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KHARN: EATER OF WORLDS

A Khârn novel

CHOSEN OF KHORNE

A Khârn audio drama

TALON OF HORUS

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Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Talon of Horus’

A Black Library Publication

eBook License

WARHAMMER 40,000

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

CHAPTER ONE

The Furnaces of Haeleon

‘Who would you have me slay?’

Talomar Locq’s words were spoken with the confidence of a warrior who had proven himself in battle a hundred times over. His eyes burned with the same intensity as the myriad fires licking at the smashed remains of the Imperial citadel in which he stood, their whites shining brightly against the dried blood and filth encrusting his face. He stood before the Warmaster as a devoted servant, his chainsword still dripping with the blood of the enemy and his power armour freshly scarred from recent combat. Locq had, of course, been in the presence of Abaddon many times before and had even fought directly beside him on more than one occasion. But from today, this glorious day, he could speak of the time he was summoned by Abaddon the Despoiler to be tasked with the most glorious of missions and have his invaluable service to the Warmaster finally recognised. He would finally lead his warband as one of Abaddon’s chosen few, fighting by his side in the service of the Blood God. It was an honour he felt was not only deserved, but long overdue.

The call had come as he had led an execution squad to cleanse the last of the loyalist survivors. Between cries for mercy from wounded Guardsmen and the inevitable reply to their pleas from a bolt pistol, he had seen the looks exchanged between his warriors as the message had come through. Locq knew of many who had been summoned to the Warmaster’s presence and never seen again, but they had been foolish enough to make a mistake on the field of battle or displease him in some other way. He had done neither, and as he stood before the mighty form of his leader, he felt his time had truly come. His rewards for long and devoted service were mere seconds away.

The hulking form of Abaddon strode towards Locq, the sneer on his face thrown into dancing shadow by the fires surrounding him. It looked to Locq as if he was being given all the respect due to an irritating insect, and he fought to maintain his outward calm. The Warmaster’s eyes flicked over to Urkanthos and his face twisted into a scowl. Locq tried to think of what he and his commander might have done to merit such a greeting, and turned to look over to the Chaos Lord. He was surprised to see Urkanthos was looking down at the shattered ground, revealing the line of brass studs hammered into his exposed skull. The Lord Purgator was not usually one to hold his tongue, but something had silenced him. He was the commander of the Chaos fleets, feared and respected nearly as much as his Warmaster, but here he was clearly avoiding Abaddon’s burning gaze.

‘I would have you slay no one, Locq. And if you speak without permission again, I will kill you.’

Abaddon’s sonorous voice rumbled into the darkening sky, the texture of his words as ominous as their content. Locq immediately understood the scale of his mistake, and hid the realisation by biting down hard with his back teeth and clenching his hand around his bolter’s stock. Locq could feel Abaddon’s eyes boring into him, yet he dared not turn his head. Eventually, Urkanthos looked up. It was difficult to read his skeletal features at the best of times, but there was no support or encouragement to be found in the depths of his cadaverous eye sockets. Words began to form in Locq’s throat but before he could speak, Abaddon turned his back on him and moved away, crunching through the smoking debris that had been an Imperial stronghold only hours before. As the Warmaster barged his way past a broken plascrete column, Urkanthos moved after him, giving the merest flick of his hand to indicate Locq should follow. Without a word, Locq tucked his helmet under his arm and did as he was told.

Abaddon moved fast, and it took several seconds for Locq and Urkanthos to catch up with their Warmaster. By then he had exited the ruins of the hilltop palace and was striding down to the sprawling courtyard that had once housed gleaming marble monuments to the Emperor. Nothing now remained but chunks of rubble, and the fine mosaic floor was covered in a film of blood and oil. A ragged line of Black Legion drop-ships and transports squatted impatiently in the middle of the vast square, lines of slaves driven into some, tight formations of Chaos Space Marines and other forces trooping into others. Locq recognised Abaddon’s personal transport some five hundred yards distant, and calculated that the journey to its ramp was exactly as much time as he had left to make amends for his mistake. How he was going to do that without speaking eluded him.

Urkanthos strode forwards to Abaddon’s flank, leaving Locq to pick up the pace in order to hear what might be said. The Lord Purgator bowed his head as he spoke in a low, respectful tone, forcing Locq to strain his superhuman hearing.

‘Forgive Locq, my liege. He is an excellent soldier and has proven himself reliable over many campaigns. His impertinence comes from an eagerness to serve. It will not go unpunished.’

Abaddon stopped walking, and Locq stepped back to maintain a respectful distance. The Despoiler’s topknot swayed slightly, betraying the fact he was deigning to acknowledge one of his favoured commanders. Locq was surprised the Chaos Lord had intervened on his behalf, but was in no doubt there would be a price to pay. Nevertheless, he was relieved no one other than Urkanthos had witnessed his humiliation before the Warmaster. Even rumours of such an affront to Abaddon would be enough for members of his warband to challenge his right to lead them. He had fought plenty in the past to achieve and maintain his position, but he knew of several Hounds that would see any error he might commit as a sign of weakness and use it to their advantage.

Up ahead, two Thunderhawks roared into the purple-red sky, vortices of thick black smoke whirling in circles around their wing-tips from the fires raging on the ground. For the briefest of instants, he wondered if he was already condemned to die on this smashed planet. Abaddon strode over to the charred remains of a Leman Russ tank, its main turret missing and sponson cannons torn away. For long seconds the Warmaster looked around, breathing in the choking fumes and revelling in the scene of destruction laid out before him. Urkanthos waited patiently. Locq stayed exactly where he was.

‘Locq!’

The captain straightened to attention, bringing his bolter up across his chest and taking a step forward as Abaddon turned to face him. This time, the captain did not make so much as eye contact but instead stared straight ahead, fixing his gaze on the blood-encrusted brass skull centrepiece below Abaddon’s exposed head. In the gloom of his peripheral vision, Locq could see Urkanthos stiffen. Was an attack coming? He could not hope to win against Abaddon, but every instinct in his enhanced body readied him for combat. Fighting against the urge to strike, he concentrated on remaining absolutely still. The merest indication of defence would mean his destruction.

‘Is my Lord Purgator correct? Will you serve me in any way I see fit?’

Locq did not answer straight away. Instead he raised his chin slightly to expose his neck in a sign of contrition.

‘My skull is yours to take, Warmaster.’

The air was filled with the screaming of engines as several drop-ships hurtled overhead, fighting their way up towards the barely visible stars. Abaddon regarded him coolly, his left hand grasping and then releasing the grip of the daemon sword Drach’nyen, the tip of its vicious blade balancing on the decorative floor.

‘You will find the World Eater known as Khârn the Betrayer and bring him before me. Whether it is through persuasion or force, I care not how you accomplish it.’

Locq stared at Abaddon, astonished at his words. This was the great role he was to be entrusted with? A messenger? A tide of disappointment surged through him. The captain pursed his lips closed and gripped his bolter tightly. He did not know what to say or where to look, lest the anger rising in his breast betray him. Fixing his gaze on Abaddon’s daemon blade, he could see it shimmer to display skulls and faces twisted in perpetual agony. It was a deliberate and powerful reminder of the fate that would befall anyone who did not fulfil their duties, but such was the frustration Locq was feeling, the warning hardly touched him. His business concluded, Abaddon turned and began to walk away from Locq. Urkanthos stepped after the Warmaster and called after him, frustration and contempt colouring his words.

‘Warmaster, surely it would be better to send a message rather than forces required for the Crusade? We have no need of this so-called Chosen of Khorne. Our own–’

Urkanthos stopped talking a split second after Abaddon came to an abrupt halt. The Warmaster did not turn to look around. He did not need to.

‘You dare to question my orders?’

The Chaos Lord did not move. Slowly, Abaddon turned and stared down at Urkanthos, his eyes burning with undisguised disdain.

‘Be mindful – the favours I bestow upon my chosen, I can also take away.’

Urkanthos bowed his head, and while he had no features to reveal such an emotion, Locq could tell he was seething with anger. Casting his own eyes down, Locq could still see Abaddon’s hand tighten on the grip of his legendary sword. It pleased him that Urkanthos was taking the force of Abaddon’s fury rather than him. Locq could still not quite believe the way in which his Warmaster had treated him.

The Lord Purgator kept his head bowed. Locq felt his reply was delivered with considerable delicacy.

‘I… do not seek to question my liege. Your orders will be obeyed.’

Locq chanced an upward glance towards Abaddon to observe his reaction. Could Urkanthos’ clumsiness present a new opportunity for him? With the Lord Purgator gone, Locq could take his place as one of the Warmaster’s favourites – particularly if he succeeded in this honourless mission. Abaddon kept his eyes fixed on Urkanthos for a few threatening seconds longer, then turned and strode off towards the remaining drop-ships without another word. Locq waited until Abaddon had reached his transport and the ramp had closed before approaching Urkanthos, giving the Lord Purgator enough time to recover his composure. Only when Abaddon was airborne did they speak.

‘The Warmaster insults me with such a task.’

Urkanthos spat the words and Locq grunted in agreement. They had both been humiliated and reprimanded in equal measure, and the nature of the mission burned both of their Chaos-warped senses of honour and pride. Locq’s anger boiled inside him and he turned to Urkanthos. After all, it was not the Chaos Lord who had been given the mission to undertake.

‘Insults us, Lord Urkanthos. I am the one who is given the role of lackey, not you.’

Locq felt suddenly encouraged now that Abaddon had departed. Urkanthos stared into the broiling sky, and Locq’s gaze fell to his hand, which rested on his chainsword in exactly the same fashion as Abaddon’s had done earlier. Urkanthos was displeased. Perhaps he had said too much – again.

‘There will be good reason for him wanting Khârn. It is not our place to question why. We just do.’

Locq’s gaze followed Abaddon’s drop-ship skywards until it disappeared into a huge grey-brown cloud. He felt his old confidence surging through him, and rage burned within his chest. Perhaps it was time he showed the Lord Purgator that Talomar Locq had become a force to be reckoned with and was not frightened by his threatening tone.

‘But what of the glories I will miss while playing this childish game? This so-called mission is an insult. I have fought for this position, my lord, and I will have no one take it from me in my absence.’

The Chaos Lord moved quickly, wheeling around and activating his chainsword before Locq could react. The weapon growled menacingly in front of Locq’s exposed face, and Urkanthos’ words bit as deep as might the teeth of his weapon.

‘Remember it is I whom you serve first, Locq. You will not fail me.’

Locq looked into the expressionless face of the Chaos Lord for a long moment. No, the time was not yet right for him to make his move. He needed to reinforce his position, to build his warband and make Abaddon realise he was a great warrior and true follower of the Blood God. In that way, he could not fail to be chosen. Locq relaxed his grip on his bolter and nodded. The chainsword receded from his face, and Urkanthos withdrew a couple of paces.

‘Assemble your cohort. And make sure you pick them with care – regardless of what you might have heard about Khârn and his berzerkers being an undisciplined rabble, they are not to be underestimated.’

Urkanthos kept the weapon drawn for another heartbeat, then powered it down. As the Lord Purgator turned towards the final remaining drop-ship, Locq swallowed down his fury and called after him.

‘My lord, where will I find Khârn?’

Urkanthos’ voice boomed from the deep shadows consuming the surface of the ruined planet.

‘Look for the bloodiest trail of destruction in the sector. Then follow it.’

Despite the eye lenses of his helmet shading him from the worst effects, Khârn still found himself squinting against the brilliant reflections from Haeleon’s glass-smooth surface. Of all the unforgiving balls of rock on which he had fought for the glory of the Blood God, this had to be one of the most forbidding. Its three suns ensured nothing could survive long on the lifeless shell without protection, and he could feel the searing heat on his exposed left arm as he hefted Gorechild in readiness for the approaching battle. Khârn had very little regard for most of the loyalist forces – or for any other – but during the days of Horus he had seen the White Scars’ prowess as hunters and masters of the lightning attack. The vast expanses of perfectly flat, baked ground would lend themselves well to the Chogorians’ way of fast, mobile warfare. They must have thought it a gift from their Emperor when Khârn had made planetfall here and their ship had miraculously managed to ‘evade’ Shipmaster Roderbar’s scanners to allow their attack.

However, Haeleon hid a secret that could not be detected on scanners. Its outer crust was extremely fragile, and many of the plains had collapsed in on themselves to create elaborate networks of slick-walled chasms and translucent valleys. Some ran for hundreds of miles, others for barely a few yards, and it was into such a web that Khârn would draw the foe. While it was against his very nature to wait in ambush like a cowering animal, today the tactic would serve his purpose and that of the Blood God well. All he had to do was get their attention, and as he watched the line of glinting vehicles speeding towards him in the far distance, he raised Gorechild into the air and roared at the top of his voice.

A few hundred yards ahead of his position, the smooth rock erupted in a hail of bolter fire. The destruction swept towards him in a broad wave, carving deep gouges and spinning dagger-sharp shards of silica into the air. Further out still, a hazy line of mounted White Scars roared towards him, sustaining a murderous barrage. His blood raged through his veins and it took all of his considerable willpower to remain static and not charge towards the enemy. The sheet of destruction narrowed as they sped towards him, and daggers of glass showered his body. Most of it rained onto his armour and broke apart, but some pieces sliced viciously into his exposed arm. The pain meant nothing in comparison to the murderous heat of the three suns. If anything, it helped him concentrate.

From the second the fifty-strong formation of gleaming bikes had broken over the far horizon, Khârn had been counting down in his head, adjusting calculations of speed and trajectory as the White Scars had accelerated towards their prey. With no landmarks or features to work from, the task of assessing exactly when to open fire was made all the more difficult. Snapping his plasma pistol straight in front of him, he began to blast indiscriminately at the bikes roaring line-abreast towards him. As he did so, Khârn strode backwards, not as fast as the speeding bikes but quick enough to buy himself the extra three seconds he needed.

While the White Scars’ auspexes would be next to useless due to the planet’s unusual geology, Khârn knew that their visual scans and augmented eyesight would have spotted the network of valleys towards which they roared. Khârn understood the Chogorians to be bold, but they were not stupid. However, in the same way Khârn wanted their skulls for the Blood God, he was counting on their desire to take him as a trophy. He needed them to keep charging at him until the very last second, so he gave them an easy target to aim for. Larger splinters of rock bounced and clanged off his power armour and cut deeper into his bare arm. The wave of decimation was intensifying around him. If it engulfed him fully, even with the protection of his armour he would not be able to withstand the combined fire from fifty twin bolters. Taking a few more steps backwards, Khârn raised Gorechild over his head and bellowed at the White Scars in defiance just as the maelstrom reached its apex.

Stormseer Yaghterai knew of Khârn’s reputation as a berzerker, but he had no idea he was quite so suicidal. One minute he was standing a few hundred yards away from them, his malevolent scarlet figure blurred by the cloud of debris thrown up by their lethal bolter fire, and the next he was gone, having thrown himself into the closest of the chasms that snaked out for countless miles in all directions. Directly in front of him, Xin-Myang Khan reacted to Khârn’s disappearance with a raised chainsword, ordering the riders to cease fire and slow down. The parchment-dry air was filled with the squealing of brakes and scudding of over-sized tyres on Haeleon’s surface, and Yaghterai noted with irritation that some of the bikes pitched sideways, their over-zealous riders having to slam a leg down and force their mounts into a controlled power slide. Yaghterai had expected something unusual to happen, and now it had. This, however, was only the beginning – and he did not like it one bit.

The Stormseer had been trying to counsel caution since they had first detected Khârn’s ship, but he might as well have shouted to the howling winds of the Chogorian plains. Of course he shared the burning desire to avenge the Brotherhood of Khajog Khan, slain at the hands of Abaddon the Despoiler, but his own brothers had been consumed by what they had seen as great fortune to detect the traitor vessel Skulltaker in the first place. It was an opportunity too good to miss; they would have the honour of exacting revenge on the forces of Chaos in a daring attack against superior forces. Songs would be sung of them long into the cold Chogorian nights.

Yaghterai’s had been a lone voice questioning what the berzerkers might want on such a barren rock as Haeleon, and his khan had dismissed it as irrelevant. Shipmaster Adarek had carefully sailed their strike cruiser Wings of the Eagle out and around Haeleon to avoid detection, using the impenetrable structure of the planet to mask their approach and landing from the larger, more powerful enemy vessel. And now they were here, facing an enemy that was no longer in sight. Yaghterai readied his force staff and decelerated carefully, his greater experience showing in the deft control of his steed. Xin-Myang braked late as they rumbled ever closer to the network of jagged cracks in the ground, allowing himself to be absorbed into the line of bikes. Opening his vox, he called his riders to readiness and they came to a full stop twenty yards from the nearest gorge, engines close to overheating, weapons drawn. Watching him, the Stormseer took in a deep breath of hot, stale air. He wanted to insist they undertake a full reconnaissance of the area, to try and at least map the territory into which they were heading and to judge its suitability for their bikes. He wanted to, but knew it would be a waste of his breath. On a planet such as this, it was easy to be blinded.

Khârn shifted his weight slightly, trying his best not to cast a shadow into the wide, flat-bottomed valley to his right and below him. There was absolutely no indication the White Scars had followed him down as he had hoped they would. Frustration boiled in his veins. Hiding in wait was as alien to him as it was the rest of his warband. Jumping down onto the glass-smooth floor with a crunch, he looked up into the bleached sky to see if there was any movement along the ledge of the chasm. There was none, and Khârn muttered an oath to the Blood God. His body felt as if it was going to explode with the anticipation of combat. Movement caught his eye, and he saw a number of red-clad figures squirming inside narrow fissures to his left and right. It was clear several of them were in peril of losing the fight against their bloodlust – particularly Samzar. Immediately identifiable from the broken horn on his berzerker helmet, he was physically shaking with the effort of self-control. As if sensing his gaze, Samzar looked over and gave Khârn an imperceptible nod, then forced himself back impatiently into the narrow crevasse that would hide him from the bikes’ approach. If the enemy did not present themselves soon, the warband would likely turn on each other.

That was of no consequence. All that mattered to Khorne was that the blood flowed.

A flicker of darkness flashed across Haeleon’s highest sun directly above. A second later, the walls of the gorge exploded all around. Something crashed to the ground yards away, and the roar of bolters echoed from the high, sheer walls. Khârn spun around to see a White Scars bike bearing down on him, its tyres screeching in protest on the smooth surface and its front end juddering uncontrollably. Its bolts exploded wide, and Khârn seized the opportunity to dodge the fire. Running further into the valley, he ducked around a sharp turn as more fire streaked past him. Realising the bike would be on him in seconds, Khârn jumped up into a crack a couple of yards off the ground and waited for it to slow as it navigated the corner. Ignoring the chattering of its guns, he swung Gorechild horizontally, taking the head from the White Scar in a single clean blow. The bike continued onwards down the valley without a rider, jamming between the rapidly narrowing walls.

More shadows flitted overhead. Khârn looked back to see a dozen more bikes plunging from the sky, dropping thirty feet from the plateau above to land in the natural passageway. Khârn roared at the riders, who immediately spotted him and accelerated, firing wildly. Two of the lead bikes crashed into each other as the valley narrowed, and the bikers behind had to brake heavily to avoid collision with their brothers. With a roar that impressed even Khârn, berzerkers emerged from their hiding places, throwing themselves at the slowing machines. For a few seconds it looked to Khârn as if the battle would be over quickly, but then fire erupted from the other end of the valley. More bikes emerged around the tight corner, their riders using their hand weapons for fear of hitting their battle-brothers caught in the ambush. Khârn ducked back, but several berzerkers crashed to the ground, dead before they hit the floor under a withering salvo of close-range bolter fire.

Khârn threw himself at the lead bike, jumping up on its front wheel and bringing Gorechild down into the helmet of its rider. The White Scar behind him opened fire immediately, but Khârn grabbed hold of the now-lifeless Chogorian and threw him at the bikes trapped before him. Khârn heard a cry from above and looked up to see a White Scar dropping towards him. The Space Marine crashed into Khârn and sent him tumbling off the top of the bike, the two of them rolling to the side as the other bikes roared past. Khârn was up first. Drawing his plasma pistol, he aimed it at the head of his attacker and discharged it into the White Scar’s helmet, evaporating its contents. The skull of such a feeble opponent was not a suitable offering for the Blood God. Khârn pursued the line of bikes, hoping to find a more worthy adversary.

The ground shook behind Khârn as another bike landed heavily, and the surface gave way beneath his feet. Bouncing and skidding, the machine roared past him, its thick front tyre narrowly missing his head. Khârn threw Gorechild at the back of the rider, but the axe’s chains were swept up by the rear tyre and jammed into the wheel housing, dragging Khârn for several yards until the wheel locked up and the machine careened into the wall, crushing its rider as it flipped to one side. Khârn felt as if his left arm had been torn from its socket, and hauled himself to his feet by the chains. Pulling on them, he realised the chainaxe was stuck fast. Holstering his overheated pistol, he ran over to free his favoured weapon. White-armoured figures dropped around him from above, some of them landing well. Three made directly for Khârn and he dropped the chains, readying himself for the attack. From nowhere, Samzar and his comrade Lukosz charged the attacking Chogorians. Khârn picked up the chains again and strained at the crippled bike. This time Gorechild came free, and Khârn sank it deep into white ceramite. Having despatched the three White Scars, Lukosz and Samzar moved away in search of more skull trophies.

Khârn knew they would expect no acknowledgement from him, nor would they get any.

He headed back towards the widest part of the chasm. Its centre was crowded with at least twenty abandoned bikes at various angles, their riders having left them in favour of close-quarters combat. The entire valley was filled with the flash of bolter fire and the whirr of chainswords, the sound of power-armoured warriors smashing into each other in a symphony of carnage. In the blink of an eye, a veteran Chogorian was vaulting over a burning attack bike towards him. Khârn did not have time to activate Gorechild before his adversary was upon him, chainsword in one hand and curved duelling tulwar in the other. Khârn laughed with the pleasure of the attack. This White Scar was no fool like the previous assailant. He twisted and rolled out of the way of Gorechild, stabbing and slicing at Khârn’s left arm with his short blade. Khârn ignored the pain and used the apparent weakness of his exposed arm to lure the Space Marine off balance. By the time the veteran had realised his mistake, Gorechild had smashed through his helmet and into his screaming face. The Chogorian staggered back, dropping his chainsword and trying to get some purchase on the massive handle, but Khârn yanked hard on the chain, pulling the weapon out and allowing the White Scar’s blood to spurt freely through his ruined vox grille. In one elegant, seamless movement, Khârn activated Gorechild, took a step forwards and slashed diagonally down, sawing the veteran from neck to armpit. As he peeled apart, blood and organs washed onto the glassy surface, sizzling like meat on a hot plate. Khârn bellowed to the skies. The blood was well and truly flowing now, and he wanted Khorne to witness his harvest.

Something hit Khârn on his right pauldron, the force spinning him off balance and crashing him into the splintered glass wall of the gorge. Instinct told him it was not a conventional weapon, so he fell to one knee, using the milling, clashing bodies of berzerkers and White Scars as cover. A ball of energy hurtled overhead and down the valley. This assault had not issued from a gun; it bore all the hallmarks of the warp. When another crackling discharge streaked past, Khârn jumped to his feet and ran with his head down, slamming into the bodies of friend and foe alike. Barging them away, he used the open space to build up speed and launched himself from one of the burning White Scars bikes, Gorechild raised high and ready. Sailing over a line of white and red power-armoured figures, he landed awkwardly, the planet’s granite-slick surface smashing underfoot and throwing him to one side. A bolt hit him square in the back, but Khârn’s armour absorbed the attack. Rolling to his feet, he advanced on the White Scars psyker, Gorechild’s teeth already rattling at full speed.

The Stormseer took a step forwards and aimed his staff directly at Khârn’s head. There was a brilliant flash and Khârn’s vision blurred, but he shook off the assault and pressed on. A second discharge came, hitting his breastplate, but the energy quickly dissipated. Looking down at the fading blue-white light, he laughed at the efforts of the Stormseer.

‘Fool. Your parlour tricks cannot break the Blood God’s grip on me.’

Raising his axe into the air, the Chosen of Khorne swung down, smashing the animal-horned tip of the Stormseer’s staff into splinters and slicing away the ceremonial braids of hair. The White Scar looked down to the shaft, now cleaved in two and useless, and immediately reached for his chainsword. Khârn heard a muttered incantation beneath the Stormseer’s helmet, likely an appeal to the powers of nature the Chogorians so fervently believed in, and moved in with Gorechild to claim his skull. However, the speed with which the White Scar moved was incredible; blocking his attack, the Stormseer pushed back and, to his surprise and delight, Khârn realised that the White Scar had summoned extra power and speed from some unknown spirit. This promised to be a worthy opponent after all.

The Stormseer raised his chainsword with a roar and threw himself at Khârn, who found himself having to parry the ferocious onslaught. The two sets of teeth ripped at each other in a screech of metal. Grabbing hold of his free arm, the White Scar attempted to spin Khârn off balance but instead they fell back onto a nearby bike, crashing to the unforgiving ground. Khârn recovered first, reactivating Gorechild and bringing it down on the Stormseer’s helmet. Galvanised by his incantations, the Chogorian bobbed his head out of the way. He was not fast enough to prevent the top of his helm being sheared away, along with a good slice of scalp from his scarred, bald head. Swinging outwards with Gorechild, Khârn had to step back from the Stormseer’s counter-attack. Rolling back onto his feet, the psyker again threw himself at the Betrayer with a guttural roar, slicing and carving a path with his chainsword towards him. Khârn found himself relishing the fight.

‘You have found your strength, Stormseer! Be fast. Be strong. Your battle-brothers have been nothing but disappointing cowards. Prove to me that you are a worthy adversary!’

Khârn wanted his words to goad the Stormseer and as the psyker thrust his chainsword towards him with a howl of fury, he knew that it had worked. However, the attack lacked the ferocity of the previous few blows. With disappointment, Khârn realised the White Scar’s power was deserting him. They both knew it. Yet still, the Chogorian pressed on his assault, snarling as he did so.

‘What do you know of worth? You are an abomination, as is your god. I do not need the powers of the warp to kill you. There are plenty of other ways you can die at my hands.’

As if to punctuate the point, the Stormseer sliced through one of the chains attached to Gorechild, releasing the skulls that had been threaded along its length. They clattered to the ground and rolled away. Furious at losing his trophies, Khârn swept outwards with the rear of his chainaxe, hitting the Stormseer squarely in the chest and throwing him backwards. Khârn’s patience was wearing thin.

‘I care not whether I take your soul or your skull, Chogorian. Either way, the Blood God will have you for his own.’

The White Scar stood before Khârn for a moment, clearly considering his words. Slowly, he reached up and removed his ruined helmet, revealing a face soaked in blood and eyes white with hatred. Khârn was unimpressed with his defiance. The mica-dragon teeth on Gorechild became a blur, and Khârn swung the chainaxe two-handed. The Stormseer moved fast enough for his chainsword to take the whole force of the attack, but Gorechild carved it in two. Its chain split and lashed backwards with lethal speed, fracturing the Chogorian’s skull and tearing out his right eye. Khârn stepped back and watched as the White Scar clutched at his ruined face, blood pumping through the fingers of his gauntlet. Still, he would not give up. He drew a ceremonial dagger from an animal-hide sheath and pointed it towards Khârn, raging at him in fury.

‘How can you not understand, berzerker? Even if you kill us all today, we will not stop. We shall avenge the Brotherhood of Khajog Khan and destroy Abaddon the Despoiler. We will hunt you and your kind to extinction.’

Khârn stopped dead in his tracks, Gorechild spinning down to an idle chunter. He regarded the swaying form of the Stormseer, the warrior still determined to finish his hunt. It was not the admission the White Scars were on a mission of vengeance that surprised him, nor the pointless bravado of the Stormseer in the face of the Blood God’s might. It was something far more personal that ignited a rage within him.

‘Abaddon? I serve no one but Khorne.’

Exposed as he was to the furnace heat of Haeleon, the unfiltered tone of the traitor’s voice sent a chill through Yaghterai’s body. His vision swayed in and out of focus through his remaining eye, and he was unsure whether Khârn’s removal of his elaborate red helmet was real or an illusion. As the scarlet figure moved towards him, however, the look of absolute loathing in his stare brought the Stormseer crashing back to reality. The rest of Khârn’s scarred face was impassive, caring nothing for the life about to end before him. Yaghterai wondered if those malevolent, feral eyes had witnessed Jaghatai Khan himself on the battlefield. Had they seen Terra burn?

Yaghterai felt tired. He knew he was finished; his mind was slipping away, robbing him of his connection to the aether. And yet, it had been words that had hurt his opponent more than anything. He still had a weapon he could wield.

‘There is no distinction I can see. World Eaters, Black Legion… you are all the same. Had Abaddon not crawled from that plague pit you call home, you would not have had the will or the courage to venture forth on your own. He has led you to this place, whether you like it or not. And he will lead you to your annihilation.’

Yaghterai felt his legs buckle and he fell to his hands and knees at the feet of Khârn. There was a high-pitched sound in the air, strangely familiar, getting closer. It filled his heart with yearning. Straining his head upwards, he could see Khârn towering over him, his huge axe purring, ready and waiting. His face was shaking with rage; he was impassive no longer. Good.

‘What became of the Twelfth Legion, Khârn? Let me tell you.’

The Stormseer shook his head to clear it. He wanted his final words to be as cutting as a finely honed tulwar.

‘They bowed to the Despoiler, Khârn. The War Hounds turned into lapdogs.’

Yaghterai dropped his head in exhaustion. He could see red and clear liquid running in thick lines onto the smooth, hard ground, steam escaping as it splashed before him. The sound came again, louder now. Was it the whine of a chainaxe? No. It was changing, transforming into something else. Yes, the screech of a Chogorian eagle. It was calling him home, and as all went black he opened his soul to welcome its cry.

The battle was not yet won, but Lukosz could see from his vantage point the berzerkers were on their way to victory. Some yards distant he spotted Samzar hurling the front wheel of a White Scars bike at two opponents, smashing one to the ground and forcing the other to fire wide of his position. All the better, because the shot would have dropped him where he stood. The Nails were making him increasingly reckless, and Lukosz knew Samzar’s uncontrolled rage would soon lead to his demise. As if realising his lucky escape, Samzar charged forwards. Emptying his own weapon into the chest of the upright White Scar, Samzar turned his attention to the prone Chogorian half buried beneath the tyre of his own steed.

Flicking the rapidly drying gore from his chainsword, Lukosz scanned down the valley to target the khan of the White Scars. Some within the warband might argue there was no great urgency to finish the enemy off, but he had fought the Chogorians before and knew just how quickly they could reassemble, mobilise and launch a counter-strike. The berzerkers had used the planet to its best effect; in that, they had served Khârn well. But now the initial density of bodies had thinned and despite the abandoned machines in the confined space, it would be easier to manoeuvre around them. If only a handful of riders retrieved their mounts, the warband could be cut to ribbons.

Instead of seeing the White Scars’ leader, he found his own. Khârn was swinging Gorechild down onto an unseen opponent in a frenzy, his bare arm glistening and bulging with the effort. Why he had removed his helmet, Lukosz could only guess. Khârn enjoyed the smell of death, and there was plenty of it hanging in the fire-hot air of Haeleon. Unfortunately, this meant he would not be able to hear his vox broadcast. Lukosz would have to navigate his way over there instead.

Berzerkers would fight independently until they were slain or all their foes lay in a pile before them, but now was the time for reason. Like Samzar, Lukosz had relinquished his captain’s rank when the Legion had fallen apart. The title had become as meaningless as his own existence. He still possessed the keen tactical mind that had marked him for leadership all those years ago. Whether it would eventually abandon him as he had witnessed in his fellow World Eaters, he was unsure. However, one thing was for certain: he was the only thing keeping this disparate faction of berzerkers alive. Khârn cared nothing for leadership. He was an indifferent force of nature who lived to shed blood and go where it pleased him or, to be more accurate, where the Red Path took him. If some chose to follow, as long as they did not get in Khârn’s way, then all was well and good. If they proved useful, as he and Samzar had, all the better. Following the Chosen of Khorne was the closest thing Lukosz would ever find to the old ways and, for that reason, it was worth fighting for.

Spotting four White Scars moving in unison towards their steeds, Lukosz realised it was time to act. Bounding over to Khârn, he beheld a scene that choked the warning in his throat. It was difficult to make out exactly what the Chosen of Khorne was attacking, because it had no discernible shape. Here and there, pieces of shattered plate stuck up out of the glistening pulp. The frenzied attack showed no signs of abating, with Khârn screaming the same thing repeatedly as he swung down into the spattered mass of tissue, flinging ropes of gore in random arcs around the site of obliteration.

‘I follow the Red Path! I follow the Blood God!’

Lukosz had rarely seen Khârn in a greater fury. The air around him seemed to boil. Somewhere behind him, he heard an engine choke into life, and a large shadow passed overhead, throwing the valley into shadow.

‘Lord Lukosz, this is Roderbar. A White Scars Thunderhawk is on its way down. I could not–’

The ground erupted in heavy bolter fire just as the Skulltaker’s warning came through. Lukosz flattened himself against the gorge’s wall and heard the roar of engines pass overhead. The White Scars were attempting extraction, and in their present location any ship would be able to shoot the warband like fish in a barrel. Barking orders to return fire, Lukosz turned to Khârn who, mercifully, had been distracted by the assault. Looking down to the mess, Lukosz realised just about the only part of the body that had not been pulped was the head. Khârn looked up to him then, eyes wild, breathing heavily.

‘Blood for the Blood God, Lukosz. He demands more trophies. Now.’

The air was filled with the chatter of concentrated bolter fire and Lukosz looked up to see the Thunderhawk land heavily around a mile in the distance. Behind him, packs of berzerkers were heaving themselves over the ledge of the chasm in pursuit. Several White Scars were running towards a solitary figure waving a long, curved blade in the air between Lukosz’s position and the now-open drop-ship door. It had to be their khan, orchestrating the retreat. On his right, Lukosz spotted the unmistakable figure of Khârn running towards the Chogorian, completely oblivious to the volley of suppressing fire the rapidly retreating White Scars were laying down to protect their leader. The khan represented a trophy that could not be missed.

Realising Khârn’s intention, Lukosz ran after him, doing his best to draw fire away and provide cover. Samzar joined his comrade on the opposite flank seconds later, but with nothing to hide behind it was a matter of firing and dodging as best they could. With every one of the khan’s remaining battle-brothers now closing on him and heading for the drop-ship, Lukosz saw their leader begin his own retreat. Three White Scars moved forwards from the foot of the loading ramp to join him, attempting to create a distraction in much the same way Lukosz and Samzar had done for Khârn earlier in the battle. Lukosz could see that, despite the speed and fury of Khârn’s charge, he would not reach the leader of the White Scars before his protectors did.

Lukosz roared at Samzar and the other berzerkers to target the drop-ship. Bolt pistol fire tore through the air, catching the White Scars leader, his guard and Khârn in a deadly crossfire. Khârn kept on weaving and ducking, clearly intent on claiming the khan’s head no matter what the cost. Without warning, his intended victim spun to the ground, hit in his shoulder by a stray shot. The White Scars did not hesitate to open up on the exposed berzerker with a volley that sent Khârn himself to the broken ground. The three White Scars guards wasted no time in grabbing their khan. Shielding him with their own bodies from the fire Lukosz and the berzerkers were laying down, they kept low and headed towards the drop-ship. As Khârn jumped to his feet, the drop-ship’s pilot opened fire, blowing a huge hole in the ground and sending him spinning into the air.

Lukosz heard Samzar’s howl of fury, and saw him charge towards the drop-ship with several berzerkers flanking him. The khan and his guard had missed their chance to reach the Thunderhawk alive. Moving as one, the four White Scars changed direction towards a handful of bikes whose riders had been cut down by the berzerkers’ pistols, firing constantly as they ran while the Thunderhawk’s engines began to power up in the background. Lukosz saw movement, and was relieved to see Khârn back on his feet, running to intercept the fleeing White Scars.

‘Keep that drop-ship on the ground!’

Lukosz ran towards Samzar, who had wrestled a heavy bolter from one of the attack bikes and was emptying the magazine into the starboard engine of the Thunderhawk. Lukosz fired at the same spot, and as he reached Samzar they both watched as a blossom of yellow and red erupted from the ship’s cowling. Pitching violently downwards, the pilot realised retreat was the only option and coaxed the vessel into the air, a plume of dense smoke streaming from the back of the burning starboard exhaust as the berzerkers continued their fire.

Lukosz looked back over to the fleeing White Scars. Khârn was within yards of the leader when one of his guards threw himself at the berzerker. Lukosz and Samzar sprinted forwards, firing past Khârn who was fighting hand-to-hand with the Chogorian veteran. By the time they reached Khârn, his opponent was dead, but the Chogorian leader had escaped with his outriders. Lukosz stood back from Khârn with a wary eye and watched him closely as the two bikes disappeared into the distance. Lukosz could see Khârn’s knuckles white with the intensity of his grasp on Gorechild. Lukosz readied himself for a potential attack. He knew Khârn too well to trust he would not turn on him and the rest of the warband to vent his frustration.

After an uneasy few seconds, Lukosz ordered the Skulltaker to destroy the Thunderhawk and the White Scars vessel, but received a garbled reply that sounded as if they were already engaged with the enemy somewhere in high orbit. Watching the smoke trail disappear into the upper atmosphere, Lukosz was satisfied they had done enough damage to the Thunderhawk to prevent its return and removed his helmet in unison with his comrade. Both winced from the tremendous heat as it hit their naked faces, with Lukosz running a hand over the bristles stubbornly prickling from his shaven head and meeting the nubs of his Butcher’s Nails at the base of his neck. Their scream was fading. It was then he noticed the blood running freely down Khârn’s left arm. In time the flow would be staunched, but he could see the wounds were deep and would need attention regardless of Khârn’s legendary powers of recovery.

‘The battle is won. All praise to the Blood God!’

Samzar’s voice was hoarse from the oaths he had been swearing throughout the battle. Lukosz muttered his agreement, then looked behind him to see the thirty or so surviving berzerkers raise their weapons in acknowledgement. Hells, thought Lukosz. They had lost nearly half their number. The warriors began rifling through the bodies of the fallen White Scars and inspecting what was left of their bikes and equipment. Whatever weapons they could salvage would be welcome, but they would be no substitute for the fallen. The fact so much loyalist gene-seed would be denied to the Emperor was a victory of sorts, but Lukosz was increasingly concerned it would not be enough for this warband. Khârn’s next words did nothing to alleviate his fears.

‘The battle is not won while a single enemy still breathes, Samzar. And do not invite the attention of Khorne. He will not be content with our work today.’

Looking to a cluster of abandoned bikes, Khârn threw Gorechild onto his back and strode over to the machines. Lukosz could see most were clearly beyond use, while a couple of others seemed to be intact. It came as no surprise to him when Khârn mounted one and rode away in the direction of the fleeing White Scars. As the sound from his engine drifted into the distance, both captains turned to see that every berzerker had stopped what they were doing. Lukosz felt the tension rising in the burning air, and barked the order to continue their salvage into the valley complex below. Most obeyed immediately. Half a dozen looked to each other before they, too, returned to their grisly work.

‘Do we follow him?’

Lukosz turned to Samzar, who was squinting at the exhaust trail drifting into the distance. The harsh light emphasised the deep gashes and scars across his face, his right cheekbone sunken to almost cadaverous effect from a blow he had received centuries before. Lukosz remembered the attack well; had it not been for his intervention, Samzar would have been killed. In those days, Samzar had been as sharp a soldier as he both on and off the battlefield, sharper even. But now there was a dull, sullen quality to the World Eater, a sure indication the Nails were eroding every aspect of his being. In combat he was still brutally efficient, but in the quieter times… there was something slipping away, and Lukosz missed it.

‘I do not think Khârn would thank us for it. You know him as well as I, Samzar. He will have his trophy for the Blood God.’

‘And what is the reward for the rest of us, Lukosz?’

Whirling around, Lukosz saw six berzerkers standing abreast before him, and immediately recognised from their armour that they were the ones that had exchanged glances with each other a few minutes before. Five of them kept their helmets on, but the one who spoke for them had removed his. Across the battlefield, the rest of the warband had stopped again, warily observing a situation that Lukosz could feel was rapidly deteriorating. Samzar took a step forward to the side of Lukosz. A head taller than them all, he regarded the six with a look of bemusement.

‘Is your thirst for blood not sated, Morenna? Has Khârn not led you to glorious victory once again?’

Lukosz could see fingers begin to twitch amongst the group. Their weapons were holstered, a couple of the bolt pistols still ticking away as they cooled in the ferocious heat of the planet, but they were easily accessible. He and Samzar were completely out-gunned, and he could feel his Nails whispering a need for readiness. Lukosz could see that Samzar already had his hand on a newly acquired White Scars chainsword.

‘What of it, Samzar? Where is our prize from the Blood God? Khârn goes off once again to claim the greatest trophy for himself. What kind of “leader” is that? Where is our glory?’

The other berzerkers began to walk towards the confrontation. Lukosz knew this had been coming for some time now. The six standing before him knew the glory days of the Legion were long gone. Some of them had not even been there back then, and only joined the berzerker warbands after forsaking sacred vows and giving in to their insatiable bloodlust. The nihilism that was eating through their ranks was as deep as it was dangerous. The warband were made up from so many different contingents but, like the World Eaters he had once proudly served, they were united in losing so much more than their belief in the Emperor or their Primarch. But they had gained new purpose – to serve the Blood God – and it was undeniable Khârn had given them ample opportunity to do that.

Samzar took a step forward, clearly ready to take on the entire group single-handedly. As the group’s eyes flicked to his chainsword, so too did their hands move towards their own weapons. Morenna matched Samzar’s move, his broken and deformed chin thrust forwards.

‘Khârn forgets we are all in the service of the Blood God. The Red Path is nothing more than a fantasy of his own creating. The Chosen of Khorne is following an illusion. Perhaps it is time we had a leader who will bring glory to us all.’

Lukosz saw Morenna’s free hand slam down on Samzar’s, pushing his gauntlet onto the reclaimed White Scars chainsword. Samzar was shaking with fury from head to foot, his eyes bugging wildly. Morenna tried to smirk, but with most of his lower jaw missing it was difficult to judge what expression he was attempting. No one moved to stop him.

Lukosz caught a glimpse of sun on metal. Samzar continued to stare at Morenna, but the expression on his old comrade’s face had changed. It had a look bordering on amusement. Morenna’s eyes showed confusion. Behind him, Lukosz watched his five-strong cohort shift uneasily on the diamond-hard ground, and they began to back away from him, hands moving from weapons. Morenna tried to turn his head to bark an order, but Lukosz could see he was unable to move. When he tried to speak, what came out of his mouth was a gurgle of red and purple froth. It drooled in a thick line down the remnants of his jaw onto his breastplate.

Lukosz spotted why Morenna could not speak at exactly the same point the berzerker dropped his weapon. Eyes wide in surprise, Morenna reached up with his left hand to investigate the object sticking out of the side of his neck. Lukosz looked back over to Samzar, who had not blinked. His eyes bored into Morenna’s with a dark intensity, and Lukosz saw the telltale twitching of pleasure from his comrade’s mouth. Morenna traced his fingers over the hilt of the White Scars duelling tulwar sticking out into the arid air from the side of his neck, and Samzar smiled. It was clear to everyone watching that the chainsword had not been the only weapon Samzar had taken for himself after the battle.

Samzar reached forwards and withdrew the ritual weapon, twisting it as he did so. Blood fountained from both sides of Morenna’s neck, spraying over his pauldrons in a gaudy display. Lukosz could see the satisfied look on Samzar’s face as Morenna stared ahead, eyes glazing over. Lukosz went to his own weapon as Samzar turned his attention to the five would-be supporters of the new regime, their spokesman choking on his own blood at the raging champion’s feet.

‘Who else seeks to challenge the Chosen of Khorne?’

Samzar swept his chainsword slowly from left to right, in turn pointing it at every berzerker assembled before him. Lukosz drew his weapon now, expecting a second challenge to come – from more than one of them this time.

‘A challenge to Khârn is a challenge to me!’

Samzar’s voice was near hysterical. He was not finished with killing yet. Lukosz made the decision to stop this before it escalated even more, and stepped forward over the twitching body of Morenna.

‘Return to your duties and this mutinous action will be forgotten – for now. Khârn will be back with a trophy for us all to share, and a path for us all to follow. Blood for the Blood God!’

The berzerkers did not move. Lukosz shouted again.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

Oaths and curses floated on the air.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

Lukosz screamed the words, and this time, the warband chorused back. Everyone present knew the moment had passed, that an uneasy truce had once again been reached. Two of the five supporters stepped forward to retrieve Morenna’s body, but Samzar blocked their way. While he had managed to regain a semblance of control over the Nails, his words were laboured and slurred.

‘I will be taking his skull, and I will wear it as a reminder to you all.’

The berzerker closest to Samzar readied a response, but thought better than to deliver it. Turning away from the seething champion, the other four fell in and followed him back to the spoils of the battle, accompanied by the unmistakable clicks of internal vox chatter. Lukosz waited for them to get well out of range before he spoke to his old comrade.

‘The challenges become ever greater, Samzar.’

Samzar knelt to the unmoving form of Morenna and inspected his disfigured skull.

‘Challenges are inevitable, Lukosz. We both know that. I welcome them all, as does Khârn. Let them step forward to die at my hands or their own. It matters not to Khorne where the blood comes from, only that it comes.’

If Lukosz was bitter at the actions of Morenna and his band, Samzar’s reply only made him slip deeper into melancholy. They all lived to serve the Blood God, of that there was no argument. But the lack of a common goal had destroyed the World Eaters, and now, faced with the considerable forces of the Emperor as they marauded ever further away from the Eye of Terror, the last thing the warband needed was to find themselves fighting on two fronts – from within, and without.

Samzar’s reason had just about deserted him. Stooping to retrieve his helmet for respite from the furnace heat of Haeleon, Lukosz watched his brother-in-arms of so many conflicts struggle for self-control. After all the years they had shared on the battlefield and off, he could read his subtlest of gestures. It pained Lukosz to admit there was no subtlety left within Samzar; the champion was muttering darkly to himself, glaring at the five who had stood by Morenna and clearly trying to decide if he should kill them now and be done with it. How the rest of the warband would react to these events in the absence of Khârn was impossible to judge, and anger flared in Lukosz’s chest. Morenna was right; Khârn did indeed live to serve himself. As yet another honour duel broke out amongst the scavenging berzerkers, he wondered just how much longer he could keep the warband and Samzar under control – or whether he even wanted to any more.

CHAPTER TWO

Will of the Blood God

Cardinal Astral Volturn Pradillo looked into the eyes of the Emperor of Mankind and wept. It was not the radiance of His glory that brought forth his tears, nor was this a show of joy for the benefit of Canoness Preceptor Alecia and Colonel Balacet standing in quiet contemplation behind him. The reason was the elaborately carved throne standing between the mighty golden legs of the statue that towered above him. It remained empty, and its lack of occupancy was the cause of his distress.

One of the figures behind him moved slightly, betraying the growing impatience Pradillo had long learned to live with. Even though his hearing was poor, the creaking of the highly polished dress boot gave Balacet away as much as the stifled yawn that followed. Pradillo had never decreed morning prayers to be mandatory for anyone outside the Ministorum. Although he would never say so, he would rather not have the colonel here, regardless of his standing. However, it was the only way for Pradillo to regularly meet both the leader of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of the Divine Perfection and the commander of the Imperial Guard garrison. While he knew they would never openly admit it, given the opportunity they would prefer to leave him out of any decisions regarding the safety and protection of Salandraxis. It had set the tone for his relationship with Balacet and – surprisingly, given the Sisterhood’s eternal link to the Ecclesiarchy – Alecia since the day Lozepath had decided to leave the planet.

Ignoring the pain in his ancient bones, Pradillo rose from his knees. Without bidding, a serf stepped out of the statue’s shadows and handed him a pristine white handkerchief to wipe his eyes. Pradillo dabbed the tears from his wrinkled skin, and handed it back without acknowledgement. A second figure then stepped forwards, but this time Pradillo turned and nodded thanks to the junior cleric who offered him his tall, oval headdress. Bending forwards, he allowed the young man to place it on his head and, with a wave of his shaking hand, Pradillo dismissed him too. Taking two steps back, Pradillo crossed his bony hands in front of him and gave a final bow to the huge statue of the Emperor. Pradillo took a few moments to steel himself, changed his expression to one of serene neutrality and then turned to face the canoness preceptor and the colonel. Alecia was staring up at the statue, lost in her thoughts, while Balacet moved restlessly from foot to foot. Pradillo ignored the colonel’s irritation. He would not be rushed in his own temple.

He had neither the energy nor the inclination to move quickly or speak loudly. As he shuffled along the gold-tiled floor, Alecia and Balacet joined him on either side, the surcoat of the towering, blonde-haired woman sweeping along the floor as she fell into step with the squeaking boots of Balacet. It was a well-rehearsed stroll past the series of smaller statues and massive supporting pillars that lined the circumference of the enormous circular hall to the temple doors. Despite Pradillo’s personal entourage – a few clerics bustling underneath the temple’s ornate, glass-domed ceiling and a number of ceremonially dressed Adepta Sororitas stationed on either side of the exit – he was content their conversation would be private. Given its nature, it needed to be.

‘Still no news from the crusade fleet, I take it?’

As usual, Balacet had his gloved hands clasped behind him and, as usual, he answered with a barely disguised sigh.

‘No, your grace. With the flotilla passing through the vanguard of the Archenemy, it is unlikely we shall hear from the fleet until it can safely broadcast long-range vox. It would be imprudent to risk astropathic communication again. Unless it is a dire emergency.’

Pradillo pretended not to see the vicious look Alecia shot Balacet at his comment. He was being deliberately inflammatory and she had clearly found it a step too far. Instead, Pradillo cast his mind back to long weeks ago, when he had received the single, terse communiqué from the Light of the Emperor. It had not only informed him that the Living Saint had been victorious in his latest campaign near the Cadian Gate but, blissfully, that he was now returning to his one true home. The relief had nearly brought the cardinal to his knees.

Pradillo took in a sharp breath at the memory, and his serf stepped forward to offer his arm. The cardinal waved him away. Balacet and Alecia glanced over to him, but he gave them both a raised eyebrow and they continued to walk. Since the day Lozepath had left to take the Emperor’s word to the enemy, Pradillo had become a shadow of his former self. Oh, he had tried to stop the Living Saint from leaving; at no small risk to himself or his position, he had begged Lozepath to stay. More than anyone, Pradillo understood his divine power was integral to the defence of Salandraxis and without it, the cardinal had argued vehemently, the planet was exposed and vulnerable. Yes, it was heavily fortified, but Lozepath provided as much physical protection as he did spiritual symbolism. Without him, Salandraxis was vulnerable, incomplete.

Lozepath had sat and listened to Pradillo’s arguments on the very throne he had just wept before. He had duly dismissed Pradillo’s concerns in favour of taking the battle to Chaos rather than waiting for it to come to them. Both Canoness Alecia and Colonel Balacet had done little to support Pradillo, something he bitterly resented to this day.

‘I can assure your grace we can protect this planet quite adequately without the aid of his holiness. Without hubris or boast, we can defend Salandraxis,’ the canoness said, as if reading his thoughts.

Pradillo stopped his painful progress and stared up into the deep blue eyes of the preceptor. She did not flinch from his gaze, returning it with a look of defiance and curiosity. The cardinal was the one to break eye contact and continue on his way, concerned he had come close to revealing the doubt he held at her words. It was all well and good being assured reinforcements would flock to them from all corners of the Empire if – if – an attack did come, but Abaddon the Despoiler had accelerated his bloody advance across the sector. They desperately needed Lozepath.

‘Of course, your grace, that is not to say we would prefer to fight without our Living Saint. His power is divine, given by the Emperor himself. But you have to admit, in his absence there has been no attack on Salandraxis from any of the enemy’s forces. Perhaps you underestimate the power of the Astra Militarum,’ the colonel intoned.

Balacet had always been hopeless at diplomacy. Stepping past the Adepta Sororitas sentries standing either side of the massive curved doorway, the old cardinal exited into the brilliant sunshine of Salandraxis Municipalis first. He gazed upon the expansive tree-lined avenue Lozepath had marched down to board his flagship all those years ago. The pain of his absence swept through him anew, and he took in a faltering, shaky breath to steady his resolve.

‘I am reminded of the last thing the Living Saint said to us before he left. The shadow of Chaos might be long and it might be deep, but do not fear it, Children of the Emperor. It shall never consume the shining pearl that is Salandraxis. Through me, the Emperor resides upon it.’

Pradillo did not look to Balacet and Alecia to see if they had taken the warning he was giving them. His faith was in Lozepath’s ability to protect Salandraxis, and that alone. Once again he felt a tear rolling down the deep wrinkles of his face.

‘Please inform me if you receive any notification of the fleet’s position or status. If you will excuse me, I must resume my duties in the High Temple.’

Pradillo saw the look of relief on Balacet’s face as he was dismissed. He watched the canoness preceptor and colonel move off in opposite directions down the ceremonial steps leading to a bustling walkway. Both went to join their patiently waiting retinues, Balacet marching off immediately towards a waiting Valkyrie gunship, Alecia staying to speak with a number of her sisters. Looking to the sky, Pradillo sighed heavily. He was a deeply religious and spiritual man, but he was also a pragmatist. With every passing day that Lozepath did not return, the cardinal’s confidence that Salandraxis would not share the fate of countless destroyed worlds faded. Slowly, painfully, he returned to the hallowed sanctuary of the temple, shaking off the help proffered to him by his junior cleric. Too many things outside of his control were in play, and Pradillo knew he had only one option left open. He would prostrate his unworthy form before the towering effigy of the Emperor, and pray.

What little respect Khârn had held for the White Scars before battle had been joined was quickly evaporating in the burning air of Haeleon. For a brotherhood that claimed to be great hunters, they were quick to run from a fight and poor at covering their own tracks. So far, the mirror-flat surface of Haeleon had readily revealed the marks left by the escaping bikes, making the pursuit disappointing in its ease.

At the speed Khârn was maintaining on his stolen mount, he had to screw his eyes near-shut due to the air rushing past his exposed head. Such was the heat generated by the planet’s three suns, there was little cooling effect on his burning brow. The skin on his face and exposed left arm had started blistering in large pockets under the withering radiation, but he had shunted the pain to the back of his mind. The bleeding from his cuts and gashes had stopped, but the process had taken longer than normal. Perhaps his ill-advised haste to claim the Chogorian khan’s head would make this quest a true challenge. The discomfort he might experience at the mercy of this hostile planet was nothing compared to the disapproval of the Blood God. Even so, Khârn conceded his helmet would have provided welcome protection.

In the far distance, Khârn saw a glint on the horizon. It only appeared for a fraction of a second before it was gone in the shimmering haze thrown up from the planet’s surface.

As he neared the location, the tracks split into two directions. To the left, the twin lines of the attack bike angled away while, to the right, the single line of the assault bike disappeared into the distance. Khârn leaned his mount over to the right, immediately hitting rougher ground. Haeleon’s surface might have been diamond hard where they had originally fought, but on this part of the planet, the geology was different. Fissures and troughs appeared, and the tracks became darker and more erratic. Meandering left then right in ever-widening arcs, the White Scar had picked his way through the potential hazards and inadvertently created a path for Khârn to follow. The blood pumped harder through his veins. Khârn could sense he was closing in on his kill. With the tracks straightening out, the Chosen of Khorne opened the throttle wide and roared ahead.

The bike hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash, pitching Khârn forwards in his seat. He pulled the brake lever as hard as he could, and both wheels locked up, sending the bike slewing to one side. Khârn fought against the machine until it came to a halt, and as the engine idled impatiently, he took in lungfuls of scorching, stale air. A faint cracking sound began, then quickly grew louder. Khârn peered down to see thick lines appearing from beneath the front wheel, radiating out in all directions. The ground was clearly unstable, so he engaged gear and crept ahead slowly. Looking behind, he estimated the drop from the plateau had been at least ten yards. Had it not been for the balance of his stolen White Scars bike, it would have nose-dived straight into the fragile crust and likely taken him straight through it. Perhaps the whole planet had a network of valleys and gorges hidden beneath its surface, similar to the one he had used to ambush the White Scars. Khârn smiled. The planet was proving a more satisfying challenge than the Chogorians.

As he shifted his weight on the bike, another loud cracking sound issued from somewhere beneath him. The rear of the bike dropped, angling Khârn upwards into the air. Clinging onto the near-vertical machine, he gunned the throttle as hard as he could and put the sinking bike into gear. Just as he readied himself to jump off the bike, the brute power of the huge drive wheel finally overcame the angle at which it sat, and the bike catapulted upwards and burst out of the sinkhole. As it smacked onto the surface, the glassy floor cracked and crazed with the impact. Khârn increased speed, and the machine growled as it surged forwards. Khârn’s disrespect for the White Scars did not extend to their equipment; his mount had withstood considerable punishment and he had driven it to its limits in Haeleon’s hostile conditions. Unfortunately, the twin crashes had taken their toll. A loud grinding noise started from the front wheel and within a couple of seconds, the bike began to shudder uncontrollably. The pitch of the sound escalated to a squeal, and a large piece of metal tore itself free of the front guard.

Khârn had to duck to avoid it taking off the top of his head. Inevitably, the machine began to lose power and slowed. Craning forwards, he could see the ground was again giving way, the tracks on it no longer visible. This vicious planet wanted to claim a trophy of its own. In a flash, he understood why the marks back on the plateau had suddenly become darker and thicker. The rider had reversed his route to where the two sets had split. Khârn had been deliberately led onto this unstable ground.

The impact hit his bike like a giant hammer, tearing Khârn’s vice-like grip from the handlebars of the machine. He felt himself spinning, three fiery balls of light whipping past him in quick succession. Landing with a crash, he rolled straight to his feet, grabbing for Gorechild instinctively. Around a dozen yards away, his ride was spinning on its side, grinding out shards of silica in all directions. Bolts tore into the ground all around him, one cannoning off his leg armour and sending him sprawling once again.

An attack bike with jagged red honour markings was speeding towards him. The gunner was firing the heavy bolter, keeping the gun trained on Khârn while the rider leant into a turn, deftly navigating the rough ground. Their armour was hung with horsehair totems and oath papers, marking them as veterans from their khan’s retinue. Khârn roared at the attackers, filled with wild joy and rage. The battle in the chasm had not sat well with him, skulking and waiting like some frightened animal. This was the true way, the enemy clear in his sight with no place to hide. They circled and curved back towards him, firing bursts from both weapons, but Khârn disregarded the lethal hail and broke into a sprint.

Khârn reached for his plasma pistol, but as he pulled the trigger, it only gave off a high-pitched warning chime. It was still exhausted from the previous battle. Khârn ducked and charged across the empty glass. The surface below him was beginning to fracture from the bike’s explosive fire, and his foot disappeared into a depression, bringing him to a sudden halt. The Chogorians roared closer, and Khârn struggled to release his trapped leg. He would be torn apart if he could not move. But the fools thought they had him cornered and bravado got the better of them. The gunner unbuckled himself and rose on the rapidly approaching machine, drawing his blade and uttering a long, almost melodic war cry. Khârn stopped struggling to free his foot and braced to stand his ground.

The White Scars gunner hurled himself into the air, his curved tulwar raised high, the blade pointing down. Khârn ignored the roar of the attack bike as it tore past him, instead bringing Gorechild up to block the ferocious blow from the Chogorian, who charged into him with a tremendous crash. Khârn felt his foot come free as he fell. The White Scars veteran rolled to one side and straight up onto his feet, adopting an attack stance and whirling his blade in a show of martial prowess. Somewhere behind him, Khârn heard the squeal of tyres as the other veteran turned to witness the fight with his battle-brother. This was the kind of combat Khârn cherished. At last, the White Scars were proving themselves to be worthy opponents. With a hoarse bellow, Khârn launched himself into the air, his great axe held above his head in both hands.

Khârn drove Gorechild down with all his might. It crashed into the tulwar, the sheer force of his chainaxe smashing the glinting blade aside. The Chogorian did not try to oppose the blow and allowed himself to spin away, keeping an expert hold on his weapon as he did so. In a flash of steel he turned nearly full circle, striking out at the same time. Khârn felt the sword’s tip slice into his exposed left arm. He turned his right shoulder towards the White Scar, crashing into his chest and driving him back. The Chogorian tossed the blade from right hand to left and reached for his pistol, clearly realising Khârn had the stronger arm. He raised the weapon and fired, but Khârn launched himself forwards, smashing into the midriff of the Space Marine and knocking him to the floor.

The veteran kicked and writhed, unleashing shot after shot, but Khârn held on to his wrist, rolling his full weight onto the arm and bringing Gorechild up with his right. He brought the chainaxe down between the veteran’s pauldron and neck. He was unable to swing fully, but it did not matter. Gorechild’s teeth found purchase, eating through the ceramite and juddering down into the bone and flesh beneath. The Chogorian cursed in pain and rolled violently to his right. Khârn let go of his weapon and sprang to his feet, watching as the veteran tried to do the same. Gorechild had chewed so deeply into his armour that only the top half of the blade could still be seen. Blood gushed from the wound, and the Chogorian’s attempts to pull the mighty weapon from his body were hindered by the blood streaming down the handle. Falling to the side, the veteran looked around frantically for his tulwar. With his last remaining strength he reached for it. He died with his hand only inches away from the weapon.

Khârn heard a roar of fury, and the attack bike’s engine screamed with sudden acceleration. Khârn pulled on Gorechild’s handle, levering it free from the gaping wound it had made in the fallen Chogorian. As he turned, a shot careened off his pauldron and spun him to the ground. A split second later, the chatter of the attack bike’s bolter salvo tore overhead, tracer fire streaking past him into the distance. Khârn immediately realised the first shot had come from a different direction. He quickly looked around and spotted another bike in the distance, racing ahead of a cloud of glittering dust. The White Scars leader was rushing to join the fight.

The attack bike roared towards Khârn, its rider drawing a straight-bladed chainsword. These White Scars had run like craven mortals, but now that they had decided to fight, they honoured the kill. Their hubris would be their undoing. Khârn held Gorechild loosely in one hand as he slowly unwrapped the chains around its handle with the other. He heard the Chogorian give another battle cry. Khârn took a few steps back, and the rider corrected his course. The thick front tyre was so close, Khârn could feel shards flicking from it into his armour. Khârn stiffened and prepared himself for the moment of impact.

Khârn drove Gorechild into the side of the wheel, burying it as deep as he could into the spindle. Such was the speed of the bike, Khârn’s arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket as he held on to the chainaxe’s handle a fraction too long.

Khârn turned and watched as the wheel and mounting were torn apart by the massive blade. The bike slewed to one side, and what remained of the front forks dug into the surface, at first cutting a deep groove but then hitting something harder and pitching the machine forwards at top speed. Spinning into the air, the rider was flung off. The bike smashed into the ground and came to rest upside down, drive wheel still spinning furiously. Khârn was up and on his feet immediately, the Chogorian rider turning from the wreckage of his mount a second later, purring chainsword in hand. Despite the bone-shattering impact of his fall, this veteran clearly had only one thing on his mind – claiming his prey.

Any thoughts of retrieving Gorechild fled Khârn’s mind as the veteran ran towards him, swinging the sword around his head and unleashing a battle cry. Khârn advanced, trying to keep as close to the ruined bike as possible. The Chogorian twirled and swished the blade in a blur of silver. Khârn knew he would try to attack his arm and neck, so brought his right vambrace up and allowed the weapon to cut into the ceramite of his armour. The blade glanced off but swept up beneath Khârn’s arm, skimming over the reinforced cables on his chest plate and grazing the bicep of his left arm. Khârn grunted at the sudden pain and rotated right, pushing the White Scar’s left arm away and kicking him viciously in the abdomen. The veteran counter-attacked, ramming Khârn with his pauldron, and following with a downward slice of his chainsword. Khârn angled his head to the left, and the blade bit into the upper ledge of his chest armour, sparks flying off into the haze.

The sound of another engine rose. The khan would be there in seconds. Dropping to the ground, Khârn spun himself around and brought the feet out from under the Chogorian with a sweeping kick. The veteran stumbled backwards onto the glassy surface, leaving a fine criss-cross of cracks, and with a roar of frustration scrambled to get back to his feet. Khârn spotted a piece of frame that had snapped away from the attack bike and seized it with both hands. He knew it would not withstand a single blow from the chainsword sweeping towards him, so he ducked and charged below the veteran’s guard. He used his speed to ram the long, jagged pole through the grill of the White Scar’s helmet. Khârn kept the momentum going and dropped to his knee, pushing the tube through the veteran’s screaming mouth and out the back of his throat. The body fell backwards and arrested on the length of pipe. Khârn met the dead eyes gazing up at him. He had no time to savour the brutal victory; the khan stared down at him as he spun his bike to angle the charge, and his voice boomed over the screeching tyres. Khârn threw himself to the side and rolled to find Gorechild’s haft.

‘You cannot hide from me, barbarian. I am the hunting falcon. I will avenge my fallen brothers.’

The khan was racing towards him now, his pistol holstered and both hands on the bike’s controls. Khârn jumped to his feet and readied Gorechild to strike, but the White Scar leaned away from the sweeping arc of the weapon and tore past. Khârn felt pain build upon pain in his bare arm. Looking down, he could see the handle of a dagger sticking out from the top of his bicep, the tip of its razor-sharp curved blade protruding from underneath. The bike squealed to a standstill only yards away, and Khârn turned to face his opponent. His blood raged with the desire to tear the White Scar’s head off with his bare hands.

‘And now you taste Chogorian steel, berzerker. How do you find it?’

Khârn held his bleeding arm up into the air so the khan could see. Slowly, deliberately, he grabbed hold of the dagger haft and pulled the weapon out. Tossing it to the ground, he spat onto the bloody dagger and glowered at the White Scar.

‘A fine little trinket. I will teach you not to play with your prey.’

‘No. The time for lectures is over. I will put you down like a wounded dog.’

The rider pulled back on the throttle, spinning the rear wheel until the machine started to snake left and right with the massive torque pouring into the drive train. Releasing the foot brake, he let the machine rear up into the air. Khârn waited for the White Scar’s head to disappear behind the bulk of his steed and sprinted as hard as he could towards the bike. The Chogorian realised the danger in the last second and twisted to evade, but Khârn jumped towards him with an almighty roar.

He grasped the handlebar of the bike with one hand, immediately sending the White Scar swerving. It was only his ancient power armour that kept him from losing his arm as he was yanked forwards and thrown free. Khârn crunched onto his back, the air driven from his lungs by the impact. Ahead of him, the Chogorian came to a halt in a great cloud of shards. He was a skilled rider indeed. As he got to his feet, Khârn felt the ground beneath him start to give way. A spider’s web of fissures was spreading across the smashed and battered surface. His left foot suddenly dropped, and he had to move fast to stop himself falling into an ever-widening hole. Looking ahead, he could see the khan would be fully turned within seconds.

This Chogorian was truly testing Khârn’s mettle. Gripping onto Gorechild, he readied himself, keeping entirely still despite the ground around him groaning and cracking with the strain.

The bike sped towards his position, the khan’s long, curved blade raised for the final charge. Khârn hefted Gorechild. Despite its great speed, Khârn saw the ground craze directly beneath the machine, wide splits lancing outwards in all directions. The Chogorian had the blade raised higher now, readying to strike. Bringing Gorechild above his head, Khârn took a step to the right, directly into the path of the oncoming bike, and brought the chainaxe down into the ground with all of his might.

The effect was immediate.

The narrow crevices covering the ground joined together and rushed towards the now-unbearable weight of the White Scar’s bike. Khârn rolled to avoid being swallowed by the rapidly developing chasm beneath him, then turned to see the bike lurch to one side. The Chogorian leaned in the opposite direction, tulwar still in hand, as he tried to counterbalance while accelerating. The front wheel dropped by half a yard, and the khan fell forwards with the sudden deceleration, crashing into the ground that had risen in front of him.

The whole area was sinking, and Khârn saw the Chogorian scramble onto the ledge that was becoming ever higher around him. The White Scar’s bike slid off its perch and fell into the crevasse in a cloud of glittering crystal. Khârn quickly plotted a path that would take him to his trophy. He jumped over a deep fissure, but as he landed on the other side, the weight of his armour caused the ledge to give way. He felt himself falling, and only just managed to catch the edge of the crevasse with his hand. More lines began to appear to his left and right, the polished, glassy rock rending open to reveal enormous hollows. Khârn could see Haeleon’s surface was only inches thick in places, and he swung himself over to the left towards a thicker section, using Gorechild to hack into the ground above for purchase. In seconds he was back on the surface, but it continued to splinter and drop away. The khan was standing in a broad stance some yards away, his ornate tulwar in one hand, a bolt pistol in the other. Khârn charged forwards and crashed into his chest, sending them both screeching across the disintegrating ground. Despite Khârn twisting and turning to get the advantage, the White Scar was up first, bolt pistol raised and aimed between Khârn’s eyes.

‘This is revenge for my fallen brothers. It ends now, barbarian.’

He pulled the trigger.

The bolt ricocheted off Khârn’s raised vambrace and into the ground with an angry buzz, the firing distance too close for its warhead to prime. Khârn’s bloody visage twisted into an ugly grin. Tossing the pistol to one side with a curse, the White Scar reached behind his back, ignoring the crackling of the ground underfoot.

‘Now you will taste my steel, Chogorian,’ Khârn hissed.

Khârn attacked, his head pounding with bloodlust, Gorechild spinning at full throttle. He could barely see through the mist of fury rising inside him. The White Scar met him with scimitar in one hand and another shorter blade in the other, his eyes gleaming with deadly intent. Khârn swept his chainaxe wide, forcing the Chogorian back towards a fissure, but the White Scar turned from the thrust and brought his duelling blade down across the side of Khârn’s head. Khârn felt a burning sensation at his ear, and blood running down his neck into his armour. The White Scar was two strikes up. But only the last strike counted.

Khârn slammed his foot down onto the ground and jumped to his right, sweeping Gorechild upwards with his right hand. A crack opened up between the White Scar’s feet, unbalancing him, and he was forced to take a step into the path of the chainaxe. Gorechild’s mica-dragon teeth gouged a hole into the Chogorian’s chest armour, but he quickly recovered and leant into a parry with his blade, cutting into the berzerker’s gauntlet. Khârn pushed the scimitar away with an outward swipe, and felt the White Scar’s dagger stab into his left arm, the Chogorian having swept across his body and under Gorechild with lightning speed. Enraged, Khârn slammed his right shoulder into the White Scar, pushing him back before bringing Gorechild down in a furious arc. It bit into the khan’s pauldron and carved a chunk off the curved outer edge, but its speed and weight took Khârn’s arm down with it. Khârn felt the dagger slice across his cheek and continued to turn, dropping to one knee.

Khârn saw a streak of light flash before his eyes as the tulwar sliced through the air inches above his head. He was dangerously out of position. Or so it must seem. Rotating Gorechild flat in his right hand, Khârn swept backwards with the weapon, driving the churning blade into the Chogorian’s greave. It bit its way through the ceramite, severing the lower half of the White Scar’s right leg and partially chopping through the left. Khârn heard his opponent’s roar of fury as he toppled over onto his back, and turned to see blood pluming from the mortal wounds. Khârn jumped to his feet, and had it not been for the ground giving way under his right boot, the dagger thrown at his face would have embedded itself between his eyes. Before him, the White Scar fell back onto his now-empty hand, propping himself up so he could brandish his tulwar in defiant rage.

Khârn stepped forwards, relishing the moment of victory. This one had been hard fought, a true challenge at last. The air was filled with a wrenching sound, and Khârn looked down to see cracks snaking towards the prone figure of the White Scar, the weight of his armour having created a fatal pressure point. The Chogorian looked to the sounds, then up to Khârn.

‘You shall have no trophy for your Blood God. All that is natural turns against you, abomination.’

There was mockery in the White Scar’s voice, and Khârn realised he had only seconds to claim his kill. As he moved forwards, the khan smashed the blade of his scimitar deep into the ground, speeding up the fractures all around him. Khârn roared and disarmed the Chogorian with a downward swing of Gorechild, but the White Scar was already beginning to slip beneath the surface. Khârn dropped to one knee and brought Gorechild across, sweeping the blade parallel to the disintegrating ground. With a shriek of teeth ripping through ceramite, the Chogorian’s helmet came off cleanly, and as Khârn caught his prize the body disappeared into the newly formed crevasse. Khârn stepped back, raising the dripping chainaxe aloft in one hand and the khan’s head in the other. Looking to the sky, he felt the burning gaze of Haeleon’s suns. He could sense the eyes of the Blood God upon him.

If Khorne had not witnessed this glorious battle in his honour, he would certainly hear his cry of victory.

Lukosz stood in the deep shade cast by the transport’s open loading door and watched the last of the salvaged White Scars bikes being loaded onto the vessel. Keeping the warband occupied had been his way of diffusing the tension of the stand-off after Khârn’s sudden disappearance, and for a time, the remaining berzerkers had worked as a reasonably efficient unit, with no new blood challenges being made. The uneasy respite had given Lukosz opportunity to keep a careful watch on Samzar. His actions were becoming increasingly provocative, hampering Lukosz’s efforts to keep the warband’s aggression directed outwards. Even now, Samzar had deliberately positioned himself in full view of the five remaining conspirators and was revving his drawn chainsword to a wailing shriek. He was proudly displaying the mutineer Morenna’s newly flensed skull on top of the broken horn of his helmet. Lukosz pondered darkly on the last exchange with his comrade. Samzar had wanted to take a squad out and look for Khârn, but Lukosz had again reminded him that such an attempt would not be welcome if it succeeded. And besides, they both needed to be present to ensure the berzerkers did not turn on each other, undoing his efforts in a murderous spree.

‘Lord Lukosz, this is the Skulltaker.’

Lukosz recognised the voice of Roderbar, the shipmaster. His breathing was laboured as always, but the voice was calm. Whatever had been happening in orbit to prevent him replying to hails was clearly over.

‘Lukosz here. Report.’

‘The White Scars vessel has been heavily damaged and is moving out of position. It is in no state to launch any vessels upon you. Shall I pursue and re-engage?’

Lukosz watched as Samzar strode from the adjacent drop-ship, shadowing two of Morenna’s followers while being watched by the other three. As the duo disappeared into another transport, Samzar stared at the three until they returned to their duties, then turned and gazed at the horizon. Lukosz could see his comrade’s hands clamping open and shut. Looking to his left, he saw the rest of the berzerkers at ease in small groups, cleaning weapons and trophies, awaiting the order to load up and ship out back to the Skulltaker. Something inside Lukosz told him it would be better to stay on Haeleon for the moment. There was no point in risking extraction during battle before Khârn had returned, regardless of how crippled the White Scars ship might appear to Roderbar.

‘No. Let the vessel go and remain in orbit. We may need you to search for Khârn. Keep your augurs turned to the White Scars ship. If it launches a counter-attack, then destroy it. Await further commands.’

Samzar did not turn to greet his comrade. His head was a cauldron of violence, hotter even than the scorched planet on which they stood. The Nails were readying him for combat without an obvious enemy to fight. Perhaps they knew more about the five traitors than he. Perhaps they were trying to warn him. If he went back on the same transport as them, he could rend them all apart before they reached the Skulltaker. Yes. A good plan. He could–

‘How long do we wait?’

Samzar’s bloody reverie was disarmed by the calm in Lukosz’s voice. The rage within him began to subside, but far slower than it once had. In his increasingly rare lucid moments, Samzar realised something had changed in him, but then the Nails would start shouting and hammering at him again. Blood must flow, always.

‘We should be looking for him now, Lukosz. He left us bearing injuries and without his helm. There is a trail for us to follow, but the suns are bleaching the tyre marks away.’

His old comrade grunted his agreement. Samzar felt lost without Khârn. The Chosen of Khorne had given him so much opportunity to provide merciful relief from the suffering his Nails inflicted upon him. It did not matter that he might become Khârn’s next victim. He had struck that bargain with the Blood God, and was willing to pay up when the time came.

‘We shall give him six more hours. If you wish to take one of the bikes and look for him, I shall remain behind and keep the warband together. The Skulltaker is in readiness to provide support from orbit. Does that sound acceptable?’

Samzar stroked the handle of his chainsword as he considered Lukosz’s words.

‘Aye.’

Khârn dragged himself across the endless, glassy plane, the sweat from his brow running into his eyes. Between the radiation on his exposed head and the blood loss from his injuries, his strength was beginning to desert him. The ground had become steadier the further he had travelled, but even so fatigue was eating away at him. This was not the only problem. At first he had thought his eyes damaged from the exposure to the relentless brilliant light, as he was having difficulty focussing on the bike tracks. As he realised that the suns were scorching the marks from the face of the planet, he quickened his pace considerably. Without them, there was no telling how long he would be lost in this forgotten desert.

The surface of the planet was so undistinguished, it was possible to see the curve of the horizon from where he walked. Gorechild’s chains rattled as Khârn broke into a jog, the sound of metal and skulls clattering against his armour and providing a rhythm for him to follow. He would return to the location of the first battle within a few hours if he kept up a steady pace. The three suns beat down on his naked head, their burning heat making his face pour with sweat and their invisible rays plaguing him with dizziness. His answer to their challenge was to run faster.

A strange sound filled the air – a rasping, deathly rattle that coincided with his movement. Khârn looked around, but there was nothing to see. Still the sound persisted, and he hefted Gorechild from his back, holding it ready. Khârn picked up the pace, but the noise grew closer, more urgent. Coming to a stop, he whirled around, snarling at his unseen foe. And then he realised he had been listening to the sounds from his sand-dry throat.

His mind was playing tricks on him.

Shaking his head, he wiped his peeling, bleeding face with the back of his raw left hand. He would not succumb to his own body’s weaknesses. Holstering Gorechild, he began his run again, ignoring the sounds that immediately returned. It made little difference where he looked; the glassy surface reflected as much light up at him as the sky beat down, and a strange blindness was fogging his view. His peripheral vision began to darken, first to brown and then to scarlet. It refused to blink away, and as he looked up his view had changed.

The indistinguishable curtain of white had been replaced by two towering embankments to his left and right. They rose high into the air, their steeply sloping sides forming a narrow valley through which he now ran. White domes erupted from the dark red earth, pushing outwards like the joints of broken limbs. The ground fell away to reveal skulls, millions of them, snaking into the air on still-intact spines. Khârn was running through a valley of bones, and the skin-flensed heads were all slowly turning to follow his progress, their mouths opening and closing in a ghoulish chorus. High above, the sky swirled purple and black, as if the Eye of Terror had suddenly descended upon Haeleon and swallowed it whole.

Khârn felt something rush past his feet. He looked down to see that the glossy surface of Haeleon had disappeared under a slick red fluid, rising over his boots and creeping up around his calves. Looking ahead, he saw it was a river of blood flooding the valley floor from behind. It carried him along, easing his weary legs. To his left and right, a handful of the skulls detached from their vertebrae and drifted towards him. They were human, but enormously proportioned. Khârn recognised them as the skulls of Space Marines. One turned to ether and drifted into the Chogorian trophy Khârn had so recently taken. The Blood God was pleased with his work. But then the river began to bubble and boil. More skulls left their supports, and began to swirl and swoop around the berzerker. The current became stronger, pushing him ever faster down its channel.

Some way ahead of him, the red of the river began to lighten as a brilliant, golden object emerged from the foaming viscera. The light was almost as dazzling as the suns of Haeleon, but its glow caused far greater discomfort to Khârn. The radiance began to fade, showing the details of a planet he did not recognise. Still the golden glow remained, forming a halo around its circumference, which broke apart to form two ethereal wings. A fork of lightning split down from the blackened skies above him, burning an impression onto Khârn’s eyes.

The wings folded back and lost their shape, absorbed by the image of the planet, which was glowing brightly once again. Khârn’s speed increased, and he struck out with blood-covered fists to deflect the pulsating orb rushing towards him. Slick red fingers of gore reached up from the river and pulled the planet down beneath the surface, extinguishing the glow and drowning it in blood. Faster Khârn moved, the skulls racing by his side, many engraved with the eight-pointed symbol of Chaos, taunting him to take them. With a roar, Khârn tore Gorechild from his back and swung at them, smashing the closest ones into pieces, revelling in the power flowing through him with every strike. The skulls vanished into the darkness of the sky and the river rose higher. He was propelled even faster, and he could see the valley stretching into the distance. It had no end, no destination, but he cared not. The torrent buoyed him up, refusing to claim him, and he understood the truth of his epiphany. He would let the flow take him where it would and consume him if it had to, for what surrounded and guided him was the Blood God.

This was the Red Path, rich with trophies and glory.

Khârn opened his eyes. Somewhere in the distant haze, he spotted movement under Haeleon’s furnace suns. Squinting against the ferocious light, he could see an armoured rider streaking towards him on an attack bike. For the briefest of seconds he readied himself for combat, but as the vehicle came nearer, Khârn could see the rider wore dark red armour and a berzerker helmet, one of the horns shorter than the other. Samzar, the loyal fool. All feelings of fatigue left him. Raising Gorechild high into the air, he roared his praise to the Blood God.

What passed for an Apothecary within the ranks of the warband had died in the fighting with the White Scars, so the thankless task of tending to Khârn’s wounds fell to Lukosz. Most of his cuts and abrasions were proving slow to heal, an affect of being on this planet that he had experienced with his own injuries. He contented himself with removing the largest pieces of shrapnel and shards of the planet’s surface from his flesh. The burns on Khârn’s arm and head he could do nothing about. Lukosz had felt his face burning within minutes of removing his helmet, and Khârn’s exposure to Haeleon’s insidious rays had been extensive. Khârn’s physiology would allow his skin to regenerate in time. For now, the almost noble features of his leader were masked behind a blood-encrusted mess.

Khârn sat entirely still and bolt upright during the treatment, in full view of the wreckage-strewn battlefield. Lukosz could see he was watching the berzerkers as they assembled before the drop-ship’s open crew bay, one hand resting threateningly on Gorechild. His old comrade Samzar stood to the right of the Thunderhawk’s gently sloping ramp, a bolter cradled in his arms. Retrieving Khârn had calmed him somewhat, but Lukosz continued to cast occasional glances for any signs of him deciding to make an example of the five traitors. Lukosz had not had time to ask whether Samzar had discussed events with Khârn. He would not have been interested anyway. Other than agreeing to medical attention, the only words Khârn had uttered were for water and to order the warband before him.

Khârn did not wait for Lukosz to finish his work before he rose to his feet. Ordinary mortals might have stayed within the shade of the transport, but not Khârn. As if to defy the planet that had caused him so much pain, he walked out into the blazing heat to address the berzerkers. Reluctantly, they removed their helmets and bowed their heads. Lukosz heard Samzar snorting to himself in derision. He quickly discarded the med-kit, picked up his weapons and took his place on the left flank of Khârn, his own watchful gaze matching that of his twitching brother-in-arms.

‘The Blood God has favoured me with a vision today.’

Lukosz watched the reactions of the berzerkers carefully. Had they all been World Eaters, he would perhaps have been better able to predict their moods and even control them, but they were made up of so many factions he had lost count. The one thing that brought them together was their allegiance to the Blood God. Their belief in Khârn was, at best, questionable. From his own experience, Lukosz knew the reality of individual motivation was far more complicated than simple subservience. Some, like himself, might fight for Khârn first, seeing it as a connection to a past life that still gave their existence meaning. Many others, as Morenna had, fought for themselves, looking for any opportunity to further their own relationship with the Blood God. In battle, they had a common, simple aim – to take the skulls of the enemy. However, in between campaigns, something more had to bind them together. Once, it had been the honour of their Legions and Chapters, but that was a distant, forbidden memory.

‘He has shown me a sign that is not for me alone, but one we will all share.’

The words surprised Lukosz. Khârn did not care to lead, Lukosz knew that. But these were the words of someone who realised he may not be able to achieve what he wanted alone. A handful of berzerkers roared their approval, thrusting their chainswords high into the air. Others were not so obvious in their delight and stared ahead impassively.

‘We will return to the Skulltaker and leave orbit. We now all tread the Red Path, and we shall follow it no matter where it might take us, for it promises trophies the likes of which we have never seen. Our harvest will be unending, the glory to Khorne without measure.’

More weapons rose into the air, and louder cries of ‘Blood for the Blood God’ resounded from the shimmering surface of Haeleon. On the opposite flank, Samzar raised his bolter and fired into the air, setting off a chain reaction of celebration. The tension broke. Amongst the cries and whoops of victory and the thunder of bolter fire, Khârn raised Gorechild over his head and roared at the congregation.

‘We shall kill! We shall maim! We shall burn and destroy! Blood for the Blood God!’

It was fortunate that the astropath of the Malevolent Shade was entirely blind, because even within the shadowy confines of its dank and gloomy chamber it could not have missed the look of revulsion on Captain Locq’s face. Locq had killed humans and xenos on countless occasions and stood in the presence of the vilest of daemons, but nothing turned his stomach quite as much as these squirming, babbling creatures. He could have sent the shipmaster to interrogate the abomination, but he needed to be sure about this.

Urkanthos’ command had sent Locq off on a trail of whispers and conjecture, and Locq’s anger at this ignoble mission had grown ever greater since the day the Malevolent Shade had set out. In two weeks, they had not picked up so much as a suggestion of warp-spoor from the berzerker vessel. With no destination to head for, Locq could see his opportunity to prove his worth in the eyes of Abaddon slipping away. This was his chance to break the Lord Purgator’s bond, to take his place next to the Warmaster. Locq knew that while most of his warband were entirely loyal, some out of the two hundred had sworn their oaths before Urkanthos. It was the way of things, and while it infuriated him, he accepted it. Locq had waited long enough. He needed to take command of the situation and show any that might doubt or challenge his leadership that he was in complete control. Unfortunately, all of this hinged on the snivelling wretch sitting before him.

The hooded figure made a strange, moaning noise and shifted in its seat. Its robes were squalid and filthy, and there was a smell in the air that made Locq’s wide, flat nostrils flare. He had been waiting nearly half an hour for an answer to his question, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to control his anger.

‘I can see you.’

Its voice was little more than a murmur, and held within it a childish quality. Rising to its feet, the astropath stretched out its arms, hands sweeping through the foetid air as if it were trying to grab hold of something. The hooded creature cocked its head to one side, listening for something from behind, then whirled and carried out the same bizarre movements, this time giggling to itself like an imbecile. The arms eventually came down, slowly, and it turned to face Locq, pushing back its hood to reveal a sagging, grey face and empty eye sockets. It took three steps forwards and Locq instinctively reached for his bolter. The look he received from the psyker was one of amusement.

‘I can see you, Locq the Hound. And I can see where you need to go.’

CHAPTER THREE

Abaddon Denied

‘All ahead slow. Conduct full augur sweep of the bow rupture.’

Shipmaster Odervirk studied the lines of information streaming in from the sensors of the Malevolent Shade and frowned. Every auspex, scanner and augur indicated the heavily damaged White Scars vessel drifting in free space was ripe for the taking. Not one of its weapons was charged, most of its shields were down and there was a gaping hole in the port side of the strike cruiser that presented a perfect opportunity for boarding. The data before him was undeniable, but he had been in too many combat situations to ignore the tension mounting within his body. How had the vessel survived the savage attack that had inflicted such damage in the first place?

In his experience, there were only three reasons for a ship or flotilla not to have finished them off. The first was if they intended to salvage the cruiser and transfer their flag, which, despite the damage, was perfectly viable from what he could see. The second was if the attacker had sustained greater damage in the exchange; the third was if the attacker had been destroyed. This was a possibility, but the lack of a debris field or another drifting hulk in the vicinity led Odervirk to discount it. Sitting back with a sigh, he drummed his fingers on the control panel set into his command throne, his gaze flicking from one screen to the other. He knew full well Locq would be impatient for information.

‘Ahead one quarter. Keep all weapons at readiness.’

Odervirk felt the rumble of engines increase deep in the bowels of the Malevolent Shade. He turned to face the forward viewing canopy. Its heavy blast doors were half open, giving him a wide slit through which to watch the slowly approaching White Scars ship. Scans could be manipulated to deceive. Nothing beat seeing things for yourself. With his one good eye he picked out the details of the wreck in the brightness thrown out by the three suns of this system.

‘Do we have a positive identification yet?’

Odervirk’s question did not arise from idle curiosity, but instead concerned the ship’s defensive capabilities. Many Space Marine vessels featured modifications and upgrades. At the cost of a few seconds, he wanted to know as much about any potential threat as possible before he committed his own ship to an engagement.

‘Wings of the Eagle, shipmaster.’

Odervirk looked down to the officer sitting at his station on the bridge’s lower level and acknowledged his report with a grunt. The vessel was not known to him, which did little to alleviate his caution. Turning back to the viewing canopy, he watched the massive hulk slide past to the background hum of crew and machinery carrying out their duties. It took the unmistakable clanking of power-armoured figures moving down the bridge’s access corridor to break his concentration. Locq was entering the command deck with his entourage, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he was less than happy.

‘Why are we going so slowly, shipmaster? I need to get on board that vessel.’

As Locq stomped closer, Odervirk continued to study the damage wreaked upon the Wings of the Eagle. Given the prickly, inelegant lines of the vessel, he found the name absurd. A ship should threaten even at the sound of its name, and for that he felt his own Malevolent Shade promised exactly what it could deliver – destruction and darkness. Odervirk could feel the hairs on the back of his hands begin to prickle as Locq came to a threatening standstill beside him. In all of his faithful years of service to Urkanthos, the shipmaster had never got used to the vibrations given off by power armour. He had known some bridge personnel so sensitive to the inaudible hum generated by the suits that they could barely stand to be in the same room, such was the physical discomfort they endured. An itching hand was the least of his problems; as he turned to face the glowering captain, he chose his words with care. Odervirk enjoyed his position as master of this vessel, and while all the members of the Black Legion commanded respect, he knew how mercurial the Hounds of Abaddon could be.

‘It is not imprudent to be cautious, captain. I appreciate your frustration at finding Haeleon abandoned, but all evidence points to an encounter with the White Scars.’

Odervirk watched Locq’s eyes flick over to the reinforced viewing bulkhead. They had arrived to find no berzerker ship in orbit, but they had quickly detected evidence of a battle on the planet’s surface. A brief inspection had shown the loyalist White Scars Chapter had been involved in the action.

‘The Betrayer is close – this is no coincidence. Bring us in.’

Decks below, the shipmaster knew, Locq’s Hounds of Abaddon were waiting impatiently to board the White Scars vessel. While he knew his caution could be seen as unnecessarily vigilant, cowardly even, Odervirk had gained the trust of Urkanthos himself and was not about to rush any decisions that might endanger his ship, regardless of Locq’s impatience. There was something about this captain Odervirk did not trust. Odervirk looked directly into Locq’s burning eyes without blinking. Locq knew the Lord Purgator had chosen him as shipmaster personally.

‘Given that the answers you seek to Khârn’s whereabouts are likely held aboard this vessel, I am doing everything I can to ensure you are able to get the information you need. This does not include thundering at full speed towards a potential trap.’

Odervirk’s face remained impassive. Unlike the rest of his crew, he was not frightened by the Black Legionnaires. He had long ago accepted he might die directly at their hands, and it had given him the peace to focus on his work. He could see Locq’s hand tighten on the handle of his chainsword. The shipmaster was not impressed.

‘I am led to believe the White Scars are a significant threat, Captain Locq. I do not doubt your Hounds will be victorious against them, but I need to ensure their weapons are as inoperative as they appear. This will take a few moments longer, and once I am satisfied, I will inform you immediately.’

Locq’s burning stare flicked from Odervirk’s eye to the steel plate that formed most of his face. He knew what Locq was thinking; the instant he delivered Khârn to Abaddon, Locq would execute the shipmaster for his belligerence. Odervirk tried not to show his derision; he was confident enough in his own abilities to believe Urkanthos would not allow it. And besides, the way things were going, he doubted the captain would live long enough to finish his mission.

The hole in the side of the White Scars cruiser was so large it could have accommodated a half-dozen drop-ships side by side. Instead, a single gunship carrying Locq and a small boarding party glided into the smashed infrastructure. As the White Scars ship rotated, it allowed one of the three suns to illuminate the Thunderhawk’s way. It had not taken long to find a rupture large enough for the ship to dock against, and within seconds Locq was leading out a twenty-strong contingent of Hounds into the confines of the vessel. Meledorn, one of his veterans, took point. Like many of the cohort, he had served Urkanthos faithfully for decades. For all the oaths he had sworn to Locq, he would be reporting secretly to the Lord Purgator still. This did not concern Locq at all. Having a favourite of the Chaos Lord as his second-in-command to witness his actions would dispel any suspicions Urkanthos might have of Locq. Meledorn also happened to be an excellent warrior.

Locq was not surprised when their progress became hampered by the damage inside the ship. Even with their ordnance and augmented strength, whole areas were either totally impassable or would take too long to clear, the only route available taking them to the outer corridors of the vessel. What did surprise Locq was the total absence of White Scars and surviving mortal crew.

Coming to a large junction, Meledorn raised his hand and stopped. Locq walked forwards, chainsword in hand, and joined the scout. Meledorn nodded ahead, towards the poorly illuminated walkway stretching into the distance. Nothing appeared as a threat on his auto-senses and scanners, but of all the places they had moved through, the width of this passageway held the most potential danger. Locq smiled to himself. The Hounds of Abaddon were not ones to run from a fight, and gods help anyone who tried to ambush them. He nodded to Meledorn, and the scout moved ahead slowly. Locq signalled behind, and the rest of the raiding party formed up, hefting their blades and training their bolters in all directions.

A blinding flash filled Locq’s vision and something smashed into him, throwing him backwards onto the metal deck. The air was filled with a thunderous roar of escaping air and it took Locq precious seconds to get to his feet and realise what had happened. Before him, a White Scars drop-ship had rammed itself through the corridor into the inner hull, having blasted its way through the outer skin of the crippled ship. They had lain in wait within the shadows of their own smashed vessel, tracking the landing party’s progress and timing their attack to perfection. Locq could see two of his raiding party had disappeared, either crushed by the attacking vessel or eviscerated in its fire. The ship had cut his group in half. Gunning his chainsword, Locq started towards the smoking transporter – just as a hole exploded in its side, allowing its occupants to charge towards him with a scream of fury.

Locq smashed into the first White Scar, ramming his duelling tulwar out of the way with his left shoulder while thrusting his chainsword up underneath his attacker’s pauldron. The teeth ground and tore into the upper chest armour, digging into the armpit of the Chogorian and rendering his left arm useless. The White Scar roared in rage, bringing his right knee up into Locq’s side. Locq took the impact easily and let himself fall back against the buckled inner hull plates. With the wall behind him, he put more pressure on his blade, not stopping until the Space Marine’s arm clattered to the ground, blood spraying over Locq’s helmet from the gaping wound. Locq pushed himself away from the wall, but he suddenly found himself with little room to move as the rest of his raiding party joined battle. Locq’s opponent took the opportunity to slash at him with his tulwar, undaunted by his crippling injury, but Locq forced himself enough space to block the attack and kick the White Scar back towards the smoking ruin of the drop-ship. Somewhere behind him, two frag grenades went off, and he felt shards of metal thud into the back of his armour. Regardless of who had detonated them, there would now be fewer attackers for him to worry about.

Locq brought his chainsword high, carving through the tulwar from above and slicing into the abdomen of the White Scar. Still the Chogorian did not give up, pulling out a dagger and slashing it across the right lens of Locq’s helmet. Locq hurled himself forwards, driving the chainsword home as they both slammed into the side of the drop-ship. The White Scar finally slid to the ground, shuddering in his death throes as he hit the deck plates. Locq sensed movement coming up fast behind him. Ducking and turning, he brought his chainsword out in a wide arc, slicing into the knee of the White Scar charging towards him and bringing him down. From the smoking corridor behind, two of Locq’s raiding party emerged through a pile of bodies, their armour battered and scored from their own battles. Such was his bloodlust, the first of the two denied Locq his kill by driving his axe into the top of the collapsed White Scar’s head, cleaving a gap wide enough for Locq to see the exposed scalp and black top-knot, then bounded into the hole cut into the side of the White Scars drop-ship. The interior erupted in flashes of light, and Locq threw himself to the side as bolter fire tore out in all directions. His second Hound rolled below the stray fire and lobbed a grenade into the ship’s interior. The second after it detonated Locq was inside, chainsword at the ready. What met him were the remains of the overzealous Hound and the White Scars who had ambushed him, having lain in wait to attack after their first wave.

Through the hole blasted out of the opposite side, Locq was gratified to see Meledorn and several others grappling with around a dozen Chogorians. As he threw himself into the melee, two White Scars turned to attack, slashing and stabbing with their tulwars and ceremonial daggers. It was still difficult to move freely given the number of power-armoured figures, but Locq thrust forwards, the last surviving Hound from his side of the corridor joining in the attack with a volley of bolter fire. One Chogorian spun away, a shot passing through the grille of his helmet in a bloody cloud, but the other rampaged forwards, his weapon raised and pointing towards Locq’s head. Locq dived to the ground and rolled, hitting the White Scar below the knees and toppling him over onto his front as he fired. Turning to his side, Locq got up on one knee and thrust his chainsword two-handedly into the spine of the Space Marine. The blade churned its way into flesh, severing nerves and sinews to totally incapacitate the Chogorian. Unable to move his legs, his attempts to flip himself onto his back and face Locq were futile; Locq severed his head as tribute to the Blood God, a rush of pleasure coursing through his veins as he did so.

Locq was suddenly aware of a stillness in the corridor. Rising, he could see the remains of his boarding party regarding the carnage they had created. To the left, he could just make out Meledorn beneath a heap of White Scars bodies, the handle of a tulwar projecting from beneath his helmet. The enemy dead surrounding him were a fitting tribute to his sacrifice, but not one Locq was going to acknowledge. This left ten survivors – half of the original party. He had not anticipated such losses; the White Scars’ tactic had worked well, even if they had been wiped out. The cost had been high, but discovering where Khârn had gone would be worth the blood price.

‘To the bridge. We have work to do.’ Locq turned away from the corpses before him and opened a vox-link.

‘Odervirk.’

‘Yes, Captain Locq.’

‘Scan for drop-ships hiding within the damaged infrastructure of the vessel. They will likely be powered down so you will have to move in closer.’

‘Captain, I would urge–’

Locq was in no mood for the shipmaster’s contradictions.

‘Carry out my orders, Odervirk, or I will find someone who will.’

There was a gratifying silence over the vox, which Locq took to be agreement.

‘Prepare a contingent of your machine priests to board this vessel once we have retrieved the information from the bridge.’

Odervirk’s answer was loaded with suspicion.

‘May I ask why?’

Locq signalled the Hounds to follow him. They did not have time to take their trophies for the Blood God.

‘We shall claim this vessel for the glory of Abaddon. See that it is done.’

Locq deactivated the link as soon as he had finished. He could not care less about the work involved in such a task. He needed to find this accursed berzerker, and find him fast.

Klaxons blared on the Skulltaker, rousing Khârn from his meditation. The visions he had experienced on Haeleon were still vivid in his memory. Open firepits had roared for three days, stoked with oils and chemicals that had brought the temperature of his private chamber to that of the planet. For three days, he had refused water and attempted to commune with the Blood God, but still, nothing. As he rose and took up Gorechild, he vowed swift and bloody punishment on whoever had raised the alarm.

Lukosz was about to demand an explanation from Roderbar and Samzar about the call to general quarters when Khârn stormed onto the bridge, his face a mask of fury. He cursed silently to himself; this was not the time for such distractions. Khârn’s command had been clear. He was only to be disturbed under the direst of circumstances, a state of affairs that had left Lukosz to watch for further sedition within the warband. For now, they seemed satisfied to wait for Khârn’s promises of greater glory to crystallise. With his own Butcher’s Nails scratching at the back of his mind for action, Lukosz was not fool enough to think the calm would last for long.

Lukosz stepped to one side, allowing Khârn room to wedge Gorechild into the deck and grab a hold of the shipmaster’s ornate tunic. Khârn lifted Roderbar’s huge form out of his reinforced command throne in a swift, effortless movement and raised him into the air. For a human, Roderbar was unusually large, and because his duties kept him almost constantly at his station it meant he was running to fat. Lukosz had little respect for those who did not master their own physique, but there was no denying his experience of space combat and his brilliant tactical mind, the agility of which was belied by his corpulent frame. That being said, his explanation for rousing Khârn from his self-imposed exile would need to be good.

‘We have a ship of unknown origin just outside our weapons range. It appeared from the warp only moments ago. The vessel is a good match for us but not taking any hostile action at this time. They are clearly interested in us.’

Despite being lifted from his chair, Roderbar’s deep, rich voice was remarkably calm. Sweat dripped from his jowls, but his gaze did not leave Khârn’s burning eyes. Lukosz could hear the seams of Roderbar’s tunic begin to pop and split under his tremendous weight as the whole bridge watched. From the humblest rating to the most senior officer, Lukosz suspected they were calculating an unexpected promotion within the next minute or so. Roderbar’s breathing became heavier, but he did not struggle or protest. After a few seconds, Khârn threw him back down onto the command chair with a snort of disgust. Samzar took up the interrogation without bidding.

‘What configuration is the vessel? Are there any identifiable markings?’

Roderbar wriggled back into position and composed himself. After clearing his throat a couple of times, he looked straight at Samzar, ignoring the glowering form of Khârn, who slowly walked back to where he had left Gorechild stuck in the deck plating to lever the ancient axe loose.

‘It is a strike cruiser, lord, and an old one at that. Its current attitude is not revealing any identifiable signs or sigils. Wait…’

Roderbar looked down to an officer seated at one of the myriad consoles below deck level, and Lukosz followed his gaze. Unlike the rest of the miserable wretches who busied themselves in the gloom, the officer was mostly intact as a human being, with only one arm replaced by a mechanical device.

‘There is a request for communication coming in.’

Roderbar straightened his tunic and turned to his vox-unit. Before he could issue the command to transfer the call, the officer spoke again, her eyes averted to the unseen deck.

‘The request is addressed to you, Lord Khârn.’

The whispering from Lukosz’s Butcher’s Nails grew louder, into a murmured warning.

‘Are we combat ready, Roderbar?’

Lukosz was surprised at just how calm Khârn’s voice was.

‘Yes, Lord Khârn. The gun crews are in readiness. The shield generators are… Lord Khârn?’

Khârn did not seem interested in the confirmation from the shipmaster, but instead stared down at the communications officer, contemplating the unexpected turn of events. Lukosz knew better than to offer an opinion. If it was wanted, it would be asked for. He cast a glance over to Samzar, who was struggling to control a twitch in the side of his face. After long seconds, Khârn spoke directly to the officer, his voice low and heavy with suspicion.

‘Open the channel. Let us hear what they have to say.’

Lukosz watched the officer turn back to her flickering screens, and noticed she favoured her unaltered arm to manipulate the controls. A crackling spat from the vox speakers set around the bridge, then the low hum of an open transmission rolled around the bustling room. Roderbar turned a brass dial, and the volume increased to compensate for the background chatter of machinery.

‘This is Talomar Locq, captain of the Black Legion and the Hounds of Abaddon. I will speak with Khârn the Betrayer. Immediately.’

This was a voice accustomed to command. While Lukosz knew Khârn’s view of the Black Legion to be less than favourable, he admired their discipline. It was something his warband lacked, and he felt they were often the weaker for it. Lukosz looked over to Khârn. The threat in the captain’s address had not even registered.

‘Black Legion,’ Khârn murmured to himself.

The hum from the speakers grew louder for a few seconds, then Locq spoke again, his voice noticeably strained.

‘Khârn the Betrayer. I would speak with you and you alone. Prepare for my arrival.’

Khârn raised his hand to mute the transmission. He turned and walked a few paces around the deck, Gorechild resting on his shoulder as all eyes followed him. Samzar hissed to Lukosz. His comrade was getting increasingly agitated.

‘How dare this cur make demands of us? We should destroy him before he attacks us. It is clearly a ruse. Shipmaster, bring us about and–’

‘Samzar, silence.’

Khârn’s words were like Gorechild cutting through flesh. Lukosz watched as his brother’s face turned to confusion and then anger. He looked down to Samzar’s shaking hand as it drifted towards his chainsword. Lukosz stepped forwards, placed a firm hand on his comrade’s arm and stared directly into his wild eyes. Samzar’s broken face was straining with convulsions that threatened to take over his entire body. Lukosz silently willed Samzar to fight the Nails. They were close to consuming him. He only tore his gaze away when Khârn spoke.

‘Khorne has brought these Hounds of Abaddon to us. We will find out why.’

Lukosz took a step back from Samzar, whose eyes were red with fury. He watched Khârn nod once to the communications officer, and the bridge’s transmitters crackled back into life.

‘I am Khârn. I will speak with you, messenger of the Black Legion. But you shall not set foot on this vessel if you want to keep your head.’

Lukosz could sense the Black Legion commander’s blood boiling. The bridge crew listened to static for long seconds before Khârn spoke again.

‘Nor will I travel to yours. Whatever you have to say, say it now or leave before I obliterate you, your ship and your men.’

More alarms triggered on the bridge, coming from several different stations above and below the main walkway. Lukosz turned to Roderbar, whose bloated fingers were gracefully moving over the controls set into his command throne’s reinforced arms.

‘The Black Legion ship has opened its torpedo hatches and brought itself to bear. Shall we respond?’

Lukosz was about to give the order as Khârn barked a sharp laugh. His voice became thick with mockery.

‘I take it you are not willing to communicate over vox. Very well. We shall meet face-to-face. Our shipmasters will find a suitable location. We will bring fifty warriors apiece. Agreed?’

Lukosz had no idea what the Black Legion wanted. Unlike Samzar, however, he did care. But a feeling he had thought lost rekindled in his breast. Perhaps this was part of the Red Path.

The humming from the speakers continued for long seconds, then a voice struggling with the effort of self-control responded curtly.

‘Your terms are acceptable.’

Chapter Master Solucious Gaul marched across the gantry towards the towering cylindrical chamber, hand resting on the pommel of his blessed relic blade, Acritus, and helmet tucked under one arm. One did not approach a Chaplain Venerable Dreadnought with one’s face hidden – it was the respect he commanded and deserved. The clanging of Gaul’s boots resounded off the cavernous outer chamber walls as he strode towards the black riveted iron of the inner sanctum. To some it might seem blasphemous that the Dreadnought was housed so deep in the bowels of the battle-barge Light of the Emperor, away from the admiration he so richly deserved of every battle-brother of the Angels Eradicant. However, Paderi Tentera was a relic of the greatest sanctity who demanded the blessing of solitude. No one, Gaul least of all, would deny him that. But the Chapter Master required counsel, even if it was an unwelcome intrusion.

The circular hatch that served as the only entrance to the Chaplain’s place of rest was over four yards in diameter, its curved outer profile sitting flush with its impenetrable surround. As was customary, Gaul hammered on the locking mechanism three times – once for the Emperor, once for the Chapter and once for himself – and took a few steps back. Within seconds, the locking wheel positioned at the centre of the door began to rotate anti-clockwise. The rumble of bolts withdrawing smoothly from their anchor points signalled the opening of the two-yard-thick slab. As the pressure seal was broken, a fine curtain of dust danced past Gaul, betraying the lack of visitors the Chaplain entertained.

Dim lights flickered into life, silhouetting the life-sustaining cables and tubes that snaked outwards from the massive Dreadnought frame. The squat legs stood wide apart, heavily armoured and braced so as to support the battle torso’s huge weight atop the exposed hydraulics of the gimballed pelvic section. A massive bolter took the place of the left arm, its twin barrels pointing downwards in its rest state. On the right, a four-fingered power fist flexed slightly as Tentera slowly returned to full consciousness. Gaul turned his gaze to the sand-coloured sarcophagus between the chest-mounted armour panels, the winged symbol of the Chapter emblazoned across it. With a hiss of equalising pressure, the protective shield slid back to reveal the pallid, skeletal features of the Chaplain himself.

The old warrior’s eyes had failed long ago, but Gaul knew he was still being watched. Falling to one knee, he bowed his head and waited for Tentera to speak.

‘Rise, Chapter Master Solucious Gaul. It pleases me to see you again.’

Tentera gazed down on the figure before him, his electronically filtered vision swimming into clarity. He knew Gaul of old, having fought beside him before and after his holy interment. These days, the Chapter Master sought audiences only in times of crisis. While Tentera was often unsure of the passing of time, he knew Gaul had been here only weeks before. On that occasion it had been concerns over their honoured guest. Tentera was certain the reason for Gaul’s visit remained unchanged.

‘I am privileged to stand in your presence once again, venerable Chaplain.’

The lights within Tentera’s sanctuary grew brighter. The Chaplain knew there was little left that was recognisable from his fleshly form. While his voice was amplified and filtered by countless components, he hoped something of his old self could still be heard.

‘You flatter me with your words, Solucious. But I am sure you have not come here to exchange pleasantries. Speak.’

The Chapter Master took a couple of steps towards Tentera and looked up at him with a serious expression. Gaul was clearly troubled by what he had to say.

‘I seek your guidance and wisdom, venerable Chaplain. I am uneasy at Lozepath’s decision to return to Salandraxis.’

Tentera sighed. Despite his experience, Gaul still did not seem to understand the huge importance of Lozepath’s choice. His return, triumphant from his victories around the Eye of Terror, would send a powerful message to friend and foe alike. Even in the jaws of Abaddon’s relentless campaign, the Emperor’s love for His people was such that He would jeopardise all to return one of His blessed sons to his rightful place.

‘Chapter Master, may I remind you that Lozepath is a Living Saint, and that he has proved victorious against the forces of Chaos in his most recent crusade?’

There was no malice or accusation in Tentera’s words. It was a statement of fact. As a Chaplain, Tentera was not a part of nor connected to the Adeptus Ministorum, but when it came to the power of belief, they were undeniably kindred.

‘Venerable Chaplain, I am not calling his success into question. It is the risks handed to us with this convoy that concern me.’

The massive black hand of the Dreadnought flexed into a fist several times before whirring to a halt. The Chaplain’s subconscious moods could be revealed through his movements just as easily as any human’s. Tentera saw Gaul’s eyes slide over to the hand, which was now relaxed, then back up to the open sarcophagus.

‘Forgive me, venerable Chaplain. I meant no disrespect.’

The Chaplain watched Gaul’s expression carefully. He spoke with passion, but it was not clouding his judgement.

‘So you deny the honour Lozepath pays us as our guest? You feel unable to protect him with your fleet?’

Tentera saw anger flash over Gaul’s features.

‘Venerable Chaplain, I am of course honoured Lozepath transferred his flag to our vessel, but six ships are not enough protection for a target of such importance. The sheer number of enemy forces almost guarantees our detection.’

Gaul’s voice was grave. His words deserved consideration, and Tentera pondered on them for long minutes. The Living Saint had barely returned to the safety of the Angels Eradicant’s harbour when he had announced his return to Salandraxis. By the time Gaul had learned of his plan, Lozepath had already sent an astropathic transmission to the planet. Faced with the rapturous joy communicated back from that world, the Chapter Master had been left with little choice but to offer the Light of the Emperor to take him home.

Tentera looked to Gaul. The Chapter Master had come here for help, so he would give it.

‘None of these facts change the situation we find ourselves in. I take it you anticipate an attack?’

Gaul nodded.

‘In that case, Solucious, I recommend you employ this conviction to your advantage.’

The drop-ships faced each other over a distance of less than four hundred yards, engines roaring and noses swaying as the Thunderhawks maintained their positions above the ground. Their dangerous proximity had been dictated by the only suitable clearing in a continent otherwise covered by an unbroken forest of massive trees that had grown on and through the ruins of some ancient civilisation. The ships’ guns were aimed directly at each other, activated and ready to fire. Both parties knew it, and both parties expected it. At such a short range, the destruction would be near-total on both sides so, under the comforting stalemate offered by mutually assured destruction, one hundred servants of Khorne faced each other.

To Khârn, none of this mattered. His focus was on the upstart walking towards him, pistol and blade drawn, resplendent in the ornate armour of the Hounds of Abaddon. Lined up in their neat rows, brass highlights glinting in the sun, the Hounds made a mockery of the glory of Khorne. Anger flared in Khârn’s chest but he resisted the temptation to draw Gorechild and charge into them before a word had been spoken, cutting them down and serving their skulls as a gift to the Blood God. He still did not know which way the Red Path was turning, so he would have to be patient for a few moments longer.

Locq came to a stop a few paces away from Khârn and waited for his two lieutenants to flank him. He holstered his weapons, removed his battle-scarred helmet and, reaching sideways, gave it to one of his followers without turning. After studying the wide, flat face of Locq for a few long seconds, Khârn accepted the gesture and did the same, tossing his helmet to Lukosz.

‘I bring a message from the great Warmaster Abaddon.’

Locq shouted the words so that everyone could hear them. His voice echoed off the enormous trunks surrounding the impenetrable foundations on which they stood, worn smooth by aeons of rain and wind. Khârn’s contempt turned to loathing. Was he supposed to fall to his knees in terror at the name of Abaddon? To gibber and weep like a child? If this herald was expecting a reaction from Khârn, he would receive none, other than a sneer of derision.

Khârn folded his arms and waited. Whatever Locq had to say, he had travelled a long way to do it. The trouble Locq had gone to and the fact he had not attacked them on first sight meant it had to be Khorne’s will that they were now facing each other. Khârn stared at the so-called captain. Finally, Locq spoke again.

‘He commands you to his presence, and you must heed the call.’

The words hung in the cool forest air. Khârn continued to stare, impassive. Locq raised his head slightly and looked down his nose at the Chosen of Khorne as if to demand his acknowledgement. Such posturing only served to aggravate Khârn. Lukosz clearly shared the feeling, muttering an oath and reaching for his chainsword. The resulting rattle of gauntlets from Locq’s forces came immediately, swiftly followed by the readying of bolters and chainswords from Khârn’s warband behind him. Locq dropped his chin and went for his own chainsword, but Khârn raised his right arm, slowly, into the air. There was a telling pause but, eventually, Khârn heard weapons lowered. All the while, Khârn kept his gaze on Locq, looking for something more in his eyes.

‘Why?’

Locq shook his head slightly at Khârn’s question. Locq’s warriors shifted slightly. It was obvious they were just as interested in the answer. Intriguing.

‘I do not question my master’s command, berzerker. Neither should you.’

Khârn snorted and took a step forward. Locq’s seconds responded by moving closer to their captain, weapons raised. Khârn ignored them.

‘You cannot answer my question because you do not know, do you?’

He had seen the faces of opponents at close quarters on countless occasions, and he could read the battle raging inside Locq for control of his anger. Locq lost.

‘You will accompany me back to the Malevolent Shade without further hesitation. Abaddon–’

‘Abaddon!’

The ferocity with which Khârn roared the name back at Locq was a perfect match for the look of absolute contempt on his face. Spittle landed on Locq’s face, and as he wiped it off with one hand, Khârn noticed his other had gone to the hilt of his chainsword. Khârn looked up and over the head of the captain, and raised his voice even louder.

‘Who is this so-called “Warmaster” compared to the Blood God? Why do you give your allegiance to him?’

Khârn looked from one end of the line of Hounds to the other, staring at each and every one of them in turn. He could not read their faces, but he could tell from the way they moved that his words had found their mark. Khârn opened his arms and turned around in a slow circle as he continued, encompassing everything that surrounded him from the centre of the clearing.

‘We fight to honour Khorne, and Khorne alone. You claim to do the same, but ask yourself this – what glory has Abaddon sent you to here? How are you serving the Blood God? You are not. You are in the thrall of one who thinks himself a god, but is a pretender.’

Khârn had turned full circle, past his own impatient warband, past Lukosz and then back to Locq who, by now, was trembling with rage.

‘You and your entire Legion are nothing more than inferior, dishonourable filth.’

Khârn could hear the muttering of oaths from the Black Legion ranks. His gaze settled on Locq’s left pauldron. On it was displayed the eight-pointed star of Chaos, the brass symbol in stark relief to the red inlay. Khârn returned to his vision, of the skulls with the same symbol etched into them. They had not urged him down the flowing river of blood, not shown him the way in which to go. No. They had been swarming all around him, swooping and threatening him, targets to be broken and smashed.

That was the Red Path.

Locq had not even got his chainsword raised halfway before Khârn’s boot landed squarely in his chest. Caught completely by surprise and off balance, the force of the kick hurled the Hound backwards, and Lukosz saw him smash into the armoured bodies of his own warriors before dropping to the hard ground. Right in front of him, Khârn was charging forwards to claim his skull, but Locq’s seconds were up on their feet and meeting Khârn from both sides. The first raised a brace of bolt pistols and started firing, but Khârn turned and ducked, bringing Gorechild down in a blur and carving through the gauntlets of the Hound. The pistols fell to the floor, still clutched by their dismembered hands.

Lukosz burst into action with a roar, heading for the Black Legion line that was now storming forwards to meet him. Behind the line of black-and-brass figures, their two Thunderhawks rose higher into the light-blue sky, noses dipping ominously towards the field of battle. Lukosz looked over again to Khârn. The Hound who had taken Locq’s helmet was almost upon him, so Lukosz changed course, ramming his chainsword into the Hound’s neck with such force it emerged shuddering out the other side. Lukosz pulled it back with a vicious twist, goring an even wider hole on the way out, and the Hound spun around, firing wildly with one hand while trying to staunch the blood gushing from the fatal wound. Lukosz swiped down at the bolt pistol, carving it in half, then barged the Hound out of the way. He fell backwards, dead before he hit the ground.

Khârn was making a direct path for Locq, swinging his chainaxe above his head in fury. Lukosz’s fellow berzerkers stormed past on the left and right, firing bolt pistols and brandishing their close-quarter weapons towards the line of Hounds only yards away. In seconds the centre of the clearing was a furious battle zone, and as Lukosz readied his gore-splattered chainsword once more, he spotted two Hounds running to support Locq, who had managed to scramble to his feet and activate his own chainsword. One of them blocked Khârn’s approach and took the blow intended for the captain. Gorechild cleaved the Hound’s helmet in half, leaving Khârn suddenly exposed to attack from the other Hound and Locq as he worked the chainaxe free from his twitching victim’s skull. Lukosz cried out a warning, but it was drowned out by the thunderous roar of heavy bolter fire from above and behind.

Huge chunks of stone flew into the air as the fire gouged its way forwards through the ruins. Lukosz threw himself out of its path, and as he hit the ground he saw that Khârn had done the same. The second Hound that had split off to attack Khârn was not so lucky; he was torn asunder by the maelstrom, pieces of his armour spinning ropes of blood into the air as they blew apart. The line of fire moved upwards towards one of the Black Legion Thunderhawks. The gunship opened fire with its weapons, but a fraction too late to save itself. Bolts tore through the canopy, decimating the nose of the ship and shredding its crew. Losing control, it tipped forwards and exploded in mid-air, throwing Hounds and berzerkers to the floor with the force of the blast. Lukosz waited a few seconds before getting to his feet, only to see the second Black Legion drop-ship unleash a withering salvo as it lurched out of the path of rockets fired from his Thunderhawks somewhere behind him.

Another tremendous explosion hit Lukosz in the back. Glancing behind, he could see that one of his transports had also been hit. Lukosz spat a curse. Samzar was in one of those ships. A bolter round glanced off the side of Lukosz’s helmet and careened into the nearby forest. Turning to the direction from which the shell had been fired, he saw a Hound running towards him, loading a fresh magazine as he closed in. Fury suddenly raged through Lukosz. Gunning his chainsword, he threw himself at the black-clad warrior with a roar. He gave himself totally to his Butcher’s Nails. He hacked and slashed with his chainsword, glorying in his bloodlust.

‘Destroy it! Fire!’

Samzar was screaming at the Warpsmith pilot. They had managed to destroy one of the enemy ships relatively easily, but it was clear the pilot of the vessel now banking steeply to avoid their fire was much more skilled. A brilliant flash of light came from the right, and the Warpsmith pulled the stick sharply over to port, shouting to the gunner to keep up his barrage. The hull shuddered with the sudden movement, and through the cockpit window Samzar saw the second berzerker Thunderhawk power into the bleached brick and stone of the ruins, exploding on impact and lighting up the trees all around with burning fuel. Several of the warband were caught in the blast, thrown backwards in a wide arc. Hounds of Abaddon made for their prone figures, and Samzar roared at the scene unfolding before him. He wanted – needed – to be down there. Gunfire thundered from his drop-ship’s weapons as the gunner laid down a curtain of fire at the last remaining Black Legion ship. Part of its starboard wing disappeared, but as it pitched and dropped to just above the treeline, it unleashed a salvo of missiles straight at them.

Controls flicked to red all around the cockpit and warning sirens blared. The pilot threw the controls to one side and increased thrust, but was a fraction too slow. A blossom of flame erupted from the right, shooting across the nose of the Thunderhawk and into the cockpit. Samzar heard the navigator scream as he was enveloped in flame. The ship immediately began to drop off, away from the clearing and towards the trees below them.

‘We have been hit! Starboard engine gone! We are going to–’

The dials and readouts before the pilot exploded in a shower of sparks. Samzar grabbed a hold of the seat’s headrest to steady himself, but the angle was becoming too steep to maintain footing. Turning, he threw himself back towards the transport bay below the Thunderhawk’s cockpit deck, abandoning the surviving crew members to their fate. A series of loud thudding impacts came from beneath, and Samzar’s blood boiled with fury. He should never have listened to Lukosz. His place was by Khârn’s side. At the time his battle-brother’s words had seemed to make sense, but now the Butcher’s Nails were in control once again, and they were demanding blood. He should have been there. The battle would now be all but over and he would have taken great trophies for the Blood God. Damn Lukosz and his tactics.

Samzar heard the pilot frantically voxing orders to his crew, but he knew it was too late for them. The entire cargo section was shaking from impacts on all sides as it ploughed its way into the trees, the outer hull squealing as it dragged past the enormous trunks now surrounding it. Samzar tipped over and crashed onto the inner wall as the Thunderhawk lost its left wing. The impact wrenched open the exit hatch before him and, with a crunch, the ship finally hit the ground, tossing Samzar around like a poorly secured piece of equipment. With the rear engine still screaming above him at full throttle, Samzar clawed his way up the inside of the transport and threw himself free of the broken ship. His fall was cushioned by smashed and broken trunks, and as he thumped to the soft earth the ship’s fuel tanks ignited, sending metal and wood spinning overhead in a lethal shower. Samzar did not wait to check for survivors. Somewhere very close there was a battle raging, and he needed to be a part of it.

Lukosz could see that Khârn was trying to carve his way towards the Black Legion leader, but his remaining forces had reformed and were providing an excellent defence for their captain. They had given him enough time to retrieve his helmet, which, given the ferocity of the fighting on the ground and in the air, again reminded Lukosz of what his warband lacked. The ferocity, however, with which his berzerkers were attacking the Hounds was unparalleled. A brilliant flash came from the side and Lukosz looked up to see the second – and last – of their drop-ships take a direct hit on its starboard wing. If Samzar hadn’t been in the first Thunderhawk, he had to be in that one. Tipping onto its side, it accelerated into the ground, disappearing between the dense trees and exploding a few seconds later. To Lukosz, the plume of thick black smoke symbolised two things – the loss of his comrade, and air superiority for Locq’s forces.

The ground erupted all around him as the remaining enemy drop-ship thundered overhead. Locq’s forces began to move towards the trees, closing ranks around the captain. A small group of around half a dozen broke away and ran straight towards Khârn, who threw himself at them with Gorechild. Lukosz ducked and weaved through another barrage of fire, narrowly avoiding the fate of a berzerker who disappeared in a hail of heavy bolter shells. Most of his warband ignored the swooping drop-ship’s withering fire, intent on claiming new trophies for the Blood God.

‘Roderbar! Dispatch air support immediately!’

Static hissed back at Lukosz and he cursed. If the enemy cruiser had engaged the Skulltaker, it was likely Roderbar was out of range or unable to launch more drop-ships. The Thunderhawk made another pass, but this time it did not open fire. Most of the berzerkers had closed in on the Hounds, making it impossible for the Black Legion ship to fire without hitting their own warriors. Some yards away, Khârn was busy engaging three of the original six that had challenged him. Two bodies lay at his feet, their heads separated from their bodies. A third was getting up slowly behind, watching the attack and readying his curved chainsword to drive it into Khârn’s back.

Lukosz threw himself at the Hound, thrusting his own weapon forwards to deflect the attack. Overstretched, he lost his balance and stumbled, the side of his head taking the full impact of his opponent’s knee as it came crashing in. Countless years of combat experience took over. Despite his blurred vision, Lukosz found himself back-to-back with Khârn, parrying the blows with elegant, practised moves in direct contrast to the flamboyant uncontrolled onslaught Khârn was unleashing with Gorechild. Catching the curve of his opponent’s blade, Lukosz turned and barged, shoulder first, into the chest of his opponent, sending him staggering back on the worn rocky surface. Something spun past Lukosz, spraying blood in all directions. Khârn’s opponents were now down to two. Galvanized by the sight, Lukosz’s attacker lunged towards Lukosz’s throat. Lukosz ducked quickly and slashed outwards in a turn, the tip of his chainsword slicing into the right knee of his opponent. Continuing his turn, Lukosz brought his weapon up and then across his chest, but the Hound saw the strike coming and blocked it with his left arm, sacrificing the armour as a shield while he brought his own chainsword down onto Lukosz’s helmet.

Then Lukosz felt himself spinning through the air. He saw snapshots of the Hound being blown in the opposite direction before everything went dark. Something hit him in the back with tremendous force, and he felt himself drop to soft ground. His ears sang and his head spun. All he could hear was the scream of his Butcher’s Nails. Lukosz rolled onto his side and hauled himself to his feet. He had been blown into the forest by an explosion. The Black Legion Thunderhawk roared overhead, triple turbofans making the air behind it shimmer. Recovering his wits, Lukosz started to pick his way back through the trees towards the clearing. With only a few yards to go, the Hound who had nearly claimed his skull stood waiting for him. He was now carrying Lukosz’s weapon as well as his own.

Lukosz began to run forward. The Hound did the same, barging his way into the thick forest, but suddenly he stopped and looked back into the clearing. Turning back again, the Hound seemed unsure what to do. Finally, with a shake of his head and a pointed gesture with Lukosz’s chainsword as if to say ‘next time’, he ran out of Lukosz’s sight. By the time Lukosz stomped back into the smoke-filled clearing, Locq and his forces were nowhere to be seen, giving the drop-ship free rein to strafe the opening.

Lukosz could see Khârn and the rest of the surviving warband firing wildly into the sky, but they all dived for cover as the ship descended on another murderous run. Chunks of armour, flesh and stone spun through the air, hurtling into the forest and clanging off the burning remains of the crashed drop-ships. A pair of berzerkers were too slow to escape the maelstrom from the marauding Thunderhawk and were cut down before they could get to safety. Suddenly, a figure carrying two bolters sprinted into the opening. He was bellowing with rage, pumping shell after shell into the sky. The drop-ship rose and then turned but he stood his ground, screaming in apoplectic fury. When both magazines were emptied he threw the bolters to the ground and drew his pistol, not stopping until that too had been exhausted.

Lukosz smiled to himself. It was Samzar.

The pitch of the transport’s engines changed. Luckily for Samzar, it began to head away. Within seconds Khârn and the rest of the berzerkers returned to the clearing and began to fire after the ship, but it quickly moved out of range. Lukosz picked his way through the bodies of the Hounds scattered around the clearing. At least forty of them lay dead, but Locq was not amongst them. Lukosz still had no idea why Khârn had attacked and initiated the combat, but with the blood only just calming in his veins Lukosz had to admit it did not matter. Looking at the carnage in the clearing, this was a good harvest for the Blood God. Lukosz felt elated; Khârn was indeed meeting his promise. The fifty that had arrived on this moon had shared in the glory, and Lukosz knew now there was more to come. Much of the ruined plaza on which they stood was slick with the blood of their kills. They were all walking on the Red Path.

Lukosz shifted the body of a fallen Hound with his boot to reveal a particularly fine power sword. Stooping to pick it up, he flicked the gore of his fallen brothers away and felt its weight and balance. He did not recognise the symbols inscribed into its blade, but he knew it to be a weapon he could put to excellent use if any of the warband chose to doubt Khârn after this battle. Some miles away, the unmistakable bray of bolter fire drifted on the acrid, burning air. Lukosz walked to the side of Khârn, as did the remaining berzerkers. As one, they looked up to the Black Legion Thunderhawk circling slowly in the distance. It was laying down a ferocious barrage onto the forest below it.

‘They are creating a landing area. Do not let a single one of them leave this planet.’

Khârn did not need to give any more direction. The berzerkers rampaged into the woodland, blasting and carving a path through the densely packed trees with bolter and chainsword.

Khârn stopped next to Lukosz and removed his helmet. Lukosz could see fresh lacerations over the raw red scars covering his bare skin, blood running freely down his forearm onto Gorechild’s shaft.

‘Where is our air cover, Lukosz?’

Lukosz turned to watch as branches, trunks and leaves flew into the air in a whirlwind of destruction. He was wondering the very same thing himself.

‘I don’t care if we’ve lost the shields to the starboard landing bay. Target their engines again, then go to heading nine-five-six to protect our flank. And get the long-range vox back up!’

Roderbar was purple with the effort of screaming at his bridge crew, who were frantically assessing the damage the Skulltaker had taken from the Malevolent Shade on its last salvo. He knew his ship was a match for its weapons, but his defensive systems left a lot to be desired. All that time away from port was beginning to tell. New damage was compounding the old, and it was getting to the point where he would have to appeal to Khârn himself for essential repairs. Roderbar was loath to do this, because it involved the very real risk of the Chosen of Khorne simply taking another vessel, should he perceive that the Skulltaker had lost its value to him. Despite his great experience, Roderbar knew full well he would not feature in any transfer of personnel.

A groan shuddered through the outer hull, and several consoles on the lower deck burst into flames, the line of servitors burning silently with the cogitators they had operated. Fire-control systems activated to prevent the damage from spreading, and satisfied it was not anything he would miss, Roderbar turned his attention back to unleashing as much punishment on the Malevolent Shade as he had received.

‘Shipmaster, communication with the planet is restored.’

Roderbar established a connection. When, three seconds later, he received Khârn’s blistering reply, he wished he hadn’t.

‘Captain, transmission coming in from the Malevolent Shade. Shipmaster Odervirk is asking to speak with you directly.’

Locq looked to the six survivors of his warband tending to their wounds in quiet contemplation. Six. That meant he had lost forty-four Hounds to Khârn and his band of scum, along with a gunship and its crew. Adding that to the deaths from the White Scars’ attack, he was now down to well under half his original number.

‘Shipmaster. Report.’

The interior speaker crackled into life, betraying panic on the cruiser’s command bridge.

‘Captain, we are continuing to engage the Skulltaker but it has disabled our drive systems. We are attempting repair, but it will take time due to our reduced complement.’

Locq spoke through gritted teeth. The pain from his broken arm was ferocious, and he did not need reminding of his decision to salvage the Wings of the Eagle.

‘Do what you can. We are en route to the Malevolent Shade, approaching at battle velocity. Ready a hangar for our arrival.’

The sound of an explosion rattled out of the speaker, cutting Odervirk off.

‘Lord, there is another transmission coming in.’

The pilot paused before continuing.

‘It is from the Skulltaker. Shall I respond?’

The six Hounds stopped what they were doing and looked over to Locq. Sitting upright as best he could, he gave the command. After a crackle of white noise, a new voice rasped through the speakers.

‘And so you see, Locq, it is as I said. Khorne favours those who are faithful to him – and him alone.’

It was the voice of Khârn. Locq drew in a furious breath to respond, but was cut off before he had opportunity to speak.

‘I shall leave your vessel to drift in space. With luck, you may find some safe haven for what remains of your idolatrous pack of dogs to cower in. We continue to follow the Red Path, to further the glory of Khorne. Tell that to your “Warmaster”.’

Khârn began to laugh. At first it was his voice alone, but it was quickly joined by two, then three, then dozens. The mockery rang around the hold of the Thunderhawk, and Locq bellowed at the pilot to cut the transmission. Other than the rumbling of the engines and the rattle of equipment, a sullen, dangerous silence filled the hold.

Khârn sat cross-legged in his chamber, the smoke from burning incense and a dozen pit fires swirling around his naked form. The heat was intense, but he cared not. The blade with which he flensed the skin from the Hound of Abaddon’s skull moved like an extension of his hand, deftly peeling away the layers of flesh and muscle to expose gleaming, unmarked bone beneath. The battle on the moon had satisfied his bloodlust for the moment and given him many trophies, but more importantly it had given him certainty. Murmuring an incantation with every breath, he stripped away the remaining tissue from the head and held the skull before him. Shadows danced within the nose and eye sockets, and Khârn felt rage suddenly course through his body. His hand tightened on the jawbone and snapped it like a dry twig, throwing splinters of bone into his exposed flesh. His victory had not been complete. It should be the head of Locq he was preparing for the Blood God’s glory.

Khârn took in a deep breath and concentrated on slowing his quickening pulse. Closing his eyes, he called up the vision he had experienced on Haeleon. Confidence in its truth usurped his anger. The Red Path would lead him once again to the Black Legion cur, of that he was certain. Khorne demanded it. Shifting his weight, Khârn opened his eyes and glanced over to Gorechild. He let the skull roll from his grip, clattering as it landed on the pile mounting next to him. Khârn exhaled slowly and began chanting a battle oath in a dark language. He could feel power coursing into his still-healing wounds. Whatever challenges were yet to present themselves, wherever the Blood God deigned to send him, Khârn would be ready.

CHAPTER FOUR

Blood Vision

Chapter Master Solucious Gaul was not one to rush, but the speed with which he swept down the passageway of the Light of the Emperor was nearing a charge. Behind him, four of his longest-serving veterans matched the urgency of his pace, their heavily embroidered cloaks swaying in time with that of their leader. The reason for their presence had nothing to do with Gaul’s protection. They were accompanying him in a show of the esteem in which they held their honoured guest, even if he was currently putting the lives of everyone on the ship and, for that matter, the entire fleet, in jeopardy. Passing a third triumvirate of Adepta Sororitas, Gaul clenched his back teeth together and ignored their burning stares. While he had nothing but admiration for their military prowess and appreciated the Living Saint had fought with them for the last five years on his crusade, they simply were not needed on an Angels Eradicant vessel.

Gaul had spent a long time on the Light of the Emperor and knew it nearly as well as the shipmaster, but even he had been surprised at just how different the approach to the chapel now looked. Gone were the tapestries and battle banners celebrating the victories over Chaos by his Chapter, replaced with those narrating the bloody trail of destruction waged by Lozepath during his holy war. The pennants and flags had been embellished with golden frames, an extravagance Gaul found hard to stomach in these times of hardship for the Imperium. Even so, he had to admit it was impressive, albeit typical of what he had come to expect from Lozepath. Those who imagined Living Saints to be humble souls dedicated to the spiritual nourishment and guidance of the Emperor’s faithful servants had clearly not met him. The man, if that was the right description, was anything but self-effacing. As he quick-marched through the corridor, Gaul suspected it was Lozepath’s irrepressible temperament that had led to an emergency call coming through to the Chapter Master from the bridge only minutes before.

Turning a wide corner, Gaul spied the newly embossed doors to the chapel. His path was quickly blocked by yet another heavily armed contingent from the Order of the Divine Perfection. The most senior amongst them regarded the Chapter Master and his fully armed escort coolly, one delicate hand stroking the top of the bolter slung over her right shoulder, the other on a brass-bound tome suspended by a thick golden chain. A network of puckered scars ran across her elegant face, and there was a look of quiet determination that, under normal circumstances, Gaul might have given greater respect to. Right now, she was in his way, and he was in no mood to be delayed.

‘Who begs to enter the ministry of the Living Saint?’

Gaul knew the Sisters well enough to realise they would not expect a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes to beg for anything. The words were deliberately confrontational, but he knew how to conduct this particular dance of etiquette.

‘Chapter Master Solucious Gaul of the Angels Eradicant.’

The Sister Superior looked past Gaul and eyed his four veterans behind him with suspicion. The five other Sisters that fanned out and walked past Gaul to stand by their sides provoked no reaction whatsoever. The Sister Superior could clearly see she was hopelessly outgunned, but it did not cow her.

‘His Celestial Highness is at prayer. Come back later.’

Gaul looked down at the woman, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Behind him he could hear her guard shifting in their elegant black armour, readying themselves for a violent response. Inside the Chapter Master’s head, a clock was counting down. A firefight would solve the impasse, but it would also likely complicate and delay matters. There was a very large contingent of Adepta Sororitas on board, and they would mobilise within seconds of hearing combat. Clasping his hands in front of him, Gaul leaned forwards and dropped his voice.

‘Sister Superior, I understand your devotion to Lozepath. But let me put this as simply as I can. I need to talk with the Saint as a matter of extreme urgency. All attempts to communicate with him inside the chapel have been unsuccessful, and I believe him to be in considerable danger at this very moment.’

Gaul knew the Adepta Sororitas had supreme confidence in their ability to protect their holy charge, but a direct warning such as this from a Chapter Master was something that could not be ignored. Gaul straightened and waited for the reaction he expected. Sure enough, the Sister Superior looked over the closest of her fellow guards, then back to Gaul. Something changed in her eyes.

‘Chapter Master, I have my orders. No one is to enter at this time.’

Her words were almost hissed. Gaul could see she was in a difficult position, but his patience was rapidly abandoning him. The time for diplomacy was over. He needed to take a more direct approach.

‘Sister Superior, this vessel currently houses over a hundred of my battle-brothers, all of whom have been in a state of combat readiness since we set off on this journey. Such is their desire to fight, they would relish the opportunity, regardless of who their opponents might be.’

To her credit, the Sister Superior did not so much as bat an eyelid in response. While the repercussions of her allowing him to pass might be severe, they would be nothing compared to the damage she and her sentinels would endure in a battle with his Space Marines. She kept her gaze locked onto Gaul, only flicking her eyes to his honour guard as she finished her sentence.

‘There is no need for threats, Chapter Master. You may pass – but you alone.’

Gaul looked back to his four veterans, then turned to the Sister Superior.

‘These warriors are here to honour his holiness. To enter without them would be an insult. Would you have that to answer for as well?’

The Sister Superior looked at Gaul for a long moment. Without blinking, she took one step to the side and nodded towards the entrance. As he marched past, Gaul noticed with grudging respect that her finger had been on the trigger of her bolter throughout their exchange. Raising both arms before him and letting his cloak fall behind his shoulders, he pushed against the two massive wooden arched doors of the sanctuary and leaned into them. They swung open with a deep, ancient creaking and he had to squint against the intense golden light flooding the chamber’s interior. Striding forwards, he held one hand high with fingers spread wide, both in greeting and to show he held no weapon, lest his sudden entrance be taken as a hostile act. As it was, voices were raised in protest the second he appeared. The high-pitched childlike wailing of Lozepath’s neutered clerical attendants mixed with violent oaths from the Sisters of Battle. Gaul’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dazzling surroundings, and he came to a halt yards before the raised dais on which Lozepath lounged. Black-armoured figures swarmed towards him, weapons readied to fire. In response, two of his veterans stepped forward, one on either flank, and drew their bolt pistols. Behind him, Gaul heard two chainswords buzz into life. Calls of ‘blasphemy’ and for them to immediately disarm went unheeded. Gaul would give no such order. Palatine Serenaird strode towards him, power sword and bolter drawn, her face darkening with fury.

‘How dare you enter without my permission, Chapter Master! Do you realise the disgrace you bring upon yourself and your brothers?’

Serenaird swept past the veterans and stood inches away from Gaul. Her head only came up to the Chapter Master’s chest armour, but though she was effectively surrounded by the towering forms of Gaul and his honour guard, it was obvious from the righteous anger burning in her eyes that she was very far from being intimidated. As far as Gaul was concerned, this made what he had to say much easier. He had no more time for games.

‘May I remind you, Serenaird, this is my ship. I do not require permission from you or anybody else to do anything. And with regards to bringing disgrace upon my Chapter…’ Gaul’s gaze flashed down to her humming weapon, then back to her eyes. ‘The true dishonour is yours for drawing blades at the sight of those who provide shelter and protection to your Sisterhood and the Saint.’

A chorus of oaths erupted around the chamber. Four Sisters moved towards the veterans at his side, the muzzles of their weapons aimed directly at the Space Marines’ heads. Gaul readied himself to restrain the Palatine. He would have to move fast to prevent her from getting off a shot.

‘Chapter Master Gaul. Were you not informed I was at prayer?’

Lozepath’s voice was like oil on water. It slid around the high-ceilinged chamber like silk, soft and strong in equal measure. Gaul kept his gaze fixed on the Sister’s eyes for a few more seconds, then turned and bowed towards the dais. As he did so, he caught the furious glares from various clerics and other minions standing at floor level and on the eight high steps leading to the altar. They were of no consequence. What was of the greatest importance was the distorted, twitching form of Lozepath’s personal sanctioned astropath sitting to the Living Saint’s left. Anger flared brighter in Gaul’s chest. The creature’s head was attached to a series of cables snaking behind the wide, ornate throne on which Lozepath sat and directly into the main communications network of his ship. The psyker’s hood had fallen back from its ashen face and its eyes were glowing white. Gaul had seen enough of the creatures to know this one was still active. Emperor’s Throne, it had been transmitting its dream-message for far too long.

‘Forgive me, Your Holiness, but I am here on the gravest of business. Our shipmaster has detected an astropathic communication from your chambers, and I must insist it be terminated immediately.’

There was a gasp from around the room at Gaul’s words. More Sisters of Battle stepped towards his honour guard, and Gaul could feel the hatred emanating from Serenaird. Beneath his cloak, Gaul clasped his unseen hand around the handle of his relic blade. His hopes of avoiding bloodshed were fading with every second, but the stakes were far too high for inactivity. Gaul knew if he drew Acritus, there would be no going back. Regardless of who he stood before, right at this moment he desired it more than anything.

‘Come forward, Chapter Master. I would speak with you.’

Lozepath’s command seemed to catch everyone by surprise. Gaul caught a dismissive wave from the seated figure, and heard the Sisters move warily around him and the honour guard. Gaul turned his back on Serenaird and, making sure both of his hands were visibly empty, mounted the steps. Lozepath gestured to the right side of his throne, a holy relic retrieved from his unsalvageable flagship. Every step Gaul took up to the wide platform was scrutinised by the Sisters of Battle, all of whom still had their weapons trained on him and his battle-brothers. As he reached Lozepath’s flank, the Living Saint’s astropath issued a strangulated cry and fell from his seat to the floor. Several shaven-headed serfs tended to him, roughly disconnecting cables from his head before dragging the psyker away towards an antechamber at the back of the chapel.

Lozepath leaned on his right elbow and beckoned Gaul to within earshot. Such was the intensity of the energy that surrounded his body, Gaul found it difficult to look upon him at close proximity, even with the protection of his augmented vision. Underneath its shimmering field, Gaul got the impression of a simple white cloak and thick golden sash, around which was slung a jewel-encrusted sword belt. The weapon itself, a mighty blade taller than a man, rested tip-down in front of the throne’s left arm.

‘I take it you believe my communication with Salandraxis to be a deliberate breach of your orders and a dangerous mistake, Chapter Master.’

Lozepath did not turn to look at Gaul as he murmured the words. The Living Saint’s eyes burned with a ferocity equal to that of any daemon Gaul had faced in his countless battles with the forces of Chaos.

‘Highness, we cannot afford to give away our location so far from our destination. We may attract the attention of the Despoiler. I would not have your safety compromised.’

Gaul’s response was brutal in its simplicity. Had Tentera been present, he felt sure the venerable Chaplain would not have approved of the accusation. However, it was a truth Gaul would not hide. Regardless of his inviolability, the Living Saint had put them in immediate, terrible danger.

Lozepath shifted his weight to the other side of his throne as he considered the Chapter Master’s words, the glow from his body intensifying, then fading. Leaning back over to the right, he beckoned Gaul closer once again.

‘There are three things you need to understand, Chapter Master. First, the needs of an entire planet outweigh our own. Salandraxis has not heard from me since we set off on our journey, and they had to know I was safe and nearing my return. Second, my righteous authority overrules anything you or any other warrior of the Adeptus Astartes might hold, regardless of how well intentioned your actions may be. And third…’

Lozepath grabbed hold of Gaul’s left vambrace. The movement was unnaturally fast, and by the time Gaul had looked down to the action, he could see the ceramite beneath the Living Saint’s hand glowing. At red he felt minor discomfort. At white, his forearm was crisping. He looked back up to see a flaming intensity in Lozepath’s eyes, his soft, red lips transformed into a sneer.

‘If you ever enter this chapel against my wishes again, I will have you executed.’

Lozepath released Gaul’s arm, and the Chapter Master looked down to see a molten handprint smoking on the surface of his vambrace. For long seconds Gaul stared at the damage, waiting for the anger within his breast to subside. When he eventually flicked his eyes back to Lozepath’s face, Gaul let his arm fall, his cloak shrouding the mark left upon him. Gaul dropped his voice to a low growl.

‘If you continue in the delusion that I serve you before the Emperor and His realm, you will be the one to suffer. Heed these words – I will not repeat them.’

The sneer dropped a fraction on the Living Saint’s lips, but before he had time to react any further, Gaul took a step back, bowed his head and then marched down the steps without looking to the Palatine. His fury was almost beyond control, but he had said what he needed to say. The blind faith of the Adepta Sororitas would not allow them to see the reality of the situation they had been led into, and Gaul would make no excuses for doing what he felt to be right. As he reached the opening doors, he heard his honour guard barge their way past the Sisters and take up formation behind him. Other than the sound of their marching boots, their departure was watched in absolute silence. Exiting the chamber, Gaul looked to the Sister Superior who had tried to stop him from entering. Even though her skin was like porcelain, she looked ashen. Without a word she turned and walked back into the chapel, likely summoned to answer for her actions. He did not expect to see her again.

As Gaul marched away from the chapel, he finally allowed his fury to sweep through him. Lozepath’s psyker would be detected by an astropath of the enemy, of that he was certain. Despite the Living Saint’s considerable power, they were an easy target, six ships or no. Looking down to his arm, he realised he would need attention for his ruined armour and flesh. And then, the words of the Chaplain Venerable Dreadnought came back to him. He should use his belief an attack would come to his advantage. Coming to a junction, Gaul stopped dead and, instead of heading to the medical facility, turned towards the bridge. He needed to speak with the fleet’s shipmaster immediately.

Khârn heard Lukosz’s hail come once again from outside his chamber. Anger flared in his breast and he sprang to his feet, instinctively picking up Gorechild as he strode to the hatch. He had made it very clear he wished to be left in solitude. The after-images of his vision were fading, and Khârn needed clarity of thought to see the Red Path’s direction. So far, such a focus had eluded him and interruptions would not help bring the answers he desired. Activating the huge bulkhead door, he brought the chainaxe up to Lukosz’s neck and snarled.

‘Your explanation had better be a good one, or your head will be joining those on my trophy chains.’

Lukosz looked straight into Khârn’s eyes, his face impassive as Gorechild’s teeth whirled a hairsbreadth from his throat. As his rage subsided, Khârn lowered the huge weapon, giving Lukosz enough room to offer a small bow.

‘My Lord, the ship’s astropath requests your presence as a matter of urgency.’

Khârn considered Lukosz’s words as he felt the vibration from Gorechild idling in his hands. His response was good enough. Deactivating the chainaxe, Khârn allowed it to spin to a halt and lowered it.

‘Very well. Are repairs to the ship complete?’

While Khârn had been seeking the direction in which they should be sailing, he had allowed Roderbar to halt the Skulltaker for repairs. Now that he had rediscovered the Red Path, he was not willing to risk straying away again. Khârn remained convinced the Blood Father would soon make his intentions known.

‘Not to my knowledge, lord.’

Khârn raised Gorechild again to Lukosz’s throat.

‘Then I suggest you find out for certain while you still can.’

Somewhere in the far corner of the dimly lit chamber, Khârn could hear weeping. Ignoring the thousands of symbols and sigils scrawled onto the bare metal of the walls, he brushed past heaps of parchment lying in piles across the floor. Behind the dais on which the creature would send and receive its messages to the warp, what looked like a discarded collection of rags shook violently. The crying became softer as Khârn approached. He was in no mood to be patient.

‘You requested my presence, sorcerer of the warp.’

Khârn folded his arms and watched as the shaking astropath reached out with a claw-like hand and pulled itself up along the wall, avoiding his stare as it rose to its feet. Turning, it kept its head and face in shadow. Looking to the floor, it searched around for a few seconds until it found a long strip of parchment. As the creature held it to the low light, Khârn could see the length of creased vellum was covered in furiously scribbled imagery, much of it blurred together as the psyker had swept over the still-fresh ink with the sleeve of its cloak. It had been written in haste, the scrawled ramblings of a lunatic. It began whimpering as it looked down on them. Whatever the runes meant, Khârn recognised they held a connection with the astropath’s current distress.

‘A place of gold and purity, so fierce the eyes that cannot see still burn with its glorious power. The message drives the darkness from within. My beautiful, beautiful sanctuary is exposed!’

The psyker began to cry again, and dropped the scroll to the floor as if it had become unbearable to look upon. Turning to the dais, it stumbled up its two high steps and fell onto a simple iron seat. Leaning forwards, it placed its unseen face in its hands. Khârn growled at the repugnant display of suffering before him.

‘Where was this message sent to, sorcerer? Can you see?’

Bony fingers swept away from its shrouded face and balled into spindly fists as it spoke in a defeated sigh. Khârn looked down to the parchment, then up again as the creature continued in a hoarse whisper.

‘The voice that speaks is holy. It passes through the warp with a dreadful radiance. I cannot listen to nor look upon it. The splendour overwhelms me.’

Khârn could control himself no longer. Lurching forwards, he grabbed the psyker and yanked it to its feet. The hood fell back to reveal a cadaverous head. Despite it having completely empty eye sockets, tears were flooding down its cheeks. Khârn raged at the creature.

‘Enough of these mindless riddles. Construe what you have seen or I will crush your skull and end your ravings forever.’

The astropath tried to recoil, but its struggle was pitiful in his grasp. After a few seconds, it stopped its bleating and seemed to regain some semblance of control. It stared past Khârn into space, its voice taking on a soft, lyrical tone. The murmurings of a dream half-remembered.

‘The Adeptus Astartes speak! I hear them whispering in the ether. But… their words are meaningless, their message veiled in shadow. I cannot see with whom they commune.’

Khârn stared at the creature. Its face was overrun with confusion and doubt. His hold on the psyker became a crushing grip, and the astropath’s face contorted with pain.

‘Formless sounds. But getting louder. Yes. Louder still. So close I can touch them with my mind. So close–’

Khârn felt something snap beneath his left hand and the psyker wailed. Relaxing his grip, he allowed it to slump back into its seat, nursing its now broken shoulder. Turning, Khârn walked over to the discarded parchment and picked it up as he thought over the words he had heard. At the very edge was an angrily scrawled circle, and what appeared to be meaningless lines surrounding it suddenly resolved themselves into the shape of lightning bolts and wings. Khârn felt a rush of adrenaline. He had seen this symbol in his vision. His sudden turn made the astropath flinch in its chair, but Khârn did not approach. Instead he pondered on what he had just heard. This time, it made sense.

‘You do not know who sent the message, its contents or destination?’

The psyker shook its head dumbly. Khârn let the unfurled scroll fall to the floor as he folded his arms.

‘But you do know from where it was sent?’

A single nod. Khârn’s heart raced.

‘Then that is where we shall go.’

Lukosz suspected something the second he saw the group clustered together on the flight deck. It was not unusual for allegiances to form for mutual protection, but they were typically short-lived and terminated by betrayal on the battlefield. Mixing a former Blood Angel with a trio of World Eaters and an expelled brother of the Steel Brethren was a lethal accident waiting to happen. Four of them had supported Morenna on Haeleon, and the way that they abruptly finished their discussion on spotting Lukosz was even more disconcerting. Lukosz gave them enough space to move off, waiting for the last of them to leave. Shobaris, a fellow legionary from the years before Angron had come to lead the World Eaters, hurried into the bowels of the ship and disappeared into an engineering chamber. Lukosz, following, entered some seconds later, power sword in hand and ready for trouble.

Lukosz arrived just in time to see Samzar slamming into a bulkhead. There was a wheeze as the air was driven from his comrade’s body by the impact, but Lukosz could see the pain meant nothing to him. His assailant lumbered into view. It was the World Eater Olpadra, the one remaining member of Morenna’s supporters who had not been talking some minutes previously. The brute waited to see which way Samzar would bounce off the wall, and Lukosz spotted the length of heavy gantry rail in his hand as he adjusted it accordingly. Rushing forwards, Olpadra swung the pole in a high arc, hoping to crack the side of Samzar’s already misshapen skull, but the veteran was too fast for him and ducked. The resulting clang was lost in the cacophony of sounds from the massive drive generators which, while idling at station-keeping, were still deafening in volume. From below, Lukosz could hear the slave gangs toil under the shouts and lashes of their shift masters. Olpadra grimaced as the force of the vibration shot up his arms. It was clear to Lukosz that he had every intention of taking Samzar’s head. This would be an honour duel to the death.

Lukosz looked to the jeering audience and his Butcher’s Nails pounded in readiness. Among the hooting rabble was a glaring Shobaris, clearly furious he had allowed himself to be followed so easily. By his side stood the Blood Angel, Capderado, his twin-headed axe resting blade-down on the deck. A figure of impressive stature, how he had made his way into Khârn’s warband was a mystery, the answer to which nobody cared to seek. Vadal and Malogot, the other World Eaters from the meeting, did not notice his arrival. Tiverdak, the only berzerker in their warband from the Steel Brethren, most certainly did. His eyes were fixed on Lukosz’s power sword. Lukosz lowered it to one side but did not deactivate it, allowing its crackling discharges of energy to speak his intentions. With a snort of derision, Tiverdak turned back to the fight. Reluctantly, Shobaris followed suit. Lukosz flicked his eyes over to see Samzar kick out his left leg in an attempt to catch Olpadra’s wrist, but the thick pole slammed into his greave just above the ankle, spinning him off balance with the force. Lukosz was surprised his old comrade had not foreseen the attack. There had been a time when he would have timed his evasion to perfection.

Seizing his opportunity, Olpadra kicked out and sent Samzar crashing to the engine room’s deck. The berzerkers roared their approval and began to shove each other in their increasing frenzy. Lukosz had feared the victory over the Hounds of Abaddon had not been quite enough for the restless group, and the bloodlust in their eyes did nothing to assuage his concerns. To make matters worse, Khârn’s self-imposed exile had allowed rumour and despondency to spread like a disease throughout the ship. As if to punctuate the point, the berzerker standing next to Lukosz suddenly turned and smashed his fist into the face of the warrior on his other side. The two threw themselves at each other, trading vicious blows until they disappeared into a connecting chamber, taking their unknown argument with them.

Lukosz heard a loud crash and turned to see Olpadra on top of Samzar. There was a brief flash of white as he bared his teeth, then Samzar howled in pain and smashed his forehead into his opponent, knocking him away with the force. Lukosz saw that Olpadra’s mouth was covered in blood. He always had been an animal, a brute even amongst this pack of wolves. As he fell and rolled to one side, Olpadra spat out a chunk of Samzar’s ear. If the attack had been supposed to debilitate the veteran, it had not; Samzar was first to his feet and was hefting the metal rail in his hands.

Out the corner of his eye, Lukosz saw Shobaris start to move. Lukosz could not see what he was holding, but it made no difference. Leaping forwards, he thrust his power sword into the side of the berzerker’s head. Bringing the blade down with a cry of rage, the weapon tore through Shobaris’ cheek, slicing off the lower jaw and sending it spinning to the floor in a bloody mess. Lukosz stared into his victim’s astonished eyes as he grasped for the missing part of his face, but a quick horizontal thrust across Shobaris’ neck sent the old War Hound’s head toppling to the deck. His body folded to the floor with a heavy clank of power armour, forcing the crowd to clear a space. Lukosz stood and glared at the closest berzerkers, gore sizzling on his arcing blade. Olpadra’s bellow of rage snapped everyone’s attention back to the duel. He was pushing forwards, hands outstretched to prevent Samzar from swinging the bar at him. In that instant, Lukosz knew the berzerker would be dead within seconds.

Samzar rotated the pole in his left hand and threw it to his right. Holding it like a spear, Samzar stabbed it towards Olpadra’s face, pushing it through his left eye and into the socket. Olpadra roared in pain and reached up to pull the bar from his head, but Samzar had both hands on the rail and was ramming it into the ruined orb. Blood and viscera spurted out of the gory hole, and Lukosz heard the crack of Olpadra’s skull as Samzar’s thrust smashed through the front of his eye socket and into his brain.

The crowd’s cheers turned to hisses of barely contained bloodlust. Lukosz stepped forwards once again, and on noticing his warning posture, the chamber fell into a menacing silence. Samzar, however, had not finished. With Olpadra still twitching uncontrollably from the damage Samzar had wrought, he put even more pressure on the rod. Another cracking sound heralded the end of the rail smashing its way out of the back of Olpadra’s skull. With a grunt, Samzar hefted his skewered opponent upwards and swung him towards the guard rail to their right. Olpadra burbled insensibly, his hands clawing feebly at the object projecting from his head. Hitting the low barrier built onto the decking side-on, he toppled over and fell into a superheated machine vent. Steam belched upwards as he was consumed by its boiling liquid.

Samzar did not even look over to follow the fatal progress of his victory. Instead he turned, eyes wide and hands bloody, ready for the next challenger. None stepped forward. With muted threats and murmurs, the assembly disbanded, leaving Lukosz to stand before his old comrade. Samzar glowered at him, then felt the blood pouring down the side of his face. Lukosz picked up a rag sticking out from a piece of machinery as he spoke, and threw it towards his comrade.

‘What was that – the third challenge since Haeleon?’

Samzar dabbed at the gory wound on his ear. It was still sizzling from the acid in Olpadra’s bite.

‘Fourth. And he didn’t challenge me. I challenged him.’

Lukosz looked down at the berzerker he had killed, then over to the vent that had claimed the body of Olpadra and sighed.

‘Our numbers are not large enough for you to kill them off on your whims.’

Samzar stared over at Lukosz’s victim then back to him with a warning glance. Lukosz returned his gaze with a raised eyebrow.

‘What, you would turn on me now, Samzar? I am the least of your concerns.’

Something changed in his comrade’s face. For a second, a shadow of the officer Lukosz had once known returned, having slipped past the constant demands of his Butcher’s Nails. Samzar’s voice held genuine curiosity.

‘What do you mean by that?’

Any thoughts of a response were driven from his mind as a sudden violent shudder filled the cavernous room. Servitors began to appear from the shadows in the metal walls, their programming having sent them scuttling away at the arrival of the combatants. The whines of turbines and machines built on top of one another, persuading the stubborn machine-spirits back into life after their time of slumber. Lukosz looked back to Samzar. With some dismay, he realised his old comrade had lost himself again.

‘The drive engines are starting up. We return to the Red Path at last!’

Samzar stalked away, discarding the blood-soaked rag on the floor. Lukosz looked around the titanic machines, gasses and fluids leaking out of them from a hundred places. He fervently hoped Samzar was correct.

By the time Lukosz reached the bridge, the Skulltaker was well under way. Roderbar sweated and heaved from one side of his command chair to the other, shouting an order here, demanding clarification of a read-out there. Samzar stood a couple of paces behind Khârn, standing to attention like he would have done in the old days. Khârn was scrutinising a flickering navigational display, and Lukosz caught a glimpse of the chart projected before him as he walked closer. Among dozens of moving, winking dots, one had been separated out for particular attention.

Flanking Khârn, Lukosz looked over to Samzar, who ignored his gaze. Khârn was leaning forwards, his massive frame blocking out much of the screen. Lukosz silently positioned himself so he also had an uninterrupted view. What he saw concerned him. Lukosz had dealt with psykers many times. Their words and thoughts were often a jumble of contradictions and half-truths. The astropath’s message had clearly been of great importance, but the tactical display did not show a fully realised navigational plot.

Khârn looked closer at the shimmering image, then took a step back, his brow furrowed. Glancing over to Lukosz, he wondered what he was thinking. His tactical skills had been of great use in the many years they had fought together, but he clung to glories of the past. It did not sit well with Khârn at all. Detecting the smell of blood, Khârn noted with disinterest the congealing wound on Samzar’s ragged ear. Angry at these distractions, Khârn turned his back on the table and paced slowly around the deck. Yes, the Blood God had willed it that they intercepted the transmission, but Khârn knew the data on the screen was incomplete. He needed more to be absolutely certain. Or maybe it was not so. What if it was the will of Khorne that the Red Path was never fully revealed to him? What if part of his challenge was to find the way himself?

Khârn came to a standstill near Roderbar, who shifted uneasily in his seat as Khârn stared out of the partially opened viewport into space. He tried to focus his feelings into thoughts but a conclusion eluded him. His frustration threatened to boil over, and he balled his fists in anger, pain shooting up his left arm in a reminder he was not yet fully recovered. He needed to come closer to the Blood God, to know his will once more. He needed to be certain he was following the Red Path, and not the ravings of a tormented psyker fool. Khârn returned to the table and leaned towards Lukosz, spreading his hands across its cold, metallic surface.

‘I seek the purity of combat to show me the way. Have those who would honour the Blood Father on this day seek me out in the pits.’

Lukosz watched Khârn straighten and leave the bridge without another word. Looking around the command deck, he saw relief sweep over Roderbar, who returned to checking the final repairs to the Skulltaker. Samzar’s eyes were glinting with the promise of a great spectacle. Lukosz noticed his fingertips were white with the grip he had on the tabletop.

‘This would be an excellent opportunity to remove those who might challenge us.’

Lukosz nodded in agreement. Samzar’s paranoia had substance. The time since Haeleon had been leading to this, and despite the numbers they were losing, a definitive victory by Khârn would send a clear reminder to the warband of the way of things – particularly those he had witnessed in collusion earlier. However, having seen the partial map in which Khârn was putting so much faith, Lukosz felt the duel held even greater importance. Turning to face Samzar, he looked into his crazed, hunted eyes.

‘I doubt we will be short of volunteers.’

Locq knelt before the hololithic console in his chamber and tried to control the fury coursing through his body. As he dropped the last pieces of his armour to the floor, smoke from the brass-skull incense burners encircling him swirled around his body. Breathing in the thick, sweet vapour, he closed his eyes and presented his bare arms to the projector, palms forward and away from his body. His incantation was coming to a close. In seconds, Urkanthos’ ship would be in range and the oathing ritual would begin. In the dancing shadows behind him, two serfs stood ready with the short ceremonial blades Locq had retrieved from the White Scars ship.

The device crackled into life and a series of indicator lights winked on in succession, their reds and greens casting ghostly colours through the smoke. An image began to coalesce above the projector dais, then the head and shoulders of Urkanthos appeared. After a few seconds, the Chaos Lord’s voice boomed into the room.

‘Report.’

Locq stared directly into the deep sockets of the Lord Purgator’s eyes.

‘I have been unable to capture Khârn, my lord. My losses have been heavy.’

The image flickered before him and did not move. The Lord Purgator’s reply was as cold as the space between their ships.

‘This much I already know. You have failed, captain.’

Locq raised his arms and the serfs stepped forward. Clenching his fists, Locq nodded once. In unison, the men positioned themselves and began to carve runic symbols into his arms, ancient oaths to the Blood God. All the time, Locq stared at Urkanthos.

‘I accept my fate, Lord Purgator, and shall carry the symbols of my failure for the rest of my life – no matter how short that might be. I am willing to face any challenge to make amends. But hear this.’

Locq steeled himself before continuing.

‘I know where Khârn is, I know of his strength and numbers, and I know I can finish the task bestowed upon us by the great Warmaster. But I will need a greater force.’

The Lord Purgator’s image began to flicker as the extreme range of the broadcast made its presence known. Finally, he spoke.

‘Your failure is my failure, Locq. It is I who will ultimately have to take responsibility for your ineptitude. In the same way, your revenge for our fallen warriors is my revenge.’

Locq felt the burning of the knives into his skin. They had reached his biceps, and were carving deep into his flesh and muscle. Urkanthos would see no weakness here, only determination and a renewal of his pledge.

‘You will have what you need. And I shall have my revenge for the Hounds that have fallen to Khârn and his rabble. I have dispatched reinforcements to ensure you do not fail again.’

Urkanthos stared at the captain, and Locq felt the shadows from the edges of the chamber creep towards him, fingers of dark energy reaching out to grab and toss him into the abyss. Locq could smell the terror in the serfs. Their gory work now complete, they scuttled away into the background and cowered in the chamber’s night-black corners, whimpering like frightened children.

‘You shall bring Khârn before the Warmaster, or your fate shall be far worse than death.’

Locq bowed his head and waited for the transmission to fade away. For long moments he did not move. He knew Urkanthos’ threats were not empty words. He had witnessed the punishment Chaos could bring, seen the mightiest beg for the release of death. Locq looked to the shapes cut into his skin. They would scar well.

A light winked for attention on the internal vox, and Locq pressed the receive button with a bloody finger.

‘This is Odervirk. We have two Black Legion vessels heading directly towards us at flank speed. What are your instructions?’

Locq clenched his teeth. Urkanthos moved fast.

‘Hail their shipmasters and have them meet me on the bridge in one hour.’

Khârn could smell the rage and anger in the stale, recycled air of the Skulltaker’s lower decks. It was like the stench of concentrated fury, and it made his blood pump in anticipation. Entering the cavernous hangar, the shouts and calls that had echoed down the access corridors resolved themselves into a sea of noise. Under the glaring floodlights set into the high ceiling, score upon score of berzerkers crushed together in the middle of the enormous space, pushing and shoving each other for the best view. To his left, Khârn saw half a dozen warriors fighting each other. To his right, four bodies lay bleeding on the decks. Here, the Blood God reigned.

The milling crowd closed in behind Khârn as he strode into the great rectangular clearing surrounding the fighting pit. Right now they were keeping their distance, but he knew as soon as battle was joined, they would rush to the edge of the expansive steel-lined depression in the decking. The floor had been covered in sand, just like in the duelling pits of Angron’s time, before Khârn had become a faithful follower of the Blood God. How he wished he could have harvested those skulls for Khorne.

Khârn nodded to Lukosz and Samzar who stood on the opposite side of the pit. Between them were seven warriors lined up. Khârn assessed their mettle within the blink of an eye. The Blood Angel Capderado and the Alpha Legion warrior Sonva Bael were the largest of the group, and both wielded axes, though of differing configurations. The three World Eaters he recognised as Vadal, Malogot and Rocez. Along with the anonymous berzerker who never removed his helmet, they all carried chainswords. That left Tiverdak of the Steel Brethren. He held power mauls in both of his huge hands. They had all forgone firearms to honour Khorne. For this alone, they promised to be worthy opponents.

Samzar stepped forward and lifted his pistol into the air. Reluctantly, the assembled berzerkers calmed themselves, and Khârn walked to the edge of the pit. Looking down, the harsh lights created shadows from the jagged projections and ledges jutting out of the thick walls on all sides, some deliberately bolted on, others caused by weapons damage over the years. The sand on the floor would soak up the blood once it started flowing, and provided a good surface on which to fight. Khârn looked up to Lukosz and nodded his head in approval. The roar from the crowd almost drowned out the deafening clangs as the seven berzerkers dropped effortlessly into the pit below. Weapons powered up within seconds, and Khârn listened to the feral shouts and curses from the warband. Lukosz was staring at him, clearly astonished he had not jumped into the pit at the same time as the others. Khârn knew they would be waiting for him to descend. It was not this that concerned him.

The expression on Lukosz’s face changed and, without breaking Khârn’s gaze, he held up his power sword to command silence.

‘Would you dishonour the Blood Father? Would you dishonour Khârn?’

The crowd stared at Lukosz, unsure of the reason for the interruption. In the pit below, weapons hungry for blood revved and crackled. If the warband did not understand the accusation, Khârn did.

‘Who amongst you will show their allegiance? Who will be the eighth contender?’

Understanding swept through the ranks. Despondent murmurs turned to a low rumble, then a chant, then roars of blood rage. One berzerker barged through to the front and brandished his scimitar-styled power sword.

‘More blood for the Red God!’

Khârn nodded once to him, and without further pause, the new opponent threw himself into the pit. Khârn immediately followed. Landing next to the warrior, he brought his leg up into his flank and sent him reeling into Vadal. Within seconds, Malogot and Rocez were rushing towards the new addition, who had only just brought his weapon to bear when they started their attack. The Blood Angel Capderado swung at Khârn with a bellow of fury and he ducked, only to find Tiverdak was perfectly positioned to smash a power maul into his exposed left arm. Khârn ducked backwards, catching one of the razor-sharp projections on the wall. The second power maul slammed into the plating scant inches away from Khârn’s head. Spinning away, he swept outwards with Gorechild, but Tiverdak and Capderado anticipated the move and jumped backwards. The first anonymous berzerker stood some way behind, watching the proceedings. As the three World Eaters hacked and slashed at the eighth opponent, one thing became absolutely clear to Khârn. Six out of the original seven who had gone into the pit were working together.

Capderado swung high with his twin-bladed axe, coming at Khârn fast. Of them all, the Blood Angel was the closest match to Khârn’s speed and power. Khârn brought Gorechild up and deflected the weapon away, but again Tiverdak came in with his power mauls. Khârn kicked out with his right foot and sent the former Steel Brother back into the centre of the pit, where the anonymous berzerker moved at last, taking it upon himself to launch his own surprise attack on Tiverdak. Khârn had no time to watch the outcome of their fight. Smashing Gorechild into the haft of Capderado’s axe, he threw himself forwards away from the wall and drove the Blood Angel backwards. Khârn heard Malogot shout something to Vadal and Rocez. They increased the intensity of their attack on the eighth opponent, who disappeared under the buzz of chainswords while Malogot charged towards Khârn from his left. When the blow from Sonva Bael’s power axe smashed into his right pauldron, Khârn cursed himself for losing track of the Alpha Legionnaire, who had stayed in his blind spot since Khârn’s landing. Shaking off the discharge as it danced over his armour, Khârn swept Gorechild over his head and rammed it into the arm of his new attacker. The chainaxe tore through his rerebrace, thick ropes of blood spurting from the wound as the arm fell away to the floor. Khârn felt the roar of approval through the steel plates of the pit rather than hearing it from above. He had drawn first blood.

A blur of metal from his left sent Khârn dropping to the sand, swinging Gorechild back towards Malogot and making him jump away. Sonva Bael bellowed at the top of his voice and picked up his fizzling axe with his remaining hand, but Khârn was ready and kept Gorechild swinging, rotating in a crouch and slicing into the side of the Alpha Legionnaire’s helmet. The chain tore through the top, cleaving the upper dome off. Bael fell backwards onto the sand-covered decking, his brain slopping out from his opened skull. Malogot screamed over at Vadal and Rocez to finish their work and ran at Khârn, his chainsword spinning at full speed. Capderado waited for him to join his flank, then the two of them approached Khârn. The Chosen of Khorne jumped to his feet and trampled over Bael’s body, backing up towards Tiverdak and the anonymous warrior who were fighting their own furious battle.

Behind them, Vadal was lying on the ground, blood pumping freely from his inner thigh. Rocez was driving his chainsword into the neck of the eighth, pushing it up to the hilt with a roar.

‘God of Blood and Bone, be my witness!’ Rocez bellowed in rage.

The body dropped to the floor next to Vadal, twitching violently from the fatal attack. Rocez turned and started towards Khârn, taking up position behind his two companions. Khârn smiled to himself. Swapping Gorechild from his left hand to the right, he thrust the chainaxe forward in a feint towards Capderado but twisted the handle to flatten the blade horizontally. Seeing a gap, Malogot charged forwards, chainsword held high and ready to come down on Khârn’s head. Khârn angled himself to the side and threw all of his weight into Capderado, taking the blow from his axe on his right shoulder. Malogot turned as Khârn passed him. Gorechild sliced into the bottom of his helmet, cutting through the grille and exposing the lower half of his face as the ceramite dropped away.

Khârn felt a sickening blow smash into the back of his neck. His vision shifted to red and he spun away, bringing Gorechild out and around in a wide arc to carve himself some space. Shaking his head to clear his distorted vision, he saw Capderado advancing on him again. A crash came from his side, and Khârn glanced behind to see where the anonymous attacker had fallen to the bloody floor under a hail of blows from Tiverdak’s power mauls. His helmet was fracturing under the frenzied blows. Within seconds, the Steel Brother would join in the attack on him.

‘Kill! Maim! Kill!’

Khârn roared the words as he swung Gorechild before him. Capderado dodged right while Malogot moved left, leaving Rocez in the middle. Khârn did not go for the ruse; if he advanced further, the two would attack from the sides. Instead, he suddenly lunged towards Malogot, swatting away the sweep of his chainsword with Gorechild. Capderado and Rocez moved in as one, so Khârn swung out with the ancient chainaxe in his right hand as he barged into Malogot’s chest, pushing him against the pit’s wall with a squeal of metal on metal. Capderado tried to disarm Khârn with a weighty chop of his great axe, but Khârn dodged the swing and pushed his hand into the side of Malogot’s helmet. Twisting the World Eater’s face towards the wall, Malogot’s cry of fury was cut short as Khârn rammed his exposed throat into a protruding spike, impaling him through his mouth in an explosion of blood and tissue. Khârn left the body hanging face-forwards as he positioned himself to take on the remaining three, who were fanning out to encircle him. They were giving him more space now.

‘Glory to the Blood Father!’

Rocez charged a fraction before Tiverdak, screaming his vow as he raised his weapon. Khârn parried the chainsword, but as he turned to keep Capderado in view, Tiverdak hit him squarely in the chest with one power maul. Khârn reeled with the blow. Rocez moved in again with his chainsword, but Khârn ducked and brought Gorechild up in a vertical slice. Rocez’s arm was carved off and he fell back, cradling the stump of his useless limb and screaming in rage. Tiverdak came forward again, barging Rocez out of the way in his bloodlust. Capderado whirled his axe around his head and ran in from the other side. Khârn turned and kicked Capderado in the chest as he brought Gorechild’s handle up to block Tiverdak’s assault. Capderado spun away, and while Khârn managed to deflect one of Tiverdak’s mauls, the other smashed into the side of his head. Distracted by the blow, Khârn felt his right pauldron begin to shudder. Rocez had recovered, and was now holding the chainsword in his good hand.

Khârn felt the teeth start to carve into his flesh. Instead of grinding into the bone, the chain suddenly stopped, jammed in the brass of his armour. As Rocez struggled to release the sword, Capderado and Tiverdak were blocked by the World Eater. Khârn jabbed with Gorechild’s haft, violently repelling Rocez along with his weapon. As he reeled, Khârn circled his relic axe around with lightning speed and buried it in Rocez’s shoulder. The Chosen of Khorne did not stop pushing until Gorechild had chewed its way from neck to armpit. As the body slid to the floor, Khârn could feel blood pouring down his right arm. His entire face hurt when he moved his jaw. Capderado and Tiverdak weighed their weapons in their hands, closing in on both sides. Khârn sensed movement some yards away. Vadal had recovered his senses and was rising to his feet, the lower half of his armour caked in congealed blood. Khârn felt a thrill run through his body. Looking up, all he could see were milling, seething silhouettes looking down on the spectacle. More weapons rained down into the pit, the audience eager for more blood. Khârn would grant their wish.

‘Rejoice, Blood Father! Rejoice in the slaughter I bring you!’

As the three challengers fanned out, the noise from the baying crowd swept over Khârn. Vadal had the power scimitar from the eighth opponent in one hand and a chainsword in the other. It was clear that he was eager to make up for time spent senseless on the floor. Capderado maintained his position directly in front, while Tiverdak skulked behind. Despite being down to three opponents, Khârn realised the danger of the situation. This was what he lived for.

Vadal made his move. Khârn brought his right arm up to smash away the World Eater’s chainsword and swung Gorechild down into Vadal’s pauldron, partially severing his arm at the shoulder. Khârn pulled back on his chainaxe and it came away cleanly, making him step back to regain his balance. A mighty blow landed on the back of his neck, and his peripheral vision flooded red.

Khârn’s head shook fiercely from Tiverdak’s blow. Moving backwards towards the blood-soaked wall of the pit, the view around him started to change. His three attackers moved like shadows, then resolved themselves into white, fractured spectres, as if they were misshapen bones connected by some force he could not see. Blood began to seep up through the sand on the floor, and the jagged steel surrounding him faded to darkness.

Looking up out of the pit, he saw that the jeering berzerkers had disappeared, as had the ceiling of the chamber, to be replaced by the swirling maelstrom that was the warp.

The three white creatures moved before him in a line. They had no difficulty navigating the flowing river of blood in which he now found himself, and seemed oblivious to the howling winds and lightning that crackled and spat above. Behind them, a path of deep red flowed into the distance towards a glowing pearlescent orb on the horizon.

They were blocking his way, and Khârn knew instinctively what he had to do.

One of the creatures surged forwards, and Khârn met it head on. He swung Gorechild with a roar, and the spectre broke apart into a thousand fractured shards of bone. The second creature then came at him, but this one’s body had changed. It now had wings, and the lightning lanced down upon it from above, lighting it up in a brilliant display and burning its image into his retinas. Dazzled, Khârn tried to blink the images away and felt something hit him on his flank. He staggered back, but the power of the river pushed him upright and gave him momentum enough to swing Gorechild down onto the head of his phantom attacker. He followed the path of the lightning bolt from top to bottom and the abomination split in two, falling into the bubbling river as a pile of screaming skulls.

Khârn could not tell if he was really fighting or if he had been slain and was in the presence of the Blood God. If this was another vision, it had a visceral quality to it the other had not possessed. The searing pain in his shoulder was still there with every movement, and something told him the final creature hurtling towards him was real enough in its intent to do him harm. But then his view began to change once again: flashes of Capderado charging towards him, axe held in both hands, interspersed with his revelation. The red river receded and turned back into the floor of the pit, and the screaming winds became the howling snarls of the audience baying from above. Khârn bellowed in fury at the loss of his vision just as Tiverdak’s power mauls smashed into the side of his helmet in a quick staccato.

Khârn’s head spun with the impacts, and he stumbled back towards the wall, electricity arcing between the vanes of his helm. As he ducked out of the way of Capderado’s mighty blow, he saw the two halves of Vadal’s body on the floor. The blade of the Blood Angel’s axe bit deep into the steel of the pit’s side, and Khârn threw himself forwards, sending Capderado reeling to the blood-drenched sand.

Khârn heard the swoosh of Tiverdak’s mauls as they passed over his head, and he rolled to the side, bringing Gorechild down into Capderado’s neck as he did so. Such was the force of his blow, the chainaxe passed through his body and ate its way into the floor. A single heave did not free the weapon, so Khârn abandoned it with a curse. Springing to his feet, he grabbed a chainsword that had been thrown into the pit. It was no match for Tiverdak’s power mauls. As the Steel Brother wheeled and spun them in a choreographed frenzy, the teeth were smashed away, rendering the weapon useless. Khârn threw himself towards the wall, seized the jutting handle of Capderado’s axe and heaved, turning as it came away from the deep slash in the metal. Angling the blunted blade horizontally, he brought it under the side of Tiverdak’s helmet. It did not have the dragon teeth of Gorechild to tear its way across his neck, but the power of the blow was enough to stun the Steel Brother. With a bellow of rage, Khârn pulled the axe free and struck a second time.

The third hack resulted in the head being ripped away, and the body collapsed to the ground. As a hundred killers roared their approval from above, Khârn regarded the bodies before him. Eight skulls lay here for the Blood Father, yet his victory meant nothing. He still had no clarity, no further suggestion of destiny for him to follow.

A thick rusting chain appeared next to him, and Khârn looked up to see Samzar peering down, holding the other end. Angrily, he pushed it away and removed his ruined helmet. He would not be clambering out of this pit until he had claimed all of his trophies for the Blood God. The crowd surrounding the ledges had fallen silent. Khârn wiped his face with his bare left hand, and spat a bloody gobbet onto the floor. He spread his chain-slung arms and raised Gorechild’s still-hungry head.

‘Are there any more among you who wish to challenge me?’

Khârn turned in a slow circle, staring at the lines of berzerkers looking down at him.

‘Are there any more among you who feel they can serve the Blood God better than I?’

No one moved. Khârn felt his frustration turn to fresh anger.

‘I care not if you follow me or go your own way. But know this – only I can show you the Red Path. And why is this?’ Khârn bellowed at the mesmerized crowd.

‘Because I am the Chosen of Khorne!’

Roars and cheers erupted around the chamber, echoing off its iron walls.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

Khârn lowered Gorechild.

Without warning, the walls of the pit shook violently and the lights set into the ceiling dimmed to near-darkness before flickering on again, now dark red. Khârn heard muted alarms in the decks above, then louder ones as they cascaded down into the depths of the Skulltaker. Donning his helmet, he grabbed the chain and pulled himself up. A series of explosions rocked him violently to the side and threatened to shake him loose. Samzar reached down and hauled him over the ledge. As Khârn got to his feet, Lukosz was shouting at the top of his voice to the warband.

‘To your combat stations! Prepare to repel boarders!’

Despite the trial he had just endured, the blood pumped savagely through Khârn’s veins. There would, indeed, be more blood for the Blood God.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wrath of the Emperor

The blast hit Khârn with all the force of a power maul. Amplified and focussed in the confines of the now-ruined corridor, it threw Khârn backwards into Samzar, knocking them both to the deck as fragments of twisted metal spun overhead. Khârn recovered first, his head spinning from the impact, warning runes still flickering red from the combat in the fighting pit. He watched as Samzar staggered to his feet and looked behind him, weapon raised and ready. Khârn had dismissed the champion’s insistence he be the last to leave the fighting pits lest a mutineer decided to chance an attack in the confusion. Khârn needed no one to guard his back. Hefting Gorechild, Khârn looked to Samzar and nodded for him to go in front. Warily, he did as he was bade, moving into the battered passageway with his chainsword at the ready.

Khârn felt a searing pain in his right shoulder and the unmistakable warmth of blood seeping from a wound. It had opened up again. Stepping forwards, more pain lanced up through his left leg. His foot was certainly broken and he shook his head angrily to clear the blurring in his vision. Even in this condition there was no one on the ship who could match him, but there were many who might try. It would be the last mistake they ever made. He watched as Samzar looked up at the ragged hole in the ceiling where the explosion had ruptured the upper decks. More debris crashed down around him, but the danger appeared to be over. Samzar turned and beckoned for Khârn to follow, and as he moved off, the Skulltaker shuddered and moaned. There was a tremendous creaking, then Khârn felt himself falling to his left. The entire ship was rolling over on its side.

Before him, Samzar fell out of sight. Khârn pushed himself away from the bulkhead with his bare left shoulder and tried to right himself. His left foot was on the bottom of the wall at an acute angle, and more pain shot through him. Khârn lumbered forwards, gritting his teeth with the effort, but he had not taken more than a couple of steps when a mass of twisted metal crashed down through the hole in the ceiling close to Samzar’s position. The stern of the ship dropped like a stone and Khârn tipped backwards, scrabbling with his left hand against the rusting bulkhead wall. Before him the corridor rose into the air as the Skulltaker angled upwards, and he was just about to bring Gorechild down onto the deck to secure his position when the mass of wreckage that had fallen through the ceiling began to slide towards him.

Khârn immediately realised it did not threaten his life, but if a raiding party – or anyone else for that matter – found him tangled amongst the debris, he would present an easy target. Pulling Gorechild to his chest, he allowed himself to fall onto his back and used the ever-steepening angle of the vessel to slide head first between the deck plates and wall bulkheads. Smaller pieces of wreckage bounced off him as he fell, but with a couple of extra kicks he managed to stay just ahead of the tidal wave of twisted iron and plascrete that threatened to bury him. Falling into the space of a large intersection, Khârn swept out with Gorechild and rammed its teeth into the corner of the bisecting wall. His damaged shoulder had to take his full weight and that of several pieces of metal landing on top of him, but with a mighty heave he pulled himself out of the path of the falling debris. The ship jolted and tried to correct itself, but Khârn still looked down at an angle of around twenty degrees. This corridor would take him towards the port outer hull of the Skulltaker – not the way he wanted to go but a route to the bridge regardless.

‘Khârn, report.’

Samzar’s urgent voice crackled inside Khârn’s helmet. Khârn looked back up the corridor down which he had slid. It was completely blocked.

‘Get in position to repel boarders. Have you received any communication from Roderbar?’

Khârn spat the words into his vox. He had heard nothing from the shipmaster since the bombardment had started, which, for all of his faults, was unexpected. Roderbar would die in his command throne rather than abandon his position. As far as Khârn was concerned, that was his only saving grace.

‘I have tried to contact him but have received no reply. Same with Lukosz. We do… know… attacking…’

Samzar’s voice broke up then fizzled into static. Khârn fought down the rage building in his chest. He was not accustomed to being separated from a fight. The buzzing in his head receded and he threw himself down the corridor, reaching the steeply angled walkway that stretched for nearly the full length of the Skulltaker in both directions. The high guard rail separating the gantry from the cavernous drop was strong enough to take the weight of Khârn as he leaned upon it, gripping with his left hand and pulling himself along as his foot screamed in protest at not finding flat ground. Stretching before and above him, the massive outer hull armour shook and sang with a fresh pounding from outside. Khârn had been in enough space battles to realise they were being hit by either one very large, very powerful vessel or several smaller ships. He also knew that just about the worst place to be in space combat was close to the exterior of an attacked vessel.

As if to reinforce that point, the passageway exploded before him.

The detonation point was far enough away to avoid him being showered in white-hot molten slag, but close enough for the sudden decompression to drag him from his feet and towards the gaping hole. Khârn’s hold on the guard rail began to slip as he was sucked upwards with the escaping air from the chamber. Quickly holstering Gorechild on his back, he reached out with his ruined right arm to increase his grip. The hole in his shoulder tore wider still, and in the distance he heard the clanging of emergency doors sliding into their airtight housings. It would only be a matter of seconds before the air was completely vented and he could make his way to an internal emergency airlock and safety, so all he needed to do was stay in place. But then three more brilliant blooms erupted on the hull’s interior above and to his left. Three more exits into space appeared, and the thunder of escaping air became deafening. Khârn started to pull himself along the rail towards the closest emergency door that had descended some yards distant, but his weight on the pole, quadrupled by the decompressive force, became too much. He felt the metal beneath his hands come away from its mountings. His view began to spin crazily, from the rapidly receding gantry to the darkened inner bulkheads to the looming hole in the outer hull. Khârn twisted and grasped for something to hold on to. With a bellow of frustration he tried to catch the dull red metal of the rupture’s edges but it came away in his hands. All he could see now were the white streaks of stars flashing by.

‘Replace your helmets. Prepare to repel boarders!’

Lukosz bellowed at the half-dozen berzerkers bustling around the hangar deck, recovering ammunition and ordnance that had broken its storage and scattered across the blackened deck plates. They looked up to him with sneers and scowls, but a few of them could see Lukosz was in no mood for being contradicted and reluctantly walked over to the wall where their helms had slid during the Skulltaker’s loss of attitude. While Lukosz had not been able to raise Roderbar, he – or someone on the bridge – was clearly still alive and in control of the ship, because it had eventually regained its normal gravitational orientation and its guns were still firing. Most of the equipment that had not been locked down had slid over to the bulkhead walls of the deck and stayed there. Two Havocs had already recovered their heavy weapons and were checking them and cycling ammunition as they stepped back towards their brothers in arms. Within seconds a pair of heavy bolters had been trained directly at one of the landing bay doors on the far side of the deck. Two other Havocs muttered dark promises to their missile launchers as they readied them on either side of the defensive position. Lukosz resisted the temptation to go over and make them do what he said. He knew from experience that heavy weapons could be assembled far faster without the restricted view and movement created by a helmet, but the berzerkers with missile launchers would be unwise to open fire without head protection, regardless of how loudly their blood might be singing in their veins. Lukosz hoped they were taking note of the constant groans and creaks from the Skulltaker. The ship itself was promising a far greater threat than a group of marauding foes, regardless of who they might be.

Lukosz looked across the cavernous space, past the Thunderhawks, past the claimed White Scars bikes chained to the deck, and counted the number of berzerkers he could see. There were less than two dozen. Just his accursed luck to have a fraction of the warband here. If their assailants knew the layout of the cruiser, they would choose a different route in. Trying to board a ship from a narrow transport’s hold into a wide open, heavily defended area would be very low on a list of desperate options. He did not yet know the identity of their attackers, but he suspected them to be Imperial Adeptus Astartes warriors due to the force and precision with which they were bombarding the Skulltaker. The boarders would split into smaller groups, enter at multiple points and head for key areas in a coordinated assault. Looking over to a wall console, Lukosz activated a schematic of the Skulltaker and studied it. The image flickered and faded with every rumble that tore its way somewhere through the vessel, but he saw enough to plan exactly how to deploy the pitiful numbers he had.

Lukosz knew he was too far away from the bridge to reach it in time, so instead chose the primary access to gunnery control as his defensive objective. He would keep the Havocs on this deck and split the rest of his warriors across vital junctions and intersections, confident they could repel any boarders they encountered. Their meagre number was not tactically ideal but he knew the warband would outfight any enemy until every last berzerker was dead – perhaps even to the destruction of the Skulltaker itself. While admirable in many respects, it was not the most appealing of scenarios.

‘Samzar.’

There was a hiss of static, then the familiar rumble of his comrade’s voice filled his ears.

‘Yes, Lukosz. I hear you.’

Samzar sounded distant, as if he was distracted.

‘I am preparing to repel boarders on the port flank. All key areas are covered, but reinforcements will be needed.’

Samzar breathed heavily and muttered something Lukosz could not quite make out through the interference.

‘I have commanded several kill packs to join you but there are… obstacles… damaged and… lost Khârn…’

Lukosz stiffened. Lost Khârn? What in the darkness of the warp did Samzar mean by that? He tried to clarify the message, but all he received was crackling static in return.

The deck vibrated beneath his feet, pitching him to one side, and he saw the majority of the berzerkers look to him. Despite their individual motivations, they had enough clarity of vision to realise some forward planning would be to their advantage. Lukosz began barking orders, quickly selecting and dispatching teams of two and three to sensitive areas of the Skulltaker he hoped could still be reached. There was no hesitation, no resistance, no need for clarification. With curt nods and muttered curses, the berzerkers started thudding out of the hangar’s access doors into the bowels of the ship, weapons raised and ready to sate their bloodlust. Lukosz’s blood raced within his veins and he gloried in the sensation. Insufficient numbers or no, he would defend this ship and Khârn, if he still lived, to the bitter end.

Khârn ignored the swelling in his exposed left arm and brought Gorechild down onto the surface of the outer deck. Without the benefit of gravity, artificial or otherwise, he knew the blow would not have anything like the power of a normal swing, but all he needed was for the chainaxe’s teeth to bite into the thick steel and anchor him in position. The handful of molten metal he had ripped from the rupture’s now-solid edge floated off into space behind him, cooled to absolute zero. With Gorechild gouged into the hull and holding firm, he had saved himself from a similar fate.

The ship tipped beneath him, and he wrapped the chains on his rapidly freezing arm around Gorechild’s shaft to secure his anchorage. Yet another warning rune changed from amber to red and began winking for attention on his retinal display. The air within his armour was leaking out of the junction with his bare arm, and the signal indicated he had no more than ten minutes left of useful consciousness. Khârn needed no reminder of his predicament. Pulling himself along the chains, he bounced gently against the gored flank of the Skulltaker and considered his position.

If he pulled himself back into the hole through which he had been ejected, he would have to navigate his way through a series of emergency airlock doors and then into the interior of the ship, with no guarantee of it being passable. There was not enough time.

Khârn played out the chains, keeping his feet clamped securely to the deck, and stood upright. The hull of the Skulltaker stretched out in all directions. Fire belched through several gaping holes, while others bore silent witness to the vacuum of space. The ship had taken a severe battering, and as a brilliant light arced past him and smashed into the plating on the decks above, it was clear to him the attack was gaining momentum. But who were the enemy?

In the distance, twinkling like malevolent stars, he could see three vessels. Even as he watched, they loomed closer, the lead ship unleashing yet another salvo. The Skulltaker lurched violently and Khârn lost his footing as the ship turned to avoid the barrage. As he reeled himself back towards the hull, the enemy fire soared overhead, and a deep rumbling came from somewhere within the Skulltaker. Khârn saw a line of torpedoes dart out towards the enemy ships. A number of them scored direct hits, blooms of white and yellow blossoming on their outlines, while several more continued their path towards a shimmering asteroid belt thousands of miles distant. Khârn grunted his pleasure. Roderbar was fighting back.

The vessels were too far away for him to identify their livery, but Khârn still recognised them as ships of the Adeptus Astartes. Exactly which Imperial Chapter it might be was inconsequential. Whoever they were, they would make excellent trophies for the Blood God. Khârn played the chains out from Gorechild until he was drifting some distance away from the hull, and inspected its projections and indentations with methodical care. He could not assume that a given spot would provide access to the ship. Exterior airlocks would have to be avoided because his berzerkers would assume any attack would come through them. He had no desire to die in a hail of friendly fire the second he appeared through the hatch. Dismissing the burning sensation building in his lungs, he continued to scan the surface until a shaft of light caught his eye. A blast shield had not fully deployed to protect a nearby viewing portal.

Looking to his left, Khârn saw a crenulated ridge running up the side of a slab-like projection that would take him to within jumping distance of his goal. Reeling himself back towards Gorechild, he pulled at the chainaxe until it came free. Ignoring the protests from his wounded shoulder, Khârn mustered his strength and hurled Gorechild towards the projections. The chainaxe drifted over in slow motion, but its churning teeth once again gouged their way into the hull plating. Within seconds Khârn had pulled himself along its chains and was throwing himself from one ledge to another.

Something exploded behind Khârn and he was thrown against the outer plating of the Skulltaker, the impact adding to the flashing runes on his display. Pieces of metal soared in all directions, some careening off his back armour, some digging themselves into his bloated left arm. An object smashed into him and he coughed out a mouthful of air he could not afford to lose. Looking behind, he saw the blackened body of a berzerker, its head missing and legs bending backwards at an unnatural angle. Khârn looked to his right and saw the rear of an Imperial boarding torpedo jutting out of the side of the Skulltaker. The force of its impact had torn away several deck plates, most of which were spinning away into space. Brilliant flashes lit up the ragged hull fracture around its head, a clear indication the boarding party had deployed. Khârn’s hearts thumped within his breast. The Blood God had sent him this gift and he would gladly take it. Judging the distance, Khârn kicked with his right leg and sailed above the hull of the Skulltaker, crashing into the side of the torpedo’s hull. Taking hold of a protruding seam with his right hand, Khârn pulled hard on the metal hull plate and propelled his way through the rectangular entrance he had created, Gorechild at the ready.

The drop-ship exploded just as a dozen berzerkers ran past it on their way to their various defensive positions. Lukosz had no time to call out a warning as the blast threw him into the console he had been addressing only seconds before, smashing it into useless, sparking glass. The Skulltaker made a low, wrenching sound, as if something had come away. Red-armoured Thunderhawk crews and servitors rushed straight towards the flaming wreck, bravely trying to prevent fire from spreading to the other ships. Lukosz had not run five yards before he saw that the majority of his defensive teams were dead or mortally wounded. Their armour had been torn apart by the lethal detonation, and while several of them slowly got back to their feet, Lukosz realised he had just lost around half of his defensive force.

Smoke belched out of the burning carcass of the Thunderhawk, and a Warpsmith surrounded by damage-control servitors frantically waved Lukosz back. He had no time for this. Calling back the remaining berzerkers, he met them at the end of the deck furthest away from the raging inferno and reassessed their position. He had twelve warriors to cover six crucial points. With most of the Havocs killed in the drop-ship blast, they would have to rely on their excellent skill at close quarters, the gory melee fighting they all lived for. Lukosz was uncertain whether this would be enough without a guarantee of reinforcements from Samzar. It mattered not. The defensive teams had to get into position, and he needed to reach gunnery control as soon as possible. The deck of the Skulltaker suddenly dropped. Lukosz lost his footing and staggered over towards a nearby line of White Scars bikes. They strained against their chains but kept in position, their thick tyres and hefty suspensions absorbing the brunt of the movement. Lukosz pushed himself back upright with a curse, but then paused for an instant. Standing back a couple of paces, he looked the single-seat bikes up and down, calculating their length and width. His eyes flicked over to the line of blast doors leading to the interior of the Skulltaker. They were sealed at the moment, but fully opened…

Lukosz turned to the berzerkers and ordered them all to mount up. At first they looked to each other, but then understood what they were being commanded to do and began sawing through the tethers with excited hollers. Lukosz ordered the closest berzerker to come with him, a veteran World Eater called Faldocran, one he trusted to follow his orders without question, and began unshackling a bike for himself.

Amid the smoke swirling around them from the still-burning drop-ship, they freed the bikes from their restraints and saddled up. The Skulltaker lurched and rolled, tipping over several of the berzerkers who were not as accustomed to balancing on the machines, but Lukosz skirted around them with a deft flick of the steering. In a time long ago, he had ridden a similar machine into battle many times. Those attacks had often been on stable, open ground, but as he leant into a sharp turn, his old skills reawakened. Lukosz powered through the opening set of blast doors, and roared down the wide thoroughfare.

Minutes later, Lukosz’s machine crashed to the deck and bounced twice before it skidded to a halt mere inches from a safety rail. Any further, and Lukosz would have broken through it and fallen over the edge into an open shaft.

Lukosz fully locked the bike’s front wheel and spun around one hundred and eighty degrees to race up the next ramp. This was the level on which gunnery control was located, but the doors to the corridor that would put him in position were sealed shut in front of him. A red light winked balefully over the top of the bulkhead, indicating it had gone into combat lockdown when the attack had begun. Lukosz tried to contact Roderbar on the bridge to get it unlocked, but there was no reply. Switching channels, he voxed Faldocran to join him. Within seconds, his bike pulled up alongside Lukosz, their engines’ heavy purrs reverberating around the metal chamber.

‘Do we know if the passageway has decompressed?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

Lukosz backed up his mount as far as it would go, and Faldocran followed suit. The door had a manual release mechanism, and it would take time to get it working. There was a much quicker solution. As the two berzerkers depressed their firing runes simultaneously, the thick steel doors disappeared in a hail of bolter fire from the bikes’ weapons. Five seconds later, all that was left was twisted shards of metal and smoke. Through the ticking, glowing remains of the hatch, Lukosz could see the gunnery control station’s primary access passage. It was tantalisingly close. The Butcher’s Nails were urging him to action, to abandon any caution and throw himself into whatever fight might come, and for a few seconds he struggled to concentrate.

Lukosz shook his head in anger and regained control over the Nails. It was a split-second longer than the last time he had forced his will upon them, and he noticed the fractionally greater effort required.

With an oath to the Blood God, Lukosz jumped off his bike and nodded to Faldocran to follow him. Weapons drawn, they ran down the wide corridor towards the gunnery control station.

As Lukosz was about to step into the station’s cavernous chamber, his vision whited out, a brilliant flash overwhelming his optical filters. For the briefest of moments he got the impression of huge lumbering forms with sand-coloured helmets and scarlet eye-lenses, and then his world erupted in a maelstrom of blue fire.

Khârn crashed to the deck of the ruined airlock the second he passed through the iris maw of the boarding torpedo’s assault hatch. His lungs felt as if they were about to explode, and the impact drove precious air from his body as the grav system pulled him to the floor. The ten Adeptus Astartes warriors in front of him were laying down a barrage of fire towards the smashed doorway before them. They had not immediately noticed his entrance in the airless chamber, and Khârn was not going to give them time to realise their error. Using their armoured bodies as a shield from oncoming fire, Khârn activated Gorechild and ducked low, sweeping the whirling chainaxe across the back of the nearest sand-coloured figure’s knees. The teeth chewed through the ceramite, slicing both legs in half and sending the warrior toppling to the deck. Khârn heard the crackle of his vox and frantic calls between berzerkers who had spotted his appearance from the other end of the corridor as the loyalists turned to face their new attacker. Their sergeant levelled his bolter at Khârn’s head, but a swift parry with Gorechild rendered the weapon useless. Smashing his right pauldron into the assailant, Khârn knocked him into the smoking side of the boarding torpedo as concentrated fire tore into the boarding squad. The sergeant drew a chainsword and brought it up between himself and Khârn. Khârn ducked under his opponent’s defensive strike and smashed his fist into the helmet grille of the Space Marine as he came back up. He was rewarded with the hissing of air from the rupture. Pushing himself away, Khârn swung Gorechild with tremendous speed, carving the top section off his opponent’s pauldron and continuing into the side of the helmet. Blood and bone spat out in all directions, and as the decapitated body fell to the ground it was still shaking from the violence of the blow.

Khârn felt the muffled cry of triumph from the berzerkers reverberate through the deck plating and saw them rush towards the remaining Space Marines, power mauls and axes swinging with uncoordinated fury. Within seconds the boarders were being overwhelmed by warriors in scarlet armour, and with his head now spinning from the dangerous lack of oxygen, Khârn wasted no time in lending his blade to the cause.

With the last of the invaders lying dead on the floor, Khârn left the berzerkers to take their trophies and move on to their next battles. By now Khârn was staggering rather than walking, the effects of asphyxiation taking hold of his oxygen-starved brain. Clattering between the corridor walls, he lumbered towards an emergency airlock that indicated a pressurised section beyond it. He threw himself into the chamber and tore his helmet off as air began to thunder and hiss around him.

Images flashed within Khârn’s mind, the same symbols of wings and lightning that had come in his visitations and during the fight in the pit. The combat in the airlock had been so fast and close-up he had not had time to process the detail of what he had seen, but the configuration on the Space Marines’ pauldrons suddenly crystallised around the dream-like recollections of his visions. They had borne a lightning bolt surrounded by wings on their black pauldrons.

Angels Eradicant.

Khârn took in a deep breath of stale, metallic air and gripped Gorechild with renewed vigour. The swelling in his left arm was beginning to subside, an indication the damage caused by his exposure to the void was already healing rapidly. He may not have found the ship that had sent the message his astropath had intercepted, but the Red Path had led him to fight the Astartes Praeses, the very purest of the loyalist Chapters tasked with defending the space around the Eye of Terror itself. Their heads would make fine trophies indeed!

Khârn’s exultation was cut short by the Skulltaker lurching violently to one side. The battle for the ship was raging, and now more than ever he had to ensure he could continue towards the destiny Khorne had laid out for him. As he replaced his helmet, the cross-chatter of a dozen battles flooded into Khârn’s mind. In his haze, he had not noticed it before. The cacophony was suddenly cut short by Roderbar’s urgent voice.

‘Samzar, Lukosz. We have multiple incursions across all decks. Send reinforcements to the bridge. I am tracking several raiding parties making their way towards this location.’

Static crackled for some seconds, mixed with howls of fury and shouted oaths as battle was joined across the ship. Khârn knew he was close to Roderbar.

‘I am on my way to the bridge, Roderbar. How many ships are attacking us?’

In the background, Khârn heard a series of loud bangs. He heard Roderbar shout orders at his bridge crew before he breathlessly responded.

‘Three Adeptus Astartes vessels, lord. They used the magnetic fields of the asteroid belt we passed last cycle to hide their presence. It was as close to a total surprise as I have ever encountered.’

Khârn began running down the access corridor towards the bow of the Skulltaker, letting the pain from his many fresh injuries fuel his anger.

‘I do not want to hear your pitiful excuses, Roderbar. I want you to fight.’

Two Angels Eradicant appeared at the end of the passageway. As they turned to bring their bolters to bear, Khârn increased speed and launched himself at them, Gorechild held before him like a battering ram. As he smashed into the closest Space Marine, the momentum of his charge sent all three of them sprawling onto the deck and weapons fire spraying in all directions. Khârn rolled over his exposed arm, leaving a smear of dark blood on the deck as he got to his feet and swung his chainaxe into the head of the attacker before him. His helmet was torn asunder, Gorechild digging from scalp to lower jaw, and the second boarder took the opportunity to launch his own attack on Khârn as he heaved to free his weapon from his kill. The Angel Eradicant’s chainsword sliced into the exposed flesh of Khârn’s left arm, forcing him to release Gorechild and allow it to fall with the body in which it was embedded. Khârn took a step forward and lashed out with his left foot, planting it into the midriff of the charging Space Marine and unbalancing his opponent. Khârn scooped up the dead boarder’s bolter, ducked the murderous sweep of the attacking Space Marine’s chainsword and fired point-blank into the ruby-coloured lens of the Angel Eradicant’s right eye. The back of the helmet exploded outwards in a crimson shower, but Khârn still had to throw himself out of the path of the roaring chainsword as the body of the Space Marine fell back onto the deck.

As Khârn worked Gorechild free from the skull of his first trophy, he realised Roderbar was still speaking.

‘…if you will allow it. I have already disabled one of their ships, but the other two vessels are moving to outflank us. The asteroid field will be risky, but if they follow us in it will reduce their capability to launch further assaults. Shall I give the order to enter?’

Khârn slowly ran the fingers of his bare left hand across Gorechild’s teeth, drawing fresh blood. If they stayed in open space, the loyalists would destroy the Skulltaker at range once they realised that their boarding action was doomed to fail. They appeared to lack any concept of the mettle of those favoured by the Blood God. The unpredictability of the asteroids would make bombardment difficult, but posed its own risks in the inevitable strikes from the huge chunks of spinning ice. Regardless of the ship’s present damage, the odds were much better than remaining where they were.

‘Do what you have to do, shipmaster.’

With that, Khârn broke into a run. Gorechild dripped with blood, hungry to take more Angels Eradicant skulls.

Cardinal Pradillo could not quite believe his tired old eyes. Standing at the top of the steps to the central avenue, it looked as if the entire planet had come out to greet the Living Saint on his return to Salandraxis. In the far distance, seven Angels Eradicant transports squatted in a tight formation, their weapons raised into the sky as a sign of respect for their passenger. Between the sea of bobbing heads and waving hands stood a thick line of green uniforms. Balacet had cursed and sworn at the number of troops he would have to commit for crowd control, wanting instead to put on an honour guard he hoped would rival the banners and flags of Alecia’s Sisters of Battle. It was one argument Pradillo had been happy to stay out of. He had no interest in the pomp and ceremony before him. He was far more concerned that only three Adeptus Astartes cruisers were drifting in high orbit instead of six. Regardless of Balacet and Alecia’s belief that they could protect the planet, Pradillo felt the reduced number to be ominous.

In the far distance, Pradillo could make out a golden glow and a wave of sound swept the mile or so down the avenue towards him. Tens of thousands cheered at the first sight of their Saint, and Pradillo heard several sharp intakes of breath from the members of the Ecclesiarchy to his left and right. Some of his fellow Adeptus Ministorum clerics had never seen Lozepath with their own eyes, and Pradillo knew full well the prospect of meeting a Living Saint was a life-defining moment. As the Astra Militarum stiffened to attention and the Sisters of Battle turned as one to face him, it made Pradillo feel even more wretched and ungrateful that he still harboured doubts about the safety of the planet.

It took five minutes for the details of Lozepath’s procession to swim into Pradillo’s focus. To the front, the ungainly form of a Dreadnought lumbered forward, weapon arm angled towards the golden carpet along which he strode, claw-like hand raised high and open in a sign of greeting. The man-machine was a fearsome sight, and from his vantage point Pradillo could see the Astra Militarum detail around him pressed into the crowd to give him extra room. Behind the Dreadnought marched a line of Adeptus Astartes veterans on either side, cloaks and banners swaying in time with their movement. He had met the Angels Eradicant only once before, and found them to be respectful of the Ministorum, unlike some of the other Chapters he had encountered over his countless years of service.

Behind their columns followed the Adepta Sororitas, surrounding the raised platform on which Lozepath was being carried towards the High Temple by devoted serfs. Their simple white robes reflected the Living Saint’s shimmering aura, and as he moved past the endless crowds on either side, the faithful citizens dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. Taking a faltering breath, Pradillo raised his chin and forced a smile lest Lozepath see his concern. He desperately needed to talk with His Holiness to dispel the deep misgivings he had.

The Dreadnought came to a halt before the steps in a whine of motors and hiss of hydraulics. Pradillo did not recognise the decorations and holy parchments adorning the machine, but felt compelled to bow in respect to these potent symbols of the Emperor’s favour. The Dreadnought hinged forwards slightly in response, then clanked to one side, lowering his arm and coming to a watchful standstill down the avenue. Now revealed, the Adeptus Astartes Chapter Master marched over to join the Dreadnought, his Space Marines breaking off to the left and right of the steps. This left the Sisters of Battle, who moved away from the large palanquin, giving the servants space to gently lower Lozepath to the ground. As his feet touched the surface of the carpet, wails of thanks to the Emperor’s mercy came from the cowed ranks of spectators. Pradillo felt ashamed his faith was not as strong as that of the common man.

All heads bowed as Lozepath adjusted his richly adorned belt and angled his mighty sword behind him. With his eyes averted, Pradillo could still see the glow from the Living Saint’s force field dancing over the armoured figures flanking his progress. Finally, the bottom of Lozepath’s cloak filled Pradillo’s vision, and he grasped his hands together even tighter.

‘Cardinal Astral Pradillo. It pleases me to see you once again.’

Pradillo’s heart thumped in his bony chest. Still averting his gaze, he mustered his failing strength to reply.

‘My joy knows no bounds at your safe return, Your Holiness.’

Lozepath raised his right hand, and despite the tremendous pain in his old bones, Pradillo sank to his knees in order to kiss it, the energy field creating a tickling sensation on his thin lips.

‘The forces of Chaos grow ever closer, Pradillo. Chapter Master Gaul of the honourable Angels Eradicant is convinced I am in grave danger.’

Pradillo released the hand and then struggled to his feet. He could hear some of his junior clerics shuffling behind him, but they had the good sense to remain where they were and not embarrass the cardinal by offering assistance in front of the Living Saint.

‘It is to my eternal shame that I share Lord Gaul’s misgivings, Your Holiness.’

Pradillo could feel Lozepath’s gaze bore into him. There was a steel-cold edge to his voice, something the cardinal had heard before.

‘Is that so? Come, Pradillo. We shall talk inside the High Temple.’

Taking that as a cue to raise his head, Pradillo nodded once and turned, fearing he may betray the doubt coursing through him. He knew Lozepath was wise beyond doubt and would certainly have anticipated Pradillo’s concerns about his own safety and that of the planet. Clearly, this was not the reaction he wanted from his cardinal. Shuffling towards the towering doors of the temple, Pradillo heard Lozepath murmur something to the Sister of Battle closest to him. By the time he had entered the serenity of the High Temple, Lozepath alone was by his side. With a rumble, the doors juddered shut behind them, cutting off the clamour of the crowds and the petal-strewn breeze. Pradillo felt the air become thick with anticipation. The same spirit that had pushed him to speak out against Lozepath’s crusade filled him again – he could remain silent no longer.

‘Your Holiness, I note with some concern that only half the fleet that set out from the Angels Eradicant fortress monastery has arrived. It is not my place to ask why, but our ability to protect you could only have been enhanced by their presence.’

In the soft, filtered light of the High Temple, it was easy for even Pradillo’s weak eyes to see the increasing intensity of the golden light from Lozepath’s body. Pradillo went back over his words in his mind. Surely there was nothing contentious or malicious in them?

‘Ah. A welcome sight.’

Pradillo followed Lozepath’s gaze to the throne nestled beneath the legs of the Emperor’s mighty statue. Try as he might, he could not match the speed of the Living Saint as he swept up the steps to the dais and, passing his sword to a gaggle of hovering cherubs, took his seat. Pradillo’s spirits rose as the Saint took his rightful seat, his dark thoughts receding to the shadows created by his renewed faith. The ornately carved chair intensified in colour now it was occupied once again and Pradillo felt a tear roll down his cheek. Lozepath beckoned the cardinal to approach, and he did so with joy in his heart. Perhaps Salandraxis would be safe after all. Bowing his head at the foot of the steps, he heard Lozepath lean forwards in the throne and whisper to him.

‘I regret, Cardinal Pradillo, that in my absence you have forgotten the power the Emperor has bestowed upon me.’

Pradillo froze. How could he be accused of such a thing, now that his faith had regained its former strength? The voice continued, its tone devoid of any warmth, while the brilliance of the light emanating from the cloaked body continued to increase by the second.

‘I have no need of ships or men. I am all that is needed to combat the forces of Chaos.’

The light was becoming unbearable to witness. Pradillo closed his eyes as Lozepath screamed his next words in fury.

‘I am the wrath of the Emperor! I am His power! You will not doubt me!’

Pradillo felt as if he were on fire. Falling onto the steps, he rolled in agony at Lozepath’s feet, his vision filled with a light so brilliant it rivalled the intensity of the sun. He could smell flesh burning, and rubbed his hands over his skin in terror. When he got to his face, he realised what had happened. Instead of the familiar sensation of pressure on his eyeballs, there was nothing there but two empty sockets. Pradillo screamed with shock and pain and, just as it had begun, it stopped. Stretching out his hands, he felt his way up the steps until his shaking fingers brushed against the hem of Lozepath’s gown. His body shook with sobs, not from the loss of his sight, but in the knowledge he had been found guilty of his sins and rightly punished.

‘Forgive me, Your Holiness. Forgive me.’

Lozepath did not reply.

Lukosz hurtled back across the wide access passage with a screech of ceramite against metal, a wisp of glowing particles trailing behind him. Faldocran had been thrown even further and hit the ruined hatch they had breached moments ago. Lukosz and Faldocran had been caught in the middle of a teleportation attack, and where they had stood, now several bulky shapes were materialising. Despite the ice-blue vapour still clouding the corridor, Lukosz had seen enough of the attackers to know they were wearing Terminator armour. Lukosz had to get moving.

‘Faldocran! Get up and get your bike down here! Full speed!’

Static crackled for a long second until the veteran finally shouted his acknowledgement over the roar of his bike’s engine. It was screaming at dangerously high revolutions, indicating that Faldocran had understood the insanity that was Lukosz’s plan. Lukosz heard Faldocran’s bike smash into the sides of the corridor and felt the vibration through the deck plates.

‘Lukosz – now!’

Lukosz dropped to one knee, keeping his head low, and felt a violent rush as Faldocran sped right overhead, his bike’s heavy engine block washing Lukosz’s neck with dry heat as it passed. As he got to his feet and started running, Lukosz saw Faldocran roll from his bike and the machine plough into a pair of sand-coloured figures, crushing them against a reinforced bulkhead. Drawing his power sword and bolter, Lukosz sprayed fire as he threw himself towards the gunnery control station and whoever might be foolish enough to stand in his way.

Khârn arrived at the entrance to the bridge access corridor just as the last berzerker fell to the Space Marine. The sandy grey of his armour was streaked with blood, and it was clear that this Angel Eradicant was a skilled fighter. He had taken on six of the warband single-handedly and emerged victorious. Khârn could see the doorway was still closed, but the melta bombs dangling from the veteran Angel Eradicant’s waist would make short work of the bulkhead and give him entrance within seconds. All thoughts of carrying out his mission seemingly fled as he spotted Khârn. Flicking bone and gristle from his lightning-sheathed longsword, the Space Marine took on a defensive pose and awaited Khârn’s charge.

Khârn sprinted forwards and brought Gorechild down in a blur, aiming to chop into the gap between the veteran’s pauldron and helmet, but the Space Marine twisted his body and rammed his shoulder into Khârn’s left arm. Gorechild sliced into the bridge’s door, the mica-dragon teeth squealing against the metal as they tore a ragged line across its surface. The Angel Eradicant brought his power sword’s crackling blade up behind the chainaxe’s handle in an attempt to drive the tip under Khârn’s jawline. Khârn turned his head to the left, but the longsword’s point still caught the underside of the grille and sliced away a chunk of the ceramite before he could push the Space Marine away. Coils of white electricity danced across his vision as the sleek blade broke contact with his helmet. Khârn felt a dull concussion in his left arm as the veteran smashed his fist into his bicep and immediately retaliated with a roar of fury. As Khârn drove his right gauntlet into his foe’s helmet, the Space Marine fell backwards, allowing the Chosen of Khorne the room to swap Gorechild from his bloody left hand to his right. The veteran saw the danger and came back with a lightning-fast thrust of his power sword towards Khârn’s damaged arm, but the angle of his attack was a fraction too wide. Khârn brought Gorechild vertically upwards into the joint between his right cuisse and abdominal armour, tearing into the poorly protected flesh of his inner thigh. Blood fountained out of the wound as the head of the chainaxe ate its way deeper into the Space Marine’s thigh, covering Khârn’s armour and spraying over the ceramite of the Angel Eradicant. Pulling Gorechild towards him, Khârn widened the cut and pulled further upwards into the lower torso of his opponent. By the time the chainaxe had come away, there was not enough muscle and tissue left to keep the leg attached. Completely unbalanced, the veteran fell to the side, and by the time he hit the floor Khârn had separated his head from his body as another worthy tribute to the Blood God.

Khârn took several deep breaths before stepping over the decapitated body and banging on the fortified door with the butt of Gorechild’s handle.

‘Roderbar, open the hatch. I would speak with you.’

Lukosz charged, a wordless battle cry on his ragged lips. Through his tinted tactical overlay, he saw the Angels Eradicant Terminator push the burning wreck of the White Scars bike away from him without effort, stepping out of the huge rupture the collision had created in the far wall of the broad corridor. In one hand he wielded a thunder hammer, and in the other a storm shield, both making the air hum with their powerful charges. Whether it was his shield or his Terminator armour that had saved him from the murderous impact of Faldocran’s bike, Lukosz did not know or care. His Nails were raging at him to take the skull of this loyalist Space Marine, and no amount of protection would get in Lukosz’s way.

Shaking himself back to clarity, Lukosz charged with a roar, pumping shell after shell into the rapidly approaching Angel Eradicant. Somewhere on his flank, Faldocran was locked in his own battle to the death with a clawed warrior. One member of the Terminator squad lay unmoving on the deck, his armour still engulfed in burning fuel, but that left three more to deal with.

The attacking Terminator led with his shield, a tactic Lukosz had experienced in countless boarding actions. Rather than waste his energy striking it with his power sword, he instead threw himself into a forward slide, ramming into one of the Terminator’s legs with both his boots and toppling the veteran onto the deck. With his lighter armour, Lukosz was on his feet first and brought his sword down onto the head of his opponent. He gouged the top of the Terminator’s bulky cowl, but it was a glancing blow. As his momentum took him around, the Angel Eradicant brought his thunder hammer up. Lukosz was too late to avoid contact.

It was like being hit by a Leman Russ tank. All the air left Lukosz’s body and he felt himself flying through the corridor, his ears singing with the deafening concussion unleashed by the Terminator’s power weapon. As he smashed into the ceiling and fell to the deck, warning runes flicked to scarlet. Feeling down his side, Lukosz’s fingers traced a large depression in the ceramite. The force of the energy release had fractured his armour. Whatever damage it had done to his flesh was overridden by a rush of combat stimulants. Staggering to his feet, Lukosz was hit by another blow from behind. Crashing headfirst into the nearby wall, he instinctively rolled and ducked as the thunder hammer from another Terminator smashed into the passageway wall. Lukosz blindly lashed out with his power sword. His blade connected with something, but he was rewarded with yet another hammer blow, this time to the side of his helmet. He dropped to the deck, consciousness seeping from him.

Somewhere distant, Lukosz could hear the Butcher’s Nails keening at him. Shadows moved before him, and then the corridor erupted in staccato flashes of light. Lukosz saw the crackling silhouette of Faldocran being lifted high against a bulkhead, speared by the twin claws of his Terminator opponent, searing lightning bursting into his body and snapping at the air. But then more figures arrived, their own weapons outlined by flashes of repeated fire. One of them was somehow familiar, with a broken horn on its helmet.

Samzar. It was Samzar, come to fight with his old comrade once again.

Lukosz saw the Terminator he had first fought point to the approaching berzerkers and send the remaining veterans of his squad to attack them. The leader looked away from the fight, cocking his head as if listening to some silent command, and Lukosz realised the Terminator now had clear passage to the gunnery control station. Staggering to his feet, Lukosz coughed and blood exploded from his mouth into his helmet. He could barely breathe, and knew he had been badly wounded. That was immaterial. He could not allow the Terminator to fulfil his mission. More than that, he still had a trophy to claim.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ he rasped.

Lukosz threw himself at the Angels Eradicant veteran. The Terminator turned, smashing his storm shield into the side of Lukosz’s head and bringing his thunder hammer crashing down onto his pauldron. Swatted to the floor by the concussive force, Lukosz felt his rib plates come apart. Lukosz snorted at the pain in disgust. The Terminator did not stop to finish Lukosz off, instead turning and heading towards his target, a sudden urgency in his stride. Through a haze of red Lukosz thrust his power sword forwards between the Terminator’s boot and greave. The Angel Eradicant looked down and behind, but as he turned to defend himself Lukosz pushed the blade further, slicing through the ankle. With a cry of rage the veteran swung his thunder hammer. Lukosz summoned his remaining strength, withdrew his sword and lunged upwards – not to block the blow, but to drive his blade deep into the Terminator’s abdominal armour, straight up into his primary heart.

Lukosz opened his eyes. A shadow moved over him, a silhouette of an armoured figure. Looking down, he could see a smoking crater where his chest armour had once been. Beyond that, he could not see his legs. The shadow moved back, reached down and removed Lukosz’s helmet. As he blinked away the blood obscuring his view, the dark figure resolved itself into Samzar. Lukosz looked up into the desolate, haunted eyes of his brother in arms, and reached out a hand. He tried to clear the confusion in his head.

‘Brother… all is not lost. Honour and glory still await us. But beware you do not follow the wrong path.’

Lukosz could feel himself slipping into darkness. Taking hold of Samzar’s vambrace, he pulled him closer. A flicker of understanding flashed across his fellow World Eater’s face, and then Samzar nodded, his expression grim. Finally his eyes focussed on a point behind Lukosz, on a place only Samzar could see.

‘As long as the blood flows, nothing else matters to Khorne.’

All semblance of the man Lukosz had once known disappeared in that sentence. Despair overwhelmed him and he released his grip, falling to the deck of the Skulltaker as Samzar started up his chainsword. The last words Lukosz would ever hear were from a brother become a stranger.

‘Your skull will make a fitting trophy for the Blood God.’

Khârn listened to Samzar’s garbled report with mounting anger. The boarders had been wiped out before they could destroy any sensitive part of the ship, but the warband’s losses had been very heavy. Before he could respond, Roderbar turned in his command throne to face Khârn, his face ashen.

‘The two Adeptus Astartes vessels are clearing a path through the asteroid field. They will be able to launch more attack vessels within minutes.’

Khârn looked to the tactical display before him and clenched his fists. This change of approach would surely be their undoing. And yet, the Red Path had brought them here. The Blood God did not want them to die like this.

‘Then we shall use our own gunships and take the fight to them. They will not expect that.’

Khârn moved over to the internal vox and flicked the switch, ready to give the order.

‘Lord.’

Despite the sheen of sweat covering his rotund face, Roderbar spoke with calm and authority.

‘The last reports I received from the hangar decks were not good. We have lost many of our Thunderhawks. I do not think we are able to mount a counter-attack.’

Khârn’s bloodlust began to rise once again.

‘So be it. We will meet the Adeptus Astartes forces here, no matter how great they might be, and slaughter them all.’

‘Wait.’

Roderbar was staring at one of his few undamaged screens.

‘Their bombardment has stopped. They… are being fired upon.’

Khârn stepped back towards the shipmaster. What trickery was this?

‘By whom?’

Khârn raised Gorechild and pointed it at Roderbar’s head. Without blinking, the shipmaster pointed down to a blue light winking just below his bloody hand.

‘There is an emergency communication coming in. Shall I…’

Khârn growled at the stupidity of the question. Roderbar flicked a switch, and a speaker crackled into life.

‘This is Captain Locq of the Hounds of Abaddon. I am engaging the Angels Eradicant fleet and will destroy it momentarily. I will board your vessel as soon as this has been achieved.’

Khârn looked at Roderbar. The shipmaster was trying to hide his astonishment and failing.

‘Any attempt by you to flee, open fire on my fleet or prevent access to your ship by my warriors will result in your immediate destruction. I await confirmation of your agreement to these terms. They are non-negotiable.’

Khârn looked around the bridge. Smoke belched from ruined cogitators, parts of servitors were strewn between burning consoles and the entire ship groaned as if it were in pain. Blood raging, he bellowed an oath and slammed Gorechild into the briefing table, cleaving it in two. Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and saw the image of the blood river flowing before him. Turning to Roderbar, he nodded once.

With a grunt, the shipmaster reached up and pulled down his vox transmitter to respond.

CHAPTER SIX

Disciples of Khârn

It was difficult for Locq not to smile. He was about to succeed in his mission, and would use it to press home his value to Abaddon, to present himself a worthy equal – or even successor – to Urkanthos. When the two additional ships sent by the Lord Purgator to join the Malevolent Shade had arrived alongside the captured and desecrated Wings of the Eagle, Locq had seen it as a clear reminder of Urkanthos’ superiority. He had not gone so far as to have him replaced as commander, which was perhaps surprising given Locq’s heavy losses during the White Scars attack and the costly encounter on the abandoned moon. Urkanthos’ reasons were not known to Locq and he knew there was nothing to be gained in trying to divine them. The Chaos Lord had been right to say any failure on Locq’s part would end his own service to Abaddon. What Locq had to do was make sure that the glory of victory reflected solely on him.

And so, as Locq stood on the blackened hangar deck of the Skulltaker, he felt supremely confident. Of course, it would have been easy for Khârn to raise that enormous chainaxe of his and charge at the boarding party, but with the numerical superiority Locq held both out in space and here on this wrecked ship, the berzerker would be doomed to failure. With his helmet removed, it was clear to Locq that Khârn was struggling to contain himself, but given the number of guns currently trained on the Chosen of Khorne, the captain felt sure he would be far more willing to listen to his terms this time around.

‘Once again, Khârn, I bring a message from the great Warmaster Abaddon.’

Khârn did nothing more than glower at him. To his left, a berzerker growled something. Locq recognised him from the battle on the moon or, at least, the helmet with the broken horn he rested on one arm. A dozen of his motley warband stood in a ragged line behind their leader, but all had the good sense to keep their weapons trained towards the deck. Locq knew there were scores more throughout the smashed vessel, but he had informed the Skulltaker’s shipmaster that if any more than a dozen turned up to greet them, their ship would be annihilated. Locq had selected fifty Hounds to accompany him; he wanted odds of at least four-to-one just in case Khârn decided to sacrifice himself and everyone else to the Blood God. Growling over the whirring chainswords behind him, Locq continued, relishing every word.

‘He commands you to his presence, and you will heed the call.’

Khârn shifted his weight slightly and looked past Locq to his contingent. His face remained impassive, which was more than could be said of his second. The champion with the half-horned helmet was twitching as if he had been hit with a bolt of energy.

‘We both know, captain, that if you do not… persuade me, you will die for your miserable failure,’ Khârn snarled.

Locq had lost control the first time he had faced Khârn. This time, he was not allowing the berzerker’s words to affect him. Locq had the upper hand in every way.

‘Your words neither impress nor cow me, Khârn. I am tasked with bringing you to the Warmaster, that is true. But it is a great honour to be charged with such a responsibility, although I must confess I do not understand why Abaddon would take even the smallest interest in a wretch like you.’

Locq revelled in the fire burning in Khârn’s eyes. Locq’s gaze flicked to the blood-soaked bandages covering Khârn’s left arm, which were tightening as the cable-thick muscles beneath them tensed. When Khârn replied, his voice was low and threatening.

‘I fight for no one other than the Blood God. I follow nothing but the Red Path.’

Locq had hoped Khârn would resort to his absolute devotion to Khorne. He had heard whispers of this ‘Red Path’ amongst the Hounds. Locq wanted to make Khârn pay with his head for the dishonour he had heaped upon him, but it might just be satisfaction enough to see him acquiesce to Locq’s demands in front of his own warriors. He, too, should taste the bitterness of degradation.

‘What if I were to tell you that Abaddon is showing you this Red Path, Khârn?’

Locq did not understand how Khârn’s hand had clasped around his throat so quickly. He felt his boots leave the floor and he suddenly found he could not breathe or speak. Furious warnings were shouted. Bolter muzzles and chainswords appeared from all directions in his peripheral vision, but right in the middle of his focus snarled the face of Khârn, spitting words at him.

‘You dare suggest Abaddon is in charge of my fate? You know nothing of the Red Path. Nothing!’

Locq took hold of Khârn’s wrist and tried to pull it away. It would not move. Four gun barrels were hastily pressed into Khârn’s skull. Locq’s world was going dark when Khârn’s hand at last withdrew. Locq fell to the floor and, as he recovered, Khârn spat at his feet. The Hounds kept their weapons mere inches away from the Chosen of Khorne, but Locq could see that he did not even notice them. Khârn’s reaction proved that his words had provoked just the turmoil he had hoped for. Now was the time to press home his advantage.

‘If this path of yours exists, you are stumbling along it like a blind fool. Do you know why the Angels Eradicant were attacking you?’

Locq rasped and panted as he rose to his feet. Behind Khârn, berzerkers looked to each other over their raised weapons. Locq held his hands up and then lowered them. At first nothing happened, but when he turned and stared at his guard, they reluctantly stood down. Turning back, Locq could see that he finally had Khârn’s attention.

‘I intercepted the same astropathic transmission you did. But unlike you, I know exactly who it was sent to. The three Imperial vessels were protecting another ship, the Light of the Emperor, buying it time to reach its destination.’

As Locq’s voice returned to full strength, so did his resolve. Khârn continued to eye him dangerously.

‘A destination it has since reached. So you see, Khârn, perhaps the Warmaster is defining the Red Path for you after all.’

Khârn’s reply was full of dangerous intent, but there was something else Locq thought he could hear beneath it. Curiosity.

‘Where is this destination, Locq? Speak, before I take your skull.’

Locq rubbed at his neck and raised his chin. His mouth split to show a predator’s grin.

‘Salandraxis.’

Chapter Master Gaul slammed the hatch to the astropathic chamber on the Light of the Emperor, frustrated by his loss of temper but unable to forestall his fury. For several long seconds he stared into space, ignoring the whirring servitors that scudded and wheeled past him and the rumble of the ship as it idled in orbit around Salandraxis. It was not unusual for those who had communed directly with psykers to be affected by their auras, but what occupied his mind had nothing to do with the unnatural surroundings he had just endured, nor the unsettling spectacle of the astropath delivering his interpretation. It was the content of the message that had flooded his bloodstream with adrenaline.

Three ships had been lost. Three captains. That was half of his strike fleet. The psyker had very few details, so he did not know if they had been destroyed outright or boarded and taken over by the forces of the enemy. When he had laid out the strategy with his commanders, they had agreed it was very risky to split the fleet but recognised that it gave them the best chance of surprising and destroying any threat. The geography of an expansive natural barrier in the void had given them a great advantage – the Phelbic asteroid belt was a navigational point at which any ship traversing the sub-sector had to leave the immaterium to take new bearings. The archenemy had detected the Light of the Emperor’s transmission and taken the bait. Just thinking about Lozepath’s hubris angered him. Gaul had clearly underestimated the strength of the enemy’s forces – and their desire to capture the Living Saint. For all of his professed wisdom, Lozepath had to take the blame for this catastrophe. If the Saint had done what had been asked of him and maintained communication silence, they would not be in this position. But now they were, and Gaul had to take action.

It only took minutes to reach his private chambers, and by then the balance in Gaul’s humours had returned. Despite the enormous and unexpected cost of his rearguard, he still had three ships in orbit, which in itself was a formidable force.

Gaul felt a hatred for his unknown enemy burn in his breast. So many of his warriors were lost to the void. Gaul sent an urgent message to a captain on one of his remaining vessels, then contacted the shipmaster and requested a scrambled long-range vox-channel to Chaplain Tentera. As the various channels switched to their required frequencies and the hail was sent out, Gaul paced the deck, hands clasped behind his back. A signal winked on the communications console set into the wall, and Gaul punched a button on the panel.

‘Chapter Master Gaul. I trust all is well?’

Gaul could tell from the remnants of humanity in Tentera’s distorted voice that he knew it was anything but. As Gaul rubbed his hand over the iron-grey stubble of his beard, he inhaled and replied in as measured a tone as he could muster.

‘I regret to inform you, venerable Chaplain, all is far from well. I have just received an emergency transmission from the rearguard. They are lost.’

Tentera did not reply for some seconds. When he did, his voice was without recrimination or alarm.

‘Your strategy was not without merit, Chapter Master. Lozepath arrived here safely, and we still have three cruisers and a considerable strike force to protect Salandraxis. I assume you will be securing reinforcements as a matter of urgency?’

Tentera understood that Salandraxis presented the next logical target. If the forces of Chaos were intent on destroying Lozepath, they would have to come here to do it.

‘Captain Tercada of the Second Company is communing with the astropaths as we speak. Our request to the Knights Unyielding will carry my personal seal. It may take weeks for them to mobilise a suitable force and transit here. They are spread across the Cadian Gate and fighting the forces of Abaddon in several systems.’

Tentera’s growl was distorted by the vox emitter that served as his voice, but it nevertheless conveyed his understanding of their position.

‘With your permission, I shall convene a council of war.’

Gaul nodded. There was no need to vocalise his agreement to this inevitable requirement. He would have to speak with Rendaj Mahal, the master of the Light of the Emperor, and the rest of his ships’ commanders to discuss the situation they now faced.

‘I shall be there in one hour.’

‘Salandraxis?’

Khârn’s patience was just about exhausted. He longed to throw himself at Locq and rip that grin from his face before carving up the rest of his so-called Hounds and taking their skulls for the Blood God. Unfortunately, given the condition the Skulltaker was in and his current situation, that would not help him reach this planet, wherever it might be. Khârn looked over to Samzar, who had said the name as if he had heard it before. Clearly, the Butcher’s Nails had not quite destroyed all of his memory. Khârn turned to Samzar and grabbed his arm with his bandaged left hand.

‘What do you know of this world? Speak.’

Khârn could see Samzar struggling to form words. His face was clouded by uncertainty, and Khârn could see Locq smiling out of the corner of his vision. Doubtless his time in the Black Legion had shown him the inevitable results of his old Legion’s destructive combat implants.

‘It is… a place of great purity and holiness. Lukosz told me of it. Lukosz…’

Samzar’s brows furrowed, and he looked around the hangar deck in sudden confusion. After a few seconds, Samzar seemed to return to his senses, although he stared into space as he spoke. The loss of his comrade had clearly unbalanced him.

‘There is a High Temple, which–’

‘Is the seat of Lozepath, one of the Emperor’s Living Saints. It was his ship that broadcast the transmission you were moving to intercept – before you fell into the Imperial trap like the fools you are.’

Khârn did not react to the mocking tone in Locq’s voice as he cut off Samzar. Instead his thoughts flew back to the encounter with the Skulltaker’s astropath. It had babbled of a holy voice, its splendour passing through the warp with a dreadful radiance. Khârn ran his bloody left hand over the inactive teeth of Gorechild. As they caught the soaking bandages and tore away the suppurating flesh beneath, the burning pain barely kept his towering rage in check. He could almost see the Red Path forming before him.

‘A shining pearl… gold in the darkness… gold in the darkness…’

Khârn wheeled back to face Samzar. The half-horned champion’s words had trailed off into a mumble. Khârn’s primary heart was thumping in his chest. Salandraxis was the golden planet from his vision, the same shimmering orb that had risen from the scarlet river sweeping him along the Red Path and then drowned in blood at his feet. Everything fell into place. Khârn could see his destiny so clearly now. Somehow, he had to get to Salandraxis.

With bitter realisation, Khârn also concluded that he would be unable to achieve this on his own. His mind raced as Locq stared past him to Samzar, lips curled in derision.

‘Gold in the darkness… He speaks like a cowering dolt. It is time you abandoned this weak-minded, ill-disciplined rabble, Khârn. This is the last time I will repeat myself. Abaddon demands your presence.’

Khârn looked past Locq at his fifty-strong contingent and wondered how many of them had been with him during the fight on the abandoned moon. Not many, if the number of skulls Khârn’s warband had harvested in their wake were any indication. And still, Khârn had felt something stir in their ranks when he had challenged their allegiance to the Blood God. If Khorne wanted his chosen warrior to take Salandraxis, he would surely give him the means to do so. Perhaps the solution had, indeed, been presented to him. He just needed to take it.

‘Would Abaddon deny his warriors a glory such as Salandraxis? Would he order them to scuttle back to him with the Chosen of Khorne himself as a prisoner, rather than appease the Blood Father and take the head of a Living Saint?’

Locq’s mouth straightened at Khârn’s question and his eyes narrowed. Khârn ignored him and pressed on, addressing the warriors behind the captain.

‘Lozepath’s head is a trophy of great honour, a skull so pure and rare that its taking would bring glory not seen since the days when our fathers walked the stars. Think of the rewards Khorne would bestow upon you.’

Locq’s face was dark with rage. Khârn could see the upstart understood the sudden danger of his position. If he had judged Locq correctly, his next actions would only hurt his own cause further.

‘Prepare the transports for departure. Take Khârn. If he or any of his band resist, kill them. I will deliver him to the Warmaster, dead or alive.’

Khârn could hear the fury in Locq’s voice. Two dozen of the Hounds broke ranks and moved to seize him, bolters and blades raised. The rest of them did not.

‘You have your orders! Do as I command or I will have you executed as the cowards you are!’

For several long seconds, Locq’s Hounds looked to one another. Weapons began to turn towards each other. Khârn gave a booming laugh.

‘True followers of the Blood Father! You know what you have to do.’

A look of incredulity came over Locq’s face.

‘Kill! Maim! Burn!’

The hangar deck erupted in a volley of fire and the revving of chainswords. Khârn started up Gorechild.

‘If Abaddon wants to meet me, then he will go where I go – not send some snivelling dog in his place.’

Within seconds the cavernous drop-ship hangar was a writhing melee of armoured bodies. Despite the searing pain from his left arm, Khârn gloried in the confusion of battle. Three Hounds charged at him, but Samzar appeared from nowhere, throwing himself into their path and slashing furiously with his chainsword. Khârn spat an oath at the berzerker, but it gave him a split second of room to locate Locq. He was firing wildly towards Khârn, his bolts smashing into Hounds and berzerkers alike. Some of those still loyal to Locq had clearly realised the battle was over before it had even begun, and were fighting a rearguard action as they ushered their captain back towards the Black Legion transports in which they had arrived. The rest of those warriors loyal to Locq blasted and sliced into anything that approached them, lost in their own bloodlust.

Khârn felt a salvo of explosive shells hit him in the back and he turned to see two Hounds adjusting their bolters straight at his unprotected head. With a roar Khârn swept outwards with Gorechild, catching the tip of one weapon and knocking the other hard enough for the exiting bolt to sail past his ear. Khârn whirled around on his injured leg to kick the closest assailant, but received a shoulder charge to the chest before his foot could connect. Crashing to the floor, Khârn rolled onto his side, barely avoiding the slice of a chainsword. A boot rushed towards his head, and he threw out his left hand to block the blow. Pain roared through his arm, the bandages soaking up fresh blood from his punctured flesh. Still he took hold of the attacker’s ankle and pulled hard. There was a tremendous thumping sound, so loud it made the decking on which he lay shudder. Blood and gore spattered onto his face and he looked up to see that his assailant had disappeared in an explosion of heavy bolter rounds. The unmistakable whine of a Thunderhawk’s engines filled the hangar deck and a decompression alarm began to blare. Khârn’s urge to slaughter Locq and anyone who might get in his way would have to wait. He could not serve Khorne floating lifelessly in space.

Blast shields began sliding shut along the interior of the massive landing bay. Khârn caught sight of Samzar running towards the nearest, which was grinding down slower than the others on broken rails. Scrambling to his feet, Khârn felt the pull intensify from the opening outer shield. Perhaps Locq had ordered it breached after he had opened fire on the deck, perhaps one of his minions had activated the mechanism. Either way, Khârn knew he had seconds to get out of the chamber before everyone and everything not chained down was sucked into the vacuum.

Khârn staggered forwards towards the closing pressure door, ducking low to avoid the fire from Locq’s ship as it departed. Rolling underneath the thick bulkhead with only a minuscule clearance, Khârn did not take the hand offered to him by a relieved-looking Samzar who loomed into view over him. As he rose he ignored the cries of victory from the handful of berzerkers and the Hounds of Abaddon that had heard the truth of his words and joined his warband. Ignoring his wounds, he began running towards the bridge of the Skulltaker. He only had minutes to complete what he had started and secure his fate.

Gaul arrived at the massive gates to the Astra Militarum barracks at the head of four 1st Company veterans clad in heavy crimson cloaks. Marching into the shadows cast by the uniform lines of towering rockcrete barracks and hangars, he looked over to the sprawling landing fields, fighters and troop transports arrayed in precise lines. The spire-mounted turrets that overlooked them bristled with weapons, and the wall that contained the base must have been twenty yards high. He had seen hundreds of such bases in his time. Unlike the Masters of many other Chapters, Gaul respected the place of the mortal soldiers of the Emperor and acknowledged the sacrifices they made in the never-ending fight against the forces of darkness. Unfortunately, if their approaching enemy included Traitor Space Marines – and he was certain it did – all of these machines would be swept aside like insects and the buildings levelled by the very same ships that had destroyed half of his fleet.

Turning into a spotlessly neat parade ground, he spotted two adjutants walking briskly towards him from the single-storey reinforced bunker that served as Colonel Balacet’s headquarters and strategium. One carried a bulky field-issue datapad under his arm. The other bore only a look of sheer terror on his face. Luckily, it was the datapad-carrying aide who approached him first, voice low and eyes cast down as he bowed deeply to show his respect. His comrade did the same in a feeble attempt to hide his fear.

‘Chapter Master Gaul. Colonel Balacet sends his apologies but we must hold the council in the vehicle maintenance hangar. It is the only structure that can accommodate Chaplain Tentera.’

Gaul did not break his stride. The second he had seen Balacet’s headquarters, he had known that there was one member of the council that would not be able to fit inside the building without taking the doors off. In his heavily armoured tomb, Tentera would have had difficulty navigating the interior without causing significant damage.

‘I trust this hangar is close by, adjutant. I am in no mood for delay.’

Gaul’s speech rumbled from his helmet transmitter. To his credit, the officer did not appear cowed by his words and simply extended his arm towards a towering rectangular building with dozens of military vehicles lined before it. The other adjutant, however, looked as if all the blood had drained from his body. Gaul hoped he was not typical of the steel Balacet’s troops possessed.

Striding past a series of Leman Russ tanks in various states of repair, Gaul entered the high-ceilinged hangar through a pair of towering double doors. His retinue of veterans took position outside of the heavy shutter doors without a word, their helmeted heads betraying no emotion. Directly in the middle of the oil-stained floor, three battered metal workbenches had been dragged together to form a rectangular table. A hololithic projector base stood inactive on its top, and four chairs had been arranged around the outer edges. Gaul snorted to himself at the absurdity of him being offered a seat, but appreciated the respectful gesture from the lead adjutant nonetheless. Gaul ignored the dismissive look the canoness preceptor gave him as she stood talking to one of her seconds, arms folded, out of Balacet’s earshot. The colonel was tapping on a hololithic cogitator, looking down and scratching his forehead underneath the polished peak of his cap, the display casting his face in pallid light. Tentera stood motionless to one side, steam issuing gently from the pipes connecting to his upper section.

Balacet looked up from his cogitator and nodded to the adjutants flanking Gaul. The one carrying the datapad strode forwards and placed it on the briefing table, while the other scuttled out of Gaul’s sight and activated the closing mechanism on the doors. By the time Gaul had walked over to Tentera, the canoness had taken her place at the table and Balacet was seated, ready to begin proceedings.

‘Where is Cardinal Astral Pradillo?’

Tentera’s voice echoed off the thick rockcrete walls of the maintenance hangar. Gaul looked to the now-closed doors and frowned. As the representative of the Living Saint, they could make no decisions without him.

‘The cardinal is on his way. You may not be aware but he met with an… accident recently. I am sure he will be here as soon as he can.’

Balacet’s voice was hiding something, of that Gaul was certain. The Sister of Battle, Alecia, was trying not to look uncomfortable at the colonel’s words but failing. If Tentera knew something of this ‘accident’, he had not informed his Chapter Master of it.

‘Colonel, canoness preceptor, time is of the essence. We do not yet know the strength or nature of the threat, but we do know when it will likely arrive. The venerable Chaplain will have told you that while I have ordered reinforcements, they will not reach us before the enemy does. I note with satisfaction that the colonel’s Thirty-Fifth Vodorian Grenadiers have mobilised, and assume the Order of the Divine Perfection are doing the same.’

Gaul looked to Alecia, who nodded in irritation at his questioning. He knew she would be. Gaul looked over to Tentera, who inclined his sarcophagus with a hiss of pneumatics. The next subject for discussion was a delicate one, and Gaul was gratified that the Chaplain had agreed to broach the subject. He had been a gifted orator before his interment, and retained his sharp sense for diplomacy in his deathly state.

‘Given the facts so clearly outlined by Chapter Master Gaul, the Angels Eradicant motion to evacuate the Living Saint and take him to a place of safety.’

Gaul watched Balacet and Alecia’s reaction to Tentera’s words carefully. It was evident from their behaviour since his arrival at Salandraxis that they felt themselves more than capable of protecting the planet and its newly returned saviour. This particularly applied to the Adepta Sororitas, so Alecia’s angry reply did not surprise him.

‘The Sisters of Battle have fought and died with His Holiness and kept him safe for the past five years. We have no intention of relinquishing this honour now, particularly to the Angels Eradicant.’

Alecia’s nostrils flared as she snarled the last few words. Balacet cleared his throat and looked intently at the cogitator hologram in front of him in the silence that followed. Gaul’s reply was cool and focussed.

‘The best way to protect the Living Saint would be to take him from harm’s way, there is no doubt. I am not suggesting we abandon Salandraxis to its fate, but Lozepath represents a unique opportunity for the forces of Chaos.’

Balacet nodded at Gaul’s words and turned to look at Alecia. Her fingers were interlaced on the makeshift table, her hands trembling and her knuckles white with the strength of her grip. Gaul pressed on, sanguine now that his argument had got her attention.

‘Perhaps it is time the Sisters of Battle put the protection of their charge before their own desire for glory.’

Alecia was on her feet in seconds, sword drawn and moving angrily towards Gaul. Balacet jumped to his feet and shouted a warning, but her sword was swinging down towards Gaul’s head in the blink of an eye. The Chapter Master did not move as the canoness preceptor’s weapon was intercepted by the huge metallic claw of Tentera. Alecia went for a dagger at her belt, but Gaul reached forwards and enveloped her wrist in one huge gauntlet. Her face was barely an inch away from his as she growled her words at him.

‘How dare you question the devotion of my order? Wait until His Holiness hears of this outrage. He will banish you from this planet and disgrace the name of your Chapter forever!’

‘The Living Saint will do no such thing, because he shall not hear of this nonsense.’

Gaul turned towards the doorway to the hangar. Framed in the tall, narrow rectangle of light was Cardinal Astral Pradillo, flanked by two junior clerics. Shuffling forwards, they guided the hooded figure by the elbows towards the table. Gaul released his grip on Alecia’s hand, as did Tentera on her sword, and she sheathed her weapons with practised grace. Returning to her position next to Balacet, she continued to glare at the Chapter Master as Pradillo was helped into a chair by his aides.

‘Cardinal, Chapter Master Gaul has requested His Holiness be taken from Salandraxis and moved to a safer location.’

Gaul nodded once to Balacet, and ignored the hiss of contempt from Alecia. All eyes turned to Pradillo, whose head bowed down slightly beneath his shroud in contemplation. After several moments, Balacet leaned over the table in anticipation of a reply. Gaul’s patience also began to wear thin. Perhaps the old cleric had not heard him.

‘Cardinal Pradillo, we urge you to forward this appeal to His Holiness as soon as possible.’

Pradillo moved his head slightly towards Gaul. Placing his trembling hands on the cold metal surface of the bench before him, he began to rise. His helpers moved to attend him immediately, but he waved them back. Balacet and Alecia looked up to his hidden face as Pradillo stared down at the plans and map holographs before him.

‘His Holiness will not leave this planet, and neither you nor I will ask him to do so. You will combine your efforts to formulate an insurmountable defence without further argument or discord. Any intelligence you receive in relation to the enemy’s strength and disposition, you will relay to me without delay.’

The old man’s voice might have been hoarse, but there was a strength to it that surprised Gaul. Regardless of the tone, he shared the indignation of Balacet and Alecia, who stared at Pradillo with undisguised fury at being chastised in such a way. Tentera had moved to Gaul’s shoulder in a gesture equally of support and restraint. Under normal circumstances the Chapter Master would have made it quite clear who was in command of his battle companies, but in the interest of mounting a successful defence, he was willing to accede to the Saint’s terms. He would hold his tongue, for now. Pradillo took a step back from the table and reached up to his hood as he spoke.

‘I shall give you this warning only once. Do not underestimate the enormous power His Holiness commands. The weapons you wield are formidable, but Lozepath carries in him the might of the Emperor.’

At that, Pradillo pushed his hood back to reveal a skinless, blood-raw face with empty sockets where his eyes had once been. Only now did his voice falter.

‘And his wrath.’

The bridge of the Malevolent Shade boomed with yet another impact from a massive chunk of rock. Locq turned to vent his fury on Odervirk, but the shipmaster was too busy looking to his readouts to notice him. Calmly adjusting an array of dials on his command throne, he barked an order to rotate the cruiser a few degrees to starboard. Locq knew the Malevolent Shade was taking heavy damage, but it was infinitely preferable to the barrage three ships could inflict on them in open space, even if one of them was crippled. Given the situation he now faced, Locq wondered darkly if it might have been better to meet his fate on the transport retreating back to his flagship.

Khârn’s transmission to Locq’s fleet had come only minutes after his landing party had blasted its way from the Skulltaker. At first, Locq could not believe that the berzerker’s rallying cry to join him for the glory of the Blood God would have any effect, but within minutes reports were coming through that fighting had broken out on all four vessels under his command. Locq’s rage consumed him. To have so many Hounds of Abaddon desert his command was stupefying. Over the centuries, many warriors had sworn themselves to new allegiances, to other warbands and causes, but he had lost half of his fleet to Khârn and his berzerkers.

‘The enemy ships have moved out of range, Captain Locq. I would strongly suggest we exit this asteroid field to prevent further damage to ourselves and the Eater of Souls.’

Locq had ordered the retreat of the Malevolent Shade and his only other loyal vessel into the dubious protection of the Phelbic Belt as the last transport carrying Hounds loyal to Abaddon had landed on the hangar deck. He could not risk Khârn turning on his two remaining ships, destroying or disabling them with his superior firepower before continuing on his glorious Red Path. Noticing Odervirk was awaiting his answer, Locq nodded his assent and turned to leave the bridge.

The corridors of the Malevolent Shade were heaving with warriors. As he marched to his quarters, they nodded and grunted at him, clearly outraged at the betrayal to their Warmaster and spoiling for revenge. Their anger was his anger, and Locq took solace in the fact that he now had a warband he could rely on to stay loyal. Stopping at a viewing portal, he looked out into space. Two of the destroyed Angels Eradicant vessels were still on fire in the far distance, and the third had broken into several large pieces. On any other day, he could have claimed this as a glorious victory. A loyalist fleet destroyed, their crews lost to the vacuum of space. And yet he faced the ignominy of presenting another failure to Urkanthos, if he did not already know from his spies amongst the ranks.

But then, had Locq caused this failure? Should he be blamed for a traitorous lack of faith to Abaddon? The Lord Purgator had clearly sent him weaklings and traitors. In that moment, Locq decided what his next course of action would be. He would not send a communication to Urkanthos, but to Abaddon himself. He would confess to the loss of his ships and warriors, and expose the Lord Purgator for choosing the cohort so poorly. Locq would proudly declare his intention to fulfil his oath – to take Khârn captive as he attacked Salandraxis. If he could not prevent him from going to the planet, Locq would ensure he did not leave.

And if that resulted in the berzerker’s head being delivered to Abaddon separated from his body, so much the better.

Gaul needed to see the enemy with his own eyes. Standing on the bridge of the Light of the Emperor, he stared unblinking at the single cruiser approaching his flotilla at flank speed. From the second it had entered weapons range from the Mandeville point some distance from Salandraxis, the vessel had been bombarded by every weapon available to his diminished fleet. Shipmaster Rendaj Mahal had informed Gaul that it showed signs of heavy battle damage before their relentless attack had begun, presumably inflicted by his three destroyed ships. Gaul did not waste his time hoping that this was the last surviving enemy vessel. Optimism was for the deluded.

‘The ship is travelling so fast, it must be unable to resolve an accurate firing solution, Chapter Master. In fact…’

Mahal squinted at a screen and checked several other readouts before she continued talking from her command chair.

‘It appears to not be firing at all.’

Gaul gripped onto the burnt, distorted vambrace covering his forearm. There had been no attempt to engage the Light of the Emperor or either of the two cruisers flanking the battle-barge. This was as unusual as it was suspicious.

‘Chapter Master, it is increasing speed directly towards us.’

The bridge fell silent as the officers and crew awaited commands. Gaul looked to Mahal. She responded with a single nod.

‘All ships. Concentrate all batteries on the bow of the enemy vessel. Destroy it!’

The Light of the Emperor shuddered under the power of its own guns, the very fabric of the huge ship shaking under the strain of constant firing. An alarm went off on the arm of the command throne. Mahal punched it silent without looking down and turned to the lower deck, shouting an order in her clear, deep voice to bring the ship about so the profile they offered to the attacker was as narrow as possible.

‘My lord, attitude change in the target vessel. It is increasing acceleration further and heading between us and the Eradicant Ascending.’

The commander threw herself back in front of her main screen. Something passed over her face that Gaul could not read, and then the entire bridge tilted to one side. As he took hold of a support rail to steady himself, an enormous booming resonated throughout the ship. A dozen alarms cried for attention and steam hissed from overloaded conduits. Another explosion followed, and the lights inside the bridge flickered. Gaul had the advantage of his armour to anchor him to the deck. The ship’s mortal crew were not so fortunate, and many of them lay broken and bleeding around the command centre.

‘Report!’

Gaul knew they had been hit, but not by what. The shipmaster looked dazed, and shook her head to clear her thoughts.

‘The enemy ship… detonated its engines, Chapter Master. We are badly damaged along the port side. The Eradicant Ascending is…’

Gaul leaned forwards and slammed his fist onto the commander’s chair in fury.

‘What? What of it?’

‘Gone, Chapter Master. It has been destroyed.’

Sirens blared and warning lights flashed. The Light of the Emperor was mortally wounded. Gaul knew it, and the shipmaster knew it. She looked up at him, blood trickling down her face from a cut somewhere beneath her short black hair.

‘I suggest you evacuate the vessel with your battle-brothers immediately, Chapter Master. Two more ships have just emerged through the transit point.’

The drop-ship bucked and rocked as it hit the thin air of Salandraxis’ upper atmosphere, but Khârn was too engrossed in cleaning Gorechild to notice. Mica-dragon teeth needed no sharpening, so he concentrated on ensuring the track through which they spun was free of obstruction and damage. It was almost a religious ritual to Khârn, and it was the closest to relaxation he ever came.

A low growling filtered into his ears, and he looked up from the curved span of Gorechild’s rust-red blade to see Samzar staring down at the deck. Khârn could hear him whispering to himself, and noticed that both his hands kept clenching and unclenching involuntarily. Since taking Lukosz’s skull, Samzar’s descent into the grip of his Butcher’s Nails had worsened. Lukosz had been a fine warrior and an asset. Samzar, on the other hand, would soon cease to be of any use. Not that it mattered. As soon as he touched down on Salandraxis, Khârn would leave the berzerkers to fight their own battles. He had but one objective in mind – the skull of the Living Saint.

Khârn felt the transport drop and heard its engines scream in protest as the Warpsmith pilot ducked and slid around the flak exploding all around them. He was a Hound of the Black Legion, and proving to be as good as his claims.

The plan to cripple the loyalist vessels protecting Salandraxis had worked better than Khârn had expected. Roderbar had insisted that the Skulltaker could still serve a useful function in battle, despite its severe damage, and had been proven right. Roderbar had oathed the Skulltaker’s machine priests to destruct the engine core and set her course to slide between the Angels Eradicant vessels. For his part, Khârn would have preferred Roderbar to have steered the ship himself, but the shipmaster had pointed out with forceful indignation how he had played no small part in keeping Khârn on the Red Path, and could continue to do so given the chance. Even Samzar had come to his aid in a moment of lucidity. So, Khârn’s flag had been transferred to the White Scars vessel, allowing the Hounds of Abaddon to retain their ship. Even now, both were engaging the last intact Angels Eradicant vessel and raining down destruction onto Salandraxis in support of the ground attack.

‘Approaching the outer perimeter of the main citadel. I cannot get any closer, Lord Khârn. The air cover is too heavy.’

As if to prove the pilot’s point, a shockwave hit the outside of the Thunderhawk and the transport rocked with the impact. The augur readings of the planet’s surface had shown just how well defended it was, and with a singularly powerful energy signal coming from the High Temple overlooking the citadel, Khârn’s target had revealed itself. In time the Astra Militarum and Adeptus Astartes would reinforce Salandraxis Municipalis from other parts of the planet, but by then it would be too late. This so-called golden pearl would be bathed in blood. Khârn gripped the flesh bindings of Gorechild’s haft and tested his left hand. The swelling had finally receded on his arm but the skin was a mass of open sores. Even so, most of his strength and flexibility had returned. He was ready.

‘Approaching the landing zone. Ready yourselves.’

Khârn relaxed his body as much as he could for the inevitable hard landing. All but one of the power-armoured figures around him did the same.

‘Lukosz? Report! Lukosz…’

Samzar was looking around the interior like a caged animal, the broken horn on his helmet only adding to the illusion. Khârn knew once the red mist descended upon him that his focus would be on carrying out his mission, but until then his mounting confusion was making him unpredictable. Khârn kept Gorechild at the ready in case Samzar decided to start his killing before they landed.

The drop-ship crashed to the ground, its weapons booming in a constant protective barrage as the frontal assault ramp fell open. Buckles were unhooked and weapons drawn in the blink of an eye, and Khârn stormed down the ramp at the head of two dozen berzerkers. Before him, huge smoking craters revealed the bombardment that had been visited upon a smashed and broken avenue. A few hundred yards ahead, a line of Astra Militarum troops had dug a long trench into the rockcrete expanse. Tanks and personnel carriers fired at him from irregular intervals, the line peppered with gaps where the orbital attack had torn the ground asunder. To his left and right, Khârn felt the roar of further transports landing and disgorging their raging cargoes, swelling his numbers with a sea of scarlet-and-black armoured figures. An approaching Thunderhawk exploded in a fireball, showering flaming debris and bodies in all directions. Khârn ducked a spinning chunk of metal and bridged the remaining distance towards the line of troops, their ordnance sailing wide or ricocheting off his armour. The ground exploded just before him, and he ducked towards the remains of a building. Scaling its collapsed roof, he used the angle to throw himself into the air, landing on top of an advancing Leman Russ and driving Gorechild into its astonished commander. Within seconds the khaki line was consumed by a wave of power-armoured figures, and the cries of terror filled Khârn with joy.

In the near distance, Khârn could see the high wall that surrounded Salandraxis Municipalis. With its huge metal gates, the city truly did shine with a golden light, but with Khorne’s blessing he would extinguish it before the day was out. Under the bright sunlight, Khârn could see the unmistakable glint of sun on power armour. Figures emerged from the decorative battlements, spreading out equidistantly across its expansive length. Khârn did not need any of the filters or amplifiers in his helmet to confirm who they were. The Angels Eradicant awaited him.

The canoness watched the landing pattern of the enemy’s drop-ships and gritted her teeth with fury. In the courtyard below, her Sisters of Battle were checking weapons and attending to their prayers, readying themselves for an all-out assault. Alecia’s desire to slaughter the heretic was raging through her, and the sight of the Chaos ships descending from the clear blue sky like a plague of insects had stirred her blood. She knew her order would have to fight for the life of the Living Saint today like they never had before.

From her position on the ramparts, she could see the main force of Angels Eradicant readying themselves to her right. Below her, just less than half of her Preceptory were marshalled in the huge courtyard, boarding Immolator and Rhino tanks. Within the next few minutes, the ornately decorated portcullis beneath her feet would open and she would be at the head of a counter-attack. It would not be a moment too soon. The bombardment had already reduced much of Salandraxis Municipalis to rubble and had broken Balacet’s ‘line of steel’ – deployed to ring the entire city – into a fractured mess. What was left was currently being hammered out of existence. Balacet’s plan had been simple and quite bold, but there were limits to what a static line of defence could achieve against these superhuman heretics. Their air cover had done as much as it could to reduce the number of enemy drop-ships that had landed, but the few Navy wings that had been stationed on the planet had been decimated. She had warned Balacet that the enemy would not spread out their attack across the planet, and that they would thrust straight for Municipalis. Still, he had refused to commit all of his troops and aircraft to defending the citadel. They would return here now that the enemy was committed, but exactly what might be left to defend by the time they arrived only the Emperor knew. Gripping her power sword, she angrily dismissed such negative thoughts. If the enemy managed to get through the Angels Eradicant, which was highly unlikely, they still had to deal with her faithful Sisters.

A series of explosions lit up the district ahead, throwing chunks of machines and bodies into the air. Even from this distance, the ground shook beneath Alecia’s feet with the destruction being unleashed on the ruined avenue before her. Salandraxis was such a beautiful planet, a real shining pearl of the Imperium. By the day’s end, it would be ugly and scarred, but she would never let it be corrupted by the forces of Chaos. Turning around, she looked to the High Temple, its magnificent columns and glass dome shining in the sunlight. For a second she considered going back on her commitment to Balacet and Gaul. She had sworn to face the enemy before they arrived at the citadel, but the temptation to take command of her cohort on its sacred ground was great. His Holiness had to be protected. If the heretics got inside the temple, the havoc they could wreak would be unthinkable.

No. It would not come to that. There was a significant garrison of Sisters left within and around its golden walls, and she had seen the power Lozepath could wield from his throne. Any attack would be short-lived. She must stay true to her word.

Alecia’s eye was drawn to a breakaway group of berzerkers moving swiftly to the left of her view. The group was relatively small, around forty armoured bodies, but they were moving fast and with purpose around the craters and between the burning buildings. They were approaching the main entrance to the city, at the end of the grand avenue. It was, of course, heavily defended, but based on the way the spearhead currently driving towards the Angels Eradicant had slashed through Balacet’s ranks, they needed to be cut off before they got there.

Alecia descended the open stone stairs leading to the courtyard and signalled for the portcullis to be opened. Raising her power sword, she scaled the angled forward section of her Immolator, took her place in the command seat and swung the blade forwards to signal their exit from the compound. Within five seconds she had rumbled through the columns supporting the broad canopy that ran the entire length of the wall, and within ten the break-off group of berzerkers had spotted them. Alecia ordered the lead vehicles to open fire, but with the road narrowing before them, they could only advance three abreast. A shadow flashed overhead, then another. The Rhino to her left exploded in a fireball, a wing of Thunderhawks booming across the ruined city in a wide turn. The attack force would be torn apart if they stayed in the open.

Alecia screamed into her vox for the column to break formation and all Sisters to get out of their transports. The rear of her Immolator was hit, and she pitched forwards onto her stomach with a sickening impact. Fire belched from the back of the machine and she heard frantic shouts from within. Jumping out, she hit the ground hard and turned to help free those Sisters trapped inside. At that moment, the berzerkers appeared, running at full speed towards the vehicles.

Turning from the Immolator and breaking into a sprint, Alecia headed straight for the nearest of her foes, a lumbering champion with a broken horn on his helmet. With a cry of praise to the Living Saint, Alecia leapt into the air as more Sisters swarmed past her to join the melee.

The blow from her sword should have taken the berzerker’s arm off at the shoulder, but despite his laboured gait, he angled his body just in time to deflect most of its power. Alecia kept on following the arc of her attack, the tip of her sword jarring across the rockcrete ground. Bringing her weapon in, she threw herself forwards just as the berzerker’s chainsword swept past the top of her head. Alecia felt the fur on her cloak tear away. Roaring in fury at the desecration, she raised her inferno pistol and pumped two super-heated blasts into the back of the attacker. The first dissipated on the surface of the armour, but the second penetrated the ceramite and created a satisfyingly large hole towards the base of his spine.

Alecia heard a howl of pain and flanked the abhorrence as it turned to attack her. She needed to move fast in order to finish the creature, and had just drawn the angle to fire another salvo when she felt a tearing sensation in her abdomen. Confusion overwhelmed her. The berzerker had turned before she could pull the trigger, that was obvious, but he was just standing there, watching her, without his weapon. Alecia tried to raise her sword, but something got in the way. Looking down, she saw the hilt and handle of a chainsword sticking out of her stomach. The chain was still spinning, throwing out gouts of flesh and innards as it chewed away at her body. With the realisation of what had happened came the pain, and with a bellow of rage she dropped her
own sword and tried to remove the churning weapon from
her body. As blood gushed from the gaping wound, she fell to her knees. The berzerker with the broken horn bore down on her, and she raised her pistol to fire. Whether she hit her target or not, she would never know.

Shells exploded and energy beams lanced around Khârn’s head from all directions. The Astra Militarum had been overrun, and thanks to the narrow swathe of destruction he had singlehandedly carved, berzerkers and defected Hounds of Abaddon were streaming through their broken ranks behind him. The Imperial forces still had some positions on their flanks, and Khârn heard several of the warband fall to shots in the back, but that did not stop their relentless charge towards the walls of the citadel and the towering gate set into the middle of the high fortification.

He had promised those who would follow him glory beyond measure, and they would start with taking the skulls of the Angels Eradicant on the ornate battlements. Several berzerkers had joined him on either side, firing their weapons wildly at the statue-like figures on the wall. Khârn knew they would not hold their position for much longer, such would be their desire to avenge their fallen battle-brothers.

To the extreme left and right of his vision, Khârn saw the loyalist defenders begin to drop from the wall in a wave of plunging bodies, leaping clear of the supports and decorative columns. Twenty, thirty, forty Space Marines fell to the smashed avenue and began running towards him, creating a pincer movement. Supporting fire erupted from the remaining Angels Eradicant, bringing down several exposed berzerkers with careful aim as they rushed to join combat with the charging Imperial forces. In seconds, half a dozen Space Marines were nearly upon Khârn, bolters blazing and chainswords raised high. Two were intercepted by berzerkers keen to claim their first major trophies of the day, and one was leapt upon by one of the Hounds of Abaddon, the impact of his attack smashing the Angel Eradicant into the hard ground. This left three for Khârn – not enough. A bolt hit his right vambrace and he rolled with the impact, whirling into a crouch and bringing Gorechild across in a wide, arcing blow. Its blade caught the greave of the closest Angel Eradicant’s left leg and cut through the armour to the bone, sending him crashing down. Khârn rolled out of the way to avoid the bolter fire from the second and third assailants, which thudded into the ground, sending chunks of rockcrete flying in all directions.

Khârn swept his left arm wide and threw Gorechild at the furthest attacker. Carving its way through the Space Marine’s bolter, the head of the chainaxe ate into his lower abdomen and kept on chewing until it became stuck in the groove it had carved for itself. Khârn threw out the chains attached to his arm, catching the closest Angel Eradicant’s bolter, and his shot buzzed past Khârn’s helmet. Khârn yanked on the chains, pulling himself to his feet and firing his plasma pistol point-blank into the warrior’s faceplate. Ducking to retrieve Gorechild from the fallen Space Marine, he avoided the volley of fire from the third and brought the chainaxe into the last Angel Eradicant’s flank. Two shots into his throat yielded a third trophy for the Blood God.

All around him, the battle raged. As Khârn turned to find more skulls to harvest, he felt a low rumble through his feet. Thinking it was additional Angels Eradicant dropping to the ground for another assault, he took several steps back and levelled Gorechild, ready to strike whoever might approach. The vibration came again, this time much stronger. On some unseen signal, the Angels Eradicant withdrew from their close-quarters combat on the killing field. Some of the berzerkers followed their combatants, only to be met by a hail of fire from the ramparts. Something was not–

The world spun, then Khârn found himself lying on his side. His left arm was bleeding profusely, and his head was singing with concussion. Something had hit him so hard that he had been thrown away from his position at the foot of the gate. Dragging himself to his feet, he could see many of the warband trying to recover through the thick cloud of dust that was swirling around them. Their armour was dented and battered by the huge chunks of rock and masonry that now lay between them. Something had hit them in a devastating wave, smashing them to the ground in a barrage of blasts. The rumbling in the ground came once again, this time a rhythmic pounding, increasing in magnitude with every thump. Khârn turned to the gate.

It was open.

A thick blanket of dust was drifting out from it, and a shape formed through the cloud as it moved forwards into the daylight. It was a Dreadnought in the sand-and-black of the Angels Eradicant, stomping onto the avenue with holy parchments fluttering in the heat wash. Behind, outlines of heavy armoured vehicles flanked the lumbering figure, their guns trained on the gateway through which the machine had just marched. Anyone who tried to bypass it would be eviscerated in their defensive fire.

As the air cleared, Khârn saw the Dreadnought was tracking left to right in search of targets, its twin-linked heavy bolter following the path of its targeting reticules. Multiple flashes came from behind it, and Khârn threw himself to the ground as tank shells screamed overhead. The ground erupted behind him and showered him in stone and dismembered parts of bodies from those of the warband who had not moved quite fast enough to avoid the salvo. A heartbeat later, more explosions rocked the ground, galvanizing Khârn into action. Covering fire rained down from the Angels Eradicant on the top of the wall, laying down a deadly hail of shells, cutting down the berzerkers still in open space. Khârn knew he could not hope to match the Imperial firepower from such a range, and with his flanks cut off he was left with only one option.

Khârn charged towards the wall on his left, hoping the Dreadnought would not be fast enough to track his rapid progress in time to fire. Bolts from the Angels Eradicant exploded all around him, and the roar of the Dreadnought’s heavy bolter was matched by the oaths of his berzerkers as they returned fire. There were still enough of them on the field to pose a threat to the machine, and this gave Khârn just enough time to get behind a thick column and shelter from the withering fire. Throwing himself flat against the cylindrical stone support, he looked up to the decorative buttress above him. What little cover it promised was soon torn apart in concentrated fire from above, and debris rained down on Khârn. Without warning, he was lifted from the ground and crashed into the wall, bouncing off its unforgiving surface and crunching to the ground. A dark shadow fell over him as the Dreadnought stopped before him, gun arm trained directly at his head. Sharp hisses of steam escaped from its short, powerful legs, then a deep electronic voice scratched its way through the dusty air.

‘You dare to challenge the might of the Emperor, heretic? You dare to sully this hallowed world with your corruption and depravity?’

Khârn heard a series of clunks as fresh ammunition was chambered into the bolter hovering before his face.

‘For this, you will die.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Skulls of Salandraxis

Locq watched the tactical projection on the bridge of the Malevolent Shade with a deep sense of satisfaction. Some of the information flickering before him was incomplete or had a high degree of potential inaccuracy, but the picture was clear to see. Khârn was being overwhelmed and outmanoeuvred by the Imperial forces down on Salandraxis. The mortal defenders’ losses had been considerable, but their sheer numbers compared to the Khornate berzerkers looked very likely to be in Locq’s favour. The Sisters of Battle and Adeptus Astartes warriors were also directly engaged with Khârn’s warband, and with dozens of Locq’s Black Legion gunships speeding towards the planet’s capital, he would finally have his revenge.

‘Captain, we are receiving another warning from Khârn’s flagship. Shall I order the attack and destroy them?’

Locq considered Odervirk’s query. They had arrived to find the remains of the Angels Eradicant fleet and what was left of the Skulltaker, but Khârn’s flotilla had paid a high price in their battle to reach Salandraxis. The Black Legion ship that had once sailed with Locq floated lifelessly in high orbit, its drive section a sea of flames. While still operational, the former White Scars vessel had sustained heavy damage to its starboard side. The Malevolent Shade had taken a pounding within the asteroid field despite Odervirk’s best efforts, but it was in far better shape than the enemy – and his fleet outnumbered the Wings of the Eagle two to one. It would not take much effort to finish off the vessel and its treacherous crew. It was an appealing prospect; Locq would gladly see every one of those who had deserted Abaddon for the Chosen of Khorne die. Unfortunately, destroying the ship would take too much time. Locq had not expected the situation on their arrival at Salandraxis to be so much in his favour, and after his previous experience of Khârn he was going to press home any advantage without delay.

‘Do they have the capability to prevent us from making planetfall?’

He could not afford to commit all of his Hounds of Abaddon to their transports only to take heavy casualties before they reached the ground. Locq had learned too many bitter lessons over the last few weeks, and now that the gods smiled upon him once more he was not going to jeopardise his return to favour in the eyes of his Warmaster. The communication he had sent Abaddon days past had been acknowledged without response, which he had found disappointing if not surprising. Nothing had come through to him from his master Urkanthos. That was as expected, because Locq had forbidden all external communication from the Malevolent Shade the second they had left the Phelbic asteroid belt. Locq was convinced that the overwhelming majority of those warriors left on board would remain loyal, but he could not discount the possibility that the Lord Purgator still had spies among them that would report back to their master that he had lost half of his force to Khârn.

‘No, my lord. The hangar bays on both ships are either empty or open to space. I believe the enemy have committed their entire force to the planet. In their present condition, they pose no threat.’

Locq stared at the projection and watched the various runes and symbols move around in a pattern that belied the slaughter taking place. Despite trying, the bridge crew had been unable to isolate Khârn as a discrete signal. It looked as if a breakaway group of berzerkers were heavily engaged with an armoured column that was blocking their way to the High Temple of Salandraxis Municipalis. It was a reasonable tactical deployment and they had good air support, but it was not the one that caught his eye. Judging by the concentration of fire on the city’s rear wall and the numbers of berzerkers and treacherous Hound forces committed to the engagement, Khârn was most likely to be in the middle of that battle. It would take approximately eighteen minutes to arrive on Salandraxis, and that spearhead group would be Locq’s target.

‘Very well. Ready the drop-ships. Once we are dispatched, you may do as you wish in relation to the enemy vessel. One more wreck floating in orbit will make no difference to me.’

Locq gripped the handle of his chainsword and marched off the bridge. The time had finally come to bring Khârn before Abaddon – dead or alive.

Gaul stared down at the shimmering blade of Acritus, his reflection as distorted as his temperament. Around him, the transport shook and rattled at top speed. The last transmission to come from the Light of the Emperor had been fractured, but more than enough for him to realise the situation was grave. Shipmaster Mahal had eliminated one of the enemy vessels that had attacked in the wake of the Eradicant Ascending’s destruction, but the appearance of two additional warships shortly before communication had ceased left little doubt about the fate of the battle-barge or their adversaries’ identity.

They were facing an invasion force of one the original Traitor Legions, the blood-crazed World Eaters.

Outside of Municipalis, Colonel Balacet’s main defensive line had been torn asunder, and Gaul had not heard from Canoness Preceptor Alecia since she joined battle against a spearhead group of berzerkers heading for the central avenue. With Tentera and the bulk of the 2nd Company engaged at the rear wall of the citadel and a second wave of invaders on their way, Gaul was free to support Alecia’s counter-attack. They would also bolster the defences of the city and secure the biggest landing area close to its walls.

‘We will be touching down in thirty seconds. Stand by for deployment.’

Gaul held his relic blade up before him and saw a number of his brothers bow their heads at its appearance. Fury coursed through his veins at the loss of his fleet. His Chapter had sustained enormous losses, and his hatred for the forces of Chaos knew no bounds. He would take this rage and loathing, form it into a cold, hard blade more powerful than Acritus itself and plunge it into the soulless heart of the enemy. They would know the might of the Angels Eradicant. He would cleanse this world in the name of the Emperor.

The Thunderhawk’s weapons began hammering out a preparatory barrage, and the interior of the hold shook violently as the ship hit the ground. Within seconds the door was open and Gaul was on his feet, running out at the head of his phalanx. Behind him, two more gunships deployed in palls of smoke and fire.

The Chapter Master had not spent a lot of time on Salandraxis, but even he was struck by the carnage visited upon the planet in such a short time. The landing area was the very same spot at which he had arrived so triumphantly with Lozepath, but the avenue down which they had walked was a burning ruin. Those buildings that had not disappeared into enormous gaping craters were ablaze, and every statue that lined the way to the High Temple had been destroyed. There was no sign of Canoness Alecia or her armoured column, and the plumes of thick black smoke behind the shattered buildings to his left suggested they had not made it this far. As he looked to the citadel, most of it was obscured by sheets of flame. He could not even see the approach to the High Temple through the acrid gloom. Chaos had rained down its darkness onto this shining pearl, and it was up to him and his brothers to save it from eternal damnation.

The ground erupted into chunks of stone and earth. Gaul looked up to see an enemy gunship approaching and signalled to Captain Maedinar of the 1st Company to address the threat. As the captain’s Sternguard Veterans took aim at the closing Thunderhawk with a pair of lascannons, Gaul knew that it was already neutralised. Within five seconds Maedinar had deployed a handful of brothers to secure the massive landing field, and within ten Gaul was leading the remainder of the 1st Company at full charge up the avenue towards the citadel.

The explosion blew Gaul off his feet. Thumping into a still-smoking crater, he quickly scrambled upright only to find that Epilesus, one of his best Vanguard Veterans, had been hit squarely in the chest by at least two missiles. Parts of his armour lay strewn around the broken walkway, his battle-brothers crouching and laying down a salvo in the direction of the fire. Somewhere behind, Gaul could hear his drop-ship lifting into the air at the head of the flight. He bellowed a warning to its commander but it was too late; a second wave of missiles streaked overhead and into it, catching the bottom of the cargo pod just as it cleared the ground. The underside disappeared in a dazzling white flash and the Thunderhawk pitched forwards, its nose smashing into the ground as the company scattered out of its way. Gaul threw himself into the belly of the crater, avoiding the blast wave that came a fraction of a second later. He felt the heat sear over him in a sheet of burning promethium, but the instant it had passed he was up on his feet. Signalling his squads to maintain their position, he advanced alone, staying low until he could fully ascertain the location and strength of the enemy.

Another salvo streaked towards him, and through the clearing smoke ahead Gaul could see about two dozen figures – squads of Havocs – armed with missile launchers and autocannons. Behind them, past their trophy-hung Rhino transports, the steps to the High Temple were consumed by a mass of swarming bodies. Some of them wore scarlet power armour, but most were clad in black. The Sisters of Battle were fighting at suicidally close quarters with the berzerkers to protect the Living Saint’s sanctuary and, from what Gaul could see, they were losing. Ducking around the side of the Thunderhawk’s gutted shell, he ran wide and used the broken statues for cover, weaving out into the avenue only for rockets to sail past him and plough into the ruined gunship as his brothers laid down supporting fire behind him. Gaul faced a choice. He either charged the well-positioned Havoc squad and took the losses that would surely come, or he looked for a way to get around them. The wall of the citadel stretched into the distance to the left and right, explosions and plumes of smoke telling their own stories of deadly combat. The situation provided only one logical course of action.

‘Sergeant Ordelon, take your squad down the left flank. Kodaelak, break right. Concentrate fire on the transports behind the heavy weapons strongpoint. Captain Maedinar, I will draw fire so you can target the traitors from your position.’

The acknowledgements came immediately. Gaul tightened his grip on Acritus and checked his bolter for ammunition.

‘Keep low, move fast and do the Chapter honour.’

To the eternal credit of his brothers, a few of them actually chuckled at the parade-ground instruction.

‘For the Emperor!’

The thunder of autocannon fire started the second Gaul broke cover. Missile contrails reached towards him, some shells exploding forwards to hinder his progress, others aimed directly at his brothers. Running at full speed, he fired in short bursts, keeping his aim as he advanced. A berzerker emerged from a Rhino’s top hatch and opened fire with the combi-bolter over the heads of the Havoc squad. Gaul heard the strangled grunts of his brothers as they shrugged off explosive hits. In response, the forward armour of the vehicle disintegrated in a series of searing beams, and the head of one of the Havocs disappeared in a smear of blood as Maedinar’s bolter found its first target. Gaul felt a thump in his chest that spun him to one side, but he recovered quickly and kept on running towards the line. Ordelon had caught up with him on the left with half a dozen of his warriors still with him. There was no sign of Kodaelak on the right. Enraged, Gaul shouted over the din of battle.

‘Grenade the enemy position! Put them to the blade!’

Ordelon’s veterans readied their frag grenades as they ran. After three more strides, a shock wave blew Gaul off his feet.

Chunks of metal clattered to the floor all around him, and while some of the warning runes on his visor display were flashing red, the majority of them indicated that he was largely unhurt. As he got to his feet, Gaul was gratified to see that this was more than could be said of the Havoc squads. Whatever munitions they had carried with them had left nothing but a deep, smoking hole and a path blasted for him between the mangled tanks. Gaul roared his encouragement to the remaining Angels Eradicant behind him, and they joined him at his flanks, chainswords, power mauls and axes out and ready for hand-to-hand combat with the berzerkers infesting the base of the High Temple.

Within seconds they were at the foot of the steps, although it was difficult to judge where the stone began because of the heap of dead Sisters of Battle piled at the bottom. Gaul raised Acritus to strike at the nearest enemy, and felt a crushing force hit him from the side. As he was smashed to the ground, a chainsword plunged towards his head and Gaul kicked violently upwards with his knee, dislodging his assailant and sending him out of his view. Gaul was up in a heartbeat, and saw that the berzerker’s armour had been melted and burned at the base of the spine, inhibiting his movement. Turning with a roar of rage, the barbarian threw himself forwards with all of his might, his broken-horned helmet low. Gaul angled his relic blade down, allowing his attacker’s weapon to grate its way down its length. Gaul spun and struck back, but his opponent had already adjusted his grip to deflect the blow. Regardless of his ungodly nature, his foe was very, very good. This would only add to the satisfaction of sending him back to the foul depths from whence he had crawled.

Bolter fire tore past Gaul’s head, forcing him to separate from his opponent. The berzerker jumped up into a gap between two Sisters of Battle and swept down with his chainsword, making Gaul pitch backwards out of the way of the lethal arc. More fire came from the Sisters of Battle close to the doors to the High Temple, hitting the berzerker on his arm and sending his weapon spinning into the air. Gaul noticed it bore white and red honour markings, likely a trophy taken in some blasphemous attack. That the berzerker had dared to wield such a noble weapon enraged Gaul, and he thrust Acritus upwards towards the now disarmed figure. The berzerker angled to his side, the blade carving through the front of his chest armour. Bellowing some foul oath, his opponent kicked sideways, using his advantage of elevation to send Gaul crashing into Sergeant Ordelon at the very edge of the steps. Gaul recovered himself to see the berzerker pounding up towards the gates of the High Temple, his massive boots stomping over the fallen corpses of a dozen Sisters. Gaul could spare no more thought for them than his enemy, and with a roar of fury at the desecration the Chaos warrior was committing, bounded after his foe.

Barging his way upwards through a seething mass of fighting, Gaul reached the top of the steps. Here, the melee was beginning to thin, with more bodies on the ground than upright and battling. It did not take long to spot the berzerker with the broken helmet pulling a newly acquired chainaxe from the mangled body of a Sister Superior. Gaul charged, rotating Acritus in a circle and raising the relic blade high to smite down the foul creature. The berzerker turned and blocked the blow with the shaft of his axe. Acritus cleaved the grip, but the force of his blow unbalanced Gaul and for a fraction of a second, his left flank was exposed. It was all the time the berzerker needed to spin and ram the head of the axe into Gaul’s leg. The Chapter Master’s world slid sideways as his knee gave way. Raising his relic blade instinctively, Gaul managed to fend off the next murderous swing, but as the berzerker raised his axe above his head for the third, Gaul knew he would not be able to deflect the final blow. This, then, was the price for his hubris.

Gaul thought the light flooding through his soul was the beginning of his journey to the Emperor’s side. When the blast swept the berzerker before him away like an insect and the pain continued to scream from his leg, he realised his work was not yet done. Scarlet-armoured bodies flew past him, cartwheeling and twisting like dolls. A deep rumble shook the ground and Gaul craned over to the towering High Temple doors. They had opened, and between the fallen of the defenders and invaders stood a dazzling, beautiful sight – Lozepath, the Living Saint and holy protector of Salandraxis. In one hand he held a white-hot glowing blade and in the other an aquila-emblazoned shield. His entire body was pulsating with a golden aura, and through the shimmering energy field, Gaul could see a look of absolute malevolence on his face.

Khârn’s visions had promised great trophies on Salandraxis. He had not realised the Red Path might be leading him to give his own skull as a prize for the Blood God. If that be the case, thought Khârn, then so be it. Even in this impossible situation however, his head would be hard-earned. The column against which Khârn was resting shifted with the weight of his body, causing more lumps of masonry and stone to clang onto the ceramite of his armour. In his hand, Gorechild purred in readiness. The Dreadnought shifted its aim in response, and Khârn readied himself to strike. He had to put as much energy into the blow as possible, because in all likelihood he would not get to finish it. Khârn heard a series of clicks and whirrs. The machine warrior was readying itself to fire.

And then, the world went white.

Despite the coloured spots affecting his vision, it was all the distraction Khârn needed. With a roar, Khârn spun himself around and smashed Gorechild into the column. As he had anticipated, the fractures running up its length formed cracks and within a second, the entire section of the roof above him came smashing down. Khârn threw himself onto one knee and braced as great chunks of stone came raining down. The Dreadnought disappeared under a shower of dust and rubble, firing a withering salvo at the spot where Khârn had just been. Khârn leapt across the settling rubble, but the Dreadnought shook off the debris and whirled, unleashing a devastating burst of heavy bolter fire as it tracked around. The wall disintegrated behind Khârn, driving him towards the open gateway where the defensive line of tanks awaited him. A single column had survived the partial roof collapse, so Khârn threw himself behind it and to the ground. In seconds, it was reduced to rubble by the Dreadnought’s withering fire. More of the balcony came crashing down, but the cloud of dust thrown up was enough to mask his run. Khârn saw the Dreadnought catch up with him, but then a series of explosions detonated on its back. His warband had recovered themselves enough to continue their attack, and the machine suddenly faced more than a single berzerker.

The Dreadnought tried to turn and advance on the warriors, but the steel mesh from inside the balcony’s reinforced plascrete had wrapped itself around the lower part of one leg. Above, the Angels Eradicant had also spotted their battle-brother’s plight. To Khârn’s left and right, figures in sand-coloured armour thumped to the ground and charged the berzerkers in support of their venerable Chaplain. They streamed past and around Khârn, in front of the still open gate and into the defensive tank line’s field of fire on the other side of the wall. Khârn faced a decision – to use this advantage and get inside the citadel’s walls, or to take the head of the Dreadnought’s pilot. He had already decided to pursue his trophy when two Angels Eradicant landed beside him.

Sweeping Gorechild in a wide arc, Khârn rained blows down on the two Space Marines in a blur of rage. Smashing the flat of the blade into the head of one, he sent him staggering to the right, directly into the path of the Dreadnought, who was close to freeing its leg from the obstruction. Khârn swung the ancient chainaxe into the neck of the other, grinding through the side of his helmet and slicing the grille in two. Deactivating Gorechild’s mica-dragon teeth, Khârn swung the lifeless body into the recovering Angel Eradicant by the end of his axe, sending him stumbling over the rubble towards the Dreadnought. By now the machine’s leg was untangled, although several metal bars were still jammed between the exposed hydraulics running from its upper thighs into the lower abdomen. Khârn could see it trying to get a clear shot at him, so he pulled Gorechild out of the half-decapitated body and rammed the head of the chainaxe into the helmet of the surviving Angel Eradicant. As he fell backwards, Khârn bent down and threw himself into the abdomen of the Space Marine, lifting him up with the impact and carrying him towards the Dreadnought. It could not fire without eviscerating one of its battle-brothers, and by the time Khârn had thrown his shield away, he was sailing through the air towards the Dreadnought, Gorechild held high and ready to strike.

Khârn heard a roar of fury from somewhere inside the massive machine as it twisted upwards to bring its fist to bear. Feinting a strike at the thick frontal armour, he instead used Gorechild’s momentum to strike under the rotating upper torso. The Dreadnought swivelled and lowered its bolters, but Khârn raised Gorechild and blocked the downward movement with the chainaxe’s head. His body shook as the weapons fired, but the shells exploded some yards away. Raising its fist, the machine brought it crashing down towards Khârn’s head. Again he blocked the blow with Gorechild, and Khârn heard the whine of servos and motors as the Dreadnought tried to overpower him. Khârn could feel the ceramite claw creeping down, his left arm giving in to the many injuries it had received in his recent battles.

Khârn suddenly dropped away from the parry and took hold of one of the pieces of metal sticking out of the machine’s armour and rammed it into the cables dangling between its legs. Hydraulic fluid spurted out like blood from a severed artery, and the Dreadnought’s left leg locked into position. Khârn threw himself back as the machine’s gun arm swept at him again. This time it connected with the top of his helmet, knocking him to the floor.

Weapons fire erupted all around. The Angels Eradicant had seen Khârn’s success, and were turning from their fights with the berzerkers to rally around their icon. Khârn threw himself between the legs of the frantically whirring machine and sliced again, this time with Gorechild. More cables came away, and both legs stopped moving. The Dreadnought tried to angle its weapon down to fire at Khârn but it could not achieve a solution. Khârn felt the ground erupt around his feet. Pushing himself forwards slightly, he presented his head just in front of the Dreadnought’s forward casing. It fell for the ruse and rotated, firing its bolters as it moved. Shell casings rained down onto Khârn’s exposed left arm and burned his flesh, but he paid them no heed. Pushing backwards, he was on his feet just as the Dreadnought realised its mistake. Gorechild chewed into the thick armour at the base of its spine, ripping it open and exposing a network of conduits and gears.

Khârn rammed his chainaxe further into the workings of the Dreadnought, then pulled it back towards him. He knew that somewhere inside, there were the festering remains of the hero that had been given the dubious honour of a living death, and when he found that crippled bag of flesh the machine would die. Its occupant realised the danger and began rotating left and right, but Khârn kept a tight grip on Gorechild. Angels Eradicant streamed towards him, but the berzerkers were right behind, attacking them as they advanced on the wall.

Khârn pushed and twisted Gorechild deeper into the Dreadnought and as something suddenly gave in, the machine shivered violently. With a triumphant cry, Khârn realised he had reached the Dreadnought’s core. Now the melee surrounded them, scarlet and sand-white armoured bodies spilling towards the open gateway before the defenders had time to close it. Khârn twisted again, and the gun arm dropped lifelessly to one side. One final scream of anger came from within the metal coffin, and he pulled back on Gorechild with a roar to release it from the now-burning innards of the machine. Khârn staggered backwards and revved Gorechild hard, spinning its mica-dragon teeth to the full. There was something he had to retrieve from the body of this Dreadnought.

‘Hold the gate! Fire!’

Balacet screamed into the handset of his vox. He did not have the best view of the battlefield through the gateway, but he did not need his field glasses to see the engagement was funnelling into the citadel. Somewhere out there, the remains of his infantry needed to regroup and launch a counter-attack. They could have the enemy outflanked, caught between their surviving armour and his defensive line in the assembly yard, if only they moved now. Apart from losing air superiority earlier than he had expected, so far Balacet felt his plan had worked well. He had allowed the berzerkers to get through his line relatively unscathed, and while the break-off group had admittedly made it to the High Temple far faster than he had anticipated, Gaul and his Angels Eradicant had gone to the aid of the Sisters of Battle to redress the balance of power. That, of course, had been before the spectacular entrance of the Living Saint. The colonel did not have to worry about what was happening behind, only to contain and destroy the threat moving towards him.

Balacet raised his glasses. Sure enough, past the milling power-armoured bodies, he saw tanks and infantry streaming from the left and the right towards the gateway. A number of scarlet-clad shapes ran to meet them, but their numbers were greatly reduced thanks to the efforts of the Angels Eradicant. Balacet put his glasses down and looked up to the smashed battlements. Where there had been a line of Space Marines only a few minutes before, now there were none. He assumed they were continuing their fight with the berzerkers, although he found it strange that the Dreadnought had stopped firing.

‘Colonel. Lieutenant Rokej reporting. We are engaging the enemy. Chaplain Venerable Tentera is out of action, sir. As are many of the Angels Eradicant.’

Balacet pushed the earpiece of his vox caster closer to his head. What had he just said?

‘Repeat, Rokej.’

‘We are engaging, sir. The Dreadnought has been knocked out by one of the berzerkers. He has dispatched the Angels Eradicant not fighting the warband with us and is moving towards your location. He appears to be carrying–’

The transmission ended in a fizzle of static, leaving Balacet’s mind reeling. He had to salvage this situation and prevent the enemy from getting past his position, or the High Temple would be threatened on two fronts. In his mind, he could see the fury on Alecia’s face and the frustration on Gaul’s during their tactical council. They had insisted that the only target would be Salandraxis Municipalis and that he should commit all of his forces to defending it, but he had disagreed. He had counted on the Angels Eradicant being more than a match for the enemy, and on them being able to send down reinforcements from their orbiting ships if required. The ships were gone, and it sounded as if the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes were faring little better. Now it was up to him to prevent anyone – anything – getting past his tanks.

‘Order all tank commanders to close up. I don’t want any gaps for these scum to get through. Train all weapons on the gateway. Once you have a clear shot past our forces, blow anything apart that shows its face. We advance in thirty seconds.’

Acknowledgements came in fast. Something nagged at Balacet, and he clicked his vox to the long-range regimental channel.

‘To all Vodorian Grenadiers outside Salandraxis Municipalis. This is Colonel Balacet. Return to Salandraxis Municipalis. We require urgent reinforcement. All previous mission directives are cancelled.’

A series of explosions tore into the gateway, bringing a part of the wall down and the gate itself crashing to the ground. Balacet activated the vox once again.

‘Get here as quickly as you can. The Emperor protects.’

Engines roared and exhausts belched with thick black fumes. The ground of the assembly yard shook with the grinding of tracks, and Balacet steadied himself against his Leman Russ’ turret ring. His tank was right in the centre of the wide line of war machines, just as it should be. He would lead the advance through the gateway, and he was going to destroy every creature from the warp that still drew breath. And then he would turn back to the High Temple, although he strongly suspected his efforts would no longer be required now that the Living Saint had joined the fray.

Balacet jolted backwards as the Leman Russ advanced. He felt comfortable in the open turret, at home, like he had been as a tank commander earlier in his career. Space Marines were extremely hard to kill, he knew that, but nothing withstood the weight of a tank running over its head or the explosive force of massed battle cannons. Twenty of them would be more than a match for ceramite armour. The battling Adeptus Astartes warriors loomed closer. He hoped the remaining Angels Eradicant would get out of his way and allow him to do his duty. Balacet gave the order for battle speed.

At the top of the smashed battlements, a shape appeared above the gateway. For a second Balacet could not understand where the berzerker had come from, but then realised it must be the one that Lieutenant Rokej had reported. The berzerker raised a giant axe to the sky and lingered for a moment. Then, he slowly lowered the grizzly weapon towards the armoured reserve and his gaze came to rest right on Balacet. Above, the darkening clouds parted to give way to a cluster of falling stars.

Orbital strike.

‘Open–’

A sheet of flame roared in front of Balacet’s face. His ears were ringing and he could feel the tank grinding to a halt beneath him. He tried to open his eyes but all he could see was a red haze. Another huge blast of air hit him from the left, and he felt the Leman Russ rise on one side before crashing back down. Balacet reached over to the vox transmitter, but when he looked down he could not see his fingers. Instead there were ragged stumps of bone with blood pumping around them. The pain cascaded through him as he touched his face with his good hand. Instead of flesh, he felt wet bone. The realisation of what had happened swept over him in a panicked wave. He could not hear his own voice, only the hammering of blood inside his head.

Balacet tried to get himself out of the burning machine, but he could not move. Another shock wave rocked him from the opposite side and he blinked furiously. There was just enough time for him to see two tanks running into each other and the front of a third bursting into flame.

A shadow moved on his right, and he turned back to face the gateway which was now only yards ahead. His left eye stopped working altogether, and the world changed to a series of scarlet blurs streaming towards him. And then, there was something standing on his burning tank, blocking his view completely. Shaking his head, he stared through a crimson mist. An object resolved itself, huge and flat, racing towards him. It looked like the blade of some enormous chainaxe.

Samzar opened his eyes and tried to blink the throbbing after-image from his sight. It was made all the more pronounced by the fact that he was staring up into the sky, so he moved his head down to see just how far the blast had thrown him. He was many yards away from the foot of the body-strewn steps to the High Temple where the glowing figure still stood. Samzar realised he was looking upon the form of a Living Saint, and the blood started racing within his veins. What a prize his skull would make for the Blood God! He would be elevated above all others, perhaps even Khârn himself, were he to claim him as a trophy.

Samzar tried to right himself and the base of his spine exploded in a cauldron of heat. He had experienced pain before, but nothing on this scale. Reaching down and behind, his fingers traced the melted hole blown in the ceramite of his armour by the Sister of Battle during the encounter with the armoured column. He felt the slick, warm sensation of blood running freely down his legs from the gaping wound she had created. That did not bother him in the least. Something else was making him feel strange, as if a great veil had been taken from his thoughts. He felt focussed, able to think and plan. He realised it was a moment of lucidity, that the Butcher’s Nails had receded to a whisper at the back of his mind for a moment.

His thoughts turned to Lukosz. How he would have revelled in this battle.

Something moved towards the golden being at the top of the steps. It was the Chapter Master he had fought so savagely. Samzar’s rage began to boil over. All thoughts of tactics fled into the bloody shadows cast by the Nails, consumed in hatred and loathing. He made no attempt to resist. Samzar had but a single reason to live – kill all that stood before him, and do it before anyone else claimed their heads for their own glory.

Clambering to his feet over the corpses on which he had landed, Samzar became aware of movement all around. The blast might have cleared the entranceway to the High Temple and swept all that stood before it down the steps, but it had not killed many of his warriors. At least a dozen of the warband were rising, weapons drawn and raging at the Angels Eradicant assembling in front of their Living Saint. All Samzar felt now was the favour of the Blood Father upon him. He did not care if the other berzerkers fought with him or against him. Bellowing an oath to Khorne, he began running back towards the steps, the searing pain in his back completely masked by his Butcher’s Nails. In seconds he was nearing the top, having rammed his way past other berzerkers in his bloodlust. The Angels Eradicant Chapter Master stood only yards away, shoulder to shoulder with his battle-brothers to form a wall between the attackers and the golden figure who had stepped back into the open doorway of the High Temple, his own weapon and shield still raised. Without warning, the Angels Eradicant charged forwards in a line filling the width of the steps, sweeping down with chainswords and power axes. Something at the back of Samzar’s mind tried to tell him they had the higher ground, but the thought was fleeting and held no interest. Samzar threw himself at the nearest Space Marine, swiping his half-chainaxe outwards and ramming into the Angel Eradicant’s exposed chest armour with his left pauldron. His attacker pivoted around on one foot and stepped downwards to save himself from falling. This was exactly what Samzar had hoped for, and he sliced down into the thigh armour, ripping through it and into the flesh and bone within.

The Space Marine collapsed forwards, taking Samzar’s embedded weapon with him. Samzar had to relinquish his grip on it to avoid following his victim down to the bottom of the steps. Looking to the bodies before him, he spotted a fallen berzerker holding his weapon in a death grip. Turning to retrieve it, he felt a fresh burning sensation across the top of his right shoulder, and his arm went numb. The Angels Eradicant Chapter Master was upon him, and Samzar was astonished to see his weapon had cut its way through most of his arm and deep into his chest. Samzar punched forwards with his good hand, hitting the Space Marine squarely in the upper chest and pushing him upwards and away. Samzar staggered backwards, unbalanced by the sudden limpness of his right arm, and scrambled towards the weapon of the dead berzerker even as the Chapter Master bore down on him again. His relic blade came up high. If this was to be his fate, then so be it. But he would not go before Khorne without a weapon in his hand.

The Chapter Master flew backwards in a cloud of blood and ceramite fragments, crashing onto his back and rolling to one side. To his left and right, his battle-brothers were struck by a volley of bolter shells and las-fire, some of them dropping instantly, others turning to look past Samzar to the bottom of the steps behind him. Realising they had a new enemy, the Angels Eradicant surged past the kneeling Samzar, pushing the berzerkers into the advancing line. Samzar heard the clash of bodies in close-quarters fighting around him. Despite his dreadful injury, his Butcher’s Nails were howling at him to fight. His legs still worked, he could still grip a weapon.

Get up, Samzar.

‘Kill!’

Take up that weapon.

‘Maim!’

Turn and face your enemy.

‘Destroy!’

Samzar turned. The approach to the bottom of the steps was a sea of black and brass armour flecked with red, smashing against the few remaining Angels Eradicant in an unstoppable tide of destruction. Jumping down behind the loyalist forces, Samzar plunged his new chainsword into the back of an Angel Eradicant, pushing and screaming until it could go no further into his body. A handful of berzerkers who had survived the Angels’ charge followed his lead, hacking and slashing at the dwindling line of black-and-sand-coloured armour. Such was the ferocity of Samzar’s attack that the body of his victim would not relinquish his weapon. Samzar had to raise his foot and push to withdraw the gore-flicking chainsword. Through the gap came several black-armoured figures, and all but one of them rushed towards the top of the steps in their own murderous charge. The brilliant light filled Samzar’s head again but this time he ducked, the bodies that had thundered past him tossed back into the main force from which they had come. The light receded and Samzar struggled to his feet, using the chainsword to push himself upright. Looking up the steps, he could see the doors to the High Temple were now firmly closed, a line of Sisters of Battle and a smattering of Angels Eradicant forming a last line of defence. His blood boiled with the strength of his need to claim their skulls, and he took a step towards them, his chainsword spinning up to full speed.

‘Samzar.’

He stopped. The voice was familiar, but from where he was unsure. Samzar wanted to charge back up the steps and get to the Living Saint, but something told him to turn. Before him stood a Hound of Abaddon. He had his hand raised, signalling the Black Legion warband behind him to await his command. Samzar saw the remaining berzerkers shift warily, unsure what to do. The figure took off his helmet slowly, and stared impassively at Samzar. What was his name? Locq. That was it. Captain Locq. Realisation lifted the scarlet veil from his mind.

‘Does Khârn live?’

Samzar could not quite understand the question. He had not seen Khârn since battle had commenced.

‘Of course he lives. He is the Chosen of Khorne. What business is it of yours?’ Samzar gasped the words, struggling to breathe. Had this upstart come to take their glory from them, after all the blood that had been shed by his warband? Samzar’s hand tightened on the chainsword. His would be an excellent skull to take. Locq looked past Samzar and up towards the High Temple, then over to the few remaining berzerkers. He began to smile, raised his hand and made a fist. Samzar’s Nails screamed for him to act. He thrust his chainsword towards Locq’s throat, but his wounds made him slow. As the Hounds of Abaddon surged over the fallen bodies of the Angels Eradicant and into the handful of berzerkers on the steps, Samzar felt a terrible vibration run through his abdomen. Locq’s face was pressed up against his helmet, a sneer playing on his lips. He did not have to look down to witness the fatal wound Locq had struck. This time, he knew without a doubt he was going to die. An extraordinary silence filled his head, and as he felt himself fall, he realised the Butcher’s Nails were no longer screaming at him. Through his fading vision, he saw Locq staring down at him, readying his weapon to take his skull. Samzar cared not.

If dying meant silence, he embraced it.

The second flash of light came just as Khârn was taking the head of the last Angel Eradicant from the wall. Behind him, the explosions from the orbital bombardment were still tearing the remains of the defensive armoured column apart as the berzerkers ran amok between the tanks, slaughtering the Imperial troops in a sea of blood.

‘Roderbar, cease fire and proceed as you will. I am inside the shrine city.’

Khârn cut the vox-link before Roderbar could reply. Whatever happened to the shipmaster and his captured White Scars cruiser after this battle, he had proven his worth to Khârn and their god.

As the light flooded over the rooftops of the city from the top of the hill, Khârn was again reminded of his vision, of a golden corona destined to be extinguished by the Blood God’s will. Salandraxis had already provided an offering of considerable power to Khorne in the shape of the Dreadnought pilot’s skull, but far greater trophies awaited him. This was a beacon, yet another sign calling him to the Red Path. Hefting Gorechild before him, Khârn ran through the narrow alleyways of Municipalis, sweeping between the tall buildings that still burned from the orbital bombardment. The citadel was blackened and charred, its gleaming white stone smothered by the hand of Chaos. Khârn gloried in the desecration.

Through the smoke and flames Khârn could see the end of a deserted passageway. Beyond it stood a golden statue to the Emperor, arms raised out as if to welcome Khârn to the once ornate square in which it stood. Further ahead still, a wide avenue swept up the hill to the rear of the High Temple, and while he could see fighting going on around the curved walls he was surprised that the Imperial forces had not set up a roadblock in such an obvious approach. The curiosity was still lingering in his mind when the roar of jump packs thundered in the air. Fire exploded all around, thumping into his armour and shattering the cobblestones underfoot. Khârn looked up to see the air filled with Seraphim, their twin bolt pistols pouring down projectiles as they swooped and flitted towards their target. Khârn swept upwards with Gorechild, but the Sisters were far too experienced to be caught out so easily. More fire cannoned down, and Khârn threw himself against the ruined stone wall of a burning building, bringing up his plasma pistol and firing into the black-clad shapes. Such was the density of their attack between the narrow confines of the passageway that his first shot brought down two Seraphim at the same time. The second hit a third Sister in the jump pack, blowing her up and taking two others with her in the inferno. The remaining combatants broke to avoid the same fate, before rapidly reforming and descending on him from all directions.

The first to land were quickly dispatched by Gorechild, but with screams to the glory of the Emperor they kept on coming. To his left, Khârn saw more Seraphim landing and running across the square to join the attack, and spotted some of them heading for the raised pillar of the statue where they could aim with care and fire over the heads of their fellow Sisters.

Khârn crouched down just as they opened fire on him. The stone exploded directly above his head, chunks of masonry clattering off his helmet. Khârn thrust outwards with a roar, sweeping Gorechild in an arc from left to right. Several Seraphim were hit by shrapnel, but still they pushed forwards, firing their braces of pistols while chanting oaths. A stream of ignited promethium from a hand flamer enveloped the ceramite on his pauldron and a warning rune blinked red. Shots rang out from Seraphim who had jumped into the air to hover above the melee, hitting Khârn on the back of the neck and glancing off his shoulders. Their tactic might have been effective against a normal opponent, but not Khârn. He span himself around with Gorechild in both hands, three more falling to his mighty chainaxe. Enraged, the airborne Seraphim swooped down, but Khârn shot them at point-black range and let them fall onto the lifeless bodies of their comrades. The Sisters at the base of the statue kept on firing, but Khârn moved too fast for them to get a killing shot. Three of them took flight before he was on their position. Those who had stayed on the ground he carved into pieces.

Fire rained down on him from the survivors. Laughably, the defenders were trying to avoid hitting the statue behind which he stood. Jumping behind the base, he used its cover to protect him and picked the first one off with a perfectly aimed headshot. The second powered down, firing constantly with both weapons. Khârn leapt onto the side of the statue’s base and into the air, swiping down with Gorechild. The chainaxe ripped through the Seraphim’s skull, cutting it in half and continuing down the line of her torso. When Khârn finally landed, the cleaved halves of the Sister fell wetly on either side, entrails spattering onto the cobbled square. Without pause, Khârn raced towards the High Temple.

Had it not been for the decades Pradillo had spent in near-darkness within the High Temple’s confines, he would have found it difficult to know where he was or from which direction the screams and cries of battle were coming. He had pieced together much of what had happened since the dark forces had descended upon the planet from the communications sent to the Sisters of Battle inside the temple, and when His Holiness had furiously demanded the doors be opened so he could visit the wrath of the Emperor upon the heretics, Pradillo had assumed that the battle was reaching its zenith. The arrival of the black gunships had changed all that, and now he stood in his chambers at the back of the temple, feeling the ground shake and breathing in the smell of burning flesh and buildings. He had not wanted to retreat to this sanctuary, but blinded as he was, he would have been more hindrance than help to the Sisters. They had asked him to pray for their success, and then his clerics had spirited him away from Lozepath’s throne. They had even given him a sword, which hung uselessly in its scabbard.

The ground shook again, rattling the hundreds of bookcases and cabinets that followed the curve of the temple’s interior wall. Many had shattered during the orbital bombardment, but there were still enough intact that Pradillo heard several objects crash to the floor. He moved towards the sounds, groping downwards until his fingers brushed over a large book. Shards of glass pierced his parchment-like skin, but the pain was welcome. It was all part of his continued punishment for losing his faith in the Living Saint. When the enemy came, which they now surely would, at least he would be able to give his life in Lozepath’s service. He hoped it would be enough to redeem his soul.

A massive explosion rocked the temple, and the thick single door that sealed him from the rest of the building shook on its hinges. Bolter fire erupted in the distance, the sounds muted by the thick wall that separated him from the temple proper. Pradillo heard familiar voices shouting unfamiliar things, barking orders, calling for more ammunition, demanding reinforcements. Several loud bangs came from the door, impacts of some description, and bolters chattered on the other side. Whatever was attacking, it had made its way to the interior of the temple. Pradillo clutched the heavy tome in his arms. If only he could see, he could take up arms and stand side-by-side with His Holiness. It was at that point that there was a tremendous shrieking sound, of metal being rent apart, and the noise of battle dropped to nothing.

Lozepath must have retaliated.

Pradillo breathed in deeply. The day might yet be saved, because no Chaos force could withstand the might of the Emperor, regardless of what evil pit they emerged from. For long seconds, he could hear little more than moaning and shuffling, but then the bolter fire began again, this time more insistent, and the cries changed from ones of victory to ones of pain and despair.

He could take it no longer. Reaching out, he felt for the edge of the grand meeting table around which he had run the Ministorum’s affairs for countless years. Tracing the table’s edges, polished smooth by thousands of councils, he followed it to the end where his elaborate chair sat, then turned to the right. His hands grasped at free air until, finally, he felt the long, smooth barrel of his inferno pistol, gifted to him by the predecessor of Canoness Preceptor Alecia. Following its engraved barrel past the firing mechanism and down its ornately carved grip, Pradillo took it from its ceremonial mounting. Once, it had felt like a feather in his hand, but now it weighed heavily and his grip shook with the effort of raising it. No matter. He could still reach the trigger and had the strength to pull it.

The cacophony outside increased and he could smell smoke. The fighting had reached the rear of the temple. Pradillo felt his way back towards the door, reached out for its rough surface then took six paces back. He was directly before it, and felt his confidence grow. He might not have been able to fight by the side of Lozepath, but he would still make his stand.

A loud crash came, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground amongst a shower of broken glass. Pradillo turned in confusion from the door and for a split second could not understand what had happened. Then the whirring of a chain weapon, a large one by the sound of it, started up and he heard the crunch of booted footsteps approach. Something had come through the glass ceiling of the High Temple’s dome. Pradillo pulled the trigger on his inferno pistol and it bucked slightly in his hand. He felt the flash of its superheated blast on his hands and face, and heard a loud hiss as it impacted with his target. Turning slightly, he fired again, then again, trying to create an arc of destruction before him.

‘Cardinal.’

The voice came from directly behind him, a low, guttural growl filtered by the speakers of a Space Marine’s helmet. Pradillo rounded on the noise and fired, but his shot hit the wall. Throaty laughter came from somewhere to his side, and Pradillo turned in panic. There was the scream of the chainblade spinning up to full speed and he felt a burning sensation in his wrist. He tried to fire, but realised there were no fingers for him to control any more. He barely heard the clatter of his inferno pistol on the stone floor. His ancient heart thumped in his chest, fear replaced by righteous fury. He would not be mocked by this perpetrator.

‘You may think I am blind and helpless, but I still see you for what you are.’

Pradillo heard the chain weapon throttle down, and the footsteps approach still closer.

‘And what is that, you deluded fool?’

The cardinal straightened as well as he could, forcing calm into his voice. He knew that very soon he would be standing with the Emperor, the reward for his service a place by His Golden Throne.

‘You are a coward. You hide in the shadows, skulk and crawl at the commands of your perverted gods. But be warned. Those who walk the dark path will find it wanes in the approaching light.’

Pradillo could hear the creature breathing with powerful lungs. He could smell the stench of blood, old and fresh, on its power armour. Even so, he was no longer afraid. The love of the Emperor flooded through him, buoying up his spirits and giving him strength. Reaching for the sword at his belt with his remaining hand, he unsheathed it with a roar of defiance.

‘In the name of His Glorious Holiness the Emperor of Mankind, I denounce you!’

Pradillo lurched forwards, hacking and slashing with the weapon before him. If the Emperor did not give him strength enough to defeat this unbeliever, he would at least welcome him as a warrior to His side. His fight was that of the Living Saint, of everything that was good and holy. The righteous love of the Emperor of Mankind would guide his hand.

Pradillo felt his ribs crack as an armoured fist smashed into his side. His feet left the ground and his shoulder blade shattered as it hit the wall, and he fell to the floor at the same time as his broken sword. He could barely draw breath, such was the agony. As the giant stamped closer towards him, he hoped his death would be a quick one. To his shame, he could not bear the pain much longer. The footsteps stopped, and he heard the creature bend over him, the stink of death filling his nostrils.

‘I shall not take your skull, cardinal. You are not a worthy sacrifice for the Blood Father.’

Pradillo began to weep. In that moment, he would have welcomed any release from this purgatory. The creature straightened and moved towards the door to the High Temple, but then stopped and turned.

‘And as for walking in the shadows, you are mistaken, cardinal. I do not follow a dark path, but a red one.’

Khârn smashed his way through the door, slicing the black-clad cleric to his left in half and crushing the one on his right into the wall with his armoured hand. He ran deeper into the smoking interior of the High Temple, seeking out the Living Saint. Here, Sisters of Battle were everywhere, firing at Black Legion warriors in well-organised squads. Several turned to face him, but he swept them away, throwing them into the pitted, fractured statues that filled the interior. A bolt struck him on the thigh from close quarters, and he turned to see a young man, head shaven and clutching a bolt pistol he could hardly aim, shaking before him. Gorechild’s teeth did not even slow as they cut him in half above the waist, his torso and arms folding over and dropping to the floor in a lake of blood.

More Sisters of Battle appeared, their shots far better judged than his previous assailant’s, and Khârn charged them through an alley of marble saints. This time the sacredness of the effigies was overlooked, and they were soon reduced to spinning fragments of stone and plaster. Armoured figures moved on the Sisters from behind, and with the smoke clearing Khârn could see that they were all Hounds of Abaddon. Perhaps they had reached the High Temple before the berzerkers, perhaps they had killed them and decided to launch an attack for their own glory. It mattered not to Khârn. The blood was flowing, and Khorne would be exulted.

Khârn felt the floor shake, as if the very temple were beginning to move. Those pillars and statues still standing splintered and cracked, the glass in the dome high above shattering and falling to the ground, slicing into Khârn’s exposed left arm and adding to the network of cuts and abrasions already there. Light erupted, so brilliant it burned into the darkest core of Khârn’s being. Turning away, he heard the crash of armoured bodies screeching across stone and brick. Something hit him hard, sending him reeling to the ground and he rolled blindly, sweeping outwards with Gorechild to stop his tumble. Shaking his head, Khârn tried to clear his vision as he got back to his feet. Slowly it returned, but there was still a golden aura to everything he saw. A number of Sisters of Battle rose, shaking and battered, a few yards in front of him. Instead of charging, they withdrew in a dazed line, weapons pointed at him in wary readiness. Khârn was just about to attack them when he saw his own shadow thrown into stark relief before him. Even through his power armour, he could feel the crackling discharge of an energy field at his back.

Khârn turned. Directly in front stood a vision of holiness and purity. It made him sick to look upon it, but he stood his ground. Lozepath, the Living Saint, stared down at Gorechild and then back up to him. Despite the shimmer caused by the power dancing and crackling around the holy avatar’s white-robed body, Khârn could still see the burning intensity of his white eyes, the mocking smile on his thin lips. The massive, glowing sword came up towards Khârn’s throat, and he tightened his grip on Gorechild, readying himself for the attack.

The Living Saint spoke, his voice booming around the destroyed interior of the High Temple. The smile had gone. In its place was a look of absolute hatred.

‘You will go no further, heretic. The march of the Blood God stops here.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Court of Daemons

Gaul pushed against the bodies on top of him, all the time trying to pull his left arm away from whatever was pinning him down. With a clatter of armour, the heap above began to shift, revealing a sky black with smoke.

‘Maedinar, Ordelon. Report.’

Static hissed in his helmet. Gaul had not seen the veteran sergeant or his captain since they had engaged the berzerkers on the steps. Despite constant attempts, he had heard nothing from Tentera at all. He bitterly concluded that the venerable Chaplain had been overwhelmed at the wall, along with a great number of his battle-brothers. Such thoughts were pointless. He would have time to honour the fallen later. Right now, he had to rejoin the fight. Fury coursed through his veins, filling him with vengeful promise. Revitalised, he heaved himself upwards with a roar.

A bolt exploded less than an inch above his head. Gaul flattened back down, drawing Acritus with his free hand. Another bolt came, this time detonating on the Sister of Battle slumped lifelessly on top of him, tearing the body in half and spattering its remains in every direction. As he twisted and turned, his arm became free and Gaul felt the grip of a bolt pistol. Seizing it, he pushed himself upwards with a furious roar, levelling the weapon and firing at the Black Legion traitor advancing down the steps of the High Temple towards him. A shot thudded into Gaul’s chest, blowing a hole in his armour, but he kept on firing until his attacker’s helmet exploded. The body slumped down, and Gaul saw the firefight had attracted the attention of several other Chaos warriors.

Gaul threw himself down the steps, rolling and bouncing off the carpet of bodies until he crashed to the ruined avenue at the bottom. Shots tore all around him, disintegrating what still stood of the grand columns and statues lining the walkway. Ducking towards the burning shell of a building, he continued to transmit on his vox, calling for all Angels Eradicant to muster at his location. The High Temple had been breached. Gaul knew the Living Saint was in grave danger.

Khârn hit the thick stone column of the High Temple with a force that broke it in two. Crashing onto the fractured, gold-inlaid floor, he rolled, propelling himself from the curved interior wall back towards the crumbling fluted support from which he had fallen. All the time he kept low, ignoring the frantic battles all around him in case Lozepath delivered another devastating blast. Warning runes flashed madly for attention within his helmet. He did not need them to tell him the ceramite on his right pauldron and rerebrace had been compromised by the impact.

His breastplate was still smouldering from the discharge of the Living Saint’s sword, and while his body screamed with pain, Khârn knew he had been fortunate to withstand the blast at such close range. The fact he had survived was another sign the Blood God still favoured him. Khorne was not making it easy for him, but nor would he have expected him to.

The top of the column exploded above him, showering chunks of plascrete across the horns on his helmet. Khârn turned and only just blocked the sweeping blow of an Angel Eradicant’s chainsword as it swung towards him. The Space Marine continued to press down, flames glinting in the red of his visor, and Khârn saw him bring his bolt pistol to bear with his other hand. Khârn knew his only option was to push upwards and break cover. With a roar, he launched himself forwards, the handle of Gorechild grinding against the chainsword’s teeth. Despite his strength, Khârn knew his opponent had the advantage of elevation, so when he countered Khârn’s upward thrust by pushing back, Khârn relaxed abruptly, allowing the Angel Eradicant to topple forwards over his body and crash head first into the broken column behind him. Khârn moved in a blur, getting to his feet and bringing Gorechild down on his assailant’s flank. It chewed its way through the side of the pauldron down into the vambrace, rendering the arm useless. With a cry of frustration the Space Marine twisted away from the blow and fired his bolt pistol, but he was too slow. Khârn smashed backwards with a vicious kick, knocking the weapon away. Pulling Gorechild free, Khârn brought it down into the helmet of the Angel Eradicant, carving a diagonal slice from the scalp to the neck. The body fell back, brain and bone glistening inside the rupture, then crashed onto its side.

Another blast of light hit Khârn, spinning him into the temple’s wall. Stones fell onto his back as he rolled down to the floor.

‘Behold, vile apostates of darkness. The Emperor of Mankind shall triumph over your feeble champion. He cannot survive the power of a Living Saint.’

Lozepath’s voice rolled around the decimated interior of the High Temple, rising above the whir of chainaxes and the chatter of bolters all around. Khârn scrambled back towards the broken column, shoulder burning with pain from the impact. A glance revealed that his pauldron was black with the force of the Living Saint’s deflected blow. With Gorechild clutched to his chest, Khârn tried to locate the Living Saint. He heard a crash of multiple bodies hitting glass and stone, then the cries of Sisters of Battle forming a charge only yards away. Lozepath was cutting a swathe through the Hounds of Abaddon to get to Khârn, leaving the Adepta Sororitas and surviving Angels Eradicant to finish them off in his wake. Khârn knew it was only a matter of time before Lozepath threw every one of his warriors at him. If he left cover, Khârn would present a ready target for the enemy’s bolters and the Living Saint’s energy blasts.

None of this mattered. His bloodlust was sweeping over him with renewed vigour, his twin hearts pumping furiously to fuel his rage. It was time to take the fight to Lozepath.

A blinding flash of light passed through him, and a split second later the column against which he rested was torn apart. He heard Lozepath’s booming laugh and taunting cries. Sprinting forwards, Khârn ducked underneath a searing golden stream that punched a hole through the temple wall directly behind him.

Khârn leapt over fallen effigies and chunks of stone, trampling bodies underfoot. Before him, three Sisters of Battle were engaging a Hound of Abaddon. Khârn angled himself forwards and rammed into the group, sending all four spinning to the blood-slick floor. Yards ahead, two Sisters turned and swept their weapons towards him with hoarse shouts of fury. The closest, a squad leader, brought her power sword up high while the other Sister thrust the butt of her bolter low in a practised, coordinated attack. Khârn ducked the high sword and brought Gorechild up in front of him, tearing the leader from crotch to mid-chest. Her scream of rage was a gargle of blood and froth, and as Khârn kicked her sundered body away to free his chainaxe, the second Sister evaporated in a cloud of steaming gore. Lozepath’s aim had been wide, and he clearly did not care who he killed in pursuit of his prey.

‘See how he runs, a cur hiding in the shadows cast by my holy purity. Come, chosen son of the Blood Father. I will be merciful. You shall be released from your torment, as will your foul brethren.’

Khârn felt the ground shake. More glass and metal showered down from above as the air erupted with fresh violence. The roar of dark oaths echoed from the walls, and Khârn knew it heralded the arrival of more Chaos forces. Before him, most of the remaining Angels Eradicant and Sisters of Battle stormed towards the main entrance, giving Lozepath more room to wield his deadly energy sword. The firing intensified ahead, stray bolter salvoes ricocheting back and forth around Khârn. He headed towards the very centre of the High Temple and a towering statue to the Emperor. Lozepath bellowed in rage behind him, and Khârn felt himself lifted into the air. His vision was filled with the flank of the golden statue hurtling towards him and he crashed into it chest-first. Khârn felt his left rib plate crack, and his bloody left arm dragged along the front of the effigy as he plunged onto the ornate throne built beneath the golden Emperor’s legs. Another blast came, but Khârn vaulted over the high seat for cover.

Khârn stepped onto the throne, Gorechild in both hands. In the near distance, Lozepath lurched forwards, the field of iridescence around him pulsating with his heartbeat. Khârn saw the glowing sword come up ready to strike, and he steeled himself to move. Before it could unleash its lethal beam, a volley of bolter fire roared from Lozepath’s left. Several Hounds of Abaddon opened fire as they charged, pumping shell after shell into the Living Saint. Khârn jumped off the throne and ran towards Lozepath, using the distraction to his advantage. The concentration of bolt explosions was unrelenting. Bringing his shield before him, Lozepath deflected the majority of the shots aimed at his body, but many others detonated on his energy field. The aura around the Saint changed colour into a swirling dark brown where the shots found their mark, but Khârn could see Lozepath was already channelling energy into his broadsword. Khârn increased speed and raised Gorechild ready to strike, but the Living Saint had weathered the onslaught. He unleashed a broiling stream of energy from the tip of his sword, the outer edge of the blast catching Khârn on his right arm and hurling him back towards the statue. As he skidded along the floor, Khârn saw the Hounds of Abaddon annihilated in the Living Saint’s furious attack.

Khârn rolled into a crouch, readying himself for Lozepath’s next attack. For a few seconds, the Living Saint swayed on his feet, the field around him dissipating until it became almost transparent. Khârn could see that he had clearly been weakened by the maelstrom unleashed by the Hounds’ attack, and the blood raced in his veins. For all of Lozepath’s boastful claims of commanding the might of the righteous, there was a limit to it. Khârn would find that boundary, and smash it down.

The aura returned to its original state with a golden flicker as Lozepath raised his huge sword. This time Khârn was the faster, and dodged the beam that slammed into the base of the Emperor’s effigy behind him, causing it to rock on its foundations. In that split second, Khârn knew how he could use the Saint’s enormous power against him. A fine mist of dust and plascrete billowed up around Khârn and he looked up to the golden figure as Lozepath marched towards him. His face was a shimmering mask of hate, more resolute with every step. The Saint’s blade rose again, brilliant energy coursing down through his arm to store and build within the mighty weapon.

Vaulting back over the ornately carved high seat, Khârn slashed into the undamaged leg of the golden Emperor, carving a deep gouge across it. The throne exploded behind him as Lozepath unleashed another blast, throwing him through the rocking legs of the effigy to the rear of the statue. Khârn rolled, spinning Gorechild to full speed the second he regained his feet and ran towards the left ankle, breaking Lozepath’s line of sight. With a huge swing, Khârn slammed the chainaxe into the gold-clad leg. The mica-dragon teeth chewed through metal and stone, carving a thick, jagged line all the way through until the massive sculpture shifted. Khârn heard Lozepath scream in rage. The remains of the throne were torn apart in another white-hot blast, but Khârn had already thrown himself over to the right leg of the statue and was rending it apart. With a deafening crack, the effigy began to drop.

Khârn dodged the spinning chunks of debris flying in all directions from the Living Saint’s raging attack. Leaning his right shoulder into the back of the leg, Khârn bellowed with the effort of pushing. A wrenching snap heralded the golden Emperor’s slow forward movement, and as it succumbed to its own enormous weight the speed increased.

Holstering Gorechild on his back, he sprinted forwards, leaping off the smashed edge of the plinth and hurling himself at the rear of the statue with all the power he could muster. Khârn took hold of its deeply carved ridges and used them as handholds to scale the toppling idol. As it fell, he could feel tremendous explosions erupting in the front of the sculpture as Lozepath unleashed his power into it. Large chunks spun off the sides and a series of blasts tore ragged holes through the stone, but by now the statue was at an angle shallow enough for Khârn to begin running up its length.

As he reached the base of the spine, the gold-encrusted arms broke off at the shoulders, dropping onto what remained of the columns and smaller effigies surrounding it, crushing them under their weight. Khârn knew Lozepath would not be foolish enough to let the statue fall on him, but that did not matter. By the time he had jumped over the deep crenulations of the idol’s back, the head was crashing into the High Temple’s outer wall with a thunderous explosion of stone and marble. With his view of the ground obscured, Khârn threw himself at a shimmer in the rising cloud of dust. As he hit the fractured tiles of the High Temple, the golden Emperor’s enormous broken head crashed down inches away from him and came to rest on its side.

Khârn spotted a pulsating light between the decapitated head and torso. As it brightened, it picked out the dust swirling thickly around the temple’s ruined interior. Readying Gorechild, Khârn crunched over rubble and the dying Sisters, grinding them into the once-pristine floor. Some of the surviving Sisters in the temple had recovered enough to recommence fire, but Khârn ignored their efforts. His full concentration was fixed on the ebbing light. It was losing its intensity. Lozepath’s skull was ready for the taking. The light faded and did not come back. Khârn swore an oath in an ancient tongue. Perhaps Lozepath had been dealt a fatal blow by the falling statue after all.

Khârn jumped onto the smashed torso of the golden Emperor and peered down onto the crushed floor. Lozepath appeared from nowhere, thrusting upwards with his broadsword and connecting with the inside of Khârn’s thigh armour. Khârn leapt into the air, over the head of Lozepath, and twisted as he fell towards the hollow interior of the statue’s head. Lozepath charged immediately, the sword’s intensity building once again. From his crouched position, Khârn swept outwards with Gorechild, grinding into the side of the pulsating blade. The weight of his strike sent Lozepath spinning off to the right, but the Living Saint used the momentum to his advantage, whirling around in a full circle and sweeping the huge blade towards Khârn’s head with one hand. Gorechild took the blow, but the impact sent shockwaves through Khârn’s arms. Lozepath’s face was twisted in rage, the pain of the impact with Khârn’s chainaxe distorting his noble features. The aura around him was beginning to return, and Khârn knew it would only take a matter of moments for him to regenerate. He had to press home his advantage.

Khârn jumped forwards from his crouch with a cry of fury. Thrusting the shaft of Gorechild into Lozepath’s shield, he pushed the Living Saint backwards towards the golden Emperor’s broken body. Lozepath leaned forwards and tried to counter the assault, but Khârn’s brute strength was against him. As the Saint brought his sword up, Khârn saw the blade was growing ever brighter. Lozepath seemed to be gathering holy energy from the temple’s structure. Despite the glow not reaching its full brilliance, the Living Saint thrust forwards into Khârn’s unprotected left arm. He felt the flesh burn and crisp with the strike but turned into the blow nonetheless, bringing Gorechild down towards Lozepath’s head with his right hand. The Saint brought his shield up to block the blow, and Khârn could see his aura was regaining its golden colour as his power continued to increase. Gorechild’s teeth penetrated the shield’s glowing field and bit deep into the ceramite with a satisfying shriek. Khârn delighted in watching the chainaxe cleave the glittering aquila emblazoned on it in two.

Something smashed into the side of Khârn’s head. Blows rained down on him, frantic and furious, and he turned to see a Sister of Battle hammering at his armour with her empty bolter. Spittle and blood were flying from her mouth as she pounded him with the stock of the weapon, her words frenzied and incomprehensible. Khârn kicked out with a curse, hurling her backwards into the gaping hole of the golden Emperor’s head. She hit the rim at neck height and disappeared into the darkness of the hollow, her spine broken with the impact. Khârn turned without further pause to press his attack on Lozepath.

A burning pain erupted in his upper chest.

Khârn looked down. The Living Saint’s blade had penetrated the ceramite of his breastplate. Slowly, Khârn raised his head to meet Lozepath’s gaze. He was staring directly into Khârn’s eyes, his face triumphant, and his mouth distorted into a sneer as he twisted the pulsating blade and pushed it deeper still. Khârn felt muscle and sinew slice apart. Sheets of flame tore through the right side of his body.

Khârn barked a laugh, then grasped the flaming blade with his armoured gauntlet. Lozepath pushed again, but this time the blade did not progress. In his left hand, Khârn revved Gorechild to full speed, all the while staring into the hate-filled face of the Living Saint. The expression on Lozepath’s face changed. Lozepath tried to withdraw the weapon from Khârn’s body, but it would not move. As the Saint closed his eyes, the aura around him began to grow brighter.

Khârn swept Gorechild down onto the protruding blade in a blur. Sparks flew and he felt his body shudder as the chainaxe ground its way through the glowing sword. Lozepath fell backwards with a look of astonishment on his face, still clutching the handle. Khârn gripped the steel protruding from his chest and pulled it out. Blood oozed from the blackened puncture in his armour, but he paid it no heed. Tossing the now-dull shard to one side in disgust, he advanced on Lozepath, who thrust again with the broken blade.

The shimmering glow around the Living Saint pulsed brightly, but the light was fluctuating far more rapidly than it had before.

Khârn struck.

Gorechild tore through Lozepath’s right shoulder and angled down to the left armpit. Bone and muscle spattered outwards, showering Khârn with a fountain of gore. The Chosen of Khorne brought Gorechild up to his chest and stepped back to watch the Living Saint die. Lozepath’s head and shoulders began to slide forwards with the sound of freshly butchered meat. Before the severed torso could drop to the floor, Khârn brought the chainaxe down in a tight curve, slicing through the neck and separating the head from the dissected body.

Screams of horror and shouts of fury filled the air, closely followed by a fresh hail of bolter fire. The sound of ricocheting shells drifted away as Khârn lifted Lozepath’s head and stared at it, disgust and disappointment growing inside him. The golden aura had gone, replaced with the pallid skin of a mortal. How could this be the great trophy the Blood God had led him to? Was this wretch’s skull really the prize he had been sent to claim?

Khârn leant back and lifted the severed head to the sky, roaring to the heavens through the shattered remains of the High Temple’s glass ceiling. In that moment, he knew that Salandraxis had not yet fulfilled the promise given to him.

Fresh explosions tore into the fallen remains of the golden Emperor, peppering Khârn with spinning fragments of debris. Khârn strode through the destruction towards the fire, readying Gorechild for the inevitable revenge attack from the remains of the Imperial forces. But, despite his vision being clouded by smoke and tongues of flame, he could see that the High Temple’s defenders had their backs to him. Through the gaps between the Sisters of Battle and Angels Eradicant he spotted Black Legion warriors in black-and-red armour. They were swarming towards the rapidly diminishing line of the Emperor’s faithful, tearing into them with savage abandon. Khârn ducked low and broke into a sprint, joining battle against the nearest of the Imperial Space Marines. Raising Gorechild high, he swung into the thigh of an Angel Eradicant, carving through his leg and sending him crashing to the floor. The Hound of Abaddon who had been fighting him charged forwards, striking Khârn directly in the chest. Khârn swung Gorechild at him, gouging the vambrace of his chainsword arm. Instead of retaliating the Hound retreated, shouting into his vox as he did so.

As more loyalist bodies fell to his left and right, Khârn could see dozens of Black Legionnaires surging towards him, weapons readied but not opening fire. Khârn weighed Gorechild in his hands, preparing it for yet more blood. The longer he waited to attack, the more concentrated their numbers would become – and the more skulls he could take.

‘Khârn!’

The voice was unfiltered by a helmet. Khârn recognised it immediately. Turning behind him, he saw Locq standing on top of the head of the Emperor’s fallen statue, looking down at him with obvious satisfaction. The Hounds of Abaddon were now three deep on every side. Khârn’s grip on Gorechild tightened. Locq took a step towards the edge of the smashed idol, chainsword held loosely in one hand, helmet in the other. It was a brazen gesture. Skirmishes could still be heard within and outside the High Temple, and it would only take a stray shot to take his head off. Or, thought Khârn, a throw of his chainaxe. Khârn’s hands twitched on the weapon and a wave of bolter muzzles rattled closer. Khârn snorted derisively, lowered Gorechild slowly to his side and took off his own helmet to match Locq’s bravado. He would slaughter all those around him in good time, now he had the measure of them.

‘Your berzerkers are finished. I had them executed as the honourless scum they are. Many of the Hounds who joined your ranks turned on them. How does it feel to be betrayed, Khârn the Betrayer?’

Khârn’s bloodlust raged. He cared not for the loss of the warband, nor at whose hands they died. They had served their purpose, allowing him to follow the Red Path and reap a rich harvest for the Blood God. Khârn stepped forwards, but his way was immediately blocked by half a dozen Hounds of Abaddon, their chainswords and chainaxes buzzing inches from his face. He looked to them with a sneer, his voice rich with loathing.

‘Still you refuse to understand. I am on the Red Path, shown to me by the Blood God himself. I have no other allegiance than to Khorne. I serve him, and him alone. I shall not dance to the whims of your “Warmaster”, Locq. I will not be your prisoner. You have failed.’

The contented look on Locq’s face fell away, replaced instead by a dark fury. Locq jumped down from the golden Emperor’s decapitated head and marched forwards, the group of Hounds stepping back to allow him through. Khârn stared into Locq’s eyes. There was a fire there Khârn had not seen before.

‘I have no intention of taking you prisoner, Khârn. I will kill you and take your head.’

Khârn felt a tremendous blow lift him from the floor. A scorching blast of heat rushed across his face, and he instinctively brought his arm up to protect it as he crashed to the floor. The movement tore muscle fibres apart in his upper chest, the pain from Lozepath’s strike exploding through him once again. Raising his head, he could see light pouring in from somewhere to his left, illuminating the rain of dust swirling around the interior of the ruined High Temple. Another thunderous roar echoed from its broken walls, and Hounds of Abaddon spun past him, some intact, some torn asunder. A few yards away, Khârn spotted his helmet. Rolling over to it, he quickly put it on and brought himself up into a crouch, Gorechild purring in his hands. This was not the pure energy of Lozepath’s heavenly fire. This was high-explosive ammunition from a heavy gun.

Khârn heard the sound of tank tracks squealing and crunching their way over broken masonry. Jumping to his feet, Khârn caught a glance of a Leman Russ battle tank turning only yards away, its upper surface covered in brick and stone from the hole it had smashed in the High Temple’s wall. The chatter of bolter fire broke out as Angels Eradicant poured forwards past both sides of the tank, firing and hacking at the Hounds of Abaddon who had abandoned their guard around Khârn to engage with the newly arrived loyalist reinforcements. Khârn’s bloodlust surged to a new intensity, and he spun up Gorechild in readiness for a rich harvest.

The melee intensified within seconds. Khârn threw himself into the clamour, delighting in the fact that no matter what he hit, it would be yet more glory to Khorne. Gorechild tore into armoured flanks, pauldrons and helmets, devouring ceramite and spitting chunks of bloody flesh with abandon. Khârn did not have to search for targets; they were six deep before him, crashing and smashing into each other within the ruins of the High Temple, trampling on bodies and broken effigies in their bloodlust. To his left, Khârn caught a glimpse of the Angels Eradicant leader, clearly wounded but fighting with a ferocity fitting of any berzerker. Khârn rammed his way past a blood-crazed Black Legion warrior, sweeping Gorechild down over the back of his thighs and taking his legs from under him. The Master of the Angels Eradicant would be another great trophy, regardless of his injuries. But then Khârn saw Locq, pinned against the now-crippled Leman Russ and battling an Angel Eradicant only yards away.

Khârn brought his head down and broke into a sprint. He kept Gorechild before him, using his momentum and sheer force of will to crash through the lines of battling Space Marines. He did not acknowledge the blows of chainswords or detonations of bolts on his armour. His focus was entirely on Locq. Within seconds he had broken through, just in time for the Hound of Abaddon to drive his chainsword through the stomach of the Angel Eradicant. Locq pushed the stricken Space Marine away with his boot, sending his victim crashing to the ground and looking for his next fight.

He would not have to wait long.

‘Locq!’

Khârn screamed the name. Through the raging noise of combat, Locq turned towards him. There was no hesitation, no boastful claims or posturing this time. The Hound of Abaddon raised his chainsword and sprinted to meet Khârn. Leaping into the air for extra momentum, Locq brought his buzzing weapon down towards Khârn’s head. Khârn brought Gorechild up to meet the challenge, but had to quickly alter the angle of his chainaxe as Locq skilfully twisted the churning blade towards Khârn’s left arm. The chainsword skidded across the flat of Gorechild’s head, and Locq shifted his weight to continue the movement down the shaft towards the exposed fingers on Khârn’s left hand. The Chosen of Khorne responded by twisting his wrist, sweeping Locq’s chainsword out and just over the knuckles of his fist. Khârn felt Locq’s boot crash into his knee. On the blood-slick floor of the High Temple, Khârn’s left foot slid back with the force of the blow, pain lancing up his leg from an old injury that had not yet fully healed. Locq seized his chance to spin and chop into Khârn’s right thigh. Khârn tossed Gorechild to his other hand just as the chainsword blade began to bite into his cuisse. He brought the ancient axe straight down with a thumping blow, not onto the blade but onto Locq’s gauntlet.

Gorechild chewed greedily through ceramite and bone. Locq’s hand and chainsword fell to the floor, the chain still spinning at full throttle. Khârn kicked it to one side to stop Locq from picking it up with his other hand, but the Hounds captain was already advancing. With a bellow of anger, Locq smashed his remaining fist into Khârn’s head.

Khârn shook off the blow and brought Gorechild down onto Locq’s right pauldron with both hands, his own oath to the Blood God on his lips. Such was the fury with which Khârn struck, the chainaxe tore a straight line down into the breastplate. Khârn twisted the handle clockwise, altering the path of the whirling teeth to the left. Locq reached down and tried to stop the blade from exiting his body, but it was too late. His right arm and a good part of his torso slid away and dropped to the floor. For some seconds he stood and faced Khârn, seemingly oblivious to the organs spilling out of his ruined flank. He tried to say something, but Khârn was not listening. He swung Gorechild once above his head and drove it into the exposed side beneath Locq’s chin. Locq’s severed head spun with the force of the blow and hit the ground as his lifeless torso folded and collapsed onto itself.

As the battle raged between the diminishing Angels Eradicant forces and the Black Legion warband, Khârn stooped to retrieve his trophy. He looked at the severed head for a moment, then quickly threaded one of Gorechild’s chains through the jaw and let it dangle with the others Salandraxis had given him that day. Khârn rose to his feet. The Blood Father might look favourably upon him for his harvest, but Khârn’s bloodlust was not yet sated.

Through the milling bodies, Khârn spotted the heavily injured Master of the Angels Eradicant once again. When the closest veterans around him became aware of Khârn’s intention, the Space Marines began falling back towards their leader, heading not for the entrance they had created with the Leman Russ tank but the main doors. The Hounds of Abaddon followed, keen to rout the Imperial forces. Khârn launched himself at the nearest Black Legion warrior. The combat was brief and unsatisfying; Khârn eviscerated the Hound in a matter of seconds and headed out to the temple’s main entrance in pursuit of the retreating Space Marines.

Khârn was only a few steps away from the gaping doorway when he was blown back into the temple by a massive shock wave. He landed on his back and careened off fallen masonry and pieces of broken statue, finally coming to a halt several yards away from the exit. Khârn cycled through his helmet’s visual modes with an impatient grunt as he got up. He had been blown up enough times for one battle. Through the smoke and dust, he could see Locq’s forces were being decimated by las-fire and heavy bolters outside the temple. Through the shattered remains of the glass roof, Khârn saw Imperial attack ships swoop and fire, raining down destruction on all those who had followed the Angels Eradicant into the open.

Khârn grinned as he decided it was time to take his fury to these new reinforcements. He would not leave Salandraxis while any of them still drew breath.

The firestorm Khârn ran into was without equal. At least two dozen Imperial ships were firing down onto the steps and the approach to the temple. Down below, fresh Astra Militarum troops swarmed out of transports to engage with the Khornate Black Legionnaires that had managed to survive the murderous fire from above. The troops were ill-matched to their power-armoured foe, but the discipline with which they threw themselves at Locq’s forces was commendable. What few Angels Eradicant had survived their attack on the High Temple appeared from the flanks, still led by their crippled leader. If he was strong enough to stand and fight despite his injuries, he would be claimed for the Blood Father. Khârn ran towards him, dodging explosions and ducking beneath chattering bolter fire from every direction. He had not seen a single berzerker for some time, but it troubled him not.

Khârn did not need anyone by his side to fight for the glory of the Blood God. His heart soared. The vision was fulfilling itself and the entire planet would be his to befoul. Salandraxis was drowning in blood, and the Chosen of Khorne would be solely responsible for the planet’s desecration.

A brilliant light filled the sky, followed by the report of a huge explosion. Khârn looked up to see missiles streaking towards the Imperial ships from the left and right, catching them completely unawares in a deadly crossfire. In the blink of an eye, four Vendetta gunships erupted into balls of flame. Another wave of rockets tore through the sky, annihilating more ships as they desperately tried to evade each other and the debris slicing through the air. Burning chunks of metal fell to the ground, hitting Imperial and Black Legion troops alike. Within seconds, the Imperial infantry companies began to scatter in an attempt to evade the gunships crashing around them.

Fire poured into the Imperial relief force from wave upon wave of Black Legion Thunderhawks, and within seconds the air was thick with them. The surviving Hounds from Locq’s warband took the opportunity to surround the beleaguered Angels Eradicant Chapter Master. Before Khârn could reach the melee, the sand-coloured figure had disappeared under a flurry of strikes from chainswords and chainaxes. Infuriated at the loss of his trophy, Khârn readied Gorechild to take the attackers’ heads instead. Within yards of the group, who were turning in readiness for his charge, the temple square’s marble erupted in fire at his feet. Khârn turned to avoid the volley, only for another one to be unleashed before him.

Bellowing in rage, Khârn looked up to see a Black Legion Thunderhawk hovering menacingly before him. Twelve heavily armed transports rumbled overhead, split into groups of three and descended onto the burning citadel with shrieking engines. The lead group formed into a chevron and turned to face Khârn as they landed on the smouldering plaza, clearing the ground beneath them with their weapons until they came to a grinding rest a short distance from his position.

Black Legion warriors swarmed towards him from the landed ships, surrounding Khârn in a sea of bodies and blocking his escape. There must have been twenty times the number of Locq’s forces. The gunship that had fired on him still hovered in the air, keeping its dorsal turrets trained on Khârn. As the assault ramp opened in the lead transport before him, the Thunderhawk powered up its engines and banked away, maintaining its aim as it withdrew. Rolling his powerful shoulders, Khârn readied Gorechild for an attack. However, instead of rushing him from all sides as he expected, the Black Legionnaires in front of him stepped back to form a clearing towards his position.

A dozen warriors in Terminator armour emerged in two columns of six, their massive bolters raised and trained on Khârn as they marched towards him. Coming to a halt at regular intervals between the ship and Khârn, all but the closest two turned to face each other as an honour guard for the towering figure exiting the transport. The nearest Terminators took aim at Khârn’s head and stood, unmoving, as the smoke of a thousand fires swirled around the black-armoured figure striding closer. Its deathly white head looked straight forwards, red burning eyes fixing Khârn with their gaze. A claw-like right hand opened and closed in readiness, twin bolters built into its upper casing. Khârn had seen the gauntlet wielded by Horus himself in an age forgotten. In its left hand the figure held an enormous sword, the surface of the barbed blade shifting like a malevolent fluid. It was the daemon blade Drach’nyen.

The hundreds of Black Legionnaires bowed as their Warmaster passed. Khârn brought Gorechild up closer to his chest, eliciting the rattle of weapons all around him. Despite the furious pumping of his hearts, a strange calm descended over Khârn.

Abaddon the Despoiler came to a halt barely four yards away from Khârn. The towering Warmaster of Chaos looked him up and down, scrutinising and sizing him up. When he saw Locq’s severed head dangling from the chain around his waist, Abaddon’s lips parted in a facsimile of a smile. The furious scarlet eyes flicked back to Khârn’s, and he rested his broadsword on the ground, runnels of blood flowing past its gleaming tip through the cracks in the plaza. At that signal, his Terminators closed ranks, blocking the path to the transport behind him while the other Black Legionnaires moved to surround them. Khârn could no longer see how deep their ranks were. One or one thousand, it mattered not.

‘So, the Chosen of Khorne finally stands before me.’

Abaddon twisted the title into a thrust of contempt. Khârn snarled an oath below his breath.

‘It would be best for you to remember why I am named so, Warmaster. The Red Path has led me here. I have come at the will of the Blood Father, not your request.’

Khârn was pleased to see the anger rise in Abaddon’s face. Taking a step forward, the Warmaster levelled his daemon sword at Khârn’s head.

‘And it would be best for you to remember that I, too, have the favour of Khorne.’

Abaddon advanced closer. Khârn shifted his grip on Gorechild. The Terminators brought their weapons to readiness in a flash of metal.

‘I have the blessings of all the gods. The powers I command are beyond your comprehension.’

Now, finally, he understood why the Red Path had brought him to this place. All of the skulls he had taken on the Red Path up to this point, even the Living Saint’s, had been nothing but a precursor to this moment.

‘Whether you have the blessings of all the daemons in the warp or not, the Blood God commands a great trophy. I shall not bend my knee to you, Abaddon. I shall not serve. I am here for a different purpose.’

Abaddon swept his daemon sword outward in an elaborate arc, then brought its tip straight in line with the centre of Khârn’s forehead again. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted as he spat his next words.

‘As am I, berzerker. You spat on my offering. I should take your head as payment and wear it as a trophy.’

Khârn saw the rage behind Abaddon’s eyes. Nothing would give the Warmaster greater pleasure than to take his head, and nothing would satisfy Khârn more than to see him try. For several long seconds the Despoiler stared at him, oblivious to the fires licking into the darkening sky and the scream of war machines overhead. The massed ranks of Black Legionnaires stood immobile around them. Khârn wondered if they could understand the power they beheld at this moment. Two lords of darkness, chosen of the gods. Very soon, there would only be one.

Abaddon tightened his grip on Drach’nyen and Khârn readied himself for the attack. It did not come. Instead, Abaddon took in a breath and exhaled slowly.

‘That is not the destiny I have decreed for you. You shall follow me, Khârn the Betrayer. It is my will, and that of Khorne.’

Rage swept over Khârn at this insult to the Blood Father. Throwing himself forward, he brought Gorechild up to full speed and swung it in a wide arc towards Abaddon’s right flank.

In the blink of an eye, Abaddon turned towards the attack, bringing up his gauntlet and curling the talons into a fist. The lightning-streaked blow was so fast and powerful it pushed Gorechild away and spun Khârn to the left into a wall of black power armour. Khârn brought Gorechild up once again, ready to engage the warriors, but they stepped back at some unseen command, giving him space to turn. A flash of dull metal caught Khârn’s eye and he ducked, but the flat of Abaddon’s blade smashed into the side of his helmet and sent him reeling, crashing into a number of Black Legionnaires. Khârn’s head sang with the impact, but his body knew what to do to regain his balance. He swung his chainaxe behind him as he recovered and was rewarded with the sensation of Gorechild chewing through weapons and armour. When he raised it to block the next blow from Abaddon, it was covered in the blood of his legionnaires.

Abaddon raised his sword and aimed it once again towards Khârn’s head. Khârn brought Gorechild up, but instead of angling to the right, he flicked it around in his wrist, ducking to evade the sweeping blow from Abaddon’s gauntlet and driving the chainaxe into the leg of the Despoiler. Khârn knew that trying to attack Abaddon’s head in its deep cowl was pointless, no matter how exposed it seemed without a helmet, so he would instead cripple him limb by limb. Angling the next blow downwards, Gorechild’s teeth bit into the thick ceramite of Abaddon’s cuisse. The mica-dragon teeth gouged their way into the dense armour, sinking the axe head deep into Abaddon’s left knee. The Despoiler bellowed in fury.

Khârn saw the daemon sword flashing down towards his arm. Letting go of Gorechild’s haft, Khârn rolled away, kicking out at Abaddon’s right leg. Springing to his feet, Khârn had hoped Abaddon would be unbalanced enough for him to charge him to the ground, but the Warmaster was standing fast. Khârn attacked regardless, ducking underneath the sword and throwing all of his weight into Abaddon’s midriff.

Abaddon’s towering form was forced backwards momentarily, but he swiftly regained his footing and struck at Khârn with his sword. This time, it was not with the flat of the blade. Khârn knew Drach’nyen would slice through the ceramite of his helmet, so he threw himself to the side, just avoiding the swing of the weapon as it cut through the tassels on his headpiece. Khârn rolled onto his feet just as Abaddon dislodged Gorechild from his leg with a blow from his daemon sword’s pommel. The axe clattered away across the blood-covered marble and Khârn threw himself after it. As he rose and turned, he realised he had exposed his left arm to Abaddon’s talon. He felt a crushing grip encircle his chain-wrapped forearm and the world began to spin as Abaddon wheeled Khârn around. The features of the Black Legionnaires surrounding him became a blur, and then he felt himself flying through the air. Khârn braced himself for the impact with the ground, but something slammed into his back, driving the air explosively from his body. Below him the ground rushed up, and as he hit it, a veil of scarlet and brown danced across his vision.

Khârn shook his head violently and staggered to his feet. Some yards away, Abaddon was charging towards him, the Terminators creating a corridor for him to pass through. Looking up, Khârn realised he had been thrown all the way to Abaddon’s drop-ship. Khârn’s bloodlust reached its highest pitch. At last, this was a worthy fight. He sprinted forwards, battle stimulants numbing the searing pain coming from his dislocated left arm. Gorechild screamed for blood in his good hand, its teeth spitting dried blood and ceramite as they spun. Khârn could see blood congealing around the wound he had made in Abaddon’s leg. With only a few strides separating them, Khârn jumped into the air and brought Gorechild above his head before hammering it down towards the Warmaster. The teeth glanced off Abaddon’s sword and onto his pauldron, gnawing a ragged groove into the armour. As Khârn was knocked backwards by Abaddon’s bone-cracking punch, he was sure the swirling patterns within the sword’s blade took on the look of agonised faces.

Khârn smashed into the wall of Black Legionnaires, flattening two and sending others tumbling towards the gunship before being pushed back into the open by one of Abaddon’s Terminators. The Warmaster was on him in an instant, and Khârn ducked just as the huge broadsword sliced above his head, splitting one of the vanes of his helmet. Khârn heard the mighty weapon thud into several Black Legion warriors, but Abaddon’s rage had overtaken him. Khârn rammed himself into the Despoiler once again, but the Warmaster slammed the pommel of Drach’nyen into his stomach. Khârn was lifted from the ground with the servo-powered blow, and his fused ribcage fractured fully. He brought his boot down as hard as he could onto Abaddon’s injured knee, and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. Dropping to the ground, Khârn saw Abaddon’s right leg come towards him too late to avoid the blow. The impact sent him skidding along the ruined plaza’s stones and clanging into the Thunderhawk’s cargo pod. Abaddon glowered at him and swung his daemon sword with a cry of rage. Khârn brought Gorechild up to meet the furious blow, and it took all of his strength to prevent the blade from cleaving his skull.

Abaddon shifted his weight as he leaned in, and Khârn saw his chance. He kicked at the wounded leg with all his might. Abaddon stepped back to avoid the blow, allowing Khârn to heave the daemon sword out of the way and roll to his feet. Lunging with Gorechild, he thrust the leading corner of the whirring blade into the skull device emblazoned on Abaddon’s midriff. Abaddon lashed out with his right hand. Khârn moved fast enough to avoid full contact with the lethal talons, power arcing from the tips of the claws into his exposed skin. Even so, pain nearly overwhelmed him, and as he moved away Abaddon thrust forwards with Drach’nyen. The tip sliced its way through Khârn’s vambrace. Instead of agony, the coldness of the void swept through his forearm, the edge of the cut sizzling darkly. Khârn pulled Gorechild free and spun away, but Abaddon pursued him with a turn of his own. His sword sliced into the top of Khârn’s fractured chest armour and he felt hot blood well up through the freezing numbness somewhere below his neck.

Khârn swung Gorechild, aiming to cut into Abaddon’s left arm and take it off below the elbow. Abaddon took hold of Gorechild with his lightning-wreathed claw, stopping the chainblade from hitting the armour and deflecting it into the side of the transport. At the same time Khârn reached for Abaddon’s massive forearm, stopping his sword short. Khârn knew he would not hold out for long against the Warmaster’s might. Using the hull of the Thunderhawk, Khârn pushed himself away. He grappled with Abaddon, forcing him back out into the arena and distancing them both from the ship. Khârn could feel every muscle in his body scream at him, but he needed more room in which to move. As Gorechild’s blade spun closer to Abaddon’s arm, so did the Despoiler’s sword creep towards Khârn’s neck. Khârn’s vision began to darken as more blood pumped out of his body. He had his space to manoeuvre, but at what cost?

Summing up his remaining energy, Khârn pushed Gorechild again. Below him, the ground began to shake, gently at first but then more violently. Both he and Abaddon struggled to keep their balance, and Khârn tried to press home his attack. Still Abaddon resisted, pushing against Khârn with a renewed fury. Brilliant flashes danced over Abaddon’s face, throwing his snarling features into stark relief. Out of the corners of his vision, Khârn saw lightning fork down into the Terminator guard. Bodies exploded in a shower of gore and spinning armour, torn apart by a maelstrom of light and brimstone that was pouring down onto them. Those not affected by the first impact raised their weapons to the unseen foe, only to succumb seconds later to the unnatural strikes. A thunderous booming sound filled the air and Khârn noticed movement above him. As Abaddon’s eyes flashed to the change around them for a split second, a shadow the size of a Fellblade swept across the two champions, smashing them both to the blackened ground.

Khârn looked up to see the sky had turned into a swirling mass of purple and black. Staggering to his feet, a wall of flame roared where the myriad corpses on the square had been. The inferno was tall and encircled both him and Abaddon. The Warmaster was poised low on the stone plaza, scanning the heavens. Khârn knew something huge had hit him, far bigger and more powerful than Abaddon, but he could not see what it was.

Greater fire plummeted from the broiling sky, consuming those buildings not already burning around the jagged ruins of the Imperial temple. Khârn’s eyes were drawn to shadows writhing before him in the white-hot sheet of flame, then figures began to twist and solidify. Warp spawn, drawn to the desecration of this place. One by one they stepped out from the inferno into the arena that was now forming. They were bloodletters, Khorne’s lesser daemons. Another appeared, and then another, until dozens stood in a perfect circle around him and Abaddon where the Black Legionnaires had stood, flicking out their tongues and brandishing their flaming swords. The inferno faded, revealing a sea of fallen warriors and the whole of Salandraxis in flames. Chaos had taken this holy planet and claimed it as its own. But Khârn still needed to take his trophy for the Blood Father. With a roar, he broke into a sprint and headed for Abaddon, who turned and readied himself for the onslaught.

Khârn heard a rush of air from above and looked up just in time to see a gigantic daemon descending on him, its talons stretching out to swat him to the ground, embers spiralling and burning the air beneath the darkness of its wings. Khârn ducked out of the way, but he was not fast enough to avoid the flat of the beast’s massive double-headed axe smashing into him, sending him sprawling. In a split second Khârn was up again, raging in a blood fury, but the greater daemon stood between him and Abaddon, its mouth wide in a scowl of warning. Its sheer size blocked Abaddon from Khârn’s view, and all around him the circle of bloodletters advanced, now numbering countless hundreds, closing in on him from all directions.

Khârn steeled himself to attack the bloodthirster, but its voice boomed in the broiling air before he could move.

‘Cease.’

With that one word, the wind ebbed and the ocean of bloodletters halted, the abyssal legion cowering before their king. Witchfire crackled in the roiling sky above.

Khârn took a step back and regarded the towering creature. As he saw Abaddon emerge from its shadow he dropped into a crouch, preparing himself for the Despoiler’s charge. But in the yellow light cast by the myriad swords of the bloodletters, he could see Abaddon’s rage was directed not at him, but at the greater daemon.

‘This is no business of yours, warp spawn.’

Abaddon started towards Khârn but the bloodthirster slammed its axe in the ground and bellowed into Abaddon’s face, the wind around them roaring with renewed force. Its voice was the crackle of hellfire, the infernal scream of the darkness beyond.

‘Hear the words of the Blood Father.’

Khârn strode towards the creature, Gorechild idling in his blood-soaked hands.

‘How dare you claim to speak on the Red God’s behalf? I shall destroy you for your effrontery.’

From behind the flames, Khârn spotted movement. More daemons peeled themselves from the bloody remains of Black Legion and Angels Eradicant to join their brethren. In seconds they passed through the flames, gnashing and snarling in barely controlled rage as they crowded towards him. The bloodthirster spoke again.

‘You shall listen to his words or die.’

Khârn stared into the black, dead eyes of the creature before him. Perhaps the Blood God was indeed using his daemon legion as a conduit for his voice.

All the better.

The bloodthirster turned towards Abaddon, snarling and flicking its tail as it did so. The Warmaster shouted in fury, the blade Drach’nyen ready to tear the throat from its daemonic brother should it speak words he did not favour.

‘The pantheon has promised me the service of Khorne’s chosen. I demand the God of Brass and Bone honour the pact he struck with his brothers. I demand Khârn’s oath for the coming war.’

Khârn glared at Abaddon and spat on the ground at his words.

‘Blood Father, I serve only you. I will not bend the knee to this cur.’

Abaddon sent curses to the skies but Khârn ignored him. Stepping back, the Chosen of Khorne opened his arms to embrace the assembled legion, imploring the Blood God to hear his words.

‘I have followed the Red Path as you commanded, and now I shall take this pretender’s skull as you have bid me do.’

Khârn turned back to face Abaddon but he could not see him. The bloodthirster dived onto Khârn in a frenzy of flapping wings and snarling teeth, pulling at his helmet until it finally released with the strain. The smell of the creature assaulted Khârn’s senses, and the heat from the flames all around burned the skin on his face. Khârn struck out at the daemon’s face, smashing his fists into its mouth and breaking dagger-like teeth. It responded by slamming its iron-black vambrace into the side of Khârn’s head, jarring his skull and blurring his vision with the impact. Khârn felt the creature uncoil its claw and take hold of his gorget. Pulling him close, it lowered its head. Blood and drool spilled over Khârn’s face as the daemon spoke, its voice guttural and obscene.

‘The Despoiler’s skull is not for you to take. The Blood God forbids it.’

Khârn’s mind reeled.

He had travelled the Red Path only to find that his understanding of Khorne’s desires was mistaken.

Khârn heard the mockery in Abaddon’s voice as he shouted to the daemon court.

‘It is as I said, berzerker. I have the favour of all the gods.’

Khârn felt himself drop backwards as the bloodthirster whirled, opened its wings amid a cloud of embers and landed close to Abaddon, bellowing in uncontrolled fury.

‘Enough!’

The legion of bloodletters moved closer, their ranks swelled by hulking daemonic champions stepping from the dead of Salandraxis to loom over Khârn and Abaddon. The bloodthirster’s incandescent gaze peered back towards Khârn under one of its black wings, the axe extended towards the Betrayer.

‘Know this. The Blood Father is pleased with the skulls you have taken today, Khârn, Chosen of Khorne. But the Red Path is not ended.’

Khârn did not blink as the creature stared at him with burning intensity. Before he could respond, the bloodthirster turned to Abaddon, the double-headed axe swinging from Khârn to the Warmaster.

‘You shall have redress, Despoiler.’

Khârn saw the rage in Abaddon’s face subside. Clenching the crackling talons of his right hand, Abaddon looked past the daemon and stared directly at Khârn as the creature continued.

‘For now, the Red Path follows the same direction as your desires.’

Khârn glowered at Abaddon, the rage building once again in his chest. All around, the lesser daemons started to writhe and judder as a single unholy voice filtered directly through them in a dark chorus.

‘It is the will of the Blood Father that you turn your blades to the same cause.’

Khârn’s blood boiled as lumbering daemons drew close to him, reaching out to his battered armour.

‘How can this be so? I shall never give service to this imposter.’

Khârn’s fury threatened to overwhelm him. Should he have answered the call from Abaddon when commanded? As if to answer his question, the chorus hissed and whispered once more. This time, the message held no ambiguity.

‘Know that it is for the greater glory of Khorne. Blood will flow. Such is his decree.’

The air fell silent, leaving only the furious crackling of the fires of Salandraxis. At Khârn’s shoulder stood eight daemon heralds, gazing at the Betrayer and the Despoiler, the oily night swirling above their heads. Within seconds the circle of fire subsided, leaving a ring of smoking bodies where the barrier had raged, and destruction as far as Khârn could see. The bloodthirster folded its wings as it joined its retinue and brought its axe across its ornate chest plate.

Khârn looked behind him at the rasping form of the daemon, then turned slowly towards Abaddon.

As the Chosen of Khorne stood beneath the bloodthirster, silhouetted by its brimstone bulk and his dark god’s infernal royalty, the daemon court’s myriad eyes slowly turned upon the Warmaster.

Abaddon was still looking straight at Khârn. The desire to drive Gorechild through his skull surged through Khârn’s body and mind, and he clutched the weapon until it began to shake in his hands. The bloodthirster emitted a low growl and hefted its axe threateningly. Khârn did not give it a second glance. If Khorne willed it, then he would stay his blade and follow the Red Path wherever it might take him.

Khârn walked towards Abaddon, who raised Drach’nyen slowly, deliberately. Khârn snorted and continued to stare into the Despoiler’s hate-fuelled eyes without breaking stride. Coming to a halt, he glowered at Abaddon for several seconds before slowly lowering Gorechild to his side, allowing the ancient axe to idle as he did so. Drawing in a breath to control his rage, he finally spoke.

‘Who would you have me slay?’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Dows is a writer and educational advisor with over twenty years’ experience in comic books, prose and non-fiction. His works for Black Library include the Warhammer 40,000 short stories ‘In the Shadow of the Emperor’, ‘The Mouth of Chaos’, ‘Monolith’ and ‘Glory from Chaos’. He lives in Grimsby with his wife and two children.

An extract from The Talon of Horus.

It began with Sejanus. It began with his corpse and the corpses of his Glory Squad red-carpeting the throne room floor of the High City. They had died invisibly, by unseen hands. Retribution for the treachery that had laid them low would be ostensibly more visible. It would come at the hands of Hastur’s brothers, vengeance for a favoured son.

A speartip was formed, oaths sworn. A legion descended on Sixty-Three Nineteen with one desire in its heart. It wasn’t compliance. It was a desire for blood, a way to level the scales of treachery balanced against it.

It began with Sejanus. It ended at the induction gate.

Faustus skirted the edge of the main battlefield with a company of genhanced warriors in tow. The Twenty-First Velites were armour-light compared to the majority of their Luna Wolf brothers. Designated reconnaissance, they carried bolters and long-barrelled viper-class sniper rifles, scoped and modified for mass-reactive ammunition. They moved fast, quietly and without fuss.

Thirty led by a Centurion roared up an exterior stairway appended to one of High City’s flanking sub-towers. In ruins, half flattened from cursory bombardment, it nonetheless clung to life and though much of the tower structure was destroyed, a large section of wall had endured. Klaed had spotted the vermin through his scope. Hooded and cloaked, but with the tiniest scrap of flashing silver on magenta giving them away. Careless. One man’s laxity had signed his entire unit’s death warrant.

‘How many, Klaed?’ asked Faustus, pausing. He had been pacing the steps three at a time, a characteristic spring in his motion. The Centurion loved war. He lived for it. There was but one thing he placed above it: the warriors in his charge.

A broad-shouldered Luna Wolf, muddy-white half armour clamped around his bulky torso, lowered the scope. ‘Thermal imaging puts them at eighty-six. Give or take.’

‘It is give or take, brother?’ asked the warrior directly behind Klaed, whose pepper-stubbled jawline never betrayed a smile.

‘Easy there, Klaed,’ said the warrior, clapping a meaty hand on Klaed’s shoulder. Ahenobarbus was half a head taller and a shoulder width broader. He wore a leather skullcap, strands of his long hair allowed to flow freely from beneath it. His combat shotgun was low slung, his finger rested alongside the trigger.

‘What does it matter, Clod? Eighty-six, one hundred and eighty-six. These men are walking dead anyway.’

Ahenobarbus half turned so he could scowl at Narthius.

‘That is not my name, pup.’

The young Luna Wolf beside him grinned. ‘But it suits you so well.’

Narthius’s face was gaunt, but handsome where most of his brothers’ were blunt and flat. A shorn crest of dark hair cut his cleanly shaven scalp in two even hemispheres of tanned skin. Ahenobarbus thought Narthius over-preened and had remarked so on more than one occasion. In turn, Narthius described Ahenobarbus as a lump of heavy meat, blunt but useful if pushed and aimed in the required direction.

Both had saved each other’s lives more times than they needed to count. That tally paled in comparison to how many times Faustus had saved the lives of all of his men. Reconnaissance units faced a harder task than most. Though admittedly not always at the brunt of the fighting, they were often without support nor as heavily armed or armoured. Quick minds, decisive action. It was a greater shield than any power armour or even Cataphractii plate, or so Faustus believed.

‘You two will have time to spar later,’ he said, cutting the banter short. ‘With me, if this operation doesn’t go smoothly.’

As they moved out again, Narthius patted Ahenobarbus on the back. ‘Don’t worry, Clod. I won’t let them kill you today.’

Ahenobarbus kept up the act for a few more seconds before his scowl faded. Laughter lines crossed with his numerous scars, as perfect white teeth were exposed in a feral grin.

‘Let’s hope they don’t spoil your youthful good looks whilst you’re saving my life, eh, pup?’

Faustus had reached the summit of the stairway, a wide but pockmarked path of cratered stone with one side facing a granite wall, the other a partially destroyed iron railing. It was high up, the wind catching his cape and causing it to flap spasmodically. It also offered a good vantage of the larger battlefield.

On the left flank, Abaddon was driving First Company hard. Faustus couldn’t see the Centurion individually but recognised his vexilliary’s banner. Evidently, Ezekyle wanted the honour of breaching High City before anyone else, but Tenth were already approaching the gate. Their vanguard was engaged with the gate’s guardians. Strong-looking men, well armed and equipped but not the equal of a legionary. Titans roamed at the battle’s periphery, drawn back from the fighting companies of Luna Wolves now the need for men, not machines, took precedence. A fake dawn was still fading in the distance from the sundered starship that had crashed in the border districts. It threw light across the three kilometre-wide mass of Legio Astartes battleplate battering successfully against High City’s door. False Emperor or not, Sixty-Three Nineteen’s potentate was about to learn a lesson in the ephemeral nature of rulership.

The covered gallery of the stairway had led 21st to overlook the induction gate. An enfilading position.

‘Velites!’ Faustus cried out so as to be heard above the thunderous battle. At the summit of the stairs, the hair fled from his face in streaks of white as the wind tugged at it, and his eyes flashed sapphire-blue in the reflected flare of distant lightning. It was easy to follow men like Faustus, and Faustus knew the importance of never being afraid to demonstrate that. He raised his drawn gladius. Come the assault, he would sheath it again, but for now it served a solid purpose in cementing his image and invigorating his men. ‘We blood them now!’

At Faustus’s bidding, Brother Ezekus came forward and attached a pair of melta bombs to the gallery’s access door. It was barred, bolted and evidently well fortified but the wrought iron sloughed away in seconds against the violent burst of microwaves. Shroud bombs were thrown through the growing aperture in advance of the Velites. Faustus stepped through first, amidst smoke and scanner-foiling electro-static. His enemies appeared as monochrome green spectres through his night vision goggles. A cough from his rifle and the man closest to him went down, throat exploded just as he had begun to turn. Two more shots in rapid succession killed near-identical targets.

The gallery was long but also narrow. A parade of firing slits lined its east-facing wall, overlooking the battlefield. Fixed weapon mounts lay in every alcove, an array of energy carbines, solid-shot cannons and high-powered sniper rifles.

Faustus fired quickly and on the move, vacating the breach so the rest of the Velites could file in behind him. The legionaries fanned out across the width of the gallery as they entered the tight space, their rifles whispering promises of death to the enemy. Men collapsed in droves, soon too many to be ignorant of, folding up as if their bones were suddenly turned to paper and could no longer support them in their armour.

One turned, a flash of magenta armour revealed as his cloak parted with the rapid movement. He gaped at the apparitions emerging from the sea of fog that had suddenly risen up around him, but had little time to concern himself. The soldier was about to raise the alarm, but found he could only quietly choke with the combat blade suddenly embedded in his neck. He fell without further sound. Faustus was on him before his cooling corpse hit the ground, kneeling and then retrieving his blade in one swift motion.

Twenty-four were dead, the first eight teams, before the enemy realised they were under attack and attempted to counter. By then, Faustus and his men were amongst them, knives drawn for close quarters. In the tight confines of the corridor, the gurgling refrain of slit throats merged with the raucous discharge of legionary combat shotguns and bolters as the secondary units moved in.

At the end of the gallery, the survivors had marshalled a makeshift defence. They broke some of the cannons out from their concealed nests, rolled in whatever they could to fashion a barricade and set up behind it, weapons blazing.

‘Grab cover!’ Faustus bellowed across the vox, though his voice carried down the gallery well enough without it.

The Velites reacted as one, vacating a fire corridor where energy rounds and solid shells were chewing up the gallery floor. Glass and mosaic spat upwards in a cloud of shrapnel. The gallery had once been an artful place but war had rendered it into something entirely uglier.

Faustus rolled, chased by a fusillade of enemy fire that chipped stone and made the dead bodies jerk in animated parody. He moved rapidly out of the central aisle and up against the nearest alcove set into the wall. They were shallow but offered some protection.

Ahenobarbus took a hit to the leg, some kind of phase-weapon. Pain bled out of him in an angry roar as his flesh was burned black, and Narthius had to drag him clear.

‘Told you I wouldn’t let them kill you, Clod,’ he said, replacing a spent clip.

Ahenobarbus grunted, pressing his muscular body into the wall.

‘Flesh wound, pup. Takes more than something like that to kill me.’

‘Our limits will be tested soon enough,’ Faustus told them both with a dark smile. He and the other two Luna Wolves were holed up together, hunkered down behind a granite column being chipped back by aggressive suppressing fire.

‘You want us to take that barricade, sir?’ asked Narthius, forced to shout above the din.

‘I know you would if I ordered it, brother. But no. As robust as even Ahenobarbus here is, a headlong rush into those guns is suicide. I’d have a more heroic death for the Velites, and this isn’t it. Not this battle. Not this day.’ He turned his attention across to the opposite side of the corridor, through the hail of bullets and energy beams, to where Klaed was taking cover with Ezekus.

Faustus opened up the vox by tapping the bead embedded in his ear.

‘We need to divide their attention. Can you fashion me a diversion, Rakon?’

Rakon Klaed nodded, not bothering with the vox. He tapped Ezekus on the shoulder, who was kneeling down in front of him, acting as spotter for the rest of his unit but with mixed success, and asked him a question.

The demolitions expert nodded curtly once and went to his bandoleer.

Faustus turned back to Ahenobarbus and Narthius, sizing up the big warrior first of all.

‘Can you walk?’

‘I’ll run if you ask it of me, sir.’

‘I only need a kick, brother. A hard one.’ Faustus gestured to the firing slit. It was damaged from an errant shell explosion or some such and cracks lined the stone around the broken slit, promising a much wider aperture if forced.

Ahenobarbus lashed out with all his considerable strength and the slit broke apart, sundered stone sent tumbling from the ruptured aperture. In the noisy carnage of the battle no one paid it any attention. It was also now large enough to accommodate a fully-armoured legionary.

Faustus strapped his rifle over his shoulder so that he could draw a pair of combat blades. The edges were serrated and shone dully in the gloomy light of the gallery. Narthius was watching, and followed suit.

‘Three volunteers,’ Faustus said to the others in the two adjacent alcoves. ‘Not you, brother,’ he added to Ahenobarbus when he tried to offer. ‘A kick is one thing, but a climb…’ He gave him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder.

Eight Luna Wolves, all the legionaries in ear-shot stepped forwards. Faustus picked three – Kern, Faek and Henador – and passed Ahenobarbus to hang out of the gaping hole the hulking warrior had made for him.

‘Fifty metres,’ he said to the others, who had crept forwards to get as close as they could to their Centurion. ‘We won’t have much time. We’ll need to move quickly. Charges?’

Kern proffered his captain a pair of krak grenades. He was a veteran warrior, greying hair tied back in a pony tail that snaked down the back of his neck.

Faustus thanked him.

‘On my mark then, blades at the ready.’ He looked across the gallery floor through a gulf of unremitting enemy fire but found Klaed waiting for his signal. Faustus gave it and in his next movement plunged through the gap in the wall and back outside into the battle proper.

Klaed simultaneously patted Ezekus hard on the back and the squat demolitions expert flung a cluster of shroud and frag grenades he had bound together with wire.

Smoke and fire filled the confined gallery space, which rang with the thunder of explosives.

Outside, Faustus was already moving.

A shallow ledge, nothing more than a lip with room enough for the edge of his booted toes to snatch purchase, ran along the exterior gallery wall. Faustus had leapt onto it and then swung, pivoting on one foot and plunging his first knife into the rock. It sank in deep, the monomolecular edge retaining optimum sharpness. In under a second, he had swung again, using the opposite foot to pivot on and the embedded knife as a makeshift handhold, swiftly rolling his body across the gap from back to front. He crabbed in this manner across the entire length of the wall, using one blade then the other, pivoting off right foot then left, back over front until he had reached the firing slit beyond which he had judged the enemy forces to be barricaded.

The magenta-armoured warriors were so intent on the Luna Wolves pressing them to the front, they missed the five commandoes almost in their midst.

Faustus paused at the edge of the firing slit, sparing a glance at his four legionaries who had followed their captain’s example precisely and now awaited his next order. Sheathing one of the blades, Faustus attached the krak grenades, moving over to the opposite side of the firing slit before he primed them.

He gave one last look at the others, before mouthing, ‘Three, two…’

On one the incendiaries went off, erupting in a storm of stone shards, fire and pluming smoke. The men on the other side in the gallery choked on it. Those closest to the wall who had foolishly abandoned their posts were ripped apart in a flare of harsh, white light and knew nothing of their deaths. Others were mauled by the razor-edge stone shards. Some also caught on fire. Bodies were thrown inwards and bludgeoned into pieces by sheer concussive force.

But this was as nothing compared to what came in the wake of the explosion.

Faustus and his men were upon the enemy, the epitome of their savage namesake, howling and slitting throats with their blades.

Seeing the enemy stricken and distracted, Klaed ordered the headlong rush into their dwindling guns. The Luna Wolves took some hits but weathered the storm and struck the enemy mass like a threshing machine. None were spare, but the slaughter was brief. In under thirty seconds, every man wearing magenta armour in the corridor was dead.

The last one who died was cut down by Faustus. He had been a sniper, his weapon resting in the next alcove along from where the Centurion had made the breach. It was locked on a tripod, its firing position fixed. Out of curiosity, Faustus looked down the scope. Just moved into the crosshairs, having broken through the induction gate was the captain of Tenth. Faustus didn’t know his name and the warrior was gone in seconds anyway.

He smiled, though, amused at the fact this unknown officer would never realise how close he had come to death.

‘You’re very welcome,’ whispered Faustus, before looking away.

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* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.