Let The Galaxy Burn

by Marc

  ‘When Khorne has devoured your soul, you will pay for such blasphemy!’ Kharn shouted. His followers shouted their approval but with less enthusiasm than Kharn would have expected. For some reason, the man on the throne did not appear to be worried by the presence of so many armed men in his sanctum.

  ‘Somehow I doubt it, old chap. You see, my soul has long been pledged to thrice-blessed Slaanesh, so unless Khorne wants to stick his talon down Slaanesh’s throat or some other orifice, he’ll have a hard time getting at it.’

  ‘Enough of this prattle!’ Kharn roared. ‘Death is upon you!’

  ‘Oh! Be sensible.’ the cultist said, raising his hand. Kharn felt a tide of pleasure flow over him, like that he had felt from the whip earlier but a thousand times stronger. All around him he heard his men moan and gasp.

  ‘Think! You can spend an eternity of pleasure being caressed by the power of Lord Slaanesh, while your soul slowly rots and sinks into his comforting embrace. Anything you want, anything you have ever desired, can be yours. All you have to do is swear allegiance to Slaanesh. Believe me, it’s no trouble.’

  As the cult leader spoke, images flickered through Kharn’s mind. He saw visions of his youth and all the joys he had known, before the rebellion of Horus and the Battle for Terra. Somehow it all looked so clear and fresh and appealing, and it almost brought moisture to his tear ducts. He saw endless banquets of food and wine. For a moment, his palate was stimulated by all manner of strange and wonderful tastes, and his brain tingled with a myriad pleasures and stimulations. Visions of diaphanously clad maidens danced before his eyes, beckoning enticingly.

  For a moment, despite himself, Kharn felt an almost unthinkable temptation to betray his ancient oath to the Blood God. This was powerful sorcery indeed! He shook his head and bit his lip until the blood flowed. ‘No true warrior of Khome would fall for this pitiful trick!’ he bellowed.

  ‘All hail Slaanesh!’ one of his followers cried.

  ‘Praise to the great Lord of Pleasure!’ shouted another.

  ‘Let us grovel and adore him,’ a third said, as the whole force cast themselves down onto their knees.

  Kharn turned to look at his men, disbelief and outrage filling his mind. It seemed that they did not possess his iron-willed belief in Khorne’s power, that they were prepared to betray him for a few tawdry promises of pleasure. In every face, in every posture, he saw slack-jawed worship of the posturing peacock on the throne. He knew that there was only one thing to be done under the circumstances.

  The Slaanesh leader obviously felt the same. ‘Kill him!’ he cried. ‘Offer up his soul to Slaanesh and unspeakable ecstasy shall be your reward!’

  The first of Kharn’s comrades raised his bolt pistol and squeezed the trigger. Kharn threw himself to one side and the shell whipped past his head. The Betrayer rewarded the traitor with a taste of Gorechild. The chain-axe screeched as it bit through armour in a mighty sweep that clove him clean in two. The warrior gave a muted whine as his Slaanesh-corrupted soul went straight to the warp.

  Suddenly the rest of the berzerkers were upon him. Kharn found himself fighting for his immortal life. These were no mere Slaanesh cultists. Newly tainted though they might be, they had once been worthy followers of Khome, fierce, deadly and full of bloodlust. Mighty maces bludgeoned Kharn. Huge chainswords threatened to tear his rune-encrusted armour. Bolter shells tore chunks from his chest-plate. Kharn fought on, undismayed, filled with the joy of battle, taking fierce pleasure every time Gorechild took another life. At last, these were worthy foes! The body count swiftly ticked on to 2460 and continued to rise.

  Instinctively Kharn side-stepped a blow that tore off one of the metal skulls which dangled from his belt. The Betrayer swore he would replace it with the attacker’s own skull. His return stroke made good his vow. He whirled Gorechild in a great figure-of-eight and cleared a space all around him, sending two more traitors to make their excuses to the Blood God. Insane bloodlust surged through him, overcoming even the soporific influence of the Heart of Desire and for a moment Kharn fought with his full unfettered power. He became transformed into an unstoppable engine of destruction and nothing could stand against him. Kharn’s heart pounded. The blood sang through his veins and the desire to kill made him howl uncontrollably. Bones crunched beneath his axe. His pistol blew away the life of its targets. He stamped on the heads of the fallen, crushing them to jelly. Kharn ignored pain, ignored any idea of self-preservation, and fought for the pure love of fighting. He killed and he killed.

  ALL TOO SOON it was over, and Kharn stood alone in a circle of corpses. His breathing rasped from his chest. Blood seeped through a dozen small punctures in his armour. He felt like a rib might have been broken by that last blow of the mace but he was triumphant. His counter read 2485. He sensed the presence of one more victim and turned to confront the figure on the dais.

  The cultists’ leader stood looking down at him with a faint expression of mingled disbelief and distaste on his face. The naked girl had fled. The throne pulsed enticingly.

  ‘It’s true what they say,’ the man said with a delicious sigh. ‘If you want anything done properly, you have to do it yourself.’

  The insinuating voice drove Kharn’s fury from him, and left him feeling tired and spent. The cultist strode down from the dais. Kharn felt almost too weary to parry his blow. He knew he must throw off this enchantment quickly. The runesword bit into his armour and a wave of mingled pain and pleasure passed through Kharn like poison. Summoning his last reserves of rage, he threw himself into the attack. He would show this effete fop who was the true warrior here.

  Kharn hacked. Gorechild bit into the tattoos of the man’s wrist. Gobbets of flesh and droplets of blood whirled away from the axe’s teeth. The rank smell of hot bone filled the air as the hand separated from the arm – and began to crawl away with a life of its own. Kharn stamped on it and a rictus of pain appeared on its owner’s face, as if the hand was still attached.

  Kharn swung. The cultist’s head separated from its shoulders. The body swung its blade, a puppet still controlled by the strings of its master’s will. It bit into Kharn and the wave of sensation almost drove him to his knees.

  ‘Nice trick!’ roared Kharn, feeling the hand squirm beneath his boot. ‘But I’ve seen it before.’

  He brought his chain-axe down on the head and clove it in two. The body fell to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut. 2486, Kharn thought with some satisfaction.

  The Betrayer advanced upon the throne. It pulsed enticingly before him. Within its multiple facets he thought he saw the face of a beautiful woman, the most beautiful he had ever seen – and the most evil. Her hair was long and golden, and her eyes were blue. Her lips were full and red, and the small, white fangs that protruded from her mouth in no way marred her perfection. She looked at Kharn beseechingly, and he knew at once he was face to face with the Daemon trapped within the Heart of Desire.

  Welcome, Kharn, a seductive voice said within his head. I knew you would triumph. I knew you would be the conqueror. I knew you would be my new master.

  The voice was thrilling. By comparison, the cult leader’s voice had been but a pale echo. But the voice was also deceptive. Proud as he was, mighty as he knew himself to be, Kharn knew that no man could truly be the master of a daemon, not even a fallen Space Marine like himself. He knew that his soul was once more in peril, that he should do something. But yet again he found himself enthralled by the persuasiveness of a Slaanesh worshipper’s voice.

  Be seated! Become the new ruler of this world, then go forth and blast those meddlesome interlopers from the face of your planet.

  Kharn fought to hold himself steady while the throne pulsed hypnotically before him, and the smell of heavy musk filled his nostrils. He knew that once he sat he would be trapped, just as the daemon was trapped. He would become a slave to the thing imprisoned within the throne. His will would be drained and he would become a decadent and effete shadow of the Kharn he had o
nce been. Yet his limbs began to move almost of their own accord, his feet slowly but surely carrying him towards the throne.

  Once more, visions of an eternity of corrupt pleasure danced in Kharn’s mind. Once more he saw himself indulging in every excess. The daemon promised him every ecstasy imaginable and it was well within its power to grant such pleasures. He knew it would be a simple thing for him to triumph on its behalf. All he had to do was step outside and announce that he had destroyed the Heart of Desire. He was Kharn. He would be believed, and after that it would be a simple matter to lure the Khorne worshippers to ecstatic servitude or joyful destruction.

  And would they not deserve it? Already he was known as the Betrayer, when all he had done was be more loyal to his god than the spineless weaklings he had slaughtered. And with that the daemon’s voice fell silent and the visions stopped, as if the thing in the throne realised its mistake, but too late.

  For Kharn was loyal to Khorne and there was only room for that one thing within his savage heart. He had betrayed and killed his comrades in the World Eaters because they had not remained true to Khorne’s ideals and would have fled from the field of battle without either conquering or being destroyed.

  The reminder gave him strength. He turned and looked back at the room. The reek of blood and dismembered bodies filled his nostrils like perfume. He remembered the joy of the combat. The thrill of overcoming his former comrades. He looked out on a room filled with corpses and a floor carpeted with blood. He was the only living thing here and he had made it so. He realised that, compared to this pleasure, this sense of conquest and victory, what the daemon offered was only a pale shadow.

  Kharn turned and brought Gorechild smashing down upon the foul throne. His axe howled thirstily as it drank deep of the ancient and corrupt soul imprisoned within. Once more he felt the thrill of victory, and knew no regrets for rejecting the daemon’s offer.

  2487. Life just doesn’t get any better than this, Kharn thought.

  INTO THE MAELSTROM

  Chris Pramas

  ‘WAKE UP, CORSAIR! We’re almost there.’

  Sartak snapped back to consciousness, only to find himself looking down the barrel of a bolter. Beyond it was the disapproving face of Arghun, a Space Marine of the White Scars. Although Arghun had not slept for days, his eyes were alert and his grip on the bolter firm.

  ‘I am not a Corsair,’ Sartak said with dignity, ‘I am like you, a Space Marine, of the Astral Claws Chapter.’

  Arghun reached down, grabbed Sartak’s shoulder with his left hand and hauled him roughly to his feet. Forcing his bolter against the side of Sartak’s head, the White Scar spat in disgust: ‘You filth. The Astral Claws betrayed the Emperor! You lost the right to be called a Space Marine long ago. You’re nothing but a reaver and a pirate.’

  Sartak felt the cool metal of the bolter against his flesh, but somehow he remained calm. He knew the White Scar would not kill him now. There was too much at stake. ‘I am here to restore the honour of the Astral Claws.’ he said in a level voice. ‘My reaving days are over.’

  Arghun released Sartak from his grip, but kept the bolter handy. ‘Yes,’ the White Scar growled, ‘so you said in your moving speech before Subatai Khan. After years as a murdering cur, you woke up one morning and realised you still loved the Emperor.’ Arghun’s voice dripped with scorn. ‘And now you’re going to help us kill Huron Blackheart…’ The White Scar’s laughter filled the cramped quarters of the smuggler’s ship. ‘I’ve heard more convincing lies from ogryns.’

  ‘If you don’t believe me.’ Sartak said, flatly exasperated after days of such exchanges, ‘then why in the Emperor’s name are you here?’

  ‘If you were a true Space Marine.’ Arghun thundered, ‘you wouldn’t even have to ask me that question! I am here because I was ordered to be. That’s all I need to know.’

  ‘Arghun, I’m weary of fighting with you.’ Sartak replied with a sigh. ‘What I’ve told you is the truth. Huron Blackheart is planning a massive attack on an undefended Imperial world. If I can find my friend Lothar on Blackheart’s flagship, he should be able to tell us where the attack will fall.’ Sartak had told his story a dozen times, but it was plain from the look on Arghun’s face that the White Scar didn’t believe a word of it. Still, Sartak felt compelled to speak the words, hoping in his heart that they were true. ‘Then,’ the Astral Claw finished, ‘we can signal the rest of your Chapter and bury Blackheart forever.’

  He paused, before adding, ‘If you ever take off this inhibitor, that is.’ Almost unconsciously, Sartak ran his fingers over the heavy collar around his neck. As always, he could not find any kind of seam.

  Watching with amusement, the White Scar laughed. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like being Arghun’s dog, Corsair? It’s the only way to teach you discipline and obedience.’ The smile left Arghun’s lips as quickly as it had come. ‘Besides, I couldn’t risk you alerting your friends in the Red Corsairs before our arrival.

  ‘Whatever, we are almost to the Maelstrom.’ Arghun continued. ‘You’ll have your precious powers back soon enough.’ The White Scar slung his bolter reluctantly, but kept his eyes on Sartak. ‘Just try to remember what it really means to be a Space Marine and a codicier.’

  Sartak locked eyes with Arghun. ‘I swear before the Emperor to prove the truth of my words and restore the honour of the Astral Claws.’

  ‘Then may the Emperor have mercy on your soul, Corsair.’

  ARGHUN AND SARTAK stood in the vast, reeking metal belly of Huron Blackheart’s great warship. Surrounded by the Red Corsairs, renegade Space Marines of a dozen Chapters, they awaited Blackheart himself. Arghun stood proud and upright, staring defiantly at his fallen brethren, while Sartak shifted uncomfortably, searching the crowd for a friendly face. A haze of torch and incense smoke hung over the bay, but could not obscure the leering gargoyles that adorned its walls. From here, amidst twisted iron sconces and blood-spattered altars, Huron Blackheart led the Red Corsairs in their depraved worship of the foul gods of Chaos. Sartak had heard the screams of countless victims in this dark temple, and the memories haunted him still.

  Blackheart’s men were just as Sartak remembered them. Once the Emperor’s elite, full of honour and courage, these Marines had betrayed their oaths and followed Huron into heresy. Where they had once used their strength to protect the citizens of the Imperium, they now used that same savage power to offer up victims to their cruel gods. Blood, booty and terror were their masters now, and Sartak found it increasingly hard to believe that he had been one of them. Looking down at the fading Astral Claws markings on his power armour, now but a dim trace of their former glory, Sartak wondered if there was any honour left to salvage.

  Unwilling to meet the eyes of any of his former comrades, Sartak scanned the great bay. His gaze came to rest on the prone forms of Huron’s dreadnoughts. These massive machines of destruction stood chained amongst the broken pillars of the central temple, as if their lifeless husks could be reanimated at any moment. But it was naught but an illusion, for the sarcophagi which housed the pilots that gave life to the stomping beasts were well away from the dreadnoughts. Sartak knew them to be housed behind the Great Seal, safely locked away in Huron’s temple of temples. Although the Red Corsairs consigned the deranged and insane to lives of living torment inside the metal sarcophagi, they still treated the dreadnought pilots with an awed respect, perhaps because their irrational power reminded the Corsairs of their own inhuman gods.

  A hush fell over the assembled Chaos Marines, and Sartak could hear Huron Blackheart approach. As long as he lived, he would never forget the peculiar rhythm of Huron’s thumping footsteps, a product of the meltagun blast which had destroyed half of the man’s body. The Red Corsairs parted before their master as he strode into view. Blackheart was a towering figure, half man and half machine. His massive armour, a corrupted mockery of that of the Space Marines, bristled with blades and saws. In place of his left arm, he had an enormous bionic claw that je
rked open and closed spasmodically, so eager was it to rend the flesh of the living. Huron’s wreck of a face radiated sheer menace, and his eyes burned with an unholy fire. Stopping his thundering advance only a few paces from the two Space Marines, the Blood Reaver sized up his new guests as a butcher might study cattle ready for slaughter.

  ‘Sartak!’ Huron boomed, ‘I last saw you dead on the bridge of a White Scars’ cruiser, yet here you stand. Tell me, how are you alive?’

  ‘Great tyrant.’ Sartak began, ‘I was but knocked unconscious during that savage fight. The White Scars took me prisoner, but I would say nothing to them.’ The Marine could feel his mouth getting drier as the well-prepared lies came to his lips. Hurriedly, he continued, trying to finish before his voice betrayed him. ‘Arghun here helped me escape, and we hired a smuggler to bring us back to the Maelstrom. I told Arghun that you were always looking for men like him.’

  Huron’s twisted face betrayed nothing as his gaze swept to the White Scar. Sartak felt relieved to be out from his scrutiny. He only hoped the proud White Scar could feign the humility needed to win the tyrant’s trust.

  ‘And you, loyal White Scar.’ Huron said, ‘you betrayed your comrades to help Sartak escape. Why risk death to help this lowly sorcerer?’

  ‘I care nothing for this wretch.’ Arghun spat defiantly. ‘I used him because I knew he could bring me to you.’ The White Scar bowed his head ever so slightly, for the first time acknowledging the power of the Blood Reaver. ‘And you, lord, are the only man that can offer me refuge from the wrath of my gutless brethren.’

  Blackheart laughed. ‘This one’s got spirit.’ He took two great strides over to Arghun and grabbed the White Scar’s neck in his wicked claw. As blood trickled ever so slowly down the hungry pincer, the Blood Reaver continued, ‘Tell me, White Scar, what did you do to earn the wrath of your Chapter?’

  Arghun stood rock still, lest a sudden movement cause the claw to snap shut. ‘Great tyrant.’ he choked out, ‘I killed my sergeant in battle because he ordered a retreat. Cowards like him deserve only death.’