by Chris Dows
‘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 wer
e 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 o
f 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.
