by Chris Dows
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 bee
n 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.
