CHAPTER I
For millennia, we have been nothing but scavengers, picking at the rotting husks of both the Imperium and those we once called our allies. We are basking in the shadows of former glories with no legacy to call our own. My Lord, the time has come to act.
- Ezekial, Seer of the Venom Guard
I
Breathe.
The thought came unbidden, unwanted, into his mind. Confusion followed it. He was breathing, quickly and shallowly inhaling into each of his two open lungs. A lateral swipe of his power fist, the claws sheared through the entire body of the guardsman. Red mist spraying…
BLOOD.
More welcome, more wanted; no, not wanted, needed. The coppery smell, the moist sensation, covering his face and his armour. The fountain of blood with chunks of viscera covered his gauntlet and fell like a foul rain to the ground. The joy of the kill, the thrill of the murder. Nothing else mattered as long as the carnage continued. Surrender to it, become lost to it.
Breathe.
Again, stronger this time. Strange, a mixture of feelings, the sensation of falling mingled with the utter euphoria of the slaughter. He shook his bare head and roared a wordless cry of rage and hate. His throat was raw from screaming. A punch with his left fist, holding a bolt pistol, separated the head from the shoulders of another man. The red of the blood, the white of the bone was intoxicating.
Kill time, that was what it was called. The world seemed to slow down; everything moved at a crawling rate. The droplets of blood coming from the severed head, the string of flesh tearing as the velocity and force of the punch propelled the head further, the two vertebrae protruding above the stump that had, a tenth of a second previously, been the neck of a human being. Everything was so… perfect.
SKULLS.
Another gift for the Lord of Rage, a skull for the Skull Throne. The Blood God’s demands were simple, his joys pure, his desires insatiable. Another swing, this time vertical, split the torso of a new victim, homage to the unyielding thirst for blood and death. The blow started low, entering the man at the groin, the energy sheathing his clawed fist parting the flesh and armour easily. A last second flick of a finger severed the neck of the man. The head spiralled down to join those of his comrades on the blood-soaked dust.
The champion spat on the ground, casting his gaze about in search of the next sacrifice to the Blood God, the next skull to be added. None presented themselves, no more humans were visible. The only movements were of his…his…what were they…who was he? Ah, yes, he was a Champion of Khorne. The Skull Reaper. The Vile Butcher. The daemon…NO!
BREATHE.
The warrior gasped, feeling the sensations of consciousness as though for the first time. From a depthless tunnel, his mind struggled to the forefront of his being. The blood dripping down his brow obscured his vision; the moans of dying men and the roars of his brethren rejoicing in the hunt echoed in the valley. He felt the familiar scream as the daemon that shared his body was forced back, pushed down to the recesses of his mind. It was still there, lurking in the darkness, waiting for release.
He shuddered, trying to ignore the aftershock tremors of his mind regaining control. Close this time, very close. Another deep inhalation steadied his dual heartbeat. The red tint in his vision began to fade. Gnashing teeth, gaping jaws and a scream of fathomless rage echoed at the back of his mind. The thrum of energy surrounding his fist abated as he sub-vocalized the command to power the weapon down. He glanced left then right, surreptitiously removing the magnetic lock clasping his helmet to his thigh.
Golden jagged teeth stared the champion in the face as he lifted his helm up. A stylized skull painted and stained gore red, it was the badge of his station. Skull Champion. The name was meaningless to him when he was calm and in control. But during battle, when he succumbed to his darkness, it was everything…
‘Sir.’
The voice cut through his thoughts and he tore his gaze from the hate-filled mask that was both his prison and his release. Release, liberation, exhilaration, shame. His Primarch, praise be to him, had most emphatically impressed upon all of his sons the necessity for discipline.
‘Sir?’
A question now. Question, query, interrogative: necessitates a response. His mind snapped back to the present. ‘Status?’ He felt the tortured flesh in his throat knitting itself together; already the hoarseness of his voice was fading to be replaced by the natural growl.
The warrior addressing him…what was his name? Vorn bowed his head to hide the blood in his eyes, an outward show of shame at his mental and physical abandonment of self-discipline. He, like his master, was cursed and blessed simultaneously.
‘Brother Uzick has lost his hand from lucky power sword swipe, but the flow of blood has slowed,’ he said, unable to hide the slight tremor in his voice while mentioning blood. ‘The rest of the squad is unharmed. Ammunition supplies are at eighty percent, Charritt will be distributing it out evenly.’
The champion nodded thoughtfully. Uzick would be chastised, but not yet. His carelessness and surrender to his rage had been becoming more and more complete. Punishment was in order, but only after the operation was brought to a successful conclusion. The champion lowered his helmet over his head, closing himself off to the outside world.
He engaged the squad vox, ‘Very well. Proceed as planned. Time is of the essence. Redistribute your magazines on the move.’ He removed the half spent magazine from his own bolt pistol and slammed in a fresh one. Engaging the magnetic link on the ancient weapon, he clipped it to his thigh plate.
He sub-vocalized to switch to the command frequency vox, ‘Wrathful, Box Two-Beta-Seven has been cleared. Moving forward towards the objective.’ He received a double click acknowledgement, indicating permission to continue. The Wrathful had been clear in his instructions to keep long range communications to a minimum to decrease the probability of premature detection. Though the company’s encryption codes were superior to the enemy’s, their way had always been discretion. Or, as Ezekial enjoyed to say in his refreshingly blunt manner, Better safe than sorry.
The haze and smoke were beginning to clear. A breeze from the northeast, the direction of their objective, was cleansing the battlefield of the airborne residual. Without his thermal vision engaged, it granted the champion an unfettered view of the carnage enacted. An entire battalion, one thousand Guardsmen, lay dead. No communications had been sent from the slaughtered men. The detachment had struck swiftly, decisively, and without mercy. Brother Tynan had fallen from the sky on burning wings of vengeance, obliterating the command vehicle of the enemy from above with a devastating close-range shot from his melta. The rest of Squad Anderan had followed closely behind, cutting off any hope of retreat for the embattled element.
The champion along with ten of his brothers from Squad Finarius had struck from the south. Finarius and his cold-blooded killers laid down a devastating level of suppressive fire while the champion and his men had swept around to the east, flanking around the enemy. Those souls quickly found themselves facing the western cliffs and the three thousand foot drop to the rocky beaches below, the unrelenting bolter fire from Finarius, ferocious assault from the champion’s men and their axes and blades, or the shrieking killers from Anderan.
The battle had been over in minutes. No brothers lost, though three had entered the long sleep and required immediate extraction. Talium treated the fallen men, having moved them clear of the carnage on the field.
‘Bravvick, your god smiles upon you.’ This transmission from Anderan was over the private vox channel shared by the echelon’s command.
Ah, that was the champion’s name. Bravvick. He had almost forgotten, losing himself to the daemon sharing his mind for the course of the battle. He addressed his fellow champion as Anderan strode to him. ‘Khorne smiles upon only blood. Whether it is mine or the enemy’s matters not. Only that it is spilt.’
‘Aye, this is true, Brother,’ he replied, ‘You would do well to remember that.’
Antonin Bravvick, the Skull Reaper, brother-sergeant, Chaos Marine, begrudgingly allowed himself a tight smile. The plan of the Wrathful, the Underlord of the Venom Guard, was coming to fruition. Ten thousand years of blood, of subversion, of careful manipulation had brought the warband to this moment. Since the death of the Primarch had the warriors of the Legion been waiting for this, biding their time for the last piece to fall into place. This planet will be ours…