C. Goto - Dawn of War

The sorcerer paced around the ring of cultists, dragging the eldar’s curved blade over their backs as they winced and moaned, concentrating in towards the hole in the centre of the circle. Thin trickles of blood seeped out of the cuts in their backs, running down their bodies and dripping into the blood grooves in the stone floor. Gradually, the grooves began to fill with red, and the lines pushed slowly towards the hole, one droplet at a time.

As they bled, the cultists chanted and swayed to an erratic, ugly rhythm, and Sindri stepped spasmodically, in time with the broken beat. The spell seemed to inflate throughout the courtyard, spilling out of the mouths of the cultists and pushing against the cloisters that surrounded them. A field of scintillating energy was building gradually, as the chanting grew louder and the blood flowed thicker. The cultists were being bled in body and soul together.

Suddenly, Sindri stopped circling the group, halting behind one of the cultists. In an abrupt movement, the sorcerer lunged forward and grasped the woman’s hair, pulling it violently back to expose her neck. Spinning the dagger in his other hand, he brought it smoothly across the cultist’s throat, dropping her onto the ground as her life-blood gushed from the mortal wound. She fell forward, along the blood groove, spilling her blood into a river that flooded the channel and rushed towards the hole in the ground.

The other cultists continued to chant and sway, their eyes wild with fear and ecstasy as Sindri started to circle them once again. Guardsman Katrn watched the movements of Sindri with hungry eyes, imploring the sorcerer to give him the honour of being next, impatient to blend his blood with the thousands of other devotees whose essence had drained into the great reservoir over the decades and centuries. He chanted the spell with extra energy each time Sindri passed behind him, as he felt the cold slice of the curved blade cut into his back.

Katrn had already shed the blood of many Tartarans, fighting his way from Magna Bonum, but now it was time to give his own blood to the cause. His mind reeled with disbelief at the thought that so many of his brethren could still not see the truth of their origins; they were still blind to their place in the plans of the daemon prince; they still thought that war had to have a purpose-that shedding blood for the Blood God was not enough in itself. The fools.

Sindri stopped again, yanking back the head of another cultist and slitting his throat without ceremony, dumping the body forward into the circle with a casual push. The sorcerer was moving faster now, driven into a trance by the chanting, the motion, and the pungent scent of the fresh blood. The incandescent field around the courtyard was pulsing with energy, pressing against the stonework and splintering cracks into the Imperial icons.

Finally, the sorcerer stopped behind him, and Katrn’s soul rejoiced as his head was pulled back, exposing his neck to Sindri’s blade.

“Sindri!” bellowed a voice, shattering the discordant chant and making the energy field flicker.

Please, oh please cut me, begged Katrn in his mind. Please.

Sindri stayed his hand and snapped his head round to see who dared to intrude on the ceremony. “What!” he hissed. “What, my lord,” he added, struggling with the words.

“The Space Marines have breached the Dannan sector-they are on their way. Your cultists bought us almost no time at all,” said Bale, his voice full of disgust. He was growing sick of the sorcerer’s plans collapsing into ruin just on the verge of their success.

Katrn felt the sorcerer release his head and withdraw the knife from his neck, snatching him back from the verge of glory. He cried out in frustration as Sindri walked round the circle towards the Chaos Lord, instructing the cultists to carry on chanting while he was away.

“The circumstances that you mention demonstrate divine providence, Lord Bale,” said Sindri, raising his arm and guiding Bale out of the courtyard. “Everything is proceeding according to plan. Once I have completed the ceremony, you will have that which we have plotted and schemed to achieve.”

Bale looked at Sindri for a moment, suspicious of his choice of words. “I do not trust you, sorcerer,” he said frankly. “What will happen if the Blood Ravens should arrive before this ‘providence’ graces us?”

“Providence has already graced us, my lord-if only you had the eyes to see it. When the Space Marines arrive, then we shall play the good hosts and indulge them in a bloody feast,” answered Sindri, risking a subtle slight. “But at all costs, Lord Bale, you must keep them from interfering with the ceremony. This is a delicate process, and I cannot afford for it to be interrupted… again.”

Uncertain, Bale nodded and turned to walk away, leaving the sorcerer to do what needed to be done.

“And Bale,” called Sindri after him, using his unadorned name once again, “might I advise that you throw everything at the cursed Blood Ravens. Everything. Their contribution to our project might prove most useful in the end, especially at this critical juncture.”

“Do not tell me how to fight Space Marines, sorcerer!” retorted Bale, stamping to a halt and looking back over his shoulder.

“My apologies,” said Sindri smoothly. “I just thought that you would be pleased to finally get your chance to engage the Blood Ravens.”

Bale did not answer, but stormed back into the dark interior of the temple, leaving Sindri to turn back to the cultists in the courtyard. If the truth were known, he was pleased at the prospect of a proper fight at last.

Now, where was I, thought Sindri, as the rhythm of the chanting started to penetrate his soul once again. Ah yes… power demands sacrifice.

Katrn gasped with ecstasy as the sorcerer tugged back his head once again and drew the icy touch of the eldar blade across his throat. As the Guardsman slumped down into the blood groove at his feet, he could feel his life gushing out of him, pouring his soul into the fecund embrace of the Blood God himself.

Another Thunderhawk roared overhead as Inquisitor Toth’s own vessel blasted into the air to return to the spaceport at Magna Bonum. All of the transports were required to help with the evacuation, but Colonel Brom had released a detachment of his Tartaran Guardsmen to assist the Blood Ravens, and a Thunderhawk was temporarily requisitioned to take them to Lloovre Marr.

The gunship did not even land, it just dropped down above the road and opened its hatch, tipping a couple of squads of Imperial Guardsmen out onto the flagstones. Then, with a roar of power, it eased back into the sky and flashed off into the night, heading back towards the evacuation point.

One of the Guardsmen rushed forward to greet Gabriel, stooping into a bow as he approached.

“Captain Angelos, I am Sergeant Ckrius of the Tartarus Planetary Defence Force,” said the young soldier proudly. His uniform was ripped and dirty, and his face was blackened by the smoky report of his weapon. But his sergeant’s pips were sparkling and clean, as though he had just finished polishing them. He looked up into the face of Gabriel with fierce determination burning in his eyes. “I bring two squadrons of storm troopers and the regards of Colonel Brom. He regrets that he cannot spare more.”

“Thank you sergeant, you are most welcome here,” replied Gabriel, nodding to the young Guardsman and wondering how bad things must be at the spaceport for such a youthful soldier to be put in charge of two entire squads. He studied the lad’s face and saw how it must have aged over the last couple of days; he was not much more than a boy, but he had survived more than many men, and his sparkling eyes spoke of an undiminished resolve to save his homeworld.