was as foul and thick as he remembered.
Genetic information flooded his mind.
Ork genome: Stig. Enjoys watching Squigs bite other Orks' toes. Born on designation: unknown world. Classification: Ork Boy.
Francis's arms bulged grotesquely, swelling into the muscular limbs of an Ork. He bit into the creature's flesh, and the rest of his body underwent rapid transformation.
The confused Squig caught its master's familiar scent and stared at Francis with bewildered recognition.
His guardians immediately raised their weapons.
"Identify yourself!" they demanded.
[End of Chapter]