The Red Path

by Chris Dows

  Lukosz looked to the jeering audience and his Butcher’s Nails pounded in readiness. Among the hooting rabble was a glaring Shobaris, clearly furious he had allowed himself to be followed so easily. By his side stood the Blood Angel, Capderado, his twin-headed axe resting blade-down on the deck. A figure of impressive stature, how he had made his way into Khârn’s warband was a mystery, the answer to which nobody cared to seek. Vadal and Malogot, the other World Eaters from the meeting, did not notice his arrival. Tiverdak, the only berzerker in their warband from the Steel Brethren, most certainly did. His eyes were fixed on Lukosz’s power sword. Lukosz lowered it to one side but did not deactivate it, allowing its crackling discharges of energy to speak his intentions. With a snort of derision, Tiverdak turned back to the fight. Reluctantly, Shobaris followed suit. Lukosz flicked his eyes over to see Samzar kick out his left leg in an attempt to catch Olpadra’s wrist, but the thick pole slammed into his greave just above the ankle, spinning him off balance with the force. Lukosz was surprised his old comrade had not foreseen the attack. There had been a time when he would have timed his evasion to perfection.

  Seizing his opportunity, Olpadra kicked out and sent Samzar crashing to the engine room’s deck. The berzerkers roared their approval and began to shove each other in their increasing frenzy. Lukosz had feared the victory over the Hounds of Abaddon had not been quite enough for the restless group, and the bloodlust in their eyes did nothing to assuage his concerns. To make matters worse, Khârn’s self-imposed exile had allowed rumour and despondency to spread like a disease throughout the ship. As if to punctuate the point, the berzerker standing next to Lukosz suddenly turned and smashed his fist into the face of the warrior on his other side. The two threw themselves at each other, trading vicious blows until they disappeared into a connecting chamber, taking their unknown argument with them.

  Lukosz heard a loud crash and turned to see Olpadra on top of Samzar. There was a brief flash of white as he bared his teeth, then Samzar howled in pain and smashed his forehead into his opponent, knocking him away with the force. Lukosz saw that Olpadra’s mouth was covered in blood. He always had been an animal, a brute even amongst this pack of wolves. As he fell and rolled to one side, Olpadra spat out a chunk of Samzar’s ear. If the attack had been supposed to debilitate the veteran, it had not; Samzar was first to his feet and was hefting the metal rail in his hands.

  Out the corner of his eye, Lukosz saw Shobaris start to move. Lukosz could not see what he was holding, but it made no difference. Leaping forwards, he thrust his power sword into the side of the berzerker’s head. Bringing the blade down with a cry of rage, the weapon tore through Shobaris’ cheek, slicing off the lower jaw and sending it spinning to the floor in a bloody mess. Lukosz stared into his victim’s astonished eyes as he grasped for the missing part of his face, but a quick horizontal thrust across Shobaris’ neck sent the old War Hound’s head toppling to the deck. His body folded to the floor with a heavy clank of power armour, forcing the crowd to clear a space. Lukosz stood and glared at the closest berzerkers, gore sizzling on his arcing blade. Olpadra’s bellow of rage snapped every­one’s attention back to the duel. He was pushing forwards, hands outstretched to prevent Samzar from swinging the bar at him. In that instant, Lukosz knew the berzerker would be dead within seconds.

  Samzar rotated the pole in his left hand and threw it to his right. Holding it like a spear, Samzar stabbed it towards Olpadra’s face, pushing it through his left eye and into the socket. Olpadra roared in pain and reached up to pull the bar from his head, but Samzar had both hands on the rail and was ramming it into the ruined orb. Blood and viscera spurted out of the gory hole, and Lukosz heard the crack of Olpadra’s skull as Samzar’s thrust smashed through the front of his eye socket and into his brain.

  The crowd’s cheers turned to hisses of barely contained bloodlust. Lukosz stepped forwards once again, and on noticing his warning posture, the chamber fell into a menacing silence. Samzar, however, had not finished. With Olpadra still twitching uncontrollably from the damage Samzar had wrought, he put even more pressure on the rod. Another cracking sound heralded the end of the rail smashing its way out of the back of Olpadra’s skull. With a grunt, Samzar hefted his skewered opponent upwards and swung him towards the guard rail to their right. Olpadra burbled insensibly, his hands clawing feebly at the object projecting from his head. Hitting the low barrier built onto the decking side-on, he toppled over and fell into a superheated machine vent. Steam belched upwards as he was consumed by its boiling liquid.

  Samzar did not even look over to follow the fatal progress of his victory. Instead he turned, eyes wide and hands bloody, ready for the next challenger. None stepped forward. With muted threats and murmurs, the assembly disbanded, leaving Lukosz to stand before his old comrade. Samzar glowered at him, then felt the blood pouring down the side of his face. Lukosz picked up a rag sticking out from a piece of machinery as he spoke, and threw it towards his comrade.

  ‘What was that – the third challenge since Haeleon?’

  Samzar dabbed at the gory wound on his ear. It was still sizzling from the acid in Olpadra’s bite.

  ‘Fourth. And he didn’t challenge me. I challenged him.’

  Lukosz looked down at the berzerker he had killed, then over to the vent that had claimed the body of Olpadra and sighed.

  ‘Our numbers are not large enough for you to kill them off on your whims.’

  Samzar stared over at Lukosz’s victim then back to him with a warning glance. Lukosz returned his gaze with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘What, you would turn on me now, Samzar? I am the least of your concerns.’

  Something changed in his comrade’s face. For a second, a shadow of the officer Lukosz had once known returned, having slipped past the constant demands of his Butcher’s Nails. Samzar’s voice held genuine curiosity.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Any thoughts of a response were driven from his mind as a sudden violent shudder filled the cavernous room. Servitors began to appear from the shadows in the metal walls, their programming having sent them scuttling away at the arrival of the combatants. The whines of turbines and machines built on top of one another, persuading the stubborn machine-spirits back into life after their time of slumber. Lukosz looked back to Samzar. With some dismay, he realised his old comrade had lost himself again.

  ‘The drive engines are starting up. We return to the Red Path at last!’

  Samzar stalked away, discarding the blood-soaked rag on the floor. Lukosz looked around the titanic machines, gasses and fluids leaking out of them from a hundred places. He fervently hoped Samzar was correct.

  By the time Lukosz reached the bridge, the Skulltaker was well under way. Roderbar sweated and heaved from one side of his command chair to the other, shouting an order here, demanding clarification of a read-out there. Samzar stood a couple of paces behind Khârn, standing to attention like he would have done in the old days. Khârn was scrutinising a flickering navigational display, and Lukosz caught a glimpse of the chart projected before him as he walked closer. Among dozens of moving, winking dots, one had been separated out for particular attention.

  Flanking Khârn, Lukosz looked over to Samzar, who ignored his gaze. Khârn was leaning forwards, his massive frame blocking out much of the screen. Lukosz silently positioned himself so he also had an uninterrupted view. What he saw concerned him. Lukosz had dealt with psykers many times. Their words and thoughts were often a jumble of contradictions and half-truths. The astropath’s message had clearly been of great importance, but the tactical display did not show a fully realised navigational plot.

  Khârn looked closer at the shimmering image, then took a step back, his brow furrowed. Glancing over to Lukosz, he wondered what he was thinking. His tactical skills had been of great use in the many years they had fought together, but he clung to glories of the past. It did not sit well with Khârn at all.
Detecting the smell of blood, Khârn noted with disinterest the congealing wound on Samzar’s ragged ear. Angry at these distractions, Khârn turned his back on the table and paced slowly around the deck. Yes, the Blood God had willed it that they intercepted the transmission, but Khârn knew the data on the screen was incomplete. He needed more to be absolutely certain. Or maybe it was not so. What if it was the will of Khorne that the Red Path was never fully revealed to him? What if part of his challenge was to find the way himself?

  Khârn came to a standstill near Roderbar, who shifted uneasily in his seat as Khârn stared out of the partially opened viewport into space. He tried to focus his feelings into thoughts but a conclusion eluded him. His frustration threatened to boil over, and he balled his fists in anger, pain shooting up his left arm in a reminder he was not yet fully recovered. He needed to come closer to the Blood God, to know his will once more. He needed to be certain he was following the Red Path, and not the ravings of a tormented psyker fool. Khârn returned to the table and leaned towards Lukosz, spreading his hands across its cold, metallic surface.

  ‘I seek the purity of combat to show me the way. Have those who would honour the Blood Father on this day seek me out in the pits.’

  Lukosz watched Khârn straighten and leave the bridge without another word. Looking around the command deck, he saw relief sweep over Roderbar, who returned to checking the final repairs to the Skulltaker. Samzar’s eyes were glinting with the promise of a great spectacle. Lukosz noticed his fingertips were white with the grip he had on the tabletop.

  ‘This would be an excellent opportunity to remove those who might challenge us.’

  Lukosz nodded in agreement. Samzar’s paranoia had substance. The time since Haeleon had been leading to this, and despite the numbers they were losing, a definitive victory by Khârn would send a clear reminder to the warband of the way of things – particularly those he had witnessed in collusion earlier. However, having seen the partial map in which Khârn was putting so much faith, Lukosz felt the duel held even greater importance. Turning to face Samzar, he looked into his crazed, hunted eyes.

  ‘I doubt we will be short of volunteers.’

  Locq knelt before the hololithic console in his chamber and tried to control the fury coursing through his body. As he dropped the last pieces of his armour to the floor, smoke from the brass-skull incense burners encircling him swirled around his body. Breathing in the thick, sweet vapour, he closed his eyes and presented his bare arms to the projector, palms forward and away from his body. His incantation was coming to a close. In seconds, Urkanthos’ ship would be in range and the oathing ritual would begin. In the dancing shadows behind him, two serfs stood ready with the short ceremonial blades Locq had retrieved from the White Scars ship.

  The device crackled into life and a series of indicator lights winked on in succession, their reds and greens casting ghostly colours through the smoke. An image began to coalesce above the projector dais, then the head and shoulders of Urkanthos appeared. After a few seconds, the Chaos Lord’s voice boomed into the room.

  ‘Report.’

  Locq stared directly into the deep sockets of the Lord Purgator’s eyes.

  ‘I have been unable to capture Khârn, my lord. My losses have been heavy.’

  The image flickered before him and did not move. The Lord Purgator’s reply was as cold as the space between their ships.

  ‘This much I already know. You have failed, captain.’

  Locq raised his arms and the serfs stepped forward. Clenching his fists, Locq nodded once. In unison, the men positioned themselves and began to carve runic symbols into his arms, ancient oaths to the Blood God. All the time, Locq stared at Urkanthos.

  ‘I accept my fate, Lord Purgator, and shall carry the symbols of my failure for the rest of my life – no matter how short that might be. I am willing to face any challenge to make amends. But hear this.’

  Locq steeled himself before continuing.

  ‘I know where Khârn is, I know of his strength and numbers, and I know I can finish the task bestowed upon us by the great Warmaster. But I will need a greater force.’

  The Lord Purgator’s image began to flicker as the extreme range of the broadcast made its presence known. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘Your failure is my failure, Locq. It is I who will ultimately have to take responsibility for your ineptitude. In the same way, your revenge for our fallen warriors is my revenge.’

  Locq felt the burning of the knives into his skin. They had reached his biceps, and were carving deep into his flesh and muscle. Urkanthos would see no weakness here, only determination and a renewal of his pledge.

  ‘You will have what you need. And I shall have my revenge for the Hounds that have fallen to Khârn and his rabble. I have dispatched reinforcements to ensure you do not fail again.’

  Urkanthos stared at the captain, and Locq felt the shadows from the edges of the chamber creep towards him, fingers of dark energy reaching out to grab and toss him into the abyss. Locq could smell the terror in the serfs. Their gory work now complete, they scuttled away into the background and cowered in the chamber’s night-black corners, whimpering like frightened children.

  ‘You shall bring Khârn before the Warmaster, or your fate shall be far worse than death.’

  Locq bowed his head and waited for the transmission to fade away. For long moments he did not move. He knew Urkanthos’ threats were not empty words. He had witnessed the punishment Chaos could bring, seen the mightiest beg for the release of death. Locq looked to the shapes cut into his skin. They would scar well.

  A light winked for attention on the internal vox, and Locq pressed the receive button with a bloody finger.

  ‘This is Odervirk. We have two Black Legion vessels heading directly towards us at flank speed. What are your instructions?’

  Locq clenched his teeth. Urkanthos moved fast.

  ‘Hail their shipmasters and have them meet me on the bridge in one hour.’

  Khârn could smell the rage and anger in the stale, recycled air of the Skulltaker’s lower decks. It was like the stench of concentrated fury, and it made his blood pump in anticipation. Entering the cavernous hangar, the shouts and calls that had echoed down the access corridors resolved themselves into a sea of noise. Under the glaring floodlights set into the high ceiling, score upon score of berzerkers crushed together in the middle of the enormous space, pushing and shoving each other for the best view. To his left, Khârn saw half a dozen warriors fighting each other. To his right, four bodies lay bleeding on the decks. Here, the Blood God reigned.

  The milling crowd closed in behind Khârn as he strode into the great rectangular clearing surrounding the fighting pit. Right now they were keeping their distance, but he knew as soon as battle was joined, they would rush to the edge of the expansive steel-lined depression in the decking. The floor had been covered in sand, just like in the duelling pits of Angron’s time, before Khârn had become a faithful follower of the Blood God. How he wished he could have harvested those skulls for Khorne.

  Khârn nodded to Lukosz and Samzar who stood on the opposite side of the pit. Between them were seven warriors lined up. Khârn assessed their mettle within the blink of an eye. The Blood Angel Capderado and the Alpha Legion warrior Sonva Bael were the largest of the group, and both wielded axes, though of differing configurations. The three World Eaters he recognised as Vadal, Malogot and Rocez. Along with the anonymous berzerker who never removed his helmet, they all carried chainswords. That left Tiverdak of the Steel Brethren. He held power mauls in both of his huge hands. They had all forgone firearms to honour Khorne. For this alone, they promised to be worthy opponents.

  Samzar stepped forward and lifted his pistol into the air. Reluctantly, the assembled berzerkers calmed themselves, and Khârn walked to the edge of the pit. Looking down, the harsh lights created shadows from the jagged projections and ledges j
utting out of the thick walls on all sides, some deliberately bolted on, others caused by weapons damage over the years. The sand on the floor would soak up the blood once it started flowing, and provided a good surface on which to fight. Khârn looked up to Lukosz and nodded his head in approval. The roar from the crowd almost drowned out the deafening clangs as the seven berzerkers dropped effortlessly into the pit below. Weapons powered up within seconds, and Khârn listened to the feral shouts and curses from the warband. Lukosz was staring at him, clearly astonished he had not jumped into the pit at the same time as the others. Khârn knew they would be waiting for him to descend. It was not this that concerned him.

  The expression on Lukosz’s face changed and, without breaking Khârn’s gaze, he held up his power sword to command silence.

  ‘Would you dishonour the Blood Father? Would you dishonour Khârn?’

  The crowd stared at Lukosz, unsure of the reason for the interruption. In the pit below, weapons hungry for blood revved and crackled. If the warband did not understand the accusation, Khârn did.

  ‘Who amongst you will show their allegiance? Who will be the eighth contender?’