Chapter 306: Damn You All, A Worthless Rabble!
Enduring the torment of the Butcher's Nails, Khârn's gaze shifted to the Warsmith. The man was an underling of Barban Falk. Khârn knew Falk well. They were so very similar. Both were shadows ignored by the glory of the Great Crusade, both had only revealed their true cutting edge after their Legions had shattered. One became the ruler of the largest Iron Warriors warband; the other now commanded the Conqueror, slowly gathering the broken remnants of his own Legion.
A confident smirk touched Khârn's lips, banishing the pain in his skull. As he had stated, the three starforts would be a gift for the Lord of Iron. And Khârn was confident he would secure ownership of at least one of them for himself. When the shackles of the old order were broken, those with true ambition and talent would rise. As for the weak, the hesitant, the flawed refuse—they would kneel before their betters. The Lord of Iron had seen their potential long ago. In their meeting, the Primarch himself had laid out a detailed strategy for Khârn and demanded he execute it to the letter. It was then that Khârn had truly understood Perturabo's nature. The rumours that circulated among the forces of Chaos—of his petulance and difficult nature—were proven false over the regicide board.
Khârn had accepted the heavy burden the Lord of Iron had placed upon him. Until Perturabo finished his contest with his other brother-Primarchs and secured absolute command of the war, Khârn was responsible for keeping these Chaos warbands alive. This gave him a certain leverage over them, but it had also shown him, in stark detail, that they were nothing more than a disorderly mob. Before a true Legion, they were a fence that would shatter at the first touch.
"The Primarchs are here! The Primarchs are here!"
The psyker suspended above the blood-pool let out a piercing shriek. Her body suddenly erupted in a blinding golden radiance, and her chained form thrashed wildly, the metal of the rack screaming in protest.
"Sanguinius," Khârn murmured. He had heard of the Ninth Legion master's return. The Great Angel had saved his sons from the brink of damnation once more, allowing them to seek their glory again under the shelter of his wings.
With one final, soul-tearing scream from the psyker, a burning image materialized on the surface of the blood-pool: a massive fleet was tearing its way out of the void. The Ark Mechanicus forge-ships, the ironclad behemoths of the Imperial Navy, and the strike forces of the Adeptus Astartes were fused into a perfect, singular entity. Unlike the bloated, chaotic deployment of the Chaos warbands, born of mutual suspicion and disarray, this combined-arms fleet maintained a precise formation, forming a tight aegis around a central transport contingent.
Khârn had no doubt that such a force could shatter any orbital defense and deliver the Primarchs' wrath directly onto a planet's surface with surgical precision. And that is precisely what they were doing. The great pod of whales effortlessly tore apart the scattered sharks that had failed to withdraw in time. They then merged with the planet's remaining loyalist fleet elements, and immediately began a standard ground-force deployment.
A dense cloud of Stormbirds plunged into the atmosphere. This class of Legion deployment craft had been phased out by both Chaos and Imperial forces in the 41st Millennium. Only a unified Legion could unleash the true potential of such vessels. Only a Primarch could bring back a unified Legion. Amidst that falling rain of fire, Khârn also saw a flash of brilliant gold.
Fortunately, Khârn's main fleet had already slipped into a warp rift, ready to enter a pre-plotted route prepared by the Warsmith. He could continue to observe, and perhaps even attempt to extract those allies who had not yet escaped. But he could not let the Primarchs' fleet get too close. They possessed the technology to create localized warp-blocks. This was a lesson Khârn had learned during his second cat-and-mouse chase with the Primarchs, and he was thankful for his own caution.
Watching the enemy fleet arrive, Khârn couldn't help but feel a pang of envy as he remembered the orderly fleets of the Iron Warriors under the command of the Lord of Iron. Even after shattering into countless warbands, they had reformed into an unbreakable Legion the moment they accepted their Primarch's rule again. Such was the power of a Primarch.
As for Angron? 'He has lost himself. He is less a living being and more a natural disaster,' Khârn thought, staring at the burning earth reflected in the blood-shrine.
"Incoming signal," the Warsmith stated calmly. It was the eightieth such signal in the last half hour. Khârn silently marked the time. Under his command, his allies had minimized their losses as much as possible, but he still needed to assess which forces were worth waiting for. He had to preserve his strength, to maximize his gains. This was his duty if he wished to command those unruly butchers, and this operation was a perfect opportunity.
And then, his skull began to throb again.
"Shaka! Why are you still there?!" Khârn couldn't stop himself from roaring.
Shaka. His captain. Captain of the World Eaters Third Company. A peerless Berzerker of Khorne. "Why have you not withdrawn?!" His command was a warband nearly four hundred strong. They should have been Khârn's!
"…"
The reply was silence. Khârn could even hear the click-click of the other man's Butcher's Nails over the comm.
"I am sorry, Khârn." A voice, pure and clear, came over the channel. It held no anger, as if the emotion had been completely excised, leaving only regret and bitter grief.
Khârn froze. "What are you talking about?"
"I am sorry, Khârn," the voice on the other end trembled. Shaka's voice. "I must apologize. I was blinded by lies. I was deceived by my Primarch. The angel that guided me… it was not him—"
For a moment, Khârn felt as if he had been thrown back in time, to an era when the proud Captain of the Third Company could bravely admit his mistakes to his subordinates.
"Wait. Wait," Khârn said quickly, stopping Shaka before he could say more. The Warsmith beside him shot him a curious look. "What are you trying to say?"
"I am confessing," the voice said, dazed. "I am apologizing to you."
"Hah…" Hearing this, Khârn understood. And he laughed.
You had no regrets on Isstvan III. You had no regrets on Isstvan V. You had no regrets during the Shadow Crusade when you butchered a hundred worlds. You had no regrets during the Siege of Terra when you abandoned your brothers and your honour to flee. And now you tell me you have regrets?!
Unlike Khârn, who had only been a line sergeant, who had the Nails forced upon him, who had no real say in the Heresy, who had never even met Shipmistress Sarrin of the Conqueror, Shaka had been a Captain. He had the right to stand before Angron. He knew exactly what the Heresy was, and he knew what abyss he was leading his men into. And yet, he did it anyway.
You all dragged me down into this hell, and now, after a little bath in Sanguinius's light, you tell me you have regrets?! You turned to Chaos and now you want to repent?
Khârn let out a cold laugh, looking at the twisted icons on the bridge, at the Chaos fleet outside the viewports. Twisted. Fallen. Corrupt. Just looking at them, you knew that anyone who embraced Chaos was a fool.
Could he go back? No. And he didn't regret it. Even if everything that happened during the Heresy was not what he wanted, he did not regret it. That unremarkable assault sergeant had become a warlord. For millennia he had gathered his strength, refusing to be trodden underfoot. He had endured for thousands of years, waiting for one chance. He would fight not just to prove he was still mighty, but to tell them all that what had been taken from him, he would reclaim with his own hands. He was not an anxious berzerker, nor was he an idiot still stuck on the surface of Cypra-Mundi. And he would never again make meaningless sacrifices for their cursed, demigod father.
He was Khârn, the Betrayer of Chaos, and he would rule! All World Eaters will be mine. Even the Daemon Primarch. He may be my gene-father, but I will not kneel. He will be a tool that serves me. The World Eaters Legion will be mine. Not even Angron can stop me. I have spoken.
"Get out. Get out!" Khârn sneered, his body trembling as the Nails hammered at his scarred brain.
A worthless rabble, you don't even know how to be proper traitors! Fools! Idiots!
His gaze lingered one last time on his "allies," who were now being annihilated at an astonishing rate by the surging Imperial assault. Addicted to their desires, each with their own selfish agenda, their loyalties as firm as smoke. These were the only trash that Chaos could control.
"Order the fleet to withdraw!" he roared.
In an instant, the massive Chaos fleet vanished into the warp, leaving not even a ripple behind.
Forge World Cypra-Mundi, Surface – The Wailing Wastes
Shaka the Bloodless felt a brilliant light pierce his body, searing his very soul. The sacred fire was dissolving the Chaotic taint that had festered within him for millennia. The Chaos Lord tried to activate the Butcher's Nails in his skull to draw upon their power, but to his horror, under the glare of that brilliant light, the Nails—which had never failed him in ten thousand years—were utterly silent.
And then a more terrible truth was revealed: the "angel" that had guided him since the Horus Heresy shed its holy disguise under the light's purifying gaze. The mysterious veil was torn away, revealing the monstrous deceit within. The so-called angel was the Daemon Primarch Angron.
"No!" Shaka's knees slammed into the scorched earth. The comm-link was dead, only static. He looked around. The other World Eaters, their rage stripped away, were looking around in confusion. "No, it shouldn't be like this!" he screamed. He suddenly surged to his feet and, with a heart-rending howl, began to run toward the direction where the golden light had fallen.
Shaka had joined the XII Legion after the Ghenna Massacre. He was later chosen by his gene-father to be the Captain of the Third Assault Company. He fought on Isstvan III, took part in the Shadow Crusade, and witnessed Angron's ascension on Nuceria. Though he was initially proud of his Primarch's new power, that moment had broken something inside him. He saw the true nature of the gods and the root of their betrayal. Chaos had noticed the doubt in the Captain's heart and began its corruption. The once-proud Shaka became withdrawn, consumed by pain and despair. On the eve of the Siege of Terra, he attempted to take his own life, but the taint was too deep. Death would not have him. During the rout from Terra, Shaka abandoned his brothers of the Third Company—including Assault Sergeant Khârn—and fled, using his comrades as shields. He finally fell completely, becoming a Berzerker of Khorne. Severe mutation drove him mad, and strangely, his hands could no longer be stained by blood; even his own wounds would not bleed. From then on, he was known as Shaka the Bloodless. In M41, he began to see visions of Angron, whom he called his Angel. The vision told him to kill Khârn and take the Conqueror, for he was the chosen one. And so, Shaka joined a crusade organized by the Lord of Iron, Perturabo, and fell in under the command of Khârn.
Perturabo had protected Khârn. And Shaka, instinctively, had submitted to the greater authority.
Now, in the holy light, Shaka finally saw the cruel truth. Angron had chosen him over Khârn not because he was better, but because Khârn was the Primarch's most exceptional son. The Primarch had deceived him, choosing the more obedient but less intelligent Shaka, simply to drag another loyal son down into the same abyss as himself. The World Eaters Legion had been destroyed by one blind decision after another from its leadership. Angron could have saved his sons, or he could have done nothing. He chose to hurt them, to make them share his pain, to drag them all into hell.
As Shaka screamed his realization, the angel did not answer. It simply vanished. He began to run. The crimson berzerker burst into a clearing. He smashed through a collapsed hab-block, his body tearing through walls, pulverizing stone and rebar. His armoured boot crushed the writhing tentacles of an Emperor's Children warrior, the appendages still spasming. His iron arm swept out, smashing a decoding device that a Dark Mechanicum priest was desperately trying to protect. His charging body slammed into another World Eater, a poor soul who had also fallen to his knees when his rage was stolen. The Emperor's Children warrior sighed in a mixture of pain and pleasure. The Dark Mechanicum priest screamed in fury. The other World Eater died in the dust. But Shaka heard none of it. For a moment, all was silent. All except the wind scraping against his horned helm. The dust slowly settled.
And Shaka saw it. A battlefield. A one-sided slaughter.
On the main front, artillery was pounding the Chaos warbands who had failed to retreat, grinding them and their slaves into bloody paste. In his sector, the hatches of half-buried armoured vehicles burst open. Figures in black and red stormed out with practiced speed. They were Dark Angels, the absolute elite of their Legion. They fanned out with suffocating efficiency, raised their master-crafted bolters, and moved through the ruins, methodically hunting down the Night Lords who were attempting a futile last stand. It was terrifyingly fast. It was as if the blessings of Chaos were a lie.
The battlefield was a symphony of coordinated destruction, a stark contrast to the scattered, self-serving rabble they faced. But Shaka's eyes only lingered on the familiar sight of these peerless warriors for a moment. He ran toward the light. Toward the warriors in gold and red. The Blood Angels. Their rage burned, their fury boiled. But their fire was directed only at the enemy, for a radiant angel guided them. They were charging a warband of defiant World Eaters.
The artificially created hounds of war were no match for the natural-born hunters. "Come!" a Blood Angel marked with the black stripes of the Death Company roared. "Meet me in death!" The traitor warrior raised two axes, but before he could even register what was happening, the monster had torn his head from his shoulders. An Astartes, near-immortal, killed as if it were nothing. It was a massacre.
And at the head of the shining assault was a burning angel. He soared through the sky, smashed through the cockpit of a Warhound Titan, and emerged from the other side, the Titan's Princeps impaled on the tip of his spear. Shaka had seen such a sight before. Ten thousand years ago.
He charged forward, into the maelstrom of battle. He didn't know what he was doing. He was just chasing the light.
BANG! The first bolter shell struck Shaka's faceplate, shattering his skull. Before his body even hit the ground, a crossfire erupted. Bolters and las-fire roared in the darkness from a dozen directions. Shaka didn't fire back. He staggered forward, absorbing the impacts. The remaining World Eaters were stunned. A storm of muzzle-flashes lit the earth. Tall figures fell, torn apart by the focused fire.
The sons of Angron, the Third Assault Company, were annihilated in less than sixteen seconds.
Dust settled. The smoke of battle coiled around the twisted piles of bodies. A massive figure emerged from the gloom. As the crimson slayers moved on, these hounds of war advanced, weapons raised.
"A bolt to every head. Then burn the bodies," Hal's voice crackled over the comm. "No exceptions. I don't care how dead the traitors look. Melt that daemon engine with plasma and have the Librarians deal with the entity."
"Acknowledged, lord."
Hal stepped over the dead. Behind him, he heard the pop-pop of bolt pistols as his warriors carried out the executions. He found the Bloodless. Shaka lay on his back, most of his torso pulped by a power fist. A bolt round had struck his neck, tearing off his helmet and part of his skull. He was bleeding. His dying breaths blew red bubbles in the pooling blood. His one remaining eye stared blankly at the void. He saw a warrior of the War Hounds standing over him. It must be a death-vision, Shaka thought. A final flashback. He was bleeding. This was what he had longed to see.
"Hal?" he gasped, blood crusting on his broken lips.
Hal knelt, meeting the man's lucid gaze.
"Then die, Shaka."
The power fist glowed with a cold blue light, and Hal delivered the final blow.
"The fishing failed," Ramesses said, snuffing out the psychic image in his hand and catching the falling shard. The Warmaster was at his side. Arthur quietly directed the battle, his attention always on the angel who was now fully unleashed. The pressure was, for all intents and purposes, nonexistent. It was like a modern army cleaning up a mob of bandits.
"So Khorne can still hold back?" Arthur asked.
"Apparently. At least he didn't summon a daemon army on the spot." Ramesses shook his head. "The Four are all so protective of their limited-edition collectibles."
"Speaking of which, Art, have you found the planet where Fulgrim screwed over Perturabo?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Almost. I'm running the final filter." Arthur delegated command of a local sector to a subordinate.
"I don't think Angron is coming," Ramesses said. The three of them had been hiding behind the scenes, chasing the Conqueror, just waiting for the daemon to show his face so they could jump him. But the enemy hadn't taken the bait, and Khorne had made no move. Something was wrong.
"I have the same feeling," Arthur said, studying the star-chart. They were in the process of reclaiming the outer sectors. Thanks to the Dawnbreakers' early warning, Cadia and Agrippina, along with eighteen Astartes chapter-garrisons, had avoided catastrophic losses and were holding firm. Their ultimate destination was Cadia, but they had to chew through these large, roaming fleets first.
"In that case, I'll go to the target area and look for clues. At least we know Perturabo is still mustering his forces," Ramesses replied. They had captured a few Warsmiths recently, and under his… questioning… they had revealed everything. But it was Chaos, after all. Apparently, they were still fighting amongst themselves for leadership.
After the fruitless chase of the Conqueror, Ramesses had decided to go to the scene of the crime where Fulgrim had sacrificed Perturabo's power for his own ascension. Perhaps he could learn a thing or two. A ritual that could drain a Primarch's power sounded useful.
"Agreed," Arthur said.
"Then it's settled." Ramesses tossed the shard to his brother. "I'll lend you my Librarians and men for now. Remember to write my after-action report."
"No. This time, you'll write it yourself." Arthur offered a rare, mischievous smile. "For security reasons, I need to remain on the main front. As for you… Old Ro has decided to go with you."
It's not that I don't want to help you, brother. It's just that the boss is dropping in for a surprise inspection.
"???"
☆☆☆
-> SUPPORT ME WITH POWER STONE
-> FOR EVERY 400 PS = BOUNS CHAPTER
☆☆☆
-> 30 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Inkshaper
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you