Waiting

With a barely audible grunt the spike arcs over his head and embeds
into the rock. The wind whips around his shoulders, threatening to pull
him to his death. But it’s an idle threat, he has done this many times
before and decades of training won’t allow a simple breeze to interrupt
his mission.

The other spike slams into the rock and he shuffles another
metre closer to his target. The climb is a long and arduous one, but
well within his capabilities. His rifle, heavy and cumbersome in
another mans hands, feels natural slung across his back. Without it
there he would very likely unbalance and lose his grip, so much a part
of him has it become.

As day breaks he completes the climb, slipping into the
position he will retain until his mission is complete. The top of the
rock spire is no more than a metre wide in either direction, precarious
and unfathomable for any recreational climber. But it affords the best
view of the imminent battlefield, and he is not up here for recreation.

For two hours he waits. His body immobile, his breathing
slow. Any movement that may belie his presence is subdued, any sound
stifled. The time draws near, the battle ever closer.

Almost three hours following his ascent the rumble of the
Armoured Company moving into position echoes from behind him. He does
not turn to look, for he already knows their movements. The battle
tanks form up in a spearhead formation; the APCs disgorge their
contents; the bikers race around the flanks, keeping mobile, keeping
ready.

From ahead comes the sound he has been awaiting. The gut
wrenching screams of agony and the pre-battle sacrifices are slain, the
slow pounding chant that rises into an almighty demonic cacophony.

"Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the throne of Khorne"

They
are here. He can sense the fear and discomfort from the Imperial ranks.
The Imperium has gone to war with Khornate worshipers many times over,
but the shear intensity and vigour with which they fight strikes fear
into the heart of every trooper.

The Chaos battle line forms up, a wall of whirring chain
weapons and enormous axes. Below the insistent chanting can be heard
the snarls and growls of the obligatory daemons.

Slowly, millimetre by millimetre he moves his scope across
the front of the Khorne troops. If the intelligence reports were
correct, it would only be a matter of time before he found him. The
close up view of the disciples of the Blood God made even this hardened
veterans skin shine with sweat.

There! Right were he was supposed to be, in the middle of a
huge rabble of Berzerkers he stood, a full head taller than his
soldiers, his ferocity evident even from this great distance; Kharn the
Betrayer; Slayer of men; Epitome of Khornate. Above his head he swings
Gorechild, his ancient and deadly chain axe. His eagerness for the
slaughter and desire to honour the name of his god makes him all the
more deadly.

Kharn was the reason he was here. Many attempts on The
Betrayers life had been made, but none successful, his competence in
battle and the undying devotion of his followers making him
impenetrable in hand to hand combat. And so the Imperium had dictated a
more underhand method be used. That, of course, was him. A sniper
raised from the ranks many years ago, trained in the Vindicare Temple
he learned the things that turn a simple gunman into a machine for
annulment. Though he lacked Kharn’s lust for the kill, his aptitude was
more than equal.

As the chosen of Khorne began their advance he readies
himself. His rifle loaded, his sights checked to the point of
perfection. There is nothing to do but wait for the opportunity to
present itself. Once the perfect shot lets itself be seen, he will
ensure the Imperium would never again be threatened by the blood soaked
terror.

The initial bombardment from the Imperial Guard forces
begins. Pummelling the Khorne troops with their mortars and artillery,
softening them up before they are close enough to charge. Once the
charge begins the battle will be a fragile thing for the guardsmen. To
repel the assault of the swarming Berzerkers they will need the
blessing of the Emperor and a miracle. More likely the infantry will be
swept aside, hopefully delaying the assault long enough for the tanks
to begin the counter attack. This was one fight he was glad to be out
of.

And then the chanting stops, made ever more notable by its
absence. The Berzerkers pause, then as one unified mass charge forward,
screaming their curses and praises to their God. Impatient with his
squad’s advance Kharn charges, swinging Gorechild and cutting a swathe
through his own men. Then he is presented with his opportunity. Kharn
is in the front line of the charge, providing the perfect target.

Muttering the ancient mantras he squeezes the feather
trigger. The rifle rocks back against him, but the muted shot is
drowned out by the screams from the battlefield below. The bullet soars
through the air towards its target. Kharn, still running, can only be
oblivious that with each step he takes he moves closer to his
rendezvous with death.

He lives for this. He doesn’t enjoy the killing, nor does
he desire it, but it was what his life has become. One long series of
names crossed out in a data file. This was who he is. He is Kharn’s
death.

Still the bullet soars, still Kharn runs.

This
will be a memorable annulment. There will be no victory celebration, no
pat on the back, no hearty handshake. There will just be another
assignment, another name.

And still the bullet flies. And still Kharn charges.

The
first of the Khorne troops are almost upon the Imperial Guard battle
line. Even in this unreal slow motion they Berzerkers advance seems
relentless. For an instant he wishes he could help the Guardsmen. But
to draw attention to his presence would jeopardise his next mission.
That could not be allowed to happen; the next mission was always the
most important one.

Then time catches up and the battle is flung back into real
time. Khorne’s chosen son is "blessed" more than any other. The Blood
God would not allow his favourite to fall so easily. The bullet stops.
No armour contact, no kill, just a bullet. Kharn doesn’t even raise his
head to acknowledge the levitating bullet in front of him, he just
charges on and into the beleaguered guardsmen.

He looks on with disbelief. He has annulled a great many
names, he has travelled the galaxy and seen many things, but for a high
velocity shell to just stop in mid air is.. is.. He doesn’t know what
it is.

Then the air begins to crackle, the hairs on the back of
his neck pressing against his body suit. Breaking every instinct
embedded into him through years of training, he slowly turns around,
risking revealing his position. One metre away from the top of the rock
spire, directly behind him, the air is shining. The sky turns white,
then deep blue, before a black dot appears at the centre. This dot
becomes a fist-sized hole, and then a body sized hole until it is about
a metre across. Inside is nothing. Not light, not dark, just the
absence of.

Slowly he moves his hand to his side, drawing his pistol
ready to face whatever danger may appear. Before he can remove the
pistol from its holster an ungodly roar deafens him, blasting out of
the void with the force of a hurricane. He flattens himself to the
spire to keep from falling to his death. In a few moments he will
reflect how that would have been preferable.

An indistinguishable shape forms in the centre of the void,
a swirling mass of dark reds and browns. As his curiosity piques, he
leans slightly forward drawn by natural tendencies. The mass extends
into a crude hand and wraps around his torso.

For the first time since leaving the ranks, he screams. He
screams in pain, in desperation, but mostly in terror. The hand is
crushing him, but not killing him. It’s restricting his breathing, but
not breaking him. It is so cold to the touch, sending shivers up and
down his body.

As his breathing strains and slows he becomes faint,
letting his weapons slip from his grasp. The nakedness he feels as his
rifle leaves his side is almost as terrifying as the demonic claw
wrapped around his midst.

Then, without another sound the hand withdraws, dragging him through the void, screaming and thrashing into the unknown.

The
battle is all but over. Kharn stands atop a pile of slain guardsmen,
the Imperial tanks mostly burning wreckage. The survivors are fleeing,
but the daemon hounds will soon chase them down and all would be lost.
Kharn casts his eye to the heavens, the heightened blood lust subsiding
to his more normal levels, blood of his victims running down his body.
As he stares he sees a portal sealing, and two objects falling from the
spire to the west of the battlefield. With what could almost be
described as a smile, Kharn turns away to seek more skulls, knowing his
god had claimed another lost soul.

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