by Chris Dows
‘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 m
anaged 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.
