CHAOS AT KADAVAH
“Take no prisoners! Spare no lives!” The cry went up from the army of lost souls. Lesser daemons shimmered into being at the call of their masters. Great rune-encrusted cannons took up position on the crest of the hill. The ornate daemon-headed snouts of their muzzles swivelled to bear on the enemy positions as their crews chanted the loading stanzas of the Antilleryman’s Lament. Beastmen and monstrous Trolls formed up in ranks, confident that the power of their dark gods would protect them from incoming fire. The human cultists chattered excitedly among themselves. The fools were awed by the powers they had unleashed to aid their petty rebellion. They sung the ancient dark hymns happily, convinced that victory was within their grasp. Brother-Captain Karlsen was bored. He checked the action of his bolter listlessly, Over the ten thousand long years of his damnation it had fused with his flesh till now it was an extension of his arm. He willed the weapon to work and it clicked menacingly. A late-arriving cultist scuttled up to him, seeking guidance. Karlsen turned his baleful red-eyed gaze upon him and indicated the rest of the doomed cretins with a flick of his tentacles. The man hurried away. Karlsen felt nothing but utter contempt for the fool. What could that miserable human know of true rebellion? Karlsen had followed the Warmaster himself when he took up arms against the Emperor. A hundred centuries ago he had gazed with adoration upon the face of Horus before the last great battle. A hundred centuries ago he had stormed the Palace Imperial on Earth, howling his defiance of the Emperor and all human order. A hundred centuries ago, following his Primarch, he had turned his face away from the light and set his feet upon the path of immortal sin. A hundred centuries ago he had sold his soul and gained,..what? It was best not to think about it.
In the distance, amid the rubble of Kadavah. he saw the crimson Rhinos of the Blood Angels move to take up position. His altered eyes looked within the vehicles and saw the troubled souls of the Space Marines within. The deluded imbeciles actually wanted to defend the shrine of their senile god. They were proud to lay down their lives for a deity whose time had passed ten thousand years ago. Karlsen gazed on the Space Marines with pure, corrosive hatred. What could these puppies know of war? Karlsen had stridden through ancient days when true warriors had fought mighty battles that sundered the entire galaxy. Worlds had burned, armies had been slaughtered. Then, the Blood Angels had been foes worthy of respect. Now they were but pale shadows of what they once had been. Now there were no more giants on the side of the putrid Loyalists. Only the few remaining rebel Primarchs were worthy of respect. In them the flame of anctent times burned undimmed. In them was something worthy of his undying loyalty. They still understood Karlsen’s undimmed rage and hatred. They still fought the Long War. Blood Angels, hah! Ten millennia ago he had killed their distant predecessors with his bare hands. Ten millennia ago he had butchered twenty Blood Angels in a single day on the walls of the Inner Palace. Ten millennia ago he had stood outside the Ultimate Gate and watched their Primarch, Sanguinius, cast down like a broken angel by a daemon of the Warp. He wondered what those pathetic fools would say if he told them that? Would they understand? No — they would not. That was the truth of it. There were so few left who could understand. Down the long. lonely centuries of his personal rebellion he had learned that. His old comrades were mostly gone now — dead or true daemons with little interest in the old times, the best times.
His armoured skin tingled. A red light filled his mind. Incipient madness threatened. He knew from the eddies in the Warp that Magnus, his Primarch, was about to appear. Soon he would be in battle, able to lose himself for a few happy hours in the fear and the exhilaration of combat, able to blot out his ennui in bloodlust and find relief for his craving for lasting peace in the exercise of his old power and skill. It was all that there was left to him. The air shimmered. Magnus arrived, towering over the troops surrounded by a halo of polychromatic light. The Chaos horde advanced towards the distant fearful city. Karlsen was to the fore.
“Take no prisoners! Spare no lives!” The cry went up from the army of lost souls. Lesser daemons shimmered into being at the call of their masters. Great rune-encrusted cannons took up position on the crest of the hill. The ornate daemon-headed snouts of their muzzles swivelled to bear on the enemy positions as their crews chanted the loading stanzas of the Antilleryman’s Lament. Beastmen and monstrous Trolls formed up in ranks, confident that the power of their dark gods would protect them from incoming fire. The human cultists chattered excitedly among themselves. The fools were awed by the powers they had unleashed to aid their petty rebellion. They sung the ancient dark hymns happily, convinced that victory was within their grasp. Brother-Captain Karlsen was bored. He checked the action of his bolter listlessly, Over the ten thousand long years of his damnation it had fused with his flesh till now it was an extension of his arm. He willed the weapon to work and it clicked menacingly. A late-arriving cultist scuttled up to him, seeking guidance. Karlsen turned his baleful red-eyed gaze upon him and indicated the rest of the doomed cretins with a flick of his tentacles. The man hurried away. Karlsen felt nothing but utter contempt for the fool. What could that miserable human know of true rebellion? Karlsen had followed the Warmaster himself when he took up arms against the Emperor. A hundred centuries ago he had gazed with adoration upon the face of Horus before the last great battle. A hundred centuries ago he had stormed the Palace Imperial on Earth, howling his defiance of the Emperor and all human order. A hundred centuries ago, following his Primarch, he had turned his face away from the light and set his feet upon the path of immortal sin. A hundred centuries ago he had sold his soul and gained,..what? It was best not to think about it.
In the distance, amid the rubble of Kadavah. he saw the crimson Rhinos of the Blood Angels move to take up position. His altered eyes looked within the vehicles and saw the troubled souls of the Space Marines within. The deluded imbeciles actually wanted to defend the shrine of their senile god. They were proud to lay down their lives for a deity whose time had passed ten thousand years ago. Karlsen gazed on the Space Marines with pure, corrosive hatred. What could these puppies know of war? Karlsen had stridden through ancient days when true warriors had fought mighty battles that sundered the entire galaxy. Worlds had burned, armies had been slaughtered. Then, the Blood Angels had been foes worthy of respect. Now they were but pale shadows of what they once had been. Now there were no more giants on the side of the putrid Loyalists. Only the few remaining rebel Primarchs were worthy of respect. In them the flame of anctent times burned undimmed. In them was something worthy of his undying loyalty. They still understood Karlsen’s undimmed rage and hatred. They still fought the Long War. Blood Angels, hah! Ten millennia ago he had killed their distant predecessors with his bare hands. Ten millennia ago he had butchered twenty Blood Angels in a single day on the walls of the Inner Palace. Ten millennia ago he had stood outside the Ultimate Gate and watched their Primarch, Sanguinius, cast down like a broken angel by a daemon of the Warp. He wondered what those pathetic fools would say if he told them that? Would they understand? No — they would not. That was the truth of it. There were so few left who could understand. Down the long. lonely centuries of his personal rebellion he had learned that. His old comrades were mostly gone now — dead or true daemons with little interest in the old times, the best times.
His armoured skin tingled. A red light filled his mind. Incipient madness threatened. He knew from the eddies in the Warp that Magnus, his Primarch, was about to appear. Soon he would be in battle, able to lose himself for a few happy hours in the fear and the exhilaration of combat, able to blot out his ennui in bloodlust and find relief for his craving for lasting peace in the exercise of his old power and skill. It was all that there was left to him. The air shimmered. Magnus arrived, towering over the troops surrounded by a halo of polychromatic light. The Chaos horde advanced towards the distant fearful city. Karlsen was to the fore.
