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The axe. No, he thought. The axe was embedded deep in the ork warboss’s chest. No, this was my victory. It was the axe that felled Thrakk. It’s heavy, chain wreathed edge was far more capable of speed than Khul’ghor’s own weapon.
“You. This was to be my victory for the Blood God.”
“You should have earned it, then” came the reply from the red clad warrior to his side. He was not supposed to be here. How dare he disrupt the battle. Somehow, this marine must have survived the fight with the nobz and ‘ard boyz that Khul’ghor stormed through to get to Thrakk. Khul’ghor had planned this skulltaking to be his ascension. Now this warrior had claimed it instead. Would he be favored of Khorne now? Would he lay claim to their host? Khul’ghor’s mind pulsed with nails ache, dulling the pain of his brawl with the Ork, as he knew he was in another fight for his life.
He charged. With terminator tusks pointed at his new nemesis, he tried to shoulder into him. The less winded warrior side stepped to avoid the charge, and levelled his nearly-charged plasma pistol at the warlord. His chain gauntlet ground up the plasma pistol, its gas escaping through raggedly torn wrents. Narrowly retaining his hand, the challenger tried to quickly end the fight by stepping to the back of Khul’ghor and swinging his axe down through his spine. Khul’ghor was ready for such a tactic, and in a fraction of a second, shifted his momentum and cut in toward the challenger. Turning around, he sought his foe’s red armor outline, seeing that he must have backstepped out of striking range, and surged forward again, this time with combibolter kicking in his grip.
The challenger hefted his axe in front of his breastplate, relying on it’s bearded outline to protect his vitals. A hail of bolt shells impacted on the chainaxe, cratering it’s surface. He tried to count the steps of Khul’ghor’s charge, and when the terminator was in range, lashed out with a quick downward strike, aimed at Khul’ghor’s inner arm. It found its target, and its hungry bite tore into Khul’ghor’s forearm. His plate protected him from losing the arm completely, but now he could only lift his chain gauntlet with massive waves of pain.
Pressing the advantage, the challenger went for the same side leg, sinking his chain axe into the soft armor behind the knee. Tendons and muscles alike were shredded in the steel-toothed maw of the chainaxe. Seeking to devour him piece by piece, he withdrew the axe and readied his next swing for just above Khul’ghor’s thigh. Renewed by blood, and not caring that it was his, Khul’ghor batted away the chainaxe. With a dry-lunged roar, he lifted his arm again and collapsed his mammoth fingers around his foe’s weapon, and ground its hilt to splinters under the revving of his chaingauntlet.
Undaunted, the challenger readied two daggers he kept at his side and stayed to the wounded side of his enemy. Both combatants inhaled for a single second. The challenger struck out for Khul’ghor’s neck with his right dagger, while seeking to pin his left dagger into the wounded elbow. The first strike missed, deflecting off Khul’ghor’s terminator tusks. But the left dagger sunk deep into its target.
Khul’ghor exhaled in pain. Locked together with his enemy, he brought his combibolter up to fire. At such close range, it was bound to be inaccurate, but the challenger kept to Khul’ghor’s back right, so that the terminator could not fire around wis own bulk. Keeping the dagger in deep in the ragged elbow, he twisted his foe’s arm so the elbow pointed down, and with his dagger pinning it in place, brought his knee up. The blow shattered Khul’ghor’s elbow, earning another roar of pain amidst the blood and broken bone. He had no time to enjoy it, however, as Khul’ghor pistoned his empty combibolter into his challnger’s face, denting his helmet and chipping teeth within.
Reeling, he turned around and was greeted with the sound of a combibolter autoloading another magazine. He jumped high to avoid the volley, and lunged with dagger in hand for Khul’ghor’s neck. He caught a boltshell in the shin, which dentonated on the outside of his armored shell and fractured the bone beneath. Still closing the distance, his dagger sunk down into the terminator’s neck. It was not a killing blow, however, and he was rewarded with a shoulder to the gut to send him to the ground.
Khul’ghor sank to his knees and tried to pin the bastard’s wounded leg. A grunt of pain winced out, and he readied his combibolter to empty his brains onto the decking. The challenger’s other leg bucked out, breaking tusks and scoring a concussion on the still breathing warlord. He pressed his new momentum and wrestled the combibolter out of Khul’ghor’s hands. Khul’ghor fell foward and tried to wrestle it back, but with one arm rendered useless could not break his enemy’s leverage. He could only keep it off target. With both warriors bloodsoaked and full of rage, the challenger aimed a punch at Khul’ghor’s head. It connected, and was met with two more. Khul’ghor rocked back from the force of the blow, and the challenger reached up to grab the still-impaled dagger from Khul]ghor’s neck. He twisted the blade a quarter turn, and pulled it out to plunge it in again. The screams were mounting now, bright blood frothing at the wounds. One more stab sunk in just below the jaw, and the screaming was replaced only by a gasp. The blood spilled. It poured and flowed out from the dead warlord, as his wretched soul gurgled in pain. His armored corpse collapsed on the decking in a wash of both ork and transhuman gore.
He rose from the fight, wounded and winded but alive, knowing he still had more fights to worry about.
“Captain” the faint buzzing in his helmet came through. He looked around at the space hulk, as the chamber they were in had been laid empty by fleeing orks.
“Captain Anghrat, answer you dog-screwing whoreson, are we staying on this void damned hulk?” The voice came clearer now, as if the vulgarity willed his vox link into trying harder.
“No, Shaslan, we are not. Get everyone aboard the Bleeding Edge, and prepare for boarders. Khul’ghor’s favored dogs will not take this lying down.”
“Aye, I’ll let the cripple know to get us out of here.”
Anghrat let the link go silent, and searched for anything of value in the chamber. The chaingauntet was unsalvageable, and was better left behind anyway. The ork’s skull was too fragmented to even consider cobbling up and taking with him. The combibolter and a spare magazine were all Anghrat could salvage from Khulghor, as well as taking the Ork’s scalp, with its bone fetish studded topknot. His thinblood would not start making meaningful strides to healing his leg for another hour, but the pain suppressants flooding his bloodstream had already started. He skulked his way to the main chamber, where his company’s thunderhawk had landed. It had long ago been vented to the void, and so he would have to rely on his magnetized boots to carry him along the mangled shrapnel that was the walkway. As he expected, some of the remaining veterans of the Bloody Handed had came to end him. Their lord’s combibolter- rather, the weapon that used to be their lord’s, ended most of them. One managed to break his ribs with a backhanded club of his axe, but Anghrat’s daggers found the meat under his armpits, and while recoiling in agony, lanced out again to puncture the eye lense.
Still knowing this ordeal had not yet run its course, Anghrat laid eyes upon his thunderhawk, Infinite Gore, and started making his way to the lowered ramp. From the other end of the chamber, two marines fired on him with their plasmaguns. While both missed, unsurprising from this range, the heat flashfried the blood on his armor, and threatened to do the same to the blood in his veins.
“Shas, kill them!” he shouted. Sponson-mounted heavy bolters spun to target, and ripped the marines to shreds.
“Captain, that’s the best you’ve looked in weeks.” Elkghin said, as he appeared on the ramp, ushering Anghrat in.
“Enough, get us in the void.” he ordered back.
“As soon as you get on board, Sensors say there’s more coming this way, and word from the Bleeding Edge says they’re getting back to their ships already.”
“We have work. Get back to the ship, and then back to the immaterium. They will pursue until then. Prepare for boarders.”
Anghrat had a talent for tactics, but it did not take one with his blessing to know that the rest of the Bloody Handed would pursue them. Not only out of vengeance for betraying their lord, but for the promise of a brutal fight and spoils of ammunition. Anghrat had no time to waste, and before even sitting down, warning indicators blinked on the Infinite Gore’s central display.
“Get us back to the Bleeding Edge, Fo’rrun. My wrath will be the least of your problems if it is not done.”
The nervous serf quickly finished working on the servitor pilots and packed up his small array of tools. “Ready, lord. Servitors are flight capable”
“Burn the engines.”
The Infinite Gore quickly raced back into the void, streaking towards the nearby Bleeding Edge, just outside the orbit of a nearby gas giant.The incoming fire would not be substantive yet, but when they got back to their strike cruiser, and the other Bloody Handed legionaries had gotten back to theirs, each of the other seven cruisers in Khul’ghor’s fleet would open up on them with everything from broadside batteries to melta lances. But even those were not what had Anghrat worried. Khul’ghor had one relic that he seldom used, for fear of losing it, no matter how hard his men pressed him. With his relative restrained wisdom gone, that relic would likely see another day of battle deployed against the Bleeding Edge.
“Make speed. We need to reach our cruiser before Khul’ghor’s men do.”
“Hnng, you afraid, Angh? If you already killed the best they had, we can take the rest of them.”
“You know it is not that simple, Elkghin. Khul’ghor kept them leashed. Now they will be lost to blood madness. And if not, then that means Khul’ghor’s second has established command.”
“You mean the impure? Hnng, I hope he has, I need to feel my chainblades spraying his lifeblood across my face. It’s what he deserves for not being dead yet.”
“He is their best chance at gathering their forces for a killing blow. May the Blood God favor us.”
Khul’ghor’s lead cruiser, Hellbreaker, was already burning after the Bleeding Edge. Wruggoth, second in command, now first, was barking orders to fly faster, shoot straighter, and to make for the docking bay.
“We should regroup. If they-”
“Quiet, filth!” Wruggoth enunciated, syllables like gravel shuffling from his iron toothed mouth. “The dead may have tolerated you but I make no such compromises. And after I have that bastard Anghrat’s skull, I’ll end your pitiful existence myself. Shame the nails haven’t done that already, filth.”
Umento barely registered that comment. It was usual for the men, especially Wruggoth, to launch into tirades against him when he made a suggestion. Nevermind that they were good suggestions, ones that, when whispered to Khul’ghor in private, had lead to numerous victories for the Bloody Handed. Eveidently, Khul’ghor’s death was already ushering in change, and Umento might have to be more careful than normal around the World Eaters that used to call him “brother”.
“Didhrak, you have the throne. I’ll be with my terminators. We’re breaking out Khul’ghor’s prized possession.”
“Wruggoth, you f-”
“Silence!” He lashed out with a backhand that landed on Umento’s mouth, splitting his lips and gums. “Do not distract me! The blood calling awaits! Hnng.” Wruggoth stormed out towards where his terminators would be mustering.
“You should know better than to reason with him, Umen.”
“That relic deserves better than to be pissed away like that.” Umento said. “I know Anghrat, he’s going to see it coming. It’s at its best when your enemy doesn’t even know you have it. Not when they expect you to pull it out in a blood-frenzy.”
Didhrak didn’t answer his former brother, letting the tense seconds slowly diffuse in the hurried atmosphere of the helm.
Vivisector. That was its name. A dreadclaw from the legendary days of the Heresy. Before the Heresy, even, if the stories Khul’ghor would tell of it were to be believed. Its violent urges could be felt just by basking in its shadow. This machine had seen so much blood that it inspired its occupants to even madder rampages. Just a glance at it made one hunger for battle. Most berzerkers would be lost to the nails the moment they stepped inside its armored hulk.
“Men!” Wruggoth shouted, his terminators already in full gear before him. “To Slaughter!”
They charged into the dreadclaw with a furore as if they were in axe’s reach of the foe already. The cobbled together terminators- their armor was comprised of plate from several different marks and legions- looked like mountains themselves rushing towards the Vivisector.
“Hnng, none of you take that treacherous bastard’s skull,” Wruggoth half-ordered, half threatened, as the entry ramp folded up and the doors closed. “His life is mine to take.”
Despite it’s bulk, the Vivisector was almost all engine, and it hurled itself at the Bleeding Edge with reckless abandon. Broadsides from Hellbreaker flared alongside it, punishing the shields of the Bleeding Edge.
It was getting ready to enter the warp, that much was obvious. The Infinite Gore had returned, mostly intact, and so had most of the other stragglers from the war with the ork-infested space hulk. It was not in the nature of most World Eaters to run, but Anghrat was able to keep a somewhat cool head, and had no desire to waste away his ship, armory, and life to the incoming horde of berzerkers.
“Prepare to make the jump.” Anghrat said upon entering the command bridge. “Burn those bastards out of the air, but we need to get into the warp.”
“Sir, servitors are reporting… fuck, it can’t be.”
“Go on.” Anghrat replied to Shaslan.
“Dreadclaw, sir, ID tag is Vivisector. Brazen Balls, that must be almost six thousand years old.”
“I know.” Anghrat answered Shaslan. Then, “Engines, hard starboard. Rotate 30 degrees.”
The Bleeding Edge guzzled promethium to comply with it’s lord’s quick order.
“Angh, that will show our damned belly to those bastards, why are w-”
“Elkghin, prepare to deploy the Iron Maw.”
Laughter came from the other end of the vox. Anghrat kept tense, but was otherwise unmoved by his warrior’s amusement.
“You’re joking, yeah?” Elkghin answered. “We’re in space, under attack, and you want to launch a termite?”
“It will perform adequately. And if you do not follow orders immediately, I will strap you onto it and send you both out into the void.”
“Aye, sir, I’ll have the serfs drag it up.”
The Iron Maw was a relic in name only. It was old, but not treated with any reverence or respect. Few things that lived in the dirt did. It had eaten ground on hundreds of planets and moons, usually being launched from its transport directly into the ground, where it could burrow its way to a fortress and deposit its bloodcrazed payload. This time, it was still mounted on its transport, a tracked vehicle with a wide bed to support the termite, which was set up in the docking bay and being operated by menial serfs. However, it was not loaded with furious warriors of Khorne, as it was on every other occasion, but a full payload of melta bombs. Its decrepit and bitter machine spirit fussed over this unusual escort, likely sensing what such a payload meant.
Nearby, Elkghin watched over the serfs.
“Break your backs, men! I won’t be dying today because you fools decided to lie down and die!” he said, as he rammed the blunt end of his chainsword into the gut of a slave. The man coughed in agony at the cold metal that lanced into his side.
Each slave, two dozen in all, doubled their meager efforts to finish loading the meltas into the Iron Maw. It’s anger began radiating off of it, drills spinning in protest, sloshing oil and blood onto hard decking. But it’s sisyphean protests were met with hurried preparation, and it was loaded into firing position on its transport with heaves of wire and chain.
“All of you, leave! I have the honor of the kill.” The serfs hurried out of the docking bay, not knowing what would happen but assuming any transgression would end their lives.
Elkghin marched over to the door release and slammed his armored fist into it.
The doors shunted open, and air rushed into the void like the marathon runners of old. His helmet secured, Elkghin marched over to the Iron Maw’s transport, one mag-locked boot stomp at a time. Magnetically secured, he marched forward towards the transport’s cockpit, eager to earn more kills for his god. He mounted the cockpit, engaged the controls, and aimed the Iron Maw at the void. The transport itself could not move, as it was tethered in place by heavy chains that encircled its axles and secured it from shifting.
Elkghin adjusted the angle of the Iron Maw in its cradle. Under normal circumstances, the transport would launch the termite into the ground, where it’s melta cutters and drills would chew the earth and propel it forward. This was not normal, however. This was downright unheard of.
“This,” Elkghin said to himself, “this will work.” As the cradle adjusted to nearly parallel with the floor of the docking bay, Elkghin caught a glimpse of his target in the distance. A jet-flare propelling an artery-red avatar of violence.
With a smile on his face, Elkghin launched the Iron Maw into space.
It was not elegant. The stonebreaking beast hurdled through the zero gravity vacuum. But it kept on target, sensing the carnage it could make. The Iron Maw lumbered towards the Vivisector, drills primed and ready to kill.
Wruggoth needed slaughter. He was seeing red. The terminators next to him were all chafing at their restraints. Axes revved, powerfists clenched, and lightning claws glanced off one another. They all needed the sensation of battle and death to ease the nails-pain chewing at their skulls. Each and every one of them wanted nothing more than to kill a space marine. In this moment, they wanted nothing more than to kill their own brothers. Wruggoth most of all wanted to shed World Eater blood. Thoughts of dissection and domination through battle played over and over again in his brutish mind. He wanted to cleave heads from shoulders with his power axe. He wanted to offer up Khorne’s own to the Blood God himself, as some kind of sick joke, or a culling of the weak. He didn’t care which. He knew he wanted to kill, and that was enough for him.
His last thoughts were of the drill that had impaled the terminator next to him, spilling his ropey guts throughout the Vivisector. And as the melta explosions ripped their way through two ancient relics of warfare, melting through thousands of years of steal and bloodshed, Wruggoth had no thoughts at all in his charred, fractured, toothless head.
“Good,” Anghrat said from his throne, glancing at terminals spilling out data on the void war.
“Gellar fields are at full function, sir. Ready to disengage.”
“Good,” Anghrat nodded in acknowledgment. “Enter the Empyrean.”
The Bleeding Edge dived into hell.