The Red Path

by Chris Dows

  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.’