Blood Red Space

**Blood Red Space *(Short Story)***
**Dramatis Personae**

* *Griven 'Skullfiend' Krassek - Chaos Lord, leader of warband known as Gore Sons*
* *Tarvakh - Khorne Berserker, member of the Gore Sons*

The Chaos Lord known as Skullfiend stood on the deck before the command throne. Below him there was a thrum of activity from the ratings and serfs who made up the bridge crew. Most were proclaiming the status of the ancient ship's numerous weapons systems. A few of them had already cut themselves to spill blood on the deck and their workstations; feeble offerings meant to placate the vessel's cantankerous machine-spirit and draw the gaze of Khorne their way.

One of the newer ratings seemed overcome by the wrath of the War God. He pulled a large (by mortal standards) knife from his belt and began hacking away at the neck of a nearby colleague. The victim, unable to escape due to being fused with his workstation, leaked copious amounts of oily fluid as he went limp yet unable to fall. His assailant whooped and cheered but was prevented from murdering another crew member by the approach of a muted clanging sound.

The man turned, lowering his gaze as a World Eater stood before him.
**"Blood?"**, boomed Tarvakh's voice from his helmet's vox-grill. The rating raised his fists, still holding the red-stained blade in one.

"BLOOD!!", the crewman's laughter became manic as he dared to look the Berserker in the helm.

Tarvakh gripped his shoulder in what at first seemed a gesture of respect. The rating's grin turned to a scream of pain as the World Eater tugged. With a wet tearing sound, Tarvakh disarmed the mortal by removing his sword arm wholesale, dropping the limb as his fingers spasmed.

**"Heh... there's your *blood*..."** Tarvakh scoffed as he turned away.
The rating went into shock and collapsed, blood pumping from his ruined shoulder, his breathing erratic until he became still. The liquid sank into the solid metal of the deck with a wet sucking sound as though the vessel itself supped upon the offering. Tarvakh returned to his position at the centre of the stations where he resumed his watch over the crew. He hated the role but could not leave his post under his overlord's direct gaze.

**"Remove it for processing."** Tarvakh barked impatiently. A servitor approached and dragged the corpse away by its ankles.

All of this transpired while Skullfiend gazed through the occulus at the void before him. The Gore Sons' fleet of around two-dozen ships of numerous sizes was on final approach to their target: a planet controlled by the Corpse-Emperor's weaklings. The space around the planet flashed and sparkled regularly as vessels duelled one another. Formations of attack craft danced and died in the emptiness between their motherships. Auspex returns showed it was the remnants of a local defence fleet clashing with Astartes vessels reshaped by the Warp. The Imperial ships were invariably weaker but they were many. Squadrons were darting in and out, making close range hit-and-run attacks on the Chaos vessels. Every second or third time they did so, another ship burst apart before the guns of the traitors. Even to one as mind-wounded as Skullfiend, it was obvious that the Forces of Chaos in-system were not a cohesive force. While they shared the same targets, the fleets of different warbands kept their distance from one another as if they were staking claim to different areas of the planet below. Not that Skullfiend cared. All he desired was the skulls of worthy foes. Imperial, xeno or Chaos servant - it mattered not. It had been so long since he had wielded the gargantuan axe on his back against an enemy with a head worth taking. Sensing his brooding, Gorefather revved and growled. Its vicious and temperamental machine-spirit hungered.

Skullfiend ignored it. It was always hungry and he would wield the weapon only when he desired. He was the master, not it. He felt the Nails ticking and pulsing as he processed the conflict he witnessed but he ignored that too. This type of warfare was alien to him and his World Eaters. To perish in the void was akin to dying by accident: honourless; meaningless; worthless.

His World Eaters. Not Angron's. Not that whoreson. Any of Skullfiend's warriors who referred to himself as a 'son of Angron' within his earshot was stripped of armour and sent to the pits.

The master of the Gore Sons watched dispassionately as two Imperial frigates - a Sword-class and a Firestorm-class - which were being held in reserve against a Thousand Sons vessel detached from the outer edge of the engagement and came about to face him. No doubt their auspexes were confounded by battle-damage or the amount of radiation being thrown around in high orbit. At around 20,000 km the two vessels parted, creating a gap through which they clearly hoped would allow them to bracket *Slaughtering Hand* with opposing broadsides. The two vessels opened up; cannon fire and missiles bracketing the battle barge's forward shields. At 10,000 km, Skullfiend finally spoke.

"Return fire. Tell *Throne of Skulls* and *Bloody Wake* to advance and destroy.", he rasped. Tarvakh turned, acknowledged the command with a nod and barked the relevant orders.

From either side, a pair of Infidel-class raider ships shot past. A half-hearted amount of fire from the Imperial vessels lit the distance between these new respective targets as the World Eater ships closed on the outer flanks of the foe. The furious machine-spirit of *Bloody Wake* spat a few shots at both *Throne of Skulls* and *Slaughtering Hand*. As the gunners on the Sword-class readied another salvo, *Throne of Skulls's* captain picked his moment to strike. Colossal chains tipped with gargantuan harpoons spat from the Raider's port-side hull to embed themselves in the target's flanks. The scaled-down Ursus Claws were then retracted by massive slave-driven crank-wheels, dragging hunter and prey closer together even as *Throne of Skulls* ruined its victim's point defences and larger guns with its own. The tugging had the added effect of spoiling the Imperial's firing solution. Her starboard weapons fired as the drag caused her to list - akin to someone clenching a weapon's trigger in pain. As the distance between the two shrank to almost nothing, Skullfiend saw small flashes emerged from the Infidel-class raider's hull towards the far side of the enemy frigate: boarding torpedoes.

The crew of that ship were already dead.

Skullfiend adjusted his gaze. It seemed as though his other companion vessel would brook no assistance in the kill. Its machine-spirit was mercilessly pounding the Firestorm-class' starboard shields to ruin. The vox serf reported that attempts to contact *Bloody Wake* were being met with an animalistic howl of triumph. The Firestorm's crew were likely panicking: they were doing a terrible job of returning fire. Even as the Chaos Lord watched, its shields buckled and explosions began blossoming from behind her hull. He glanced down and saw Tarvakh gazing up at him. Skullfiend nodded, knowing what his underling was after. Tarvakh grabbed an internal vox horn.

**"Port gunnery crews, prepare to broadside on my word."**

Deep in the bowels of *Slaughtering Hand*, thousands of slaves toiled beneath the lashes of overseers to haul the huge shells into the breaches of the port macrocannons while Dark Mechanicum acolytes anointed the plasma projectors with the blood of specially prepared slave sacrifices to ensure the daemon-machine-spirit hybrid entities functioned as intended.

5,000 km now and the Firestorm-class' guns were totally silent; the second target was closing fast.
Just as the frigate came within 1,000km - practically point-blank in a space engagement - Tarvakh barked **"Fire!"**. The deck thrummed beneath him as the cannons lit up. The frigate's shields failed with a flash and its hull came apart in ragged burning rents. The mortals around Tarvakh cheered; he did not. *Slaughtering Hand* drifted on.

The *Bloody Wake* drifted forward and landed half-a-dozen shots on the forward shields. No doubt the ship was angry at having its kill stolen. Skullfiend grabbed another vox horn.

"Forward gunners, put the rabid mutt back in its place."
The hull rumbled gently again as rounds sped out, blossoming across the Infidel raider's shields. Not enough to do any lasting damage - but plenty with a promise of more. *Bloody Wake* stopped shooting and resumed formation.

The Thousand Sons vessel - a strike cruiser called 'Pride of Prospero' - was busy picking apart a Dauntless-class light cruiser with well-aimed shots. Her sorcerous masters had punched a hole in the hostile fleet nearby. As Skullfiend watched, the auspex servitor announced:

*DETECTION: Armageddon-class battle cruiser*

A translucent green image appeared stuttering on the hololith. The readouts gave the ship's name - 'Fist of the Throneworld' - and positional data. It was closing on the strike cruiser. It's main weapons opened fire as its target came about to face her. *Pride of Prospero's* shields failed just as a beam of non-light flashed out, linking the ships momentarily. The sight of it caused a handful of crew to vomit and the Butcher's Nails suddenly squealed their hymn of agony in Skullfiend's head. Several drops of blood fell from his nose and he longed to lose himself in the bliss of massacre. The bolt of warp energy dissipated as suddenly as it appeared, and *Fist of the Throneworld* came apart in spectacular fashion. An explosion - likely the magazine - shattered her spine and her arrow-shaped bow blew forward and down, already captured by the planet's gravity. Expecting a violent warp core breach, Skullfiend was glad when none came - a warp rift this close would be everyone's problem. Those escort ships which had surrounded *Fist of the Throneworld* and not been caught in her death broke off.

The Gore Sons fleet remained at high alert but followed the lead of the flagship by not firing on *Pride of Prospero* even as they passed 25,000 km aft of her. A squadron of five Defence Monitors darted in, trying to draw blood now that the Pride's shields were down but they were blindsided by the World Eater ships. At the cost of one Gore Sons vessel, the Imperials were caught in a crossfire leaving no survivors. The single casualty was a converted bulk-freighter packed with blood cultists which made the mistake of drifting too close to the fight. Heavily damaged by an Imperial's guns, her deathblow was bestowed by *Bloody Wake*, which rammed her amidships to get a point-blank shot at her attacker, cutting her cleanly in two and exposing the fanatics aboard to the vacuum.

A short audio packet was received from *Pride of Prospero* a short time after:
*"Your assistance was most useful, cousins. Now keep your distance."*

Both Skullfiend and Tarvakh knew the filthy sorcerers would be observing them with witch-sight. The sons of Magnus were as treacherous and unpredictable as the Changer of Ways they served. How Skullfiend hated them.

A serf bowed and presented some parchment to Tarvakh who scrunched it into a ball. The serf flinched and bowed. He spoke something to Tarvakh but the blood was pounding in Skullfiend's head too loudly for him to hear. Tarvakh turned to his master and simply said:
**"No loyalist Astartes vessels here, Butcherlord."**
He did not bother hiding his disappointment - a sentiment the Chaos Lord also shared. Skullfiend turned and keyed a command in the throne activating the vox-network fleet-wide.

"Hrr. Gather your blades and praise Kharnath, brothers", Skullfiend spat. "The False Emperor's lapdogs die this day! Blood for the Blood God!"

As Skullfiend dropped the horn he saw Tarvakh gazing up at him. The lord of the Gore Sons pointed to the door with his chin before reaching for his helmet. He turned and heard the other World Eater break into a brisk jog to accompany him to the hangar. Battle beckoned at last.

## Trivia

Kudos to ChaoticClown15 for coming up with the story name.