Chapter One

The Furnaces of Haeleon

‘Who would you have me slay?’

Talomar Locq’s words were spoken with the confidence of a warrior who had proven himself in battle a hundred times over. His eyes burned with the same intensity as the myriad fires licking at the smashed remains of the Imperial citadel in which he stood, their whites shining brightly against the dried blood and filth encrusting his face. He stood before the Warmaster as a devoted servant, his chainsword still dripping with the blood of the enemy and his power armour freshly scarred from recent combat. Locq had, of course, been in the presence of Abaddon many times before and had even fought directly beside him on more than one occasion. But from today, this glorious day, he could speak of the time he was summoned by Abaddon the Despoiler to be tasked with the most glorious of missions and have his invaluable service to the Warmaster finally recognised. He would finally lead his warband as one of Abaddon’s chosen few, fighting by his side in the service of the Blood God. It was an honour he felt was not only deserved, but long overdue.

The call had come as he had led an execution squad to cleanse the last of the loyalist survivors. Between cries for mercy from wounded Guardsmen and the inevitable reply to their pleas from a bolt pistol, he had seen the looks exchanged between his warriors as the message had come through. Locq knew of many who had been summoned to the Warmaster’s presence and never seen again, but they had been foolish enough to make a mistake on the field of battle or displease him in some other way. He had done neither, and as he stood before the mighty form of his leader, he felt his time had truly come. His rewards for long and devoted service were mere seconds away.

The hulking form of Abaddon strode towards Locq, the sneer on his face thrown into dancing shadow by the fires surrounding him. It looked to Locq as if he was being given all the respect due to an irritating insect, and he fought to maintain his outward calm. The Warmaster’s eyes flicked over to Urkanthos and his face twisted into a scowl. Locq tried to think of what he and his commander might have done to merit such a greeting, and turned to look over to the Chaos Lord. He was surprised to see Urkanthos was looking down at the shattered ground, revealing the line of brass studs hammered into his exposed skull. The Lord Purgator was not usually one to hold his tongue, but something had silenced him. He was the commander of the Chaos fleets, feared and respected nearly as much as his Warmaster, but here he was clearly avoiding Abaddon’s burning gaze.

‘I would have you slay no one, Locq. And if you speak without permission again, I will kill you.’

Abaddon’s sonorous voice rumbled into the darkening sky, the texture of his words as ominous as their content. Locq immediately understood the scale of his mistake, and hid the realisation by biting down hard with his back teeth and clenching his hand around his bolter’s stock. Locq could feel Abaddon’s eyes boring into him, yet he dared not turn his head. Eventually, Urkanthos looked up. It was difficult to read his skeletal features at the best of times, but there was no support or encouragement to be found in the depths of his cadaverous eye sockets. Words began to form in Locq’s throat but before he could speak, Abaddon turned his back on him and moved away, crunching through the smoking debris that had been an Imperial stronghold only hours before. As the Warmaster barged his way past a broken plascrete column, Urkanthos moved after him, giving the merest flick of his hand to indicate Locq should follow. Without a word, Locq tucked his helmet under his arm and did as he was told.

Abaddon moved fast, and it took several seconds for Locq and Urkanthos to catch up with their Warmaster. By then he had exited the ruins of the hilltop palace and was striding down to the sprawling courtyard that had once housed gleaming marble monuments to the Emperor. Nothing now remained but chunks of rubble, and the fine mosaic floor was covered in a film of blood and oil. A ragged line of Black Legion drop-ships and transports squatted impatiently in the middle of the vast square, lines of slaves driven into some, tight formations of Chaos Space Marines and other forces trooping into others. Locq recognised Abaddon’s personal transport some five hundred yards distant, and calculated that the journey to its ramp was exactly as much time as he had left to make amends for his mistake. How he was going to do that without speaking eluded him.

Urkanthos strode forwards to Abaddon’s flank, leaving Locq to pick up the pace in order to hear what might be said. The Lord Purgator bowed his head as he spoke in a low, respectful tone, forcing Locq to strain his superhuman hearing.

‘Forgive Locq, my liege. He is an excellent soldier and has proven himself reliable over many campaigns. His impertinence comes from an eagerness to serve. It will not go unpunished.’

Abaddon stopped walking, and Locq stepped back to maintain a respectful distance. The Despoiler’s topknot swayed slightly, betraying the fact he was deigning to acknowledge one of his favoured commanders. Locq was surprised the Chaos Lord had intervened on his behalf, but was in no doubt there would be a price to pay. Nevertheless, he was relieved no one other than Urkanthos had witnessed his humiliation before the Warmaster. Even rumours of such an affront to Abaddon would be enough for members of his warband to challenge his right to lead them. He had fought plenty in the past to achieve and maintain his position, but he knew of several Hounds that would see any error he might commit as a sign of weakness and use it to their advantage.

Up ahead, two Thunderhawks roared into the purple-red sky, vortices of thick black smoke whirling in circles around their wing-tips from the fires raging on the ground. For the briefest of instants, he wondered if he was already condemned to die on this smashed planet. Abaddon strode over to the charred remains of a Leman Russ tank, its main turret missing and sponson cannons torn away. For long seconds the Warmaster looked around, breathing in the choking fumes and revelling in the scene of destruction laid out before him. Urkanthos waited patiently. Locq stayed exactly where he was.

‘Locq!’

The captain straightened to attention, bringing his bolter up across his chest and taking a step forward as Abaddon turned to face him. This time, the captain did not make so much as eye contact but instead stared straight ahead, fixing his gaze on the blood-encrusted brass skull centrepiece below Abaddon’s exposed head. In the gloom of his peripheral vision, Locq could see Urkanthos stiffen. Was an attack coming? He could not hope to win against Abaddon, but every instinct in his enhanced body readied him for combat. Fighting against the urge to strike, he concentrated on remaining absolutely still. The merest indication of defence would mean his destruction.

‘Is my Lord Purgator correct? Will you serve me in any way I see fit?’

Locq did not answer straight away. Instead he raised his chin slightly to expose his neck in a sign of contrition.

‘My skull is yours to take, Warmaster.’

The air was filled with the screaming of engines as several drop-ships hurtled overhead, fighting their way up towards the barely visible stars. Abaddon regarded him coolly, his left hand grasping and then releasing the grip of the daemon sword Drach’nyen, the tip of its vicious blade balancing on the decorative floor.

‘You will find the World Eater known as Khârn the Betrayer and bring him before me. Whether it is through persuasion or force, I care not how you accomplish it.’

Locq stared at Abaddon, astonished at his words. This was the great role he was to be entrusted with? A messenger? A tide of disappointment surged through him. The captain pursed his lips closed and gripped his bolter tightly. He did not know what to say or where to look, lest the anger rising in his breast betray him. Fixing his gaze on Abaddon’s daemon blade, he could see it shimmer to display skulls and faces twisted in perpetual agony. It was a deliberate and powerful reminder of the fate that would befall anyone who did not fulfil their duties, but such was the frustration Locq was feeling, the warning hardly touched him. His business concluded, Abaddon turned and began to walk away from Locq. Urkanthos stepped after the Warmaster and called after him, frustration and contempt colouring his words.

‘Warmaster, surely it would be better to send a message rather than forces required for the Crusade? We have no need of this so-called Chosen of Khorne. Our own–’

Urkanthos stopped talking a split second after Abaddon came to an abrupt halt. The Warmaster did not turn to look around. He did not need to.

‘You dare to question my orders?’

The Chaos Lord did not move. Slowly, Abaddon turned and stared down at Urkanthos, his eyes burning with undisguised disdain.

‘Be mindful – the favours I bestow upon my chosen, I can also take away.’

Urkanthos bowed his head, and while he had no features to reveal such an emotion, Locq could tell he was seething with anger. Casting his own eyes down, Locq could still see Abaddon’s hand tighten on the grip of his legendary sword. It pleased him that Urkanthos was taking the force of Abaddon’s fury rather than him. Locq could still not quite believe the way in which his Warmaster had treated him.

The Lord Purgator kept his head bowed. Locq felt his reply was delivered with considerable delicacy.

‘I… do not seek to question my liege. Your orders will be obeyed.’

Locq chanced an upward glance towards Abaddon to observe his reaction. Could Urkanthos’ clumsiness present a new opportunity for him? With the Lord Purgator gone, Locq could take his place as one of the Warmaster’s favourites – particularly if he succeeded in this honourless mission. Abaddon kept his eyes fixed on Urkanthos for a few threatening seconds longer, then turned and strode off towards the remaining drop-ships without another word. Locq waited until Abaddon had reached his transport and the ramp had closed before approaching Urkanthos, giving the Lord Purgator enough time to recover his composure. Only when Abaddon was airborne did they speak.

‘The Warmaster insults me with such a task.’

Urkanthos spat the words and Locq grunted in agreement. They had both been humiliated and reprimanded in equal measure, and the nature of the mission burned both of their Chaos-warped senses of honour and pride. Locq’s anger boiled inside him and he turned to Urkanthos. After all, it was not the Chaos Lord who had been given the mission to undertake.

‘Insults us, Lord Urkanthos. I am the one who is given the role of lackey, not you.’

Locq felt suddenly encouraged now that Abaddon had departed. Urkanthos stared into the broiling sky, and Locq’s gaze fell to his hand, which rested on his chainsword in exactly the same fashion as Abaddon’s had done earlier. Urkanthos was displeased. Perhaps he had said too much – again.

‘There will be good reason for him wanting Khârn. It is not our place to question why. We just do.’

Locq’s gaze followed Abaddon’s drop-ship skywards until it disappeared into a huge grey-brown cloud. He felt his old confidence surging through him, and rage burned within his chest. Perhaps it was time he showed the Lord Purgator that Talomar Locq had become a force to be reckoned with and was not frightened by his threatening tone.

‘But what of the glories I will miss while playing this childish game? This so-called mission is an insult. I have fought for this position, my lord, and I will have no one take it from me in my absence.’

The Chaos Lord moved quickly, wheeling around and activating his chainsword before Locq could react. The weapon growled menacingly in front of Locq’s exposed face, and Urkanthos’ words bit as deep as might the teeth of his weapon.

‘Remember it is I whom you serve first, Locq. You will not fail me.’

Locq looked into the expressionless face of the Chaos Lord for a long moment. No, the time was not yet right for him to make his move. He needed to reinforce his position, to build his warband and make Abaddon realise he was a great warrior and true follower of the Blood God. In that way, he could not fail to be chosen. Locq relaxed his grip on his bolter and nodded. The chainsword receded from his face, and Urkanthos withdrew a couple of paces.

‘Assemble your cohort. And make sure you pick them with care – regardless of what you might have heard about Khârn and his berzerkers being an undisciplined rabble, they are not to be underestimated.’

Urkanthos kept the weapon drawn for another heartbeat, then powered it down. As the Lord Purgator turned towards the final remaining drop-ship, Locq swallowed down his fury and called after him.

‘My lord, where will I find Khârn?’

Urkanthos’ voice boomed from the deep shadows consuming the surface of the ruined planet.

‘Look for the bloodiest trail of destruction in the sector. Then follow it.’

Despite the eye lenses of his helmet shading him from the worst effects, Khârn still found himself squinting against the brilliant reflections from Haeleon’s glass-smooth surface. Of all the unforgiving balls of rock on which he had fought for the glory of the Blood God, this had to be one of the most forbidding. Its three suns ensured nothing could survive long on the lifeless shell without protection, and he could feel the searing heat on his exposed left arm as he hefted Gorechild in readiness for the approaching battle. Khârn had very little regard for most of the loyalist forces – or for any other – but during the days of Horus he had seen the White Scars’ prowess as hunters and masters of the lightning attack. The vast expanses of perfectly flat, baked ground would lend themselves well to the Chogorians’ way of fast, mobile warfare. They must have thought it a gift from their Emperor when Khârn had made planetfall here and their ship had miraculously managed to ‘evade’ Shipmaster Roderbar’s scanners to allow their attack.

However, Haeleon hid a secret that could not be detected on scanners. Its outer crust was extremely fragile, and many of the plains had collapsed in on themselves to create elaborate networks of slick-walled chasms and translucent valleys. Some ran for hundreds of miles, others for barely a few yards, and it was into such a web that Khârn would draw the foe. While it was against his very nature to wait in ambush like a cowering animal, today the tactic would serve his purpose and that of the Blood God well. All he had to do was get their attention, and as he watched the line of glinting vehicles speeding towards him in the far distance, he raised Gorechild into the air and roared at the top of his voice.

A few hundred yards ahead of his position, the smooth rock erupted in a hail of bolter fire. The destruction swept towards him in a broad wave, carving deep gouges and spinning dagger-sharp shards of silica into the air. Further out still, a hazy line of mounted White Scars roared towards him, sustaining a murderous barrage. His blood raged through his veins and it took all of his considerable willpower to remain static and not charge towards the enemy. The sheet of destruction narrowed as they sped towards him, and daggers of glass showered his body. Most of it rained onto his armour and broke apart, but some pieces sliced viciously into his exposed arm. The pain meant nothing in comparison to the murderous heat of the three suns. If anything, it helped him concentrate.

From the second the fifty-strong formation of gleaming bikes had broken over the far horizon, Khârn had been counting down in his head, adjusting calculations of speed and trajectory as the White Scars had accelerated towards their prey. With no landmarks or features to work from, the task of assessing exactly when to open fire was made all the more difficult. Snapping his plasma pistol straight in front of him, he began to blast indiscriminately at the bikes roaring line-abreast towards him. As he did so, Khârn strode backwards, not as fast as the speeding bikes but quick enough to buy himself the extra three seconds he needed.

While the White Scars’ auspexes would be next to useless due to the planet’s unusual geology, Khârn knew that their visual scans and augmented eyesight would have spotted the network of valleys towards which they roared. Khârn understood the Chogorians to be bold, but they were not stupid. However, in the same way Khârn wanted their skulls for the Blood God, he was counting on their desire to take him as a trophy. He needed them to keep charging at him until the very last second, so he gave them an easy target to aim for. Larger splinters of rock bounced and clanged off his power armour and cut deeper into his bare arm. The wave of decimation was intensifying around him. If it engulfed him fully, even with the protection of his armour he would not be able to withstand the combined fire from fifty twin bolters. Taking a few more steps backwards, Khârn raised Gorechild over his head and bellowed at the White Scars in defiance just as the maelstrom reached its apex.

Stormseer Yaghterai knew of Khârn’s reputation as a berzerker, but he had no idea he was quite so suicidal. One minute he was standing a few hundred yards away from them, his malevolent scarlet figure blurred by the cloud of debris thrown up by their lethal bolter fire, and the next he was gone, having thrown himself into the closest of the chasms that snaked out for countless miles in all directions. Directly in front of him, Xin-Myang Khan reacted to Khârn’s disappearance with a raised chainsword, ordering the riders to cease fire and slow down. The parchment-dry air was filled with the squealing of brakes and scudding of over-sized tyres on Haeleon’s surface, and Yaghterai noted with irritation that some of the bikes pitched sideways, their over-zealous riders having to slam a leg down and force their mounts into a controlled power slide. Yaghterai had expected something unusual to happen, and now it had. This, however, was only the beginning – and he did not like it one bit.

The Stormseer had been trying to counsel caution since they had first detected Khârn’s ship, but he might as well have shouted to the howling winds of the Chogorian plains. Of course he shared the burning desire to avenge the Brotherhood of Khajog Khan, slain at the hands of Abaddon the Despoiler, but his own brothers had been consumed by what they had seen as great fortune to detect the traitor vessel Skulltaker in the first place. It was an opportunity too good to miss; they would have the honour of exacting revenge on the forces of Chaos in a daring attack against superior forces. Songs would be sung of them long into the cold Chogorian nights.

Yaghterai’s had been a lone voice questioning what the berzerkers might want on such a barren rock as Haeleon, and his khan had dismissed it as irrelevant. Shipmaster Adarek had carefully sailed their strike cruiser Wings of the Eagle out and around Haeleon to avoid detection, using the impenetrable structure of the planet to mask their approach and landing from the larger, more powerful enemy vessel. And now they were here, facing an enemy that was no longer in sight. Yaghterai readied his force staff and decelerated carefully, his greater experience showing in the deft control of his steed. Xin-Myang braked late as they rumbled ever closer to the network of jagged cracks in the ground, allowing himself to be absorbed into the line of bikes. Opening his vox, he called his riders to readiness and they came to a full stop twenty yards from the nearest gorge, engines close to overheating, weapons drawn. Watching him, the Stormseer took in a deep breath of hot, stale air. He wanted to insist they undertake a full reconnaissance of the area, to try and at least map the territory into which they were heading and to judge its suitability for their bikes. He wanted to, but knew it would be a waste of his breath. On a planet such as this, it was easy to be blinded.

Khârn shifted his weight slightly, trying his best not to cast a shadow into the wide, flat-bottomed valley to his right and below him. There was absolutely no indication the White Scars had followed him down as he had hoped they would. Frustration boiled in his veins. Hiding in wait was as alien to him as it was the rest of his warband. Jumping down onto the glass-smooth floor with a crunch, he looked up into the bleached sky to see if there was any movement along the ledge of the chasm. There was none, and Khârn muttered an oath to the Blood God. His body felt as if it was going to explode with the anticipation of combat. Movement caught his eye, and he saw a number of red-clad figures squirming inside narrow fissures to his left and right. It was clear several of them were in peril of losing the fight against their bloodlust – particularly Samzar. Immediately identifiable from the broken horn on his berzerker helmet, he was physically shaking with the effort of self-control. As if sensing his gaze, Samzar looked over and gave Khârn an imperceptible nod, then forced himself back impatiently into the narrow crevasse that would hide him from the bikes’ approach. If the enemy did not present themselves soon, the warband would likely turn on each other.

That was of no consequence. All that mattered to Khorne was that the blood flowed.

A flicker of darkness flashed across Haeleon’s highest sun directly above. A second later, the walls of the gorge exploded all around. Something crashed to the ground yards away, and the roar of bolters echoed from the high, sheer walls. Khârn spun around to see a White Scars bike bearing down on him, its tyres screeching in protest on the smooth surface and its front end juddering uncontrollably. Its bolts exploded wide, and Khârn seized the opportunity to dodge the fire. Running further into the valley, he ducked around a sharp turn as more fire streaked past him. Realising the bike would be on him in seconds, Khârn jumped up into a crack a couple of yards off the ground and waited for it to slow as it navigated the corner. Ignoring the chattering of its guns, he swung Gorechild horizontally, taking the head from the White Scar in a single clean blow. The bike continued onwards down the valley without a rider, jamming between the rapidly narrowing walls.

More shadows flitted overhead. Khârn looked back to see a dozen more bikes plunging from the sky, dropping thirty feet from the plateau above to land in the natural passageway. Khârn roared at the riders, who immediately spotted him and accelerated, firing wildly. Two of the lead bikes crashed into each other as the valley narrowed, and the bikers behind had to brake heavily to avoid collision with their brothers. With a roar that impressed even Khârn, berzerkers emerged from their hiding places, throwing themselves at the slowing machines. For a few seconds it looked to Khârn as if the battle would be over quickly, but then fire erupted from the other end of the valley. More bikes emerged around the tight corner, their riders using their hand weapons for fear of hitting their battle-brothers caught in the ambush. Khârn ducked back, but several berzerkers crashed to the ground, dead before they hit the floor under a withering salvo of close-range bolter fire.

Khârn threw himself at the lead bike, jumping up on its front wheel and bringing Gorechild down into the helmet of its rider. The White Scar behind him opened fire immediately, but Khârn grabbed hold of the now-lifeless Chogorian and threw him at the bikes trapped before him. Khârn heard a cry from above and looked up to see a White Scar dropping towards him. The Space Marine crashed into Khârn and sent him tumbling off the top of the bike, the two of them rolling to the side as the other bikes roared past. Khârn was up first. Drawing his plasma pistol, he aimed it at the head of his attacker and discharged it into the White Scar’s helmet, evaporating its contents. The skull of such a feeble opponent was not a suitable offering for the Blood God. Khârn pursued the line of bikes, hoping to find a more worthy adversary.

The ground shook behind Khârn as another bike landed heavily, and the surface gave way beneath his feet. Bouncing and skidding, the machine roared past him, its thick front tyre narrowly missing his head. Khârn threw Gorechild at the back of the rider, but the axe’s chains were swept up by the rear tyre and jammed into the wheel housing, dragging Khârn for several yards until the wheel locked up and the machine careened into the wall, crushing its rider as it flipped to one side. Khârn felt as if his left arm had been torn from its socket, and hauled himself to his feet by the chains. Pulling on them, he realised the chainaxe was stuck fast. Holstering his overheated pistol, he ran over to free his favoured weapon. White-armoured figures dropped around him from above, some of them landing well. Three made directly for Khârn and he dropped the chains, readying himself for the attack. From nowhere, Samzar and his comrade Lukosz charged the attacking Chogorians. Khârn picked up the chains again and strained at the crippled bike. This time Gorechild came free, and Khârn sank it deep into white ceramite. Having despatched the three White Scars, Lukosz and Samzar moved away in search of more skull trophies.

Khârn knew they would expect no acknowledgement from him, nor would they get any.

He headed back towards the widest part of the chasm. Its centre was crowded with at least twenty abandoned bikes at various angles, their riders having left them in favour of close-quarters combat. The entire valley was filled with the flash of bolter fire and the whirr of chainswords, the sound of power-armoured warriors smashing into each other in a symphony of carnage. In the blink of an eye, a veteran Chogorian was vaulting over a burning attack bike towards him. Khârn did not have time to activate Gorechild before his adversary was upon him, chainsword in one hand and curved duelling tulwar in the other. Khârn laughed with the pleasure of the attack. This White Scar was no fool like the previous assailant. He twisted and rolled out of the way of Gorechild, stabbing and slicing at Khârn’s left arm with his short blade. Khârn ignored the pain and used the apparent weakness of his exposed arm to lure the Space Marine off balance. By the time the veteran had realised his mistake, Gorechild had smashed through his helmet and into his screaming face. The Chogorian staggered back, dropping his chainsword and trying to get some purchase on the massive handle, but Khârn yanked hard on the chain, pulling the weapon out and allowing the White Scar’s blood to spurt freely through his ruined vox grille. In one elegant, seamless movement, Khârn activated Gorechild, took a step forwards and slashed diagonally down, sawing the veteran from neck to armpit. As he peeled apart, blood and organs washed onto the glassy surface, sizzling like meat on a hot plate. Khârn bellowed to the skies. The blood was well and truly flowing now, and he wanted Khorne to witness his harvest.

Something hit Khârn on his right pauldron, the force spinning him off balance and crashing him into the splintered glass wall of the gorge. Instinct told him it was not a conventional weapon, so he fell to one knee, using the milling, clashing bodies of berzerkers and White Scars as cover. A ball of energy hurtled overhead and down the valley. This assault had not issued from a gun; it bore all the hallmarks of the warp. When another crackling discharge streaked past, Khârn jumped to his feet and ran with his head down, slamming into the bodies of friend and foe alike. Barging them away, he used the open space to build up speed and launched himself from one of the burning White Scars bikes, Gorechild raised high and ready. Sailing over a line of white and red power-armoured figures, he landed awkwardly, the planet’s granite-slick surface smashing underfoot and throwing him to one side. A bolt hit him square in the back, but Khârn’s armour absorbed the attack. Rolling to his feet, he advanced on the White Scars psyker, Gorechild’s teeth already rattling at full speed.

The Stormseer took a step forwards and aimed his staff directly at Khârn’s head. There was a brilliant flash and Khârn’s vision blurred, but he shook off the assault and pressed on. A second discharge came, hitting his breastplate, but the energy quickly dissipated. Looking down at the fading blue-white light, he laughed at the efforts of the Stormseer.

‘Fool. Your parlour tricks cannot break the Blood God’s grip on me.’

Raising his axe into the air, the Chosen of Khorne swung down, smashing the animal-horned tip of the Stormseer’s staff into splinters and slicing away the ceremonial braids of hair. The White Scar looked down to the shaft, now cleaved in two and useless, and immediately reached for his chainsword. Khârn heard a muttered incantation beneath the Stormseer’s helmet, likely an appeal to the powers of nature the Chogorians so fervently believed in, and moved in with Gorechild to claim his skull. However, the speed with which the White Scar moved was incredible; blocking his attack, the Stormseer pushed back and, to his surprise and delight, Khârn realised that the White Scar had summoned extra power and speed from some unknown spirit. This promised to be a worthy opponent after all.

The Stormseer raised his chainsword with a roar and threw himself at Khârn, who found himself having to parry the ferocious onslaught. The two sets of teeth ripped at each other in a screech of metal. Grabbing hold of his free arm, the White Scar attempted to spin Khârn off balance but instead they fell back onto a nearby bike, crashing to the unforgiving ground. Khârn recovered first, reactivating Gorechild and bringing it down on the Stormseer’s helmet. Galvanised by his incantations, the Chogorian bobbed his head out of the way. He was not fast enough to prevent the top of his helm being sheared away, along with a good slice of scalp from his scarred, bald head. Swinging outwards with Gorechild, Khârn had to step back from the Stormseer’s counter-attack. Rolling back onto his feet, the psyker again threw himself at the Betrayer with a guttural roar, slicing and carving a path with his chainsword towards him. Khârn found himself relishing the fight.

‘You have found your strength, Stormseer! Be fast. Be strong. Your battle-brothers have been nothing but disappointing cowards. Prove to me that you are a worthy adversary!’

Khârn wanted his words to goad the Stormseer and as the psyker thrust his chainsword towards him with a howl of fury, he knew that it had worked. However, the attack lacked the ferocity of the previous few blows. With disappointment, Khârn realised the White Scar’s power was deserting him. They both knew it. Yet still, the Chogorian pressed on his assault, snarling as he did so.

‘What do you know of worth? You are an abomination, as is your god. I do not need the powers of the warp to kill you. There are plenty of other ways you can die at my hands.’

As if to punctuate the point, the Stormseer sliced through one of the chains attached to Gorechild, releasing the skulls that had been threaded along its length. They clattered to the ground and rolled away. Furious at losing his trophies, Khârn swept outwards with the rear of his chainaxe, hitting the Stormseer squarely in the chest and throwing him backwards. Khârn’s patience was wearing thin.

‘I care not whether I take your soul or your skull, Chogorian. Either way, the Blood God will have you for his own.’

The White Scar stood before Khârn for a moment, clearly considering his words. Slowly, he reached up and removed his ruined helmet, revealing a face soaked in blood and eyes white with hatred. Khârn was unimpressed with his defiance. The mica-dragon teeth on Gorechild became a blur, and Khârn swung the chainaxe two-handed. The Stormseer moved fast enough for his chainsword to take the whole force of the attack, but Gorechild carved it in two. Its chain split and lashed backwards with lethal speed, fracturing the Chogorian’s skull and tearing out his right eye. Khârn stepped back and watched as the White Scar clutched at his ruined face, blood pumping through the fingers of his gauntlet. Still, he would not give up. He drew a ceremonial dagger from an animal-hide sheath and pointed it towards Khârn, raging at him in fury.

‘How can you not understand, berzerker? Even if you kill us all today, we will not stop. We shall avenge the Brotherhood of Khajog Khan and destroy Abaddon the Despoiler. We will hunt you and your kind to extinction.’

Khârn stopped dead in his tracks, Gorechild spinning down to an idle chunter. He regarded the swaying form of the Stormseer, the warrior still determined to finish his hunt. It was not the admission the White Scars were on a mission of vengeance that surprised him, nor the pointless bravado of the Stormseer in the face of the Blood God’s might. It was something far more personal that ignited a rage within him.

‘Abaddon? I serve no one but Khorne.’

Exposed as he was to the furnace heat of Haeleon, the unfiltered tone of the traitor’s voice sent a chill through Yaghterai’s body. His vision swayed in and out of focus through his remaining eye, and he was unsure whether Khârn’s removal of his elaborate red helmet was real or an illusion. As the scarlet figure moved towards him, however, the look of absolute loathing in his stare brought the Stormseer crashing back to reality. The rest of Khârn’s scarred face was impassive, caring nothing for the life about to end before him. Yaghterai wondered if those malevolent, feral eyes had witnessed Jaghatai Khan himself on the battlefield. Had they seen Terra burn?

Yaghterai felt tired. He knew he was finished; his mind was slipping away, robbing him of his connection to the aether. And yet, it had been words that had hurt his opponent more than anything. He still had a weapon he could wield.

‘There is no distinction I can see. World Eaters, Black Legion… you are all the same. Had Abaddon not crawled from that plague pit you call home, you would not have had the will or the courage to venture forth on your own. He has led you to this place, whether you like it or not. And he will lead you to your annihilation.’

Yaghterai felt his legs buckle and he fell to his hands and knees at the feet of Khârn. There was a high-pitched sound in the air, strangely familiar, getting closer. It filled his heart with yearning. Straining his head upwards, he could see Khârn towering over him, his huge axe purring, ready and waiting. His face was shaking with rage; he was impassive no longer. Good.

‘What became of the Twelfth Legion, Khârn? Let me tell you.’

The Stormseer shook his head to clear it. He wanted his final words to be as cutting as a finely honed tulwar.

‘They bowed to the Despoiler, Khârn. The War Hounds turned into lapdogs.’

Yaghterai dropped his head in exhaustion. He could see red and clear liquid running in thick lines onto the smooth, hard ground, steam escaping as it splashed before him. The sound came again, louder now. Was it the whine of a chainaxe? No. It was changing, transforming into something else. Yes, the screech of a Chogorian eagle. It was calling him home, and as all went black he opened his soul to welcome its cry.

The battle was not yet won, but Lukosz could see from his vantage point the berzerkers were on their way to victory. Some yards distant he spotted Samzar hurling the front wheel of a White Scars bike at two opponents, smashing one to the ground and forcing the other to fire wide of his position. All the better, because the shot would have dropped him where he stood. The Nails were making him increasingly reckless, and Lukosz knew Samzar’s uncontrolled rage would soon lead to his demise. As if realising his lucky escape, Samzar charged forwards. Emptying his own weapon into the chest of the upright White Scar, Samzar turned his attention to the prone Chogorian half buried beneath the tyre of his own steed.

Flicking the rapidly drying gore from his chainsword, Lukosz scanned down the valley to target the khan of the White Scars. Some within the warband might argue there was no great urgency to finish the enemy off, but he had fought the Chogorians before and knew just how quickly they could reassemble, mobilise and launch a counter-strike. The berzerkers had used the planet to its best effect; in that, they had served Khârn well. But now the initial density of bodies had thinned and despite the abandoned machines in the confined space, it would be easier to manoeuvre around them. If only a handful of riders retrieved their mounts, the warband could be cut to ribbons.

Instead of seeing the White Scars’ leader, he found his own. Khârn was swinging Gorechild down onto an unseen opponent in a frenzy, his bare arm glistening and bulging with the effort. Why he had removed his helmet, Lukosz could only guess. Khârn enjoyed the smell of death, and there was plenty of it hanging in the fire-hot air of Haeleon. Unfortunately, this meant he would not be able to hear his vox broadcast. Lukosz would have to navigate his way over there instead.

Berzerkers would fight independently until they were slain or all their foes lay in a pile before them, but now was the time for reason. Like Samzar, Lukosz had relinquished his captain’s rank when the Legion had fallen apart. The title had become as meaningless as his own existence. He still possessed the keen tactical mind that had marked him for leadership all those years ago. Whether it would eventually abandon him as he had witnessed in his fellow World Eaters, he was unsure. However, one thing was for certain: he was the only thing keeping this disparate faction of berzerkers alive. Khârn cared nothing for leadership. He was an indifferent force of nature who lived to shed blood and go where it pleased him or, to be more accurate, where the Red Path took him. If some chose to follow, as long as they did not get in Khârn’s way, then all was well and good. If they proved useful, as he and Samzar had, all the better. Following the Chosen of Khorne was the closest thing Lukosz would ever find to the old ways and, for that reason, it was worth fighting for.

Spotting four White Scars moving in unison towards their steeds, Lukosz realised it was time to act. Bounding over to Khârn, he beheld a scene that choked the warning in his throat. It was difficult to make out exactly what the Chosen of Khorne was attacking, because it had no discernible shape. Here and there, pieces of shattered plate stuck up out of the glistening pulp. The frenzied attack showed no signs of abating, with Khârn screaming the same thing repeatedly as he swung down into the spattered mass of tissue, flinging ropes of gore in random arcs around the site of obliteration.

‘I follow the Red Path! I follow the Blood God!’

Lukosz had rarely seen Khârn in a greater fury. The air around him seemed to boil. Somewhere behind him, he heard an engine choke into life, and a large shadow passed overhead, throwing the valley into shadow.

‘Lord Lukosz, this is Roderbar. A White Scars Thunderhawk is on its way down. I could not–’

The ground erupted in heavy bolter fire just as the Skulltaker’s warning came through. Lukosz flattened himself against the gorge’s wall and heard the roar of engines pass overhead. The White Scars were attempting extraction, and in their present location any ship would be able to shoot the warband like fish in a barrel. Barking orders to return fire, Lukosz turned to Khârn who, mercifully, had been distracted by the assault. Looking down to the mess, Lukosz realised just about the only part of the body that had not been pulped was the head. Khârn looked up to him then, eyes wild, breathing heavily.

‘Blood for the Blood God, Lukosz. He demands more trophies. Now.’

The air was filled with the chatter of concentrated bolter fire and Lukosz looked up to see the Thunderhawk land heavily around a mile in the distance. Behind him, packs of berzerkers were heaving themselves over the ledge of the chasm in pursuit. Several White Scars were running towards a solitary figure waving a long, curved blade in the air between Lukosz’s position and the now-open drop-ship door. It had to be their khan, orchestrating the retreat. On his right, Lukosz spotted the unmistakable figure of Khârn running towards the Chogorian, completely oblivious to the volley of suppressing fire the rapidly retreating White Scars were laying down to protect their leader. The khan represented a trophy that could not be missed.

Realising Khârn’s intention, Lukosz ran after him, doing his best to draw fire away and provide cover. Samzar joined his comrade on the opposite flank seconds later, but with nothing to hide behind it was a matter of firing and dodging as best they could. With every one of the khan’s remaining battle-brothers now closing on him and heading for the drop-ship, Lukosz saw their leader begin his own retreat. Three White Scars moved forwards from the foot of the loading ramp to join him, attempting to create a distraction in much the same way Lukosz and Samzar had done for Khârn earlier in the battle. Lukosz could see that, despite the speed and fury of Khârn’s charge, he would not reach the leader of the White Scars before his protectors did.

Lukosz roared at Samzar and the other berzerkers to target the drop-ship. Bolt pistol fire tore through the air, catching the White Scars leader, his guard and Khârn in a deadly crossfire. Khârn kept on weaving and ducking, clearly intent on claiming the khan’s head no matter what the cost. Without warning, his intended victim spun to the ground, hit in his shoulder by a stray shot. The White Scars did not hesitate to open up on the exposed berzerker with a volley that sent Khârn himself to the broken ground. The three White Scars guards wasted no time in grabbing their khan. Shielding him with their own bodies from the fire Lukosz and the berzerkers were laying down, they kept low and headed towards the drop-ship. As Khârn jumped to his feet, the drop-ship’s pilot opened fire, blowing a huge hole in the ground and sending him spinning into the air.

Lukosz heard Samzar’s howl of fury, and saw him charge towards the drop-ship with several berzerkers flanking him. The khan and his guard had missed their chance to reach the Thunderhawk alive. Moving as one, the four White Scars changed direction towards a handful of bikes whose riders had been cut down by the berzerkers’ pistols, firing constantly as they ran while the Thunderhawk’s engines began to power up in the background. Lukosz saw movement, and was relieved to see Khârn back on his feet, running to intercept the fleeing White Scars.

‘Keep that drop-ship on the ground!’

Lukosz ran towards Samzar, who had wrestled a heavy bolter from one of the attack bikes and was emptying the magazine into the starboard engine of the Thunderhawk. Lukosz fired at the same spot, and as he reached Samzar they both watched as a blossom of yellow and red erupted from the ship’s cowling. Pitching violently downwards, the pilot realised retreat was the only option and coaxed the vessel into the air, a plume of dense smoke streaming from the back of the burning starboard exhaust as the berzerkers continued their fire.

Lukosz looked back over to the fleeing White Scars. Khârn was within yards of the leader when one of his guards threw himself at the berzerker. Lukosz and Samzar sprinted forwards, firing past Khârn who was fighting hand-to-hand with the Chogorian veteran. By the time they reached Khârn, his opponent was dead, but the Chogorian leader had escaped with his outriders. Lukosz stood back from Khârn with a wary eye and watched him closely as the two bikes disappeared into the distance. Lukosz could see Khârn’s knuckles white with the intensity of his grasp on Gorechild. Lukosz readied himself for a potential attack. He knew Khârn too well to trust he would not turn on him and the rest of the warband to vent his frustration.

After an uneasy few seconds, Lukosz ordered the Skulltaker to destroy the Thunderhawk and the White Scars vessel, but received a garbled reply that sounded as if they were already engaged with the enemy somewhere in high orbit. Watching the smoke trail disappear into the upper atmosphere, Lukosz was satisfied they had done enough damage to the Thunderhawk to prevent its return and removed his helmet in unison with his comrade. Both winced from the tremendous heat as it hit their naked faces, with Lukosz running a hand over the bristles stubbornly prickling from his shaven head and meeting the nubs of his Butcher’s Nails at the base of his neck. Their scream was fading. It was then he noticed the blood running freely down Khârn’s left arm. In time the flow would be staunched, but he could see the wounds were deep and would need attention regardless of Khârn’s legendary powers of recovery.

‘The battle is won. All praise to the Blood God!’

Samzar’s voice was hoarse from the oaths he had been swearing throughout the battle. Lukosz muttered his agreement, then looked behind him to see the thirty or so surviving berzerkers raise their weapons in acknowledgement. Hells, thought Lukosz. They had lost nearly half their number. The warriors began rifling through the bodies of the fallen White Scars and inspecting what was left of their bikes and equipment. Whatever weapons they could salvage would be welcome, but they would be no substitute for the fallen. The fact so much loyalist gene-seed would be denied to the Emperor was a victory of sorts, but Lukosz was increasingly concerned it would not be enough for this warband. Khârn’s next words did nothing to alleviate his fears.

‘The battle is not won while a single enemy still breathes, Samzar. And do not invite the attention of Khorne. He will not be content with our work today.’

Looking to a cluster of abandoned bikes, Khârn threw Gorechild onto his back and strode over to the machines. Lukosz could see most were clearly beyond use, while a couple of others seemed to be intact. It came as no surprise to him when Khârn mounted one and rode away in the direction of the fleeing White Scars. As the sound from his engine drifted into the distance, both captains turned to see that every berzerker had stopped what they were doing. Lukosz felt the tension rising in the burning air, and barked the order to continue their salvage into the valley complex below. Most obeyed immediately. Half a dozen looked to each other before they, too, returned to their grisly work.

‘Do we follow him?’

Lukosz turned to Samzar, who was squinting at the exhaust trail drifting into the distance. The harsh light emphasised the deep gashes and scars across his face, his right cheekbone sunken to almost cadaverous effect from a blow he had received centuries before. Lukosz remembered the attack well; had it not been for his intervention, Samzar would have been killed. In those days, Samzar had been as sharp a soldier as he both on and off the battlefield, sharper even. But now there was a dull, sullen quality to the World Eater, a sure indication the Nails were eroding every aspect of his being. In combat he was still brutally efficient, but in the quieter times… there was something slipping away, and Lukosz missed it.

‘I do not think Khârn would thank us for it. You know him as well as I, Samzar. He will have his trophy for the Blood God.’

‘And what is the reward for the rest of us, Lukosz?’

Whirling around, Lukosz saw six berzerkers standing abreast before him, and immediately recognised from their armour that they were the ones that had exchanged glances with each other a few minutes before. Five of them kept their helmets on, but the one who spoke for them had removed his. Across the battlefield, the rest of the warband had stopped again, warily observing a situation that Lukosz could feel was rapidly deteriorating. Samzar took a step forward to the side of Lukosz. A head taller than them all, he regarded the six with a look of bemusement.

‘Is your thirst for blood not sated, Morenna? Has Khârn not led you to glorious victory once again?’

Lukosz could see fingers begin to twitch amongst the group. Their weapons were holstered, a couple of the bolt pistols still ticking away as they cooled in the ferocious heat of the planet, but they were easily accessible. He and Samzar were completely out-gunned, and he could feel his Nails whispering a need for readiness. Lukosz could see that Samzar already had his hand on a newly acquired White Scars chainsword.

‘What of it, Samzar? Where is our prize from the Blood God? Khârn goes off once again to claim the greatest trophy for himself. What kind of “leader” is that? Where is our glory?’

The other berzerkers began to walk towards the confrontation. Lukosz knew this had been coming for some time now. The six standing before him knew the glory days of the Legion were long gone. Some of them had not even been there back then, and only joined the berzerker warbands after forsaking sacred vows and giving in to their insatiable bloodlust. The nihilism that was eating through their ranks was as deep as it was dangerous. The warband were made up from so many different contingents but, like the World Eaters he had once proudly served, they were united in losing so much more than their belief in the Emperor or their Primarch. But they had gained new purpose – to serve the Blood God – and it was undeniable Khârn had given them ample opportunity to do that.

Samzar took a step forward, clearly ready to take on the entire group single-handedly. As the group’s eyes flicked to his chainsword, so too did their hands move towards their own weapons. Morenna matched Samzar’s move, his broken and deformed chin thrust forwards.

‘Khârn forgets we are all in the service of the Blood God. The Red Path is nothing more than a fantasy of his own creating. The Chosen of Khorne is following an illusion. Perhaps it is time we had a leader who will bring glory to us all.’

Lukosz saw Morenna’s free hand slam down on Samzar’s, pushing his gauntlet onto the reclaimed White Scars chainsword. Samzar was shaking with fury from head to foot, his eyes bugging wildly. Morenna tried to smirk, but with most of his lower jaw missing it was difficult to judge what expression he was attempting. No one moved to stop him.

Lukosz caught a glimpse of sun on metal. Samzar continued to stare at Morenna, but the expression on his old comrade’s face had changed. It had a look bordering on amusement. Morenna’s eyes showed confusion. Behind him, Lukosz watched his five-strong cohort shift uneasily on the diamond-hard ground, and they began to back away from him, hands moving from weapons. Morenna tried to turn his head to bark an order, but Lukosz could see he was unable to move. When he tried to speak, what came out of his mouth was a gurgle of red and purple froth. It drooled in a thick line down the remnants of his jaw onto his breastplate.

Lukosz spotted why Morenna could not speak at exactly the same point the berzerker dropped his weapon. Eyes wide in surprise, Morenna reached up with his left hand to investigate the object sticking out of the side of his neck. Lukosz looked back over to Samzar, who had not blinked. His eyes bored into Morenna’s with a dark intensity, and Lukosz saw the telltale twitching of pleasure from his comrade’s mouth. Morenna traced his fingers over the hilt of the White Scars duelling tulwar sticking out into the arid air from the side of his neck, and Samzar smiled. It was clear to everyone watching that the chainsword had not been the only weapon Samzar had taken for himself after the battle.

Samzar reached forwards and withdrew the ritual weapon, twisting it as he did so. Blood fountained from both sides of Morenna’s neck, spraying over his pauldrons in a gaudy display. Lukosz could see the satisfied look on Samzar’s face as Morenna stared ahead, eyes glazing over. Lukosz went to his own weapon as Samzar turned his attention to the five would-be supporters of the new regime, their spokesman choking on his own blood at the raging champion’s feet.

‘Who else seeks to challenge the Chosen of Khorne?’

Samzar swept his chainsword slowly from left to right, in turn pointing it at every berzerker assembled before him. Lukosz drew his weapon now, expecting a second challenge to come – from more than one of them this time.

‘A challenge to Khârn is a challenge to me!’

Samzar’s voice was near hysterical. He was not finished with killing yet. Lukosz made the decision to stop this before it escalated even more, and stepped forward over the twitching body of Morenna.

‘Return to your duties and this mutinous action will be forgotten – for now. Khârn will be back with a trophy for us all to share, and a path for us all to follow. Blood for the Blood God!’

The berzerkers did not move. Lukosz shouted again.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

Oaths and curses floated on the air.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

Lukosz screamed the words, and this time, the warband chorused back. Everyone present knew the moment had passed, that an uneasy truce had once again been reached. Two of the five supporters stepped forward to retrieve Morenna’s body, but Samzar blocked their way. While he had managed to regain a semblance of control over the Nails, his words were laboured and slurred.

‘I will be taking his skull, and I will wear it as a reminder to you all.’

The berzerker closest to Samzar readied a response, but thought better than to deliver it. Turning away from the seething champion, the other four fell in and followed him back to the spoils of the battle, accompanied by the unmistakable clicks of internal vox chatter. Lukosz waited for them to get well out of range before he spoke to his old comrade.

‘The challenges become ever greater, Samzar.’

Samzar knelt to the unmoving form of Morenna and inspected his disfigured skull.

‘Challenges are inevitable, Lukosz. We both know that. I welcome them all, as does Khârn. Let them step forward to die at my hands or their own. It matters not to Khorne where the blood comes from, only that it comes.’

If Lukosz was bitter at the actions of Morenna and his band, Samzar’s reply only made him slip deeper into melancholy. They all lived to serve the Blood God, of that there was no argument. But the lack of a common goal had destroyed the World Eaters, and now, faced with the considerable forces of the Emperor as they marauded ever further away from the Eye of Terror, the last thing the warband needed was to find themselves fighting on two fronts – from within, and without.

Samzar’s reason had just about deserted him. Stooping to retrieve his helmet for respite from the furnace heat of Haeleon, Lukosz watched his brother-in-arms of so many conflicts struggle for self-control. After all the years they had shared on the battlefield and off, he could read his subtlest of gestures. It pained Lukosz to admit there was no subtlety left within Samzar; the champion was muttering darkly to himself, glaring at the five who had stood by Morenna and clearly trying to decide if he should kill them now and be done with it. How the rest of the warband would react to these events in the absence of Khârn was impossible to judge, and anger flared in Lukosz’s chest. Morenna was right; Khârn did indeed live to serve himself. As yet another honour duel broke out amongst the scavenging berzerkers, he wondered just how much longer he could keep the warband and Samzar under control – or whether he even wanted to any more.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2016
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Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.

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