The trigger of the MK3A "Heretic" pattern flamer was pulled. The blessed, sacred weapon trembled slightly, and promethium flowed from the underslung fuel canister to the muzzle through the Machine Spirit. After a complex sequence of processes, it spat out a deadly torrent of ferocious flame.
It sounded cumbersome when described, but in truth, all of the above took less than half a second.
Raging flames erupted in the gloomy corridor and ran wild. Fire danced, and traitors died.
High-temperature flame could burn many things. Metal, human bodies, or human bodies wrapped in metal—the flames burned, and Khorne's followers howled loudly within them, like wounded beasts.
They were not incapable of feeling pain. That was good. The chain reaction caused by superheated chemicals burning was enough to make any creature of flesh and blood die in agony within it, swiftly and miserably.
The one responsible did not let them off.
His left hand dropped, and his right drew the short assault bolter at the small of his back. His arm went taut, and he pulled the trigger. Three-round bursts of bolt shells, carrying his hatred, poured into the flames like rain. The rain of bolts did not extinguish the fire, but it made several flowers of flesh bloom within it.
Yes, that's it. Die full of pain, you shameful traitors. You should be burned by fire at every moment. Ingratitude itself is a vile blasphemy.
Benson Declerion did not say those words aloud. He had learned from experience to turn hatred into greater strength, not into blades of speech. The former could kill many traitors; the latter could only enrage them.
Unless necessary, he usually used only the former.
"Brother Benson, report in. What is the situation in your assigned area?" Tokar's voice sounded over the vox channel, carrying a