A Guardsman's Game, Chapter 78

I soared through the desert like a bolt of lightning.

The roar of air whipped past my ears. Mjolnir thrummed in my hand. Its power carried me high above the dunes, faster than any bird or craft. Lightning crackled around me, a static haze that danced along my limbs. Each beat of my heart fed the storm’s fury, and the hammer channeled it into flight. I gritted my teeth, pushing the hammer to its limit, willing myself to move even faster. The settlement was in danger. I had to reach it before the legions of the Golden Bull did.

The desert stretched below me, an endless sea of gold and tan. I searched the ground for movement, scanning dunes and rocky outcrops. I spotted distant shapes—herds of mutated animals, scattered ruins, the occasional dust devil swirling in the wind. But none of that mattered now. I needed an army. I needed the Kharsons.

I clutched Mjolnir tight, summoning more lightning with a whispered thought. Electricity crackled around my body, surging through my veins, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. 

The System’s presence flickered in my mind. My Genetic Blueprints. The Kharsons. They existed as a series of code, grafted to souls I had crafted long ago—three stalwart guardians shaped in the image of the Custodes. Clones, perhaps, though not quite. Something more personal, an echo of a great I had once fought and trained alongside. Quite literally, Lord Khars himself had been the one to aid me in their creation. However, I’d fought with them before and they could not be farther from the one they were modeled after. 

That said, they were close enough, in terms of raw power, that the lack of Lord Khars’s other traits didn’t matter anymore.

Bodies formed from the swirling energies. Flesh, bone, sinew, all willed into being from the reservoir I carried. The air shimmered near me, three shapes solidifying mid-flight, each one large and powerfully built. Skin knitted together around their frames, muscles bulking out. Hairless heads, stern faces. Perfect forms, close to what a Custodian might look like before donning their Aurumite Power Armor. Their eyes opened, glowing briefly as I implanted the souls, the incorporeal seeds that housed the Kharsons.

Wind rushed around us, but they hovered by my side, their balance effortless. They wore no Aurumite plate, because I did not possess any as each one was tailor-made to be perfect for its wearer and I had not earned that honor–nor did I ever wish to. Instead, they wore gear originally meant for Ogryn, heavily modified to fit their towering, but overall thinner frames, compared to Ogryns. Thick boots, reinforced chest plates, rugged gauntlets. It lacked the splendor of the Custodes, but it would suffice. At their hips, each carried a pair of Power Swords, crackling with faint energy.

I looked at them in the brief second I had, my voice low. “Kharsons.”

They turned their faces to me, eyes hard, expressions calm. One of them, the tallest, gave a respectful bow of his head. 

I raised Mjolnir overhead, letting lightning arc around me. With a silent push, I streaked forward again. The Kharsons followed in close formation, each carried by the same storm. I directed a steady stream of power around them, enough to keep them aloft without draining my reserves too fast. The desert blurred below as we flew.

I refocused on the dunes ahead. Then I saw it: dust clouds rising from thousands of marching feet. A massive host of barbarians crossed the open waste, heading straight for my settlement. Banners fluttered among them—some red, some black, and at the center, the golden bull standard. Rare were the times that I felt genuine rage against fellow humans. 

This was one of them.

In the heart of their formation, I spotted lines of wagons, likely carrying explosives or siege gear. I saw shapes of tamed beasts, heavily mutated and covered in tumors, covered in crude armor, dragging along supplies. Men in patchwork mail walked in loose ranks, carrying spears, axes, or swords. Archers, perhaps a hundred or more, marched to one side. The entire legion must have numbered in the low thousands. I could kill them all if I wanted to. 

It wouldn’t even take me much effort. After all, transforming into an eldritch mass of feeders, teeth, tendrils, and maws would be more than enough to devour each and every one of them. 

And yet. They were human. And they, at the very least, deserved to die with a modicum of honor, unlike xenos scum. So, I wasn’t going to do that. 

I’d eat them, still, but only after killing them properly.

I banked in the air, streaking above them, lightning dancing from Mjolnir’s tip. A few barbarians looked up, shading their eyes. Others pointed, shouting alarm. I heard muffled exclamations, the rising clamor of confusion. They clearly had no experience with enemies from above–not that a flying man with a lightning hammer was any less confusing ten thousand years into the future.

I hovered there, letting the Kharsons fan out on either side. I could see the shock etched into the barbarians’ stances. They faltered in mid-step, their formation turning ragged. The Golden Bull banner rose defiantly, held by a towering figure in horned armor. He shook a spear at me, shouting words I couldn’t make out. Dark and irradiated storm clouds gathered above me.

The Kharsons hung beside me, each one silent, hands ready to draw swords. All I’d have to do was drop them right atop the horde and watch the slaughter that’d certainly follow.

I hesitated for a heartbeat. These were humans, not xenos or daemons. They weren’t heretics or traitors as the Imperium did not exist yet and neither did the Echlesiarcy. All things considered, I had no real reason to consider them my enemies. And yet, I could not help but feel… animosity towards them–rage, unbridled. They had chosen to serve the Golden Bull, to slaughter innocents, to butcher my people. 

They had no mercy left to claim.

I lifted Mjolnir high, calling on the storm. Lightning flashed behind me, arcing through the dark clouds. Thunder rumbled low, the desert wind picking up. My heart hammered. I pointed Mjolnir at the barbarian horde, drawing lightning from the clouds in a single, colossal bolt.

For a moment, the darkness turned to light–and all things became white.

And then it crashed down with a deafening roar. Electricity spanned from sky to sand, white-hot and blinding. The ground erupted in a spray of molten glass, dunes turning to slag under the intense heat. Screams filled the air as entire ranks of barbarians vanished in an instant, vaporized or hurled aside like rag dolls. The flash seared and melted the sands and sent jagged shards of half-melted glass hurling at every direction.

When the glow faded, a vast swath of the desert lay fused and blackened, the sand melted into jagged sheets of glass. Smoke billowed from countless bodies, scorched beyond recognition. My chest rose and fell as I sucked in breath, feeling the strain on my reserves. The legion’s lines had shattered, an entire flank gone. Survivors stumbled, dazed by the thunderclap. Their ears must have been ringing, their eyes watering.

I saw the Golden Bull banner still standing, though the one who held it before was missing. Another barbarian picked it up, hoisting it high. He shouted frantic orders, trying to rally the survivors. I lifted Mjolnir again. Lightning crackled around the head. But before I let loose a second strike, I glanced at the Kharsons. 

“Go,” I said. “Break them.”

They drew their twin Power Swords, each blade humming with lethal energy. Without a word, they dove into the fray. Their forms blurred as they soared downward, landing among the barbarians with heavy impacts. I saw the first wave of men rush them, spears out. The Kharsons moved like golden ghosts—though their armor was a dull gray, their skill was the stuff of legends. Power Swords flashed, slicing through weapons and limbs. I heard shrieks, saw splashes of crimson.

The barbarians, for all their numbers, lacked discipline or advanced gear. The Kharsons were Custodes-level warriors, unstoppable in close quarters. They spun, parried, thrust, stepping gracefully between lunges, cutting down foes two, three, four, and even five at a time. Bodies fell in heaps around them, blood pooling on molten sand. They carved a path through the legion, methodical and unhurried. I doubt the barbarians even noticed them before it was too late.

Those further from the slaughter tried to flee, breaking into panicked runs. They stumbled over glassy patches where my lightning had melted the dunes. Some dropped their weapons, hoping to escape. I set my jaw, raising Mjolnir again. They were fleeing. The desert, more than likely, would take them. But I couldn’t take any chances. I could not allow it.

Lightning coursed through my arm, building in the hammer’s core. Another jolt tore from the sky, slamming into a cluster of fleeing barbarians. They went up in a spray of sparks and flame. I heard the ground crack, the air bursting with ozone. Sand hissed as it liquefied. My breath came in short bursts, the strain of repeated lightning strikes making me dizzy. But I persevered. My rage was too great.

The Kharsons roamed among the ruins of what had been an army. They cut down stragglers who tried to stand and fight. Their swords crackled with each swing, severing flesh and bone with ease. Some barbarians attempted to encircle them, but the clones fought back to back. One tall Kharson spun, deflecting a wild axe swing with one sword while stabbing a second barbarian with the other. Another Kharson parried three spears at once, his moves precise, elegant, unstoppable.

I hovered above, scanning for any sign of an organized resistance. I spotted a group of archers kneeling behind a scorched dune, drawing arrows with trembling hands. I raised Mjolnir, letting out a slow exhale. Then I launched a smaller bolt. It arced down, striking them with lethal precision. Their bows flew apart, strings snapping, bodies convulsing as lightning danced over them.

I saw no sign of a commanding figure in golden armor or anything that hinted at the Golden Bull’s true leadership. Only scattered, panicked men. My eyes narrowed. Perhaps this was just one of their raiding forces, not the entire tribe. They had sacrificed it to draw me out, or maybe they simply never expected such overwhelming power. If there was a Warleader or Chieftain, he was nowhere to be seen. I suspected that this might’ve been nothing more than a cursory raiding force of some kind, the least-important part of a much greater foe. One clue that hinted at that was the clever use of explosives that’d ravaged all those who volunteered to come with me–before that were all the scorch marks and slugs I’d seen on the ground in a few of the ruined villages we’d come across. 

And yet, the enemy here bore only primitive weapons and wore primitive armor.

Lightning crackled. I launched another bolt at a cluster of riders who had attempted to mount their beasts. The animals screamed, rearing up before collapsing in twisted heaps. The riders died instantly, seared by the strike. 

The Kharsons advanced relentlessly, stepping over bodies and sidestepping puddles of molten glass. Blood spattered their armors, dripping with gore. One Kharson paused to shove a corpse aside with his boot, scanning for more targets. Another Kharson found a small knot of defenders who tried forming a shield wall. He tore through them with savage grace, splitting shields and torsos alike.

Screams echoed across the desert. Some survivors threw down their weapons, dropping to their knees in desperate surrender. But the Kharsons did not stop. They cleaved and thrust, letting none remain standing. I hovered above, ignoring the pleas for mercy. The Golden Bull showed no mercy to those it conquered and, thus, it would be shown none.

At last, the battlefield grew silent except for crackling flames. The Kharsons stood amid the carnage, their forms wreathed in smoke. They glanced up at me, each nodding to confirm their task was done. I lowered Mjolnir, letting the lightning subside. My arms felt heavy, my head pounding. But the anger still raged within, an unquenched fury for the men who had set bombs in their own tents.

I descended, landing on the scorched ground. My boots sank into sand half-melted into glass. I walked among the bodies, heat wafting from charred flesh. The Kharsons parted to let me through, before bowing.

I nodded at them, stepping over twisted limbs. I saw the golden bull banner, half-buried in debris. I dragged it free with a sharp pull, the cloth tearing. My gauntlet crushed the pole, splintering it. Then I dropped the remnants, wiping my hand on the side of my suit.

My gaze swept the horizon. In the distance, the desert stretched out, empty. I never should’ve gotten myself entangled in this business. I should’ve just searched for the God Emperor and delivered the shard. Instead, I was here, acting like I was some kind of Commander when I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to be doing. I was a Guardsman and before that I was a farmer.

Damn this conscience. 

And yet… I knew, in my heart, that I would go back to save and lead my people. Once they were settled and safe, perhaps, would I leave them and find the God Emperor. Until then… well… until then, I’d just have to do what I needed to do.