A low murmur of conversation filled the barn as the assembled farm hands waited for the Pater to begin her sermon. The whole village had turned out and (probably) would have done so even if the Pactsmen hadn’t gone round with goads at the end of shift rounding everyone up. After all, the week’s rations were doubled for anyone who attended Service. And in any case, since the Fighting Pit (the local tavern which also, as it so happened, hosted a popular fighting pit) was undergoing repairs there wasn’t much else to do most nights anyhow. All eyes were upon the huge muscular man currently pacing up and down the hastily constructed stage, muttering oaths to himself, and slashing the air with the crude shivs he held.

Silence descended for a moment when Pater Shamatii took the stage herself. But only for a moment, since without missing a beat the muscular mutterer let out a guttural roar and charged at her. Quick as a flash she produced a blade from her belt and threw it into the onrushing man’s throat. The blade’s shaft connected with a dull crunch, and the whole crowd let out a roar of appreciation. The charging man, however, stumbled and fell, propelled forward by his own momentum but no longer able to coordinate his own limbs. As he lay on the floor gurgling Shamatii dived on top of him and stabbed into his face and neck with wild abandon, a second blade having appeared in her hand apparently from nowhere. It took some time for her to come down from her ecstasy, at which point two slaves dragged the body away while a third offered her a towel so she could wipe the blood and viscera that had splattered into her eyes.

Anyone who would have found this shocking had long since been weeded out and killed, and in any case this place had a way of changing people. Some of those now letting out rapturous cries of approval were once known as dull, solid, conventional sorts, not given to extremes of emotion. Here was Dumuzae, crying with joy. She used to run the local picthouse and in a sense she still did, but the only shows now available were incredibly graphic snuff films shown for the entertainment of garrisoned Pactsmen. There was Ashur, a kindly man; he’d held respect as he had his letters and would help out any villagers who had to interact with the Administratum. There was no use for those skills now so he was was a common fieldworker with the rest, but as he yelled for more blood to be shed he seemed happier than anyone could ever remember seeing him. Only a year of occupation by Pactsmen had, to some extent or another, mutated every one of them. They all now lost themselves - completely submerged their personalities along with all inhibition - in these rushes of bloodlust. It felt liberating. In fact, while the rations were less by about a third than what had once been standard under Imperium rule, in the time immediately prior to the coming of the Pactsmen things had been dire; all trade infrastructure had collapsed and starvation had beckoned. Whereas at least now they were fed enough to get up and work the next day. So they were richer and they were freer — and now the Pater was going to make them wiser too.

“My friends!” Pater Shamatii raised her bloodied blade and called for attention, immediately focusing everyone upon her person. “Hail! Hail to the blood God! Hail to the Skull Throne! HAIL TO THE MIGHTY!” The crowd responded, each screaming “HAIL TO THE MIGHTY!” with their own passionate intensity, brooking no harmony. “I come to reaffirm the great truths upon which our society is built; that only in strength is their merit, that the universe itself affirms the primacy of the mighty, and that we too may through our struggles unto victory earn a place within the warp.

Looking around my heart is warmed for I can already see that some of you are strong! You have within you the seeds of greatness; the potential which, watered with the blood of enemies, could sprout into Glory! Ascension! Before we liberated you from their lies the insipid priesthood of weaklings” — here she spat, and many in the crowd made exaggerated noises of disgust — “held you back, told you that by service to your fellows and obsequious obedience to soft-handed aristos you could find a place by the Golden Throne. They tried to snuff out your strength, prevent you from gaining glory. And for what? I’ll tell you! So they who are weak could coral you who are strong, so that with their mumbled prayers and vigour-dulling incense they might soothe you to sleep — and once your guard is down rob you! Rob you blind! Rob you of your destiny!

But all of nature and history teaches us the emancipatory truth. History tells us that to the victor goes the spoils. Nature shows us through battle’s joy that in conquering your foes and spilling their blood we attain our highest state. Life teaches us that to meekly suffer wrongs is fit only for slaves, that those with the courage to be free strike down and master those who’d abuse them.

And He on Terra knows this! He knows it well! That’s right, the one you once worshiped in his guise as Emperor but never fully appreciated; He is Strong! He is mighty! He is a conquerer, a spiller of blood and taker of skulls on a scale hitherto unimagined. A galaxy of lessers was made to bend its knee before the rivers of blood that flowed in His name, entire xenos species wiped out and their skulls heaped upon the Great Throne simply for daring to exist in defiance of His will! Would that we could all be so Glorious! Yes, know this, despite the lies that priesthood of weaklings told you, there are none who so truly venerate the Emperor as us. And we know, we will tell you, that He will be rewarded for this — He shall ascend, achieve communion with the warp! And by following the trail He marked with the blood of His enemies the Mighty may join him!

Be in no doubt of what you saw when I arrived; this, to me, is no mere theory, babbled words without application. The man you saw on stage today is —well, was” at this point she held up her knife and licked some of the remaining blood from the blade, eliciting laughs and cheers from the crowd “— a fellow Pater, working to the glory of the Skull Throne. For some time now he and I had our disagreements. What you just saw was our way of settling them. And so it should be! For what is right? Might! What truth prevails? That of the stronger! I am strong! I am mighty! So it is my truth, the truth, you hear tonight; that by doing the Blood King great homage, just as the Emperor once did, you can join Him in life everlasting, and see your will enacted upon a galaxy enlightened by the blaze of a million burning wreckages, washed clean in the blood of a trillion worthless enemies, held steady upon pillars of skulls providing a foundation for all things.I preach this truth! I proclaim glory to the strong! I HAIL THE MIGHTY!”

Shamatii paused and took a drink, waiting for the response chant to die down.

Some of you, that is. Not all, never all. For just as there are leonids so too there are grox. Where there are hunters there must always be prey, where there are masters there must always be slaves. I will not stand here and lie to you, I will not coddle the weak as clerics of old did before your liberation. No I say plainly; some of you do not and never will have what it takes to attain glory. Your spirits and bodies are alike in frailty. Where a warrior’s heart sings at the distant sounds of battle’s booming thunder, yours cowers and quakes and prays for the storm to pass you by.


But even you have your place. Do not fear that we would simply abandon you. For until blessed ascension even the mighty must eat, they must sleep, they must be clothed, and have bound serfs upon which to whet their blades and satisfy their urges. All this requires people: to work the fields, to maintain their buildings, to be run through with bayonets. You who are natural slaves, this is your role, this is how you do honour to the great Throne of Skulls.

And so we come to my purpose in joining you here today.” At this point some Pactsmen who had been standing round the edges of the barn apparently idling began to unfurl their knapsacks and draw out blades from within. “None but Khorne himself can know for sure who is worthy by any means besides nature’s true test.” The soldiers jostled their way to the centre of the crowd and deposited the blades. Members of the congregation, many at this point quite literally frothing at the mouth or half-coherently screaming “I’m no slave!”, eyed the weapons with unconcealed lust. “There is no other way besides battle, no other path except through honest infliction of pain, by which we separate out masters from slaves, those bound for glory and those bound for servitude.

If you are content to be a slave then get out of my sight. Leave now! Tomorrow your tools will be waiting you, the fields will receive your sweat and the Pactsmen will eventually receive nourishment from your labours. If you are content with that then nothing I have said here can save you. Go! Get out!” Many slunk away, to the jeers of their remaining village-mates and the smirking laughs of soldiers who had once again taken up position at the edge of the barn. Pater Shamatii waited for them to leave before resuming her speech, all the while prowling across the stage.

“If I have to tell you what to do next then my words have been in vain and none of you have what it takes! The guards will know when to intervene, when only the strong remain and the weak have been destroyed, their pooled blood offered as penance for daring to aspire beyond their natural place. Prove yourselves worthy, HAIL THE MIGHTY!” Even before Shamatti had finished her final cry, Ashur had taken up a butcher’s knife and buried it in the neck of whoever happened to be standing next to him. Delirious with joy, he sought his place in eternity.