Evil’s Little


It felt like rain. Sharp, cold beads striking his forehead, like minute blades falling from the night sky. His eyes stung angrily as he strained them open. He tried to recall the last few hours, groaning as the effort made his head swell in pain. His eyes slowly came into focus and he surveyed his surroundings.
He sat at the bottom of what appeared to be a trench, of sorts. Muddy water trickled down the walls and collected in a pool around his feet. To his left he could make out the silhouetted criss-cross of wire fencing stretching from one wall to another, sealing off the circular passageway which seemed to disappear into the darkness. On his right lay several metres of burnt-out wreckage, twisted metals and cabling coated in dirt and rockcrete dust. A few charred remains smouldered quietly amongst the rubble. He shuddered at the thought of escaping death so narrowly and wondered briefly if he was injured. A quick glance at his legs told him he’d escaped the worst of debris though not entirely unscathed. He wiggled his toes and winced, they were sore but still operable. ‘Well at least I’m not crippled’ he said out loud, his voice rasping out the syllables in a guttural tone. Rubbing his eyes he glanced upwards towards the sky, it looked blood red in the late evening twilight. ‘I must have been out cold for hours.’ he muttered, grabbing onto a nearby rock and pulling himself up out of the murky puddle that was forming under him. His body ached in resistance and begged him to lay rest, the muscles in his legs straining under the weight of his body. Ignoring it he started towards the nearest side of the dugout and searched for a foothold. With one hand he gripped his fingers around a coil of damaged hosing and a surge of burning pain rose across the palms. He ignored the pain, and hoisted himself up over the soaking ridge.

* * * *

“All clear so far Sir.” radioed in the sergeant.
“Roger that Blondie, mind you don’t mess your hair down there.” replied the man’s voice over the comm-link.
Horg grinned; he’d been expecting such a comment. “No problem Colonel Sir, I brought an extra comb just in case, over.”
The colonel smiled at his comms personnel seated next to him, “A good lad that one, make commissar one day he will.” The two men and women sat around him smiled and nodded, it was best to humour the colonel, lest his good mood suddenly turn sour.
The colonel gently pulled the comm-bead from his ear and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The communications station was a snug fit for five people and had quickly become humid with body heat and sweat, not to mention pungent.
“Confirmation from C Squad the main bunker is clear.” stated the lovelier of the two females manning the comms unit.
“Good good Viela, have them continue along the tunnels to the next exit and circle back around to base.” ordered the colonel casually. He‘d commanded many a female Guardsmen but few, if any, could match Viela’s stunning physique, and he allowed himself a thought of private indulgence. Catching himself daydreaming, he threw a cheerful look towards the younger man sitting opposite him, “Nothing wrong with a bit of fun in the ranks eh kid?! Good for morale and all that.”
“Indeed sir.” he smiled back, slightly confused but growing ever accustomed to the colonel’s ways. “We have check-ins from squads H and J, no survivors, making return to base.”
“Excellent stuff Private, got your socks n‘shoes on today eh?” he chuckled, and turned again to the two female‘s in front, both sporting uniforms slightly more decorated than the young private‘s. “Viela, Swanson, have all squads check in again at sixteen-hundred hours. Kaffe, have all artillery units re-assemble along the main line and set up a meeting with the other colonels for seventeen hundred hours in the brief. I’m going to retire for an hour or two until then. Private Socks…” he paused, taking in a moment to steal one more glance at Viela. “Be sure to keep Viela warm while I’m away.” he joked, winking at the young private as he lifted himself out of his chair and headed off to his quarters.

* * * *

“Redskin, Camo, take the lead.” came the order from the blonde sergeant to his men.
They both nodded and took position. Horg looked to his squad with a small sense of pride. There were nine of them other than himself. Stoop, Wein, Fens, Redskin, Ortaes and Camo had been his comrades for nearly five years, while Jupiter, Sanders and Kahl were recruited after the squad suffered losses in the regiment’s last conflict against a horde of the foul orks.
“Colonel giving you a hard time Sarge?” grinned another soldier immediately to his left, obviously amused by the lieutenant’s earlier conversation with the colonel.
“You know old Sundon, Stoop, always the comedian.”
“Sure, sending us down a rat hole full of mutants and psycho druids. I’m in stitches.” came Stoop’s sarcastic reply.
Horg nodded with a half-smile. It had been a long day.
After a long night of artillery bombing the cultist forces on Territalli Octus, the 2nd Battalion of the Oratarian regiment of the Imperial Guard had started clearing out the enemies bunker network. And it was slow going. Most of the entrances had been collapsed or booby-trapped, the crazed worshippers of Chaos apparently not afraid to bury themselves alive. Or escape through another exit.
After traversing concrete tunnels for an hour or so Horg’s squad had found themselves in a small-tunnelled bunker which led off to several more underground mazes. It was a massive undertaking. Aside from the task of actually descending the tunnels there was also a good chance of some deranged fanatic hurling an explosive from around the corner, or something worse. Horg shuddered at the thought, with heretics you could never be sure just what might appear in the dark.
“Mutants and psycho druids can take a running frak, I just wanna get topside to rescue some native skirt.” he assured his troops, slamming a power cell into his lasgun for effect.
Stoop barked a laugh and spat something on the ground. “Well lead on then tough guy, I‘m right behind ya.”

* * * *

Staggering across the muddy battlefield he drew an arm across his forehead. The rain was pouring down now, so much so that the ground had become nothing more than a boggy quagmire, littered with wreckage of battlements and shrapnel.
But the landscape had been the least of his concerns.
In the time since leaving the trench his body had shed its human outer skin, and a new, stronger flesh now covered his bones giving him a lean muscular appearance. What was left of his clothes hung off him in bloody tattered rags, and it wasn’t only his appearance that had changed. No longer did his muscles ache when he moved, in fact they felt a renewed strength, as if drawing energy from the air around him. His steps were heavy, but he moved at pace with a powerful stride. His breathing had become slow and almost, unnecessary. His heart felt tight and restrictive.
At first this transformation had terrified him but now he was finding it comfortable, desirable. The burning sensation on his palms that he had first thought to be scorches from the crash had become increasingly intense, until the skin had melted away to reveal symbols: hieroglyphs of some description, one in the shape of a barbed star with eight points. The other was a strange rune-like design.
‘The Mark of The Blood God’ a voice whispered in his ear.
Or … no not his ear.
Had he heard it or was he thinking it?
What had happened to him? Where was he? What was he doing here?
A sudden rush of fear and despair filled him. Voices screamed in his mind, insane passages of unreadable text flooded his vision; proverbial claws tore at the very fabric of his psyche. Falling to his knees he clutched his head and cried out to the heavens…to the gods.
‘Yessss the Gods.’ whispered the voice.
Painful flashes of memory streamed through his mind, memories of himself. Yes, there he was, though he looked nothing like he did now. A fairly tall man with long dark hair and sallow skin, he stood surrounded by people all dressed in dark red robes. They were bowed down on both knees, chanting something over and over.
Slaves. Worshippers. Yes, they were worshipping him.
No, not him, something else, calling to it; enticing it with gifts.
He remembered blood being poured over his body.
A gift.
A sacrifice.
Him.
Snapping out of the memory which had ensnared him he bolted, running franticly in no one direction. Pain coursed through every vein and nerve in his body, rupturing blood vessels and blinding him. He began to scream, his voice now so gargled he didn’t recognise it as his own. Stumbling through the terrain he fell, face-first into the muddy rainwater. It felt warm and thick, like blood from an abattoir floor. He choked and vomited, barely managing to raise himself onto four limbs before the pain consumed him utterly and his red flesh glowed with anger. He clawed at the burning symbols on his palms trying to tear them from his flesh, but to no avail.
His arms and legs shot out from underneath him, forcing his face back into the festering pool of blood-water and causing his lungs to breath in the sickly fluid. With a sickening crack his spine snapped in two, searing pain ripped along his torso and his chest burst asunder, spraying innards in all directions. His legs contorted and stretched at an un-natural angle, his arms began to swell and expand. Long black claws formed where once there had been fingers and toes, his eyes melted with an intense daemonic heat from inside his skull and dripped into the gore beneath him.
Finally, huge serrated horns burst from his temples, splintering the skull bone. He reared up on his hind claws and bellowed a mighty roar that shattered the remaining fragments of his human corpse, leaving only the monstrosity that had consumed its wearer.
Through new fiery eyes he drew his sight across the landscape before him, tasting the air with a long black tongue, and felt a deep thirst within his being.
He flinched, and for a split second again remembered the humans chanting, enticing him with blood, calling to him; calling his name.
Daemon.
The Servant of Khorne, Gifted of Slaanesh.
Kerzkoul.
His name was Kerzkoul.

* * * *

“What the hell was that noise?!” yelled the weather-beaten Guardsmen, raising his lasgun and slinging it over the small partition he had positioned himself behind.
“Emperor knows man.” answered his comrade some ten metres away, scanning the horizon as he mouthed the words. “But it sure as frak wasn’t one of us. Better tell Larks.”
The man nodded and pulled down his comm-bead. “Sergeant, Toil here, we think there’s something up ahead.”
“Be more specific soldier. Do you have a visual?” replied a broken static voice.
“Negative sir, we heard something loud, like an animal.”
“Copy that soldier we heard it too. Hold position we’re almost done here.”
Turning his head and about to relay the message to his squad mate, Guardsmen Toil had just enough time to blink before his head was ripped clean from his shoulders and tossed high into the air. The second trooper trembled before the monstrous crimson beast which had materialized from nowhere, dripping of gore and mud. In his last few seconds he muttered a prayer to the God-Emperor on Holy Terra. Then the creature plunged its claws into his ribcage and tore him apart.

* * * *

Colonel Sundon was in a state of semi-sleep when the young private had arrived at his quarters. He was not amused at being woken so abruptly.
“This had better be urgent Private.” he growled, shoving a boot on and fastening the heavy gold buckle which hung on his belt. “Last time someone woke me up they ended up with a las-bolt to the gullet.” The room door slid open and standing before him was a slightly shaky young Guardsmen.
“The up-most urgency Sir!” he saluted, knocking his helmet sideways.
“Well, out with it man.”
“You requested all squads reported in at sixteen hundred hours Sir. Two are unaccounted for, including G Squad, Sir!”
Sundon frowned. Casually reaching into his pocket he produced a small comb and brushed his short-muzzled beard while the trooper stood in uncomfortable silence.
“Stop shouting Sir at me, gives me a damn headache.” he said eventually, still combing. “Send a search party to G squad’s last position, alert the rest to a possible threat.”
“Yes ...Erm …colonel.” stuttered the trooper in a hushed tone before setting off at a brisk pace.
Sundon stepped back into his quarters. His regally decorated officers hat lay on the dresser table adjacent to the door; he lifted it gingerly and brushed it off before placing it atop his head. He glanced at the dresser mirror, the reflection catching him by surprise; there, stood a dashing young man dressed royally in a fashionable style. He recognised himself as he once had been; virile, athletic and adventurous. Gone were the streaks of grey in his hair and weather-beaten expression, and his eyes shone with a brilliant zest for life. Then in the blink of an eye his age returned, grey, old, senile.
The old colonel lifted his regally decorated officers hat from the dresser table, brushed it off and placed it atop his head, then, with a sharp turn, he exited the room and made for the communications station.

* * * *

Redskin motioned for the team to halt, his heavy bare arm nearly colliding with Camo’s nose.
“Sarge.” he broadcast over the comm-link. “Something up ahead, about twenty metres.”
Horg shuffled quietly past the other men and crouched behind the red-skinned Guardsmen. The space in the tunnel had become low and narrow, reducing the ten-man squad to squat in single file as they progressed.
He squeezed alongside the lead scout and peered through the pitch black with his magnoculars. Switching to night-vision he could see the tunnel opened up into a cavernous space some twenty meters ahead, and a small bunker building had been erected in the centre of the space. Two sentries patrolled in front of a small wall of sandbags decorated with razor wire, both armed with laspistols and wearing flimsy dark-red clothes daubed with blasphemous sigils. Adjusting the zoom on the magnoculars Horg could see they were wearing body armour underneath the heathen robes. Switching to thermal-vision another five guards were visible beyond the barrier, the heat trails from their bodies and weapons glowing fluorescent shades of red and orange. He relayed the information to the others over the vox-link.
“Fens you take out the sentries, then everyone move in and flank out, standard fire teams. Kahl, hold off on the flamer until we’ve checked for munitions, no point blowing ourselves up before we need to.”
“Seven frakking druids ain’t gonna be much bother chief. Hell, me n‘Fens could take ‘em.” piped in Stoop.
“Yeah well I wouldn’t wanna risk losing Fens.” smiled Horg. “Action time ladies” he voxed, and stepped back to allow Fens a clear shot.
Fens, a slender built man with a rock steady aim, sidled past his comrades and slid onto his belly. The rough gravel surface scraped and irritated his skin but he ignored the discomfort and readied his lasrifle.
The first shot struck the patrolling cultist in the back of the head, killing him instantly. Fens quickly adjusted his sights to the second guard and fired again, but, as if forewarned by some sixth sense, the target spun around at the last moment and the shot glanced his cheekbone, singeing the dark tattooed skin as it brushed past. “Damn!” spat Fens and he aimed again. The dark-skinned fanatic was alerted though, and managed a shrill cry before being downed by the second shot; drawing the attention of the other cult members.
The squad of Guardsmen made quickly to the dead sentries position and hid behind the small sandbag barrier. Horg took in a quick assessment of the area.
The oval-shaped cave was huge, at least sixty metres across at its narrowest stretch, and was poorly lit by a series of halo-lamps tacked along the walls, powered by a generator running in the far right end of the cave. There were four exits on the opposite wall, each with its own blockade of sandbags and razor wire. In the middle of the cavernous space was a small rockcrete bunker manned by four cultists. An extra guard stood next to a small munitions dump and a stack of promethium containers on the far left.
“They’ve seen us.” stated Stoop rather obviously as a flurry of bullets peppered the area around them.
“Four of ‘em, autopistols and lasguns.” remarked Redskin in an almost conversational manner. “And another hiding over by the munitions.”
Horg looked around for Fens “Fens take out the one on the left, try not to blow the promethium. Stoop, take blue team and flank the bunker, we’ll give you cover. Wein stay back and cover our rear.”
Stoop grinned to show his crooked teeth, holding an unlit lho-stick in place between them. “Pleasure Sarge. Buddy formation guys, follow me.”
Horg, Redskin and Jupiter stood upright and opened fire on the heretics hiding in the bunker, temporarily silencing their gunfire. Stoop rolled out from behind the sandbags and bolted across the rocky expanse, closely followed by Sanders and Camo. They managed to reach about two-thirds of the way before the cultists opened fire again, forcing them to take cover against a formation of stalagmites. Kahl and Ortaes were still with Horg and red team.
“Frak.” muttered Stoop. He then spied the generator at the far end of the cave and tapped his comm-bead, “Sarge we need that generator taken out.”
“Copy. Fens, when you’re ready.”
Fens had burrowed himself down beside the sand barricade and was waiting for a clear shot at the guard next to the promethium barrels. He had the reputation of being the best marksmen in the regiment, a reputation he hadn’t gained from being impatient. He gave the sergeant a short sharp look. Horg knew not to rush him, especially when several barrels of crude promethium were involved.
“Negative Stoop, use your smokes. We’ll cover Kahl and Ortaes.”
“Roger Sarge.” Stoop uncoupled a smoke grenade from his belt and instructed Sanders to do the same. “On your signal Blondie.”
Horg waited until the cultists had stopped to reload then jumped up and fired off his lasgun at the bunker wall. “Mark!” he voxed, as Jupiter joined him in putting down a suppressing fire. Stoop and Sanders tossed the smoke grenades, obscuring the path between them and the rockcrete bunker in a billowing cloud of grey. They made a dash for the right wall of the building, ducking to avoid the bullets that flew seemingly at random through the cloud disguising their run. Slamming into the solid surface of the bunker wall Stoop looked for an opening or weakness in the fortification.
“No back door corporal must be an underground entrance.” reported Camo from the far corner.
“Great.” sighed Stoop. He looked back at the stalagmites, Kahl was cowered behind them still; the fuel-barrel on his back had significantly encumbered his progress. Then he saw the body. Ravaged with bullet holes and spattered in blood, Ortaes lay dead on the jagged ground some four metres from where Kahl had made stay.
“Ortaes is down.” he radioed across to Horg “And we’re outta smokes here.”
“I see him Stoop. Fens, enough frakking about, take out that generator now!”
Fens spat and rolled over to face the generator, the guard hidden behind the barrels had avoided his aim so far and it annoyed him. He fired a quick round off at the generator, it died silently and the cavern was plunged into darkness. Horg fastened his magnoculars and switched to night vision.
“Kahl we need you to clear that bunker.” voxed Stoop over the link.
“Copy that. Sarge, I’ll need cover.”
“Roger. Redskin, Jupe, on my mark.” answered Horg motioning to the burly private beside him. Nodding, he shoved a fresh power cell his lasgun. Redskin drew his autopistol and cocked it.
“Mark!”
Kahl sprinted, the barrel on his back making his advance awkward and cumbersome. The covering las bolts from Horg and Jupiter didn’t discourage the cultists this time, and they retaliated with venom, shooting furiously at the sandbag entrenchment. Horg felt the sizzle of a las bolt on the top of his ear and ducked; Jupiter took a spray of shots from an autopistol in the shoulder and hit the ground hard. “Medic!” yelled Horg. Wein, who had stayed in the mouth of tunnel from which they entered, dropped his lasgun to the ground and attended Jupiter’s wound. “Stoop, you have Kahl?”
“Roger Sarge, he made it.” answered Stoop, holding back a laugh at Kahl who was sweating profusely, “Think he got a bit scared with all those bullets flying by him there.”
“Well if you’re not too busy corporal can you take out that damn bunker, we’re running out of barrier here!”
“Roger.” Stoop nodded at Kahl.
Kahl raised himself up with some effort and thrust the end of his flamer into one of the bunker’s gun slots. On pulling the trigger he engulfed the interior with flames, dousing the occupants in searing hot petrochemicals. The sound of ricocheting bullets was replaced with torrid screams of agony as the fanatic worshippers of the dark powers were roasted alive. The unmistakable smell of burnt flesh filled Stoop’s nostrils; he covered his face with a rag from his side pocket. “Toasted Sarge.” he quipped.
“Fens you got him yet?” asked Horg in reference to the guard still hiding by the stack of promethium.
“No, Sir. Bastard’s either sleeping or he’s gone and teleported out of there.”
‘Hmm…’ thought Horg, but before he could come to a conclusion as to the whereabouts of the missing target, a figure came screaming out from behind the barrels that Fens had been watching. The explanation became clear, the entrance to the bunker was behind the stock of barrels, probably a trapdoor, and the cultist had crawled into the bunker to escape Fens’ sights only to be burned alive.
“Golden Throne! Everyone! Far tunnel now!” Horg bawled the order, hoisted Jupiter on his shoulder and charged for the exit. Stoop and the others were already off, having made the same deduction as the sergeant. “Kahl move it!” yelled Stoop to his already tiresome comrade who was beginning to lag. As he did the flaming cultist fell into the munitions pile, the heat igniting power cells and bullets alike, firing them off in all directions like an amateur fireworks display. Horg saw Kahl turn into the tunnel ahead of him. A split second later a grenade-like explosion ruptured the promethium barrels, and the cavern became a hellish inferno.

* * * *

Captain Hugon Petrov, seasoned commander of the 1st Company in the 2nd Battalion of the Oratarian Imperial Guard Regiment, swallowed hard. In all his years of service, in all the bloody wars and campaigns he’d participated; against the greenskin Ork hordes of Altrean; against the high-tech armies of the Tau along the Damocles Gulf; against an incursion by a Dark Eldar strike force. In all that time, nothing had chilled his soul quite like the sight before him now.
He had led F Squad, nicknamed ‘The Fusiliers’, on the orders to investigate G Squad’s apparent disappearance, and they had found them. Or what was left of them any way. Strewn across the blood spattered landscape lay body parts and gory pieces of what had once been brave soldiers of the Imperium of Man. The intestines of one man had been shaped into some heretical motif, blood from another used to scrawl incomprehensible text on a nearby wall. One trooper was hoisted onto a large pike, the pole head spearing his chest while rusted chains stretched his limbs out so far and at such an angle they had severed the joints.
It was a sickening sight.
Captain Petrov took a step forward and felt something snap then squelch underfoot. He fought his natural reaction to look down.
“Looks like they’re all dead sir.” reported one Guardsman, his face looking weak and pale.
Petrov nodded, it would be impossible to tell how many had died here, such was the scale of the butchery that had taken place, but it was a safe assumption none had survived. “Have the men scavenge any weapons lying around.” he ordered. “And if there are any, dog-tags for the families.”
The trooper saluted and went about his business. Petrov sighed and tapped the comm-bead in his ear, setting it to the inter-squad command frequency. “Colonel this is Petrov. We’ve found G Squad, all dead. Butchered.”
“Butchered captain? By who, the heretics?”
“Possibly sir, although it’s pretty sadistic even by their standards.” Petrov grimaced as he spotted the disembowelled corpse of his former sergeant lying in a puddle of bloody rainwater. It looked like something had gnawed on his head. “Sir there could be another possibility. Emperor forgive me for saying it, a daemon.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re to make no mention of this to the men, captain, until we have something concrete. I won’t be responsible for starting rumours of ghouls and spooking the troops un-necessarily. Sweep the area and rendezvous with E Squad.”
“Roger Colonel, I’ll hav ...gh …ughh …ggh!” the last few syllables trailed into a gurgle of saliva and blood as the daemon’s talons speared Petrov’s throat, ripping downwards and tearing him in two.
Trooper Asden turned to see his commanding officer shredded by the creature which had appeared in their midst. Flickering in and out of reality like a faulty halo-lamp; the beast appeared to lack any physical substance, though the captain’s untimely demise proved otherwise.
“Shoot it! Shoot the damned thing!” he hollered, as if his squad mates needed encouragement. A storm of las bolts struck at the monstrous daemon, pelting off its hide like flicked peas.
Kerzkoul roared with laughter, the vibration making the very ground tremble. He swung his left arm at the measly humans, skewering three of them on its elongated claws. He raised the flailing bodies above his head and tasted their blood as it trickled onto the second of his snake-like tongues. He enjoyed the warmth of it.
A brave trooper attacked his lower hind leg, slicing into the semi-real flesh with a large hunting knife, the metal blade caught fire and sizzled away like fat on a stove. Amused, Kerzkoul casually blew a gaseous breath at the man and the daemonic flame reduced him to a pool of burnt sinews and bone in seconds. He glared at the remaining Guardsmen, the very terror of his stare causing one soldier to vomit, another urinated himself. Kerzkoul let out another howl of laughter. The daemon revelled in the fear he created amongst mortals. He thrived on the emotional high of slaughter and homage to his dark masters, but to cause fear in an enemy gave him a sense of true power. Sheer reputation would reduce his victims to quivering wrecks before they’d even seen him, and when they did he would justify their nightmares, squeezing every measure of terror from their souls to feed his warp presence. He slaughtered the last of the troopers with ease, taking time to maximise their suffering. With every slain Guardsman he grew in size, and in strength.
He was Kerzkoul, The Servant of Khorne, Gifted of Slaanesh. Daemon.
And his rampage had just begun.

* * * *

“How many companies are we still in contact with?” asked the colonel, his agitated facial expression betraying the calmness of his voice.
“Two sir that are currently engaged, the Second and the Sixth. Eighth company has been lost completely. The Fourth and Fifth are out of contact but were holding the capital and facing heavy resistance on last transmission. Most of our tanks are out of action or cut off from support.” reported Swanson from the comms unit.
The atmosphere in the comms station had changed dramatically over the last few hours. The battalion stationed on-planet had encountered resistance from fresh cultist forces. Where they had came from or hidden themselves wasn’t clear but the attack had been swift, and devastating. A whole platoon had been lost to fanatics strapped with explosives, vehicles were sabotaged or destroyed and large sections of the Planetary Defence Force had turned traitor, bolstering the enemies’ ranks. All the frequencies over the communications network had been jammed, filled instead with a myriad of strange voices chattering profanities and blasphemous verses. More worrying still, after the loss of F Squad to something another two squads had disappeared in the nearby vicinity without trace. Captured picts from a recovered auspex unit showed whatever had killed them was massive. ‘Warp spawn’ had been the phrase muttered by the colonel’s right-hand man, Major Fiel.
“How many platoons do we have left here?” asked the Major, who was now also pressed into the confined space of the communications centre.
“I can’t say sir. We’re only able to contact four, and those are all reporting substantial casualties.” Swanson stated, the desperation of the situation clear in her tone.
“That‘s less than two hundred men! We won’t be able to hold the spaceport with those numbers colonel.” Fiel turned to face the colonel who looked completely over-whelmed by the situation. “Perhaps we should withdraw and regroup around the capital, try and hold it till the rest of the regiment can arrive.”
The colonel drew a deep breath and nodded slowly. “Give the order to withdraw to the capital. Have my transport ready to take us-”
“Colonel! The enemy has overrun our artillery section.” cut in Swanson hastily.
“God-Emperor! They can’t be more than twenty minutes awa ...” Fiel was cut short by an ear-splitting explosion as a massive Basilisk round slammed into the buildings weakly armoured hull, obliterating it totally.

* * * *

Redskin was the first to notice the breeze, his acute senses, honed in the hunting forests of his home world, tasted the change in the atmosphere around him. “Fresh air.” he said. “Must be an opening up ahead.”
“About damn time.” swore a blackened and weary Stoop. There were just five of them left now; Horg, Wein, and Jupiter had been caught in the fiery explosion of promethium and burnt to ashes; Kahl had barely escaped the flames, only to be crushed by the resulting cave-in of the tunnel they had sought to flee through. Each of the dead was a dear friend and it had sunk their hearts, unable even to bring their regimental tags back home to be commemorated. The loss of their commanding sergeant was particularly deep.
There had been little time to grieve though, as through the dense chattering of insanities over the comm-link, Sanders had made out the command; ’withdraw…capital…’ before the link had been severed completely. Stoop had assumed command and started the surviving squad members on a climb out of the underground labyrinth, taking care to avoid any stray cultists that still lurked. To some measure of good fortune however, the tunnels seemed to be empty of life and they had now made it to the high ground without further incident.
“Do we have any idea where we are now?” asked Camo as they reached the mouth of the passage.
“Frak knows.” shrugged Stoop, lighting a fresh lho-stick and offering one to each member of his depleted team. “We’ll make higher ground and get our bearings. How’s the vox sounding Sanders?”
“Nothing I can stomach listening to Stoop, that noise is getting more intense by the minute.”
Stoop exhaled loudly, the smoke from his lho-stick turning purple in the night air. He knew they must have been at least fifteen kilometres from the bunker network they’d originally investigated, probably a lot more, and finding their way back to base wasn’t going to be easy. The landscape around them was made of vast grassy fields and small hills dotted with huge fern bushes; to the west it expanded for what seemed like forever, a tree line on the eastern horizon suggested a huge forest.
Stoop drew another breath on his lho-stick.
Much like the area they’d bombed the night before it would be boggy and full of natural land traps, pits of near-liquid mud ready to drag a man down and drown him in soggy earth. Seemingly innocent mounds of grass could hide bunker entrances or landmines, and Emperor only knew what lay in the forest ahead. He eyed a nearby hill that stood slightly larger than the rest.
“There” he pointed “See if Sandy can get a signal. If not we’ll head east, seems to be the rough direction we came from.” The others nodded and stubbed out their smokes.
Already it was well into the night, the sky was a deep, dark red and there was no moon to light their way. Phosphorous insects buzzed about clumps of wild fern and strange amphibians slid amongst the reeds that sprouted out of the alien fenland. Camo, as befitting to his nickname, had slapped handfuls of mud over his uniform and tied lengths of reed around his standard issue helmet, effectively invisible he scouted some twenty metres ahead of the main group, avoiding suspicious rises in the ground and sweeping five metres in each direction as he went. Following in a paired formation to cover their flanks the others kept a brisk pace. They closed on the foot of the hill, forty metres…thirty…twenty…ten…The gentle slope greeted them with some welcome solid ground and they made the summit quickly. Camo was already there and had staked a position on the eastern side. Fens followed suit and set down toward the west. “Anything Sandy?” asked Stoop as he crouched next to a prickly fern bush twice his height. Sanders extended the antennae from the comms-unit on his back and started scanning frequencies with a series of dials, after a minute or so of audible torture from the chaotic banter flooding the airwaves he picked out something, a long bleeping, sounding at regular intervals. A beacon. “Sounds like a home-beacon Sir, probably for aircraft at an LZ.”
“Can you get a fix?”
Sanders pulled a small hand-held device from his belt and fixed it to the comms-unit. “About six kloms, eighty-five degrees north-east.”
“Into the woods it is then.” smiled the weary corporal, the thought of leaving the wretched place that had claimed his squad mates’ lives filled him with a sense of anticipated relief. “Camo take lead, Fens cover rear. Red, me and you will cover Sanders here and his gizmos.”
The Guardsmen slipped into formation with practiced efficiency and moved out, feeling their ordeal nearing its end.

* * * *

Brigadier-General Vehnsehn stood staring at the data slate held in his hand. He was a powerful looking man, and the slim piece of tech-kit looked like it would snap between the augmented fingers of his right hand. Standing amongst the servitors and tech-priests on the command bridge of The Ophidian, the main inter-stellar transport for the Oratarian Guard regiment, he took in the information with a heavy heart. “Is this accurate?” he asked, directing the question towards the slender built naval officer that had handed him the slate.
“According to the orbiting transport cruiser’s captain, yes Sir.” he answered in a formal tone. Vehnsehn mulled over the statement before him. There had been no indication that the civil war on Territalli Octus had been anything but that, however, persistent pleas from the planets neighbours for intervention had been obliged on an act of good faith from the High Command; and a single battalion of the Oratarian regiment had been sent in to quell the population and restore stability. Shortly after their arrival it had became apparent the fault lay not in civil rivalries, but a Chaos insurgency. Immediately the remaining Oratarian guard were despatched to help with the removal of the heretic scum, while the 2nd Battalion were to reinforce the PDF in the main cities and root out what filth they could find. But, it seemed, that plan had been an underestimate of the enemies capabilities. With the main force of the regiment still some sixteen hours away, the ground troops had been taken by surprise and overrun. ‘No doubt due to that idiot Sundon.’ thought Vehnsehn, remembering the colonels somewhat senile manner.
“Shall I inform the General, Sir?” asked the naval officer, feeling awkward as the Brigadier-General stood relaying the situation in his mind.
“No I’ll take it to him, eh…” he trailed off realising he had no idea of the man’s name.
“Junior-Officer Cortsin, Sir.”
“Very good private.” half-muttered Vehnsehn, and waved him away without much care as he left the command bridge for the Generals quarters.
According to the captain’s report, nearly two thirds of the 2nd Battalion were either dead or presumed dead, the remainder being holed up in one city waiting for the regiment to arrive. With sixteen hours left before they would reach orbit, the Brigadier-General hoped there would be someone left to greet them on arrival.

* * * *

Kerzkoul snarled and snapped the man in two with his claws. The battle had fed him the blood of many and their souls had been drawn to his warp presence; sucked in to feed his eternal hunger. He had pleased his ominous masters with each. But it was not enough.
Still, he was incomplete.
Still, he could not truly exist in the material realm, and still, he craved for bloodshed.
The piles of desecrated corpses lay testament to the carnage he had wrought against the minions of the False God-Emperor. The flattened, upturned and twisted shells of their weapons littered the field and the air gave birth to the stench of decomposition. Although satisfied his age-old battle prowess hadn’t left him during his tri-millennial sleep in the warp, Kerzkoul knew he needed more blood, more souls to truly be reborn in physical form. He knew the weaklings of humanity would come in greater force, and that he must be ready for them.
He sniffed the air, his muzzle contorting in a seemingly painful fashion at the scent of death, although it pleased him. He whipped his tongues out from between his gaping jaws and they thrashed around violently like two duelling cobras, tasting the air for fresh meat. They paused suddenly, then, with a supernatural agility, Kerzkoul swung around to face the dense forest at the edge of the field. He stepped forward, his enormous hoof meeting the ground with a thunderous boom that echoed across the landscape. Lowering his head, his black eyes seemed to flare bright violet-pink and crimson, and he smirked at the thought of what was to come.

* * * *

The sound of thunder made Camo pause briefly to look at the clouds, though the sky seemed clear he expected a lightning strike or rain to follow. He shrugged it off and continued forward, alien planets often had strange weather and it had confused him on more than one occasion.
The ground had solidified over the last few metres and they were making good progress, the LZ couldn’t be more than three or four kilometres away now and as long as the forest wasn’t crawling with insurgents or wild beasts…
A tremble disturbed his train of thought. He halted and raised an arm to signal the others to follow suit. Tapping the side of his helmet, he activated a small auspex unit that he had fitted into the headgear, giving him a magnified vision in his right eye. He scanned the surrounding area for signs of movement. Nothing.
“What’s wrong Camo?” voxed Stoop from behind quietly.
“Did you feel a tremor in the ground?”
“I did.” piped in Fens. “Might have been more underground explosions.”
“Or thunder.” added Redskin. “I heard some a minute ago.”
“Suppose so.” answered Camo unconvincingly, and moved on. It dawned on him that the forest was completely silent save for the light footsteps of their passing, and it made him uneasy.
Nevertheless they continued for another two kilometres and Camo’s instincts seemed to of been mislaid as the forest started to thin out. Stoop had moved up beside Camo to take lead in case of something unexpected arising. He was meant to be in charge now after all, and it didn’t sit well with him to be leading from the rear always.
“How far now Sandy?” he asked with an obvious tone of impatience.
“Hey you guys hear that?” voxed in Redskin as the distinct rattle of gunfire came sounding through the trees.
“Frak must the LZ, okay troops double time!” Stoop waved them on and started running through the underbrush towards the noise, Camo was right by his side, adrenaline pumping once again at the sense of battle. Another clap of thunder followed by the whistling sound of a rocket-propelled grenade sounded, and they stopped in their tracks.
“By the throne…” remarked Camo, nearly dropping his lasgun in shock.
The forest thinned out into a large grassy clearing which sloped gently into the centre, bright plumes of yellow smoke marked out a landing zone, but towering above them stood a daemon of monstrous proportions. Stoop had to hold back the urge to vomit at the sight of thing, yet it was strangely alluring in its vileness.
In the moment it took the men to realise what was in front of them the beast had already finished the last of the Guardsmen manning the LZ, spitting out the bones of one trooper like used tobacco, and wasted no time in aiming its next targets. A huge ball of warp-fire came hurtling toward them. Without hesitating Stoop and Camo dived to the ground, the flames singeing Camo’s foliage disguise. Sanders, encumbered by his comms-unit and slower reaction time, felt the full force of the daemonic heat and screamed in agony momentarily before being reduced to a steaming pile of ash and bone.
“Son of a bitch!” yelled Redskin and let rip a torrent of las bolts as he raced over past Sanders remains to face the monster that had murdered his life-long friend.
Fens, who’d circled around past Camo and Stoop without being noticed, let loose a volley of lasrifle shots aimed at the daemons head, while Camo and Stoop jumped to their feet and cried vengeance, blasting wildly at the hide of the blasphemous beast with their weapons.

Kerzkoul laughed as more lambs rose to the slaughter, he would tease the very last remains of life out of these mortals and at last regain his strength in full. Then, he would be unstoppable.

Seeing their las bolt’s having next to no effect on the daemon, Stoop and Camo ran into the middle of the landing zone to the munitions pile, rolling and ducking streams of warp-fire which spat from the daemons mouth. Redskin had stopped short of reaching the hideous creature and was now lobbing grenades from behind a formation of boulders, the incendiary explosions caught the daemon off guard and it stumbled backwards, crushing the body of one deceased Guardsman underfoot. Looking more bemused than annoyed, the enormous walking nightmare looked straight to the heavens and uttered an un-word with its venomous lips. As it spoke, the snake-tongues of its mouth burst into pieces and sprayed foul-smelling ichors in all directions and a cloud of purple-black appeared over Redskin, cackling with energy.
“RED!” cried Fens at the top of his lungs, but it too late. The boulders around Redskin hummed with intensity and were atomised, the particles of stone shredding him in an instant like a hail of minute bullets. Blood soaked the grass a crimson red.
Camo and Stoop reached the munitions pile and tore the crates open. Camo loaded up a missile launcher and hoisted it onto his shoulder; Stoop lifted the auto-cannon and slammed in a magazine. They turned for a target, but the daemon had disappeared.
“Fens?!” yelled Stoop, positioning himself against a tree stump. “Fens! Where the frak are you?!”
There came no reply.
“Throne dammit!” swore Stoop and he cautiously jogged over to where the sniper had been last.
“Where the throne did it go?!” shouted Camo from the edge of the LZ.
“I dunno …Hey, look! Up there!” Stoop pointed at two shapes in the sky.
“About frakking time man!” said Camo recognising the blue and yellow landing lights of their evac. Stoop made his way back down the slope to the landing area, still scouring for his missing teammate.
“This is E-V 410 coming in for landing, please identify yourselves.” came a voice over the distorted vox link.
“Corporal Stoop of A squad, 1st company, 2nd Battalion. We’re sure glad to see you guys.”
The Valkyries landed and two squads of Guardsmen formed a perimeter around the landing zone as Stoop and Camo boarded one of the ships.
“Is this it? Where’s C squad? They radioed us in nearly twenty minutes ago.” asked the pilot from the cockpit.
“Dead. Everyone’s dead, and so would we be if that thing hadn’t of took off when it did.” said Camo mournfully.
“Well we’ve been pulled back to the capital until the rest of the regiment arrives. Bet you boys will be glad to see them eh?” smiled a trooper stepping back onboard the ship’s entry ramp.
A yell came from the cockpit, “Holy Terra! What is that?!”
They all looked to the pilot’s window and gasped. It was Fens, mutilated beyond recognition but still alive, staggering towards the ship with one of his arms hanging off its shoulder. “What the hell…” started Stoop, before being interrupted by one of the ground team,
“Contact, four o’clock.”
“Everyone onboard, now!” ordered the pilot.
“We can’t leave him.” said Stoop, indicating the bloody form of Fens still struggling to reach the ship. The pilot said something into the vox-link that Stoop didn’t quite hear.
“Roger.” acknowledged a voice, a shot was fired and Fens dropped to the ground.
“Merciful.” spat Stoop and collapsed into his seat.
“No time, he was dead anyway.” came the cold reply as Fens’ executioner boarded the ship. The entry ramp started to close and the two Valkyries jolted into life simultaneously, scorching the earth underneath with blasts from their anti-grav engines.
Kerzkoul moved with ferocious speed to intercept the human transports. Having toyed with his former victim long enough it was time to make the kill. Coming alongside the first of the Imperial ships he tore at its hull with his claws, cutting it apart cleanly in two lightning-fast swipes. The pilot did not surrender though and fired several rounds from the wing-mounted auto-cannons straight into the daemons face. In a fit of unexpected pain Kerzkoul yanked at the ship with his forearms, sending it smashing to the ground. He turned his attention to the next ship only to see it gaining altitude at speed; they were close to escape ….
‘But close isn‘t enough’ he laughed with amusement. His huge hind legs bent at an angle no human would manage, and he thrust himself into the air with powerful determination.
“It’s coming straight for us!” exclaimed the pilot and the crew looked outward as the massive daemon soared right past them into the atmosphere. For a moment they felt relieved, the warp-spawn devil had spared them and fled elsewhere, but then relief turned to horror, as Kerzkoul turned a somersault mid-air and brought his monstrous form down upon them. The pilot fired franticly with both auto-guns but to no avail. Kerzkoul slammed into the small transport ship and sent it hurtling to the ground; it exploded on impact in a blaze of ammo and fuel. No one survived.
Kerzkoul landed gingerly on the ground, his enormous hooves barely making a sound on the soft earth. He felt the sensation of air on his skin and let out a blood-curdling laugh that split the surrounding trees into pieces.
Now, at last, he was complete.
Now, when his enemies arrived, he would be ready.