Tyrant of the Hollow Worlds

by Mark Clapham

  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 no
t 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.