by Chris Dows
‘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 th
e 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.
