Blood Gorgons by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer [Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

confines of a boarding action, their bolters’ machine spirits had been forged to seize up when targeting Blood Gorgon power armour.

There was a brief moment of stillness. The squads were locked, both unable to act, their weapons trained on one another.

Sabtah thought about finishing it. He could kill him now, execute him and be done with it. But such an act would open the floodgates of utter chaos. Muhr’s factional supporters would grow uneasy – there would be repercussions. Those rogues who harboured their own ambitions would fear for their own safety. Above all, Sabtah would be viewed as an indiscriminate tyrant. They would never accept him as a rightful Champion. The fabric of Blood Gorgon unity would erode through mistrust and paranoia. Brother would turn against brother, blood bond against blood bond. It would force history to repeat, and that was what Sabtah feared the most.

‘All squads, lower your weapons,’ Sabtah said quietly. Both squads continued to threaten each other with their guns. ‘Now!’ Sabtah warned, spiking his vox with amplitude.

Once the squads cowled their weapons, he approached Muhr with open palms.

‘This can only be resolved by invocation.’

Muhr bared his teeth. ‘You dare rouse Yetsugei for this?’

‘Why, are you frightened of judgement? The Prince sees all,’ Sabtah snorted.

Muhr licked his lips with a serpentine tongue. ‘Then we will summon him. The one who survives judgment will stand as ward of this Chapter.’

‘You should be dead, Muhr,’ Sabtah spat. ‘By all rights you should be dead. I should kill you. Now the Prince will have that honour.’

‘We shall see, Sabtah. We shall see.’

THE WARP. THE warp was no place to walk barefoot.

There, the sky was constantly expanding, allowing him to glimpse overlapping time loops of the universe’s ending. The land curved away from him, never‐ending. Crushed stone bit his soles. He could see a citadel. Its towers and parapets sat atop the shell of a turtle like a hive stack. The turtle was ponderous, marching tirelessly across the horizon.

How large was it? A thousand kilometres long?Perhaps a million? With each lethargic step, it levelled mountains and bevelled cliffs into biting, crushed stone shards. The scale was hypnotic.

Muhr knew he was dreaming. He was dressed in a cloak of black velvet, but nothing else. At his hip was a sword he did not remember owning.

Sabtah’s threats still rang in his ears. Muhr had been thinking about them before he drifted into his psy‐trance. Now, even as his spirit waded through the warp, the troubles of the physical world followed him.

He knelt down to pick up a flint. It crumbled at his touch, exploding into powder as if age had stolen its integrity. Muhr stood up quickly, his black cloak snapping. The simple movement caused a rippling wind that puffed a stand of dry, leafless trees into ash.

Everything in this world was dead, preserved only by tranquillity.

‘Welcome to my home,’ said a hollow voice. ‘It is as much yours as it is mine.’

‘Opsarus!My Overlord!’ Muhr gasped. He fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the powdered stone.

Opsarus appeared to him as old as the world itself. His power armour had a petrified, granular texture, as if a mantle of minerals had risen from the ground to streak it with 92

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