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***
Marshal Zogfeldt took in a deep breath. Well, it wouldn't make much sense to call him a marshal anymore. He was a warlord now. The title suited him rather better, he thought.
He looked up into the sky. It was red. Crimson clouds gathered and swirled above him. The tiny droplets of the blood of a million innocents was beginning to coalesce in the air. Soon, so he was told, it would begin to rain. The tide of gore would wash the entire wretched world clean of filth.
He thought that was a bit over-dramatic, but he didn't much feel the need to complain about it. Nothing was going to ruin this experience for him, much less something so minute as the splashiness of the entrance, no pun intended. He felt charged. He felt energized. He felt at the absolute peak of his form, mentally and physically. He had never been more confident of himself in his entire life.
And he had never been so liberated either. For once in his perilous life, he felt he was actually in control of his actions. He could actually affect real goodness and change. He was seeing with both eyes open now, and he was itching with anticipation.
Until recently, Zogfeldt had been a commander marshal, first class of the Foleran Kingsguard. He had personally led his stormtroopers on a hundred daring raids and last-ditch saves. He had long known what the secrets of the Kingsguard were. He had long known about the lies the Ecclisiarchy told. But they had been his secrets. His lies.
But the longer he had served, and the more he had spied and guiled, the more truth he began to learn. The secrets within the secrets. The lies within the lies. Yes, he knew about the Grey Knights now. He knew their plans. He knew everything, and it disgusted him. It was all filth, and there was only one way it could all be cleansed. Only one genuinely authentic presence here in this whole "crusade".
He was the god who was unfettered by arcane codes of conduct or obscene contrivances. He was the god that offered the most direct path to purity. He was the god of blood. The god of champions. The god of power, and of hope.
The former marshal had been forced to give the lives of his men as a sacrifice, but it was all worth it now. Now he was more than he ever could have been. Now he was a warlord.
Zogfeldt smiled.
But this was no time to reflect. Now was the time to start the crusade of his own. The fight to liberate all of mankind and restore it to simple order, free of corruption. Those cultists (recent converts themselves to the higher order) were waiting for his signal. The enemy was clueless to their presence. They wouldn't be for long.
He gave the order. The ambush was sprung.
With careful aim from concealed positions the former guardsmen unloaded into their enemy below. Taken completely by surprise, the enemy began to break for cover and start shooting back.
Great leaping gouts of flame splashed through the congealing air, spraying fiery death up and across the face of the ruins. The whole scene quickly devolved into pandemonium as those below tried their hardest to defend themselves.
In the middle of them was an artillery piece. It desperately began to turn around in an attempt to target something, anything, at point-blank range.
Suddenly from up the street, a squad of bikes rushed up to reinforce.
In the bitter confusion, the bikes and the guardsmen started shooting at each other! With a seething blast, a multimelta shot past the side of the ruins where Zogfeldt was hiding, glancing near one of his lascannons and slamming into the side of the basilisk. With an apocalyptic blast, the artillery piece exploded into a million pieces, sending flaming debris, and flaming chunks of guardsmen flying everywhere.
Confusion and panic began to set it. They were weak, so very, very weak.
The warlord lit up his power mace and charged into combat.
The hapless guardsmen opened fire as he charged. A billowing cloud of flame cascaded over him and his cultists, incinerating everyone but the former officer as he struggled to get up the shallow rubble bank in front of him.
More fire circled around his head, splashing on to his armor. Zogfeldt growled fiercely and took a few steps back. He retreated, smouldering both physically and mentally from the rebuff. He carefully hid himself as lasfire and more flames attempted to find him. His other soldiers continued to shoot down into the guardsmen below.
Despite his anger, he felt the faintest shimmer deep inside him. These new feelings of being exposed to the energies of the empyrian felt strange to him. In this case, though, they were not unwanted.
From all around him, real space began to warp and distort. Reality gave in to the strain, and several large gashes opened up, letting the denizens of the dark gods spill out onto the battlefield.
Everywhere cultists began to spill forth in mass. Several large demons emerged roaring from the warp, coming instantly face to face with the now terrified defenders.
Lesser demons also began to pour into real space, overwhelming the defenders all around them, their arcane fires and rending claws annihilating everything around them.
Flying monstrosities began to appear all around them as well, the skies filling with winged nightmares. The full power of the dark gods now hammered onto the battlefield.
Zogfeldt almost cackled with glee as they flew over him. In the Imperial Guard, you were cast out thoughtlessly to whatever end you might encounter. The dark gods, on the other hand, knew how to take care of their own.
The former marshal looked around with pride nearing contempt. Before him the enemy continued their bitter struggle with his soldiers. Behind him, the enemy rushed forward in a desperate attempt at a counterattack.
Space marines threw bolter round after bolter round into the demons. Their unworldly flesh began to destabilize, but not before they sent more marines screaming into the abyss. Vicious fleshhounds bounded onto the bikes, knocking them over and eviscerating their riders.
Terminators came in from up the street and unleashed a withering hail of firepower, blowing away the demonic threat, while others focused their fire hard on the greater demons in an attempt to bring them down.
No amount of heroism could prevent the inevitable. No amount of loyalty or petty faith in the lies they were told could save them now. The Emperor would not protect.
All around him, more forces of chaos began to close in. More demons appeared out of the warp and killed off the nearby marines. A massive hoard of chaos space marines rushed up the street and opened fire into the terminators. The space in front of him rent open as the shambling hulks of two monstrous creatures, part armor, part person, appeared before him.
With what could almost be called glee, the monsters opened up with massive flame throwers, bathing everything with a horrendous blast of fire. The enemy guardsmen in front of them died in agony as their flesh was melted off of their bones by the arcane powers.
Sweep after flaming sweep, the guardsmen were all burnt past charred, completely removed from life.
Behind them, the terminators quickly began to dive for cover away from the onrushing chaos space marines. They were gunned down as they retreated, leaving only their leader to make it into the ruin.
Little did he know that Zogfeldt was waiting for him. He stared the terminator in the eyes as the two made contact.
"Fire!" Zogfeldt barked, and those of his party that survived opened up on him. The small arms seemed to have little effect, but one of the lascannons punched into the terminator's side, throwing him and his suit of tactical dreadnought armor into the wall. The ruined wall bucked and cracked against the weight of the fallen hero.
The loyalist's life quickly drained out of the gaping hole in his armor. The former marshal sauntered over as the sounds of gunfire and screaming demons pierced all reason and sanity. He bent down over his adversary.
He cooly removed the terminator's helmet. The man underneath was wide-eyed and trembling. His eyes met Zogfeldt's again. His face squinted between his clenching teeth. With blushing anger, he spit into Zogfeldt's face.
How pathetic.
He wiped the spittle from his face with his sleeve, reached to his belt and drew out a combat knife, waving it over the terminator's face. Two frantic eyes followed the glinting blade in the red darkness.
With a calm, almost wistful demeanor, Zogfeldt brought his blade down into the terminator champion's throat. He immidiately began to gurgle blood from the gaping wound. Blood began to squirt out, and splash tiny flecks and globules onto Zogfeldt's face.
The warlord leaned in, face to face.
"It was all a lie," he spoke softly as the terminator began to spasm frantically. "It was all a lie," he repeated as blood gushed from the wound, and a pair of the frantic eyes of a dying man looked into him.
"Shh, now. This is just how it is."
The terminator flailed violently once, and then twice. His eyes began to dull. His ability to resist seeped away from him.
"Your faith has made you weak. Now your skull will adorn the throne."
With a few wimpy flinches, the terminator captain died.
All around him, the forces of the Emperor were crushed. The forces of Chaos began to advance up the street.
But there were more already there.
Where the greater demons had fallen, a group of cultists had exploded out of the warp in the dying beast's wake. With arcane fury, they poured down on their enemies, washing away the defending space marines in a tide of gore and violence.
And even further up the street, more cultists poured out, lead by a lord of the blood god on a mighty steed. They brutally thrashed at their enemies as the skies began to darken.
The enemy desperately tried to retaliate. A great battle was being fought in the air. Recently converted hydras joined the fray from below, sweeping the skies clean of enemy aircraft.
In a last-ditch effort, the enemy dropped in what few infantry they had before their transports were picked off. Some landed to the left, only to be charged by demons, while some landed on Zogfeldt's position, killing off the remainder of his troops. They were in turn horribly gunned down by the shambling beasts around him.
More landed up the street and attacked the cultists, wiping them out. A pitched attack and counterattack ensued.
Zogfeltd could see another mighty chaos lord striding up the street with his host that had killed the terminators.
An irresistible tide of armor, swords, and bolters charged up and slammed into the enemy. Whatever pretense of holding off the chaos horde was now gone.
Zogfeldt, now alone, emerged from his position of hiding in the ruins.
After moments of pure carnage, the battlefield around him was now strangely silent. The only sounds of battle were now far up the street away from him. It had been a great victory already.
He strode out into the gathering darkness. Lights from the battle flickered against the descending vermillion haze.
A droplet fell out of the sky. The drop of blood pattered on his face as he looked towards the heavens. The liquid was hot and sticky as it slowly began to run down his cheek.
For the first time in a very long time, Zogfeldt prayed. He had been saying his chants and litanies for years now, but this was the first time in memory that he actually meant it. Instead of the rigid formulas, he spoke to his new god out of the feelings of his heart.
Another droplet fell, followed by another. Soon the whole land would be literally drenched in blood. Soon, the whole land would begin to heal from millennia of abuse.
Zogfeldt closed his eyes as blood began to fall lightly onto his face and into his hair.
He was only disturbed by the sound of the lumbering monsters approaching him.
"You have served the lord of murder well," one of them grated as it turned its massive bulk towards him.
"He is pleased with your fighting acumen, and of the trophy you have collected," the other one spoke.
"I now live only to serve," Zogfeldt replied. He actually meant it this time.
"Come with us," a raspy voice replied from behind monstrous, glowing eyes, "There is more you must do to prove yourself a mighty warrior."
He was eager to do just that.
***
Melchoir pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes were beginning to water from the strain of reading in the dim light.
He was up late again, pouring over Sanario's documents. It seemed that there were codes within codes within codes. It could take him a lifetime of work to be able to understand what the priest had been up to. A lifetime was something that a man of his occupation could scarcely rely on.
Slowly but surely, his many hours of work were beginning to pay off... at least, he hoped. He had been able to at least sort the documents into several groups. Some were correspondence with fellow priests back on Folera, and some were to some other unknown Ecclesiastical agent. Some were journals, some appeared to be research, and others looked like they were orders.
Apart from this, though, the codebreaking process was slow. Thankfully, Melchoir was a man of near infinite patience.
He only had hints and guesses, but what he had stumbled across began to disturb him. He was starting to get the impression that the revolution on Folera that had crowned the new, holy king was perhaps not purely in the interests of restoring a more sanctimonious order to his home world. Furthermore, there appeared to be some sort of connection between the Ecclesiarchy and the Kingsguard. Something just didn't sit right. He just had to find out what.
More curious to him was that, what he assumed were references to space marines seemed to fall into THREE different groups, not just two. There appeared to be the loyalist and traitor marines that he already well-understood, but there also seemed to be another category. Some group that was working against them, but was working for the Emperor at the same time.
There was something very, very unusual going on here.
He sighed deeply as he picked up another folder filled with documents and placed it on his desk.
***
Order of the Sable Heart
Grave Knights
House Rouen 
