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This is a story I started writing in a raging frenzy when the new Chaos Codex came out. I've been working at it of and on since then. It's like 70% done at this point, we've just entered the final arc. It's roughly novel length. Anyways, without further ado:

New Codexia has always been a planet at peace.

Throughout the trials and tribulations that the Imperium of Man has endured New Codexia has always been a haven. Its location is not hidden, it appears on all charts of the subsector. It supplies its share of resources to the Imperium, no more and no less. No Inquisitor has ever visited this world, nor has any cult ever reared its ugly head among its populace. Its military tradition is unremarkable, all Guard Regiments raised on New Codexia have served without dishonor or distinction in actions around the Galaxy. No, it has avoided war throughout its history in the most prosaic of ways. In an Imperium of a million worlds, some will simply never be the chosen target of any reaver. Some will, by virtue of their sheer mundanity, go quietly about the business of living.

New Codexia had been among this number for its whole existence...it was utterly unprepared when the galaxy came knocking.

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The Governor of New Codexia, Brant Shastler, was in the midst of a simple breakfast of Ontler eggs and a fine wine when one of the servitors standing quietly against the wall burst into speech, startling him into snapping off more than the half an egg he was accustomed to consume in each bite.

It spewed a high-pitched binary stream, meaningless to any citizen of New Codexia. Brant grimaced, having long since learned that the Servitor's yammering meant he had to make a trip to a portion of the Palace he loathed, the Cognition Furnace.

He was tempted to slap the thing into silence and simply continue with his repast, but in truth the half-human thing was likely to continue its arcane chant until such time as he satisfied whatever unknowable conditions had triggered it. In this case, that meant he had to go to the Cognition Furnace and listen to the Cognitor-Interface servitor, who would tell him whatever bit of trivia had prompted this outburst in a language he could understand.

Calling to his servants and escorts he rose and swept from the room, heading for the ancient Logic Engines.

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Grand Maintainer Thomas Thaasalack V (Tom to his few intimates) was unprepared when Governor Shastler invaded his domain. The Governor swept in, followed by a slew of servitors, several courtiers, his Prime Advisant, a pair of soldiers in full ceremonial dress, and the Grand Invoker.

"Eh? What's going on?" he asked.

"By The Emperor" declaimed the Grand Invoker " One of the Ancient and Hallowed Servitors didst alert His Most Excellent Planetary Plenipotentary Governor-Supreme Brant Shastler to an Occasion of Mo-"

"Aaagh!" exclaimed Tom, "I can hear the capitol letters when you pronounce like that. Come on man, not before breakfast."

"Fine" said Grand Invoker Benedictus (Ben to those who outranked him) "We can't shut one of the servitors up."

"Its vexing as all get out", said Brant. "Make with the activation, I'd like to hear from this machine so I can get back on my daily schedule."

Not trusting himself to make a civilized reply, Tom turned to the side and turned the enormous crank which was the primary feature of the room. Behind the wall ancient gears whirred and clicked, as the ancient and sacred Logic Engine fed off of the effort of the Grand Maintainer.

Shortly thereafter the venerable Cognitor Interface servitor emerged from its cubby and stood before the assembly.

The Grand Invoker chanted the words of ritual. "Oh Great Servitor, heed unto us as we beseech ye with the words of the Emperor: Sudo LS ."

"Password?" intoned the voice of the Logic Engine, its lips moving out of synch with the deep baritone which emerged.

The Grand Invoker looked to the Governor, who stepped forward and whispered "0wnzOr3d" into the ears of the Servitor.

The Servitor spewed forth a long list of jibberish, which Tom dutifully compared against a well-preserved list of similar nonsense (or rather sacred phrases) that it babbled each time it received this command.

"Ah, that's the new one" he said, satisfied. "Use this spell on it" he told the Grand Invoker.

Ben said, somewhat doubtfully: "cat NewContact.txt"

For a heartstopping moment the Logic Engine did nothing, filling the assembled with the primordial fear of every user of ancient technology, but then it spoke.

"Range: Orbit, Scale: Battle-Barge, Designation: Emperor's Smoking Fist".

"What? A ship?" exclaimed governor Brant. "We're to be visited by off-worlders? I've heard nothing of this. The Hultrex family isn't due back for another decade, and we aren't due for another-"

He was cut off as the Servitor continued. "Metadata indicates Emperor's Smoking Fist captured by renegade forces M36, new designation: Villainy Victorious"

For the first time since the Governor burst into the chamber there was silence. Guiltily the 3 looked at each other, and then to the assembled courtiers. No one said a word.

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Aboard the Villainy Victorious (VV to its inhabitants) Lord Gribbly mused, pondering the changes his forces had experienced on their last trip through the warp.

Since abandoning the Imperium of Man and dedicating himself to the true Gods of the universe he had experienced many changes, faced many perils. This would be no different.

He looked to his side, his precious master-crafted Dark Blade was dulled and shrunken, transformed by some caprice of the warp into a power weapon. To a lesser or a greater degree such changes were reported throughout his forces.

He grabbed the first of the reports and perused. It was from the Alpha Legion squads, the heart and soul of his legion.

"Cmdr" it read. "I have come to a decision regarding our continued association. My squads and I are hereby to be considered elite units, and no more than three of us will deploy to any particular skirmish. We will, however, bring a much improved set of weapons and other wargear to any particular battle, and we are now open to the possibility to bearing an Icon indicating our allegiance to any particular member of the Chaos Pantheon which catches your eye. Further, you should note that our previous objections to deploying alongside other Chaos Legion forces may be considered null and void"

He grunted, absorbing the new possibilities and discarding old battle strategies. Reading on he discovered such missives from nearly every unit in his army. The changes wrought by the warp storm were vast and far-reaching, some of them seemed to be outright insanity. A champion of Slaanesh, one Lord Sylvester claimed to be able to compell the movement of enemy forces? Gribbly shook his head.

Here was a conundrum, the VV was still filled to bursting with fighting strength, but how could he deploy it when he lacked any knowledge of the strengths and weaknesses of its occupants? He'd triumphed in dozens of oddly similar sets of 3 battles, but he'd done so primarily through a full and complete understanding of the capabilities of his forces. Without an understanding of the units under his command how could he conquer?

Suddenly the ship whispered and hissed to him, its patron Daemon informing him of their location. Instincts honed by 10 millennia of war caused him to put aside his pondering in favor of the immediately pertinent information of the VV's location.

As the Daemon's hisses described the system his ship found itself in...and more particularly the lush and nearly undefended planet the VV was orbiting Gribbly began to smile.

The more he thought about it, the more perfect it appeared. His smile grew broader and broader, threating to swallow his face, until he broke, for the first time since the 4th Black Crusade, into peals of joyous laughter.

Brother-Slaughterer Hraavaak read the missive again, then reread it one more time. This was, in and of itself, remarkable. Before the warp storm the Brother-Slaughterer hadn't been able to read, indeed the notion would have disturbed him on a conceptual level.

Now however, he was able to apply his full concentration to the letter without once feeling the urge to charge towards the nearest foe, sitting calmly with his 9 (not 5, who ever heard of a squad of just 6) Battle Brothers inside the section of the VV known only as the Shelf, a region inhabited by those not commonly deployed to battle.

"Squad leaders" read the letter, "I find my forces much transformed. Some have lost and others have gained. The forces of Chaos do not fear change, go forth and show your worth upon the planet beneath us, the squad which achieves the most shall be the basis upon which the warhost shall be reorganized. Those whose performance is inadequate shall find themselves confined to the Shelf for the forseeable future."

"Brethren", he barked suddenly. "We are gifted with Khorne's favor once again, we go to battle!"

The unit raised a mighty cheer, but, again, did not race uncontrollably off towards the nearest foe, what changes had the warp storm wrought?

"Our enemy is not merely the disgusting lackeys of the False Emperor", he continued, somewhat surprised to find that they could apparently complete briefings now, "We must out do the other squads, Brother-Pestilent Glubbulous's Plague Marines, Brother-Sorcerer Dhoorock's Rubric Marines, and worst of all, Brother-Fether Sylvester's Noise Marines."

He paused at this, expecting to feel the ancient emnity between the followers of Khorne and Slaanesh rise within him at the notion of fighting alongside the Emperor's Children, but there was nothing. "Success shall lead to our inclusion in the Tourney Force, the most elite of Lord Gribbly's contingents. Failure would return us to the Shelf, there to await another warp storm."

Around him his brethren nodded solemnly, the unspoken resolution taking shape. They wouldn't return to the Shelf, if Gribbly couldn't see their worth it would be time for a new leader, one more in touch with the new ways. He could sit and sharpen his cherished Dark Blade as Lord Hraaavaak led HIS host to victory.

Governor Shastler regarded the Grand Maintainer with disbelief. "Did you say...4 landing craft?" he asked.

Tom nodded, "4 small landers, each sufficient to carry perhaps one vehicle, maybe a squad of Traitor Marines"

The Governor suppressed a surge of disbelief. The Astartes had been a comforting myth throughout New Codexia's long and storied history. Now here he was, calmly contemplating the number and disposition of Traitor Marines as though they were a commonplace occurrence instead of a story told to frighten children.

Brant turned to the nearby Grand Defender (a pompous man with the unfortunate name of Weems) and barked a question. "Weems, what is the current fighting strength of the PDF of New Codexia?"

Weems nodded gravely, and considered the question. He hadn't gotten where he was by answering hastily, after all, and the truth was a somewhat complicated affair. In addition a pause made one look studied and deliberate, and he certainly wasn't about to sacrfice political capitol to-"

"Eh-Hem", coughed Governor Brant.

"Er, Yes" said the Grand Defender, " Our resources, are...my liege are you asking officially or practically?"

"Just answer the question" suggested Tom, "Or give us both answers if their are more than one".

"Yes well," said the Grand Defender, noting the lack of patience in the governor's face and deciding he'd prevaricated as long as possible. "Theoretically our planet maintains a trained PDF of one million of the Emperor's finest, fully drilled, equipped and ready to drive off hostile invaders. This elite fighting force is drawn from the third sons of families of good character and excellent pedigree, and specializes in swift tactical maneuvers such as storming assaults, forced marches, and the flanking maneuvers invented by my predecessor."

"Well" said the Governor, much mollified, "that doesn't sound so bad. A million to 40, wot? Maybe we've a shot at this after all..." His speech drifted to a stop as he eyed the Grand Defender's dubious visage. "What?" he asked.

"Uh..." said the Grand Defender. "Our practical...actual, non-theoretical strength is somewhat less impressive. Rather than a million men constantly under arms we maintain a million names of men who might, someday be called to arms. In point of fact the practical strength under arms of our forces is closer to twenty thousand to 40 thousand pdf members, primarily trained as force multipliers for local arbites."

The Governor eyed him suspiciously. He knew that he ought to be angry, but to him 40 thousand to 4 shuttles worth still seemed like a satisfactory advantage.

Sensing his uncertainty Weems interjected. "Governor, the enemy has apparently become confused in atmospheric decent, their shuttles are coming down wildly seperate from each other, with no particular formation. Each and every one of them will be alone in our territory, we can besiege them seperately and wipe them out, it'll be a triumph!"

The Governor nodded, somewhat mollified at last, "Yes, perhaps this invasion is a blessing in disguise, shaking us out of our stupor and giving us a chance to serve the Emperor. No other Governor has ever experienced something like this, no other administration has ever triumphed over Chaos. This will be a year long remembered."

Brother-Pestilent Glubulous did not bother to brace himself as the Rhino (Plague Bringer to its crew) plummetted 35 feet from the bottom of the lander.

The bulk of his diseased form, barely encased within his ancient and corroding power armor, withstood the tremendous crash with barely a ripple, the tremor flowing through the dense, soft mass which composed his being without resistance.

Around the Plague Bringer's interior his squad stood similarly unscathed, and the tumors and pustulent blisters which functioned as instruments showed that the Plague Bringer itself was still functioning properly. The hydraulic humors were slightly out of balance, but Glubulous didn't doubt for a second that the local plague strains wouldn't do a world to set things right.

At his silent gesture the hatched opened, and the Traitor Champion climbed forth into the world he was to infect. His squad followed in his footsteps, 9 Plague Marines just like himself, devoted children of their festeriffic Grandfather. A cloud of flies and less wholesome insects, sacred to the Grandfather, surrounded the squad, instantly joined by the local insects.

The Plague Bringer had been dropped directly into a deep, thick, swamp. Glubbulous could taste the local plagues, always an exhilarating experience, to make the acquaintance of a plethora of new diseases. With the vile warp power his squad was filled with the diseases were already changing, shifting their natures to ones ever toxiccer and more bilesome.

The marines gathered in three small circles or three squad members each, forming momentarily the sign of their Ruinous patron, and all three circles turned their gazes towards the center, towards Glubbulous.

Ever since they had called themselves Dark Tusks, lifetimes ago, the unit went through this rite when they set foot upon a new world, forming the Mark and inviting the local pestilences to drink deep of Nurgle's festering favor, receiving in exchange information about the cleanlisome ones they were here to taint.

The plagues of New Codexia had much to relate, and by the time Glubbulous resealed his armor he had ingested much concerning their foes. He knew that the color of disease on New Codexia was a washed out yellow, and so the squad's armor took on that hue. He knew that the scent of insense burned to ward off the Sunset Ague had become synonymous with infection, and his unit immediately stank of it. He even knew where the most recent outbreaks had taken place, and had a basic knowledge of the local geography.

The swamp the Plague Bringer was mired in was located near the primary agricultural region of New Codexia's principal continent. The Grandfather's favor had guided the Dark Tusks into an ideal position to begin their poxxing. Glubbulous gave silent thanks, and the Mark was maintained a moment longer.

Then, their piety demonstrated, the Plague Marines piled back into their Rhino, which had sunken in the meantime. It began to drive across the floor of the swamp.

Progress was slow, with the Plague Bringer immobilizing itself every few miles, but all damage was swiftly absorbed into the vehicle's general rot. The tumors which formed its engine were tireless and their foul pulsing never slowed.

Slowly, league by tainted league, the Plague Bringer approached New Codexia's bread basket.

Commander Homborg Bulsome (Sir to his men) led his cohort towards the Chaos armored vehicle. Said vehicle had been dropped into the heart of the Quad Nobilis, and consequently his unit's response was both timely and of an adequate size.

He was in possession of one of New Codexia's most deadly treasures, a plasma pistol. This weapon could, in one blast, destroy an armored tank or a demolition frame. This particular model had seen service against the War People, and its ancient kill tally had long since wrapped around the handle. In the hands of an expert marksman like himself (Homborg hit the range 3 or 4 times a year) the enemy tank was as good as destroyed.

As a backup plan, although he didn't consider such a thing necessary, the quartermasters had issued his unit a series of heavy stubbers and other such things. Big, ungainly heavy weapons, each needed to be wielded by two troops at once, and would consequently spoil his unit's marching appearance. Further, it would steal the glory of destroying the enemy vehicle from Homborg Bulsome, and it wasn't like chances like this came along every day. Consequently, he had ordered that the heavy weapons be stowed back at the barracks.

He paused for a moment to review his troops. He led a cohort of New Codexian pdf, numbering 50. His unit was divided into 5 squads of 10 men each, and because this was the Quad Nobilis under threat, the local Munitorum had outfitted each and every man in the unit with lasguns. Not a single one clutched a projectile weapon or zip gun, he was in command of 50 lasguns. His long standing orders concerning marching drill were being followed, and consequently the 5 units marched as though on a parade field, down the long road towards the enemy

********************************************************

Homborg ordered his troops to a stop and moved forward to hear the local arbite's report.

"Sir", the Arbite said. "The Space Marines are currently stopped at the 9th/4th traffic signal."

Homborg gaped at the man in disbelief. "You've stopped them?" he asked, unable to believe that this drone, this prole, had stolen the glory that was to be his.

"Per the Lord Defender's orders we've turned the traffic signal to 'Stop' and the Astartes have, rather sportlingly if you ask me, idled their vehicle ever since." answered the arbite. "Seems rather a raw way to treat the Emperor's Finest, if you ask me."

Homborg looked oddly at the man. "You are aware that these so-called Space Marines are likely allied with..." he paused and looked around. Nothing seemed likely to snatch his soul if he spoke of the enemy, but you couldn't be too careful. "...Enemy forces." he concluded lamely.

The arbite nodded, "They explained the mixup to us, its alright, these are members of the Flawless Host, an ancient and glorious unit of Adeptus Astartes, here to protect us from the archenemy's forces." He spoke with the complete assurance of one correcting ignorance.

Homborg seethed. If these men were correct, his force wasn't bound for glory. Rather he, and the entire High Command would doubtless suffer for their temerity in hindering the progress of the Emperor's Angels. His soul itself could be in peril. "Are you sure-" he began, when suddenly he was cut off.

The arbite, looking relieved, interjected, "Just ask them yourselves." and pointed behind the marching troopers, where not a single one of his disciplined men had broken formation to glance.

Brother-Sorcerer Dhuurock surveyed the barren southern shelf. Aside from his Rhino (The Wayfarer to Dhuurock and Dhuurock alone) and his Rubrics the barren salt plain stretched unendingly in all directions. The salt plain was silent and changeless, a fitting stage on which to begin his performance. Before that, he glanced about him and considered his Rubric soldiers.

Silent and still as the salt plain itself his squad stood at rest. If by the Gods will or sniper's bullet he met a
sudden and gruesome end they would stand their till they rusted, for the Rubric Marines were not alive in any conventional sense. Though the armor of the Thousand Sons surrounded him, Dhuurock stood alone. The remainder of his squad was merely animate shells, the armored reminders of the comrades who had once supported and assisted him. They were mere souls bound to their power armor by the Rubric of Ahriman. He couldn't count on his squad for initiative, or ferocity, but there were benefits. The Rubric marines were unfailingly loyal, and only now would their true power be revealed.

The warp storm which had caught up the VV, warping and changing the entire renegade warband, had come as no surprise to Dhuurock. Long had he prepared, biding his time on the Shelf and presenting his Rubric marines as a sort of durable objective seizing units. The time for preparation was over, however, and he'd changed his unit's configuration to their offensive format. Their fields were charged and ready for plasma defense, and he concealed had a little surprise for any potential enemies in each and every bolter.

Inferno shells, primed for explosion with a series of incantations and sacrifices, waited at the ends of the barrels. These bolts had been unready when the Space Wolves stormed Prospero. If they had only...Dhuurock scowed and shook his head. There was nothing to be gained in thinking of the past. The teachings of the Architect of Fate were quite clear on the value of forward thinking.

With a silent command and a wave of his blade Dhuurock set the Rubrics into motion. Immediately breaking formation the 9 set off in all directions, moving away from the Wayfarer at a shuffle. Instantly, they fell out of synch with one another, their paces varying according to the vaguaries of the ancient incantations which bound Space Marine spirits to the ancient shells of their armor.

Nine Rubrics moved in nine Directions at nine paces, and soon they began to stagger aimlessly in all directions, tracing nine arcs through the salt.

Dhuurock waited, to all appearances a Rubric himself, standing coolly next to the Wayfarer as his minions enacted his will. Prospero had taught him patience, defeat at Terra had taught him patience and the Warp had been the greatest teacher of all. He was immortal, so long as he clung to his hate he could afford to wait.

Wait he could, and wait he had. A long, long existence, cold and filled with bitterness. Dhuurock was the eldest marine in the entire host, a Thousand Son from the days of the Heresy. He had stood at the side of Magnus, trod the soil of Holy Terra as foe and friend, watched as his friends were transformed into mindless Rubrics and seen the planet of the Sorcerers. He had knelt at the feet of a Keeper of Secrets, and learned its hidden lore. He had learned a thousand incantations, a million petty spells, but most of all he had learned patience.

Dhuurock stood patiently, meditating on his long-held rancor as all about him the Rubric marines inscribed the salt with Sign of the Changer of Ways.

"Please", said Governor Shastler in a level tone, "Repeat yourself".

The Defender (Joe to anyone who bothered to read his file) drew himself from his comfortable slouch to a more proper posture and began to repeat his message. "Grand Defender Weems, motivated by his sense of Duty to both your august self and the very Emperor of Mankind, in this dire hour, has taken it upon-"

The Governor spun his hand, indicating that the messenger should skip the preliminaries. They'd been tiresome enough the first time through.

"Err..." the Defender parsed swiftly through the speech. "Ah, yes, the Grand Defender is pleased to report that each and every Archenemy squad is no doubt fully neutralized, with no casualties to our beloved protection forces."

"Really?" said Governor Shastler, skepticism thick in his voice. "I wasn't aware that my forces were capable of such feats of heroism. Indeed, I wasn't aware that there existed a force in the entire Imperium capable of defeating Traitor Legions in such short order."

"Such a force does exist" said Joe, deaf to the undertones in the Governor's question. "The force of the beloved God-Emperor of Mankind!"

The Governor massaged his temples. "Ah, you misunderstand, good Defender. I do not for an instant doubt the puissance of Him on Terra. I merely hunger for a description of the form that his intervention has taken."

Joe looked at his Governor silently, unable to figure out what he was being asked.

Plainly, the Governor said. "Tell me about the battles."

The Defender nodded eagerly, "Ah, yes, the battles. Well, that's a funny thing. You see, the enemy forces had completely misdeployed their assault elements, all 4 squads having come down wildly seperated, so in theory it was a simple matter to surround and destroy each and every one of them."

"In theory?" asked the Governor. "That's all well and good, but what actually happened? How did it come to pass that they didn't take a single one of our soldiers with them?"

"Well," temporized Joe. "Grand Defender Weems is such a master tactician that he was able to understand the nature of the enemy threat and counter it, well before the enemy was ever actually encountered."

The Governor arched his eyebrows.

"The first," gushed the Defender, "had landed within the third Swamp region, the so-called Vile Cauldron. Doubtless they intended some dastardly subterfuge. Imagine their surprise when they arrived just at the onset of fever season. Doubtless that squad has been decimated by now, their weapons useless against the death which flows from the stagnant waters of that foul place. While it is truly regrettable that the villagers should suffer along with them, the Grand Defender has ensured that enemy elements destruction by ordering the immediate cessation of all medications and support to the local villages. The enemy will be unable to plunger remedies to their infestations. Victory has been secured without firing a shot."

"Victory?" asked Governor Shastler. "Perhaps that word is a trifle premature? It seems to me that we shouldn't declare victory without...perhaps...encountering the foe?"

"Ah" said the Defender, "I shall relay your cautions to the Grand Defender myself, impressing upon him the need to display before you the plague ridden carcases of the enemy."

"Err...great." said the Governor. "Now, about the other enemy squads? I seem to recall that one had landed on the Salt Shelf? There isn't any water there at all, is there?"

"None whatsoever," agreed the Defender, "and consequently the Logicians projections indicate that the enemy will be unable to sustain their position. Further analysis indicated that the enemy would immediately vacate their position, but reconnaissance has revealed that they have already begun to suffer from Heat Madness, wandering here and there across the salt plain."

The Governor furrowed his brow, wanting to be angry but unable to deny that having a fourth of the foe broken, wandering and dying of thirst sounded like good news.

Joe quickly the related his last report. "The last squad came down amongst the War People, who immediately gathered a vast host. As we speak a band of hundreds besieges that squad, how appropriate that two foes of the Emperor should rend one another, bestial in their inability to unite despite a shared purpose proof positive of our forces superiority."

The Governor, nodding, said slowly "So, to get this straight we've lost nothing in our battles against the enemy because...we haven't battled the enemy?"

Affronted, Joe responded. "We've reduced their capacity, the battle has already begun!" Remembering his place he added "-is what I believe the Grand Defender would say."

The Governor shook his head. Just like Weems to declare the score before the first phase. With a wave of his hand he dismissed the Defender and turned to look out the window. He contemplated the view for several moments, letting his senses drift and approach the harmony that had defined him prior to the VV"s arrival.

Suddenly he snapped out of his fugue. Swamp...Salt plain...barbarians...hadn't there been a fourth lander?

Homborg Bulsome marched down the road with his men, his knees weak with relief. When the idiot at the roadblock had revealed that the Flawless Host Astartes had gotten around behind him the situation had momentarily appeared dire.

He had turned about with appropriate gravity, ignoring the voices which clamored for haste within his mind. The enemy had his back, and if they'd wanted to destroy his force they'd have done so while he was talking, the fact that his back remained unperforated indicated the enemy had some other plan in mind, and that meant that he still had options opened. Remembering the teaching of the Officer Caste, "Dignity is the greatest Shield!" he had turned in immaculate parade ground style, and faced the Flawless Host at last.

Immediately he had been struck by the fact that what he had thought was parade ground perfection was in fact its palest imitation. The Flawless Host's order of march showed, in every conceivable manner, that this was a unit utterly dedicated to perfection. Their armor gleamed a bold hue, polished to the point that it reflected the beams of the sun in all directions. Capes flowed behind them, each hanging in precisely the same manner, indeed they seemed to ripple and flow in unison, although that was patently impossible. In every way he could perceive, in that panic-stricken first impression it had appeared that he was seeing one man in ten places. And what a man it was!

The Flawless Host was composed of Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines of the Emperor of Man. Each stood taller than the tallest Codexian on record, each was broad and strong, and each wore armor that Homborg would probably need a Lifting Unit to shift, let alone don. Their bulk in no way slowed them down, however, in fact their reactions and shifts were faster than his eyes could follow, portions of each warrior blurring as they shifted and aimed before his horrified eyes.

A rueful smile found its way onto Homborg's lips as he remembered the panic he'd felt in that instant. The Flawless Host, perfectly positioned in the optimal firing position, raising strange devices and aiming them at the rear echelon and depressing the activation studs. For an impossible instant he'd thought that all his glories, all the effort he'd put into drilling his men was about to be for naught, their unit blasted instantly out of existence by the only unit in the galaxy even more optimal than his own.

Then the music had rolled over the squad, the Fede Imperialis played in 10 exquisite variations on the strange instruments that the Flawless Host carried instead of rifles. A heartbeat from ordering return fire he'd instead gaped as the foe saluted him, the Astartes playing with a fervor and intensity never before seen on New Codexia. Each one of the Emperor's Angels was a master musician, blaring volumes and tempos no mere human could attain, but even more impressively the entire arrangement had been pre-planned so that the ten individual strains complemented one another with the same impossible precision that the armored giants had shown in their march.

For a timeless instant Homborg had stood frozen, noticing that the majority of his unit seemed to be experiencing the same rapture that he himself. He was shamed by the few who seemed unable to appreciate the experience, clutching their heads at the blaring volume and shielding their eyes from the gleam of the Astartes. They were primarily peasant soldiers, of little breeding and less culture. Their presence in his unit had always irritated him, but now they mortified him. To collapse on the ground during a simple salute. To writhe and bleed before the Flawless Host. He'd have wept with shame if his dignity allowed it.

Suddenly, just before even that superlative experience could become tedious, the Host's performance cut off. Each and every Space Marine snapped off a salute, and the towering figure which must be their Captain approached him.

Swiftly, Homborg had taken stock of his options. It was obvious that some sort of horrible miscommunication had taken place, resulting in Headquarters designating the Flawless Host as archenemy forces. If this became known to the Space Marines the Codexian honor would be forever sullied. There had been just one way out of the situation.

He had stepped forward from the ranks, noting with approval the the unit had dressed ranks and was now facing the Astartes, with the few who hadn't been able to stand the performance dragged out of the front ranks. Standing before the foe he'd adjusted his insignia of rank and returned their salute. His unit had followed suit after a slight delay, with gratifying exactitude.

Both units had remained, saluting one another, and then he'd stepped forward to speak to the Emperor's Angel.

The conversation was oddly difficult to remember. The Captain, Brother-Fether Sylvester, had been deeply complementary. He had asked penetrating questions and seemingly understood the difficulties of Homborg's quest for perfection amid the mire of the New Codexian military. As the conversation continued the Brother-Fether had cracked a strange whip and the formations had mingled, somehow the Flawless Host seemed perfectly aware of their natural places in the midst of their honor guard.

The whole thing had an air of unreality to it, even now Homborg felt bemused, like the whole thing was some manner of wondrous dream. As the march began the Space Marines had struck up a marching song, and Sylvester's whip cracks had somehow enabled the squad as a whole to move with a precision that he was ashamed to admit he'd never been able to inspire.

Now the two formations had thoroughly mingled, the Space Marines directing Homborg's forces as they marched, while he himself trudged alongside Sylvester and informed him of local conditions. Homborg felt oddly disassociated from himself, as though in a fugue state, but at the same time deeply satisfied. All his life he'd pursued perfection, and now it looked like he'd caught it.

Sergeant Sharnes (Sarge to his men, and pretty much everyone else) half-crept, half swam his way through the swamp. About him, his Swampers joined in, their dirty brown uniforms blending with the decayed fauna and rendering the advance of a platoon of PDF roughly as visible as an Ontler migration in the rainy season.

The Swampers were ordinarily seconded to the Arbites, tasked primarily to maintain order within the leper populations which were the primary residents of the third swamp district, which everyone called the Vile Swamp. Rigorous rebreather discipline and monthly med supplements kept his troops from ending up in the very camps they policed...at least, it kept that from happening for the first few years.

The Sarge, like the best of his men, had been born in those very camps. Growing up surrounded by squalor he'd conceived a passion for order, and devoted his life to the maintenance thereof. Gifted by nature or the Emperor with a disciplined mind and a powerful body he'd through precisely one rank to become a sergeant, and there he had stayed. While his rank had remained frozen at Sergeant, a greater and greater number of the men called him leader. He might lead a squad by virtue of rank, but he could call on a platoon, a regiment, by virtue of bravery and sheer persona. In truth, Commander Heeper back at base was just a figurehead, the Swampers answered to their Sarge.

The Sarge was, at this particular moment, growing increasingly concerned. Raul squad, dispatched to recon the area around the suspected Archenemy vehicle's crash zone, hadn't reported in. Raul squad was among the best in the Swampers at seeing without being seen, and their loss would indicate an enemy with landcraft equal to the greatest New Codexians...or perhaps superior. The Sarge didn't want to believe this...and he could easily think of another explanation.

The Governor's callous order to forbid medical supplies to the entire area had enraged the entire Swampers regiment. Much of the force had its roots in these camps and even the outsiders had policed them for long enough to think of them as home. Everyone knew the degree of dependency that the camp had on the shipments from the Munitorum....especially in the onset of fever season. Thousands would die if the shipments never arrived, far more than 10 enemies could kill, even if they were Space Marines. Worse, with the doctors rendered powerless by the ill-conceived medical blockade the lepers would turn back to the old ways, to the bark eating Night Talkers and their Lord of the Flies.

Raul squad was as Codexian as the rest of the Swampers. If they'd really encountered archenemy forces the twin lures of doing the emperor's work and getting the shipments to resume might have prompted them to engage the enemy in battle, instead of withdrawing after gathering the appropriate information. The Swampers didn't carry heavy weapons, to assault a shock infantry squad was beyond Raul squad's capabilities, and he should know that!

It was concern for Raul, as much as any military necessity, that had driven the Sarge to lead the second scout platoon. His own platoon had been divided to lead various elements throughout the Vile Swamp long since, so he'd been forced to commandeer an available squad. Lt. Feeks had been honored, and his band were behaving, thus far, with commendable landcraft.

The call of an Orbit recalled Sharnes to his current situation. Crouching yet lower he whistled back, and moved in the direction indicated. Feeks' squad surrounded him, covering sight lines and taking the swamp one crest at a time, treating every instant as the start of a firefight. Despite their caution the units pace barely slowed, and it wasn't long before the Sarge arrived at the scout's location...and what was left of Raul squad.

It was a grisly scene, even to those with no personal recollection of Sergeant Raul and his men. The majority of the squad were dead of explosive wounds, blasted apart by some manner by pinpoint explosive projectiles. One unfortunate individual had been hit in the face and groin, resulting in the obliteration of 70% of his body mass. The Sarge allowed himself a moment of grief for his fallen friend, and then set himself to gathering all the tactical information possible from the scene of the massacre.

The tracks of the enemy, deeply ground into the mud and already sprouting mushrooms, and the angles of fire at which Raul squad had been blasted combined to form a horrifying picture. The Swampers hadn't been ambushed, outflanked or surprised by any manner of ambush. The enemy had simply walked up to their fortifications and blasted them. The Swampers had position, camouflage, ideal angles of fire, knoweledge of the terrain and the Emperor's blessing. None of it had mattered a whit.

From the tracks he could see, the enemy had simply walked into the storm of slug-fire, supremely indifferent to the fact that the Swampers would have fired at least 4 volleys before they got to the range at which they opened fire. After walking unscathed through the firestorm, and seemingly unhindered by crushingly dense terrain that Rauls had been using to screen his squad, the enemy had opened fire with short range explosive projectiles, and annihilated the majority of of the PDF squad in one burst. The survivors, displaying commendable courage, had charged the foe. Their pulverized corpses occurred wherever the path of their charge intersected their enemies, as though the archenemy forces hadn't bothered to mass to repel the PDF charge, but merely layed about them as the Swampers got close.

The Sarge turned to his vox-man. "Get the message back to the Grand Defender, let him know that the prognosis of the effects of the Vile Swamp on the enemy squad have been greatly in error. Further, tell him that the Swampers are going after these bastards. In Force!"

Brother-Slaughterer Hraavack leaned into the savage's stroke, robbing it of the full force it would have had if he had permitted the blade to intersect at the moment the thing's stride had completed. As the glaive glanced off his breastplate his left hand shot out and gripped the creature by his head, his thumb penetrating its ocular cavity and brain mass while his fingers cupped its skull like a throw-sphere. As his erstwhile foe spasmed and went limp the Berserker hauled him to the right, across his front arc and into the path of another swinging glaive, fouling the strike and miring the blade in a ribcage. His right hand completed the gesture it had been making when he started his lean, stabbing his chainblade into a savage who was menacing one of his Battle-Brother's flanks. As both victims collapsed the Brother-Slaughterer permitted himself a feral grin. At times like this it was good to be a Berserker.

As the unit had exited their Rhino, some hours earlier, they had seen and smelled the corruption of the War People, (Warp People in truth), and had sallied forth to meet fellow worshippers of Khorne. They had not been disappointed, as the first habitat they arrived at had been amassing an army even then, preparing for a struggle against some unknown foe.

Any other God's worshippers, upon encountering fellow believers after a voyage over interstellar gulfs would have begun thanks ceremonies...and the Berserkers of the Blood God were no different. The Khornish festivities had begun immediately, with a Slug-Cannon shot that shook the Rhino to its core, and continued even now.

Hraavack, his momentary pause complete, leapt forward at the foe whose glaive was trapped in its comrade, striking with his knees and lower body and bulling it to the ground. He lashed out as he did so, drawing a parry with his blade and knocking a savage unconscious with a ferocious punch from his weaponless left hand.

He was suddenly pulled off-balance, as the savage on which he stood punched him ferociously behind one of his knees, pushing the joints of his armor into locking and causing him to sway momentarily. Fortunately this moment of weakness was not taken advantage of, and a savage stomp from his other leg completed another act of worship to the High Handed Slayer.

"Brother-Slaughterer" barked his helmet com, conveying the worlds of the Rhino operator, "their war-leader takes the field!" Hraavack rotated his helmet franticly, searching for...their, at the edge of the fray a monstrous apparition was trampling its way towards them.

Mounted on something resembling a Squiggoth the local War leader of the War People came towards them, brandishing a rocket launcher of some sort and a hammer of prodigious proportions. The beast trumpted and swung its head back and forth, striking its master's subordinates from its path with flailing chains that hung from each of its tusks.

Hraavack cursed, he wasn't the closest warrior to the local potentate. Another of his squad would reap the glory. His split-second perusal of the approaching enemy champion had allowed the nearby rabbal to get under his sword's arc, and he was suddenly overborne by a pair of the stronger beasts. He cursed again as they bore him to the bloody field, striking with short blows of their elbows, fists and foreheads.

His arms were pinned by the savages sheer weight, each of them had landed atop one of them, and more were standing about him even now. The two currently holding him down would foil any two handed glaive swings, but his head could still be taken by a short chopping strike, or they could simply pile weight atop him until even his reinforced power armor gave out. More infuriatingly, they were preventing him from spilling blood, and he wasn't going to stand for it. He snarled a subvocalization, and his armor dropped a sphere into the mud beside him.

The savage on his right arm seemed to have an instinctive inkling of what the frag grenade was going to do, but the fact that it hesitated before letting go of his right arm sealed its fate. The frag grenade exploded with a thunderous boom, tossing him through the air like a ragdoll, and making a mess of the pile of beastmen who had been holding him down. He commended his essence to the Blood God.

A lancing pain let him know that he hadn't reached the Skull Throne just yet, and his helmet view cleared to show him his situation. The blast had tossed him through the air, up and slightly backwards. He'd come down atop the squad Rhino, his armor dented but undamaged. As he pulled himself to his feet he had a good view of Battle Brother Varlack's confrontation with the War Leader.

Varlack ran towards the beast, firing his bolt pistol as he did so. The bolts didn't hit home, however, as the potentate took cover behind the walls of his howdah and the beasts hide and sheer bulk permitted it to endure the spillover. Varlack wasted no time bemoaning the failure of his ranged attack, however, instead springing through the savages and assailing the beast in close combat.

As he rushed forward Hraavack could see the beast beginning the same threshing motion with which it had cleared the savages from its path, both of the tusks slashing by Varlack's form, chains bouncing in every direction. What was an impassible barrier to a savage, however, was barely an irritation to a Khorne Berserker, and Varlack's armor swiftly computed a trajectory that would take him through the threshing chains.

The Berserker dove forward, passing between the tusks in an instant where each of the chains was heading in another direction, but he'd neglected to recon on the cunning of the War Leader. Rather than rising from his place of concealment behind the howdah the War Leader triggered his rocket directly into the hide walls, firing at Varlack from a position he couldn't observe. The rocket parted the hide as though it wasn't there, and struck Varlack directly in the breastplate with tank-killing force. Varlack's armor suddenly contained naught but pulverized meat, and his remains slide from the front of the enemy general's mount and were trampled into the dust.

Hraavack gaped from behind his visor, the foe had slain a Berserker. A moment later his expression cleared. He thanked Khorne for giving him a worthy foe, and reached into the rhino. An instant later he sprang back into the fray. His left hand was no longer empty, instead he wore upon it the squad's ancient and sacred Power Fist.

Floating within the warp, the essence of a Warp entity stirred awake, vexed into awareness by a persistent call from a formerly tranquil quarter of the Materium.

Initially it fought to disregard the summons, attending to fledgling cults and warp touched fools was beneath this creature. It had absorbed others of its kind and coalesced into something grander. The incantations and verses which formed its calling card were grand things, well beyond the capacity or inclination of a beginning practitioner of warp-craft to perform.

Nevertheless the call continued. Someone, somewhere in the Materium, was playing on the mode of address the warp entity suffered itself to be named by. The blasphemies and profane utterances which made up its binding were being recited and embellished upon, repeated and chanted in discordant symphonies. The currents and waves which made up the creatures sleeping awareness could endure it no longer. Gathering and coalescing, it called forth its waking self.

Narl, Lord of Change, came awake in a gleeful cascade of plans and schemes. Its essence was ambition, its lifesblood the changing of the Materium to suit the desires of those who's warp reflection it was. It had entered a period of meditation some time ago (or space ago, the Warp made such distinctions unimportant) and its ruminations on its Master's nature had born fruit, rendering it slyer and more powerful than ever. It reveled in its successful transition from a dormant state for an infinitesimal moment, then switched its focus to the summons which had brought it into wakefulness.

The fact that the call displayed the subtlety of an adept of the Changer, yet came from an area which the Warp had never been strong in didn't confuse Narl the way it had his idiot essence, he immediately deduced that a sorcerer had traveled the Materium until he arrived at the location. A quick query of some position spirits revered the location's name, the human world designated as New Codexia.

Still in the instant of his awakening he sent his astral form hurtling across the ether, pulling his consciousness along in its wake. He passed in an eyeblink from the Eye of Terror to New Codexia, sporting along the surface of the planet's Materium long enough to gather some idea of what the Sorcerer would expect from a devil or daemon or whatever they called him here. His initial reconaissance complete in an instant he manifested himself into the summons, weaving his essence as a discordant note in the chanted pattern, a stench upon the air, and a presence within the mind of his summoner.

A mind like a steel trap closed about him, the discipline of a thousand permitting its possessor to cease his summons the instant he had enough of Narl's essence to communicate, but before he had so much that he could be possessed. *Greetings, Lord of Change* sent Dhuurock.

The revelation that his summoner was a Space Marine, and more interesting, one of the Thousand Sons might have daunted a lesser spirit, but Narl was literally formed of ambition. The fact that Dhuurock had trafficked with warp entities for a hundred centuries only made his soul all the more desirable, and Narl determined in the same instant he received the revelation that he would be the one to serve Dhuurock's essence to his master on a platter.

The decision to bring down Dhuurock was made in the instant of the renegade Space Marine's first communication, and didn't impede Narl's response in any way. *Greetings, Son of Magnus* he sent back *what do you require?*

Narl had no need for an answer as such. As a Daemon of Tzeentch he could no more avoid knowing his summoner's desire than he could refrain from offering them on a silver platter, but the question was part of the ancient protocol. Playing along Dhuurock's response was gratifyingly obscure *My requirements are not to be met by the likes of you * he blared, *My whims are all that need concern you.*

*Your whims then* responded Narl evenly, not the least bit perturbed by Dhuurock's arrogance. *What would you have me Change?*.

Dhuurock's response was long and involved, as befitted a practitioner of the Warp Arts, and Narl got the gist long before the niceties had gotten out of the way. It was the standard package, manifestation of lesser Horrors, a Daemon weapon, the eventual transformation of the world. He replied as protocol demanded, promising cooperation with no strings attached, even as he feverishly sought ways to poke holes in Dhuurock's webs.

As the exchange completed and he faded completely back into the local Warp he found the loophole he'd been looking for. Dhuurock had prohibited his communication with other warp beings, and forbidden him to discuss the sorcerer or his plans with anyone whatsoever, but he hadn't thought to lay claim to the original summons.

A swift search of the Warp led him back to the original chord which had awakened him, a simple direct "Here Be Chaos", the mark of Tzeentch writ across the Warp, with directions to the associated location in the Materium.

For an instant he hesitated, aware that there were aspects of his master who would regard what he was about to do as treason, but then he continued. Grabbing the thread and adding momentum, he sent it careening towards a certain area of the Warp that he had marked out during a war of years gone by.

The area of the Warp he sent Dhuurock's name, nature and location to was inhabited by no Warp creatures, for it was the listening ground of the Astropaths of the Space Wolves.

Grand Defender Weems read Homborg's missive with growing disbelief. The notion that the Astartes had been loyal to the throne was ridiculous on the face of it, but Homborg seemed to have swallowed it in its entirety. The fact that this Flawless Host had issued forth from a battle barge named Villainy Victorious was apparently something that had passed out of his subordinates admittedly small mind.

A mistake of this magnitude by one of his juniors was something Weems would ordinarily have seized upon with relish. The chance to humiliate one of his families' rivals through the proxy of one of their militarily minded junior members was the sort of thing that gave his existence meaning. Believing Chaos Space Marines when they said they were Imperial skirted the bounds of blunder and shot right into heresy. That, unfortunately, was the rub.

The Grand Defender was wise enough to realize that scoring points off his fellow Nobles was of no use if the campaign against the Chaos squads failed. His political downfall, not to mention his agonizing murder at the hands of power-armored traitors, was too big of a price to pay for the oppportunity to bring down the Bulsomes. No, he had to rectify the situation as swiftly as possible, prolonging the farce was out of the question.

He turned to his vox officer, preparing to give orders that Bulsome cease his cooperation with the Flawless Host and destroy them immediately when a sudden inspiration struck him.

It is worth noting, in passing, that this inspiration was due to Narl's presence in the local Immaterium. The Lord of Change stirred conspirators and plotters to a greater pitch by its mere presence, and the delicious bit of treachery that Weems had just come up with was exactly the sort of thing Narl would appreciate.

If he sent his orders to Bulsome he could be relatively sure that, striking suddenly, Bulsome's unit could inflict a casualty or two on the Traitor Marines, and then get wiped out in return. Ordinarily this would be sufficient to count as a win-win in Weem's book, and were it not for the presence of Narl that's exactly what he would have done.

With the inspiration of the Immaterium's current tide, however, he was struck by another thought. Perhaps Bulsome could better serve right where he was, doing just what he was doing. If he sent a message to Bulsome's unit thanking them for their prompt identification of the 'Emperor's Angels', the Traitors would believe that their ruse had succeeded all the way up to the highest levels of authority. Then, by pretending to be duped by their lies, he could to some extend control the Flawless Host. If they wanted to keep up the pretense of loyalists they would have to accept the conditions and requirements that the local Imperial government wanted to impose on them.

With a smile on his face and another in his soul Weems instructed his vox operator to get the Zepp-linn corps on the line. After all, the Emperor's Angels deserved a fitting salute.

Aboard the VV, Lord Gribbly sat in meditative silence before 4 sconces of candles. He was upset.

The candles provided the only illumination in the room, but the Chaos Lord wasn't perturbed by the darkness. Ordinarily, in fact, the room would have been completely dark, for in the dark the beauties of the Imaginerium, the Warp which he worshipped, would be most readily imaginable. However, the presence of the candles was necessary at this time. He suffered the illumination.

Each candle was linked to the life of a Chaos Space marine which he had sent down to the planet. They flared with the passions of his minions, and guttered when their respective Marines were confronted with difficulties. Upon the death of a Marine a candle would wink out. Thus, a glance around the room could provide a quick estimate as to how each of the 4 squads was fairing.

The red flames which represented the Berserkers of Khorne had been the first ones to flare hot, and the first ones to gutter out. There were only 7 of them remaining now, 3 of the Marines of Khorne had met the fate that their kind all raced towards, dead on some battlefield. The seven which remained flared and danced, proof that the remaining squad members continued the sacraments of Khorne.

The remaining flames all held steady. Each of the other squads had managed to conserve each of their members, and it was this that caused Lord Gribbly's vexation.

He'd hoped that the squads would arrive at a conclusion in their first encounters on the world. He figured that one or the other of the units would be vastly superior to the others after the Warp Storm's effects were sorted out, and then he could send down the main legion, sack this wretched world and reorganize his warband.

The fact that all of the squads seemed to be accomplishing their objectives in short order had raised a number of unexpected problems, entirely unrelated to his pending reorganization.

The first problem was that the Barge's complement had been split four ways, as devotees of each member of the Chaos Pantheon rallied behind their God's chosen. This rendered ship-wide communication almost impossible, and the sporadic infighting common to all Chaos craft had flared to an unprecedented high.

Another issue was the squads themselves. He'd chosen the units out of all the others devoted to their deities very carefully, picking squads and leaders unlikely to challenge him. He hadn't considered the effects of the Warp Storm, however, and it was entirely possible that the ultimate winner of the battle on New Codexia would be far more capable and powerful than any Squad leader had a right to be. More capable and powerful, in fact, than Lord Gribbly himself.

He grunted, and stood. If there wasn't some casualties soon he'd have to take decisive action. Perhaps taking the VV out of orbit and hiding it out-system would put some spine into the defenders. Surely millions of humans could winnow the chaff from his units more effectively if they didn't have to worry about a possible orbital bombardment.

He strode from his sanctum, already barking orders. Behind him, unseen, 4 of the candles suddenly went out.

Brother-Pestilent Glubbulous did not take cover as the enemy fire screeched past him. His faith in his Grandfather was complete, like the corruption of his flesh, and his armor, although ancient, was sufficient to protect him from the slug-throwers that the humans were firing at him.

Instead of ducking for cover he turned, step by ponderous step, rotating in a tight circle until he could see the shooters. With an unhurried motion, the product of thousands of battles, he unhitched his bolter and retaliated at full auto.

The squad took its lead from the Plague Champion, standing untroubled by the auto-gun rounds raining down on them and returning fire with ancient and corroded bolters. Their volley smashed through trees and moss, kicked up splashes from the swamp's floor and tore through a few of their opposition. The majority, however, were safely behind cover.

As the Plague Marines ceased fire to reload the humans popped from their cover and let fly another volley. Glubbulous got a better look at them this time, soldiers clad in camo that matched the swamp, rough men with the look of exposure about them. They weren't wearing any armor, however, trusting to the environment to shield them from his unit's bolter fire. His ancient servo-sighters exposed no close combat weapons worth considering. As this assessment was displayed across his vision he ceased his fire, and began to wade ponderously towards them.

Once again the warriors of Nurgle took their silent cue from Glubbulous, with bolters shipped they trudged into the ceaseless volley of the enemy guns, drawing toxic daggers and other horrid implements of infection and slaughter. The humans would soon experience the strength of the Plague Marines where it was at its most virulent, up close and personal.

As the Plague Marines closed on the human position their fire slackened, Glubbulous imagined the enemy commanding officer ordering his men to ready their weapons. He imagined knives, pitifully inadequate for combating space marines. He imagined a bolt pistol or two, possibly a threat to a normal marine but no serious concern to one of his Dark Tusks. Perhaps their sergeant would even have a power fist, if a human could even lift one, and he'd be permitted to call upon the gifts of his Grandfather in a decent fight. These thoughts running through his head, he crashed through the enemy cover and into the position they'd been firing from, his squad at his heels.

The humans were not massing to charge. They were not, in fact, present. Where they had been firing from was merely some tracks leading away into the swamp, and a set of tube charges rigged to explode.

Now Glubbulous and his squad took cover, hurling themselves to the ground in an undignified collapse. A set of splashes marked the squad's position as they dug themselves in and awaited the blast.

It was not long in coming, the humans having given themselves just enough time to escape. The blast was terrific, a KRUMP of sound and pressure that flattened trees for ten paces, and drove the Plague Marines deeper into the soil beneath the swamp water. Trees toppled and the water came splashing back down.

Slowly, as though dazed, the Plague marines rose from the water. Glubbulous was the first up, then a pair on his right. His armor registered their signals as each member of his squad returned to combat readiness. Three, Seven, Nine...Ten. None of the squad had been destroyed in the blast. The blessings of the Grandfather and the cover of the swamp had safeguarded each of the Ten. The fact remained, however, that the humans had out-maneuvered Glubbulous, and, deep within the tumor he called a mind, he resented it.

On another ridge, overlooking the Plague Marines, Sergeant Sharn watched them rise from the shallow water. "Blessed Emperor" he cursed "What's it take to put these guys away?"

Dhuurock and the Rubric Marines bounced and jostled as the Wayfarer climbed the ridge out of the salt flats. The angle of elevation was steep, but the ancient Rhino could tolerate it. Certainly none of the passengers were likely to have difficulty enduring a little elevation.

Behind them they left the Mark of Tzeentch. It spread over kloms of salt plain, etched into the salt by the feet of the Rubric marines and into the Materium by the sorcery of Dhuurock. The mark wasn't merely the tracks on the ground. It was as much in the air, in the way that shadows would tend to sprawl in 9 directions, or the odd way that vectors would shift in spirals. The Mark was, in truth, a thin spot in the Materium itself, where the Warp could creep close to the surface. The Immaterium had been beckoned by Dhuurock, and it had answered.

Dhuurock sat easily amid his Rubrics, resting from the exertion of crafting the Mark. His energies were diminished, his power somewhat drained. Even for a Thousand Son, a Chaos Space Marine Aspiring Sorcerer who had seen the coming and going of ten thousand years, it was no small thing to craft a Mark of this size. For the purposes of his given mission objectives it was utterly overkill, a Land Raider to crush a tin can. Dhuurock, however, had other prey in mind.

The shifting of the Warp of New Codexia wasn't necessary to crush the local Imperial government's pitiful hold. Dhuurock was certain he could have done so himself through any number of willing intermediaries. The power of Tzeentch was the ability to redirect the ambitions of the man, and Dhuurock had brought down worlds with it before. A local cult could have been encourage, educated, supported and ultimately sacrificed. The administration could have been teased and tormented, forced into ever greater purges and flensings, which would alienate the very populace they professed to protect. All this Dhuurock could do by himself. The Rubrics, the Horrors of the Warp and, at the last, Narl itself, were for a slightly more specialized target.

The Horrors of the Warp, in point of fact, seemed themselves somewhat different since the warp storm. He had sensed no Horrors, no Flamers of Tzeentch within the local psy-scape. Nor had his senses been affronted by the presence of Bloodletters, or the minions of the other Gods. No, the Daemons seemed to have blended, perhaps mixed somehow or simply acting in concert. It was as though the warp, ever capricious, was undergoing some manner of transformation. Currently, it was receding, its preference being to manifest through sorcery rather than Daemons. Those Daemons who did come forth would be pale shadows of their former destructiveness, generic terrors unblessed by any of the Four.

Dhuurock chuckled to himself, the only sound within the Wayfarer. He wondered how many of the other squad leaders even understood that the Imperium wasn't the opposition in this scrum. The servants of the False Emperor were the playing field, and, with his warp tainting, he was the only one even in motion. Hraavack, Sylvester and Glubbulous were his opponents. The Imperial lackeys were merely the puppets he would use to triumph over the other three squads.

As a minion of the Changer, the greatest triumph would be if he could dispose of the other squads remotely, without danger to his Rubrics. Acquiring local auxilliaries was next on his schedule, and it should prove possible to swamp the foe. To overcome his thirty foes he'd send thirty thousand pawns. There was a part of him, however, which yearned for a more personal triumph. In this battle, at last, he possessed the license to use the trump card of his Legion, which had been withheld at Prospero. If his schemes went awry, and his unit was forced into a confrontation with one of the other squads the Inferno Bolts would assure a proper conclusion.

In truth, even that triumph would be just the beginning. The obliteration of the Berserkers, Noise Marines and Plague Marines would establish the strength of the Thousand Sons, and draw Lord Gribbly's host down from the Villainy Victorious. When the legion descended to this planet, by then a holy ground of Tzeentch, Dhuurock would make his move. The Warp Storm had changed everything, and Gribbly was a creature of the old ways, an Alpha Legion recruit from the Fourth Black Crusade. His warband would be better used in the service of the Changer, as humbly directed by Lord Dhuurock.

Behind his helmet, Dhuurock's lipless mouth curled in a smile and he let his mind drift through his schemes and ambitions. This intense reverie was his supplication to his Master. To run through ones ambitions, submitting each to the scrutiny of his Warp-Self, was the truest form of worship of the Great Schemer, the most complete submission possible to the Changer of Ways.

Surrounded by smoke and flame, Brother-Fether Sylvester labored frantically to save the human's life. As he did so, he ran the events which had led him to this bizarre pass over and over in his mind, searching for the imperfection.

His ruse had appeared to be working, certainly he had fooled Homborg and his soldiers. They had believed, down to the core of them, that his Flawless Host labored still in the bonds of the False Emperor. They had reported as much to their distant masters, and their report had been received and believed. Sylvester didn't have to take their word for this, he'd been able to pluck the vibrations of their radio chatter from the air. It was just one more of the ways in which the blessings of his hyper-sensitivity to stimulation made him more perfect than the commmon man.

Homborg had arranged for the Flawless Host to meet with the bigwig in charge of the defense of New Codexia, some parasite named Weems. Homborg's contempt for Weems made Sylvester anticipate a fissure he could exploit, between the entrenched command staff of the Defenders and the Nobles, whose personal staff had been usurped by the government under the guise of dealing with the VV's invasion.

As the procession had wound its way down the road Sylvester had allowed himself to believe that he would be the one to win this little contest. Once in charge of the Imperium's local forces he could direct the destruction of Hraavack's berserkers, Glubbulous' Plague Marines and Dhuurock's Thousand Sons with no risk of failure. The Imperium might be an absurd failure which worshipped a corpse, but none could doubt their capacity for sacrifice.

In this state of mind the approach of the Zepp'lin's had seemed fitting. It had seemed as though the world was simply displaying the proper admiration for his greatness. His natural inclination to get his squad into cover had been suppressed by the drama of the moment. Homborg had displayed no fear, clearly believing that that this was the salute that it was purported to be. It was only at the last moment, as the bombs began to fall, that Sylvester realized the truth.

Even in memory, the speed of his Noise Marines had blurred the eye and broken the local Materium, causing delicious cracks of thunder as they dove for cover. If he'd been even ten seconds earlier they might have made it. But he'd been duped well and truly. The bombs had struck the ground and exploded microseconds before his squad could get off of the exposed road.

The instant of the explosion was nearly fitting repayment for the shame of being deceived by unaugmented humans. The Noise had surpassed anything in his experience, a sharp crack which would have deafened someone with less refined sensory apparatus. Secondary explosions had followed hard upon the heels of the first, like the drum roll of an angry deity. He'd been lifted into the air and tossed like a stray stone, sailing through the ranks of Homborg's combusting soldiers and skipping down the road.

Gazing back he had witnessed a scene of utmost beauty. His Flawless Host was shattering, Marines cartwheeling through the air or driven into the ground like tentpins. The Defenders of New Codexia were fairing even worse, flying apart or flattened by the pressure. The light of the blast, the silhouettes of the victims, and most of all Homborg's personal banner's burning...they added up to craft an instant of frozen beauty the likes of which he had never beheld.

Then the time dilation concluded and he began to think tactically again. Moving with a speed inconceivable to a mortal man the Noise Champion sought cover. Unwilling to rise and increase his profile he swiftly rolled across the road and into the drain off ditch. At the same time he sent out a coded vox signal, audible only to a Noise Marine, demanding that his men "Get Down!".

The survivors of his squad took cover, but it was a useless gesture, a locking of the door after the departure of the grox. The Zepp'lin unit had used all its bombs in the instant of treachery, causing the maximum casualties in their moment of opportunity. Remaining around and trading fire with his unit's Sonic Blasters was no part of the airship's mission statement. The Zepp'lin's didn't even alter course. After unloading their ordnance they floated sedately on, doubtless voxing the success of their sneak attack to this Weems.

As soon as they left effective bombing range Sylvester had raced back into the tumult, determined to assess his losses as swiftly as possible. They were grim indeed, his squad's membership had been nearly halved. 4 Noise Marines were destroyed, snuffed out in an instant. That the instant had been one of supreme sensation was cold consolation. His unit's effectiveness had been halved. Only fortune, or the favor of Slaanesh had seen the remainder through unscathed. His remaining five comrades were uninjured, their armor scratched and broken, but all were voxxing operational readiness.

When Sylvester had seen Homborg sprawled before him, shaken and unconscious but not in pieces, his immediate inclination had been to save him.He wanted to restore the pest to consciousness so that he could be made to properly experience Slaanesh's deepest sacraments. The wretch would pay for the destruction of his unit.

As he worked at this, however, striving to bring his fallen pawn back to consciousness, the taint of Tzeentch filtered across the landscape. Narl's essence wrapped around him and awakened Sylvester's mind to new possibilities. This betrayal could not have been carried out with Homborg's knowledge. The idea that the Bulsome family scion had the bravery to march his men into this explosion and the elan to carry out the act utterly unsuspected by Sylvester was ludicrous. Far more likely that his masters had callously sacrificed him, discarding him even as the Flawless Host had been discarded, centuries ago.

In the depths of Brother-Fether Sylvester's mind a new plan took shape. This situation could still be turned.

The Castellan of the Wall was worried. The Castellan (Howett Trubb to just about anyone) The stillness along the Great Wall perturbed him. According to the reports of his scouts, trustworthy men one and all, a tribe of the War People should have dashed themselves against the Wall in a pre-dawn raid.

In preparation for this he'd gotten his men up and ready before the dawn. They'd prepared the ancient defenses of the Wall, the Kinetic Fields and Force Projectors, they'd sighted in their bolt guns and waited for the foe. This was routine to the Wall's garrison. Dealing with the raids of the War People was, in fact, the entire reason for the existence of the Wall. It protected the Emperor's faithful from the raids of the abhuman scum of the wastes. What was not routine was for the War People to fall back before ever sighting the wall.

In all his eight years of commanding the Wall Howett couldn't remember a single instance of the War People feinting an assault that they didn't carry out. They simply didn't think that way. Whether they thought at all was, in fact, still an open question. Plenty of times even being utterly slaughtered at the wall's base hadn't deterred them, and the savages had been cut down to the last. Consequently, today's silence was a deeply distressing development.

Castellan Trubb wracked his brains for any possible explanation. Perhaps the War Leader had fallen prey to an accident or been assassinated by a jealous rival. That might prompt the horde to fall back while it selected a new War Leader. Perhaps a rival warband had fallen upon the flanks of the horde, and it was even now in a battle for its life, all thoughts of breeching the Wall forgotten.

The bottom line was that he didn't know, and that was intolerable. His Zepp'lin's had been diverted to salute Homborg's unit, so he'd have to rely on the New Codexian Scout Corps.

The men who rode the wall had a hard job, but it paled in comparison to the intrepid few who ventured into the War lands. The Scout Corps had the unenviable task of gathering information about the movements of the War People. As a result, they had the highest mortality rate of any branch of the New Codexian military.

This mission, in particular, was near suicidal. Whatever was going on out there had resulted in them losing any idea of where the horde was. As a result, whichever scouts he sent would be going in blind. They might blunder directly into the horde, or wander for days without catching sight of it. Who could he possibly ask to-.

Howett grinned. This was a chance to solve two problems at once. He sat a second in silence, relishing the way that life occasionally let him win. Then, leaning forward he flicked on his vox. "Central?" he asked.

"Yes Command?" cracked the reply.

"I want you to get the Reapers out of the Hole. Tell em I've got a mission for them, and if they get it right I'll forget all about Article 119."

Gargan Silverpelt sat sullenly within his iron tomb. Hands that had choked the life from two Ork Warbosses were utterly motionless, stilled and twisted by their inaction. Eyes that had picked out the patterns on the wings of a Fenrisian Great Shrike were shadowed and empty, peering sullenly at nothing. Even the great heart, which had seen its heroic owner through a thousand battles, a hundred wars, pumped but once in a great while, the body it served in a state of near-stasis.

Gargan had less freedom of movement than the lowest of the Imperium's convicts. His bonds enclosed him utterly, stilling him from toe to tooth. Discovering his situation one might leap immediately to the conclusion that this was a foul enemy of the Imperium of man, transfixed within this sarcophagus to repent his manifold transgressions. Gargan Silverpelt, however, was the furthest thing from a traitor. Gargan Silverpelt was a hero of the Space Wolves, and the statue in which he was confined, a Dreadnought.

Gargan hadn't always been called Silverpelt. Eight hundred years ago he'd been a highly regarded Long Fang named Gargan Duskbringer. He'd brought the Emperor's fury to the foes of the Space Wolves with a long rifle. There had been talk that he might be headed for the Wolf Guard, or even a future Wolf Lord.

In a moment he had not ceased to regret for the past eight hundred years the Enemy had gotten the better of him. An Ork Kommando unit had slipped up behind his squad, and charged them with close combat weapons and pistols. Caught wrongfooted the Long Fangs had prepared to sell their lives dearly, their heavy weapons useless at this range. Gargan had sprung forth from the squad, charging the Orks before they could lock his foes in hand to hand combat.

It was a courageous stratagem. If he defeated the Orks his unit was, of course, saved, and if he fell to their blades the foe would be clustered for his unit's frag missiles. He hadn't counted on the Ork's Nob, who seized him in a powerfist and flung him right back into the Long Fangs, knocking his Battle Brothers about like bowling pins. The Orks had charged, Nob leading, into the Long Fangs ranks. Gargan had sprung to his feet and engaged the Orks in hand to hand combat, and here was where he earned the preservation of the Dreadnought. Not a man in his squad was slain as they recovered from being knocked down. Gargan held the Orks for easily 8 or 9 seconds, and, just before his squad moved to assist him, broke the Orks and the neck of their Nob with the same twist.

As the foe routed one of them had turned around, raised its rokkit launcha and...As usual, Gargan's reverie didn't bring him to the moment of the rokkit's impact, instead skipping ahead to his awakening within the Silverpelt.

Since then he'd prowled the Emperor's heavens as a Space Wolf Dreadnought. In some chapters this would relegate him to a fire support role, but the Space Wolves saw no reason to demote a leader, simply because he'd become a Dreadnought. Gungar Silverpelt commanded the Space Wolf complement on the Shadow of Fenrir.

The Silverpelt interrupted his brooding, bringing to his nose the scent he'd associated with a vox from his Blood Claws. Without motion he commanded his iron frame, and shortly the voice of his Battle-Brother's came to his ears. "Commander, we are ordered to a planet called New Codexia, to combat the archenemy."

A deployment order! This was welcome news. Gungar had been too long without combat. "From whence comes the request for aid?" he asked.

"No request was made, rather our Astropaths picked up the warp signature of the Foe. Sir, its Traitor Space Marines...the Thousand Sons."

Orks had broken his body, and encased him forever in a walking tomb. They'd killed his comrades and his ambitions to become a Wolf Lord with the same rokkit blast. It says something of the personality of a Space Wolf that his hatred of Orks was a pale shadow of the loathing he felt for the Thousand Sons.

The Grand Auspexer dipped into a low bow before his governor. Beside him the Consented Astropath matched his bow and went one further, crossing his wrists as though they were bound and holding them behind his neck in the ancient ritual of submission.

Brant Shastler waved his hands in an impatient gesture, indicating that they should cease their obeisance and get on with the meat of the discussion. He had mixed feelings about their impending report. On the one hand he was filled with dread at the notion of receiving more reports of the Villainy Victorious's movements. On the other hand he was wise enough to understand that ignorance was a poor shield.

The Grand Auspexer straightened regally from his prostration, and looked his Governor squarely in the face. Old and gnarled from a lifetime of peering into the screens of his arcane machines and enduring the emanations of the Cognition Furnace he nonetheless had a presence about him that the Grand Maintainer couldn't match on his best day. He had been summoned when the Cognition Engine had stirred into activity, to verify that the Machine Spirit was working properly. Where he had been prior to the summons was something the Governor didn't want to consider, but he wouldn't be surprised if there was a tiny monastic cell somewhere missing its guru.

"There can be no mistake", intoned the Grand Auspexer (The Grand Auspexer to everyone) "The enemy battle barge has departed the local Materium. New Codexia's space is once again free from the taint of the heretics."

"Forgive me", said Brant, "but that seems implausible. The enemy deployed a grand total of four squads, to widely separate locations. If this wasn't the opening salvo in a broader assault, then what in the void was the purpose to it? I doubt the foe has simply packed up and gone home, especially as the Chaos Space Marines are still on the planet. Surely the Traitor Legions wouldn't simply squander four squads."

The suggestion that he was in error caused the Grand Auspexer's jaw to clench. "The Holy Auspexer" he intoned "indicates that the enemy has departed. Their motives for said departure does not fall within my remit to investigate. Nor does the military sense, or lack thereof, to the enemy's invasion maneuvers. It is my task, my service to the God Emperor, to report to you the results of my use of the Holy Auspexer. I have done so. If you lack the faith to believe the divinations of the sacred engine it is no concern of mine."

Having said his piece the Grand Auspexer would have liked to storm out. It would have been a good moment to make a dramatic turn in place. His cloak would have swirled and he could have strode from the room with dignity. None were permitted to depart the Governor's presence until he dismissed them, however, so the Grand Auspexer settled for standing stock still.

Brant eyed him nervously for a moment, then decided that the man's zealotry was a net positive. "My apologies, Grand Auspexer." he said. "I was merely expressing my vexation at the enemy's unknowable motives and profane nature. I in no way doubt the proper functioning of the Emperor's Eye, or your skillful operation thereof."

"If I may" said the Consented Astropath diffidently. "I can confirm the report of the Grand Auspexer."

Governor Shastler turned to regard the psyker, eyeing it with the same sort of caution one used on a condemned criminal. The Consented Astropath (Thun, according to its file) was a wiry creature, and utterly hairless. Dressed in the mock-manacles and ceremonial prisoner's garb of the Astropath the Consented cut a bizarre figure.

"My senses" said the creature, its two visible eyes downcast and its warp eye forever hidden "registered the presence of the traitor vessel vividly. Indeed several of my colleagues took their own lives rather than endure the sensation for a moment longer. At the same instant that the Grand Auspexer reports that the enemy vessel broke orbit, however, I ceased to sense the Taint"

It was beneath the Governor's dignity to thank a psyker, so he merely nodded as this essential confirmation was relayed to him.

With appropriate ceremony (A solemn turn and a walk like a funeral procession in the case of the Grand Auspexer, and a crabwise shamble in the case of Thun) the two luminaries departed his presence, leaving the Governor alone with his thoughts.

He turned the startling info over in his mind, mulling on it. The departure of the foe seemed like incredible news. With just four squads worth of enemy's the victory of New Codexia was assured, and this was just what concerned the Governor. He could only imagine that the enemy's attack on New Codexia had been some manner of raid or feint in a larger war against the Imperium as a whole. Dropping off a tiny force and then fleeing into the void was the sort of behavior his texts told him that Xenos raiders would use, but he had always presumed that they were merely the fore-runners to a great invasion by a Traitor Legion. Perhaps his world was going to be ok after all?

It did not occur to Brant Shastler that the Chaos Commander had departed because the four squads he had already deployed were enough, and more than enough, to forever profane the Governor's world.

Camp Commander Marg Cuffer hadn't believed it when the Sarge had told him the meds wouldn't be coming. His skepticism had seemed vindicated when he saw the hauler roll into the camp. His relief was short-lived, however, as a quick glance through the hauler's cargo manifest verified the warning he'd received. He stomped up to the vehicle to confront its driver in person.

Commander Kuffer gazed in disbelief at the contents of the hauler. After a moment's angry contemplation he transferred his gaze to the driver. "Is this some sort of sick joke?"

The luckless Defender stared straight ahead and recited by rote. "The stalwart defenders of the Third Swamp District are hereby to be congratulated for their doughty resistance to the traitors. The Government is certain that the inhabitants of the Third Swamp District would gladly forego their own medications to decrease the odds of the archenemy procuring remedies for the myriad plagues which shall wrack them as the Fever Season arrives."

Marg shook his medicae pack at the soldier. "What the hell do you think keeps this place running, man? Without the quine and steen patches Fever Season will break this camp. We'll lose half, maybe three fourths of the residents. They are going to die. What the hell is command playing at?!"

The defender looked at him somewhat compassionately. The local Arbites really did look after their own. He lowered his voice. "Look, Marg, here's how it is. The bosses don't give an Ontler's excrement for the camps, or their Fever Season or their problems. Weems pitched the whole "Bloodless Victory" nonsense to the Guv, now he's committed to starving out the Chaos Forces in this area. He'll let a hundred camps rot before he has to go back on his strategy, even if it does turn out not to work."

"That's grand, just grand." snarled Marg. "Only, I'm in charge of this camp, its maintenance and its protection. I'm third generation Swamper and the Sarge gave me this camp himself. I don't care what the Grand Defender is playing at. Send us the quine or the camp is gone."

The delivery defender stared at him stonily for a second. Then turned and started to climb back into the hauler.

Marg grabbed his shoulder. "Look man, even if there's no quine for us, can you make a run to Round-Hill camp? I've got some Lho sticks, maybe you can persuade Arlo to send some of his quine." Even as his made his plea Marg wasn't hopeful. No one gave out their meds, he sure wouldn't if the situation was reversed and it was Arlo pleading.

The defender gave him an odd look. "What makes you think Arlo will have any meds to spare?" he asked, wrenching his shoulder from the Camp Commander's grip. "Didn't you hear the pretty speech I just gave. The whole swamp is getting cut off."

Marg practically gaped at him. "The whole third district?" He knew he'd heard right, but it was just so hard to believe. "You'll have an epidemic!"

The defender just shook his head and started the hauler. There was nothing further to say.

Hraavack sat upon a throne of rough hides, his armor digging deep grooves into the strange leather. Standing in a semi-circle before him were the assembled 7 Warleaders. The savages had some vestigial reverence for the title of Warmaster, Horus's ancient legacy made manifest among even the lowest. Consequently the title of Warleader was the highest they could aspire to, and the Warleaders would be forever in conflict until a Warmaster came to unit them. Hraavack grinned. If the shoe fits...

This unification would not be accomplished through leadership or strategy, obviously. No, the Warmaster was the one who could slay the Warleaders, all at once. To defeat each and every Alpha male of the War People would be to cut off forever the thread of their genetic destiny. A squad without a War Leader had no way to fertilize its drone, and would swiftly be absorbed into a larger and more successful tribe. If Hraavack killed the whole command Caste, however, the end of the People was upon them. Their religion described this as the Blood Times, when the Warrior Caste would enlarge to consume the Breeders and the Gatherers, and the People would take their place in the Skull Throne.

The first of the War Leaders stalked towards him. There was no further signal that the ritual had begun. The Blood God despised initial pleasantries, to honor the High Handed Slayer, kill.

Hraavack moved forward to engage his enemy, flexing his squad's ancient Powerfist and activating the blade on his chainsword. It didn't occur to him that defeating seven nobles of an ancient and martial people could be beyond him. He didn't fear to be defeated, or much care whether he triumphed or fell. The warp essence which served as the Skull Champion's soul vibrated with bloodlust, and nothing else.



The first of the savages carried two blades, one in each of its outstretched hands. No power fields crackled on the ends of these weapons, so Hraavack could trust his armor. Both were heavy weapons, though, so he had to beware the possibility of taking simultaneous hits on each side, or a strike to the head. As the Savage closed to melee range Hraavack crouched and prepared to pounce.

It took every ounce of his mental strength to resist the opportunity to preempt his challenger's initial strikes, but the Powerfist demanded restraint. The first challenger sprang forwards and swung both blades, one from the right and the other from the left. Hraavack blocked the right hand blade with his chainsword, which drove the glaive downward and into the ground. There was no way, however, to intercept the left hand blade and it slammed into his armor.

The impact of the glaive strike sent the Skull Champion toppling, by poor fortune tripping over the grounded glaive he'd parried a second ago. It was no uncontrolled fall, however, and he stretched out his Powerfist as he fell, opening and closing his hand.

The Warleader, his leg severed at the ankle by the fist's grasp, directed his fall at the Berserker. If he could land atop the Skull Champion his fellows could make use of his body to shield their attacks from the vision of this off world upstart. The Berserker was too fast, however, and Hraavack rolled to his feet just in time to evade the toppling savage.

The second and third Warleaders chose this moment to charge. It had been no courtesy or misplaced sense of honor which had held them back as the first had taken his shot. Rather, they'd used his brief battle to evaluate the fighting style of Hraavack. Rushing towards the Berserker they howled the battle cries of their people, and swung their glaives fiercely.

Hraavack met them head on, attempting to get flank them and avoid fighting both of them at once. He counter-rushed the one on the right, who was armed in the same manner as the first champion he'd felled. It attempted the same maneuver, swinging both blades in horizontal arcs to crush him between them. This time, however, Hraavack wasn't waiting to charge up his powerfist, instead he showed the Savage leaders how a Berserker charged.

His furious blitz carried him between the closing blades and through their arcs before they could clash together. Hraavack's chainsword whirred as it pierced the Savages chest. A great gout of reddish fluid splattered the Berserker as the glaives clanged uselessly behind him. The second champion, slain in a heartbeat, performed one last act of worship to the Lord of Skulls by releasing his grasp on his glaives and taking hold of the weapon which had killed him. He was attempting to trap the chainsword in his dead flesh, disarming Hraavack to leave him to the mercies of the other champions.

Hraavack wasted no time attempting to wrench the blade from the death grasp of the second champion. The third was coming around the second champion, uncertain as to what had happened in the instant its view had been obscured by the second champion's hulking form. Hraavack sprang towards the second champion, powerfist bared.

It was only as he passed the point at which he could abandon his leap that he realized his error. The third champion was not armed as the first two had been, rather he carried a serviceable power sword, doubtless stolen from some poor New Codexian officer. Beyond doubt the third champ would strike before the Powerfist could be brought to bear.

The savage didn't miss its chance. Stepping fearlessly into the Skull Champion's trajectory it leveled its power sword like a lance, betting that it could strike down the Marine before his Powerfist could even reach its target. Hraavack could only grit his teeth as the power sword parted his armor.

At the last instant he managed to twist, jerking his body to the side in mid-air. The power sword still sundered his armor, sliding down his side and cutting him to the ribs. Even the undersheathe of hardened bone that protected all Space Marines wasn't proof against the power field of the stolen power sword. A great gout of the Skull Champion's blood sprayed across the ground.

Then the instant of collision passed and Hraavack was inside the third champion's reach. His reached out with his Powerfist and gripped its chest, squeezing until he felt the life leave his foe.

The fourth, fifth and sixth Warleaders advanced slowly, having learnt from the example of the two who went before. They'd seen the strength of his powerfist, and the speed of his rush. They'd also seen the grievous wound the power sword had inflicted on him, and they hung back to let the bleeding incapacitate the would-be Warmaster. The lull in the violence angered Hraavack.

Reaching down with his empty hand he unclipped his pistol from his belt. Seeing him drawing a projectile weapon the savages came at him in a savage rush, understanding on some primitive level that his pistol was likely as far beyond a bolt pistol as his Chainsword was one of their glaives.

Hraavack fired without aiming, trusting the reflexes he'd built up in a dozen wars. Plasma lanced from his hand, piercing the armor of two of the approaching chiefs and broiling them where they stood. The sixth savage, however, had an opportunity as his peers were cooked. He could have leapt on Hraavack as the plasma pistol recharged, could have silenced the deadly sidearm in the instant bought by the sacrifice of his fellows. No Berserker would have missed the chance.

The sixth champion, however, missed his moment, hesitating in disbelief at the ease with which his comrades had fallen. The pause was brief, but sufficient for Hraavack, who was able to reorient his aim and point the plasma pistol right at the Savage.

The sixth savage was saved by the first, who had managed to pull itself back to a kneeling position despite the pain inflicted by its missing foot. It threw a glaive, and the High Handed Slayer must have blessed its aim, for the glaive struck the plasma pistol and damaged the ancient coils.

The sixth savage didn't waste this distraction, and swung its two handed glaive in a ferocious overhead strike. It was a simple attack, made in the presumption that Hraavack would glance towards the first champion to figure out what had happened to his plasma pistol. The Skull Champion, however, stepped calmly to one side as the glaive descended. He counterattacked with his powerfist, and the sixth champion shared the fate of his comrades.

As the sixth champion fell the last champion made his move at last. Larger than his peers he shook the ground as he charged. Such was his piety that he bore no weapons, preferring to honor the Lord of Skulls with his own efforts.

Hraavack was momentarily bemused as the savage bore down on him, with no way to penetrate his armor it hardly seemed a threat. He grabbed for his bolt pistol, dropping the damaged plasma weapon, and raised it to fire. His target wasn't the final champion however, in view of its unarmed state he judged the maimed first opponent as the more important target. He put two bolts into the one footed savage and it toppled, this time to its death.

It was a mistake, and one he would have no time to recover from. The final champion's unarmed state had been an illusion. Strapped to its chest was a melta-bomb. It howled as it bore Hraavack to the ground, and the press of their bodies activated the ignition stud.

Yenda the Crone was the last of the true Night Talkers.

She could still recall when she had been young. Her age hadn't pounced suddenly on her, but rather approached gently, a suitor pleasant yet inexorable. She'd seen what little hair she possessed going grey, felt the approaching stoop in her back and gazed at the world through steadily dimming vision. Yes, Yenda could recall a time when she was young. She could never remember being healthy.

The women who raised Yenda had been a Night Talker before her, and she'd initiated her into the secrets of the Barren Sisterhood before she'd had her first bleed. To survive in the Dire Swamp one merely had to understand its plagues, trick its agues, deceive its diseases. There were precursor illnesses, which, once one had suffered their devastating initial effects, served as inoculation against the lethal sicknesses which the rest of the camp would fall prey to.

So what if the vaccine plagues deformed their victims hideously? Yenda hadn't been destined for beauty anyway. She'd rather be ugly than a corpse. So what if she had to spend her nights in the festering wastes, listening to the Night Talk of the swamp bubbles and the croaks of the toadaks.

Safely infected by Gar-Rot she was beyond the reach of the Yellow Ague. Shielded by the Fester she had dwelt undisturbed during the Cough-Croak outbreak which scythed through most of her generation. By feeding and tending the vermin of the camp she'd gained their friendship, and they brought her no sickness beyond her ability to endure.

Recently, however, the Night Talk had been more dramatic than usual. Yenda had always felt, although she'd never admit it, that the Night Talk was a useless and antiquated ritual. The Night had never added anything substantial to her teacher's admonitions. Sometimes she thought she could hear it claim that "All Will Rot", or a toadak would croak seven times in a row. These were the signs by which she could discern the arrival of a new plague.

On this night, so soon after the night of falling stars, however, the Night Talk had altered. "Glubbulous" said the swamp gas. "No Medicine" warned the warm night wind. "Narl" spat the Toadaks. Somehow, the meaning of these cryptic utterances was not lost on Yenda.

She was to prepare the village for the arrival of Glubbulous, whatever that might be. She was to prophecy that no cleanlisome remedies would spoil the next plague of Grandfather Swamp. She must beware of the Narl, although she had no clear idea what that might be.

Rising from her swamp bed the Crone tottered towards camp. She needed to have words with Camp Commander Cuffer, the camp must be prepared for Glubbulous' arrival.

Camp D19 was a standard PDF infantry platoon staging area, mesa template. Camps exactly like it were scattered throughout the New Codexian northland. The stated purpose of the camp was to reinforce local order and handle muster duties. In practice it was also a reminder to fractious regional powers that they served at the pleasure of Governor Shastler's administration. The soldiers stationed therein were as much Arbites as they were troopers. Their function was disciplinary, rather than defensive.

As a consequence, their readiness to undertake serious action had been allowed to slide to a regrettable degree. The camp Chimeras hadn't been used in years, with most patrols being undertaken in unarmored civilian vehicles. There were no field guns, no heavy weapons. The camps manpower, on the other hand, was actually above spec. This was due to the recent outbreak of Chaos contamination and the resulting surge in patriotism. Rather than the 50 troopers proscribed by the Tactica there were approximately 70 soldiers manning Camp D19's hastily repaired fortifications.

When the Chaos vehicle approached the foritification the reaction of the soldiers was mixed. Perhaps 10 immmediately broke, a glimpse of the Archenemy's vehicles all it took to shatter their fragile morale. The remaining forces immediately deployed to the fortifications, sighting in on the corrupted vehicle with their las guns and slug throwers. Several snipers immediately took aim at the vehicle's areas of vulnerability. Camp D19's commanding officer was thoughtful enough to retain 10 soldiers as a mobile reserve, and to post a watch on the rear approaches to the camp, lest the enemy transport prove merely a diversion.

Untroubled by the commotion it had caused, the Chaos vehicle rolled inexorably closer. Soon it passed into rifle range and the camp erupted with a ferocious volley. Lasgun shots and slug-thrower fire glanced off the vehicle's armor. The snipers opened up with more precise fire, blasting the tread-guards and hatches of the distorted transport. The Camp Commander himself fired his bolt pistol in the direction of the enemy, although he was still well out of range.

The Chaos Rhino rolled untroubled through the entire volley. Its paint was scratched, and several of the oddly organic protrusions on the vehicle snapped off, but the vehicles functional capacity was unchanged. Without increasing or decreasing its velocity the enemy tank rolled towards the fortress, not bothering to return fire with the combi-bolter mounted on the front turret.

The Commander of the camp bellowed at his men to stand fast, and they hunkered down behind their fortifications and let fly. Another trickle of men fled from the stockade, but the majority of the PDF forces remained at their posts and continued to rain fire on the enemy rhino. A cheer rose from the garrison as one of the snipers managed to disable the left tread of the Rhino. The transport ground to a stop meters before the walls of the fortress.

The fire slackened momentarily, as though the soldiers were wondering collectively how the enemy would respond to the damaged to their vehicle. They were not kept wondering for long. The hatches of the Rhino popped open and out jumped the Rubric Marines of Dhuurock Squad.

Ornately decorated and traveling in perfect formation, the Thousand Sons were instantly identifiable for what they were, abominations of the foulest sort. Each suit gleamed in the morning light, gold and sable in complex patterns. In absolute unison they emerged from the Rhino's hatches, leveled their bolters and opened fire with a devastating broadside.

Sealed since the beginning of the Long War, the Inferno Bolts were released at last. Each possessed of a hunger for destruction, each the child of a Lord of Change, the bolts hissed and cut through the air. Rather than flying directly as they were aimed they road the local warp currents in search of prey. They zipped past fortifications or through the loose earth barricade, cut through flack armor as though it wasn't even present and burned their way through flesh more rapidly and horribly than a melta blast.

Eight seconds after the Rubric marines had opened fire on the fort they were the only military force present. The human's numerical superiority, entrenched positions, high morale and able commander counted for less than nothing before the Inferno Bolts. The souls of the fallen were absorbed by the Daemons of Tzeentch which made up the Bolts and the bolters of the Rubric Marines recharged to fulll capacity.

Within the Rhino Dhuurock himself didn't look up from his contemplations. Defeating a PDF fort had precisely the same degree of interest to him as defeating a particularly steep hill, or other easily surmountable obstacle. He left the obliterations of New Codexia's defenders to his Rubrics as he himself pondered his designs for the future.

"They bombed you?" asked Stalak Bulsome, incredulously. "Uncle Homborg, are you entirely certain that this wasn't merely a case of poorly entered saturation protocols?" Stalak ordinarily prided himself on keeping his cool. As the leader of an entire regiment of the New Codexian PDF he was known, in fact, for his ability to keep a calm head on his shoulders whatever the degree of provocation. Today though, he was a bit out of sorts from being called down to the regiment's vox office by a fellow member of the Nobility, and the suggestions his older relative was making were highly distressing in and of themselves.

Homborg's voice emerged from the vox caster, his ire undistorted despite the heavy interference. "On a low altitude precision strike? You've seen units led by me before, Stalak, what are the odds that a House Bulsome unit would be mistaken for anything else? Our uniforms, drill and bearing are famous throughout the world."

Stalak considered. It was certainly true that no one would mistake a New Codexian PDF unit for an enemy force. "So, you are saying that the Grand Defender had your regiment bombed... deliberately? In the middle of the Archenemy's attack? Weems is a cautious man. I can't believe he'd strike so irrevocably and be unsuccessful."

"You don't understand at all." Homborg snarled in frustration. "Archenemy attack? There is no such thing. Weems and Shastler cooked it up to give them an excuse to fully deploy the military. He just wanted a chance to invoke the Articles of Readiness, thereby making the Nobility vulnerable."

"Wait, vulnerable how?" asked Stalak, lowering his voice so that the vox operator couldn't overhear. "We are surrounded by more soldiers in the PDF than we ever were while leading our private forces. If the Grand Defender or the Governor wanted to strike at our caste as a whole they could hardly choose a worse way to go about it."

"Wise up" responded Homborg. "I never said he was moving against the entire Nobility. Heck, Shastler owes his Governorship to our support. But say Weems wants to silence certain voices within the Nobility. Maybe just House Bulsome. An assassination in peacetime would be trouble enough, but he needs to take out our quorum if he wants the House to be unable to contest him in the senate. A spate of four killings would be hard for even the Defenders to sweet under the rug. But wartime casualties? That's a different thing altogether. He invents an emergency, mobilizes the PDF, gets us spread out among his loyal troops and then has us killed off. Then he chooses some heroes, lauds them for defeating the evil Chaos forces and laments the sacrifice of House Bulsome."

Stalak nodded. This was all starting to sound a little too plausible for his sense of self-preservation. An all-encompassing massacre of the Nobility was implausible, but the limited conspiracy Homborg was describing was the meat and drink of New Codexian politics, and he was a part of the House Bulsome Quorum. "Alright, so Weems is gunning for us. Now, how do we turn it around on the son of a grox?"

At another Vox set, Homborg smiled. He looked over at the Perfect One and nodded. He knew he could count on his nephew to fall in line. He only hoped Stalak wouldn't be tiresome and want to talk for a long time. After all, there were so many more calls to make.

"Its a bad gig" growled Scout Joss.

"Reeee-ally?" His Boss drawled back. "I thought us Reapers were too well liked to get the bad gigs." As she spoke she directed a gaze filled with withering scorn at the trooper.

Joss tightened his lips. There was no call to be sarcastic. "I'm just saying Boss, this here" he gestured in a vague manner which might have meant their squad, their situation, or the War Lands in general, "this is excrement."

Leftenant Maug, his Commanding Officer, glared around. She had to confess that Joss was right. They had 6 men, understrength even for a squad, much less the 50 strong unit the Reapers were supposed to be. They were entirely without heavy weaponry, save for a Demo charge that she'd grabbed acquired by highly unorthodox means as they left the Wall. They were without vox support, due to "atmospherics", and deep in the War Lands. Worst of all, the Reapers had no idea what their target was up to, or even where it was.

As far as she could ascertain, her orders amounted to "Go into the War Lands, find something big and dangerous, then come back and tell us about it." Thinking about it, Maug could almost find it in herself to regret the act that had gotten them on the Trubbinator's hit list.

Realizing she'd been lost in thought for too long the Leftenant prepared a cutting retort to whatever Joss had just said, when she was interrupted. Recon Combatant Arr (RCR to his squadmates) let out a whistle and gave the hand signal for "Move up, I've found something".

The squad closed on RCR, and before they got anywhere near him they could see what he'd found. Vehicle tracks, obviously Imperial, or at least not of the War People's making, scarred the bottom of the small ravine he'd crept up to.

"Now what would a Rhino be doing out here", Joss asked rhetorically. RCR looked around at the remainder of the squad, content to let the rest of them draw conclusions based on his observances. "No gate in the Wall for it to get out" Marg observed.

"Meaning it isn't New Codexian", she continued. "Its the Archenemy, or the Savages have salvaged a tank that was lost a long time ago." The emphasis she put on that sentence showed that she didn't think the second possibility was very likely.

"Should we follow the Chaos Tank?" asked Joss.

There was a beat of silence. No crickets dwelt in the waste, but if they had they would have chirped then.

Then, as one, the Squad began to move.

Directly away from the tracks, heading back toward the wall at full speed.

As they headed out of the War Lands, every once in a while, RCR would pitch his voice to a nigh-precise imitation of Joss's voice. "Should we follow the Chaos Tank?", and the Reapers would erupt in a round of chuckles.

The crew of the Terran Sunrise had no idea what awaited them in the space around New Codexia. The vessel was a simple freight carrier, a minor possession of the Hultrex family. No drama was expected on the New Codexian run. They'd made the same stop, picked up the same goods, haggled with the same appointed officials, for the entirety of the careers of the officers on board.

The transition to New Codexian space was rougher than usual. The Astropath wailed of Daemons and the like, but this was as routine as anything involving an Astropath could be. They were jittery by nature. There was no particular reason to suppose that this time his warnings were more substantial than other times. There was no way for the Hultrex representatives to know that their Astropath was in fact sensing Narl's warp shadow, that the presence of a Lord of Change doubtless indicated that the Archenemy was abroad on New Codexia.

Despite the routine nature of their mission, the Hultrex were professionals. On transition they took an immediate auspex reading, both remote and proximate. The Villainy Victorious had been shielding itself from the planet's auspex using a moon, but the Terran Sunrise had the angle to detect it. The Machine Spirits of the Hultrex didn't let them down, and they spotted the Villainy Victorious immediately.

Unluckily, their registry hadn't received the news of the Battle Barge's conversion. Consequently their auspex assured them that the vessel lurking behind the moon was, in fact, still the Emperor's Smoking Fist.

Confronted with an Astartes Battle Barge the Hultrex immediately held a conference to determine their best coarse of action. They were evenly split between immediately translating out of the system and hailing the Space Marines to offer their assistance. While they held their conference they delayed hailing the New Codexian authorities, reasoning that whatever the Astarte's reasons for avoiding the scrutiny of New Codexian detectors they were doubtless sufficient.

The Villainy Victorious detected the Rogue Trader vessel about two minutes before the end of the Hultrex meeting. Immediately the Battle Barge lumbered from behind the moon's concealment and closed towards weapons range.

Had no other factor disturbed the equation the VV would doubtless have fired upon and destroyed the Terran Sunrise before its crew even realized that they were under attack, but Narl intervened.

Whispering from the Warp he caused an alert New Codexian auspex operator to spot the Chaos vessel the instant it left the planet's shadow. The Lord of Change grabbed the circumstances and exerted his power, driving the spark of alertness through the layers of New Codexian authority until it reached a Vox operator, who found himself shouting a warning to the Hultrex just in the nick of time.

The frigate immediately triggered its drives, lurching away from the incoming battle barge and remaining just outside of lance range. An attempt to transition back to the Immaterium was an immediate failure, apparently the presence of the Chaos forces on New Codexia and the barge had rendered the local warp currents unnavigable for the moment. With no other options, the Hultrex vessel continued its sub-warp flight.

Implacably, the Villainy Victorious continued its pursuit.

"Give it to me straight, Weems" demanded Governor Shastler. "What's going on with the war effort? I can't get any information worth anything from your subordinates."

Weems glanced around the audience chamber for a moment, preparing to give his report. The rich audience hall would ordinarily be crowded with petitioners and the like. He was alone with the Governor, which only seemed to emphasize the dire urgency of the situation. At length he turned his gaze to the features of the Governor, and began to speak.

"Well, I regret to inform your Eminence that my earlier prediction of early and painless success turned out to be somewhat-." He let his statement trail off while he searched the the appropriate word. He didn't want to suggest that he'd been in error, but he needed to find something to say. The Governor came to his rescue. "Premature?" he guessed.

"Precisely. In point of fact, however, our engagements with the Traitor Legion have still been attended, primarily, by great success. In at least one case this can be directly attributed to the proficiency of the New Codexian military that I and those Grand Defenders who proceeded me have built." Weems was on a roll, and his momentum built as he prepared to move into a brief desription of each enemy contact.

Governor Shastler cut in, interrupting Weem's monologue and breaking his rhythm. "Grand Defender, please relate the course of the war to this point. Be specific and include your future plans. I'm the Governor, Grand Defender, I need to be in the loop."

The Grand Defender nodded. "Very well, as you know, the forces of the Archenemy were divided by atmospherics and made landfall in 4 disparate locations. Each location's disembarking contingent amounted to one squad. One squad of Traitor Marines, however, must be treated as respectfully as an entire insurgent brigade. Consequently, we've engaged each of these squads with a strategy tailor made to deal with them."

The Governor remained silent and stoic throughout this statement. It seemed like interrupting Weems just made him want to start over, and he'd learn the state of his world best by glaring until he was told the state of things.

"The first squad made landfall in the War Lands." The Grand Defender decided to start his descriptions with the best news. "The forces of the Archenemy apparently provoked the natives in some way, resulting in the best possible scenario for us. The Castellan of the Wall reports that the seven tribes actually converged, for the first time in recorded history. Somehow those Chaos scum managed to provoke each and every tribe of the War People. Our intelligence gathering abilities beyond the Wall are somewhat limited, but it seems certain that the enemy squad has been mobbed and buried by the savages, most likely taking heavy casualties out of our hereditary enemies. Best case scenario, we could be looking at the lightest winter at the wall, if the Chaos Marines managed to kill a War Leader or two. So that's that. One Chaos Squad destroyed, zero Imperial lives lost."

Weems continued. "The second squad has been more...costly. Their landing equipment apparently malfunctioned, trapping them within the Vile Swamp. Undaunted by the notorious plagues of the region, however, they have been on the move since their arrival. The Swampers, under the able supervision of Great Defender Meefin, have been harrying the Chaos forces since their arrival. While I'm unhappy to report that they've been unable to inflict a single casualty on the Traitors, they have had a great deal of success in trapping the Archenemy within the Vile Swamp. In fact they've got the Chaos forces so turned around that they are advancing deeper into the swamp rather than out of it. Soon they'll be trapped right up against the local reservoir, there to be overwhelmed by the landcraft of the Swampers."

The Governor replied. "Wait, did you say not a single casualty?" "Er, yes" temporized Weems. "Some sergeant or other reports that the Chaos forces are unbelievably resilient and are perhaps able to regenerate. Not to worry though, I have complete faith in Meefin."

He moved on before the Governor could ask further questions. "The third squad has been destroyed in a bombing raid by the Zepp'lins, which I have had the honor of commanding." The Governor raised his eyebrows. "I seem to recall hearing of the demise of these squads before, Grand Defender. You'd better-" Brant trailed off as he saw what Weems had brought out.

The leader of the army was holding a charred helmet, unmistakably Chaotic and unmistakably that of an Astartes. "As I said" continued Weems triumphantly, "a bombing raid by the Zepp'lins under my direct supervisions brought down the Chaos squad after their ambush of a House Bulsome squad." Governor Shastler couldn't tear his eyes from the trophy, and gestured for the Grand Defender to hurry up.

"The final squad has proven the most dangerous of all. Advancing from the Salt Wastes these Chaos Marines have overwhelmed every force which has confronted them to date, including one of the ancient Chimeras we keep for armored counter-thrusts. Counter-attacks are underway however, and even now an entire company under the command of Great Defender Veenit approaches their position even now. We'll grind them down sir, just you wait."

Governor Shastler moved, suddenly, grabbing the helmet from the hands of the Grand Defender and turning it over. There, just as he feared, on the inside of the Chaos Space Marine's helmet was a microtransmitter. He glared at the leader of his armies.

Weems looked at him somewhat sheepishly. "Surely, the inter-squad communication isn't still-"

He broke off as laughter exploded from the helmet's vox-speaker. It was enormously loud, endlessly confident, carefree cackling. The helmet transmitted the laughter undiminished, and the Noise Champion's amusement seemed to fill the room. The audience hall echoed with the laughter of Sylvester.

"Close with them" commanded Lord Gribbly. He emphasized his demand with a wave of his power sword.

Obediently the chanting bridge crew turned to their tasks, and the room soon resounded with the screams of the sacrificed. The pain-wheels turned and the blood buckets filled. At the foot of Gribbly's command throne a ceremonial incineration took place. The stench of burning flesh rose to his nostrils as the vessel lurched forward.

The Daemons which powered the Villainy Victorious were highly responsive in the wake of the warp storm. The energy released by the sacrifices was fought over by the propulsion daemons, the sensor daemons and the containment fiends. The largest slice went to the Bombardment fiends, as always. Warp energy sizzled throughout the ships arteries, as the Daemons were goaded into action by chanting Marines.

Gribbly snarled behind his helmet-mask as the VV drew closer and closer to the doomed Imperial vessel. He had intended to remain hidden from the New Codexian augers until such time as one of his squads had triumphed over the local population...or all 4 had proven their unfitness to serve. The Hultrex vessel, however, had ruined his plans by locating his battle barge in its hiding place. Just thinking of the wasted opportunity caused his snarl to widen, and he pointed the sword at the lance battery control.

"FIRE!" he bellowed. Obediently his vessel bucked and shuddered, then spat forth a beam of energy. The blast crossed the void in an instant, searing the eyes of the observers. It had been a hasty shot, hardly aimed at all, but the favor of the Ruinous Powers was with the VV, for it struck the Imperial vessel a glancing blow.

The civilian freighter listed sharply away from the impact, its hull armor flaring and misting away in the aftermath of the hit. The pilot must have been proficient, for the cargo vessel immediately swerved onto a new course and began evasive maneuvers.

"Fire Fire Fire!" repeated Gribbly, caught up in the moment. The vessel reacted, letting fly with numerous lance weapons, batteries of slug throwing weapons, exotic warp field projectors and bizarre fighter-daemons. The majority of these were out of range, but several lance blasts came close to the Hultrex vessel.

On a smaller vessel Gribbly's outbursts might have diminished its battle-readiness unacceptably, but the Villainy Victorious was a Traitor Battle Barge. It had munitions enough to resupply a disarmed battalion, then blast them out of existence for insolence. As it grew closer to the Terran Sunrise the sheer volume of fire began to tell, and a Gripper Daemon found a purchase on the stern of the Imperial ship.

As the Daemon radiated its foul emanations the Chaos ammunition took note, and changed course to head directly towards the Gripper. Within instants several more impacts took place, and the Terran Sunrise was occluded by a tremendous explosion. Gribbly's bridge crew threw up their hands to shield whatever they used to see with, but he stood unmoved, peering into the brightness in an attempt to determine the degree of the damage.

As the blast died down the truth became clear. The Terran Sunrise hadn't been utterly destroyed, merely hulked. Gribbly smiled. This would be good for morale. A good chance to reassert his authority. "Prepare to board" he said. If nothing else, some hand to hand slaughter would be a good opportunity for him to exert his capabilities. He'd felt diminished ever since the Warp Storm, and to clear the senses there was nothing like Murder.