Chapter 281: Bloodlust and the Black Rage (Patreon)

While the war council drafted their battle plan, Captain Karlaen received direct orders from Commander Dante, to retrieve every brother on Baal who had fallen to the Black Rage were to be located, armed, and brought forth.

A task easier spoken than performed. Those consumed by the Black Rage were dangerous to friend and foe alike. They were lost within the death-throes of their Primarch, Sanguinius, forever reliving his final battle upon the Vengeful Spirit. To gather them was to walk among hurricanes of wrath.

Karlaen sought out Chapter Master Phoros, requesting his aid and with it, the strength of a full squad of his Terminators.

Phoros understood Karlaen’s words meant more than they stated. There was another reason for seeking him specifically, though he chose not to speak of it.

Still, the two commanders led their warriors aboard a formation of Thunderhawk gunships and set out to fulfill Commander Dante’s command.

The Thunderhawks descended first upon a lone defense tower on the outer approaches of the Arx Angelicum Fortress-Monastery. Its crimson silhouette rose like a spearhead of iron and stone against Baal’s dust-stormed horizon.

The guards stationed there were not Blood Angels serfs but mortal attendants of the Lamenters. Though unblooded and untested in the crucible of war, they wore yellow-patterned power armour for mortal frames from the Talon Sector.

As the Thunderhawk’s ramp lowered, Karlaen and Phoros disembarked with the pounding steps of giant demigods.

Near a flickering campfire outside the tower stood a wounded Lamenters Astartes and several mortal attendants. One mortal retrieved a blood-specked ration bar from a pack, tore it open, took a bite, passed it to the next, who bit and passed again, eventually holding it out to the injured Astartes.

The wounded Lamenter had barely lifted the bar to his mouth when he saw Phoros approach.

He rose at once, standing to attention despite his injuries. “Chapter Master!”

Phoros returned the gesture with a curt nod, and the group continued inside.

The interior of the tower plunged deep beneath the surface. Their descent spiraled down ancient steps of red stone, each slab engraved with forgotten devotional script. The air grew colder, heavier, thick with the scent of dust and old oil. The tower’s internal passages were wide enough for both companies to walk shoulder-to-shoulder and still not brush walls carved before even the Great Crusade.

Karlaen broke the silence of their descent.

“Your Chapter gets along well with mortals.”

Phoros nodded once.

Karlaen had always found Phoros quiet, a difficult man to speak with, and let the conversation lapse. Their boots carried them downward into a deeper shadow.

At the base of the tower, they entered a cavernous chamber.

A blood-pool lay at the center, its surface dark and warm. Around it were chained dozens of Space Marines, once proud sons of Sanguinius, now contorted by rage. Heavy metal chains, thick as tank-treads, bound their necks and limbs.

The moment they sensed the living, they snarled, teeth bared, spittle and blood flecking from their lips. They strained against their chains as though they could tear them asunder through sheer hatred.

The Blood Angels of the host did not flinch. They had seen this familiar tragedy countless times. They moved forward to restrain, sedate, or drag their fallen brothers, each motion weighted with calm resignation.

When the Lamenters recovered from their shock, they stepped forward to assist, though their faces betrayed unease. Phoros could not help but pause.

Karlaen spoke softly, his voice echoing in the chamber. “You have not seen this often in your Chapter… have you?”

Phoros answered only with a nod.

The Lamenters were indeed sons of Sanguinius, but unlike their kin, they suffered almost no occurrences of the Black Rage or the Red Thirst. Some believed they were blessed. Others believed them unworthy of the Angel’s passion.

“You’ve had cases though, haven’t you?” Karlaen asked.

At that, every Blood Angel in the chamber stopped moving. Their eyes turned toward the Lamenters.

Phoros spoke truthfully. “We have. Rarely. But we have.”

His warriors silently nodded, acknowledging truths they rarely dared speak aloud.

Phoros didn’t say anything more; he clearly didn’t want to bring up the matter of his brothers consumed by madness.

No one asked for details.

“How fortunate you are." Karlaen exhaled, frustration threaded through grief." The Black Rage, the Red Thirst, your Chapter can simply choose not to speak of it.”

It was a sentiment many among the Blood Angels had expressed before. To them, the Lamenters were blessed by absence, while the Blood Angels were condemned by remembrance.

Karlaen’s next words came quieter. “In our last offensive… when we pushed to reclaim the outer spires… if you hadn’t knocked me senseless, I would be among those chains now.”

Phoros remembered. In the recent counterassault against the Tyranid synapse creatures, Karlaen’s fury had nearly claimed both their lives. His blade had nearly taken his head; only swift instinct and brutal counterblows had brought him down.

Phoros had struck Karlaen down, fists hammering his helm until awareness returned.

It had worked.

“I do not trust myself among mortals,” Karlaen continued. “The whispers… the hunger… I have kept myself distant since then. I fear what happens if I fail again. After certain… incidents, our brothers avoid contact with mortals wherever possible. There are even rumors among them, that we drink their blood. And… sometimes rumors are born from something true.”

Phoros said nothing. There was no comfort that could be offered. Only the quiet hum of the blood pool and the rattle of chains filled the air.

One by one, the broken Angels were lifted into reinforced cages aboard the Thunderhawks. Among them were former mentors, battle-brothers who had once saved lives, guided youth, inspired courage. Now they had to be locked away like beasts lest they tear apart those they once loved.

“The Sanguinary Priests came to me,” Karlaen spoke once more. “They want to study one of yours, to learn why your Chapter does not fall like we do.”

Now Phoros now understood why Karlaen had insisted on bringing him along.

Gene-study was never gentle. Men could speak of “research,” but it always involved intrusive, near-mutilation procedures, not mere scans or observations.

“It can be done,” Phoros answered. “But tell the Sanguinary Priests that my Apothecary and I will be present at every moment of the examination.”

Karlaen nodded.

Phoros knew the truth, the study would reveal nothing. It wasn’t that he sought to hide anything; it was simply unlikely they would find anything useful.

After becoming Chapter Master, Phoros had collected some information about the chapter's founding period.

The origins of the Lamenters’ gene-seed lay buried beneath Mechanicus secrecy and a founding shrouded in political disaster. The Lamenters were one of the few Chapters from that ill-fated Cursed Founding who had not turned traitor.

Their stability was a mutation, not a cure. Likely not engineered, but a fortunate accident.

Not something reproducible. Not something anyone could control. And perhaps not something meant to endure.

After taking all the prisoners from the tower, the companies returned to their Thunderhawks and ascended through Baal’s blood-red haze toward their next location.

The Thunderhawks climbed higher, their engines howling across the wasteland. But then the sky split with a sudden flare.

A streak of fire tore across the heavens. It moved too steadily to be a meteor.

A blazing figure of living flame arced toward the Angel’s Fortress.

Nyadra’zatha. The Burning One.

Phoros watched its trajectory; it flew directly into the fortress’s inner sanctums.

“What is it seeking?” Phoros asked.

Karlaen shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”