by Chris Dows
Khârn swung Gorechild, aiming to cut into Abaddon’s left arm and take it off below the elbow. Abaddon took hold of Gorechild with his lightning-wreathed claw, stopping the chainblade from hitting the armour and deflecting it into the side of the transport. At the same time Khârn reached for Abaddon’s massive forearm, stopping his sword short. Khârn knew he would not hold out for long against the Warmaster’s might. Using the hull of the Thunderhawk, Khârn pushed himself away. He grappled with Abaddon, forcing him back out into the arena and distancing them both from the ship. Khârn could feel every muscle in his body scream at him, but he needed more room in which to move. As Gorechild’s blade spun closer to Abaddon’s arm, so did the Despoiler’s sword creep towards Khârn’s neck. Khârn’s vision began to darken as more blood pumped out of his body. He had his space to manoeuvre, but at what cost?
Summing up his remaining energy, Khârn pushed Gorechild again. Below him, the ground began to shake, gently at first but then more violently. Both he and Abaddon struggled to keep their balance, and Khârn tried to press home his attack. Still Abaddon resisted, pushing against Khârn with a renewed fury. Brilliant flashes danced over Abaddon’s face, throwing his snarling features into stark relief. Out of the corners of his vision, Khârn saw lightning fork down into the Terminator guard. Bodies exploded in a shower of gore and spinning armour, torn apart by a maelstrom of light and brimstone that was pouring down onto them. Those not affected by the first impact raised their weapons to the unseen foe, only to succumb seconds later to the unnatural strikes. A thunderous booming sound filled the air and Khârn noticed movement above him. As Abaddon’s eyes flashed to the change around them for a split second, a shadow the size of a Fellblade swept across the two champions, smashing them both to the blackened ground.
Khârn looked up to see the sky had turned into a swirling mass of purple and black. Staggering to his feet, a wall of flame roared where the myriad corpses on the square had been. The inferno was tall and encircled both him and Abaddon. The Warmaster was poised low on the stone plaza, scanning the heavens. Khârn knew something huge had hit him, far bigger and more powerful than Abaddon, but he could not see what it was.
Greater fire plummeted from the broiling sky, consuming those buildings not already burning around the jagged ruins of the Imperial temple. Khârn’s eyes were drawn to shadows writhing before him in the white-hot sheet of flame, then figures began to twist and solidify. Warp spawn, drawn to the desecration of this place. One by one they stepped out from the inferno into the arena that was now forming. They were bloodletters, Khorne’s lesser daemons. Another appeared, and then another, until dozens stood in a perfect circle around him and Abaddon where the Black Legionnaires had stood, flicking out their tongues and brandishing their flaming swords. The inferno faded, revealing a sea of fallen warriors and the whole of Salandraxis in flames. Chaos had taken this holy planet and claimed it as its own. But Khârn still needed to take his trophy for the Blood Father. With a roar, he broke into a sprint and headed for Abaddon, who turned and readied himself for the onslaught.
Khârn heard a rush of air from above and looked up just in time to see a gigantic daemon descending on him, its talons stretching out to swat him to the ground, embers spiralling and burning the air beneath the darkness of its wings. Khârn ducked out of the way, but he was not fast enough to avoid the flat of the beast’s massive double-headed axe smashing into him, sending him sprawling. In a split second Khârn was up again, raging in a blood fury, but the greater daemon stood between him and Abaddon, its mouth wide in a scowl of warning. Its sheer size blocked Abaddon from Khârn’s view, and all around him the circle of bloodletters advanced, now numbering countless hundreds, closing in on him from all directions.
Khârn steeled himself to attack the bloodthirster, but its voice boomed in the broiling air before he could move.
‘Cease.’
With that one word, the wind ebbed and the ocean of bloodletters halted, the abyssal legion cowering before their king. Witchfire crackled in the roiling sky above.
Khârn took a step back and regarded the towering creature. As he saw Abaddon emerge from its shadow he dropped into a crouch, preparing himself for the Despoiler’s charge. But in the yellow light cast by the myriad swords of the bloodletters, he could see Abaddon’s rage was directed not at him, but at the greater daemon.
‘This is no business of yours, warp spawn.’
Abaddon started towards Khârn but the bloodthirster slammed its axe in the ground and bellowed into Abaddon’s face, the wind around them roaring with renewed force. Its voice was the crackle of hellfire, the infernal scream of the darkness beyond.
‘Hear the words of the Blood Father.’
Khârn strode towards the creature, Gorechild idling in his blood-soaked hands.
‘How dare you claim to speak on the Red God’s behalf? I shall destroy you for your effrontery.’
From behind the flames, Khârn spotted movement. More daemons peeled themselves from the bloody remains of Black Legion and Angels Eradicant to join their brethren. In seconds they passed through the flames, gnashing and snarling in barely controlled rage as they crowded towards him. The bloodthirster spoke again.
‘You shall listen to his words or die.’
Khârn stared into the black, dead eyes of the creature before him. Perhaps the Blood God was indeed using his daemon legion as a conduit for his voice.
All the better.
The bloodthirster turned towards Abaddon, snarling and flicking its tail as it did so. The Warmaster shouted in fury, the blade Drach’nyen ready to tear the throat from its daemonic brother should it speak words he did not favour.
‘The pantheon has promised me the service of Khorne’s chosen. I demand the God of Brass and Bone honour the pact he struck with his brothers. I demand Khârn’s oath for the coming war.’
Khârn glared at Abaddon and spat on the ground at his words.
‘Blood Father, I serve only you. I will not bend the knee to this cur.’
Abaddon sent curses to the skies but Khârn ignored him. Stepping back, the Chosen of Khorne opened his arms to embrace the assembled legion, imploring the Blood God to hear his words.
‘I have followed the Red Path as you commanded, and now I shall take this pretender’s skull as you have bid me do.’
Khârn turned back to face Abaddon but he could not see him. The bloodthirster dived onto Khârn in a frenzy of flapping wings and snarling teeth, pulling at his helmet until it finally released with the strain. The smell of the creature assaulted Khârn’s senses, and the heat from the flames all around burned the skin on his face. Khârn struck out at the daemon’s face, smashing his fists into its mouth and breaking dagger-like teeth. It responded by slamming its iron-black vambrace into the side of Khârn’s head, jarring his skull and blurring his vision with the impact. Khârn felt the creature uncoil its claw and take hold of his gorget. Pulling him close, it lowered its head. Blood and drool spilled over Khârn’s face as the daemon spoke, its voice guttural and obscene.
‘The Despoiler’s skull is not for you to take. The Blood God forbids it.’
Khârn’s mind reeled.
He had travelled the Red Path only to find that his understanding of Khorne’s desires was mistaken.
Khârn heard the mockery in Abaddon’s voice as he shouted to the daemon court.
‘It is as I said, berzerker. I have the favour of all the gods.’
Khârn felt himself drop backwards as the bloodthirster whirled, opened its wings amid a cloud of embers and landed close to Abaddon, bellowing in uncontrolled fury.
‘Enough!’
The legion of bloodletters moved closer, their ranks swelled by hulking daemonic champions stepping from the dead of Salandraxis to loom over Khârn and Abaddon. The bloodthirster’s incandescent gaze peered back towards Khârn under one of its black wings, the axe extended towards t
he Betrayer.
‘Know this. The Blood Father is pleased with the skulls you have taken today, Khârn, Chosen of Khorne. But the Red Path is not ended.’
Khârn did not blink as the creature stared at him with burning intensity. Before he could respond, the bloodthirster turned to Abaddon, the double-headed axe swinging from Khârn to the Warmaster.
‘You shall have redress, Despoiler.’
Khârn saw the rage in Abaddon’s face subside. Clenching the crackling talons of his right hand, Abaddon looked past the daemon and stared directly at Khârn as the creature continued.
‘For now, the Red Path follows the same direction as your desires.’
Khârn glowered at Abaddon, the rage building once again in his chest. All around, the lesser daemons started to writhe and judder as a single unholy voice filtered directly through them in a dark chorus.
‘It is the will of the Blood Father that you turn your blades to the same cause.’
Khârn’s blood boiled as lumbering daemons drew close to him, reaching out to his battered armour.
‘How can this be so? I shall never give service to this imposter.’
Khârn’s fury threatened to overwhelm him. Should he have answered the call from Abaddon when commanded? As if to answer his question, the chorus hissed and whispered once more. This time, the message held no ambiguity.
‘Know that it is for the greater glory of Khorne. Blood will flow. Such is his decree.’
The air fell silent, leaving only the furious crackling of the fires of Salandraxis. At Khârn’s shoulder stood eight daemon heralds, gazing at the Betrayer and the Despoiler, the oily night swirling above their heads. Within seconds the circle of fire subsided, leaving a ring of smoking bodies where the barrier had raged, and destruction as far as Khârn could see. The bloodthirster folded its wings as it joined its retinue and brought its axe across its ornate chest plate.
Khârn looked behind him at the rasping form of the daemon, then turned slowly towards Abaddon.
As the Chosen of Khorne stood beneath the bloodthirster, silhouetted by its brimstone bulk and his dark god’s infernal royalty, the daemon court’s myriad eyes slowly turned upon the Warmaster.
Abaddon was still looking straight at Khârn. The desire to drive Gorechild through his skull surged through Khârn’s body and mind, and he clutched the weapon until it began to shake in his hands. The bloodthirster emitted a low growl and hefted its axe threateningly. Khârn did not give it a second glance. If Khorne willed it, then he would stay his blade and follow the Red Path wherever it might take him.
Khârn walked towards Abaddon, who raised Drach’nyen slowly, deliberately. Khârn snorted and continued to stare into the Despoiler’s hate-fuelled eyes without breaking stride. Coming to a halt, he glowered at Abaddon for several seconds before slowly lowering Gorechild to his side, allowing the ancient axe to idle as he did so. Drawing in a breath to control his rage, he finally spoke.
‘Who would you have me slay?’
About the Author
Chris Dows is a writer and educational advisor with over twenty years’ experience in comic books, prose and non-fiction. His works for Black Library include the Warhammer 40,000 short stories ‘In the Shadow of the Emperor’, ‘The Mouth of Chaos’, ‘Monolith’ and ‘Glory from Chaos’. He lives in Grimsby with his wife and two children.
An extract from The Talon of Horus.
It began with Sejanus. It began with his corpse and the corpses of his Glory Squad red-carpeting the throne room floor of the High City. They had died invisibly, by unseen hands. Retribution for the treachery that had laid them low would be ostensibly more visible. It would come at the hands of Hastur’s brothers, vengeance for a favoured son.
A speartip was formed, oaths sworn. A legion descended on Sixty-Three Nineteen with one desire in its heart. It wasn’t compliance. It was a desire for blood, a way to level the scales of treachery balanced against it.
It began with Sejanus. It ended at the induction gate.
Faustus skirted the edge of the main battlefield with a company of genhanced warriors in tow. The Twenty-First Velites were armour-light compared to the majority of their Luna Wolf brothers. Designated reconnaissance, they carried bolters and long-barrelled viper-class sniper rifles, scoped and modified for mass-reactive ammunition. They moved fast, quietly and without fuss.
Thirty led by a Centurion roared up an exterior stairway appended to one of High City’s flanking sub-towers. In ruins, half flattened from cursory bombardment, it nonetheless clung to life and though much of the tower structure was destroyed, a large section of wall had endured. Klaed had spotted the vermin through his scope. Hooded and cloaked, but with the tiniest scrap of flashing silver on magenta giving them away. Careless. One man’s laxity had signed his entire unit’s death warrant.
‘How many, Klaed?’ asked Faustus, pausing. He had been pacing the steps three at a time, a characteristic spring in his motion. The Centurion loved war. He lived for it. There was but one thing he placed above it: the warriors in his charge.
A broad-shouldered Luna Wolf, muddy-white half armour clamped around his bulky torso, lowered the scope. ‘Thermal imaging puts them at eighty-six. Give or take.’
‘It is give or take, brother?’ asked the warrior directly behind Klaed, whose pepper-stubbled jawline never betrayed a smile.
‘Easy there, Klaed,’ said the warrior, clapping a meaty hand on Klaed’s shoulder. Ahenobarbus was half a head taller and a shoulder width broader. He wore a leather skullcap, strands of his long hair allowed to flow freely from beneath it. His combat shotgun was low slung, his finger rested alongside the trigger.
‘What does it matter, Clod? Eighty-six, one hundred and eighty-six. These men are walking dead anyway.’
Ahenobarbus half turned so he could scowl at Narthius.
‘That is not my name, pup.’
The young Luna Wolf beside him grinned. ‘But it suits you so well.’
Narthius’s face was gaunt, but handsome where most of his brothers’ were blunt and flat. A shorn crest of dark hair cut his cleanly shaven scalp in two even hemispheres of tanned skin. Ahenobarbus thought Narthius over-preened and had remarked so on more than one occasion. In turn, Narthius described Ahenobarbus as a lump of heavy meat, blunt but useful if pushed and aimed in the required direction.
Both had saved each other’s lives more times than they needed to count. That tally paled in comparison to how many times Faustus had saved the lives of all of his men. Reconnaissance units faced a harder task than most. Though admittedly not always at the brunt of the fighting, they were often without support nor as heavily armed or armoured. Quick minds, decisive action. It was a greater shield than any power armour or even Cataphractii plate, or so Faustus believed.
‘You two will have time to spar later,’ he said, cutting the banter short. ‘With me, if this operation doesn’t go smoothly.’
As they moved out again, Narthius patted Ahenobarbus on the back. ‘Don’t worry, Clod. I won’t let them kill you today.’
Ahenobarbus kept up the act for a few more seconds before his scowl faded. Laughter lines crossed with his numerous scars, as perfect white teeth were exposed in a feral grin.
‘Let’s hope they don’t spoil your youthful good looks whilst you’re saving my life, eh, pup?’
Faustus had reached the summit of the stairway, a wide but pockmarked path of cratered stone with one side facing a granite wall, the other a partially destroyed iron railing. It was high up, the wind catching his cape and causing it to flap spasmodically. It also offered a good vantage of the larger battlefield.
On the left flank, Abaddon was driving First Company hard. Faustus couldn’t see the Centurion individually but recognised his vexilliary’s banner. Evidently, Ezekyle wanted the honour of breaching High City before anyone else, but Tenth were already approaching the gate. Their
vanguard was engaged with the gate’s guardians. Strong-looking men, well armed and equipped but not the equal of a legionary. Titans roamed at the battle’s periphery, drawn back from the fighting companies of Luna Wolves now the need for men, not machines, took precedence. A fake dawn was still fading in the distance from the sundered starship that had crashed in the border districts. It threw light across the three kilometre-wide mass of Legio Astartes battleplate battering successfully against High City’s door. False Emperor or not, Sixty-Three Nineteen’s potentate was about to learn a lesson in the ephemeral nature of rulership.
The covered gallery of the stairway had led 21st to overlook the induction gate. An enfilading position.
‘Velites!’ Faustus cried out so as to be heard above the thunderous battle. At the summit of the stairs, the hair fled from his face in streaks of white as the wind tugged at it, and his eyes flashed sapphire-blue in the reflected flare of distant lightning. It was easy to follow men like Faustus, and Faustus knew the importance of never being afraid to demonstrate that. He raised his drawn gladius. Come the assault, he would sheath it again, but for now it served a solid purpose in cementing his image and invigorating his men. ‘We blood them now!’
At Faustus’s bidding, Brother Ezekus came forward and attached a pair of melta bombs to the gallery’s access door. It was barred, bolted and evidently well fortified but the wrought iron sloughed away in seconds against the violent burst of microwaves. Shroud bombs were thrown through the growing aperture in advance of the Velites. Faustus stepped through first, amidst smoke and scanner-foiling electro-static. His enemies appeared as monochrome green spectres through his night vision goggles. A cough from his rifle and the man closest to him went down, throat exploded just as he had begun to turn. Two more shots in rapid succession killed near-identical targets.
