Black Rage: I

Author's Note

Nice, small, short chapter to get me into the swing of writing. This is a tale of a Blood Angel in the throes of the Black Rage, and his experiences on a world of Chaos...

Black Rage: Chapter I

The Thunderhawk's engines growled as it jinked from side to side, dodging missiles fired from the hive in front. Small arms fire pattered against the hull, painted black and covered in red crosses, marking the flier as the deliverer of the Lost, the Death Company of the Blood Angels. Inside, it was lit with a dull red light, turning the black armour of the occupants the colour of dried blood. Inside, the ravings of the lost growled and raged over the communications system, enough to send men over the edge with fear. Reliving the gene-memory of the death of their Primarch, Sanguinius, a good death was all that they could be gifted. One figure, silent and stoic, skull-faced helmet sealed onto his head, stood. His body displayed no emotions as he tapped his crozius against the floor, the currently unpowered weapon hitting the metal deck with a dull thud.

"How long until landing, pilot."

"Two minutes, milord."

The Chapter serf flying the Thunderhawk would do his duty, flying the Death Company into the jaws of death itself with no concern for his own safety, mirroring that of the raging Space Marines inside. The Chaplain pondered this for a few moments, before his voice spoke, noble and clear, over the ravings of his previous battle-brothers, now lost to him and the Chapter. His voice spoke a prayer to the Emperor, and the duties of all to him. Listening to this, the Lost lessened their rantings and screaming, and steeled their minds for combat.

"The Emperor is the Guiding Light when all else seems Lost. He protects those who protect his people from the taint of the Heretic, the Mutant and the Alien. May his light guide us, even through the Black Rage which now grips us, May we stand by his side at the Golden Throne for all eternity, Until the End."

One voice had whispered the litany, his vox-bead turned off. One of the Death Company contained within the flier, he was no different from the rest. He was a Space Marine, a Blood Angel, gripped in the throes of the Gene-curse which plagues their Chapter. However, he was different. His mind was still intact, the Black Rage leaving him with control, rather than the never-ending thirst for blood. He felt sorrow for his battle-brothers who were lost to themselves, how they would die on this world, as he would. His name was Brother Araton, before the Black Rage had claimed him. The eve before battle, he had succumbed to the crimson path during the prayers, and led away by the chaplains, who anointed him and brought him into the Death Company.

With a loud bang and crunch, something hit the Thunderhawk, jerking the Chaplain into immediate action. Slapping his hand against his harness release, he strode into the cabin to question the pilot over what happened. However, that would now be impossible. The cause of a large hole, shattered through the front windows of the flier, has splattered the serf's head over the wall, leaving red trails of gore to paint the cabin. The Chaplain glanced at the blood of the serf, then assessed the damage. Too much to guide the Thunderhawk properly now. Striding back into the passenger compartment and the ravings within, he punched the ramp release, opening the compartment to the now-close ground, and releasing the harnesses of the Death Company. With a collective roar, they surged from the Thunderhawk and leapt for the ground below, the tide of corrupted flesh below pulling them in, like wolves to the slaughter. The Chaplian followed, swinging his crozius high over his head, leaping from the gaping mouth of the flier as he shouted to his battel brothers:

"For the Emperor, brothers! Death and Glory!"

Black Rage: Chapter II

The Death Company hit the ground with bone-jarring impact, just before the Thunderhawk did. Sending thousands of razor-sharp shards scything into the massed men, the flier exploded in a ball of fire. The Death Company, at the edge of the blast, didn't even flinch, revving chainswords and aiming bolt pistols. Then, at some unknown signal, they attacked. Swinging chainswords in wide arcs, they carved a bloody path through the arrayed ranks of cultists. In the background, over the seas of human flesh, armour could be seen, trundling forward and belching smoke.