JAGHATAI KHAN WARHAWK OF CHOGORIS

by Chris Wraight

  Then the primarch looked up, and despite the racing furnace around them, a chill descended over every soul. He uttered two words only, his voice suddenly as spare and bleak as the void.

  ‘Pull away.’

  His sons complied instantly. Even Sejanus and the Luna Wolves, warriors from a Legion that gave no quarter to any foe, withdrew.

  The Khan advanced then, alone now, his demeanour changed from flamboyance to a night-sere menace. He swung his sword about him languidly, loosening up, cutting the air into whispers, and the orks themselves hung back, bellows snuffed out, bravado shaken into wariness.

  Then he started to kill. He broke into a run, first heavily, measuring his strokes, then accelerating, faster and harder, until he had moved into that state the Chogorian sages called alakh geh, where the thought alone could kill, where the distance between intention and action was made nothing, and where vengeance became a living thing with both extension and immanence. Under a gathering shroud of elemental vendetta, he killed them all. If he had slain freely before, now the carnage was so complete that it scraped the boundaries of both the divine and the diabolic. Even the war-hardened Legiones Astartes, used to witnessing prodigal exercises of violence, were silenced by it.

  The xenos never laid a claw on him. The Khan moved now, not with joy, but with dreadful perfection. They faced up to him, and they were swept away. They tried to parry, and he cut them down. They tried to combine, and they were ripped into whimpering slivers. He danced through their numbers and built a corridor of blood around himself, slaying like some spectre of the endless dark, silent as a grave-mark, chill like the night gale of the Ulaav.

  One of the Luna Wolves, inspired by that vision, tried to join him then, to add his blade to his, and it took Qin Xa to hold him back.

  ‘No, brother,’ the keshig-master warned, quietly. ‘Only observe.’

  But by then, the Khan himself was almost invisible, hidden behind a curtain of severed flesh and thrown blood, a primordial force burning through the xenos ranks, inviolable and darkly magnificent. For the first time in that entire campaign, the greenskins tried to run, to scramble away from the hungering devil that raced to devour them, but there was no space left, no time left, no hope left. Most were caught as they turned, their backs carved open and their necks broken. The few that managed to get back to the gate cowered under the shadow of that greater monster, the swollen master of their brood-lair, who retreated beyond the portal in a shuffling, shaking display of abject submission.

  The Khan passed under the gate’s edge. None of his army followed him in. They held vigil on the spur instead, watching the gaping entrance, holding to their last order against every instinct. All that emerged from the far side of the gate now were alien screams, one after the other, overlapped and smothering, a chorus of terror and panic that went on and on and on and never relented.

  Not one of the xenos escaped back to the spur. Seconds of that carnage passed, then minutes, and the screaming just got worse. The magma fires, as if in sympathy to the apocalyptic toll of life-ending, slapped and blazed against the outer walls of the last chamber, grasping futilely at the horror unfolding within and powerless to stop it. After a while, it became impossible to listen to.

  Eventually, though, even the screams echoed out.

  Qin Xa, alone, slowly approached the gate, his boots crunching over the corpse road. As he drew close, the Khan re-emerged.

  The primarch’s armour was red now, a thick layer that dripped from every ridge and plate edge. His cloak was torn into shreds, and his blade was a coursing rivulet of xenos blood. He walked tall still, but the fluency was gone now, burned away into numbness.

  For a moment, they looked at one another, master and lieutenant, both their faces hidden by dragon helms. The heat-shaken air burned around them.

  The Khan reached up to his gorget and removed his helm. The visage that emerged was hollow-cheeked now, though still burning with the dregs of that unholy cocktail of grief, shock and rage. His eyes glimmered darkly, as if the flicker of some malign potency still lingered, clutching to life even as the reason for its existence slithered away.

  And that, too, was how we made you.

  ‘Ended?’ asked Qin Xa softly. ‘All of them?’

  The darkness passed. The Khan, moving shakily, locked his helm to his armour. Blood sluiced from him still. He was as red now as the Angel Sanguinius had been, though not as beautiful.

  He nodded, sheathing his blade.

  ‘We’re finished here,’ he said.

  THIRTEEN

  It took many hours for the last reaches of that place to be purged. Warriors of both Legions still fought and killed and died before the xenos resistance was crushed entirely, and even then, just as at every battlefield on which the hain were present, it would take many days of repeated burn operations to be sure that they would not come back.

  After the battle was over, long into the deep of Gar-Ban-Gar’s night, it would usually have been the time for celebration. Pyres would have been lit, not just for the disposal of xenos corpses, but for remembrance and relief. Another world had passed into the dominion of mankind, and that moment was always marked by fires.

  For much of the Imperial force, that is indeed what happened. The Luna Wolves cried out against the stars, vocalising gang chants drawn from the earliest days on hard-edged Cthonia. They reached out to their brothers from Chogoris, as wild in aspect if not in manners, and they laughed together, wiping the soot from their gauntlets and ripping the teeth from the skulls of the xenos for trophies. A kind of febrile relief shuddered through the ranks, given licence to discharge by the captains, who knew that after so many long months of unremitting sacrifice what remained of their human emotion had to be given some kind of expression.

  With the bulk of the murdering done, the Auxilia moved in. Columns of clean-up troops filed down into the tunnels, most wearing contagion suits and carrying rad-guns. Heavy lifters churned their way from orbit, each one stuffed with Imperial officials and scrutinisers and xenobiologists and terraformers and masters of the Lex Obsequio. Soon that river would become a flood, and the staff of the Administratum would outnumber those of the Legions themselves. Of the original combatants, only the Apothecaries remained on the battle sites, doing what they always did after the conflict was over. The Luna Wolves Apothecaries went methodically about their business, free of sentiment, tearing progenoid glands free from flesh. Their White Scars’ emchi counterparts were slower, whispering words of soul-passage for the fallen, not moving on until the proper rites were complete.

  It would have been usual for the primarch to join the celebrations. On Chogoris, the Khan had always presided over revels once the cities had fallen, feasting on the rich bounty before ensuring his fighters shared in it. On other worlds, he had done the same, preserving the ways of the Palatine War into the cold avenues of the stars.

  Not this time. The Khan sent Hasik to watch over the Legion lest their hot blood boil over into something uncontrollable, then left the battlefield, taking none with him but Qin Xa. Together the two of them climbed back up through the echoing and blood-damp hive, out into the cooling air and away north, leaving the frenzy behind them. As they went, the flames crackled higher, making the dusk air glow.

  After a while, they passed beyond the watch patrols and the overflights and, for a few moments at least, were something like alone. The Khan turned back to face the way they had come and looked over the site of destruction. The Bloodmaw smouldered away in the darkness, a sinkhole of ruin. For a long time, he said nothing.

  ‘It was weakness,’ he said, at last.

  ‘No one says it,’ Qin Xa replied, calm as ever.

  ‘I have lost warriors before.’

  ‘He was with us at the start.’

  ‘It had to happen, sooner or later.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Nothing is eternal.’

  ‘Some things are. A good blade. The wind on skin. An oath.’

  The Khan l
et slip a crooked smile. ‘Just what would make you angry, then, Xa?’ he asked.

  ‘If you became, in some way, like other men,’ the master of the keshig said. ‘If you had seen him die and not done what you did. If you had let one of them, just one, live. Then, Khagan, I would have been angry.’

  The primarch pondered that. He reached up to his straggling hair to push it back from his scarred face and traced a fresh line of blood across his skin.

  ‘I will have to get used to it,’ he said.

  ‘I do not think you ever will.’

  Then there were footfalls coming up the slope – the soft grind of Cataphractii Terminator battleplate. Pairs of glowing lenses emerged from the gloom. Most halted, holding back twenty paces distant, but their master, Sejanus, approached the primarch.

  The captain bowed. He was helmless, and his eyes were steely in the low light.

  ‘You look so much like my brother,’ the Khan murmured.

  ‘I wished to give honour to your dead, lord,’ Sejanus said. ‘But if you desire to be alone–’

  ‘It is appreciated.’

  Sejanus looked a little discomforted then. ‘I have had word from Horus Lupercal. I thought you would wish to know as soon as possible.’

  The Khan glanced briefly at Qin Xa. ‘We were due to meet, after this,’ he said. ‘Combine our forces before the assault on the core.’

  ‘He has already begun. The opportunity to strike came, and he felt compelled to take it.’

  The Khan looked at him for a long time. ‘I had no inkling of this.’

  ‘I was told to assure you that no disrespect is implied. The chance came, and could not be passed up. Once his current target is destroyed, he invites you to join him on the Vengeful Spirit, where he can explain further.’

  The Khan smiled to himself. ‘He… invites me.’

  ‘That is the form of words we have, lord.’

  ‘He does not order?’

  Sejanus looked shocked. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, that could not be–’

  ‘Peace. I jest. I barely take orders from my Father, let alone anyone else. But, tell me, captain – this change has come from nowhere.’

  At that, there was another sign of uneasiness. ‘I understand that. I am not privy to all aspects of this decision. I asked for further clarification, but was told that the order stands.’

  The Khan nodded slowly. ‘Your Librarians,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘What is their status?’

  ‘They have been withdrawn.’

  ‘With no explanation.’

  ‘Not one that I have been told.’

  ‘Operational reasons, no doubt.’

  ‘I expect so, lord.’

  The Khan smiled dryly. ‘But you will remain here, I trust, until all is concluded.’

  Sejanus bowed. ‘It will be an honour, lord.’ He hesitated, as if unsure how much more to say. ‘My master – and I, for that matter – have nothing but praise for what our Legions have accomplished together. He wished me to make plain, and I am happy to do so, that it is not mere proximity that made this alliance suitable for the Imperial purpose. He believes we worked well together.’

  The Khan inclined his head a fraction in acknowledgement. ‘You have a diplomat’s tongue, Sejanus. When you next converse with your master, tell him that I regret we were not able to join forces as arranged. Tell him that I remain keen to speak with him whenever he is able. Tell him that I wish for no misunderstandings between us. The time and the place can be of his choosing.’

  Sejanus bowed.

  ‘Impress that on him, if you will,’ the Khan said. ‘When he calls, I will answer.’

  Hasik watched the fires, listened to the cries of released aggression and relief, felt the warm slick of halaak slide down his throat. He had released his keshig to join the others, and could just about detect Goghal singing somewhere, trying to teach the Cthonians old Talskar chants.

  He had no appetite for it.

  Warriors had always died in combat, both before and after ascension, but Giyahun had always seemed invincible. Hasik drank more, knowing that virtually no amount of alcohol could truly dull his senses as it had once done, but the rehearsal of the old habit was easy to slip back into. The Space Marines had mortal elements left in them despite all that had been done to their bodies, fragments of a human past that lingered somewhere in that skein of vat-grown organs and bioengineered tangles.

  A figure stumbled out from the flickering darkness towards him, and it took Hasik a moment to recognise the outline of Borghal. The Stormseer looked just as exhausted as he had done after the fight for the Saddleback.

  ‘Noyan-khan,’ Borghal saluted, placing his hand out to lean against the cooling chassis of a Rhino transport.

  ‘You killed more shamans, I hope,’ said Hasik.

  ‘Very many. I understand a lesson now. Strange, how it took so long.’

  Hasik looked at him a little sourly. ‘If the Cthonians used what they had, we’d have finished this quicker.’

  ‘I wished to find their Librarian, but no one can tell me where he is. He might listen, now.’

  ‘He’d be a fool not to. But then the galaxy has many fools in it, most of them on Terra.’

  Borghal hesitated. ‘Are you all right, noyan-khan?’

  Hasik took another long swig. ‘Get some rest, zadyin arga. It won’t stop here. Come the dawn, we’ll be doing this all over again.’

  Borghal looked at him for a moment longer, but then nodded. He was at the end of his strength. He bowed weakly, then stumbled off again, seeking somewhere to slump.

  Hasik didn’t watch him go. More groups of warriors limped past, some of them carrying deep wounds, the kind that would have killed a regular human but merely made these warriors wince and adjust their stance until it healed. Most were White Scars, who all bowed, and the rest were Luna Wolves, who didn’t.

  Except one. Rheor seemed to have been looking for him. He had fared better than many of the others, and his armour looked almost intact.

  ‘You’re a hard man to find, khan,’ Rheor said, his heavy face splitting in an awkward attempt at a smile.

  Hasik grunted. ‘Not that hard, clearly,’ he said.

  Rheor looked around them, at the throngs of bodies moving in the dark. The scene was primal, with the firelight and the smell of blood and the rehearsal of old war cries.

  ‘You wish to complain about our witches,’ Hasik said. ‘To tell me that I should have consulted you first.’

  ‘No. Not that.’ Rheor looked back at him. ‘I’m not a proud man, khan. I can see when a tactic works. We were a good combination, I think.’

  Hasik drank again. That was hard to deny.

  ‘We’re alike,’ Rheor went on. ‘Our two Legions. We’re hive scum, you’re barbarians. They’ll let us build their empire for them, but we won’t be suffered to live in it.’

  It was the first time the Luna Wolves captain had spoken thus. Before, he had been taciturn to the point of inscrutability.

  ‘So then, we have a custom,’ Rheor said haltingly. ‘Something we took from Cthonia, though it changed once we’d seen other worlds. After battle, we meet. We form bonds. They can be a source of strength.’

  Hasik looked at him uncertainly. ‘A Legion order?’

  ‘Not so much. An informal arrangement.’

  For the first time, Hasik noticed that there were others standing in the shadows, further back, as if waiting for Rheor. They were all XVI Legion, though seemingly from many different squads.

  ‘I’d like to show you, if you were willing,’ Rheor said. ‘We can learn from what you did. No doubt you can learn from us too.’

  ‘What is that you have there? Some kind of coin?’

  ‘I can explain. Come, if you wish to. Stay, if you prefer. But the offer’s there.’

  Hasik hesitated. Solitude had been his intention, to wallow a little in indulgent grief, knowing that it couldn’t last long, knowing he’d be called back to the Khan’s side soon.

  He ha
d been elevated a long way. Old ties of kinship and clan were gone, or stretched so far they had become almost meaningless. He was the master of the Horde of the Earth now, a commander of thousands of the finest troops ever created, a conqueror of worlds and a scourge of empires.

  And yet, somewhere buried a long way down, that old human past would never quite be extinguished, nagging at him like an old and half-remembered dream. Brotherhood was still required.

  He looked up at Rheor. The Luna Wolves captain beckoned for him to follow.

  ‘You’d be welcome, brother,’ he said.

  Something in the gesture suddenly appealed.

  ‘For a moment, maybe,’ Hasik replied, making ready to go with him. ‘Where’s the harm?’

  BAAL

  M30.908

  FOURTEEN

  The air, the rock, the long-dried seas – all were red, terracotta banded by vermillion and orange, vivid under a haze-shrouded crimson sun. The deserts yawned off to all horizons, studded with mesas and gouged with canyons. It was hot, a desiccating heat that pulled every last speck of moisture from the cracked earth and swallowed it up into the hungry wind. Traces of a war before time lingered in every shadow; the faint whisper of ancient rads still lived in the poisoned soils.

  The skimmer shot across the surface of Baal, hugging the ground and casting a deep black shadow on the red sands. It was a IX Legion craft, polished to a high sheen and glinting in the ambient light. Its thruster housings were chased in dark gold, as were its long flanks. It had slender lines, as proportionate as everything constructed by the Blood Angels artificers, though also as heavily armed. Twin bolter snubs poked out from under the sweep of adamantium blast shielding, illustrating aptly that culture’s tension between extreme violence and wildly creative energy.