With a barely audible grunt the spike arcs over his head and embeds
\ninto the rock. The wind whips around his shoulders, threatening to pull
\nhim to his death. But it’s an idle threat, he has done this many times
\nbefore and decades of training won’t allow a simple breeze to interrupt
\nhis mission. <\/p>\n
The other spike slams into the rock and he shuffles another
\nmetre closer to his target. The climb is a long and arduous one, but
\nwell within his capabilities. His rifle, heavy and cumbersome in
\nanother mans hands, feels natural slung across his back. Without it
\nthere he would very likely unbalance and lose his grip, so much a part
\nof him has it become. <\/p>\n
As day breaks he completes the climb, slipping into the
\nposition he will retain until his mission is complete. The top of the
\nrock spire is no more than a metre wide in either direction, precarious
\nand unfathomable for any recreational climber. But it affords the best
\nview of the imminent battlefield, and he is not up here for recreation.\n<\/p>\n
For two hours he waits. His body immobile, his breathing
\nslow. Any movement that may belie his presence is subdued, any sound
\nstifled. The time draws near, the battle ever closer. <\/p>\n
Almost three hours following his ascent the rumble of the
\nArmoured Company moving into position echoes from behind him. He does
\nnot turn to look, for he already knows their movements. The battle
\ntanks form up in a spearhead formation; the APCs disgorge their
\ncontents; the bikers race around the flanks, keeping mobile, keeping
\nready. <\/p>\n
From ahead comes the sound he has been awaiting. The gut
\nwrenching screams of agony and the pre-battle sacrifices are slain, the
\nslow pounding chant that rises into an almighty demonic cacophony. <\/p>\n
"Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the throne of Khorne"\n\t\t\t<\/p>\n
They
\nare here. He can sense the fear and discomfort from the Imperial ranks.
\nThe Imperium has gone to war with Khornate worshipers many times over,
\nbut the shear intensity and vigour with which they fight strikes fear
\ninto the heart of every trooper. <\/p>\n
The Chaos battle line forms up, a wall of whirring chain
\nweapons and enormous axes. Below the insistent chanting can be heard
\nthe snarls and growls of the obligatory daemons. <\/p>\n
Slowly, millimetre by millimetre he moves his scope across
\nthe front of the Khorne troops. If the intelligence reports were
\ncorrect, it would only be a matter of time before he found him. The
\nclose up view of the disciples of the Blood God made even this hardened
\nveterans skin shine with sweat. <\/p>\n
There! Right were he was supposed to be, in the middle of a
\nhuge rabble of Berzerkers he stood, a full head taller than his
\nsoldiers, his ferocity evident even from this great distance; Kharn the
\nBetrayer; Slayer of men; Epitome of Khornate. Above his head he swings
\nGorechild, his ancient and deadly chain axe. His eagerness for the
\nslaughter and desire to honour the name of his god makes him all the
\nmore deadly. <\/p>\n
Kharn was the reason he was here. Many attempts on The
\nBetrayers life had been made, but none successful, his competence in
\nbattle and the undying devotion of his followers making him
\nimpenetrable in hand to hand combat. And so the Imperium had dictated a
\nmore underhand method be used. That, of course, was him. A sniper
\nraised from the ranks many years ago, trained in the Vindicare Temple
\nhe learned the things that turn a simple gunman into a machine for
\nannulment. Though he lacked Kharn’s lust for the kill, his aptitude was
\nmore than equal. <\/p>\n
As the chosen of Khorne began their advance he readies
\nhimself. His rifle loaded, his sights checked to the point of
\nperfection. There is nothing to do but wait for the opportunity to
\npresent itself. Once the perfect shot lets itself be seen, he will
\nensure the Imperium would never again be threatened by the blood soaked
\nterror. <\/p>\n
The initial bombardment from the Imperial Guard forces
\nbegins. Pummelling the Khorne troops with their mortars and artillery,
\nsoftening them up before they are close enough to charge. Once the
\ncharge begins the battle will be a fragile thing for the guardsmen. To
\nrepel the assault of the swarming Berzerkers they will need the
\nblessing of the Emperor and a miracle. More likely the infantry will be
\nswept aside, hopefully delaying the assault long enough for the tanks
\nto begin the counter attack. This was one fight he was glad to be out
\nof. <\/p>\n
And then the chanting stops, made ever more notable by its
\nabsence. The Berzerkers pause, then as one unified mass charge forward,
\nscreaming their curses and praises to their God. Impatient with his
\nsquad’s advance Kharn charges, swinging Gorechild and cutting a swathe
\nthrough his own men. Then he is presented with his opportunity. Kharn
\nis in the front line of the charge, providing the perfect target. <\/p>\n
Muttering the ancient mantras he squeezes the feather
\ntrigger. The rifle rocks back against him, but the muted shot is
\ndrowned out by the screams from the battlefield below. The bullet soars
\nthrough the air towards its target. Kharn, still running, can only be
\noblivious that with each step he takes he moves closer to his
\nrendezvous with death. <\/p>\n
He lives for this. He doesn’t enjoy the killing, nor does
\nhe desire it, but it was what his life has become. One long series of
\nnames crossed out in a data file. This was who he is. He is Kharn’s
\ndeath. <\/p>\n
Still the bullet soars, still Kharn runs.\n\t\t\t<\/p>\n
This
\nwill be a memorable annulment. There will be no victory celebration, no
\npat on the back, no hearty handshake. There will just be another
\nassignment, another name. <\/p>\n
And still the bullet flies. And still Kharn charges.\n\t\t\t<\/p>\n
The
\nfirst of the Khorne troops are almost upon the Imperial Guard battle
\nline. Even in this unreal slow motion they Berzerkers advance seems
\nrelentless. For an instant he wishes he could help the Guardsmen. But
\nto draw attention to his presence would jeopardise his next mission.
\nThat could not be allowed to happen; the next mission was always the
\nmost important one. <\/p>\n
Then time catches up and the battle is flung back into real
\ntime. Khorne’s chosen son is "blessed" more than any other. The Blood
\nGod would not allow his favourite to fall so easily. The bullet stops.
\nNo armour contact, no kill, just a bullet. Kharn doesn’t even raise his
\nhead to acknowledge the levitating bullet in front of him, he just
\ncharges on and into the beleaguered guardsmen. <\/p>\n
He looks on with disbelief. He has annulled a great many
\nnames, he has travelled the galaxy and seen many things, but for a high
\nvelocity shell to just stop in mid air is.. is.. He doesn’t know what
\nit is. <\/p>\n
Then the air begins to crackle, the hairs on the back of
\nhis neck pressing against his body suit. Breaking every instinct
\nembedded into him through years of training, he slowly turns around,
\nrisking revealing his position. One metre away from the top of the rock
\nspire, directly behind him, the air is shining. The sky turns white,
\nthen deep blue, before a black dot appears at the centre. This dot
\nbecomes a fist-sized hole, and then a body sized hole until it is about
\na metre across. Inside is nothing. Not light, not dark, just the
\nabsence of. <\/p>\n
Slowly he moves his hand to his side, drawing his pistol
\nready to face whatever danger may appear. Before he can remove the
\npistol from its holster an ungodly roar deafens him, blasting out of
\nthe void with the force of a hurricane. He flattens himself to the
\nspire to keep from falling to his death. In a few moments he will
\nreflect how that would have been preferable. <\/p>\n
An indistinguishable shape forms in the centre of the void,
\na swirling mass of dark reds and browns. As his curiosity piques, he
\nleans slightly forward drawn by natural tendencies. The mass extends
\ninto a crude hand and wraps around his torso. <\/p>\n
For the first time since leaving the ranks, he screams. He
\nscreams in pain, in desperation, but mostly in terror. The hand is
\ncrushing him, but not killing him. It’s restricting his breathing, but
\nnot breaking him. It is so cold to the touch, sending shivers up and
\ndown his body. <\/p>\n
As his breathing strains and slows he becomes faint,
\nletting his weapons slip from his grasp. The nakedness he feels as his
\nrifle leaves his side is almost as terrifying as the demonic claw
\nwrapped around his midst. <\/p>\n
Then, without another sound the hand withdraws, dragging him through the void, screaming and thrashing into the unknown.\n\t\t\t<\/p>\n
The
\nbattle is all but over. Kharn stands atop a pile of slain guardsmen,
\nthe Imperial tanks mostly burning wreckage. The survivors are fleeing,
\nbut the daemon hounds will soon chase them down and all would be lost.
\nKharn casts his eye to the heavens, the heightened blood lust subsiding
\nto his more normal levels, blood of his victims running down his body.
\nAs he stares he sees a portal sealing, and two objects falling from the
\nspire to the west of the battlefield. With what could almost be
\ndescribed as a smile, Kharn turns away to seek more skulls, knowing his
\ngod had claimed another lost soul.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[145],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-922","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-chaos","entry"],"yoast_head":"\n