Khatiph

*Khatiph*
**(A Short Story)**
He was running.

In the darkness of a moonless night and through the foreboding stalks of a dead forest’s skeletal remains, he ran like a man possessed. In a way, he was possessed. Fear had taken over his body, mind and soul. The rapid beating of his terrified heart drowned out all noise from his exodus, while his overworked lungs and limbs burned painfully as he tried to navigate out of the forest. He dared not look back, for he would rather die in ignorance than gaze upon the monsters that had butchered his comrades.

He could not understand how it had come to this. The rebellion against their parasitic Imperial overlords had been a great success. The planetary governor that had grown fat from their toiling hands was overthrown and killed like the pig he was. Everyone was up in arms and were willing to die for their freedom. Delegation parties from the Administratum had been willing to listen to their terms regarding the cessation of recruitment tithes and reduction of material tithes if they were to consider remaining under Imperial rule.

He should have been wary when a council was called during their celebrations. He should have been suspicious when the summons had referred to ancient treatises of obligation that his ancestors had signed in their blood. He should have ran the moment he heard the others squabble amongst each other to figure out who had made the summons. His hesitation at the ancient council chamber’s gates had saved him from the creatures that leapt from the shadows.

His only warning was a nigh incomprehensible shiver of darkness at the corner of his eye before the world exploded in noise. The howls of the damned encompassed the entirety of the council chambers and all of the gathered fell in agony as their eardrums ruptured. Despite his ringing ears, he was able to hear another noise, one that made his blood run cold. The roaring of chain weapons heralded the coming of their ruination. Giants clad in bone, red and black dropped down from hidden alcoves and proceeded to brutalize the insensate ringleaders of the rebellion.

Men and women of old bloodlines were laid low by heavy sweeps of rumbling chainswords. Their bisected corpses flew through the air, leaving a trail of blood and entrails. One man, a close friend from his youth, was run through by a combat knife whose size would have equated to a sword in his hands. Those who had regained their lucidity at the sight of the murder taking place either ran or made an attempt to fight. Their efforts of escape or resistance were met with the same efficient art of killing that befell the others. All were subjected to this fate of death.

All but him.

As the memory of the slaughter faded away, his heart leapt in desperation as he caught sight of the safehouse. An inconsequential and abandoned frontier home, he and the ringleaders had stumbled upon the secret Munitorum-grade bunker hidden beneath the unassuming structure. When he barged into the house, a sensation of wrongness emerged from the back of his mind but he was too intoxicated by the hope of survival to pay it any heed. He only allowed himself to rest as soon as the concealed reinforced door of the bunker closed behind him and heard the locking mechanisms activate to shield him from his pursuers.

“Far away from here, there once existed a world overflowing with stories. A world that I would have called home if Fate was not so wicked.” He froze, icy terror gripped his heart and his heavy breathing had reduced to keening whimpers at the sound of an unnaturally deep voice speaking his planet’s dialect of Low Gothic.

Sitting on a raised platform of carved granite, one of the giants inspected his grisly weapon of war. It was clad in power armor that appeared to be sleek and lightweight, but its streamlined design was marred by the macabre trophies on its back. Three skulls, each on top of a short pole, judged him silently through their vacant eye sockets. A black loincloth overlayed with chainmail softly clinked as a head covered by a black hood moved to and fro along the length of the Eviscerator chainsword resting on its lap. On one of its pauldrons, a strange symbol was proudly displayed.

“One of the stories told of spirits known as the khatiph. Spectres of the murdered that scream out the name of their murderers, so that vengeful justice can be carried out by ancient pagan priests.” It looked up from its task and he felt his heart freeze as he finally got a look at his killer’s ‘face’. Lenses as black as the void glared at him from underneath a mouthless caricature of a skull with twin trails of dried blood decorating its cheekbones in mockery of tears.

It was then that he understood. Through their rebellion, they had unwittingly gained the attention of the Adeptus Astartes. The Emperor’s Angels of Death had come for him.

“The Khatiph call for your death, Lanius Wycozan of the Wycozan Trading Enclave.” The monster that beheld him stood to its full height. The tops of its trophies almost touched the ceiling from the creature’s sheer stature. “We call for your death, in retribution for the murder of this world’s soul by the taint of your treachery.”

Any pleas of mercy would be all for naught as his executioner’s weapon began to sing its bloody song.

In his last moments, all Lanius could do was scream.