In the Shadow of Great Wings

Even chaos has order, Erebus thought to himself, and that order is beauty. He stood on a rise facing the ingress to a shrine-bastion, topped with a massive Imperial Aquila, reflecting as a crimson tide of World Eaters poured into the gates. He surrounded himself with eight of his own Word Bearers, each dedicated to the Lord of War and each utterly loyal to him.

The air rattled with the firing of hundreds of bolt guns; not from his auxiliary troops, the berserkers, but from the Sisters of Battle trying desperately to stem the arterial flow of power armored bodies. They stood on the battlements, emptying their weapons into the horde below. They do not even have to aim, Erebus thought. I have brought them enough targets to soak up an entire shipment's worth of ammunition. Watching closely, Erebus' witchsight picked out the enhanced souls of the Khorne sworn astartes peeling out of their bodies to vanish into the realm behind reality. It may seem random to the untrained, but Erebus had spent long days simply peering into the great Immaterium, learning from the depths of madness itself. He perceived certain patterns in the berserkers falling, brief lulls when the Sororitas stopped to reload followed by a furious outpouring of severed souls as they fired. It was, he thought, almost mechanical. Mesmerizing in the way that the components of a firing bolter are mesmerizing. Simple, brutal, but smooth and unerring.

"Glorious to watch the will of the Gods." Erebus murmured. One of the nearby bodyguards grunted, gauntleted hands wringing the haft of his great chain ax. Erebus felt the impatience bleeding out of the warrior. Like any true disciple of Khorne, his chosen wished to throw themselves into the throng, to fight or die. He respected them for it, but it was not their duty. Their purpose was to watch and unleash their aggression on any who strayed too close, unlikely as that may be. But still, it remained their purpose. Erebus admired purpose, he demanded it.

And for that reason he admired the World Eaters. By no means subtle or tactical, or even cogent, they fulfilled the will of their god utterly. They formed an excellent tool for Khorne, and to an extent a tool for Erebus himself. He aimed to utterly waste this system, planet by planet, dedicating each one to the Blood God, and the World Eaters were the means through which that great goal would be accomplished. You simply had to point them in the right direction and leave them to their own devices. Erebus found himself wishing he had more tools like them. So easy to direct, to manipulate. Promise them blood, give them blood. Easy as that. Many of those around Erebus thought themselves of a greater status than they really were, more enmeshed in the great skein of the million futures than they could ever hope to be. The dogged independence of the Death Guard, the arrogance of the Thousand Sons, they were headaches to deal with. Not the World Eaters.

He drew in a deep breath through his nose, the enhanced nature of his genes allowing him to taste the rich flavors of carnage below. The rich salt of Astartes blood, the acrid sting of burnt gunpowder, of detonated bolts. And, most sweet of all, the fear-sweat of the Sisters. It was subtle, barely discernible, for their faith in their dead emperor ran strong even now. But it was there, weaving a soft counterpoint to the harsher scents. Glorious. He must have said it aloud, for his nearest guard cocked his helmet inquisitively. Erebus waved a red-armored hand, not bothering to look. He must appreciate the banquet of battle as Khorne himself would. Perhaps the time had come to appreciate it a little closer.

In ages past, thousands of years ago, the thing had been a warrior of exceptional skill and renown. It fought on countless worlds, took untold lives, and led its legion with great acumen. Now, though, like most World Eaters, it existed only to kill. Those outside the brotherhood might think this simplicity itself, a charming diversion. But for the warriors of the XII, killing was much more than the worth of glory, the tactical gain of enemy lives lost. The thing, along with all its brothers, needed to kill to survive. When the world went silent and the air went still, the nails spoke. They hummed. They bit, they raged and tore and flayed. To be outside of combat was to face pain beyond reckoning, pain that infiltrated the very mind itself to tear reality apart. The butcher's nails would not tolerate stillness or quiet, they demanded blood and war in the loudest voice imaginable. But once that violence came? The thing found that when it reached the peak of its fighting ability, when it immersed itself headfirst into the slaughter, the nails brought blessed relief. The curtain of impotent rage and torture parted to admit a delicious high, one so potent that not even the Emperor's Children could imagine it. But these reprieves came only in the pitch of full battle, so rare, so precious. So the thing hurled itself towards the walls and their screaming defenders. It roared through its vox-grill, rage and desperation pouring unfiltered from its raw throat. It needed blood, it would have blood! It would carve apart these walls to get at the meat within, tear apart its own kin if it needed to.

The berserker before the thing in the horde took a bolt to the head. Its helmet tore apart, blessed blood spraying out to land on the exposed muscle and hand of the thing. So warm, almost comforting.

"Blood!" It screamed, barely of its own volition. "Blood for the Blood God!"

The call riled up the berserk horde even further, prompting an answering chorus of cries and a renewed vigor as they charged.

The thing held a glowing plasma pistol in one hand; it discharged it as it ran, with no real target in mind other than the city itself. Hissing blue bolts of sunfire leapt away over the crowd. A powerful weapon, but an ineffective one, in the creature's mind. It killed, but at a distance, and too cleanly. It needed to be close, to let Gore Child tear the enemy apart.

The deafening roar of the charge grew even louder for a moment as a shell detonated against the thing's battle plate. The armor held, despite its age and wear, but the thing found itself hurled off its feet and thrown backward. It lay in the dirt for a moment before the nails grew wise to the distraction, ticking like heating metal and digging deeper into its brain. Every muscle in the thing's body tensed to shaking as a frothing scream forced itself out clenched teeth. The thing leapt to its feet, ready to whirl and -

Erebus.

Khârn found himself abruptly. He stared, dumfounded, as the traitor which had slipped out of his fingers ten thousand unknowable years ago strode easily down the rise towards Khârn. The nails raged and bit, but a cold pain growing in the former centurion's chest outmatched them. Seemingly cowed, the nails relented. Khârn felt his eyes narrow, his torn lips curl in a familiar snarl. Moments such as these were all too rare these days, Khârn thought. Moments when the nails and the thrice damned god of blood let him a few minutes to himself. The influence of either one could take over at any moment. He would need to make this count.

The Lord of Skulls preferred kills of great simplicity but maximum brutality. Erebus found that Khorne preferred decapitations most; one wild strike which leads to instant death and twin showers of blood. While Erebus strove to please the Blood God on this world, he made a concession to himself. He would slit the throats of any Sororitas prisoners that wound up in his hands. Still quick, still bloody, but closer to Erebus' preferred method. And, hopefully, close enough that Khorne would grant him great favor.

"Erebus!" The challenge cut through the cacophony, delivered in utter rage. Raising an eyebrow, Erebus separated himself from musings and regarded the lone figure separated from the horse. A berserker, he identified the Astartes. No, he amended, the berserker. Khârn the Betrayer, champion of the Blood God, a true devotee of the Eightfold Path. Erebus remembered feeling amusement when he realized the blood brother of his former pupil would be included in the mindless horde besieging the shrine fortress. That amusement rose to the surface now as Erebus mentally prepared to speak a few choice words in the incomprehensible language of the Empyrean.

"Khârn!" Erebus called as though they were comrades reuniting. "I am surprised you recognize me. Do your butcher's nails need mending?"

"Traitor!" Khârn bellowed, moving at a dead sprint. His bulk tore over the broken earth, moving at shocking speed even by the standards of the Astartes. Erebus' bodyguards hefted weapons, excited to join combat at last. Erebus felt some regret at having to disappoint them.

"Ironic that you would call me that," said Erebus, holding up a hand, "given your cognomen. You've killed more of your kind than I. But I need your rage focused on the bastion, Khârn. So, if you would, kindly." Erebus punctuated his statement with a forbidden name, launching a wave of psychokinetic energy at the Betrayer. It hit like a thunderclap, but only stalled Khârn for a moment. The berserker shook off the wave, which would have upended a rhino APC, and kept charging.

Erebus felt an eyebrow twitch in something approaching confusion. He spoke again, his words rippling as they tore reality itself. Twin beams of unholy light lanced from his eyes, strong enough to melt ceramite. But, again, the beams did nothing. In fact, they seemed to fizzle out before hitting the oncoming warrior. Khârn pounded ever closer.

"Ah." Erebus realized. The influence of the Blood God himself. That was one disadvantage to serving Khorne: he did so despise sorcery. Perhaps his bodyguards would get their fun after all.

"Take him." Erebus said curtly to the eight warriors. Howling with glee they charged, hefting two-handed chain axes and jagged blades.

It took Erebus a few moments to process how the first three World Bearers died. The first erupted into white sun fire as Khârn's plasma pistol discharged point blank, screaming in pain and disappointment before being rendered into ash. Before the ephemera could drift away, Gore Child sang and two of the guards fell, one bisected and the other abruptly missing his head and right shoulder from a diagonal cut.

Despite himself, Erebus felt the tickle of fear in his twin hearts, which started beating faster. Millennia had passed since Erebus had witnessed Khârn's skill in combat. The berserker had not slowed down in the least.

Screaming bloody praise, one World Eater lifted his great chain axe for a downward chop, but Khârn interrupted the motion with a kick to the warrior's breastplate, knocking him out from under his axe. He lost his grip as he fell, and Khârn caught the weapon in one hand, converting the motion of it falling into a brutal smash into the fallen warrior's helmet. Without skipping a beat, Khârn hurled the scavenged weapon at the next guard, who used his own chain axe to deflect the projectile. Khârn rushed him, Gore Child moving impossibly fast. The screech of clashing chain axes morphed into howl of cutting ceramite as the superior teeth of Gore Child ripped straight through the other axe and into the Word Bearer. Khârn pulled the weapon out and ducked, barely dodging a blow from a thunder hammer. The charged weapon instead hit the gutted Word Bearer, the likes of whom simply shattered into bloody pieces at the impact. Screaming in frustration, the Astartes with the hammer started a backswing, only to find the weapon exploding in his grip as Khârn shot the hammer's head. Superheated shards of metal showered them both, and Khârn took advantage of the distraction to land a rising swing, cutting through breastplate, helmet, and head.

The last two Khorne-dedicated Word Bearers reminded Erebus of why the servants of the Blood God were sometimes imperfect tools. With no thought beyond carnage they rushed Khârn, axes roaring. Khârn answered with a roar of his own, swiping Gore Child across the space between the warriors, catching the other weapons and throwing them out wide. Three furious return swings left the final guards as bloody wrecks. Erebus cursed softly. Khârn whirled on Erebus, green eye lenses blazing from their blood-painted mask.

Erebus drew his bolt pistol with all the speed and accuracy befitting an Astartes, but even as he did so Khârn was there, batting the weapon aside with the flat head of Gore Child. A backswing took Erebus' arm, and he experienced a peculiar sense of deja vu as the severed limb flew away. Khârn's next stroke split Erebus' other arm laterally as it rose in defense. Then Erebus' thigh crumpled, then his chest plate tore asunder. Gore Child howled as Khârn rained down blows, reducing Erebus to a limbless wreck.

Panting, his Astartes physiology pushed beyond its breaking point, Erebus stared at Khârn. His eyes shone stark white in the shining red mask of his bloody face.

"You … you can't," Erebus said weakly, "the million futures, this has never been -"

Khârn responded by dropping Gore Child and ripping the sacrificial dagger from Erebus' belt. Millennia earlier, Erebus had slain his former protégé with one sure blow from the dagger. Now, Khârn flew into a frenzy with the weapon, plunging it repeatedly into Erebus' fractured breastplate. The multiple stabbings degenerated into a wild flurry of slashes, cuts, and thrusts, deep red Astartes blood flying away from the sorcerer in wide sprays. Finally, with a roar that contained centuries of pain and loss, Khârn hilted the weapon in Erebus' collar bone, snapping it. Armless, legless, filled with stab wounds and bereft of one eye, Erebus stared up at the World Eater.

"That was for Argel Tal, you miserable bastard." Khârn hissed, hurling aside the broken dagger hilt. Shoving the miserable remains to the ground, he planted his boot into Erebus' skull, shattering it.

Khârn collapsed to his knees, exultation running with sudden exhaustion in his blood. Not physical exhaustion, even without the nails he still could have fought for hours more. No, this was the sudden draining of a compartment in Khârn's chest, filled all those years ago in the kingdom of Ultramar. At last, Argel Tal had his revenge. Khârn closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of the carnage, feeling a soft peace that somehow outdid even the killing high provided by the nails.

Then he felt it. A twinge. A low, intrusive heat that started to cook the back of his brain.

"No, no, no." Khârn breathed, gauntleted hands flying to his head. " A moment more, damnable things, please!" But the nails started to scream, pressing down into the soft tissue of Khârn's thoughts and heating.

Khârn screamed with them, writhing on his knees, when the influence of the Blood God descended, augmenting the bite of the nails. Khârn issued one final roar as he felt himself submerged in the pain, the bloodlust, and the world was swallowed up in red.

The thing rose, finding a pistol chained to one hand and an axe chained to the other. It smelled blood all around it on it, but there was no more to spill here. It growled as pain started to cut through it's head, snapping both wrists to summon it's chained weapons into waiting hands.

Whirling, the thing snorted, smelling fresh blood being spilled in droves a short ways away. It's kin threw themselves at a towering bastion, ripe for emptying. The thing that had been Khârn, captain of the World Eaters Legion, howled at the sky before racing towards it's brethren, leaving a mangled corpse resting in the shadow of the eagle statue mounted on the fortress' tallest tower.