by Chris Dows
Fire rained down on him from the survivors. Laughably, the defenders were trying to avoid hitting the statue behind which he stood. Jumping behind the base, he used its cover to protect him and picked the first one off with a perfectly aimed headshot. The second powered down, firing constantly with both weapons. Khârn leapt onto the side of the statue’s base and into the air, swiping down with Gorechild. The chainaxe ripped through the Seraphim’s skull, cutting it in half and continuing down the line of her torso. When Khârn finally landed, the cleaved halves of the Sister fell wetly on either side, entrails spattering onto the cobbled square. Without pause, Khârn raced towards the High Temple.
Had it not been for the decades Pradillo had spent in near-darkness within the High Temple’s confines, he would have found it difficult to know where he was or from which direction the screams and cries of battle were coming. He had pieced together much of what had happened since the dark forces had descended upon the planet from the communications sent to the Sisters of Battle inside the temple, and when His Holiness had furiously demanded the doors be opened so he could visit the wrath of the Emperor upon the heretics, Pradillo had assumed that the battle was reaching its zenith. The arrival of the black gunships had changed all that, and now he stood in his chambers at the back of the temple, feeling the ground shake and breathing in the smell of burning flesh and buildings. He had not wanted to retreat to this sanctuary, but blinded as he was, he would have been more hindrance than help to the Sisters. They had asked him to pray for their success, and then his clerics had spirited him away from Lozepath’s throne. They had even given him a sword, which hung uselessly in its scabbard.
The ground shook again, rattling the hundreds of bookcases and cabinets that followed the curve of the temple’s interior wall. Many had shattered during the orbital bombardment, but there were still enough intact that Pradillo heard several objects crash to the floor. He moved towards the sounds, groping downwards until his fingers brushed over a large book. Shards of glass pierced his parchment-like skin, but the pain was welcome. It was all part of his continued punishment for losing his faith in the Living Saint. When the enemy came, which they now surely would, at least he would be able to give his life in Lozepath’s service. He hoped it would be enough to redeem his soul.
A massive explosion rocked the temple, and the thick single door that sealed him from the rest of the building shook on its hinges. Bolter fire erupted in the distance, the sounds muted by the thick wall that separated him from the temple proper. Pradillo heard familiar voices shouting unfamiliar things, barking orders, calling for more ammunition, demanding reinforcements. Several loud bangs came from the door, impacts of some description, and bolters chattered on the other side. Whatever was attacking, it had made its way to the interior of the temple. Pradillo clutched the heavy tome in his arms. If only he could see, he could take up arms and stand side-by-side with His Holiness. It was at that point that there was a tremendous shrieking sound, of metal being rent apart, and the noise of battle dropped to nothing.
Lozepath must have retaliated.
Pradillo breathed in deeply. The day might yet be saved, because no Chaos force could withstand the might of the Emperor, regardless of what evil pit they emerged from. For long seconds, he could hear little more than moaning and shuffling, but then the bolter fire began again, this time more insistent, and the cries changed from ones of victory to ones of pain and despair.
He could take it no longer. Reaching out, he felt for the edge of the grand meeting table around which he had run the Ministorum’s affairs for countless years. Tracing the table’s edges, polished smooth by thousands of councils, he followed it to the end where his elaborate chair sat, then turned to the right. His hands grasped at free air until, finally, he felt the long, smooth barrel of his inferno pistol, gifted to him by the predecessor of Canoness Preceptor Alecia. Following its engraved barrel past the firing mechanism and down its ornately carved grip, Pradillo took it from its ceremonial mounting. Once, it had felt like a feather in his hand, but now it weighed heavily and his grip shook with the effort of raising it. No matter. He could still reach the trigger and had the strength to pull it.
The cacophony outside increased and he could smell smoke. The fighting had reached the rear of the temple. Pradillo felt his way back towards the door, reached out for its rough surface then took six paces back. He was directly before it, and felt his confidence grow. He might not have been able to fight by the side of Lozepath, but he would still make his stand.
A loud crash came, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground amongst a shower of broken glass. Pradillo turned in confusion from the door and for a split second could not understand what had happened. Then the whirring of a chain weapon, a large one by the sound of it, started up and he heard the crunch of booted footsteps approach. Something had come through the glass ceiling of the High Temple’s dome. Pradillo pulled the trigger on his inferno pistol and it bucked slightly in his hand. He felt the flash of its superheated blast on his hands and face, and heard a loud hiss as it impacted with his target. Turning slightly, he fired again, then again, trying to create an arc of destruction before him.
‘Cardinal.’
The voice came from directly behind him, a low, guttural growl filtered by the speakers of a Space Marine’s helmet. Pradillo rounded on the noise and fired, but his shot hit the wall. Throaty laughter came from somewhere to his side, and Pradillo turned in panic. There was the scream of the chainblade spinning up to full speed and he felt a burning sensation in his wrist. He tried to fire, but realised there were no fingers for him to control any more. He barely heard the clatter of his inferno pistol on the stone floor. His ancient heart thumped in his chest, fear replaced by righteous fury. He would not be mocked by this perpetrator.
‘You may think I am blind and helpless, but I still see you for what you are.’
Pradillo heard the chain weapon throttle down, and the footsteps approach still closer.
‘And what is that, you deluded fool?’
The cardinal straightened as well as he could, forcing calm into his voice. He knew that very soon he would be standing with the Emperor, the reward for his service a place by His Golden Throne.
‘You are a coward. You hide in the shadows, skulk and crawl at the commands of your perverted gods. But be warned. Those who walk the dark path will find it wanes in the approaching light.’
Pradillo could hear the creature breathing with powerful lungs. He could smell the stench of blood, old and fresh, on its power armour. Even so, he was no longer afraid. The love of the Emperor flooded through him, buoying up his spirits and giving him strength. Reaching for the sword at his belt with his remaining hand, he unsheathed it with a roar of defiance.
‘In the name of His Glorious Holiness the Emperor of Mankind, I denounce you!’
Pradillo lurched forwards, hacking and slashing with the weapon before him. If the Emperor did not give him strength enough to defeat this unbeliever, he would at least welcome him as a warrior to His side. His fight was that of the Living Saint, of everything that was good and holy. The righteous love of the Emperor of Mankind would guide his hand.
Pradillo felt his ribs crack as an armoured fist smashed into his side. His feet left the ground and his shoulder blade shattered as it hit the wall, and he fell to the floor at the same time as his broken sword. He could barely draw breath, such was the agony. As the giant stamped closer towards him, he hoped his death would be a quick one. To his shame, he could not bear the pain much longer. The footsteps stopped, and he heard the creature bend over him, the stink of death filling his nostrils.
‘I shall not take your skull, cardinal. You are not a worthy sacrifice for the Blood Father.’
Pradillo began to weep. In that moment, he would have welcomed any release from this purgatory. The creature straightened and moved towards the door to the High Temple, but then stopped and
turned.
‘And as for walking in the shadows, you are mistaken, cardinal. I do not follow a dark path, but a red one.’
Khârn smashed his way through the door, slicing the black-clad cleric to his left in half and crushing the one on his right into the wall with his armoured hand. He ran deeper into the smoking interior of the High Temple, seeking out the Living Saint. Here, Sisters of Battle were everywhere, firing at Black Legion warriors in well-organised squads. Several turned to face him, but he swept them away, throwing them into the pitted, fractured statues that filled the interior. A bolt struck him on the thigh from close quarters, and he turned to see a young man, head shaven and clutching a bolt pistol he could hardly aim, shaking before him. Gorechild’s teeth did not even slow as they cut him in half above the waist, his torso and arms folding over and dropping to the floor in a lake of blood.
More Sisters of Battle appeared, their shots far better judged than his previous assailant’s, and Khârn charged them through an alley of marble saints. This time the sacredness of the effigies was overlooked, and they were soon reduced to spinning fragments of stone and plaster. Armoured figures moved on the Sisters from behind, and with the smoke clearing Khârn could see that they were all Hounds of Abaddon. Perhaps they had reached the High Temple before the berzerkers, perhaps they had killed them and decided to launch an attack for their own glory. It mattered not to Khârn. The blood was flowing, and Khorne would be exulted.
Khârn felt the floor shake, as if the very temple were beginning to move. Those pillars and statues still standing splintered and cracked, the glass in the dome high above shattering and falling to the ground, slicing into Khârn’s exposed left arm and adding to the network of cuts and abrasions already there. Light erupted, so brilliant it burned into the darkest core of Khârn’s being. Turning away, he heard the crash of armoured bodies screeching across stone and brick. Something hit him hard, sending him reeling to the ground and he rolled blindly, sweeping outwards with Gorechild to stop his tumble. Shaking his head, Khârn tried to clear his vision as he got back to his feet. Slowly it returned, but there was still a golden aura to everything he saw. A number of Sisters of Battle rose, shaking and battered, a few yards in front of him. Instead of charging, they withdrew in a dazed line, weapons pointed at him in wary readiness. Khârn was just about to attack them when he saw his own shadow thrown into stark relief before him. Even through his power armour, he could feel the crackling discharge of an energy field at his back.
Khârn turned. Directly in front stood a vision of holiness and purity. It made him sick to look upon it, but he stood his ground. Lozepath, the Living Saint, stared down at Gorechild and then back up to him. Despite the shimmer caused by the power dancing and crackling around the holy avatar’s white-robed body, Khârn could still see the burning intensity of his white eyes, the mocking smile on his thin lips. The massive, glowing sword came up towards Khârn’s throat, and he tightened his grip on Gorechild, readying himself for the attack.
The Living Saint spoke, his voice booming around the destroyed interior of the High Temple. The smile had gone. In its place was a look of absolute hatred.
‘You will go no further, heretic. The march of the Blood God stops here.’
Chapter Eight
Court of Daemons
Gaul pushed against the bodies on top of him, all the time trying to pull his left arm away from whatever was pinning him down. With a clatter of armour, the heap above began to shift, revealing a sky black with smoke.
‘Maedinar, Ordelon. Report.’
Static hissed in his helmet. Gaul had not seen the veteran sergeant or his captain since they had engaged the berzerkers on the steps. Despite constant attempts, he had heard nothing from Tentera at all. He bitterly concluded that the venerable Chaplain had been overwhelmed at the wall, along with a great number of his battle-brothers. Such thoughts were pointless. He would have time to honour the fallen later. Right now, he had to rejoin the fight. Fury coursed through his veins, filling him with vengeful promise. Revitalised, he heaved himself upwards with a roar.
A bolt exploded less than an inch above his head. Gaul flattened back down, drawing Acritus with his free hand. Another bolt came, this time detonating on the Sister of Battle slumped lifelessly on top of him, tearing the body in half and spattering its remains in every direction. As he twisted and turned, his arm became free and Gaul felt the grip of a bolt pistol. Seizing it, he pushed himself upwards with a furious roar, levelling the weapon and firing at the Black Legion traitor advancing down the steps of the High Temple towards him. A shot thudded into Gaul’s chest, blowing a hole in his armour, but he kept on firing until his attacker’s helmet exploded. The body slumped down, and Gaul saw the firefight had attracted the attention of several other Chaos warriors.
Gaul threw himself down the steps, rolling and bouncing off the carpet of bodies until he crashed to the ruined avenue at the bottom. Shots tore all around him, disintegrating what still stood of the grand columns and statues lining the walkway. Ducking towards the burning shell of a building, he continued to transmit on his vox, calling for all Angels Eradicant to muster at his location. The High Temple had been breached. Gaul knew the Living Saint was in grave danger.
Khârn hit the thick stone column of the High Temple with a force that broke it in two. Crashing onto the fractured, gold-inlaid floor, he rolled, propelling himself from the curved interior wall back towards the crumbling fluted support from which he had fallen. All the time he kept low, ignoring the frantic battles all around him in case Lozepath delivered another devastating blast. Warning runes flashed madly for attention within his helmet. He did not need them to tell him the ceramite on his right pauldron and rerebrace had been compromised by the impact.
His breastplate was still smouldering from the discharge of the Living Saint’s sword, and while his body screamed with pain, Khârn knew he had been fortunate to withstand the blast at such close range. The fact he had survived was another sign the Blood God still favoured him. Khorne was not making it easy for him, but nor would he have expected him to.
The top of the column exploded above him, showering chunks of plascrete across the horns on his helmet. Khârn turned and only just blocked the sweeping blow of an Angel Eradicant’s chainsword as it swung towards him. The Space Marine continued to press down, flames glinting in the red of his visor, and Khârn saw him bring his bolt pistol to bear with his other hand. Khârn knew his only option was to push upwards and break cover. With a roar, he launched himself forwards, the handle of Gorechild grinding against the chainsword’s teeth. Despite his strength, Khârn knew his opponent had the advantage of elevation, so when he countered Khârn’s upward thrust by pushing back, Khârn relaxed abruptly, allowing the Angel Eradicant to topple forwards over his body and crash head first into the broken column behind him. Khârn moved in a blur, getting to his feet and bringing Gorechild down on his assailant’s flank. It chewed its way through the side of the pauldron down into the vambrace, rendering the arm useless. With a cry of frustration the Space Marine twisted away from the blow and fired his bolt pistol, but he was too slow. Khârn smashed backwards with a vicious kick, knocking the weapon away. Pulling Gorechild free, Khârn brought it down into the helmet of the Angel Eradicant, carving a diagonal slice from the scalp to the neck. The body fell back, brain and bone glistening inside the rupture, then crashed onto its side.
Another blast of light hit Khârn, spinning him into the temple’s wall. Stones fell onto his back as he rolled down to the floor.
‘Behold, vile apostates of darkness. The Emperor of Mankind shall triumph over your feeble champion. He cannot survive the power of a Living Saint.’
Lozepath’s voice rolled around the decimated interior of the High Temple, rising above the whir of chainaxes and the chatter of bolters all around. Khârn scrambled back towards the broken column, shoulder burning with pain from the impact. A glance revealed that hi
s pauldron was black with the force of the Living Saint’s deflected blow. With Gorechild clutched to his chest, Khârn tried to locate the Living Saint. He heard a crash of multiple bodies hitting glass and stone, then the cries of Sisters of Battle forming a charge only yards away. Lozepath was cutting a swathe through the Hounds of Abaddon to get to Khârn, leaving the Adepta Sororitas and surviving Angels Eradicant to finish them off in his wake. Khârn knew it was only a matter of time before Lozepath threw every one of his warriors at him. If he left cover, Khârn would present a ready target for the enemy’s bolters and the Living Saint’s energy blasts.
None of this mattered. His bloodlust was sweeping over him with renewed vigour, his twin hearts pumping furiously to fuel his rage. It was time to take the fight to Lozepath.
A blinding flash of light passed through him, and a split second later the column against which he rested was torn apart. He heard Lozepath’s booming laugh and taunting cries. Sprinting forwards, Khârn ducked underneath a searing golden stream that punched a hole through the temple wall directly behind him.
Khârn leapt over fallen effigies and chunks of stone, trampling bodies underfoot. Before him, three Sisters of Battle were engaging a Hound of Abaddon. Khârn angled himself forwards and rammed into the group, sending all four spinning to the blood-slick floor. Yards ahead, two Sisters turned and swept their weapons towards him with hoarse shouts of fury. The closest, a squad leader, brought her power sword up high while the other Sister thrust the butt of her bolter low in a practised, coordinated attack. Khârn ducked the high sword and brought Gorechild up in front of him, tearing the leader from crotch to mid-chest. Her scream of rage was a gargle of blood and froth, and as Khârn kicked her sundered body away to free his chainaxe, the second Sister evaporated in a cloud of steaming gore. Lozepath’s aim had been wide, and he clearly did not care who he killed in pursuit of his prey.
