Khârn: Eater of Worlds

by Anthony Reynolds

  As Khârn came up, he threw the axe. It whipped across the isolation cell, spinning end over end, and took that legionary in the head, embedding deep in his helmet, square between the eyes. It did not penetrate, but the force of the impact snapped his neck back, the back of his helm smacking hard against the armourglass wall behind him.

  The chainsword came in at him again. Turning and stepping in close, Khârn chopped the legionary’s weapon arm at the wrist, forestalling the blow, and drove his fist into the warrior’s helmet, bloodying his knuckles but driving his foe back.

  The warrior at his back was not dead, though his windpipe was crushed and his abdomen was a mess of ruined armour and blood. He came at Khârn, growling like an animal, swinging his spiked power maul. Khârn turned and dropped to one knee, arching his spine and throwing his head back. The crackling power maul frizzled through the air, centimetres over him, passing so close that the weapon’s power field scorched his throat and chin.

  Khârn grabbed hold of the exposed cables of the legionary’s Mark III chest plate with one hand, the other between his enemy’s legs, and surged to his feet, lifting the warrior clear off the deck. He roared, muscles straining, and hurled the legionary head-first across the cell.

  He hit the deck hard and slammed into the corner of the cell, crunching against the armourglass walls. Khârn was instantly moving, whipping around with preternatural speed.

  A bolt screamed by his head, centimetres away, and detonated against the wall behind. A second shot boomed, making the gun smoke swirl in a horizontal vortex behind it, but it too failed to find its mark, though it did score a bloody line across Khârn’s chest before it detonated against the cell wall.

  Khârn feinted to the right and broke left, avoiding another shot. He took one step, up onto the seat of his throne, and leapt at the shooter, who still had the throwing axe embedded in his helm between the eyes.

  The legionary’s bolt pistol barked twice more. The first shot screamed through the gap between Khârn’s left ear and his outstretched arm. The second caught him just above the collarbone.

  He was lucky. Had it hit the collarbone the bolt’s velocity would have slowed enough that it would have detonated within his flesh. That would have likely torn his arm off, and possibly his head. As it was, the bolt-round drove straight through him, exiting out through the thick, corded span of muscle between his shoulder and his neck before exploding, tearing his back to shreds of meat and burned flesh.

  Still, it did not stop him.

  Khârn hit the armoured legionary with his shoulder, slamming him back into the wall. The warrior slipped on the blood-slick deck and went down on one knee. The two fighters were locked together in a deadly clinch. Khârn’s foe drew a saw-toothed knife from the scabbard strapped around one of his greaves, holding it in a downward, stabbing grip. He drove it deep into Khârn’s side, just under his fused ribcage.

  Khârn roared his fury and pain and broke away, snapping the legionary’s wrist with a savage wrench, leaving the dagger embedded to the hilt in his flesh. He followed up with a brutal elbow to the side of the legionary’s helmet that snapped his head sidewards. Before he could recover, Khârn took the warrior’s helm in both hands. He thrust his thumbs through the glowing visor lenses, shattering them and driving them into the eyes beyond.

  The blinded legionary roared. Khârn placed one foot on his chest, and using that as leverage, he pulled free the axe still embedded in the forehead of the warrior’s helmet. The legionary tried to bring his bolt pistol to bear on Khârn, but Khârn swatted it aside with the flat of the axe blade, then wrenched his opponent’s helmet to the side, exposing his neck.

  He hacked into it, once, twice, three times, each strike fast and brutal, chopping first through flexible ribbed under-armour, tightly wrought fibre-bundles, cables and servos, and then hacking through into the meat of the neck. The axe blade was blunted on the legionary’s iron-hard spine, but not before it had severed arteries that squirted hot, gene-rich blood liberally across the room, splashing the armourglass walls and Khârn himself.

  Three down. Two remained.

  The savage attack was over in a heartbeat. The brutalised legionary fell to the floor, and Khârn rose swiftly, turning, blood dripping from the axe. In the same movement he tore clear the gladius impaling his first victim to the wall. Blood bubbled from the wound. He wasn’t quite dead, not yet, but Khârn finished him, stomping down hard on his neck, ending his pitiful gurgling.

  With axe and gladius in hand, he turned to face the last two living World Eaters locked in the cell with him. He spun the two weapons, loosening his wrists.

  They came at him from both sides, rounding the iron throne in the centre of the cell. Khârn looked straight ahead, keeping both of them in the periphery of his vision.

  They attacked as one; a chainsword roaring in to cut him from shoulder blade to hip, a power maul sizzling in a downward arc to crush his skull.

  Khârn broke left, avoiding the screaming chainblade and blocking the downward swing of the maul with the short-handled axe, simultaneously ramming the gladius up through the already compromised armour covering the legionary’s stomach. The downward force of the power maul drove him to his knees.

  Hearing the wailing roar of the chainblade sweeping in behind, Khârn threw himself into a roll to the side, leaving the gladius embedded in the legionary’s gut. The chainsword caught him a glancing blow, ripping up the flesh of his shoulder, churning it instantly to the bone, spattering blood.

  The warrior lifted the roaring blade to finish him, but Khârn came up quicker, sweeping up a bolt pistol lying on the deck. He planted the barrel of the gun under the legionary’s chin and fired. The top of his helmet exploded, drenching the ceiling with blood and brain matter.

  One left.

  Khârn swung around, levelling the bolt pistol on the last remaining member of the Bloodborn kill-team. He squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  The chamber was empty, the clip dry.

  The warrior swung at him, roaring. Khârn caught the haft of the power maul in both hands, dropping his throwing axe. The two warriors fought for control of the weapon, struggling against each other. Unarmoured, they might have been of equal strength. Bedecked in full war-plate, his already prodigious strength considerably augmented, the Bloodborn warrior vastly out-muscled Khârn.

  He turned, driving Khârn up against the cell wall, a grinding roar crackling from his snarling vox-grille as he pressed the haft of his power maul into Khârn’s throat. He lifted the unarmoured warrior off the ground, driving his weight against him. Khârn’s face began to turn purple, the veins in his neck and temples bulging. He tried to lift his legs to thrust away, but the Bloodborn drove in close, not giving any room for leverage.

  The warrior’s snarling helmet was only centimetres from Khârn’s head. Drawing his head back, the legionary slammed his armoured forehead into Khârn’s face, smashing his nose into a bloody smear. A second headbutt fractured his skull. Khârn roared his defiance, spittle and blood spraying his opponent’s faceplate.

  Khârn reached to his side, tearing free the dagger embedded in his flesh, and drove it up into the gap under his enemy’s armpit. The legionary hissed in pain, the sound emerging from his vox-grille like a burst of static, and his grip loosened, dropping Khârn to the floor.

  Khârn broke free, and turned his hips into his opponent. In the blink of an eye, he flipped the World Eater, driving him to the deck. He went down with him, driving his knee hard, pinning him down.

  Scant centimetres away, on the other side of the armourglass, Dreagher watched the final moments of the shocking, brutal fight. Khârn’s face was twisted into that of a beast, all traces of humanity gone. His teeth were bared, stained red with blood.

  He tore loose the knife embedded in the legionary’s body, and stabbed it down into his opponent’s neck, both hands clutched aroun
d its blood-slick hilt. The legionary struggled to grab hold of his arms, but dark, gene-rich blood coated his skin, making purchase difficult.

  The knife came down again and again. Finally, the legionary managed to catch a hold of the blade in one of his gauntleted hands, twisting it away from Khârn’s grip, but the damage had been done. Blood was pooling beneath them.

  Shifting his weight, Khârn’s scrabbling fingers caught the release catch of the legionary’s helm and, with a roar, he tore it off, hurling it aside. The face within was ruddy and broad-featured, eyes burning with the madness of the Butcher’s Nails.

  Pinning the warrior down with his knees, Khârn began to pound at his exposed face, raining blows upon him in a berserk flurry.

  Five blows and his skull gave way. Three more and he was unrecognisable. Another four, and his enemy was still, the front of his skull caved in.

  Khârn continued to strike, roaring, blood dousing his face as he pounded the legionary’s head into pulp. He knelt over him, lifting both fists high into the air, his chest rising and falling with each fast breath, then brought them both down together, crushing the last of the warrior’s head like a sodden, rotten fruit.

  The whole violent episode had taken less than thirty seconds from start to finish.

  For a time, Khârn did not move. Finally, he lifted his head. His gaze locked on to Dreagher, staring unblinking through the blood-streaked armourglass.

  He looked barely human. His refined, angular face was covered in blood, making the whites of his eyes stand out, like twin moons against the void. Those eyes contained such violence, such fury, that they made Dreagher’s breath catch in his throat. He was lost to the Nails, utterly, completely.

  Dreagher felt his blood run cold, yet he could not break Khârn’s unblinking gaze. It was like staring into the eyes of an imprisoned apex predator. He was left in no doubt as to what would have happened to him had there been no barrier separating them.

  Dreagher smiled.

  Khârn was back.

  Chapter 11

  There were thirty-seven XII Legion warriors present, all of them standing in a rough circle. This was the Enclave – or at least, what was left of it. Only two of their number were of flesh and blood. The others were flickering blue-grey images, hololiths rendered in three dimensions, other captains and ranking officers spread across what remained of the World Eaters fleet.

  Brond glared over at the space where Dreagher should have been. It was currently occupied by the Blood Priest. With the death of Khrast, Baruda was next in command of the Ninth.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ Brond had snarled at Baruda before the Enclave had gone live.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Baruda had replied. ‘He is not responding.’

  ‘Support me,’ Brond had said, stabbing a finger towards Baruda as the first of the ghostly hololith images began to form. ‘That is your role here. That is what Dreagher would want.’

  ‘Do not seek to use me as your pawn, Brond,’ replied Baruda. ‘I know that you have tried to urge Dreagher to split the Ninth from the Legion, to go our own way with you and yours. You’ve never been able to accept what we are. I will commit to nothing you suggest.’

  ‘The way things are headed, that is the only logical way forward,’ said Brond. ‘I have no faith that this Enclave will set us on a path other than one of self-destruction.’

  ‘The Brazen Lord cares not whence the blood flows, only that it does,’ said Baruda.

  Now that the Enclave had begun, he and Baruda stood some way apart from each other. Both he and the stand-in commander of the Ninth had their own entourage arrayed behind them; advisors, lieutenants, chosen warriors, menials, servitors. These all stood back. They would not appear in the hololith circles on the other ships.

  The circle was the same diameter it had always been. Each individual stood in his traditional place, representing a different company. There were many gaps. Too many.

  One gap was more conspicuous than the others.

  Of course, it had always been rare for Angron to bother making an appearance at these war meets – this was more a hangover from the War Hounds than a practice much favoured after the Legion was reunited with its primarch – but the tradition had never officially been discontinued.

  Some of the hololiths were almost perfect representations, showing every tiny detail and nuance of expression. Others were crackling and distorted, their feed interrupted by static and interference.

  The Devourer Goghur dominated the gathering, both politically and in sheer bulk. Bedecked in his hulking Cataphractii armour, he stood half a head taller than most of the others. The fact that he had no real place at this circle – he was not even a captain – seemed not to bother most of those gathered there.

  It was Jareg, the Master Shellsmith, who currently held the floor. He alone was able to match Goghur’s sheer bulk, his own mostly mechanised frame augmented with the various arms and mechadendrites of his servo-harness.

  ‘The Legion war machines are ready to be fielded,’ he was saying. His voice was a grinding rumble, like ill-fitting gears snarling against each other. His was the sharpest hololith image, of course, so clear that were it not for the blue-grey monochrome of his appearance, Brond could have believed the Martian-trained warrior was standing before him in the flesh – or at least what flesh remained.

  ‘Our super-heavies and artillery pieces are being loaded into bulk-landers as we speak, in the event that they are needed,’ Jareg continued. ‘My heretek engines are being harnessed even now, tethered for transportation.’

  Brond shook his head. This was foolishness of the highest order.

  Goghur bowed his head to Jareg, the dreadlock-cables plugged into his scalp rustling. He was already acting as if he was the de-facto commander of the Legion, Brond noted in distaste. He was not alone in his unease with Goghur’s aggressive stance, however.

  ‘It does no good to antagonise the Third Legion further,’ said Solax, the acting captain of the Third Assault. He’d filed his teeth to points, a practice he’d brought with him from his cannibalistic home world. ‘We have nothing to gain. At the first sign of aggression from you, Devourer, I will lead the Third from this system.’

  ‘Spineless wretch,’ snarled the crackling hololith of Rokgur, a captain five along from Solax. It wouldn’t be long before the Nails claimed him completely, Brond thought. He bore the tell-tale twitching signs of mental degradation. The Nails were making him dance to their tune, turning what had once been among the more cunning and intelligent of the World Eaters commanders into a savage. ‘You… unh… shame the Legion with your unh…’

  ‘You are welcome to come aboard the Furious Aggression and meet me in the pits any time, Rokgur,’ responded Solax.

  The hololith feed of Rokgur spat and shorted as the enraged World Eaters captain took an aggressive step forward, half-removing him from view. The image began to break up. Two other figures stepped into view, restraining Rokgur, before the image cut out. There were murmurs around the circle. Brond snorted and shook his head.

  ‘We need to resupply,’ said Kho’ren, war-leader of the 19th ‘Skull Takers’. ‘The Emperor’s Children are a brother Legion. We should send envoys to them and–’

  He was interrupted by an outburst from another of Angron’s Devourers, another that the primarch had left behind; Tarugar. He was occupying the place of the captain of the 11th – a company that had been killed to a man on Terra. He had no place in this circle either and Brond regarded him as nothing but a lackey of Goghur, here to give him additional support.

  ‘You would have us go to them on our knees, a begging bowl in hand? I would rather die than crawl for whatever scraps and bones those deviants throw our way.’

  ‘Why beg for what we can simply take?’ snarled another of the gathered warriors, Kargos the Bloodspitter. Once, he had been part of Khârn’s Eighth Company; now, he le
d a company of his own, having killed its former captain in a blood-duel. Sanguis Extremis. There were murmurs of agreement from others at his words.

  ‘Cowards and lickspittles,’ spat yet another, the butcher Zhârkhan. ‘We have fled like dogs with our tails between our legs, and now we bicker and argue about fighting our former allies? I will listen to no more of this. Where is our pride? We should have stayed and fought to the end. I have pledged to take the skull of the Wolf Lord. The 48th is turning to claim it.’

  Zhârkhan stepped off his plinth, and disappeared.

  A dozen voices began speaking at once.

  ‘…should be seeking Angron! The astropaths hear him roaring in the…’

  ‘…nothing but talk! We attack, and attack now, it is what we know, what we…’

  ‘…join with them. Together we can return and…’

  ‘…not even a captain. You do not command…’

  ‘…should be standing united. If we do not, then the Legion is truly already dead…’

  ‘This is pointless,’ said Argus Brond, stepping away from his own plinth.

  The shimmering hololiths continued to argue and bicker.

  ‘Make your captain see sense,’ Brond said to Baruda. ‘The Legion is fracturing before our eyes. Why should we linger and be part of its downfall?’

  Baruda was about to speak, but his gaze was drawn to the chamber’s entry hall as the door hissed open and World Eaters marched in. His eyes widened.

  Thinking it was Dreagher finally come to make his presence known, Brond turned.

  ‘Blood of the primarch,’ he breathed.

  A number of World Eaters vessels were turning, leaving the flotilla and setting their sights on the edge of the system, leaving their brethren to their fate, when the hololith of Argus Brond stepped back into view, taking up his place in the circle.

  Dreagher, captain of the Ninth, was next to appear, his three-dimensional image projected out across the gathered fleet.