The captured Imperial Guardsmen looked through the bars of their cage in fear. They had been overrun on the Imperial World Contestus 3, and the Khornate army they had faced had restrained itself and brought them here, to some Chaos tainted blood world far from the light of the Emperor. Two had killed themselves the first night, and Raccus would not be long for this world. They watched him as he sat over in the corner, moaning prayers to the Emperor. He had began to get the lost and crazed look in his eyes. It would not be long now.
The holding cells they now lived in were full of prisoners. Dull eyed and slack jawed Greenskins chained to the walls, snoring or snarling in their bindings. Eldar in scraps of beaten and torn armour, clutching their necklaces with the pendants on them and whispering in their strange and foul to the ears of humans' language. Kroot Warriors looked at everyone with a hunger in their eyes, and then there was the two. One was huge, behemoth by any standard. An Adeptus Astartes, a Marine of the Minotaurs chapter. The tattoo that ran his collar bone area proclaimed him as Marius, the Drinker of Blood. His long black hair hung over his face at most times, but every once in a while that brutal visage would come forth. The tattoos that covered him proclaimed his prowess at hand to hand combat. He was chained and collared to the wall, the massive adamantium chains under constant strain from him pulling and sharply yanking them in his fury and want to escape. He had not said a word to any one, merely frothing at the mouth and mumbling obscenities and pieces of battle-cant.
The other Marine was as tall as Marius, but where the Minotaur was a power house the size of a Rhino, this marine was leaner, if such a word could describe the still huge man. He had spoke to the Guardsmen when they had arrived, and told them his name was Vertorex, and he was of the Carcharodons Space Marines Chapter. He was covered in ritual scarification, and had a service stud above his left brow. It was he who had informed the Guardsmen of what awaited them. Ritual Combat with the followers of Khorne.
++Through the Eyes of the Betrayer ++
Kharn rose from the position he had been in for the past several hours. As always, he reflected on the delicate balance of the Eight Fold Path. Savagery with Temperance, Brutality with Honour. Many of his brethren no longer followed the true Path as it had been taught them, and were now mere killing machines, rendering their effectiveness as Warriors almost worthless. There was no lie in his heart as he admitted to himself that he was just as guilty of the senseless slaughter, but sometimes it was what was needed. He had spent many years adhering to the Paths of his Legion.
When they had found their Primarch, they had learned the way of the Crimson Path before the Iron Fetter. To walk the path of warrior-hood and bloodshed before ever being a slave to another. That was how they had been turned. For what were they but slaves? They were slaves to the Emperor and his ways. They fought and killed like Warriors, but could be brought to heel and cowed like Dogs, and none would say against it. To the Blood God, they were Warriors. Some said they were slaves to him as well, as he would remove his favour from a killer who did not please him.
Kharn spat upon that idea. A true warrior needed no Gods favour. They needed the strength and skill in their arms. The only thing he would ever lose from the Blood God would be a resistance to psychic powers. And there were other ways to get around that. The berserkers asked for too much sometimes. Like all those who wanted to be Daemons. For what? Power? To be summoned from the warp like a common servant? To be banished whenever they could be? His Primarch, the Red Angel, his gene-father, had experienced that first hand on Armageddon. So close to winning, only to be banished by the Grey Knights to languish in the Warp until his time was up. Kharn spat upon Daemonhood, and he always would.
He stood in front of the arming station as the servitors prepared him. The proper cables had to be placed, the sacred Nails had to be plugged both into the ports in his flesh and the correct ports in his armour. Kharn removed the silver hoop earrings he wore on his own. A gift from his father, they were over ten thousand years old, and had been passed down through the family for many years before they came to him. The parting gift of a grieving father to a crying son, about to be taken away forever to walk the stars as a warrior for Mankind. Kharn was glad his father had not lived long enough to know what his son had done since that day. Of course, his father very may well have died for the Heresy was a whisper. For all he knew, his family could have been eradicated the next day so they would never search for their son.
Kharn breathed in deeply and closed his eyes as they encased his head in the red and brass ceramite of his helm. The helm that had seen so much bloodshed, so much death, so many others fall before its scarred mask. It had replaced his normal legion helm when it was given to him. It was a gift for his ferocity on the field, the amount of skulls he took, and how no legionnaire save for the Primarch and his personal Guard would dare stand in between Kharn and his will. Opening his eyes, he watched as the counter came on. The sacred counter, what he truly believed in these foul days. His personal best days were scratched upon the memories of the Empire and the Warp alike, from Istaavan and Terra to Skalathrax and Armageddon.
The recycled air that came to his filter tasted faintly of iron and reeked of the sharp metal tang of hot blood. He knew that the hereteks that modified his armour after the Heresy had done this on purpose, the fuel blood rages in the followers of Khorne. It had no such effect on him after these thousands of years. A servitor reached for Gorechild. Kharns fist met his head so hard that it pulped the metal cranium they had built it. No one but himself would touch the axe. The Red Angel had gifted it, for his hand and his hand alone, and he had never elt another touch it. When he had fallen on Terra, they said that his death grip on the handle of the Child was absolute.
Lifting it reverently, he briefly activated the power rune and gunned the ignition. The roar and whir of the chain teeth was as powerful and loud as it had been the first time he had watched Angron swing it and its twin in battle. Kharn allowed a rare smile to crack his stony face. The Lord of this World, an old companion from the Legion actually, had promised him a treat in the arena. Two Marines from what were considered brutal Loyalist Chapters, and they were for Kharn. A true test. Maybe one of them will kill me this day.
The Guardsmen++
Raccus watched all, mumbling his prayers. They had pulled the big one out moment ago. The Minotaur had tried to attack, but then they had stopped him with their words. They had said he would fight someone named Khan? Kharm? No, it was Kharn. The other Marine had looked up at that and asked if that was to be his fate as well, to which their tormentors had replied yes to. The Minotaur had laughed and grated his confidence through his throat.
"Do not worry fish. I will slaughter this traitor, and my name will be famous and bright."
They had led the Minotaur into another room, and now he stood in the sand of the Arena. He wore the power armour he was captured in, and it seemed to have been repaired to an amazing degree for a Prisoner. Noticing the puzzled look, Vertorex spoke.
"He fights a Champion of the Blood God. They want him at his best."
Raccus looked to him, his teeth chattering with the constant fear he felt racing through his body now.
"Why is it so important? Who does he fight?"
Vertorex knelt beside the Guard, looking through the bars that offered the best view of the sands.
"He fights Kharn the Betrayer. A Marine who will kill ally and foe alike for the thrill of the kill. He has fought for over ten thousand years. He walked the same ground as the Emperor and the Primarchs did. It is said he is unkillable, and even to be killed he would come back for more battle."
Raccus began to shake harder, looking to the sands as doors on the opposite side of the arena opened. A giant stood in the shadows, the spikes of his armour making him appear monstrous. His left arm looked smaller than the right, but it wielded an axe of great size. He seemed to be covered in chains and skull, spikes emerging from other parts of his body. As he walked into the bright light of the arena, both Vertorex and he leaning forward into the bars to get a better look, studying this famed killer.
Raccus saw why the arm appeared smaller. It was naked of armour, but was covered in thick muscles and angry looking veins, and hook ended chains wrapped around the forearm. His brass and red armour seemed to be the colours of blood, fresh and flowing or drying and coagulating. The axe he carried was massive, the head easily the size of a Guardsman. His helm had what could be called horns, but they looked more a part of the helm than the mutations most seen. The purple and blue tassels that hung from them blew in the quiet breeze of the arena. No one cheered for him. They wanted to see the bloodshed he could cause in the name of the Blood God, but they were as equally afraid he would turn it on them.
Marius had been armed with a weapon of his choice, and he had chosen a thunder hammer and gladius. Vertorex shook his head at the folly of him. Better to choose the storm shield than a second weapon. The thunder hammer was so slow and cumbersome that it may never connect. The Gladius was too short to be an effective second weapon at that, and did not compensate for both the slowness of the hammer or the reach of the chain axe that Kharn carried. Maybe, just maybe Marius could accomplish something here. Maybe his name would be a tale sung throughout the Imperium of Man, the slayer of Kharn the Betrayer. Vertorex could not shake the feeling of doubt that he had on that.
"Pray to the God-Emperor Raccus. Pray for us all."
Vertorex sat and began to meditate on the teachings of his Chapter Master, the Red Wake. He would need the skill of such for this fight.
++The Eyes of Bloodshed++
Marius stood ad looked to his opponent, the smile o his face feeling like it would break his helm. He had dreamed of this. Every Minotaur did. To face the one who was considered the greatest at combat amongst Chaos. To watch his blood spill across their blades and claim his head for the Emperor. It would be Marius who done this, Marius the Strong, Marius the Titan, soon to be Marius, Killer of the Betrayer. He roared his challenge and charged across the sand. The Thunder Hammer and its weight drug his body slightly to the right, and he adjusted his balance to compensate. He gripped the gladius tightly, preparing for his first attack. Swing the thunder hammer high from the side, torso height to be exact, punch straight under with the Gladius. Kharn never moved, and Marius made his first attack. Kharn wasn't there. He had already moved to the side, and he smacked the Minotaur across the back with the flat of Gorechild, almost staggering him and making his armour servos whine.
By the Emperor! He's fast!
Marius felt his blood boil as a chuckle issued from the helmet of his opponent.
"Poor Cow. Look at you plod across the sand. Come, come to the slaughter."
Marius screamed in rage and hacked and slashed with the Gladius, trying to bring the thunder hammer to bear on his opponent. He had chosen poorly. Marius was not equipped with Terminator armour, so his servos and armour capabilities were struggling with the immense hammer. If he dropped the hammer, it could potentially be used against him, and all he would have is the much shorter Gladius to fight with. The potential for glory had blinded him. This just fueled his rage, and he charged once again.
Kharn had no intention of a polite hit this time. Once again dodging the cumbersome Minotaur, Gorechild revved up high in its arc, smashing down and hitting the ceramite of his armour, cracking the gorget on the backside and chewing into some of the soft tissue underneath. The Minotaur screamed in anger and pain as the teeth of the Mica Dragon tore into the muscle. Dropping the thunder hammer, he rolled away and came up in a crouch, roaring threats at Kharn as he again charged.
Using his own momentum against him, Kharn grabbed him by the wrist and tossed him over his hip, the Loyalist crashing in a great jumble of armour plating and his limbs, too dazed to move. Kharn had taken the gladius from his hands as he flipped, and used it now as his own weapon along with Gorechild. Marius fought him the best he could, attempting to reach the dropped hammer. Finally, bleeding from a dozen places, missing his left arm from the elbow down, he faltered. Kharn hooked his legs with his axe, yanking them out from under them and once again putting Marius on his back.
Kharn placed one of his booted feet on his chest and lifted his arms to the crowd, who cheered in anticipation. Bringing Gorechild down, he severed the screaming head of the Minotaur from his body. Reaching into it and pulling the head from it, Kharn held it up by the long black hair. The skull dripped blood and froth, the mouth still set in a grimace of rage and hatred. Kharn lifted an armour chain as if to hook the head, then stopped and shook his head, throwing the trophy to the crowd. His voice boomed over the arena.
"HE WAS NOT WORTHY OF THIS SAND, NOR IS HE WORTHY OF MY ARMOUR!"
With that, the crowd cheered for their champion, their dark killer and greatest fear.
++Raccus and Vertorex++
Raccus stood on unsteady legs and walked to the Vertorex, shaking his arm until he looked upon him and was actually there in his eyes.
"You were right. He killed Marius. He made it look easy while he did it."
Vertorex nodded, saddened by the loss of an Astartes, even one not of his Chapter. He heard the door open and knew they came for him. Standing he stared into the eyes of the Chaos Marines that faced him, ready to lead him to his death.
"I know no fear. Let us finish this."
One nodded, and they lead him to the armory. His power armour stood there, desecrated by heretic hands and tools. Vertorex walked past it, most likely to the surprise of the workers and his handlers. He put on a studded leather kilt with a wide belt, and put thick grox leather boots on his feet. He slid a bastard sword; Space Marine sized through the belt, and grabbed two thick iron wood shields and an axe of remarkable make and hard steel. He turned and followed the keepers to the sands, walking past the filth dragging the body of Marius. He bowed his head briefly and continued on his way. He then emerged into the arena, and looked at the killer across from him. Working up spit to moisten his tongue, he challenged the World Eater.
"Easy enough to kill with the chain axe." He threw the extra ironwood shield and the axe across the arena, the items landing about a meter from Kharn. "Will you fight me like a true warrior, or do you not remember what a real warrior is?"
Kharn looked at his opponent, staring for what felt like an eternity. Then he… laughed. A great booming laugh, full of joy. Then he spoke.
"FINALLY! Someone who wishes to fight me as a warrior! Skol! Gorefin! Bring me armour similar to our friends here. Let the servitors come and remove the power armour from my body, and tell them to bring me a rack for Gorechild!" Kharn stopped and looked at Vertorex. "Do you object to me wearing similar armour?"
Vertorex shook his head no and waited, swinging his arms and stretching sore and cramped muscles. He watched as the armour of the Betrayer was removed. It revealed battle scarred flesh, great chasms and craters that had healed into shapes. He was also covered in tattoo markings, tallying victories and accomplishments that he had. He removed the helm, and Vertorex was surprised. He could be one of his brothers, a face scarred by battle, but not mutated. In fact, Kharn had no mutations on his body at all. To be a Champion and not be was a mark of great will. His hair bristled in a straight line down the center of his head, and a short and pointed beard framed his jaw. He then had the Nails unplugged, and called to Vertorex.
"See Loyal son? I even remove my Nails for this battle. Skill against skill!"
He then placed his arm in the straps of the shield, hefting the bearded axe with his left. Vertorex nodded and drew the sword from his belt, setting the shield as he had been taught before a novice, back in the forests of his feral homeworld. Kharn began to slowly bang his axe against the shield, making a 'hah' sound in rhythm with it. Vertorex caught himself doing the same, his lips pulled back in a feral grin, both his hears speeding up and his breathing becoming harsh as the rage inside him rose. This man would think to kill him? His blood would paint the sword and shield of Vertorex!
As if a soundless command had been given, the two giants charged, crashing against each other in a crack of shields and a spark as their weapons found each other. Disengaging, they whirled and spun, striking at each other, neither able to find an opening for a critical blow. The caught little pieces of each other, small scratches that their advanced bodies healed almost immediately, barely letting any blood flow. The sand jumped and scattered as they weaved a delicate and powerful dance of death around each other.
Distance was put between them as Kharn tried to press and Vertorex pushed him back. The Betrayer was smiling with the joy of a true fight, a true warrior against him. Vertorex smiled as well, the thrill of battle singing through his lungs.
Kharn spoke. "Join me. We could carve the universe apart. Turn weaklings into true warriors!"
The Loyal Marine answered, "You know I cannot. My loyalty is to the Emperor. As yours once was." He set himself once again, smacking the blade of his sword against his shield three times. "Come Kharn. Let us dance some more."
Kharn smiled, and it was the smile of a predator. "Gladly."
To be continued.