Chapter 35: U'zur the Skull-Taker
A raw, coppery stench of blood flooded the battlefield. Warp energy surged, and the veil of reality tore open.
Khornate fire raged across the ash. The red light intensified, coalescing into a stable Warp-rift. Figures began to stride from the portal—first dozens, then scores, then hundreds.
Aboard the Land Raider, Petros watched and grit his teeth. "They've summoned a full daemonic host..."
These were terrors born from the collective, primal killing-urge of every sentient species in the galaxy. They were red-skinned, with massive horns, elongated skulls, and burning balefire-swords in their hands. They unfurled long, purple tongues and roared. Bloodletters.
One of them carried a gore-drenched Icon of Khorne, and it let out a deafening, brassy roar.
Behind them came two lances of cavalry—twelve Bloodletters mounted on massive Juggernauts. These living-metal beasts, forged from brass and screaming iron, were part-bull, part-machine, their souls pure, distilled rage. A full twelve Bloodcrushers.
A red-and-brass cannon was dragged from the rift, its chassis built from bone, its great wheels a fused-together mass of skulls. Two Bloodletters crewed the daemonic engine, loading it with screaming, damned skulls. A Skull Cannon.
But leading them all was a Herald. He was a Bloodletter, but a full head-and-shoulders taller than his kin. He wore pauldrons and a belt of brass, and a great cloak woven from sinew. Hanging from it were hundreds of pale skulls: Ork, Aeldari, Human, Astartes... and even other daemons.
He rode a Juggernaut that was to its kind as he was to his—larger, blacker, its brass armor stained black with dried blood, its joints venting fire. It was the alpha of the pack.
The Khornate cultists, chewing their combat-stims, roared in adulation.
"U'zur! U'zur! U'zur the Blood-Handed! U'zur the Skull-taker!"
Petros saw the new threat and keyed his command-vox. "All commanders, execute. Full advance, pincer movement. Show no mercy."
With his enhanced occulobe-sight, Petros could already see Vornab's Rhino closing the trap from the far side. The net was shut.
"All units, engage! Maintain fire superiority!"
The Land Raider lurched forward. The "Spear of Hector" and the Skitarii advanced with it, a wall of steel and las-fire closing on the daemonic host.
The cultists were ecstatic, cheering for their daemonic allies. They were about to learn a final, bloody lesson.
The Bloodletters did not stop. They charged through the cultists, their Hellblades draining the life from their own worshippers. The Bloodcrushers smashed into the mortal horde, trampling their allies as if they weren't even there.
From above, the Warband's full air-support opened up. The Storm Eagle's multi-melta, the Valkyrie's lascannons and Hellstrike missiles, the Aquila's heavy bolters, and even the Arvus Lighters' little stubbers—all poured fire into the chaotic melee.
The cultists were trapped, being slaughtered by the daemons from within and the Imperials from without. They had become irrelevant to their own battle.
The Herald, U'zur, ignored the chaos. He raised his burning greatsword, pointing it directly at the Land Raider. He opened his fanged maw, and a guttural, blasphemous roar echoed in every mind on the battlefield:
"YOU!!"
Fledri, seeing the daemon ignore his bike lance, roared in offense. "Hey! Red-skinned runt! Your fight is with us!"
The Herald did not even glance at him. He spurred his Juggernaut, 'Khor'dillan,' and charged the Land Raider.
Insulted, Fledri and the other veteran gunned their engines, flanking the charging Herald. The other veteran, the one with the chainaxe, went right. He knew daemons of Khorne were more vulnerable to melee than ranged fire. His chainaxe roared as he closed in, aiming for the Juggernaut's rear leg. He'd killed plenty of Bloodletters. This one was just bigger.
But as the Astartes's axe swung in, U'zur, without even turning his head, swung his massive Hellblade in a contemptuous, one-handed arc.
In an instant, the veteran's world was spinning. He felt a moment of vertigo, and then his vision steadied, looking up from the ash. He'd been decapitated.
His Astartes physiology kept his brain alive for one last, horrifying second. He watched his own headless body, still gripping the handlebars, speed away on the bike before it finally crashed, hundreds of meters distant.
His last thought before the darkness took him was: 'Throne... what kind of Bloodletter...'