Chapter 34: A Sacrifice of Blood
A new sound cut across the corpse-strewn battlefield: the high-pitched scream of engines.
Fledri led his two neophyte wingmen from one flank, while another veteran brother led his own lance from the other.
RUMBLE-RUMBLE-RUMBLE...
The six Assault Bikes crushed bone and ash as they converged on the Chaos Spawn.
While Lord Petros and Antonius laid down harassing fire from the Land Raider, Fledri drew his chainsword. He guided his steel steed in a wide, slow arc, passing just outside the Spawn's shield. As he passed, his chainsword roared, spraying bright blue daemonic blood as he sheared three of the screaming heads from the creature's lower mass.
The other veteran Astartes, wielding a chainaxe, mirrored the maneuver, hacking at the creature's legs. They had mastered the tactic: not so slow as to be caught by a tentacle, but not so fast as to trigger the psychic shield.
The four neophytes crisscrossed the field, their movements erratic, firing their bolt pistols and the bikes' twin-linked bolters to draw its attention. Their purpose was harassment, not to kill... though if a shot landed while the shield was down, all the better.
Neophytes draw fire, veterans deal the wound. By this death of a thousand cuts, they would bleed the great beast dry.
The remaining heads on the Spawn roared in agony. A head with deep blue skin—the one that had belonged to the Great Prophet—fixed its eyes on one of the neophytes.
THUMP! A psychic blast slammed into the side of the neophyte's bike. He was thrown, his body cartwheeling through the air before slamming into the ash-covered ground.
The veterans didn't stop, continuing their bloody passes. The other three neophytes intensified their fire, covering their fallen brother. From a distance, the Land Raider's heavy bolter and lascannons poured on the pressure.
A mortal man would have been a red paste, his bones shattered. But the neophyte, his body already half-forged by the Astartes implants, pushed himself up from the pile of corpses. His scout armor's injectors flooded his system with painkillers and stimulants. His shoulder and arm were broken, but he ignored the pain.
He dragged his ruined arm, abandoning his lost bolt pistol, and limped back to his bike. As his comrades bought him time, he heaved the machine upright, threw himself over the seat, and gunned the engine, roaring back into the fight.
From the Land Raider, Petros let out a silent breath of approval.
The beast was wounded, its movements sluggish. As its psychic shield finally flickered and died, the full, combined barrage of bolters, heavy bolters, and lascannons hit it at once, blasting the creature to pulp.
And then, a new, terrible sound rolled across the plains: the braying of thousands of animal-hide war-horns.
The Khornate cultists, who had been absent from the battle, had finally arrived.
A horde of fifty or sixty thousand warriors swarmed over the hill, a sea of red-painted flesh. At their head was a giant, a brute two meters tall, bare-chested and roaring. He wore a massive bearskin, its claws and fangs still attached, as a cloak. He and his warriors all bore the same red cross on their faces.
The chieftain grabbed a still-steaming liver from an acolyte and devoured it raw. He then raised his bloody hands and bellowed a chant, and tens of thousands of voices joined him:
"In the endless fire of war, in the roar of blood!
We call to you, Khorne, Glory of the Blood God!
In the abyss of Chaos, you are the Master of War!
In the feast of slaughter, you are the icon of victory!
The Eightfold Path guides us to glory!
In your wrath, we find our strength!
In your fury, we find our purpose!
In your war, we find eternity!
Every skull taken is our highest prayer!
Every axe-stroke, a hymn to your name!
Every charge, our deepest worship!
Every victory, a worthy sacrifice!
May your rage burn forever! May your war never end!
May we find our fate in your glory!
Until the last drop of blood! Until the final, dying roar!"
And the great shout went up:
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!!!"
Aboard their bikes, the Astartes paused, and then, as one, they laughed. Fledri caught the other veteran's eye.
"Listen to them bark."
"Hahahaha!" the other veteran replied, revving his engine. "Let's go cut their tongues out. You four neophytes! The head of that chieftain belongs to whoever takes it! I'll use his skull for a wine cup!"
Fledri gunned his engine and charged. The other five bikes followed, a spear-tip of steel aimed at the heart of the barbarian horde.
The neophyte, Valerius Rex, pushed his engine to its limit, his bike pulling ahead. He knew this was a test. Whoever claimed that skull would be one step closer to becoming a sergeant.
The six bikes hit the Khornate line like a thunderbolt, their heavy bolters mowing down swathes of cultists. Valerius's eyes were fixed on the chieftain. He had excelled in the bike simulators, living for the pure, unadulterated thrill of the open-field charge.
He raised his monomolecular long-blade, leveling it at the height of the chieftain's neck. He didn't even need to swing.
Valerius roared past, his blade a silver blur. The Khornate Chieftain, who hadn't even had time to draw the twin axes on his back, stood motionless for a second before his head, still roaring, toppled from his shoulders.
Valerius gave a victory cry, raising his bloody sword.
As the chieftain's head fell, the total number of the dead on the battlefield reached precisely 88,888.
Because... "The Eightfold Path guides us to glory."
A wave of blood-red, sickening Warp-energy pulsed across the battlefield, unseen by the Astartes. The Khornates had been conducting a ritual. The battle itself—the slaughter of the Tzeentchians, the auxiliaries, and their own—was the ritual. The chieftain's death was the final, 88,888th sacrifice.
Because Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows.
Only that it flows.