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

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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.

Impossibly, Hraavack returned to consciousness.

His last memory had been failing to anticipate the savage leader's suicidal bravery. The last image his eyes had brought him was the flash of the melta bomb at point blank range. His last expectation was that he would reach at last the Throne of Blood, his skull stacked carelessly with countless others, his blood spilled into the ocean formed by Khorne's champions before him. His hate would rise, phoenix-like from the prison of the Materium and wing its way across the stars. He'd be reborn as a BloodLetter or perhaps extinguished for his failure. What he hadn't expected was to open his eyes again on New Codexia.

The first sight which met his gaze was his squad. Now reduced in number to merely 3, they knelt before him, waiting faithfully for his awakening. Bold Karsus, swift Traavik and Preev, Gribbly's pet. 3 Berserkers knelt before him, refraining from the search for battle until their Skull Champion should stir and lead them forth himself.

"Karsus wh-" Hraavack stopped speaking, concerned. His voice had an ominous, bell-like quality, as though coming from the bottom of a well. Further, the iron taste of blood filled his mouth when he spoke, but from where? In consternation Hraavack tilted his helmet down and regarded his flesh. The term no longer fully applied.

"Squad leader," said Traavik. "You were blasted apart, your lower torso wholly vaporized. We presumed you destroyed and fell to electing our new Skull Champion. After 2 casualties Karsus claimed the award, but when he approached your corpse we discovered that the Savages had taken advantage of our distraction to work their will upon you."

"Not their will, Traavik" whispered Hraavack, "but that of Khorne!" His body had been fused to a bronze machine. The remains of his torso sunk into it as though rooted, and strips of bronze ran up his spine and across his left flank. This was no mere machine, however. The Skull Champion could feel the hunger of his new body, feel its desire for slaughter as he felt his own. It was as much a Daemon as a machine, this strange device. As he mused upon its shape it related the designation it used for itself to his mind. It had a name for itself, it called itself a Juggernaught.

In shape it resembled a steed of ancient times, save that its breadth was twice as wide as a man, and the head unnaturally crested. The 4 legs it strode on (he strode on, Hraavack reminded himself), were stubby but powerful, built for springing or charging. The whole was built of shining brass and murder, and Hraavack could feel the energies of the Warp bound within. His flesh was joined to the Daemon Engine just behind its head, his torso exiting like a second head from the shoulders of the beast. He glanced down at the Juggernaught's head, and it met his gaze with a fiery sentience.

"Just as you say, Squad Leader" intoned Traavik, "Khorne be praised. Are you battle ready?" The question was never far from the conversation of the Berserkers. Even when they had been on the Shelf their battle-readiness had never been in doubt, and Hraavack's survival would mean nothing if his new form did not permit him to do battle.

For answer, Hraavack rose to his full height. Towering 11 feet in the air the Berserker/Juggernaguht hybrid probably outweighed the entirety of the surviving squad, with their armor thrown in. Hraavack loomed over the chamber, his form dwarfing those of his comrades. "Oh yes, I'm battle ready".

As Hraavack stretched himself to his new limits he noted another improvement wrought upon him as he slept. The ancient powerfist of squad Hraavack was no longer merely attached to his arm by its antique clasp, it was now anchored to him by the boiling, living, brass of the Daemon engine. Indeed, his armor as a whole seemed to have merged with the venerable engine of Khorne. The brass bloomed and spread throughout it, and Hraavack had no doubt that it flowed throughout him as well.

Preev, unafraid, strode towards the beast which his squad leader had become, interrupting Hraavack's introspection. "You are unable to ride the Squad rhino, what is your will concerning our deployment?" He stood erect before the transformed Berserker as he asked the question, but he never for an instant relaxed his vigilance. Violence within the squad was by no means uncommon, and Hraavack had always despised him for his loyalty to Lord Gribbly. If the Juggernaught had increased Hraavack's powers Preev knew exactly who the Skull Champion would wish to test them on.

"Although I have 4 legs, I am no faster than any other Space Marine" Hraavack paced as he made this admission, showing them the plodding gait of the Daemon. "You shall form my honor guard...the Rhino shall be used to deliver the Savages assault elements."

"The Savages?" questioned Traavik "You mean to share the honor of battle with those mongrel creatures?"

"Assuredly," answered Hraavack. "If I left them out of the slaughter which is to come, what kind of Warmaster would I be?"

Sylvester waited patiently for his men to insure their privacy.

Sequestered within a wing of the Bulsome family estates, the Noise Marines weren't likely to be interrupted, but their training and experiences as part of Lord Gribbly's Host had trained them to be paranoid. Utilizing their enchanced senses they explored every facet of their environment, satisfying themselves to a degree impossible for an uncorrupted Space Marine that their seclusion was complete.

When his second in command, Blauvv, indicated his satisfaction Sylvester began the briefing.
"Death to the False Emperor" he proclaimed.

After a moment of silence his men repeated the slogan in a murmur. Sylvester continued. "It appears as though none of the Imperial lackeys are listening in, or, if they are, they have no sense of honor to stand idly by as their Master is profaned." The Noise Marines nodded, imagining their response if someone had cast such a slur on their Patron.

"Hear then, the World of Sylvester. Our plan is a simple one. This planet's military is divided into several branches, and with our foes botched strike the control of one has nearly fallen into our hands. I shall continue to feed Homborg's delusions that the bombing run was meant for him, a plot by his corrupt superiors to remove an underling whose greatness would obvious surpass theirs, in time. All actions taken by the authorities I'll cast in the worst possible light, leading him into the Heresy of Perfection, by which he'll take signs of his flaws as flaws in others. Thus prompted, he'll rely more and more on I, who alone recognize his 'greatness'."

The Space Marines remained silent, and their Champion explained their part in the plan. "Unfortunately, Homborg is not the commander of the entire nobility. We'll need to convince the rest of them that the Governor is actually out to get them. That's where you, Blauvv, come in. I want you to play the Phantom, like you did on Gerion 3. Take Sazzak and Torumus with you as backup, and make certain to be as terrifying as possible. Your target is the Hmeen family, and your masque is the old chestnut, the Governor's Secret Police. As always, be subtle. You all remember those Zepplins. I enjoyed the experience, but I think once was enough."

Sylvester turned to the remaining 3 marines. "Ffultran, you are going to be needed with the remainder of the Bulsome family. Homborg isn't enough to assure their cooperation on his own. We are going to need someone to play the heroic Space Marine, and you are the best at that sort of thing." Ffultran spread his hands self-deprecatingly, but admitted with a rueful nod that he was probably the subtlest of the bunch.

"Gon, Chaak, you know what your task is. Our comrades lie unavenged, cut down in the prime of their experience. Bring my hate to the Zepp'lin squadrons. We'll teach them the cost of dropping bombs on us."

Dhuurock's astral self wove and slid through the Immaterium, ever in search of the critical warp shadow. The brands of the Changer on his psy-flesh marked him as sacrosanct to the lesser Daemons who filled New Codexia's warp reflection. The Mark was on him, and lesser warp beings dared not obstruct his Way.

Nearer and nearer his divination drew to the object of his interest, and within moments the spell was complete. Behind his ornate helmet, Dhuurock's eyes snapped open, reflecting for an instant the nightmare Warpscape through which he'd sojourned, and then merely their usual inky blackness. His thin lips curled into a smile, the only outward sign of the triumph that he felt.

As he'd thought, Lord Gribbly's invasion was NOT the first incursion by the forces of the Gods to New Codexia. It was merely the first overt one. Several times in the past small cults and societies had formed within the bland orthodoxy of New Codexian culture. Each time they had been quashed, or simply fell apart, without amounting to anything much. They'd never gained the critical momentum or impetus that was necessary for a cult to attract the notion of the mighty beings of the warp.

One of them, however, the Wardens of the Shifting Path, had achieved a modest degree of success. While the ability to summon the Horrors of the Great Mutator had been denied to them, they'd been successful in empowering an Icon of Tzeentch. They had never discovered what they had crafted, he'd been told by the Warp entities, because a schism in their ranks had resulted in the cult's wholesale decimation. This sudden outburst of ambition and betrayal had doubtless been the Material shadow of the Icon's creation. The Aspiring Sorcerer had seen the like before, time and again.

The talisman remained, however, outliving those who had imbued it with their dreams and designs. His divinations placed its location as within a nearby city, still locked in the local law enforcement's Seizures and Forfeitures Repository. The psychic tumult he felt surrounding the Icon made him believe that it retained its enchantment, probably due to the sheer vitality of a human city.

The existence of the Tzeentchian artifact would doubtless prove of immense benefit. The Thousand Sons could craft more such things, of course, but the cost was high and the time required prohibitive. To take the Icon, hijacking the dreams of the Wardens for the benefit of Dhuurock's own dreams, was a far more elegant plan.

He rose from his seat in the back of the Wayfarer, and moved to the Auspex readout. While the intent of his meditations had been to locate the Icon of the Great Mutator, he had felt a whiff of something else. Dhuurock hadn't survived this long by ignoring his instincts, and consequently he began, carefully and painstakingly, to comb the Auspex readouts for any sign of a nearby Imperial presence.

The task was an onerous one. The Wayfarer had been taking Auspex soundings for the entirety of its time on New Codexia, and the fluctuations Dhuurock was looking for would not be large. Indeed, had a New Codexian operator been asked how long the task would take to complete he'd likely have responded with a number of weeks. Dhuurock's was a mind honed to a pitch beyond the understanding of those who had not lived a hundred centuries, however. Only minutes after he'd begun the analysis he discovered the hint that he'd been looking for.

A road from the south, to the New Codexian Heartland, had experienced a profound traffic change. While ordinarily the road would have vehicles moving both north and south in roughly equal proportion, that was not the case in the last week or so. Traffic had died down completely, and only begun again yesterday. The new traffic's pattern was singular as well, each and every vehicle was heading north.

Dhuurock nodded solemnly. A veteran of countless wars, he had known a counterattack was inevitable, but he'd hoped the reprisal would target one of the other squads first. There was no denying the evidence of the auspex, however. The New Codexian counter-insurgency had begun, and Dhuurock squad was its first target.

"Well, fine", he said aloud, speaking to himself in the darkened crew compartment. "Let them come, there are Inferno Bolts enough for all."

Glubbulous and his squad strode from the forest as though the treeline had vomited them up. It wasn't merely that the trees had a diseased, almost nauseous cast to them, it was that the squad actively resembled vomit. The dirty yellow armor of the worshippers of Nurgle was matted and splotched with mud and dead foliage. The overall effect of the squad's appearance was similar to being confronted by an angry compost pile...or rather, by ten such.

Several of the Plague Marines had battle damage on their armor. They'd been harried on the way to their destination by the increasingly desperate mortal forces. One of Squad Glubbulous's helmets had a fissure running halfway around it, the edges gaping like a stylized maw and revealing the ruin of the head within. Another of the Dark Tusks had a shattered arm brace, where the humans had managed to keep a heavy stubber trained for forty or fifty seconds. Neither was particularly discommoded by their injuries.

Glubbulous indulged in a rare moment of pride. His troops had kept a grueling pace ever since they left the squad Rhino submerged in a lake. They had hauled their festering carcases across acres of forest, leaving a trail of blight and dying foliage, but none of their own number. The speed and skill of their forced march would have done credit to a unit of assault marines, much less the short range firefight specialists he commanded. Then, too, they'd avoided taking any casualties from the human resistance.

As he thought of his New Codexian adversaries, the Plague Champion felt no such pride. Overcoming them had been inevitable. Indeed, the fact that they'd chosen to die resisting the forces of Glubbulous, of Chaos, irked him. He much preferred that the humans experience a wise despair, and that the warp impressions they left behind would strengthen his connection to his Grandfather. Defiant courage was of no use to him.

It had been no great feat to slay them, although they had displayed considerable scouting skill. The Plague Marines edge in superior equipment, enchanced physiques and sorcerous powers was simply too great to permit the humans any manner of chance. Throughout Glubbulous' experience the soldiers of the False Emperor had scattered before bolter, and died on pitted blades. New Codexian had proven no different.

On top of this the New Codexian forces hadn't seemed to understand the Chaos troop's objective. They had attacked consistently from one direction, as though herding the Plague Marines. Perhaps they hadn't realized that the lake they meant to pin the forces of Nurgle against was the source of the local water table? Or perhaps they didn't understand the voraciousness of the plagues Glubbulous was brewing even now.

Regardless, they had striven to their utmost, given their very lives, to drive the forces of Chaos to the destination they were heading towards anyway. Glubbulous had ordered his squad to resist several times, digging in his heels out of pure spite, but ultimately both sides of the battle had the same desired outcome. He little doubted that even now, some foolish Imperial lackey was congratulating his forces on their glorious success, achieved in the very face of insurmountable odds.

He snarled at the idea that the Imperium's forces might have, at this moment, any hope or satisfaction. He strode to the water's edge and dipped his venerable Power Fist into the mire. With a satisfying crackle the power field vaporized a small section of the pond, a splash sent water flying through the air. As it showered down on him, and his unit, the Plague Champion tasted the water, searching for contaminants and vexaxious characteristics.

He was somewhat disappointed. Despite its swampy origins, the water source was cleanlisome and, to a small degree, sacred. The hopes and frenzied need of the local populace had lent the water's warp reflection a vitality beyond that ordinarily possessed by liquid, which stood in the way of his tainting that self-same reflection. It was a problem easily rectified.

If the Materium became corrupted, swiftly the Immaterium would echo that corruption. He didn't have to plague the water sufficiently to cause a material disease, merely sufficiently to cause the blemish to echo in the Materium. From there he could worry and gnaw at it, until the local water table's warp reflection bled taint and pestilence back into the Materium. It was merely a question of what manner of contaminant to use.

A ways behind the Plague Marines, a shot rang out. Their pursuers had apparently caught up with them again. It jarred Glubbulous from his reverie, and provided him with the answer to his dilemma. Why even ask what contaminant? Corpses, ritually defiled, made the best components for any undertaking of significance.

Working in the BigMountain city Arbites was a boring job. Ordinarily.

Yon had been a bright eyed kid when he volunteered, the sort whose athletic skills had won him the delusion that he was fit. The Minimum Proficiency Exams had taken the lives of 3 of his class, and his idealism with it. Forced to train to the point of destruction, and beyond it, he had aged years in a single, miserable summer. The old saying that "There are no young men in the Arbites" had proven true.

Yon was still bitter, still resentful, and still a member of the BigMountain Arbites. He'd served 8 years on the streets, and in all honesty the training was probably the reason he was still alive. New Codexian society had taken him into its dark underbelly, but through the strength and faith he learned in the MPE's he'd forced it to vomit him back up again. He'd been tested in the Shastler Riots, the discovery of the Reach Mutants, and the Trade Wars with LilMountain. Through it all he'd remained an honest and a competent official, one of New Codexia's finest.

That wasn't doing him any good today. He surveyed the roiling crowd with dismay. His fellow citizens had been whipped into a frenzy by the knowledge that a Chaos force was approaching BigMountain, and the fact that the town's Zepp'lins were being used to evacuate Mipp Shastler's household possessions rather than refugees wasn't helping any. Behind his helmet, the Arbites gritted his teeth for a moment and then answered the angry shouts.

He belted out the official government line. "There is no reason to believe that BigMountain City has been targeted for any manner of Archenemy or insurgent attack. The City is perfectly safe. The gates are secure. The road is mined. The forces of the Arbites defend you. Mayor Mipp is merely taking a customary inspection trip to LilMountain. In the event of an enemy attack there is more than sufficient resources to evacuate all civilians. A strong defense force under Great Defender Veenit is on its way here even now. The Emperor Protects." Even to his own ears he sounded extraordinarily unconvincing.

The mob surged against its restraints, barking out questions. "Why was the Mayor inspecting another city? When had the road been mined? Why mine the road if there wasn't any truth to the rumors of Chaos? How far away was the Great Defender's force?" The questions had no answers. The questioners didn't really want to know the answers anyway. All of the roars merged together into a combined shout, a chant. "Why Why Why Why Why" it went, but the repeated question had no hint of interrogation about it. It was a monosyllabic exclamation, an angry declaration. It demanded no response, merely threatening belligerence.

The Arbites responded. With Yon at the helm they stepped into the crowd and pushed them back a step, superbly fit bodies shoving civilians back into other civilians. The crowd recoiled, and Yon held his breathe. If they rushed forward at the Arbites there would be no choice but to fire, and the massacre would begin. The city would devolve into anarchy, and he wouldn't let that happen.

Before the crowd had a chance to react further to the Arbites rush he stepped out of the line and removed his helmet. From deep within himself he pulled a bellow that cut through the dull roar of the crowd's exclamations. " DIS-....PERSE!" he yelled. He put every moment of his 8 years as a peacekeeper in that shout, every experience that the Arbites had brought him.

He stared down the city, awaiting the angry shouts, when suddenly the line he'd stepped away from stepped forward with him. He looked from side to side, in astonishment, as his comrades lowered the masks on their helmets as well. As one they took up his shout. "DIS-...PERSE!" roared the Arbites of BigMountain city, and their civilian charges could only obey. First one, then a group, then a flood of the would-be rioters slunk from the square back into alleys too narrow to form crowds in. Yon breathed again, his first since his shout, a sigh of relief.

That had been too close. If that kind of thing kept up, the Forces of Disorder wouldn't have to set foot in the city to cast it into anarchy. His countrymen, and the idiotic policies of the leadership, would do all their work for them.

Great Defender Veenit Hmeen studied his maps carefully.

In order to properly calibrate his battle expectations the modern New Codexian military leader studied maps. This was well known, a trope of the role. For that reason, Veenit scrunched up his face and looked carefully at a roadmap of the TwoMountain region. The fact that he was deriving no meaningful information from this careful perusal in no way caused him to rethink the effort. Great Defenders studied maps. Veenit studied the map.

Ever since he had inherited the command of the ancestral Buckler regiment, Veenit had understood the importance of playing to expectations. His unit was, after all, maintained solely for the purposes of tradition. The nobility of New Codexia was required to maintain military units whose size corresponded with the family's power, and the Hmeen family had a further tradition dictating which male Hmeen led the Bucklers. While initially hesitant to take a role as a battlefield officer, given his lack of training, Veenit had eventually discovered that the command of the Bucklers wasn't given to him anyway. In truth, he was merely the mouthpiece for the true commander of the Bucklers...tradition.

Each season, they patrolled a route identical to the route that they had patrolled during that season of the last year. Each patrol, they received reports identical to those they had received at that location the year before. Never changing, never wavering, the consistency of these excursions had drilled into the unit an ability to practically command itself. Each and every soldier knew what he did, each year, and newcomers received instruction from their veteran comrades. What matter it if the commander knew nothing, so long as his men could rely on their experience to guide them?

The conscription by Governor Shastler had come as a nasty surprise to the Bucklers. The invasion of New Codexia had permitted the Governor's invocation of all sorts of ancient provisos and clauses. The net effect had been to place the Hmeen families prize regiment at the disposal of the vulgar office of the Governor. In all the history of the Hmeen family, this had never happened before.

Such a blow would have crushed a less enlightened member of the nobility. Veenit would have been well within his rights to sink into madness or degradation as a result of this unthinkable slur. No one would have questioned his actions had he delegated the battle to a henchmen and returned to the Hmeen estates. Indeed, such was expected of him. Great Defender Veenit was larger than that, however, a bigger man than anyone had a right to expect of a person in his role.

Suddenly off the rails of the traditions which had guided his life, he seized the opportunity. If there was no tradition to be followed, then his actions would form the basis of future traditions. Even now, the regimental scribes watched him and avidly recorded his every action. If he frowned pensively and drained his sacra, so would generations of Great Defenders in his footsteps, unto infinity. The Hmeen, and the Bucklers, would reenact this battle, their first true battle, until the Emperor descended. His every step was creating a sacred ritual, and he wouldn't have missed it for the world.

So he studied maps. The studying of maps was something he'd always enjoyed in his patrols, and he left it to his successors as a sort of a gift. It was something they would get to do before the nasty part of the campaign, a blessed continuity with the patrols that they would do the rest of the year. It was the least he could do.

After a moment, he looked up from his maps and regarded the Defender who had entered the command Chimera. The man was grubby and his hygiene left much to be desired. Definitely not a Buckler. The man's name was Barack Grun, and ordinarily Veenit wouldn't have tolerated his presence for a moment. He was, however, Veenit's secret weapon. Defender Grun was from Grand Defender Weem's office, stolen by the promise of higher pay and handsome renumerations and he had actual military experience.

Grun spoke, breaking the silence, "If you've finished your perusal of the maps, Great Defender, I have a some suggestions as to the marching order and disposition of the regiment's military assets." Veenit nodded, mindful of the historical weight of the occasion, and pitying whoever played Grun's part in the future reenacting. A nod was far harder to botch than a speech.

As Grun droned on Veenit's thoughts turned to the future. His own military experience was coming up soon, and with that under his belt he could immediately leap to the head of house Hmeen's hierarchy. No one could deny the ascendancy of one who had led the Bucklers into battle. Why, the very thought would border on treason. The Great Defender contratulated himself on recruiting Barack Grun. That was all it took to be a military man, really, the ability to select the proper subordinates, and the good fortune to have them at hand when the situation demanded.

Still, no sense putting all his eggs in one basket. He raised a hand, interrupting Grun's harangue. It was time to show Barack that he wasn't so indispensible as he might believe. Veenit addressed the scribes. "I'd like a different viewpoint on that last point" he stated, "Send in Defender Narl."

Sergeant Sharnes' men raised no battle cry as the Forces of Disorder swept towards them.

They clutched their lasguns and slug throwers to their chests and hunched forwards. They snuggled down behind their makeshift fortifications and sighted in. They commended their souls to Him on Terra and begged that august being to protect them. A few thought of their homes and families, a few snarled their hatred and fear and all of them performed a final check on their weapons.

Such a small force, to have harried the dreaded Chaos Space Marines. A hundred men crouched behind the low stone wall, divided into seven squads, 4 of which were overstrength and 2 of which had been reduced to sole survivors. They'd driven the Plague Marines, the Ten Terrors as the men had taken to calling them, through the swamp and now the enemy had turned at bay. Everyone had known this was coming. Cornering the enemy had only one possible result.

The Chaos Space Marines swept towards them, apparently eager for battle. The languid stride with which they'd traverse the swamps, the sedate trot which betokened their inevitable victory, was gone. Instead of tromping like the Daemons they resembled they rushed furiously forward like the Adeptus Astartes they had once been. Perhaps they resented the trap they found themselves in. Perhaps they were simply motivated by the Traitors disdain for all that was good and loyal. Or perhaps, like the Swampers, they understood that this engagement had reached its end. Two military forces had skirmished through the swamps for what seemed like eternity, and now they'd reached this moment. One of them would pass on to reach other moments. The swamp scavengers would dine on the other.

The heavy weapons opened up as the Terrible Ten rushed into their firing range. The savage bark of the western flank's dual heavy bolters contrasted with the roar of the eastern flank's autocannon. Explosions of bark and swamp water rained down on the Plague Marines, and one of them was tossed from its feat by a glancing hit from the autocannon. The cry of triumph from the gunners was stilled as the Plague Marine came swiftly back to its feet. Those who had been part of the chase from the beginning hadn't even raised the shout, they knew that it would take more than firepower to lay these daemons to rest.

The Plague Marines suddenly encountered the first reason that the Swampers had chosen this area to make their stand. The ground suddenly exploded beneath the feet of the foremost, tossing them into the air with a tremendous "BLAM". Three had been caught in the explosions, and one was hammered by the heavy bolters while he hung momentarily suspended, but all three rose immediately and continued the charge. The rest slowed their rush momentarily, and pointed their bolters.

The Swampers ducked behind their cover, believing that the enemy was about to return fire, despite the fact that the conventional wisdom held that bolters weren't deadly at this range. The Terrible Ten had other plans, however, and their fusillade was unleashed onto the ground before them, explosive shell after explosive shell churning them ground before them. The bombs which were to stop the charge exploded harmlessly before them, turning the ground in front of the Plague Marines into a smoke filled, cratered hell.

As their minefield was blasted the Swampers cursed and raised their weapons. The mines had fouled their firing lane, and there was no alternative but to fire blindly. As the Plague Marines resumed their rush they came under fire from the main body of the enemy infantry. Several score lasguns and slug throwers firing rapidly and constantly from prepared positions. As the servants of the Ruinous Powers forged forward through the blizzard of fire they appeared to be shuddering through the motions of a peculiar dance, the constant impacts splintering armor and cratering cancerous flesh. Then, the impossible happened.

One of the Chaos Space Marines slumped forward, weapons slipping from hands gone suddenly slack, and toppled to the earth like a diseased tree. No one shot had overcome its resilience, but the combined effect of the volume had been too much to bear. The ancient power armor seemed intact, no great wound gaped and the body remained in one piece. Still, the Plague Marine didn't stir. Even the Grandfather couldn't keep vitality within flesh so abused, a body so battered. The Terrible Ten were Ten no more.

As one the remaining Chaos Space Marines lifted their bolters and retalied, sacrificing forward momentum for the chance to return fire. For the most part their blasts struck the dirt and rock wall that the Swampers had piled up to protect themselves, but occasionally one hit a human, with grisly results. Swampers struck by bolter shells didn't fall, they combusted. The blasts shredded human flesh, tossing pieces of equipment through the air, occasionally claiming secondary casualties. The operator of the autocannon took a hit to the upper torso, and toppled headless to the swampy ground.

The New Codexian PDF's fire slackened, soldiers clung to cover rather than take the chance of catching a round from one of the Plague Marines. As the volume of blasts raining down on then slackened, however, the traitors lunged forward, resuming their aborted charge. They stole several steps while the Swampers clung to cover, and they crossed the final threshold, into rapid fire range.

The moment of decision had come at last, and the Swampers unveiled their final surprise. From the swamp to the east of the Plague Marines a pair of Sentinels rose, lumberjack models that the Swampers used to remove deadwood from the infrequently traveled roads of the Dire Swamp. Each was equipped with a small flamer and an enormous buzzsaw. The flamers were ruined by the units' brief immersion in the swamp, but the saws spun and sparked with an undiminished intensity. The children of Nurgle had no time to react as the machines lurched into them.

The first marine to be struck by the Sentinels raised a corroded sword to block the sawblade. The blade was ancient and rusted, a fine weapon for murdering the helpless or spreading plague, but useless for averting the strike of a spinning blade powered by Mechanicus arts. The Marine's sword was split and ripped from his grip moments before the sawblade bisected him, armor and all. As his torso toppled the Plague Marine reflexively pulled the trigger on its bolter, but the same blade which took his life had cut off the ammo container and the weapon clicked emptily.

The next Marine to that side, however, was Glubbulous, and he was a little better armed than his subordinate. Flexing his powerfist he waited for the sawblade, and pitted its warp field against the spinning blade. His faith was vindicated, as the field sheared through the blade and sent in spinning off the machine. His next strike followed swiftly on the heels of the first, tearing into the cockpit and crushing the pilot's leg. The machine toppled, but it toppled forward, burying the Plague Champion in the swamp.

The Swampers gave a great roar, as their Sentinels were locked in battle. Unwilling to fire, for fear of hitting the remaining machine and its pilot, they fixed trench implements and rushed forward. Sgt. Sharnes cursed and yelled, but couldn't restrain the charge. Swiftly they surmounted their own wall and plunged into the knot of Chaos Marines, battering at the larger metal forms with their sheer numbers and with short range shots from their weaponry.

At the instant the two sides clashed together, the forces of Disorder unleashed their Blight Grenades, obscuring the sight of the slaughter to come.

Lord Gribbly exited the Immaterium in a crimson flash, forcing his way back into existence with a thunderous crash and a roaring battle cry.

Clad in his ancient suit of Terminator armor, he was a terrifying sight. It raised his stature above that of a normal man, leaving him towering over the cowering figures who surrounded him. It's additions to his height were dwarfed, however, by the sheer bulk it conveyed to him, the raw mass that the Tactical Dreadnought suit possessed. Gribbly hardly looked like he needed the awe inspiring weaponry he toted.

The crew of the Terran Sunrise, expecting a conventional boarding action, were caught utterly by surprise as he appeared among them, blasting in all directions with his combi-bolter, its parallel barrels spitting explosive shells at an unsurpassed rate. Those unlucky enough to be witnesses to his sudden appearance didn't last long enough to understand what was killing them. They departed the Materium with their sanity intact.

Gribbly lowered his weapon, permitting the daemons housed within his armor to begin the reloading process, and strode to the door. On the way his boot crushed the arm of one of his victims with an audible snap. He paused, then stomped several more times, crushing the victim's torso and head to the accompaniment of further squishes and pops. He was in no hurry.

When he reached the fortified bulkhead which led to the next crew area he paused. He hadn't precisely been subtle, and he had no doubts that more security forces waited in the next room to ambush him. While he didn't feel fear, precisely, Lord Gribbly hadn't survived the millenia as a Chaos Space Marine without understanding the dangers of walking into a trap. The fact that his armor could doubtless protect him from anything the wretched Rogue Traders could throw at him was beside the point, it was a matter of proper tactics.

According to the plan the adjacent rooms should have been assaulted at the same time he himself had taken this one, by the Obliterators and Terminators of his Undivided contingent. They'd been chafing for some action ever since he'd dispatched the four squads to the planet, they'd appreciate the chance to let loose inside and enemy vessel, and their armor was strong enough to take the teleport. He'd heard nothing to suggest that his teleportation ambush had been replicated throughout the vessel, however. Apparently the ancient Translocation Engines had only worked properly for him, delaying his men in transit or simply failing to send them anywhere. The warp was always capricious.

Faced with assaulting a fortified room Gribbly stood a moment in silent contemplation. Then he moved swiftly to the hatch, activating his chainfist as he did so. He made a horizontal slash at throat height, a well practiced maneuver usually intended for the decapitation of his foes, and tossed a bundle of krak grenades through the slash. Without waiting for the blast he moved sideways swiftly, moving along the wall towards the room's corner. Behind him, the slit exploded with las fire, as the room's defenders belatededly blasted it.

An instant later the he heard the familiar "KRUMP" of a krak explosion and he lunged forward, directly into the bulkhead, chainfist leading. He crushed through the wall like it was made of rotten wood, bursting into the smoke filled room his grenades had just scoured. The defender's cover had been chosen with the presumption that he'd be coming through the door, and the alteration in angle provided him by his unorthodox entry left them mercilessly exposed. Before the security force could react he had his combi-bolter up and firing.

Once again meager flak armor and human flesh proved entirely unable to stop bolter shells, and the surviving defenders fled the room, screaming in abject terror. This time Gribbly pursued, his armor's bulk impeding him not at all. The traders screened him from any further ambushes, and he swept into hand to hand combat before any shots could be fired.

Lord Gribbly was the master of six distinct forms of martial arts, 2 of which were specially made for use in Terminator armor, and one of which he was the last living practitioner of, having slain the second to last in a duel to the death. He was equipped with the finest wargear his Host could provide, and augmented by a veritable host of symbiont Daemons. His practical experience spanned millenia, and his victims filled cemeteries. By contrast, the Hultrex security had basic hand to hand training. Their equipment was ill maintained and primarily decorative, for overawing the primatives they traded with. Their practical experience was negligible. The battle was over before it began.

After defiling the corpses, performing maintenance rites on his wargear and thanking his patron Daemons for the opportunity to venerate them, Gribbly began to grow concerned. Voxing back to the Battle Barge he snarled. "Where the hell are my terminators?"

The entire Hultrex security force had striven to take his life. They hadn't succeeded in enraging him a tenth as much as the answer to that question did.

Blauvv led his Battle Brothers through the shadows, exulting in the sensations of command. As a Space Marine, then as a Renegade and finally as a Noise Marine he'd obeyed. A succession of sergeants, chapter masters, Lords and finally Sylvester, an endless series of bosses, each more demanding than the next. The chance to lay aside his subservience and control his own destiny was a sublime pleasure, a balm carefully applied to an ache he'd never consciously permitted himself to feel.

Ahead, the Hmeen family estate lay awash in light, illuminated with a vigor that only made the night around it seem all the darker. It was surrounded by two palisades and a moat. There was but one entrance, and that was overseen by the House Wardens of the Hmeen. To prevent intruders from scaling the walls on other sides there were alarm systems, ranging in subtlety from the painfully obvious to cunningly concealed. To a human intruder it would have seemed an impenetrable stronghold. To Blauvv and his section it was barely a diversion.

The Noise marines moved through the night like a warm wind, there and gone in a flash. The woods outside of the Hmeen estate weren't merely picturesque, they concealed a variety of detection devices. There were tripwires that the Flawless Host jumped. There were sensors, bought at great expense, that they jammed or deceived. There were sentries who saw nothing bu the night and heard nothing at all as they were bypassed. There were guard dogs, the fiercest known breed, who cringed at whatever it was they smelled, then whimpered and bared their throats to the wild.

The first difficulty Bluavv encountered came when they hit the moat. The problem wasn't crossing the moat, they could leap that easily enough, it was that their cover wouldn't allow it. Ostensibly, Bluavv, Sazzak and Torumus were Governor Shastler's Secretists. Human agents would have had to swim the moat (which was toxic, of course), or leave some other trace of their passing. The Noise Marines paused an instant on the bank of the river. Bluavv whispered an order through the Vox network, and they turned to the forest.

Each of the three had a chainsword, and could have sheered through an Ironwood at a stroke. That would have negated the point of the whole procedure, however, as the marks left by a chainsword were distinctive, and would have screamed "Astartes" to even the dullest of observers. Sazzak, however, had been sent on this mission for a reason.

Unlike the rest of the Noise Marines he didn't bear a Sonic Blaster, instead he was encumbered by the Squad's heavy weapon, the Blastmaster. He pointed it at the base of the tree while Bluavv and Torumus held the trunk at a point several feet above his target. He adjusted his weapon's controls and fired. To a Noise Marine, the blast which followed was deafening. To the dogs scattered throughout the forest it was intolerable. To the Hmeen security it was silent. To the tree's base it was devastating, the waves of ultra-high pitch sound eroding and slashing all the way through the trunk. The sound destroyed the tree's base in the space of an instant, and the Noise Marines lowered it across the river, creating a makeshift bridge. Then, one by one, they leaped the poison moat.

The first palisade lay beyond. Blauvv motioned the unit to a stop, then carefully examined the wall. After a moment's consideration he decided that a human could surmount the wall unaided, and he pointed up. The squad needed no further direction, and Torumus immediately began to ascend the barricade, climbing like a spider. Sazzak and Blauvv waited patiently, and a moment later they heard the subsonic whistle which indicated the all-clear. They followed the same path their Battle Brother had taken, and the section cleared the palisade.

A Hmeen security forces member lay at Torumus's feet. The squad didn't speak, it was clear from the fact that the human was still breathing that Torumus had overcome him before he had even noticed that the Noise Marine was upon him. Blauvv pondered for a moment, then moved his hand in a brief chopping gesture. There wasn't any reason the Secret Police would have left a sentry alive, and the opportunity to do murder wasn't anything a Chaos Space Marine should pass up. Torumus took care of the sentry with a utility knife, simulating a human's weak stabs by using only a portion of his strength. That matter done with, they turned in silence to the final palisade.

It loomed above them, stark and strong. The Hmeen had spared no expense on their final protection, the wall would have done credit to a fortress world. 30 feet tall if it was an inch, the stone which made it up was fitted and joined expertly to prevent intruders from scaling it. It even seemed to sweat a slick substance, doubtless another anti-climber protection. To go over this obstacle might just be beyond the Noise Marines, it was certainly beyond the security force they were impersonating. Blauvv considered the barricade for several minutes before deciding on a course of action.

With unsurpassed control over sound the Noise Marines began to test the wall. Tuning their Sonic Blasters to nearly the minimum level they pressed them to the slick stone and began to vibrate it. Even ordinary Astartes wouldn't have been able to hear the responses that the intruders were listening to. Vibrations so minimal as to be inaudible to sonic alarm systems crept down the barricade, prying and rebounding. With is ear to the wall Prauvv listened intently, waiting for a distinctive sound he was certain he would hear soon.

Behind him, the dead guard's vox crackled with sound, surprising all the Flawless Host marines as it broke the near silence they had been compassing so carefully. "One to Ten, report". Fortunately, Torumus had overheard the guard's voice before knocking him out, and with a Noise Marine's intimate control of sound he was able to imitate it well enough to reply, sending the acknowledgement with an excellent impression of the deceased Warden's voice.

When he turned back to the wall it was to find that Blauvv and Sazzak had finished their inspection, and were heading east. Torumus fell in behind them as they circled the wall, silently and with as much stealth as they could muster. Soon enough they got to the point that their sonic survey had indicated, and Blauvv knocked on the wall. The answering sound would have fooled a human, but it was absolute confirmation to Blauvv. The humans had built a bolt tunnel, an escape hatch to flee through if they needed to leave their refuge. Such cowardice was unimaginable among the Astartes, but the forces of Chaos knew the value of a tactical retreat, and Bluavv had correctly anticipated that House Hmeen wouldn't be without a back entrance.

In addition to bearing the squad's Blastmaster, Sazzak had a talent that was useful in times such as these. He was a low grade telekine. While he couldn't move large objects, or even move small objects swiftly, he was fully capable of pulling a lever located on the other side of a wall. Such a talent would have forced him into the Librarians among loyalists, but the forces of Chaos appreciated the warp-touched. It had been a contributing factor in the unit's original decision to defect.

Sazzak closed his eyes and concentrated. The squad watched, silent and expectant. Blood trickled from Sazzak's helmet feeds, dribbling through carved channels and entering through various orifices. The sensation would strengthen the Noise Marine's concentration, as any sensation would. A moment later the wall shuddered, and a fissure gaped within it.

Prauvv nodded in satisfaction. A secret door opened from within, sure sign of a traitor. The Governor's Secret Police certainly were resourceful folks.

Castellan Trubb gaped at the land beyond the Wall.

He had been a member of the garrison for the majority of life. He'd grown up among the ramshackle civilian towns which had sprung into being around the wall's fringes. After a brief educational period in the big cities he'd returned as a member of the New Codexian pdf, and taken a posting on the Wall. Hard work and good fortune had led him to command of the garrison, and for the last five years he'd led it as best as he could. All told, he'd given three and a half decades of his life to the ancient edifice.

In that long span he'd seen his share of dangerous situations. He'd been there for the Alliance war, where two of the War People tribes had somehow, impossibly, formed a coalition and attacked the wall together. He'd been there for the Crisis of Neglect, when a paperwork mishap had left the wall out of ammunition at the precise moment that an attack occurred. In addition to those he'd experienced his position as Castellan let him access the records of the past, allowing him to experience secondhand the worst pinches and problems the Wall had ever endured. Summing his memories and reports, he probably had knowledge of a good two dozen dire situations on the Wall, in addition to the hundreds or thousands of more routine attacks he'd endured or heard of. Out of those dozens and hundreds, not one...not any two...began to compare to the situation he beheld.

The War People filled his view as far as he could see. Not one tribe's warriors, not even two tribe's warriors, but every tribe's entire population. An ordinary raid might encompass a hundred of the War People. A historic raid, a once in a generation nightmare attack, might have as many as three hundred and fifty. The greatest number recorded in an attack was one thousand two hundred, and the accuracy of that account was disputed. Trubb swore softly and began to count. If there were less than twenty thousand of the savages on the plane he'd eat his uniform.

The horde was different in more ways than its numbers, as well. An ordinary savage invasion would have noncombatants. There would be breeders and what passed for scribes among the abhumans, here to record the deeds of the Braves who were to spend their lives scrabbling at the Wall. The Savage leader would have an entourage, hangers on and magic men, none of whom would actually fight. This horde was different. There were breeders and civilians among them, sure, but they had clearly been conscripted. Each and ever member of the horde was armed, whether with the savages primitive missile weapons, or with scavenged New Codexian equipment, or even simply with rocks and weights. Each and every one of them came to kill.

After an instant's stunned gaping, Trubb straightened. This moment had been coming throughout the history of New Codexia. Why it had come at this particular moment wasn't his concern. His duty now was to get warning to the rest of the military, distracted as they were by the Archenemy incursion, that the ancient foe was making its final strike. Well, that, and to preside over the Wall's final defense.

The Seizures and Forfeitures bureau was a veritable fortress. The walls were plas-crete and the building had been built to be low slung and defensible. There were 2 turrets in high alcoves on the wall, and each contained a heavy bolter in good working order. The building's guards were ordinarily numerous and capable, but the recent riots had necessitated their transfer to crowd purging duties. Still, a skeleton staff remained, who could probably, in their defensive position, have held off the entire populace of BigMountain city if it had risen in revolt.

When the majority of the Terminator and Obliterator contingents of the Villainy Victorious warped inside the building, however, it fell in the time it took them to move through it. Outnumbered 3 to one by Chaos Terminators, veterans of the Long War, the BigMountain Arbites reacted the way any other Imperial Guard would have...they perished. The fortunate managed to swallow their own lasguns, the unfortunate were ripped limb from limb according to equations crafted in antiquity to maximize the suffering to swift-death ratio. In the moments after their arrival the Terminator squads and Obliterator squads took full control of the building.

Each and every terminator was a horrendous thing, a blasphemous warrior who out-massed the statues which lined the avenues of the BigMountain Arbites district. There were 28 of these monstrosities, the entire contingent which Gribbly had intended to bring to his raid of Hultrex trade vessel. Due to Dhuurock's arrangement with the leader of this assembly, each Terminator had enjoyed complete access to the Villainy Victorious's armory before their departure, with the result that wargear of the highest calibre was sprinkled throughout the throng. Reaper autocannons hummed and whirred as their Machine Spirits were prodded into spiteful life by malevolent daemons. Powerfists crackled and hissed as they were flexed for the first time in centuries. Heavy Flamers scorched the air with searing gouts of flame. Even this mighty assembly, however, had its leaders...its standouts...its Aspiring Champions.

Squad VakJak, composed of ten Terminators, was led by a pair of Aspiring champions. These champions, Vakros and Jakkarn, carried the unit's reaper autocannons and were accounted the finest shots on the Villainy Victorious...with the possible exception of Lord Gribbly himself.

Squad Torrin, composed of 8 terminators, was led by a champion who had inherited Lord Torrin's chainfist when that luminary had been killed by Eldar in the famous Third Battle of the Necronomicon Tourney. The champion, one Arriak, was hungry to prove himself the equal of the squad's famous creator.

Lastly there was the Changers, the 9 man squad which had brokered the deal with Dhuurock. Led by Dhuurock's apprentice, Tzarnish (one of the few Thousand Sons Terminators remaining) the Changers were the Thousand Son's insurance, that the Terminators would not usurp control of his warband as soon as they happened upon it.

The heavy support of the warband was the responsibility of the Obliterators. 3 of them, Obliterators Prios, Dos and Trios, had elected to join this mission for their own unknowable reasons. Perhaps Dhuurock had reached them somehow, bargaining with the enigmatic horrors and securing their cooperation. Perhaps it was simply a coincidence. But whatever the reason all present noted a change in the celebrated warriors. They were leaner, less tough but far better armed. None doubted that it augered well for the forces of Disorder.

The most deadly of the new arrivals, however, was the last Terminator. Lord Gribbly had always led an undivided force, but had included contingents from various Legions. His own Alpha Legion had been in the majority, but a substantial amount of the time he'd brought along his number two, his most trusted advisor and battle-brother. That very Marine, who had now suborned his Terminators, settled on New Codexian soil at last. The ground of New Codexia fairly screamed beneath the tread of Xull, Warsmith of the Iron Warriors.

The Flame of Fenris was ordinarily accounted a singularly ill-omened vessel. It had suffered incessant maintenance delays for much of the past millennium. The world it had been crafted upon had fallen to the Powers Ruinous. It's cannons bore the Mark of Shame for accidentally blasting a friendly boarding vessel during a battle against marauding Eldar. Even Gargan Silverpelt's leadership hadn't been able to erase the taint of ill fortune which had seemed to follow the vessel like a cloud.

As it arrived in New Codexia's orbit, however, the luckless ship redeemed its entire history in one shining sequence of good fortune. Narl had nothing to do with this. The skills of the Space Wolves didn't even have anything to do with this. This was simply of one of those moments that the Emperor occasionally gifts his followers with.

What happened was simple enough. The Flame of Fenris exited warp space in position to descend immediately to New Codexia, there to permit its crew to disembark and deal with the Thousand Sons, whose warp signature had initially drawn the Space Wolves to this backwards sector. This position was precisely the same position that the Terran Sunrise had been aiming for. If it had still been in its initial location this would have occasioned a nasty collision. Instead, the Flame of Fenris appeared directly in front of the Villainy Victorious, defenseless before the guns of the Traitor Battle Barge.

Now, the chain of command aboard the VV at this time was an interesting thing. The captain/master, Lord Gribbly, was presently absent. In such times authority naturally devolved to his second, Lord Xull, who was likewise absent. Following him there was no one with authority over the entire vessel, but routine operations of the ship were relegated to Gribbly's familiar Daemon, a being referred to as Shak. Shak had commanded the vessel during plenty of intervals, while Gribbly and one second-in-command or another had been off. It had never displayed exceptional competence, but it had also never failed abysmally.

The appearance of a Loyalist vessel before his guns bypassed what passed for the rational center of Shak's mind entirely. Destroy Loyalists was an idea that was quite literally a portion of him, sinewing its way through the matrix of his being like hate or ambition. Consequently, he screeched the order to "Open Fire!" microseconds after the Flame of Fenris appeared. Infact, he did so before the Marine working the auspex had even reported the Loyalist vessel's appearance to him. Shak was quite correct in presuming that destroying the Space Wolf vessel was the right thing to do. His mistake lay in neglecting to consider what Lord Gribbly would make of this sudden screech.

Gribbly, who was still on the Terran Sunrise, had been privy to many a double cross in his time. In his millenia as a Chaos Space Marine of the Alpha Legion he'd led dozens of treacheries, and suffered many a bitter betrayal. When Shak finished relating Xull's treachery and then screamed an order to "Open Fire" Gribbly, understandably, presumed himself the target. He hadn't for this long without learning to protect himself, however, and he never woudl have left the VV without making certain its cannons couldn't be turned on himself.

He responded to the order by screaming an arcane phrase, long prepared. This blasphemy ripped through a very specific Warp channel to the ears, or hearing orifices, of the VV's armament Daemons. Their hate centers were suddenly voided, their aggressive impulses still and a minority were suddenly rendered insensible. Embedded in the very pacts which sustained them, the code phrase stopped the Battle Barge's blasts before they could even get started. Many Daemons, in fact, received the direct tranmisssion before they could even receive the Fire command from Shak.

Aboard the Flame of Fenris Gargan had noticed the looming traitor battle barge and commended his spirit to Russ and the Emperor. He knew there was no way he'd make the planet, but retreat and despair are foreign concepts to the Wolves, and he'd instantly ordered the descent anyway. He was mystified as the VV loomed impotently, permitting its prey to slip away into the atmosphere. Not a shot was fired.

In truth, the problems on the Traitor Battle Barge went deeper than its momentary castration. The Daemons, by and large, had understood Shak's order more fully than Gribbly had. They knew they were intended to fire on the Loyalist vessel rather than their master, and consequently his cancellation was seen as an attempt to defend the Space Wolves. This caused a large portion of the Daemons (including Shak itself) to break their pacts, slipping away to the Warp and leaving behind large rifts in the ship's functionality and architecture. Others simply took it upon themselves to inform the crew of the Lord's new loyalties. As befitted a Force of Disorder, reactions to this report were mixed.

Some of the Chaos Space Marines, realizing the absurdity of Gribbly siding with Loyalists, immediately reprimanded the Warp Spawn. Others, who had been resentful ever since the warp storm, seized this opportunity to argue for control of the vessel. Ordinarily the insurrection would have been managed with all the precision of any Space Marine operation, rebel or otherwise, but the current absences changed everything. With Xull absent dissent had no locus to focus on, and with the 4 squad leaders gone the Pantheonic forces had no particular leaders to put forth. Consequently, the rebellion never really got started, but the absence of Gribbly meant that the counter-insurgency didn't really get going either. The Chaos Space Marines experienced a time of profound disorganization.

By the time Gribbly reboarded the ship and reasserted his command days had passed, the ship and his host had sustained more damage than he'd have taken if he'd just conquered the planet by main force in the first place, and the situation on New Codexia had evolved in ways no one could have predicted.

Dhuurock crouched on the rocky hillside, safely out of sight. Straining his Warp powers to the utmost, he projected his sense through one of the expendable Rubric marines, and commanded the spirit of his ancient Battle Brother to raise its head above the crest of the hill and gaze upon BigMountain city.

He felt a rush of satisfaction, as fresh and all pervading now as it was ten thousand years ago, as he saw that the visions he'd been granted by the Great Mutator had come to pass. This was what it was to be a Thousand Son, to witness the selection of one of the thousand sons of any given moment and know that its birth from the womb of time was inevitable. To humble oneself before the Great Manipulator, and know one's place in a scheme so vast the star's themselves were pawns. Just as had been foretold, BigMountain city was going up in flames.

His pact with Xull had borne fruit, and his decision to move his squad towards a city it could never have overpowered had been borne out. The Ruinous Powers had not deserted him, their assurances that he would wrest the Icon from BigMountain before the Counter-Insurgency could reach his position would be borne out. In fact, there was no longer a reason to dread the PDF column, with the aid of Xull and his Terminators wiping out the enemy wouldn't be a problem.

Summoning Narl had been the key. Without the Lord of Change's unwilling assistance the Warp currents could never have been tamed enough to permit the necessary timing. Xull might have arrived early, whereupon he might discover the Icon himself, or late, which would have left Squad Dhuurock to be swarmed under in a tidal wave of their inferiors. Yes, he'd faced disaster on either side, and come through with a spectacular success, just as he'd done all his career.

There still remained the comparatively minor matter of making certain his squad didn't fall under Xull's dominion, and making off with the Icon, but compared to the difficulty of arranging for the destruction of BigMountain these were trivialities. The Changers held the key, and Xull's inevitable betrayal was cute enough for what it was worth, but Dhuurock wasn't about to be outmaneuvered by a six thousand year old pup.

He chuckled softly to himself as he continued to monitor the scene. The Terminators were certainly going at it. Finding themselves within a civilian population the Chaos Terminators had begun a massacre the likes of which Lord Gribbly hadn't led them to in far too long. There was no military gain from slaughtering the populace of BigMountain. They didn't supply any enemy unit in particular. Their deaths weren't being harvested for some diabolical warp ritual. The Chaos commanders didn't even dislike them. Slaughter of the innocent was simply something that came natural to Xull and the rest. Behind his featureless helm Dhuurock's lips narrowed in contempt.

This mindless butchery smacked of his Patron's great foe. It was wasteful and inefficient, and there was no objective beyond the satisfaction the event itself would produce. He resented it less because it delayed his acquisition of the Icon, and more on the Principal of the thing. Chaos forces sufficient to defeat a loyalist army were being deployed against unarmed opponents. It wasn't a decision that a Tzeentchian commander would ever have made. He had been profoundly disappointed when he foresaw it, and seeing it in the flesh was just as bad.

Still, a slaughter was a slaughter, no point in looking away. Dhuurock disengaged his mind from his perpetual scheming, pushed the flames of Prospero to the back of his mind and took a well deserved moment to revel in the mass murder of the righteous.

Sgt. Sharnes snarled and spat.

The phlegm traced a weak and sickly arc through the air and landed on the head of the blasphemy which bore him. There it joined the results of his earlier efforts, pooling amid a crater in the pail yellow helmet. The crater's depths hid a foul mass which bubbled and fizzled as the spittle joined with it. None of this made much of an impression on the Plague Marine who wore/was the helmet, but it made the Sergeant feel a little better. In the absence of hope spite would have to serve.

He cast his mind back to the last instant he'd experienced hope, when his band had engaged the Plague Marines in hand to hand combat on the banks of the Dire Marsh reservoir. He'd abandoned his attempts to keep his men in check as the Sentinels got caught up in hand to hand combat, and joined them in the rush. It had felt good, to abandon his schemes and traps and finally strike against the enemies of the Emperor in a straight up battle. Righteous fury had surged through him as he charged over the edge of the makeshift barricade, trenching implement in hand and a shout of hate on his lips. He could still, when he cast his mind back, feel the surge in emotion of that valiant charge. It echoed in his mind like a song unforgettable, the frozen instant forever playing out in his fevered thoughts.

It had been an instant pregnant with possibilities. The Swampers charging, faces alight with the same emotion which filled him. The Plague Marines, bedeviled by the foresting Sentinels, caught swiveling to their fight, out of position to take a charge. The Terrible Ten had lost 2 members of their ranks, and their line had been made uneven by the long rush into the face of Swamper firepower. It had seemed possible, as he watched the two lines surge together, that the Chaos forces could be defeated. Then the units had clashed.

The Chaos Space Marines had been like men slaying boys. The cloud of angry flies that surged about them had stolen the charge's momentum, and the numerical advantage enjoyed by the Swampers had been impossible to leverage when anyone who got in reach of a Plague Marine was immediately struck down. The men of the Swampers had fought gamely, like heroes, but there was simply no way to struggle through the mud and flies and strike a blow through the corrupted ceramite and the layers of filth which shielded their foes.

Sgt. Sharnes himself had attacked the apparent leader, hoping that by slaying him the enemies morale would falter. He might as well have rushed a Leman Russ. The Plague Champion had backhanded him with its bolter and turned back to the massacre of his men. The Sarge shook his head at the memory.

More dreadful even than the massacre was the aftermath. The Plague Marines hadn't been thorough in their slaying. Their defilement rituals made no distinction between the dead and the simply dying. The sacrifices were only important in so far as they had dared to hope and learned the folly of their actions. Those with broken legs were pitched into the mire alongside those with shattered skulls, alongside those few who were whole in body but crippled enough in spirit to attempt a surrender. Men and women Sharnes had known his entire life were casually tossed into the Reservoir, their flesh sizzling as the suddenly caustic mix of mud, blood and icor ate away at it. The addition of the pair of Chaos carcases put the final touch on the whole affair, transforming the placid surface of the Reservoir into a spreading stain, a liquid blasphemy.

He himself had been the only one spared. Of all Sharne's Swampers the only one that the foe had not slain and dropped into the festering swamp was Sharnes himself. They'd hoisted him into the air, kicking and screaming, attached by some adhesive muck to a filthy log, which one of them had promptly taken to carrying about like some sort of standard. He'd rained curses upon them, spit and Aulma'd when curses had provoked no reaction, and finally pulled out a backup piece he'd kept hidden beneath his vest.

Taking careful aim he'd put every autopistol round into the hulking monstrosity which bore him. The projectiles had impacted on the warped armor with crackles and sank into the thing's spongy flesh with splutters. He was certain he'd made at least 3 headshots in the flurry. When he was finished the magazine had been dry and the barrel smoking hot.

The Plague Marine hadn't even broken stride.

The War People slammed into the wall like a tsunami of hate.

The vast majority of them carried no dedicated scaling equipment. In their daily lives they had no need for ladders. Their elongated frames and heavy talons enabled them to scale any walls that they needed to, and such things were rare in the War Lands. Their method of war made no provision for combat situations that might require specialized armament, and consequently nothing had been handed out prior to this battle. Indeed the entire notioning of equipping, that some sort of central authority would give weapons to those who weren't it's heirs or brood-mates, was entirely foreign to the horde. Consequently, nine out of ten of the War People had no way to threaten the Wall. A few of them, however, were an entirely different story.

Here a snarling veteran sank a power fist into the ancient stones, gouging them out to create handholds he could scuttle up. There a converted broodmother directed its immature offspring to form a living pyramid, enabling the warriors to spring from theri shoulders to a great height. Towards the back of the throng a scarred Lordling fired the weapon of its ancestors, the rocket launcher causing vast explosions higher up on the Wall's surface, the boulders jarred loose by the blast landing with red thuds in the midst of the vast mob. A group of the more inventive of the War People had rigged a catapult, and were alternating between firing heavy boulders and screaming warriors at the distant figures on the top of the wall.

For their part, the PDF atop the wall were fighting like heroes. Castellan Trubb had rallied his forces (with the exception of the Reaper squad, which had slunk off the instant the enemy had come into range) and was directing the defense with energy and skill. Lasguns fired on full auto lacked the range to reach the wall's foot, so the Castellan had issued orders to fire concentrated bolts. Every trooper got to play at being a sniper, aiming carefully and trying to make headshots on the snarling enemy. The garrison's heavy armament had been firing from the first instant of the attack, heavy bolters and autocannons plowed crimson furrows in through the enemy ranks. Here and there a designated Grenadier would rush to a crisis point and hurl a bundle of krak grenades into the heaviest concentration of the foe. By good fortune the wall's sole battle cannon had been readied that morning, in order to salute the Emperor as ceremony demanded, and Trubb personally directed its fire at the largest clumps of the enemy.

Initially it appeared as though the Wall would be able to escape without serious challenge, despite the size of the War People's horde. The frag missiles being fired by the rocket launcher were hardly damaging it, while the efforts of the War people at climbing were not making much headway. The catapult was actually doing the most damage, but a shell from the battle cannon turned it into flaming splinters. Despite the fact that they had come in numbers that defied belief it initially appeared that the War People had erred by assaulting the fortress directly, rather than slipping over an undefended segment of the Wall as their raidng parties were wont to do. All this changed when Hraavack made his presence known.

Fused horribly with the War People's sacred beast he surged forth from their midst with a savage abandon. The cruel claws of the Juggernaut were of the Immaterium, and they snagged the wall by its very substance. Hraavack sank his newfound claws into the wall again and again, launching himself straight up the wall.

Distracted by the sea of foes before them, the garrison was slow to react to this unconventional threat. Nearby soldiers turned their lasguns on the transfigured Skull Champion, but the single shots they'd been using to strike at the distant primitives made no impression on the armor of a Traitor Legionaire. By the time the heavy bolter operators were aware of his presence he had raced out of their fire arc, and all their bellows to the loaders to change the angle of the weapons couldn't change that fact. He'd caught the Battle Cannon between volleys, and despite the exhortations of the Castellan no one was able to stop Hraavack from hauling himself onto the top of the wall.

Showing commendable courage the nearest squads launched an immediate counterattack, weilding laspistols, wall repair implements, New Codexian regulation fighting knives and the very weight of their bodies in an attempt to shove this hideous beast back over the edge from which it came. It was an immense error. If Hraavack had been fast before, it was as nothing compared to the frenzy he went into when his foes closed to within his range. The High Handed Slayers blessing was upon him, and Hraavack took skulls with abandon.

Witnessing this, the Castellan shouted orders for the remainder of the garrison to back off, to leave the squds to their fate. Their only chance was to form a crossfire and blast the beast the instant it was a clear target again, to catch it in a crossfire and put so much firepower into it that even the ceramite that shielded it was incinerated. He knew instinctively that his men could never overcome Hraavack in hand to hand combat.

The men of the Wall, however, were a tight-knit unit. The men Hraavack was chopping to bits were their friends, their brothers. On the Wall it was never about the hunk of masonry they defended, they fought for the man beside them. Giving a great shout the men of the Wall launched their final assault....

The homestead looked like any other on the street.

Gerard Vance, Zepp'lin commander, did not believe in dwelling in splendor. His status earned him the right to a far loftier dwelling place, but he chose to remain in the house where he was borne. In another man this might have been a nod to the humble circumstances of his birth, but such deep thinking was beyond Vance. He lived where he did because that's where he'd always lived, simple as that.

An unintended consequence of this humility was that he was a remarkably difficult man to assassinate. Chaak and Gon, Chaos Space Marines of the Flawless Legion, had excellent information as to the location of their target. Drawn from House Bulsome spy reports it was accurate down to the street level. Unfortunately, no house stood out from the rest and thus they had no way to accurately determine which of the buildings housed the decorated Zepp'lin captain.

Arriving some time after midnight, in the depths of New Codexia's night, the pair cast about fruitlessly for some moments for some sign as to the location of their target. They had a man portable (Marine portable in truth) auspex unit, but there was nothing to use it on. They had hearing superior to that of any human...even any Astartes, but there was nothing to listen for. The New Codexian capitol hummed quietly along around them, unaware of the murderous pair. They milled about for some moments before deciding on a strategy.

The next person to wander down the street, headed for a late night encounter with a lady friend of dubious reputation, heard an odd whisper from a dark alley. It hovered on the edge of his hearing threshold. Now gone, now almost comprehensible. Frowning in puzzlement the pedestrian moved into the alleyway, craning his head this way and that in order to determine the strange sound's origin.

Chaak dropped from the wall he had been clinging to and seized the man from behind, crushing bones and nerves in a grip that he'd learned from an Iron Warrior on the VV. This hold created such paralyzing agony that its victims were unable to scream...it simply hurt too much. An instant or two of such scintillating torture would break the minds of hardened infantrymen, using it on an untrained target spoke to the sadism of the Noise Marines.

Gon approached the restrained passerby from the front, flaunting his Chaotic nature. The armored visor of his helmet had been raised, and the mutations and stigma which adorned his face were themselves more horrifying than anything a New Codexian would see in their daily life, to say nothing of the Traitor Legionairre to which they were attached. The citizen could never, in his worst moments, have imagined anything so horrifying as the situation he found himself in.

His heart gave out. Gon and Chaak were left menacing a corpse, an empty shell from which the Immaterium had pulled back its animating spark.

The Flame of Fenris burned through the atmosphere, carving a scar of flames through the tranquil New Codexian sky.

A modern vessel of equivalent size would have simply combusted in the upper atmosphere, torn asunder by the invisible claws of friction. The Space Wolve's ship, however, was built in a time when shipbuilders had a closer communion with the Omnissiah, a fuller understanding of the why's and wherefores of the rituals of ship construction. The ancient builders had labored well, and the Flame of Fenris was fully capable of emergency planetary descent.

This was not to say that the vessel did not shake, for it did. It was not to say that the vessel did not shudder, for it did. Indeed the wailing of the wind cut through the hull like the piercing shriek of a Fenrisian Howler, but the vessel held together. It endured the hurried descent and passed on to its crew no more than a heavy jostling, which discomforted the serfs not at all, and positively stimulated the Space Wolves themselves, as it reminded them that they still lived.

At the helm, Gargan had interfaced the Silverpelt directly with the ship's Machine Spirit, thrusting aside the serf ordinarily charged with the actual steering of the great vessel. Through the Silverpelt's ancient technologies Gargan was able to manipulate every aspect of the ship's bearing and facing, as well as read the output of its auspexes and other sensing devices. Truly the ancient Iron Fathers had labored well on the device in which he lived.

His readings returned a troublesome image, however. New Codexia was awash in warp contamination. Not nearly so much as a planet with a full blown Chaos insurrection, of which he'd seen a few in his time, but far more widespread than he would expect from a simple landing party, however numerous. That made no sense. He'd seen the Traitor battle-barge in orbit, there had to be an entire Warband of Chaos Space Marines, more than enough to land in force and begin a campaign of planetary conquest.

Instead, it appeared as though the Chaos attack was no more than company size, perhaps a hundred Marines, but in several places at once. Gargan pulled up the historical records on New Codexia, and began trying to correlate the positions of the Warp contaminations with New Codexian population centers.

In the East the forces of Chaos were storming over a Wall, emerging from some sort of outland area into the heavily populated New Codexian heartland. According to the reports this was the "War Land", where heretics bred and Xenos dwelt in constant conflict with those loyal to the Emperor. This outbreak, therefore, was likely this planet's native Chaos presence responding to the appearance of the Battle Barge. The possibility also existed, of course, that the enemy had simply landed in the War Lands in orders to bolsters their Warband with local auxiliaries to use as bullet shields. Gargan had seen such behavior from the Archenemy before.

To the north a city burned. There was no need to read for Warp Contamination, the forces of Disorder had struck on such a massive scale that he could detect their presence using long range auspex alone. The burning city of BigMountain had a garrison of impressive size, according to the reports, yet it appeared to have fallen with no evidences to suggest a long term siege. This strongly implied Chaos forces numbering, once again, at least a hundred. Whatever propoganda might suggest, no Space Marine or single squad thereof could actually storm a fortified position manned by ten thousand foes.

Beyond the two obvious readings there were a smattering of Warp flecks all across the area between them, throughout the New Codexian heartland itself. These suggested squad size elements, or local cults, or perhaps simply an odd variation in the Warp. The Warp sensor was such a delicate piece of equipment, no wonder it wasn't used on the more modern ships in the Emperor's fleets. Gargan exerted his will through the Silverpelt, metaphorically thumping the unit on its side, but the specs remained.

His choice then, was simple. He could either take the Flame of Fenris into the East, to assault the Chaos forces emerging from the War Lands, the North, to harry the enemy as they consolidated their grip on BigMountain city, or straight down into New Codexia's civilian centers, to link up with the loyalists and gain the support of the PDF> To a Space Wolf, the choice was obvious. Gargan Silverpelt aimed the ship at its destination and made his will known.

Marg Cuffer and Yenda faced off in the center of the camp, their respective supporters clustered behind them.

Marg looked every inch the Camp Commander, his uniform worn but well maintained, his aspect military and his bearing upright. He stood at the head of the dwindling supply of healthy camp members, somehow seeming to shield them from the unpleasantness of their opposite numbers.

Across from him Yenda slouched at the head of the most loathsome and wretched of the plague's victims, the lost and desolate. They scarcely seemed human, bloated and blemished by the Night Talker vaccine plagues or simply ravaged by the Yellow Ague. For all their wretched illness, however, their eyes had the brightness of fever and their disposition spoke to the savage strength illness may grant its victims, before the final and inevitable crash.

"Disperse" Marg snarled, "Your assembly is unlawful and tantamount to a lack of faith in my authority. Said authority is granted by Governor Shastler's statutes, and hence derives from the holy word of the God Emperor himself." As the Emperor's Name was pronunced Yenda flinched visibly, and a member of her congregation seemed to stagger.

"Unlawful...yes" murmured the Crone. "But when one is as old as I am the laws all blur together. Our pact has always been a simple one, though, difficult to blur. We abide in the swamp, shielding the healthy from our many and varied tribulations, and in return they provide the medicines and remedies that allow us to continue surviving. If someone here is unlawful, wouldn't it be those who first broke our arrangement?"

Her mob murmured its agreement as she made this point, but it did so in a subdued and hesitant manner. The respect Marg had built up during his tenure as Camp Commander could not be so easily overthrown.

He responded. "The medicines are forthcoming. The Sarge himself is hunting down the Chaos scum who are blockading our physiks in the depths of the woods. When he succeeds-"

Yenda interrupted him. "He can't succeed, that which opposes him is the most Foul. None can oppose Glub-..." She took a moment to collect herself. "His foes are ferocious, certainly. There is no guarantee that the 'blockade' will falter, even in the wake of the brave Sergeant's efforts."

Commander Cuffer laughed scornfully. "You betting against the Sarge, old woman? You go right on like that, but I don't think there's many as'll go with you."

The crowd on both sides murmured its agreement at this point. Sergeant Sharnes was the closest thing that the people of the Vile Swamp had to a leader, or a hero. Invoking his name firmed up Cuffer's support, while Yenda had committed a tactical blunder by stepping out of agreement with her supporters.

For an instant she seemed dismayed, her mouth hung vacant and she suddenly looked like the pathetic wretch she ought by rights to be, a plague victim who had lived too long. Then she stood taller than ever before and nodded simply. "My apologies, Commander, you are of course correct. The Night has spoken to me just now, and it assures me...Sergeant Sharnes will return to this camp...Tonight."

Lord Xull cut a fearsome figure. His initial appearance was that of a hulking Terminator, bearing twin guns and restrained within a bizarre web of jagged chains.

His Terminator armor was battered and chipped with the scars of a thousand battles, but maintained with the expert proficiency for which the Iron Warriors were famous. In his right hand he bore a combi bolter and in his left the same. When firing the pair he put out nearly a pound of blasteel a second, 4 barrels chattering and cackling like fiends from the Warp. His arms and armament, while formidable, were at least conventional. It was the remainder of his kit that differentiated him from a mere Aspiring Champion.

On his back he bore his celebrated collection, the grenades he'd accumulated during a thousand years of war. He had Krak grenades seized from the Ultramarines in an ancient siege, photon grenades stolen from Tau forces on a savage raid, the bizarre EMP grenades of the Eldar and the Blight Grenades of the Plague Marines. He had melta bombs from every culture which had ever changed on the concept.

None of these grenades he deigned to wield himself, mind you, his hands were fully occupied with his twin weapons. Instead, his Daemon Weapon took care of the matter for him. The hook chains which wrapped his figure, seeming to move of their own volition, were in reality the prisons of a nest of fiends. Disdaining melee combat or the hurling of grenades, Lord Xull had found a solution in the flexible and possessed nest of weaponry.

Where a normal Daemon Weapon was inhabited by a Greater Daemon Lord Xull's bore no such celebrated prisoner. Rather, he'd imprisoned a Bloodletter and a Daemonette, a twisted minion of Tzeentch and a foul footsoldier of Nurgle. The foursome lent the weapon their savagery and sadism, their cunning and resilience. Where a normal Daemon Weapon was apt to intrigue against its master, however, Xull's DaemonChains were too busy infighting against one another to rise up. They hurled grenades, rent foes or yanked him away from oncoming fire with a near mindless zeal.

In his clash with Gribbly, centuries ago, Xull had wielded a common power fist against his foe's Dark Blade, and been easily overthrown. In the wake of the Warp Storm, however, his DaemonChains were strengthened while Gribbly's Dark Blade had fallen silent. In his black heart Xull knew he was the mightiest now...and on the planes of New Codexia he looked forward to proving it.

Deep within his reinforced bunker, Governor Shastler pondered the situation.

Since the inception of hostilities the forces of Chaos had steadily increased their presence planetwide, but not to the degree that he had initially feared. Indeed, the easiest way to categorize the Chaos incursion's tactical deployment would be "random".

The enemy was making no attempt to encircle the population center of New Codexia, rather they had overcomitted in the north, while landing smaller forces in the War Lands and Blighted Swamp. In addition, the forces which confronted Lord Bulsome's unit remained unaccounted for. This might fit the pattern for a hammer and anvil approach, where the enemy units in the north provided the primary hammer and the insurgents disrupted his ability to resist their endeavors, but for one baffling phenomenon.

The enemy's War Lands contingent were making a beeline for their primary unit, which was still engaged with the garrison in Bigmountain City. Long distance communications indicated that the city's fall was only a matter of time, and not much at that. Bran had initially imagined that the two were joining forces to form a cohesive army, but scout reports indicated that the War People were preparing to assault the city. Perhaps the enemy's communication network wasn't fully functional yet, and the War Lands group hadn't been informed of their comrades impending success?

It never occurred to the Governor that the Hordes of Khorne in the east might target the other forces of disorder simply because they were likely a better fight than his pdf, and so he remained at his maps for long hours...searching for order in pure Chaos.

In the wake of the slaughter, Traavik stole silently back over the wall.

His departure from the Horde did not go unnoticed, nor unchallenged. Several of the War People had seen his exit, and attempted to stand in the Berserker's path. Their skulls would be explanation enough to his brethren for his actions.

The Khornate marine did not abandon the horde because he was afraid. Fear had no place in his altered physiology, the serjury's of the Berserker Chirugeons had seen to that. Even so, there probably existed some manner of challenge he would quail from, some foe who would see his back, but New Codexia held no terror for him.

He did not leave the army because he was ordered to do so. In the wake of the slaying of the garrison Hraavack, or the creature he'd become, was in no position to give any orders. Drunk on slaughter and mayhem the Juggernaught/Astartes hybrid had simply bellowed and led the way further onward. It had payed no attention to its former Battle-brothers, which was a mercy as to attract the attention of such a beast was to suffer its wrath.

He didn't even turn back because he would find more or better slaughter in the hinterlands. The confrontation with the other Marines from the Villainy Victorious was clearly the preeminent battle that this world had to offer, if he was simply after the greatest battle he'd have been happily loping along with the rest.

He'd turned back because of a feeling.

Long ago, before the serjury's, before even his heresy and fall, Traavik had been on a path to join his chapter's Librarium. Upon devoting himself to Khorne all traces of psychic might had faded away, but he retained a sensitivity to the Warp, more particularly to those warp beings aligned with his Red Lord. Traavik had a proven ability to here the words of the Warp, and in the absence of such a gifted killer as Hraavack he'd certainly have been a squad leader on his own.

Now those words, those whispers were calling him back into the War Lands. There was someone, or something, out there, calling to him. He followed the call blindly, content as ever to let the Warp guide his feet. He'd done so for much of his existence and the path it bade him tread had never been other than blood-drenched.

As the Thousand Sons entered the city of BigMountain the fires raged out of control.

The streets were awash with blood, the buildings which bracketed them shattered by the impact of explosive rounds or scorched by the heat of military-grade munitions. The gutters which lined them, ordinarily acting to channel the runoff from heavy rainstorms, were now choked with the fallen, clogged and blocked by the human detritus.

Dhuurock led his squad through the fallen gateway in the manner of a triumphal procession. Despite the fact that this was nominally enemy territory the Rubrics did not take cover, nor unsling their bolters to a firing position. They moved with absolute assurance, not crouching or taking cover, but slowly, calmly, marching.

The Brother-Sorcerer could do so, for the ground they walked upon was holy ground, anointed in prepared circumstance and baptized by unerring conspiracy. The Icon of his master called to him, pulsing in his thoughts like a beacon, and he and his soldiers navigated the certain present towards the promised future with nary a mishap or fault.

He'd suffered through much to arrive at this place, and would suffer more, but he did so with certain foreknowledge. The Great Mutator had revealed to his Chosen the Warp Storm's approach, the decision of Gribbly, and the location to bring down the Wayfarer. In all ways he had proceeded as the visions instructed him.

His visions had promised him this, his triumphal process through the falling city was merely one step in a long line, leading to a reunion with his disembodied battle brothers. The visions went on and on, they promised his acquisition of the Icon, Xull's challenge and the resolution, the approach of his enemy's armies, the battle, Xull's irresolution and half measure, Hraavack's doomed charge and the volleys of Inferno bolts which brought down the curtain.It was an open book for one sufficiently favored.

It was almost tedious, for any Brother-Sorcerer of serious ability. The present was such a small portion of their being, yet it demanded their attention again and again. Only the Daemons of Tzeentch were entirely free from such things, existing as blurs of unfettered possibility. To emulate them was impossible for any mere Sorcerer, however, as the present could not be escaped entirely, not while one was yet flesh.

Dhuurock himself had long since ceased to take note of the present as a moment distinct from his near future and past, for all were equally apt for Change.

Word of the outcome of the confrontation in the deep swamp beat Glubbulous to the camp.

Long before Sharnes was hauled into view, draped like some obscene flag over the crude wooden standard the village had heard of his fate. The helpless hero's plight had been whispered to the crones by the night breezes, and babbled into the horrified ears of the medicae teams by fleeing survivors of the battle where he had been taken.

The frantic efforts the swamper had undertaken to free their commanding officer, on the other hand, went unreported. None had Sentinel support, but the Swampers had launched a pair of hit and run attacks which might well have dropped ordinary Space Marines, but which hadn't inconvenienced the Plague Marines overmuch. Losses had been heavy.

Rumor wasn't the only thing which had proceeded the Dark Tusks, the plague loped ahead of them like a hunting beast, borne by the despair and the emanations of the vile ritual they had performed on the shores of the lake. The Vile Ague and the Scarlet Rot were mere coughs in comparison to this blight, and the elders the Vile Swamp's denizens knew that it was worse even than the Stuttering Falls which had killed half the population two generations ago. Nurgle's Rot had come to New Codexia.

As they swept through the smaller camps the Plague Marines had gathered an escort of sorts. The deathly ill clung to them, scurrying along behind the avatars of pestilence as though to hide from the rain in the eye of the hurricane. Their was a haunted look to them, wasted and scabrous figures slogging uncomplaining through a toxic swamp, killing themselves to match the pace of the indifferent titans and the screaming standard they bore aloft. Darker things too joined the march, cyclopean, one-horned, droning figures which kept to the shadows, as though the sun was not meant to bear such taint.

Near the Third camp a Chimera rumbled out of the swamp, and the long-suffering Sharnes had a brief moment of hope. When the vehicle pulled to a stop without firing, however, he knew the truth, and the shout he gave when Yenda's withered head peered out of the tank's cockpit contained no surprise, but only the terrible wrath the righteous reserve for the wicked, that the hopeful reserve for the despairing.

He was the only healthy witness, for perversely the Sarge was unable to share the sickness of his homeland and his unit, to the meeting between Glubbulous and its pawn. Yenda spoke in low tones to the soldier of Nurgle, which stood mutely. This went on for some time, and then Glubbulous made as though to bypass the wretch, whereupon she grabbed at its arm and arrested its progress.

It made no move of protest, merely standing as its touch worked its pestilential magic, but the hag let go with a shriek, wringing her hands as though they burned. The vile squad resumed its progress into town, leaving the hag screaming behind them.

"For the fools, yes, the scouring of the plagues, but how shall the faithful be rewarded!" Yenda screamed aloud, longs more used to muttering strained to the utmost to project her screech.

The only reaponse was the Sergeant's low chuckling. For their part, the Plague Marines marched in silence, and the lost souls who followed them scarce seemed to hear.

"My Lord! Glubbulous! Plaguebringer! What's to be the fate of those who have suffered for so long? What's to become of the Grandfather's chosen?!"

Gazing over his shoulder Sgt. Sharnes whispered a reply that Yenda should have heard from the Night breezes long ago. It floated softly from his parched lips, and she should never have been able to hear it, but one of those self same gusts of plagueridden air carried it straight to her ears.

"All shall Rot"

At long last, Homborg Bulsome had become every inch the perfect warrior that he'd always imagined himself to be.

Beneath the exacting discipline of the Perfect One he'd thrown himself into the drills with an enthusiasm he'd never even approximated in his pre-conversion existence. The Space Marine had given him new standards to strive for, and utilized every imaginable technique (and several that Bulsome's rather pastoral visions had never included) to motivated his formerly reluctant associate. Now, flourishing beneath the Flawless Host's tutelage Homborg Bulsome had become the ideal Noble Guard leader, the very image and icon of everything a PDF commander ought to become.

Everyone agreed that this made him the only possible choice to lead the insurrection against Governor Shastler.

Bulsome stood in stark contrast to the weekend warriors that the scions of the other Noble Houses had been revealed to be. His heroism in the face of the Governor's callous bombing raid had grown in the telling, and was now something of an article of faith among the upper echelons of the Houses which had accepted advisors from the Flawless Host. He was the one chosen by the Astartes to drive out the Governor's wretched administration and restore rule of New Codexia to the aristorcracy which ought rightfully to inherit it, to wit, the Bulsome family and its immediate allies.

Homborg had allowed himself to be shaped admirably to the will of his new masters, and consequently was trusted by them with many aspects of the Day to Day operations of the conspiracy, so long as he followed their principles and guidelines. They held no worries about his loyalty, Chaak and the Brother-Fether had looked deep within the chalice of his flesh and stirred that which they found till it resonated to the precise timbre required. It was only his competence which gave them pause, and that improved daily. That he did not understand the Renegade nature of his masters was the only real imperfection in this pawn, but under no imaginable circumstances could this actually cause an issue.

Thus, the action Homborg took upon learning of the the Space Wolves should not be held against Sylvester.

Gerrard Vance was heartily sorry he'd ever attempted to bomb the Astartes, and even more sorry that he'd been successful. Most of all, he was sorry that he'd purchased such an insignificant dwelling and made his torturers waste their efforts tracking him down.

It hadn't been easy to bring him to this state of mind. When the looming figures had rushed into his room and rousted him from his bed he'd been mostly angry. When they'd revealed themselves to be Chaos Space Marines he'd been mostly terrified. When the tortures had begun he'd been mostly agonized. It had taken him quite some time to arrive at true repentance.

Chaak was an expert however, and Gon not much worse, and they'd set to work with the relish that they reserved for instances of command-sanctioned torture. It would have been easy to break Gerrard's mind, to drive him around the bend into a hell of agony where he'd have babbled anything they desired, including the fervent apologies they were here to secure. Any Brother could have done as much, but for a member of the Flawless Host, this would be artless and crude.

To bring actual contrition forth the subject had to be put into the proper state of mind. He had to be made to understand the difference in importance, in perfection, between his miserable self and his august captors. Chaak was currently surrounded by a rime of frost, where the manifestation of his Psykes had scarred the materium. Gon's drugs were an equally crucial part of the process, removing the inhibitions which would ordinarily prevent a New Codexian (or any unaugmented human) from feeling the full pitch of Chaak's mind-link delivered emotions.

Once in the proper state of mind his resistance had to be dealt with. This could, mundanely, be referred to as torture. The agonies that Chaak and Gon inflicted with their armor spikes, with their sonics and with their own blasphemously corrupted flesh would not merit that description among the flawless host, however. They were confined to the amount of distress a mind could bear and still remain capable of thought, a high plateau in the abyss of Slaaneshi secrets. To go deeper would risk the human's essential individual nature, risk that by submerging his identity so deeply in the swamp of agony he would cease to think, and merely ache.

It was vitally important to the two corrupted Space Marines that the human be heartily, genuinely, apologetic for his actions against them. The Flawless Host's order of battle demanded that, whenever possible, the enemy should be made to understand their folly prior to reaching their termination. Doing so reinforced the order of things, it was a manifestation of their perfection, an act of worship to the Godling which owned their souls.

It fulfilled no military objective, there was no deep ritual purpose behind the act. Tormenting a prisoner into the proper frame of mind was as automatic and unconscious an act for them as corrupting an innocent was to Sylvester, or a beheading was to Hraavack. They reinforced their perfection and inflicted it on the Materium about them at every opportunity.

And, ultimately, they were successful. The tormented husk which had once been a New Codexian Zepp'lin pilot heartily and sincerely regretted inconveniencing Squad Sylvester and the Flawless Host. He mourned their slain Battle Brothers for the galactic loss that they truly were, and he most especially wished he had not wasted the time of his tormentors by forcing them to go House-to-House for him.

Gon looked at Chaak, elated. Now that the preliminaries were out of the way, the actual torture could begin.

On a remote New Codexian farmstead, Bart Tauuleck had no idea that Chaos had come to his world.

As he did every other day, he woke bright and early and headed out to cultivate the fields he held in trust for House Bulsome. He'd done so most of the days of his life (holidays and sick time notwithstanding), and would doubtless continue to do so until he could perform his function no longer, whereupon his remains would be made into Heartsoil and sprinkled on the field by his replacement.

As he left his dwelling he noticed a light precipitation, and grabbed his umbrella. He felt no particular alarm. The weather watchers hadn't predicted this, but they were wrong often enough. He began the slog towards his field with nothing more than a feeling of vexation and mild annoyance, that he'd been robbed of a sunny morning by the weather. Still, it was doubtless the Emperor's will, and there was no point to getting too bent out of shape about it.

It wasn't till he set down the umbrella and took up his earthmover that he felt it on his face, and tasted the iron reek of it. Wasn't till he looked on his withered turf that he saw the crimson flows of it. Wasn't till he heard the odd, yet rapid, splashing behind him that he understood that this morning would be rather less routine than all those which had proceeded it.

By then, of course, it was far too late.

Dhuurock left his squad in a defensive formation and moved through the door alone.

The building he entered was nicknamed the Vault. Those items too sensitive to be permitted to remain in the Seizures and Forfeitures building were remanded to this facility for permanent storage. The Icon would ordinarily not have been transferred away from Seizures and Forfeitures (as the Imperial fools had no real inkling of its power) but he'd had Narl had arranged for its transfer. Dhuurock had deemed it unwise to leave the item lying in an area where his visions fortold Xull's arrival. His visions were quite clear on his fate if he attended the scheduled meetup with Xull and lacked the ability to summon the Changer's minions to back him up.

He left his squad outside in order to make certain that the Terminators presently rampaging through the streets of BigMountain didn't interrupt him. His claiming of the Icon was to be a holy ritual, and the unchanneled rage and brute bloodlust that Chaos Space Marines radiated when they were in the midst of battle would be a distraction. Seeing Rubrics guarding the structure would inform even those most lost to the battle fever that this building was not to be disturbed, and if the forboding presence of his undying constructs failed to give this impression their Inferno Bolts certainly would.

He was taking a small chance (or would be if he had not forseen all outcomes) by seperating from his squad in this manner, as the building's inhabitants intended to put up a vigorous defence. His mindsight revealed determination, panic-wrought courage and the inspiring presence of a natural leader. The Arbites in this facility no doubt intended to make any who sought the prizes they protected pay for their access with blood. Dhuurock, however, had never been one for paying.

Prior to his sojourn on New Codexian soil he might have had difficulty in sweeping an entire defended structure on his own, but ever since he'd been operating independently he'd felt his powers growing. He could channel the Immaterium in a rapid fire bursts that would crumble power armor like an Inferno bolt, read the flows of the future and make his swordsmanship unbeatable, consolidate his might into one mighty blast which could rip a Land Raider in half or infuse such favor of his Patron into an undeserving mortal that they warped into a mighty Spawn. With such might at his command the power armor he wore and the force blade he bore seemed more like relics than wargear, remnants of a long ago life as a squad Librarian, back before Propsero.

Prospero, as always the thought brought a scowl to the face concealed by his dragon mask. One day those responsible would burn in the very fires they'd kindled. Time was a fluid thing, and he'd make certain that their agony stretched for longer than they could imagine. The Space Wolves who had flung down his Legion's Homeworld would be made to pay and pay again. He'd see to it.

Slowly he brought himself back to the present, before dwelling in the past could rob him of the path to his future. Prospero and his vengeance had waited ten thousand years. There was no hurry. Through Tzeentch all Ways could change, and all change was to be welcomed. He nodded to himself, satisfied at his state of mind. At his advanced age madness was a far greater threat than the bolts and blades of his foes.

He went forth to worship the Changer.

The shrine in the hills lay long abandoned.

It was hardly anything, a rough cave in the reddish stone, the entrance peeking out from behind a massive boulder. The path which once led to it had long since been worn away by wind and the uncaring forces of New Codexian nature. An ordinary New Codexian would have passed by without taking notice, if any ordinary citizen could have survived to chance across a location so deep in the War Lands.

Traavik, however, was no mere civilian, no mere Space Marine. As a Berserker of Khorne, a chosen son of the High Handed Slayer, such a shrine called out to him. It had led him, without rest, across the barren lands of the War People. It had led him away from his Warmaster's army. It had led him past the reach of his vox and hence past the backup of his squad. Now that he was here he was hardly about to miss the source of the maddening beckon.

He stomped forward, small stones crunching beneath his power armor. As he neared the cave mouth he smiled grimly, perceiving with his helmet magnifiers the runes carved into the archway. Prominent among them was the Skull Rune of the Blood God, but the remainder formed an inscription in the true tongue. It read: "No sheathe may hold what finds its home in flesh."

While imposing such an inscription was hardly a mystery to the Berserker. Khorne's great wrath was matchless in its intensity and breadth, but even such a singleminded deity encompassed a myriad of concepts. Khorne's immense and martial pride was well known among his followers, and handily explained the odd circumstance of an ornament on ground sacred to the One who Kills. Such runes signified the resting places of great Champions, the monuments raised to great battles or sacrifices, or (most intriguingly) the resting place of a tool of great slaughter. The inscription augured well for the last of these possibilities.

As he entered the cave path he registered the expected *crunch* beneath his boots. Rib bones, unless he missed his guess. A first class shrine would have skulls even in the entryway, but he supposed he'd have to make allowances for the rural nature of this location. Crushing bones beneath him at every step he pressed forward, deeper into the cave. His movements gathered speed as he continued, eagerness driving his pace.

He was eager partly to reach the ritual weapon that was likely stored within this fastness, but it was more than that. Where there was a treasure there must of necessity be a Guardian, and he hadn't killed anything in several minutes.

They Just. Kept. Coming.

The diseased wretches erupted from the swamp like a boil bursting. One moment the Quarantine zone was entirely clear, and the next it was overrun, seemingly without transition, by a rampaging mob of diseased humanity, a veritable flood of the mangled, the wretched, the Lost and the Damned.

The remnants of the Swampers had fled ahead of the wave, bearing warning of the approaching swarm to the New Codexian PDF regiment tasked with maintaining the quarantine of the Vile Swamp, the so-called "Remedy" legion. Initially kitted out with anti-armor weaponry for the expected confrontation with the Terrible Ten, they'd had to swiftly swap their gear out for a massacre loadout. Fortunately the "Remedy" squad was a favorite of House Tellik, and had the spare gear on hand.

Now, gazing from the Quarantine Wall to the dying fields, Great Defender Mnurrik wondered if it would be enough. The flamer teams were taking a fearful toll among the foe, and the heavy stubbers chattered and cackled with reassuring regularity, but the swarm seemed to acknowledge no diminishment. It was as though the entire surviving population of the Vile Swamp had gathered and thrown themselves against his fortifications.

Surveying the battlements his gaze fell on the "Swampers" regiment's erstwhile commander, a useless nonentity named Meenit. Mnurrik wasn't a green-horn, he knew who truly led the Swampers, and if the Sarge was lost then this threat was something to take seriously. His men were holding the line now, and suffering few casualties, but the true threat behind this uprising had yet to show itself. He couldn't expect his men to hold against the foe who had broken the Swampers, against Traitor Marines.

Fortunately, his Noble patrons (helped by unexpected generosity from the Bulsome family) had prepared him a little surprise to deal with the Archenemy. On loan from the Home Legion was New Codexia's most celebrated armored vehicle, the Karanak, driven by Glaur Van Hmeen, an off-worlder who'd settled on the planet when he mustered out of the Guard. Vam Hmeen's tank was named after a mythical underworld beast which possessed three heads and breathed fire from each one. The namesake fit, dire as it was.

On New Codexia they called it the Flamer, the Emperor's breathe, the cleansing flame or simply the blazer. On more cosmopolitan worlds throughout the Imperium it would be called a Hellhound.

"In light of his inexplicable absence," began Sylvester, "I hereby beg leave to pilot the Sunrise on this most critical mission."

Homborg Bulsome nodded sagely, as he would at any observation of the Perfect One's. The situation seemed to call for more than a nod, however, so he ventured an observation. "Indeed, Brother, the very vessel which brought such woe to your Host shall be the vehicle by which you save our benighted world. Verily, the ways of the Divinity are mysterious."
Sylvester smiled. There was no real need to request permission from Homborg, or any of the other Imperial dupes, but actually getting possession of the Zepp'lins for House Bulsome had demanded some tricky maneuvering at second hand, and, of course, the assassination of Gerard Vance by Gon and Chaak.

"My mission must be a matter of profoundest secrecy" he cautioned the ever impressionable Homborg, enforcing his commands with subtle strokes of his mental Lash. "I go to strike a decisive blow against the Archenemy, thereby abating Governor Bulsome's pretext for his vile prosecution of the Nobility."

Homborg was already nodding his head when Sylvester began speaking, agreement being entirely automatic at this state. "Indeed, my Lord, I shan't share the news of your venture even with your battle-brothers, the Space Wolves."

Sylvester was half-way out the door when his pawn started speaking, but he checked his progress and turned about at that particular phrase.

Shortly thereafter, high overhead on the Villainy Victorious, a series of purple candles flickered and extinguished themselves.

The creature which had once been Hraavack loped ahead of his legion, tireless and ever-hungry. His lower torso, the monstrous Juggernaught, swayed slightly as it devoured the miles, crushing stone beneath great brass hooves. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, the helmet he gazed from fused to his skull. His ax swung in great, idle arcs, decapitating phantom foes from sheer, thwarted bloodlust. He was tasked almost beyond endurance by the ordeal demanded of him.

He must travel, hiking mile after mile through this land, without dawdling to slay. He yearned to slash down the trees which filled this land, to run down the animals which fled his army's approach. He craved the battle he would find, should he turn about and assault that self-same army. To refrain from slaughter, holding back his wrath until he found the enemy, was a trial almost beyond his ability to bear. It took every inch of the Space Marine who had once been Hraavack to hold back his Daemon half from its crimson desires.

He could never have succeeded without the aid of his God, but that aid was forthcoming. Khorne's bellows reached him through the warp, aligning him with the other Khornate worshippers, his fellow berserkers and the War People, against the servants of the other Gods. To measure his Lord against his jealous peers, and smash their champions, was the greatest desire of the melded being, and if he must withhold his wrath from the beings which surrounded him as they traveled, what of it? Pleasures withheld were all the sweeter in the end.

Within the darkened Vault's last resort room, Yon waited for the end.

He'd heard the screams, known the men who made them. They'd started from the entry room....then spread with the counterattack down the hallway to the security hole, to the armory and back to the entry room as reinforcements arrived. They tracked, with ruthless precision, the passage of the fiend who had invaded the building.

He should have joined with his brethren, but he'd discovered...at the last, that he was lacking something. it wasn't bravery, he'd shown through the hard times that he was plenty brave. It wasn't training, no New Codexian Arbite had more hours logged in the instruction rooms than he. It wasn't even experience, he'd fought in the last engagement of the Trade Wars as part of the BigMountain detachment. Perhaps it was faith.

He had no faith that he could prevail over the Archenemy. He'd never seen the Emperor take a hand in a fight, not no matter how hard a fellow besought him. Without the Emperor's aid, it was just man on man, and so far as he knew, nobody could beat a Space Marine, even (or especially) a Traitorous one. He wasn't about to match his lasgun with its bolter, not to mention its blasphemous powers.

So he ought to run away...but he couldn't bring himself to do that either. He'd taken the boss's credits for a good long time, seemed he owed them more than a quick exit and a by-your-pardon. Running would put the lie to the time he'd served, it'd make him into a heretic himself. In a way, it'd be suicide, as Arbite Yon would die the instant he turned heel, no matter that he might breathe for another dozen years.

It was in this attitude, unable to fight or to fly, that Dhuurock came upon him, and eternity embraced him.

The captain of the Blazer reveled in the battle.

His tank shuddered and jolted as its tanks emptied, prometheum flowing burning over the wretched masses which surged from the forest's edge. The clean, acrid smell of charred meat overcame the odor of their plagues and illnesses, driving it from the air and from the nostrils of the Remedy task force.

To be truthful, the captain had wanted to burn down the forest and incinerate its inhabitants for years. His wife got sick and got sent there, and that hadn't been his fault. The filthy denizens had poisoned her, she died right quick, and that hadn't been his fault either. For a decade he'd withheld the fire, but now, at last, the Swampers had shown their true colors, filthy plague-yellow.

His gunner shared his sentiments. Several times he'd altered the blasts trajectories at the last second, scorching and setting alight mobs of the Lost and the Damned rather than incinerating them instantly, savoring the screams and watching the fleeing, burning scum. He'd "missed" a few and blasted the forest instead, and the treeline was even now going up like a torch. The bosses might yell him out for that sort of thing, but he knew that they wanted the same, deep down.

His greatest fear was that the flood of victims might slacken. Between the lasguns of the Remedy troopers and the flames of the Blazer they were dying in droves, a bit more of this and they might flee, and that meant the bosses would direct him to put the fires out. He didn't want the fires to go out. Flames were his friends, they helped him forget. Ever since New Codexia had been invaded by the archenemy he'd taken to lighting them at night and sleeping surrounded by them, they'd keep the Chaos at bay.

A shudder ran through the Blazer, pulling his attention away from his musings. That hadn't been a lasgun shot, too powerful, and the burn-path it left through the air made him remember drilling with House Bulsome and their plasma cannons. he scanned the forest's edge carefully, searching for the heavy weapon wielder.

He found them almost instantly. The Terrible Ten, though Ten no more, were not skulking. Advancing behind a protective screen of ex-Swampers and Night Talkers they charged directly towards the Blazer, leading with plasma fire from ancient blasters. The Remedy troopers recoiled as a body, taking a collective pace back from the notorious villains and their horrifying banner.

The Captain smiled. At last, a challenge.

Gon and Chaak realized that something was wrong much more swiftly than most Space Marines would have. Their perceptions and reflexes were many times even the augmented profiles that most Space Marines could boast. They were almost fast enough.

As they entered the House Bulsome briefing room, they noted the heightened tension on the House officer's face. That tension had been absent since the House's conversion, but it was familiar enough to the Chaos Space Marines regardless, it was the tension of a human controlling mortal dread. They'd seen it a trillion times.

Further, the room bore the faintest stench of plasteel and ceramite, but their battle brothers were still on maneuvers, and wouldn't return for some time. The whiff of bolter propellant was confirmation that Space Marines were about.

These disquieting sensations might have been dismissed, save for the fact that Chaak's psyk-sensations screamed a warning to him. The Warp roared in his sensorium, ravenous and raging. It roared it's anticipation, that soon his jaded soul would fly free of his flesh.

In the milliseconds after realizing the incipient ambush Chaak psyked Gon, sharing his alertness, and both moved to ready their wargear. They had their weapons freed and traversing crucial instants before the Space Wolf burst through the side door.

Clad in the chapter's characteristic mix of savage finery and Mk IV Astartes plate, the Space Wolf hurtled at the Flawless Host's soldiers, hurling an axe and roaring his hate. Another pair of Loyalist Astartes followed him, chainswords spinning to life and bolt pistols already tracking targets. The loss of surprise, however, cost them the easy kills they'd been hoping for.

The incoming axe was hurled aside by the Gon's sonic blaster's blast wave. Set to wide angle, the roaring wave would have tossed a phalanx of New Codexian soldiers on their backsides, or diverted a stampede of grox. It barely staggered the Space Wolves.

These were Blood Claws, most reckless and savage of the Fenrisian chapter, and they powered through the volume wave. The foremost engaged Chaak in combat, weapons rising and falling almost too fast for the eye to follow.

Chaak, however, was an exceptional member of the Flawless host. He'd been considered for the Librarium prior to the unit's defection, and his aptitude with the blade was considered top notch. These exceptional competencies had been noted by his unit, and he'd been gifted with the squad's power sword. Consequently, when the roaring blood claw rushed into his blade range he got more than he bargained for.

His body flooded by adrenalints, Chaak stole the momentum from the Space Wolf with a series of pinpoint thrusts that targeted the raging warrior's upper body and forced him to dive aside, blocking his comrade's optimal firing trajectories. They readjusted immediately, but it took a few more beats, and the Flawless Host seized their opportunity with both hands.

Faced with a trio of Space Marines on ground of their enemy's preparing the Chaos Space Marines knew that their lives were measured in heartbeats. An unspoken thought flashed through their minds, and Chaak exploded into the middle of the loyalist astartes, power sword flashing in every direction. His aim was to engage them and keep their bolters shipped for the crucial moments. Meanwhile, Gon rushed furiously for the door.

This was not base betrayal, intriguing as that sensation would have been. The Codex Astartes dictated the proper manner of an ambush, and a troop entrapment with 150% force superiority confirmed that the Space Wolves were following it to the letter. As a consequence, Gon knew that the commander of the Space Wolves would be located in one of several possible locations, in a position to supervise the action and lend his strength wherever it might be needed. Gon's knowledge of the local terrain allowed him to narrow down the enemy commander's position, and it was towards this point that he sprinted.

Faced with obliteration his answer was to spit in its face. Chaak had bought him time to get beyond the initial jaws of the trap, and Gon resolved to seize what victory he could from his last moments. While escape was certainly beyond him, he'd take his shot at the Space Wolf's central command authority, and strike a mighty blow as he passed to the warp.

Ordinarily it would be vanity and folly for a Space Marine to expect to overpower the leader of an enemy Astartes detachment without specialized equipment. Captains and other officers had the very best and most ancient wargear, and frequently had received specialized training. Gon, however, had an equalizer.

The torture serums he was such an expert with had a battlefield application, and his blades were constantly coated with them. A mere scratch could bring such agony that even a survivor of his attacks would long for oblivion. After a long sojourn in the warp, Gon's blades bore such venoms as as the Materium could never birth.

With the fanatic intensity for which his warband was known he closed on his target, rehearsing in his mind a trillion times the fatal plunge. When he rounded the corner and beheld the Ironpelt his most prominent emotion wasn't fear or shame at his failure, but a poignant disappointment that his destruction would be so artless, so effectless.

His envenomed blade didn't even reach the Dreadnought's hull, as the flames of the Ironpelt's ancient prometheum thrower engulfed him. The speaker's blared Gargan's warcry, but even a Noise Marine can't hear after he's been incinerated.

Xull closed in on the elusive Brother-Sorcerer.

Followed closely by his Obliterators, the hulking Warsmith crushed his way into the building known as the Vault. He'd long since discarded the emotions which would have permitted him to relish the destruction, and consequently his subordinates were the only ones enjoying themselves. Xull was merely impatient.

The plan had called for Dhuurock to launch a preliminary assault on the target site before the teleport force had arrived. This would have had the twin effects of diluting the defender's force concentration and providing a homing Icon for the warp transit. Further, the Thousand Son might have lost some squad members raiding the city, which would have weakened his position somewhat.

Instead, the tables had been turned. Xull's Terminator cadre had become the primary assault, and borne the brunt of the defenses, with the Rubric squad arriving only after the outcome had already been apparent. Further, the Terminators had borne the risk of a mis-jump, and in a city as crowded as this one that was a not-insubstantial risk. Xull hadn't risen to the position of Second in Command of an entire Warband by ignoring such slights, and he fully intended to exact recompense, and was in a position to do so.

His forces were more numerous and individually more powerful than the Sorcerer's, and he was a power in his own right, while Dhuurock was a mere squad leader. Further, his Daemons whispered to him that the Inferno Bolts, of which Dhuurock was so proud, would be unable to penetrate Terminator armor, or the steel exocasings of his Obliterators.

So why, if his position was so superior, did he have the nagging suspicion that he was walking into a suboptimal escarpment? He had the same nagging feeling that he'd had before the disaster at Olus IV, or the botched assassination of Vilus. It was an instinct he'd honed in the Iron Warriors, and during his time with the Black Legion during the Crusades. The Warp whispered to him, warning him that things weren't precisely as they appeared. He resolved to approach the situation with all due caution.

Ahead, Obliterator Primus signalled with a wave of its cutting beam, they'd found the Thousand Sons.

The Warsmith stormed into the narrow chamber, followed closely by his shuffling Obliterators. The targetter in his visor chimed a query to his consciousness, seeking a designation for Brother-Sorcerer Dhuurock. He settled for "Primary Target".

Dhuurock turned to greet his expected guests, the front of his helmet warping aside to reveal a broadly smiling countenance. It was, he believed, the first time his face had been exposed in perhaps 3 millennia. He regretted the necessity, but his visions had been adamant, and to defy their course would render the outcome of this encounter uncertain. Dhuurock hated uncertainty.

Xull didn't reciprocate, letting his armor remain entirely intact. No Iron Warrior would ever permit himself an unguarded vulnerability, and he had scant regard for one who would lower themselves so far as to reveal their visage. Then again, perhaps Dhuurock was merely acknowledging the insufficiency of his Power Armor, realizing that before the Daemonchains he might as well have been wearing the robes of a serf.

With a thought Xull prodded the Daemonchains into action, and they snaked across the floor and surrounded the Thousand Son. They slithered lightly over the Sorcerer's feet, wrapped gently around his ankles and snarled themselves in his cape. Xull intended to start this parley from a position of strength.

Showing no distress, Dhuurock sketched a florid bow.

Seeing his foe bow, Xull sneered.

"Gaze upon me, worm", he boomed through his amplifiers, "and explain your treachery." As he made the bald demand he raised his combi-bolters, fully prepared to enter combat immediately, and fully confident in the outcome. His targetter tinged seconds away from a target lock.

"My my", temporized the Sorcerer, "are you perhaps unsatisfied with the outcome of our partnership, Dread Lord?". As he spoke he rose from his bow to parade rest, hands loose and unconcerned, face relaxed into a broad grin.

The contrast between their visages could not have been more extreme. Xull's helmet had the face of a diabolic icon, a visage appropriate to a savage temple, where it would glower down unseeing upon eons of sacrifice. Dhuurock had the unlined, forthright face of a heroic Space Marine. He looked in every respect the wholesome defender of Imperial values that he once had been. It irked Xull, as did the Brother-Sorcerer's obvious lack of fear, and he decided that they'd spoken enough.

With a thought and a concentrated command phrase he ordered the Daemonchains to seize the Thousand Son and bind him helpless. At the same time he raised both combi bolters, his Tactical Dreadnought armor snapping them automatically to a firing position. The only thing that kept him from firing instantly was that the targetters were still obstinately refusing to resolve a target lock. That, and the behavior of the Daemonchains.

Far from grappling with Dhuurock, they'd snapped to and immediately began to writhe about his feet. To his horror, one of them had clipped a melta-bomb from his collection, and was struggling with a pair of the others to attach it to his armor.

Reacting swiftly, he let fall one of his combi bolters and plucked the offending bomb from the chain's grasp, deactivating it with a command from his armor. In the process, however, the chain got a hold on his arm, and the others writhed around the offended limb in a feverish attempt to get it off. He swore and attempted to point the other bolter at it, but combi-bolters were cumbersome things, not designed for shooting a grappler off one's limb. He was considering his options when Dhuurock spoke.

"You appear to be encountering difficulties, Dread Lord", said the Brother-Sorcerer, smiling slightly. "Would it perhaps relate to your rather unique wargear?"

"Warp rot you," snarled Xull, furiously aware of his lack of dignity, "what did you do to my chains?!" He couldn't imagine what the answer could be, he'd warded the chains from other sorcerers as soon as he acquired them, no one other than he could command the daemons within, for their ears were closed by the Fourfold Seal.

"Why...nothing at all", remarked Dhuurock. "But at one time...oh, two hundred years or so before you became an astartes or were, for that matter, born, I seem to recall exorting an unbreakable oath from a pair of Daemons. I take the long view where my survival is concerned".

"But...how could..." Xull trailed off, remembering the Thousand Son's reputation for prescience. He'd never imagined that it could be this exact. Dhuurock had thwarted his attack, before he'd even been conceived. "The long view, indeed" he remarked, relaxing his warlike efforts and watching without surprise as his chains relaxed about him.

Dhuurock nodded. "And the remainder of the war is no more or less in doubt. Know this, Warsmith, I walk ground long prepared. My path leads back to prospero, it leads to the ruin of the Rubric of Ahriman and once more into the company of my restored Battle-Brothers. For this purpose, I shall reveal to you the shape of things to come."

Dhuurock's voice changed as he spoke, repeating the words the Warp had whispered to him so long ago.

"On a place of peace in a time of War, the clash shall come betwixt the Four. When Rot fights Wolf in mire damp, then shall prevail the dead man's camp. To take your head shall Warsmith crave, to thwart him turn his Daemon slave. Your end you'll find at Khornate hands, unless the fang twice-promised lands. From air your peril lashes fast, to make amends the Furies cast. The fourfold foe shall face you last, cleave to your strength and travel past. Return to glories, always yearned for and glory long the Changer's earned war."

"This I heard from the lips of the Fateweaver, while alongside it a series of hissing falsehoods spilled forth". Dhuurock's voice returned to normal as he finished the Warp recitation. His eyes lost the milky white they'd briefly gained. "It took centuries to determine that this was the true path, and millennia more to gain the context necessary to wrest meaning from this doggerel."

"How-" asked Xull, but he was cut off by the Brother-Sorcerer "I tracked down Narl, the Fateweaver's errant spawn, and forced it to parse it's parents blather. It resisted, and only the blandishments of Slaanesh would force its tongue, but ultimately I was able to procure those favors from a planet in the Eye of Terror, at a price I cannot clearly enunciate." Dhuurock recited, clearly repelled and relishing the memory at once. "Ultimately I was able to learn the truth of events yet to come in plain terms, and those too I shall reveal to you."

Unseen by Dhuurock, hidden by Xull's bulk, a mechanical arm emerged from his armor. The Iron Warriors were ever known for their techno sorcery, and a servitor limb was practically standard operating procedure among that fearsome cadre. As he stalled for time and listened to the Sorcerer's monolog the Terminator furiously worked the manipulator, clipping the Daemonchains and binding those which had risen against him in rebellion. This done, the snipping mandible unhinged, revealing the twin-barrels of a deadly multimelta. Xull carefully began to compute the equations necessary to snap the arm to front-aim position, and melt the Brother-Sorcerer's smug, exposed, smiling face.

Unaware of the mechanical limb's manipulations Dhuurock spoke on. "The prophecy clearly referenced this very world, this obtuse quest for supremacy in Gribbly's legion. We were, all of us, destined for this place and this battle."

No Warp Echo clouded Dhuurocks voice as he spoke his findings aloud. He'd come by this knowledge with great difficulty, and divulging it seemed somehow to solidify it, to make real to his audiences the track ahead. "As foretold, the followers of the Plague Lord have come to battle in the swamps of this place, and even now are hunted by the Space Wolves, who have foregone the pleasure of a reckoning with me to protect this world's food production capability, and the corpse-worshipping inhabitants. I can't precisely see the end of the battle between them, but it will come down a mortal's choice between hope and despair, and the forces of Nurgle will prove victorious."

Across from him, Xull frowned in concentration, the same difficulty he'd had earlier in locking onto Dhuurock persisted, his armor wouldn't verify the shot, and he only had sufficient ammo for one blast. It reminded him of something, an area of the Villainy Victorious where a warp entity of great power was bound.

Disregarding the considerations of the Warsmith, or unaware of them, Dhuurock continued. "At the same time, my true foe has emerged to the East, where the young Berserker Hraavack has found his destiny, and even now falls deeper and deeper into the Blood God's thrall. In truth, he has a chance to thwart my destiny, save that great Tzeentch has shown that chance to me, and I've taken precautions."

"Hraavack is fated to die in a salvo of Inferno bolts in the instant before he reaches my squad, after emerging from his screen of warp beasts in the thick of our battle. Khorne is too mighty, however, to permit one of his chosen to be so ignominiously entrapped, and has dispatched a quest to one of his followers, to reach and retrieve an artifact of the Blood God's. With a Berserker Glaive in his hands, he would be able to reach our ranks before we could react, and the omens are certain that my heart will beat but twice if I stand within his reach." Dhuurock looked remarkably untroubled as he explained the how's of his own destruction.

"It's for this reason that I brought you down to the surface. The Changers will be dispatched, prior to the battle, to intercept and slay the Berserker who bears the glaive. This thread of the future will be snipped simply and directly".

Xull's eyes widened slightly as he finally realized what was blocking his target resolution. Dhuurock must have made use of the captured Icon already, and stood shielded behind his Patron, the Lord of Change known as Narl. The Daemonchains had spoken of this being before, and Xull made a split second decision to abandon his assassination attempt, furiously spinning plans to take revenge for this slight.

"Another matter of interest in this battle is poor Sylvester. He's lost control of his forces by now, a victim of an unfortunate coincidence" Dhuurock's lips twitched in a slight smile, " and realizes that his only possible route to victory is to take control of Hraavack's or my own Warband. He'll fly over our battlefield in some manner of vehicle, desperate to slay a stronger God's champion and get back into the battle. He's a psyker of limited skill, himself, and he's seen his fate should Glubbulous prevail. To thwart him the Warp directs me to unleash the Furies. My visions indicate that he could prevail over 4, and that I should send 6. I've a great respect for the Flawless Legion, however, and consequently I've contracted with Narl for 20 to be sent to rend him."

Xull remained silent, absorbing the information. He knew Dhuurock was attempting to manipulate him by revealing his foreknowledge, but advance info was advance info, and he silently vowed he'd use it to make the smug Brother-Sorcerer rue humiliating a Warsmith.

"The remainder of the campaign is comparatively uninteresting. I'll smite Glubbulous or Gargan on Mount Tsieven, when the flames burst forth from its frozen heart. I'll face down Gribbly with a Daemon planet behind me, and he'll bend his knee. He lacks the courage or conviction, you see, to oppose a chosen Lord of one of the Ruinous Powers. With the last champion vanquished the Warp will gift me with my heart's desire."

Xull waited expectantly, but Dhuurock didn't elaborate.

The burning Prometheum gouted over the Ten, scorching ancient ceramite and evaporating the rust and rot which clung to them.

Even Plague Marines could not handle a protracted blast from an Inferno cannon, and under the Blazer's volley they were forced to spread out and dive for cover, an undignified scramble away from extinction. They abandoned their pride, their aura of inevetability and unstoppability, in taking cover, but they preserved their squad's effectiveness. Not one of them fell burning and did not rise.

The same could not be said for their retinue. The refugees of the Camps, diseased and feral, had evaporated like morning mist before the Blazer's volley. Cares surrendered to the flames they stumbled and toppled without complaint or scream, disintegrating into noisesome stenches and charred remains. It was, no doubt, a mercy.

From their position on the turf one of the Ten fired a plasma blast, but it ricocheted from the hull of the Hellhound. Perhaps the heat had sucked the energy from the beam, or perhaps the Plague Marine's weapon's great age had robbed it of its full power, but for whatever reason the beam had no impact upon the venerable tank.

The other plasma gunner crawled rapidly forward, seeking rapid fire range. He'd just about made it when a squad of Quarantine troopers fell on him, bayonets flashing and autopistols firing. They'd rushed along in the wake of the wash of flame, gambling that the Dark Tusks would be distracted by the tank. Their gamble had payed off, and they stabbed down at their blasphemous foe, seeking and finding openings in his armor of rot and ancient wargear.

Being impaled was no great impediment to the Plague Marine, and he made the split second decision to disregard their assault and fire on the tank, trusting to his squad to blast his assailants to their Corpse-God's embrace. He aimed his bolt at the area already weakened by the previous plasma blast and pulled twice on the trigger. Unknown to him, however, one of the furious PDF soldier's attacks had struck his weapon, damaging its volatile internal workings. As a result, the weapon exploded, a plasma concussion rippling out into the Plague Marine and his assailants, consuming them all in one bright flash of annihilation.

Another member of the Ten rushed the Blazer, with bayonet fixed and a crack grenade in his hand. He became the sole victim of the second stream of flame, hit straight on by the Inferno cannon's shot. Even one of Glubbulous' elite could not stand such a volley, and he toppled, burning with an odor like a cessation farm.

His sacrifice had freed his squad from their pinned down state, however, and Glubbulous waved them back into the swamp. The PDF had won this day, and the sacrifice of further pawns to no gain was not the Grandfather's way. With their retreat covered by the Lost and the Damned the Plague Marines forged their way back into the swamp in good order.

They'd fight another day, Glubbulous had not survived this far to throw his life away rushing a tank he had no way to defeat. The loss of the plasma gunners was a blow, but the Grandfather enabled one to absorb all such blows, all of life's vicissitudes. Yes, they'd return and-

Sergeant Sharnes, from his place on the standard, howled with derisive laughter.

Traak placed foot before foot endlessly, trudging across the wastes in pursuit of the warhost.

His armor was banged up and cracked, and in one place (his left arm), had been entirely peeled away. He left blood spots every dozen or so feet behind him, as even his enchanced metabolism was unable to completely mend the damage the Guardian had done. He dragged something heavy behind him, shrouded within the skin of a reptile he'd slain off hand on his way through the cave. The shrouding scales were already smoldering, and he knew that soon enough he'd need to replace it, as that which he bore devoured the carcass entire.

The struggle with the Guardian had been a protracted thing, entirely against the Berserker's taste. It had skulked through the cave, a presence of murder and smoke, more Khainite than Khornate. He'd had to offer it an easy shot at him to lure it out, and it had taken that bait a little more forcefully than he'd envisioned. His left arm had been flensed before he could so much as react, the flesh and cermite looking as though it had been pushed through a wire mesh. The pain had triggered his reactions, however, and the guardian had been unable to match the frenzy of a Berserker who abandoned himself entirely to his God. When he was done, it was in too many pieces to serve as the first sheathe for his treasure, but there'd been local wildlife which could serve the same purpose.

He hurried now in pursuit of the army, bearing the seed of calamity with him. Could he but combine the power of the treasure he'd found with the Juggernaught such a fury would be spawned that the Warp itself would whisper of it. He wasn't sure whether he would give the weapon to Hraavack, or hack him down with it and take the Juggernaught for himself, but it really mattered little. Victim or vessel, the Blood God would be pleased with him.

Moments later, he reached a decision on that matter. He'd hack down Hraavack, because hacking things down was his existence. Traavik didn't suspect that his decision was influenced by his burden, but wouldn't have cared if had noticed.

As always, Defender Narl and Big Defender Grun had a difference of opinion.

"Where are you getting this information?" demanded Barack Grun? "Two different warring factions of Chaos? Names of the commanders? Do you expect us to believe you scouted all this?"

Veenit looked over at Defender Narl, raising an eyebrow. He didn't really know anything about scouting himself, but it seemed like the grizzled veteran had a valid point. Narl's information was ridiculously precise, naming the enemy commanders and providing exact deployments of enemy forces.

Narl, for his part, looked sort of confused. "Wait, I thought you wanted to know this stuff?" he said. There was an oddly blank look on his face. "You wished for more information about the enemy forces, and I gathered it. I assure you, this information is accurate."

"Oh, I don't doubt that, you've been quite correct thus far" Grun said, "including when you slipped up and gave us tomorrow's report!".

Veenit furrowed his brow, nodding slowly. He remembered that argument. Grun had been incandescent with rage, as they looked at the report dated for the next date. He said that this proved that they couldn't trust Narl's scouting, especially as it had the Bucklers only covering half the distance they were expecting to. Veenit would have concurred with him, except for the odd fact that a rainstorm had sprung up that day and choked off their progress, leading them to stop on exactly the spot that the status report said that they would.

As Narl opened his mouth to begin another explanation, Veenit cut him off. "Big Defender Grun" he began, "thank you for your assessment of Defender Narl's scouting competency. It puts me in mind of a statement in the General Orders concerning scouts."

Grun looked bored as the Hmeen scion began to quote the General Orders. He had little understanding of the Buckler's tradition, and couldn't grasp how witty Veenit was being by including a recitation of an earlier recitation within a newly forming tradition. Any Buckler would have got it though, Veenit awarded himself high points for cleverness as he recited. "Those individuals tasked with gaining information on the enemy are frequently quirky and individualistic fellows, and must be allowed their lattitudes."

"Do you understand, Barack Grun?, 'Quirky'!" He emphasized the word. "They are riddled with quirks, positively quirk-prone. Now, since I must have an oddball for a scout, on the words of the sacred General Orders, I might as well have one whose peculiarity is that he scouts too well!"

Grun settled down, looking somewhat resentful. Well, let him resent. It would be replayed forever by the official Grun of the Bucklers (as Veenit was imagining the post would be called), and the Great Defender was heartily sorry for whichever family got that role.

Looking back at Narl, Veenit understood enough of military matters to know that he was on the cusp of a momentous moment. Conventional wisdom, espoused in this case by Barack Grun, was that the two enemy forces moving together were doing so in order to join forces. The War People and the forces which had taken Big Mountain would make a potent combination, perhaps capable of matching even the Buckler's numbers. On the other hand, the scouting reports of the oddly capable Narl indicated that they enemy were converging for the purposes of assailing one another. He said that the Bigmountain forces and the War People were different kinds of Chaos, or something, and that they would battle each other even more fiercly than they would fight against the New Codexian PDF.

So there it was. If they were joining up he needed to strike while they were split. If they were fighting he needed to wait until they'd weakened each other. He needed to pick an interpretation and order his army into action.

Such a pity that his life's first real decision would be such a difficult one. Fortunately, the tradition of the Hmeen provided even for such indications. Great Defender Veenit Hmeen reached for his sacred Coin.

"Heads, we-". He didn't get any farther. Barack Grun pulled out a laspistol and shot him in the face.

The New Codexian's were somewhat intimidated by Gungahr Silverpelt.

It wasn't so much the Silverpelt's size, nor its intricacy, nor even the knowledge of its sheer destructive potential. They'd been around tanks before. It wasn't the uncanny articulation of the several ton behemoth, they simply thanked the Machine God for sending them such a canny mechnism. It wasn't even the fact that Gungahr spoke, and commanded, as ably and flexibly as any entirely flesh and blood leader. No, it was that he did so in the Emperor's Name.

As ranking leader of an Astartes force Gungahr was unquestionably the Emperor's chief representative on the planet. While theoretically outside of the chain of command, in practice his troop's first act had been to reveal Archenemy corruption in one of the oldest and noblest Houses on New Codexia, and then to gun down the traitors wholesale, crushing their leader in his enormous fist. The nobility of New Codexia was used to measuring their service to Him on Terra in terms of orls sacrificed, tithes met, votives recited. The air of sacrifice and heroism that clung to the Space Wolves, thick and primal, was utterly at odds with their calculated piety. Such raw faith, so carelessly displayed, was deeply shaming to a leadership caste that was supposedly only leading on the Emperor's behalf and in His name.

Consequently, the meeting of the hastily assembled Third Swamp District Siege unit's leadership was a subdued one, dominated by the great metalic Sepulchre of the Space Wolf's leader.

"I understand", rumbled the auto-voice of the Silverpelt, "that the first attempted breakout of the Archenemy forces has been contained?".

The words hung in the air for an instant, before Gerrik Bulsome (a survivor of the Bulsome purge which had followed their discovered treachery), responded on behalf of the New Codexian military. "That's so, Lord, our Quarantine unit performed admirably, repulsing the enemy thrust and inflicting heavy casualties."

"Indeed", answered Gargahn, "yet cases of infection are being reported in Yonder and Yet, well beyond the periphery. This suggests that the Third Swamp District's aquifer has been tainted. It's my considered opinion that this was the real reason for this unit's descent in this area. I believe that rallying the leprous was merely a byproduct of their actual endeavor, which was intended to sour the entire region's water soruce. I further judge that they have succeeded in this endeavor."

It is a measure of how subdued the officers were that this pronouncement was met by a solemn silence. With any other presiding official, even Governor Shastler himself, such a blatant statement of failure would have occasioned an immediate and likely long-lasting hunt for a scapegoat. The Swampers and the Quarantine unit would doubtless have had their reputations savaged for their role in the affair, and overall command would likely have shifted. Before the gaze of the Wolf, however, no one raised their head or their voice. They all understood, instinctively, that the warrior before them had no patience for their games.

Into this silence, the Silverpelt's speakers sounded once more, as Gargahn told them precisely what they were going to do.

In the Warp space which corresponded to New Codexia, a throng gathered.

Delight and Joy thrashed about in great currents, comingling into the Daemons of Tzeentch. Pink Horrors, forged of the pure pleasure of Change, winked into being at a frenetic pace, their frenzied gyrations and cavorting mimicking with a strangely apt precision the convulsions of a battlefield casualty, or a seizure victim.

Ambition and Avarice forged themselves into the Screamers, mindless and predatory. Narl's ambitions, Dhuurocks ambitions, even the desperate plans of the New Codexian defenders mixed and blended, grew teeth and horns and praised the Changer of Ways. So feral, so furiously hungry to alter the world were these monsters that they immediately set to gnawing on the materium, concentrating around the dull, cancerous lesion which indicated the presence of the Icon of Tzeentch.

The Furies too were present, great bat-lizard-bird creatures, beholden to none of the Ruinous Powers, or to all of them. This was far from ordinary. The presence of the Four clung to New Codexia like a shroud. Normally furies would be set upon by the Tzeentchian horde, blasted and burned from the Immaterium for their temerity, but this swarm went unmoleseted. Their path went unchallenged, for it went over the Prepared Ground, the Vi-Dhuurock.

They were shrouded in Dhuurock's oaths, bound to service by his promise of a Lord's soul to gnaw and rend. They were bound, too, by his oath that failure would see their being discorporated, their very essences would feed the Fateweaver's spawn. In truth, the threat was unnecessary, as Dhuurock well knew.

The weak would bend knee to the strong, such was the way of Chaos.

The Zepp'lin rumbled ever North, closely pursued by a second lumbering vessel.

Sylvester cracked the Lash, and the thralls who crewed the vehicle lept to their tasks. Gerrard Vance's old crew was reliable enough, once their minds had been numbed and bent by the taints and temptations of Slaanesh. They steered the ship purely for the challenge of doing so, their perceptions hyper-attuned to the excitement and illicit thrill of defying New Codexian authority. A day ago they would never have imagined disobeying the General Orders, now they lived for nothing else.

It had been an easy matter, even in his panicked state, to commandeer the vehicle. The Bulsomes, in one of their last moments of usefullness, had actually delegated its operation to him, but even had they not Sylvester was more than capable of seizing control of the unaugmented operators through raw Psyker might. Taking the very Zepp'lin which had bombed him and his squad had appealed to his monumental vanity, and as it turned out had been a useful escape from the Space Wolf trap.

It had been an incomplete escape, however, as the disgraced Bulsomes had immediately launched a pursuit, presumably in hopes of receiving absolution from the Space Wolves if they were able to destroy him. He could have told them they were wasting their time, but why bother? A little casual killing would go a long way towards improving his mood.

He paused for a second to reflect that as a champion of Slaanesh, his mood shouldn't need improving. He ought to exult in the unfamiliar sensations of defeat as much, or more, as he rejoiced in his victories, but he did not. Perhaps his fusion with his Power's purpose was incomplete, or perhaps their was simply a deficiency within his sensorium, but the fact remained that he did not care at all for the losses his unit had taken. Rather than dwell on the fact, however, he stared across space at the pursueing Zepp'lin, and raised his Lash.

In conventional terms, the pursuer held every advantage. They road the wind, blocking Sylvester's access to that commodity, and further allowing them to gain height. They had an armed boarding crew, and more than twice as many bombs as he did. In case he boarded them, their captain had even equipped the vessel with a self-destruct device. He'd been a friend of Gerrard Vance's, and seeing the flagship of the Zepp'lin fleet in enemy hands was galling to him.

None of it mattered. As they drew near, in preparation to board or perhaps to overtake and broadside, they drew within the influence of Sylvester's Lash. With a Crack he seized control of their actions, driving the boarding party over the side with a roar of rage. The pilot crew was next to fall, once again impelled over the edge of their vessel by the pitiless Lash of Submission. Several remaining crew attempted to take up the controls, but when they too plummetted from the vehicles edge, charging madly off the side as their desires and senses were flensed, the remnants of the crew activated the descent charges, and road their crippled craft to a landing.

Perhaps they hoped that Sylvester, on the run as he was and lacking in ordnance due to his hurried departure, wouldn't turn about and bomb them.

People, when facing their end, hope for all sorts of impossible things.

Glubbulous and his squad stopped, all of a sudden.

They'd withdrawn deep into the depts of the Dire Swamp, forging tirelessly through muck and mire as mile after mile fell away beneath their ceramite tread. Their rotting frames blended easily into the muck and the grime, despite the plague-yellow armor that they wore.

There were still six of them, where once there had been 10. The Swampers had done for one, and their sentinel had brought down another. The Blazer had lit up two more, one was the squad's secodary plasma gunner. Glubbulous's unit's capabilities had been sadly reduced.

Following them had come their rabble, the fallen citizens of New Codexia. The forced march had not been nearly so kind to them. Bit and pieces had fallen from them, rotting and festering, into the murky waters. They'd festered and degraded under the punishing trek, till now they were little more than the walking dead. It mattered not, when the time came they'd stop a lasbolt just fine, and that was all such fodder was good for.

Sgt. Sharnes had originally hoped that they'd been broken, defeated by the stalwart defense of the Quarantine legion and their flame-spewing tank, but now he realized the truth. With the aquifer tainted the Chaos forces had spread their filth as far as they needed to through force of arms. Now they merely had to hunker down and repel the New Codexian counterattack, and they could let the plague they'd nurtured do the heavy lifting.

Glubbulous beckoned the leaders of the disorganized horde, ex-citizens more deranged and degraded than the rest, close to him, and communicated through a series of diagrams swiftly sketched in the soft murk. Sharne's heart sank when he saw the plan, the trap being prepared for the forces of his beloved Imperium.

The part he was to play in it pained him most of all.

Deep within the Warp, a solitary figure stalked unseen and unheralded.

This was hardly an uncommon state of affairs for the Pilgrim. As often as he strode before a vast warhost he traveled in solitary desolation. As often as he ducked and pushed through crowds of otherworldly horrors he battled through grimly determined lines of defenders. Anything and everything might seek to thwart his passage, such were the ways of the Warp.

Yet, this digression was different. This was no defense of the Black Library, no machination of the Harlequins. Nor was it a test imposed by his mercurial Lord, he'd learned to sense such things. It had something of the taste of a pursuer, one of those misguided "Inquisitors" who sought their deaths at his hands, but it wasn't precisely that either.

It was something of him, something he'd left behind, forsaken. A long planned contingency, perhaps? Some portion of himself traded away to a Daemon or Godling, awakened at last to summon his greater being to dire necessity? Or maybe a memory? Could it be one of his recollections, found and stretched and worn by a malevolent entity, weaving even now a net for his footfalls?

Regardless, a timeless trek through the Warp had taught him to take care of such things immediately. He reordered his travelling rituals, modifying their immediate priorities to bring him by the site of the call. He paused as he did so, catching the place's nature in a warp-vision.

Bemused, he turned his steps along the new course and stepped up his pace. His destination might have been bucolic before, but it would soon shudder beneath the tread of Ahriman Blackstaff.

Within their tortured frame, Hraavack and the Juggernaught struggled for control.

This battle, quite possibly the fiercest and most desperate of Hraavack's entire existence, had no witnesses. None applauded his rage filled striving, nor did anyone cringe from the bellowing war crys that filled his mind. A few of the Beasts which followed him cringed back when they saw their Warmaster's eyes swell and burst with crimson ichor. That was the extent of the host's witness.

For all that it was unobservable, however, the battle was crucial to the army's fate. If Hraavack prevailed he would continue to lead the throng against the Blood God's enemies. If the Juggernaught won out it would run rampanat through the War People, crushing them to a thick red paste, or dying at their hands. Both outcomes were satisfactory to Khorne.

Prior to its conclusion, however, the battle was interrupted by a Warp pulse, emanating from almost due west. The scent on the currents was pure Tzeentch, the odious spicy musk of ambition and treachery, meat and drink to the Changer of Ways. It was nauseatingly strong, and the conjoined monstrosity paused momentarily. Such a mighty aura could surround only a potent Herald of the Architect of Fate, or perhaps a Lord of Change in the flesh.

The Daemon felt the pulse most strongly, and in the moment of surprise Hraavack struck deep. His wrath blazed like a consuming fire, and the ire of the beast could not match it. With a snarl and an oath the Berserker Champion, now a Chaos Lord, took the reins of his flesh once again.

He didn't have long, the Juggernaught was tireless, and the fight to subjugate it was one he'd wage for the remainder of his short and bloody existence, but that was of no matter to Hraavack. He welcomed such internal strife, as he welcomed conflict in any other form. The current respite, however, could be used to glory his Master, and such an opportunity was precious.

The Warp flare had to represent Dhuurock, the execrebal champion of Tzeentch. It was odd, as Big Mountain City, where his scout's placed the Thousand Sons, was northwest still, but the part of him that could consider such tactical information had been abandoned in his struggle with the Juggernaught.

He bellowed a command to his host, feeling their positions through their rage and resentment with more accuracy than his eyes had ever given him. "West! Go West! Bring the wrath of the High Handed Slayer to those who breathe. Blood for the Blood God!"

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

Northwest of his position, sitting in a deserted bunker in BigMountain, Dhuurock sensed the command through the warp and smiled. He picked up the board and arranged the pieces, turning the green militia pieces towards his own position, and then moving the red host into its flank. He knocked over icons, seemingly at random, as the two formations mingled and jumbled. He placed the small votive candles around a small red piece that was isolated from the others, then turned the piece on its side. He placed his own pieces in a close formation around his squad badge, and plunged it into the fray. He moved the large red flag close to his piece, then paused.

Then, with a confident smile, he flicked the flag off the board.

Behind a wall of flames, the Quarantine advanced.

This made the Captain extremely nervous. His tank was built for cruising the planes which surrounded the Dire Swamp, not mucking about in it. He was used to wide horizons and clear lines of sight, not the claustrophobic confines of the mire. The fact that the bosses had seen fit to have the fire proceed them was a small consolation.

Another was the fact that the fire was being lit by infantry, poor grunts. His prometheum was being held in reserve (along with that of several Arsonist model Sentinels) for contact with the enemy. This pleased the captain.

He always felt better with a full tank, and his prometheum was too precious to waste on anything that didn't scream.

Rarka One-Eye led his fellow Blood Claws deeper and deeper into the Dire Swamp.

Despite the contamination he did so with his visor raised, trusting to the Emperor and the hardiness of Russ' geneseed. He drank in the tainted air of the swamp, and sifted past the taint for the scent of a deeper decay. No ordinary Space Marine, nor even any ordinary Space Wolf could have accomplished this, but Rarka was a Tracker.

The geneseed affected every Space Wolf differently, and Rarka had not inherited the Wulfen's dire proclivities. He didn't display the feral savagery of his fellows, or at least not as much of it, and his canines were only slightly longer than usual. His sense of smell, however, was a thing of beauty. In test after test on Fenris's steep slopes he'd outperformed actual Fenrisian wolves, tracking them to their lairs despite their best efforts, and those of their hunters.

That sense was tested to its fullest now. The flames of the advancing quarantine were ruining the odor patterns, and the interference of the Chaos Taint upon the swamp was cloying and thick. Beneath it, tantalizing, he could scent the heresy of the Dark Tusks, but it was an elusive thing, maddening and vague. It was heavy on the air one moment, a mere wisp another. This would be no easy stalk.

Fortunately, the plan did not call for Rarka and the Blood claws to stalk the enemy without aid. They numbered only 6, after all, half of the Flame of Fenris's crew. The Quarantine regiment would do the heavy lifting, flushing the enemy out of hiding and engaging them. When the Terrible Ten lent support to the rabble that they led, Rarka would take up the scent. He looked forward to that moment.

It would be difficult, to track the Plague Marines to the site of their ritual, more difficult still to remain undetected while the Silverpelt was beckoned, but the hunt was in the blood of every Space Wolf. The only worry Rarka felt was that the Blood Claws would be unable to delay their assault till Gargan's arrival. To see treason was to smite it, to scent the depraved was to scent their rightful prey. It was not in the nature of a Blood Claw to wait, patient and still.

On the other hand, if they weren't patient, they'd soon be still forever.

Xull and his Obliterators conferred.

"To take assignments from a mere squad leader, never have I been so insulted!" Xull raged. "He believes his prophecies place him above one who has stormed the galaxies finest redoubts? He thinks himself a more thorough strategist than one who has waged war on Medrengard! Absurd!"

The Obliterators kept their own council, remaining passive and watchful. Primus checked its auspex for local presences, while Secundus did a scan for intrusion devices and Tertius queried the local warp entities. They were long used to their master's eccentricities, and his rages would calm in due time. Then would come the strategizing, and finally the killing. They loved the killing, so they bore with the ranting.

"The gall of it!" stormed Xull. "The sheer, unmitigated gall, to believe that I would back down before his threats and do his bidding! He thinks I'll retrieve this relic from this Berserker, just because he's told me to do so! The warp must have swallowed his wits-"
Suddenly, he choked off the flood of venom, eyes narrowing and jaw clenching within his Terminator armor. The Daemonchains writhed in apprehension as some aspect of his mood communicated itself to them.

"Unless..." he said, calm once more, "unless this is merely one of his manipulations. He knows that I'd never take such an odious task, never do his bidding like one of the automata he calls Battle Brothers. He instructs me not to prompt my obedience, but to guarantee that I pass up this opportunity. The Berserker Glaive, he asks me to take it to guarantee that I'll led it slip!"

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. With one insulting lecture the Thousand Son could indeed command his obedience, merely by saying the opposite of what he wanted. Telling Xull to ambush the Berserker and claim his weapon was the swiftest way to insure that he would not. Elegant reverse psychology fit Dhuurock far better than blustering intimidation.

Then, once again, a thought struck. Could not the Sorcerer have anticipated this very revelation? Perhaps his was a triple game. He gave an order so that Xull, thinking himself clever, would follow it and think to thus spite the Sorcerer. It seemed obvious, in retrospect, that the Thousand Son wasn't sincere, so perhaps the proper conclusion was that he was entirely forthright, and counted on Xull to see deception where there, in fact, was none. It would be a triumph of Tzeentchian proportions to cause a foe to outwit himself while he thought he was outwitting you, merely by making a true statement.

An Obliterator buzzed, and Xull stopped the paranoid tailspin he was about to engage in. He could second guess Dhuurock's intentions forever, and get nowhere. The activity was like a failed entrenchment, better abandoned. He abandoned his study of Dhuurock's statements, and pondered the situation.

The Obliterators observed this change in him with their sensors, and transmitted appreciative scrapcode to one another. This was their master at his best, coldly calculating and deciding. They clustered more tightly around him, primed for obedience to his forthcoming directive.

Xull considered the unassailable facts, those which he'd verified through sensors, and not merely through Dhuurock's auguries. One, a New Codexian force was encamped to the south. It seemed to be undergoing some manner of internal turmoil, but nonethless its numbers made it a threat. Two, Hraavack's force was approaching from the east, quite possibly about to attack both Bigmountain city and the New Codexian force. Three, Dhuurock's objective was the overthrow of Hraavack, and usurping the leadership of all local Chaos forces. Fouth Xull's objective was the same. Under this context the approach of the Berserker Glaive appeared in the proper light. Xull's path was clear.

He beckoned his Obliterators close, and gave his orders.

Vrakk stood motionless, the Daemon raging within him, as they burned shut the coffin.

Gribbly's minions didn't dare to kill him. He'd wedded his familiar spirit too tightly into the VV's control systems, in preparation for taking the ship himself. If only he'd beaten the Lord in-

He squashed the regret immediately. Chaos was the future, taking the present and throttling it till it broke. Gribbly had bested him, so what. He'd pay back his humiliation a hundred times, a thousand! With the power he'd gain on the world below he'd make crush him in his fist.

Not your fist corrected that which lay within him, our fist! He nodded, insofar as the casket permitted him to. He would achieve all things through his sacred partner. Gribbly had no such loyal ally. His staunch independence and allegiance to his Legion's martial traditions would be his undoing!

Vrakk couldn't even recall what legion he'd come from, or what world. He had a vague recollection of some sort of pre-joining time, but he didn't like to think of it. His better half completed him, and soon they would be one. When he ascended he would devour it as he did his victims. All would be one.

They shoved his casket towards the launch slot, the sentient pod snapping and biting at them. That wasn't the primary source of their fear, however. They were leery of him, not the casket. He was, after all, a man Possessed.

Within the Rhino, Dhuurock sat motionless, surrounded by the insensate hulks which were his only companions. The Brother-Sorcerer's mind was literally elsewhere, cruising the Warpways in spirit form in order to finish up last minute preparations.

First he took a read on the position of the various parties involved in the conflict. Reconaissance was simple for a Sorcerer of his power, particularly in this Tzeentch-influenced warp climate, reinforced as he was by the Mark of his Deity, etched across the sands of the desert miles to the north. He simply scented the emotions which spilled from the Materium, and deduced from their character the nature of the parties involved. In truth, all was probably as he'd forseen, and their was no need for such caution, but he hadn't survived as long as he had by letting hubris overcome his traiing.

His own force surrounded him, the grim Terminators of Xull's unit trotting alongside the Rhino, which drove south-east at a grim pace. His own Thousand Sons squad was with him in the vehicle, turned off for the moment, their essences flitting freely through the warp.

To the South-East, in the direction they were advancing, the force they were falling upon was in no position to receive them. The Bucklers radiated discord and confusion. Assailed from two directions, and with their commanding officer assassinated by the man with the most direct knowledge of the situation, they were in a position that their vaunted tradition had no answer for. They were perilously close to breaking, and the battle had yet to begin.

East of that position, shining like a beacon through the Warp, came Hraavack's force. Their rage swept like a wave before them, hundreds of beastmen and the Chosen of Khorne. Aside from one middling Khornate Daemon, however, his warp meddling had cut Hraavack off from the daemons of his monstrous Patron. Without tactical finesse or subtlety the Berserker's horde rushed the Bucklers, Hraavack leading from the front, naturally.

With a satisfied smile, Dhuurock opened his eyes. About him, the squad reanimated, armor moving in ritual movements as they checked their loadouts in movements perfected thousands of years ago. They prepared to deploy, unknowingly obedient and silently competent. The Brother-Sorcerer felt the Prepared Ground rush upon him, his chosen future sublimating into experience.

Then, suddenly it was here. The Rhino screeched to a stop and the Thousand Sons emerged into the midst of the Bucklers, and Dhuurock began his Pilgrimage.

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

Roaring and bellowing, Hraavack's conjoined flesh outpaced his followers. They did their best to keep up, but mortal bodies could not compete with his altered perfection. Still, they managed to keep him in sight as he came upon the followers of the Corpse God.

For his part, Hraavack felt no fear as he found the entirety of the Buckler's regiment before him. In fact, reflief dominated his thoughts. Battle was the only time the Juggernaught and he could agree, their deeper disagreements sublimated into the shared joy of mashing foes and smashing skulls.

As he cosed on the foe, however, they did some striking of their own. The Bucklers had no tradition of retreat. They were terrified of the roaring monsters which assailed them, but more terrified still of failing their honored regiment. They had no way to make their terror known, so they did as always did, they did as they had drilled. They set up a firing formation and let the Beasts have it.

The War People's front line disintegrated in the volley. Their numbers, so overpowering before, were scarcely intimidating to an entire regiment. The las bolts poured in, and the unarmored monsters were cut down. They lacked the intelligence necessary to take cover, or stop and volley themselves, so they simply ran forward into slaughter. An acrid stench filled the air.

Hraavack, however, was an entirely different story. The lasbolts bounced from his armor and Daemon half, and he was closer. A rocket, fired by a team which won an award for their accuracy last year at the Drill Competition, was deflected by his hate and exploded behind him, buffeting him with shrapnel but not materially harming him, and he was closer still. A lascannon bolt tore some of the spikes from his armor, but was too high to strike him, and he was there.

The first soldier he came upon raised his bayonet as though to impale the furious Lord, and was knocked soaring through the air by the Juggernaughts hooves. A pair of troops behind him froze in horror, and were split by his axes. The remainder of the subsquad convulsed in panic. The bucklers had no way to express their terror, but humanity as a whole was ill equipped for the sight which confronted them now, a raging Daemon of Khorne, covered in the blood of their friends and squad mates, and coming right for them.

Behind the slaughter the second line of War People was meeting much the same fate as the first, but they had a crucial pair of advantages. The first was that Hraavack had hit the Buckler's line close to a heavy weapon strongpoint, and the operators had rather unwisely slackened their fire as they maneuvered for shots on the Lord. The second was that the remaining Berserkers were driving their rhino back and forth in the space before the second wave, smoke launchers laying down a trial of crimson vapors.

A brave Buckler raced into the mists, melta bomb in hand, and blocked the Rhino's path. The vehicle slowed momentarily, long enough for the pilot to emerge and aim the combi-bolter, long enough for the bolter rounds to rip the hero apart. Then the Marine was back inside the rino, and it was accelerating again. But it had slowed too long.

A lascannon team took aim during the brief pause, and fired right after the rhino. A shining line connected the lascannon and the rhino for an instant, and then the vehicle which had started life in the forges of Mars came to an end on the plains of New Codexia, taking with it the life of a corrupted Space Marine.

The Bucklers cheered the tank kill wildly, but then the second wave pounded through the smoke, seconds away.

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

Sylvester watched the battle erupt, and exulted in the slaughter. Not being able to take part was painful, but the emotions of a spectator were something that he hadn't sampled in a long time, and had a special grandeur all their own.

Besides, he'd participate soon enough. He concentrated on his satisfaction and amplified his self-awareness...preparing to use the Lash of Submission. Then his concentration was broken by the stench of the Warp.

He snapped his gaze upward as the Furies descended on his Zepplin. One, Two, Thre-, there were too many to fight. It would be redundant to commend his soul to Slaanesh, but he'd do his best to enjoy the trip.

When the Lost and the Damned launched their counterassault, the Captain was more relieved than anything else.

They'd been scorching their way through the Dire Swamp for what felt like forever, soldiers of the Quarantine shouldering their burdens and bringing up load after load of the smelly burning fluid, to toss upon the rank and fetid vegetation.

His role had been merely to sit, patient and waiting, and watch others do the burning. It wasn't what the voice in his dreams promised. It wasn't the Emperor's plan for his Captain, and he resented it. It was the Ironpelt's plan, however, and only a fool would disobey an Adeptus Astartes.

The Traitors came from all sides, including the burning frontal quadrant. They rushed headlong towards the Quarantine's lines without cover or armor, or even much in the way of armament. Their weapon was their frenzy itself, the force which animated them was decidedly other than natural.

The Captain was waiting for them, he slewed his Hellhound through a quarter turn, and an arc of beautiful radiance transfigured the rushing wretches. They could run while ablaze, but his special prometheum unleashed the energy within them, freed their potential from the husks of their flesh and rendered them blazing angels in an instant.

On the other fronts the Quarantine did its bloody work, lasgun units firing and falling back in disciplined ranks while flamer subsquads made short imitations of the glorious swathe that the Captain was cleansing. Orders were barked and obeyed, the Quarantine weathered the rush, and shortly the traitors had run out of manpower.

The God Emperor was triumphant, as always. The refugees turned heretic littered the ground, or their ashen silhouettes did. Not a man from the New Codexian ranks had fallen, not a man had broken. But for one unanswered question it would be a great victory.

The Captain voxed the query that everyone was asking within the comfort of their own skin. "Where" he asked, "were the Terrible Ten?"

The crackling of the fire and the stench of the swamp were the only response.

The furies swept over the Zepp'lin, screeching and howling. They blotted out the sun and their screeches thrilled every tortured membrane in Sylvester's altered hearing apparatus. He vibrated to their hate, the sensations of his assailant's bloodthirst as delicious to him as a fine meal, or the desecration of an Imperial shrine.

He strove to thin their ranks with his bolt pistol, firing once, twice, and a fan of shots. The ancient weapon's shells tore through the air, but rarely impacted with one of his Daemonic assailants. The Furies were creatures of thwarted visions, and their ability to determine the path of a desperate defender's attacks was one honed over untold centuries. No meal was sweeter to them than one that thought itself safe in the blessing of one of the Four, and to tear down a chosen of Slaanesh and violate his sacrosanct nerves with their undivided talons was an unimagined pleasure. They would not permit him to strike them down.

The first to pounce was the largest, a fury so vast it called into question their classification as scavengers. This creature was swollen with the frustrations and vicissitudes of the New Codexian psyscape, and went one on one with an Astartes with no hesitation. Against an ordinary Space Marine, it might have had a shot.

Sylvester was a Noise Marine, and beyond that, he was a Noise marine fully blessed by his deity. His speed was in an entirely seperate category. He stepped into the arc of the creature's pounce, and in a subjective space where his time was without limit he orchestrated the intersection of his power blade with the creature's center of mass. Its bisection was a symphony in red and black, draping him in the sacred warp stuff like a second and awful baptism.

The Fury's orbited him, then the talon-leaders of the vanquished predator closed from opposite directions. These were two near-copies of the leader, and their velocity and orientation precluded a fully conventional response, no matter what Sylvester's speed was. Fortunately, he was not lacking in esoteric resources.

He concentrated and the Lash manifested, pushing the arc of one of the Talon-leaders up and over his back as he warded off the other with his drawn blade. It swept up as well, dodging his strike and anticipating the moment when its partner struck him down from behind. It's shock to find the other compelled into its flight vector was total, and the Furies struck one another with a bone crunching thump. Sylvester returned to guard position.

This time 4 Furies took his challenge, two scampering in along the ground while the others assailed him from the air. He had but one shot, and immediately went for his sonic blaster, sweeping it off his back and launching a blaring arc in a full spin. Three of them were tossed back, but he was finally too slow to catch the last, and it grappled him and smashed him to the deck.

Embroiled in a wrestling match with a Daemon, Sylvester knew his time was at an end. No more nations would scream his name, no lands translate his title as a gutteral curse. He would go to his Patron flopping like a gutted trout. Nevertheless, it was not in the Astartes to yield, and however debased, the Noise Marines were still of that ancient lineage. Sylvester strained and squeezed the Daemon...and was surprised to find it went limp.

An ancient staff had been struck through the Daemon, glancing off of Sylester's armor and pinning it to the deck like an insect. The Brother-Fether's rescuer hauled him to his feet with one sudden movement and strode to face the fury horde.

Initially Sylvester thought his sudden rescuer doomed. He'd been bought a moment's respite at the price of this impossible savior's existence. An instant later he knew better. He relaxed his grip, and let his weapon's drop to the deck, realizing that to go to the stranger's aid would have been unecessary, an insult.

He opened his senses as wide as they could go, and devoted his being to witnessing Ahriman Blackstaff at war.

Traak bit through his lip as the armored figures appeared before him. His hour had come.

In an instant, the dreams he'd treasured, of beheading Hraavack and replacing him as the favored of the Slayer on New Codexia, of wielding the weapon he'd retrieved in honorable battle and solemn ceremony, of simply existing, these dreams disappeared.

To his credit, he didn't waste an instant on regret. The Obliterators weren't about to give him any time for such things. He sprang sideways, using the relic as a shield, in case they sought more than his existence. Tracking their weapon arms he raced for a nearby stone, a momentary refuge.

They tracked him, weapons swiveling and warping as they sought a way to bring him down without his shield being damaged in the process, but took no shots. Good fortune, certainly. He had great respect for their accuracy, and had initially thought a multi-melta shot could have taken his head. He shook off the extraneous thoughts and dove the last few meters, dropping krak grenades to obscure himself yet more.

Still they didn't fire, and he took up his covered position, hunching behind the cover and estimating the firepower necessary to destroy it. They lacked it, he was certain. They couldn't destroy the stone before he could start moving again, he was confident in his speed. He'd wait for the sound of their fire, then charge them rapidly. If fortune was with him, and his recent escape augured well for it, they'd be recharging from their initial shots. If he could get in melee things would look much better. He'd-

The Daemonchains snagged him from behind, each grasping one of his limbs, pulling them away from his body and holding him in a spread eagle posture. Xull! The Obliterators were merely a decoy, to keep his attention forewards while the Chaos Lord approached from behind.

Xull gazed upon his prisoner, considering options and dialog, then shrugged. The Daemonchains strained slightly, and tore the Berserker asunder like an insect. An instant later Xull's hands grasped the Bloodfeeder, and New Codexia took another step towards its fate.

"It's a trap!" yelled Sgt. Sharnes as the hulking one-eyed Space Marine ripped the gag from his mouth.

He'd watched, eyes bulging, as the Space Wolves approached, picking their way carefully through the swamp with a stealth and a malice that only the Emperor's Angels could possess. Their woodscraft had put his Swampers to shame, and the fact that they could call upon it while clad in heavy power armor increased that shame to a disgrace. Compared to these Blood Claws, his Swampers had been ignorant children.

For all their stealth, however, they seemed to be too unmindful of danger to question discovering a bound prisoner within the depths of the Dire Swamp. How did they think someone they'd last seen attached to the standard of the Terrible Ten would come to be here? How could they miss this trap?

For it was a trap, and most horrible in nature and execution. When they'd planted him he had a moment of hope, thought that perhaps the vile Glubbulous and his men could carry him no further in their hurried retreat. He had dared to hope that they would kill him here. Instead, they'd planted him and, steadily, stealthily, began to take up their ambush positions. He was to be the bait that would suck in the Emperor's warriors, he was to be made a Traitor against his own will.

Even as he yelled his warning, the trap was sprung. Some rose from the depths, like blobs of excrement bubbling up through a soup. Others dropped from the trees, descending like Vultures on the Space Wolves. Glubbulous burst from the midst of a tree like a blister popping, ranclid fluids splashing through the air as his ancient Power Fist rent the ancient strongwood asunder.

But the Blood Claws weren't caught by surprise, far from it. Even as the Dark Tusks fell upon them the Space Wolves counter assaulted, with a swiftness and ferocity that no one could replicate. They were wilier than Sharnes had given them credit for. They'd understood the nature of the trap from the instant they'd seen him. They'd sprung it on purpose, taking the fight straight to the corrupted Space Marines.

"But why?" he whispered, uncaring that he spoke only to himself. "Why not simply surround the trap and invert it? They could have guaranteed their victory by just leaving me to my..." He trailed off, the answer self evident. They were Space Marines, Adeptus Astartes. To leave him to the torments of such a fallen wretch as the Plague Champion was foreign to their very nature. They were the Protectors of the Imperium. They would prevail.

In his soul, hope burned bright, as he watched the Blood Claws battle the Dark Tusks, bright and flaring. It pierced the darkness of the warp like a clarion call, an emotion which could never give birth to a Daemon. In that instant, lashed to that rude icon and plunged into that vile muck, Sgt. Sharnes was cleansed and sanctified into the Emperor's radiance.

His body, mouldered and infected, breathed its last. The battling giants didn't glance his way. They knew, however, one and all. A faithful son of the Imperium had resisted Chaos to the last, and died in grace.

Every sight, every sensation, every shudder of the ground and roaring explosion was ultimately familiar to Dhuurock. This was his hour. He'd been laying the groundwork for this battle for centuries, it remained merely to play it out.

His shadow play with Xull earlier had been the last turning point, now this conflict was unalterable. He stood erect on the speeding Rhino, helmet raised and face bared to the fury of the struggle. He feared no bullet, no las blast. Given time, he could recount where each and every shot of the struggle would go. His Rhino was in no danger, his squad was in no danger, and most importantly his ambitions were in no danger.

The Terminators led the way, plowing into the rear of the Bucklers with such fury and implacability that they barely slowed on contact. It seemed impossible that any band with such smaller numbers could defeat a battalion, but that was exactly what they proposed to do.

They were aided by many factors. The Bucklers had been betrayed by Narl, inevitably, and had no rear guard. Their concentration was wholly on the Khornate horde, and the fact that the hammer blow came from behind was wholly unsuspected. Further, their heavy weapons were primarily fixed position, and were presently squandering their fire on the rushing fodder, leaving lasguns as their only defense against the Terminators.

It wasn't enough, not nearly. The Changers stampeded forth, trampling and blasting any infantry insane enough to strive to block their path. An antiquated Chimera tried to roll them over, but the Terminators moved smoothly to link arms and flip it over, discharging a combi melta into the underneath and detonating the tank in a mighty blast.

Behind the Terminators, Dhuurock hopped clear of his Rhino, as his men disembarked on the other side of him. They had their orders, imperatives really, and would unfailingly carry them out. They would make their way to the position of Hraavack's execution, while he would need to go forth as the bait.

Dhuurock had no worry about the Terminator's loyalty. As planned, Xull was elsewhere, taking up the blade which would ruin him. The triune of squad leaders wouldn't dare to act against him, lacking the confidence that each other would back their play. He could afford, indeed must afford, to break away from his Thousand Sons if he was to draw Hraavack to the Prepared Ground.

As he left the vehicle, ducking a blast he'd first glimpsed centuries ago and shooting a bleeding casualty as a reflexive sacrifice to his patrons, Dhuurock finally noticed something he hadn't forseen, something entirely beyond his expectations. He hadn't guessed how much he would enjoy this.

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

Hraavack rampaged through the Bucklers, casting their corpses in all directions, robbing them of their lives through superior force and exerting his superiority in the ancient manner. This, and this alone, could ease his inner torment.

The Daemon within him couldn't mount a sincere offensive when it was enjoying itself so much. It coudldn't agitate for control of their joint flesh while lauding his use of it to this extent. Surrender was beyond the nature of a creature of Khorne, but the Juggernaught joined its power to Hraavack's for the time being. It had eternity, after all.

Beyond the whirlwind of carnage that was the Chaos Lord's personal battle the Bucklers had begun to falter. The forefront of the Warp People's horde had reached their line, and a fierce battle begun. The horrible noises filtering from the back, where explosions and screams rather than reinforcements were evident, played a large part in eroding their morale, as did the Berserk Daemon in their midst. The careening of a Zepplin over the struggle didn't help much either.

Barack Grun organized the main counterattack, breaking out of the field stockade where he had been imprisoned for his mutiny, and leading those men he could muster in a furious rush. With Narl's disappearance there was simply no one in charge, as the Bucklers had never needed a field promotion before, and Grun foresaw calamity if they were not rallied then and there.

A wave of men, bayonets flashing in proper parade ground polish, followed him, charging into the tide of Warp People with a bloodthirsty scream of their own. Furious battle ensued.

Hraavack, his martial instincts dimmed but not gone, saw that he was needed, needed to shred the enemy champion and break their morale for good and all, but then he saw something else. Something that blew all thoughts of tactics or strategy from his vestige of a mind. He saw Dhuurock, the champion of the Great Changer.

Roaring the war cry of his God, he launched a frontal assault

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

Dhuurock saw the monstrous form of his foe, just as he had in a thousand visions, he saw him roar his war cry, a cry that had wakened him from a thousand dreams, and he saw him cross the ground that Tzeentch had made ready. A smile curved his lips, and he impelled his Rubrics to fire the Inferno Rounds. Brought to this planet, for this purpose, they would penetrate the armor of the Berserker where the Daemon had not yet replaced it, a bolt to the left eye socket would be the end of Hraavack.

No fire answered his mental command, the battle tumult took on a different tenor. It was impossible. He was hearing explosions he'd never heard before, bullets no longer forseen, his Rubrics not present and not shooting! Hraavack took another two steps nearer as Dhuurock turned his head. The indignity, to see with his eyes! He turned his head to see what had befallen his Rubrics.

They were engaged in melee combat, with a squad of Bucklers. Preposterous, they should have been a dozen feet too far back! How could...his gaze rose, pulled upwards by a power stronger than his own. The Zepplin! And on it was Sylvester...and the Lash of Submission!

The wretched Noise Marine had moved his unit, driving them into Imperial Rabble and depriving him of their ranged abilities just when he needed them most. How could that be? He'd sent twenty furies, more than enough to kill a simple...his gaze traveled further still.

There, standing behind Sylvester, watching him from high above, was Ahriman. He'd protected his Rubric, changing Dhuurock's designs and altering the attained future. Even as the Brother Sorcerer saw him, Ahriman turned and stepped into an opening portal, gone to other schemes and other places, this conflict of no further interest to him.

All this, in the space of an instant, then Dhuurock's vision returned to his own terrible situation. Through a space unforseen, through the treachery of his own superiors, through the machinations of a perverted squad commander and a squad of valorous Guarsmen, Hraavack came for him.

There was no time for pondering, no time for scheming, Dhuurock abandoned his strategies, plans and auguries, shaking his mind and energies from them and leaving them, hanging and vacant, to wither in the warp. His energies turned to survival, to the one power that might give him a chance against the Blood God's avatar. He turned to the Warptime.

The fog was lifting.

From the Dire Swamp's twisted branches, from its vile depths, the clinging miasma was dissipating. The cloying warp-spawned vapors were swiftly dissipating into the air. For the first time in living memory the sunlight would reach the tainted ground.

Glubbulous realized what was happening immediately. Their sacrifice had failed. The insect who was supposed to have represented the region's slide into total despair had drawn from his would-be rescuers a hidden reserve of courage, and had died with hope in his heart. It was offensive, a defeat on the psychic plane. The Ten's patron had no taste for shame. The Grandfather had withdrawn his protective embrace from this place.

He tossed the Blood Claw he had been fighting aside, the strength in his powerfist too much for the novice Space Marine to withstand or counter, and rushed towards the next. Victory, and only victory, would bring Nurgle's blessing back to them. The Squad had merely to restore the human's despair, and the tide could yet be turned.

His next foe struck at him with a chainsword, but Glubbulous was in too much of a hurry to parry, he simply took the strike on his armor and gripped his enemy's arm. The fist's field energized as the chainsword whirred and cut, and, as always, his the loyalist yielded first. None could match the Dark Tusks for sheer resilience, sheer determination. From his first traitorous step to this, that fact had never changed.

Glubbulous was suddenly caught from his side by Rarka's rush, the Dark Tusks were prevailing over their foe, the corrupted resilience of their rotted forms blunting the Space Wolve's frenzy, and the Blood Claw leader had seen the only way to take a victory. He ducked his should and toppled Glubbulous into the mire.

As he fell, the Plague Champion saw the glint of the power sword held aloft, saw its arc towards his flesh, and realized that no action he could take would allow him to parry in time. He lashed out, but not with his body, instead he fell back on the greatest advantage of the Traitor. He used the powers of a Psyker.

Rarka's blade was inches from its target when he felt the impact of Glubbulou's mindblast, a well of dark energy unleashed upon him which staggered him even as it rotted his determination. The Despair saved up over Glubbulous' long lifespan hit the Space Wolf as a concentrated burst, in one instant striving to convey him to the same dark warpspace as had claimed his enemy's spirit. Rarka resisted with all his strength, and all the ferocity of the Space Wolves, and a moment later the attack's strength was spent. But it had taken a moment too long for him to throw it off.

Glubbulous had grabbed his bolter, and as he sat up from the swamp he opened up on full auto, shredding Rarka's power armor and perforating the meat beneath. He shot the Blood Claw 10 times as he toppled, screaming, into the Grandather's feculent waters. Even as the loyalist toppled, the Traitor re-emerged, standing tall and strong, sourced in the vile and polluted waters, and unafraid of the sudden sunlight.

Around him, his force was prevailing. They had never doubted the outcome of the leader's duel, and they were heavy infantry, while the Blood Claws had been reconaissance troops. This was no lasting defeat. He had merely to take stock of the situation, recover from this reversal. The Grandfather's...a shadow fell across him.

Glubbulous looked up...and up. Between him and the sun stood the shrouded shape of a Zepp'lin, a Zepp'lin which could see, at last, through the thinning vapors and behold the Terrible Ten, exposed in the light. A Zepp'lin which bore on its back the Emperor's fury, Gargan Silverpelt.

Glubbulous commended his spirit to his patron, as Gargan fired the his assault cannon. Such was Glubbulous's tenacity, armor, cover and vile resilience that it would take a hundred rounds to slay him. Gargan hit him with six hundred, bolt after bolt hammering down to obliterate the abomination, and with it Nurgle's hold on this world. Gargan's howl of victory and loss echoed over the dire swamp as the mist blew away, purged at last by the fury of the rightous.

Deep within the Villainy Victorious, the green candles went out.

The future closed before him, innumerable possibilities limiting themselves to two. He slew Hraavack, or died by his hand.

Dhuurock was a creature ancient in his vanities, set in his ways, it took tremendous strength of mind to force himself to accept this new reality, to accept that Sylvester's actions had forced him into this duel, but he did so. Not for nothing had the Librarium of his time taken him in, Magnus had not been in error in complimenting his flexibility of mind. Without losing another instant, Dhuurock threw himself into the duel.

A Space Marine, with power blade in hand, against a Daemonic Khornate monstrosity would have had no chance, but Dhuurock was more than a Space Marine, and less. His mind seized the very fabric of time itself, willing it to slow to a crawl, and his warp self grappled with possibilities.

He ducked the opening swipe of Hraavack's power fist, and was kicked down and trampled by his Juggernaught underbody. He leapt over it, with a vaulter's discipline and grace, and was struck down midleap by the other swinging arm. He threw himself back, and was outpaced by his foe's relentless charge. He removed his helm and strove for parley, and was struck down before he spoke his second word. He blocked the powerfist with his blade, and shot his inferno pistol, but it was deflected by Hraavack's daemonic nature, and the Fist tore his blade away.

All of his future's were blocked. His moment was over, Hraavack reached for him, fist groping, and Dhuurock threw himself on it.

If the Lord of Change disdained to show him a safe path, then he'd forge his own. His blade flashed, a blow aimed not for the body of his foe, but for that selfsame powerfist. A piercing blow, and successful, he slid the blade through Hraavack's palm and down into the meat of his arm, even as the Skull Champion's other hand gripped his throat and he was raised into the air.

He had gambled all on this, that the Khornate savage would allow him a glancing hit to take his head, now it was time to reveal another aspect of the Warp Storm's meddling. It was no mere power sword he held, but a force weapon, preserved from his dimly recalled past as Librarian. He concentrated, and sent his will flashing down the blade, to engage Hraavack's spirit, and end him in the Warp.

But he had reckoned without the Juggernaught. Daemons were proof against such energies, and it acted with the instinctive loyalty that the Lord of Skulls demanded of his minions. It saw, within the Warp reflection, the psyker wave he had generated, saw that it would slay its God's champion, and Khorne would not allow it. The Juggernaught did what its nature screamed against, and submitted wholly to Hraavack, merging and gifting him with the power of a Daemon Prince.

Against such an Eternal Warrior the force blade's effect fizzled and failed, while before Dhuurock's horrified stare the flesh of the Juggernaught enfolded and surrounded the the Skull Champion. His Armor and Daemon flesh merged, he became a nightmare wrought in brass, and baleful and enormous presence. He grip on Dhuurock's throat tightened, cutting off his air and straining his spine.

Hraavack looked down at the puny blade embedded in his palm and laughed aloud. "Choke, worm!" he bellowed, "and know the power of Khorne!". He lifted Dhuurock into the sky, 4 feet, 8 feet, a dozen feet, and throttled him.

Dhuurock's gaze dimmed as he looked on the newborn's leering skull-face, and within the warp, he gazed upon its atrocious true form. His master had abandoned him, his powers failed him, there was naught left but to deny his foe the final victory. He raised his bolt pistol to his temple, braced himself and-

A beam of light came and took his relief away. Xull lowered his meltagun and watched as the smoking stump of Dhuurock's hand waved feebly, as his gaze roamed hither and thither. It took him minutes to die, choking helplessly and kicking and striking at an arm of corded brass.

When at last the Sorcerer's struggles ceased, when the sacrifice had been performed in its entirety, the Daemon Prince tightened its grip, and popped his head off. It turned to regard Xull, and the burden he bore.

All his long life, Xull had been a strategist, a patient reducer of the fortifications of his foes, a devotee of Chaos Undivided, a loyal Iron Warrior. Survival demanded that this change. Only one action would see him through this minute, and he was a survivor before all else.

He raised the BloodFeeder, and carved the Skull Rune upon his shoulderpad, erasing the sign of his Legion, he carved it upon his harness, severing the 3 strands of his Daemonchain that the rest of the Pantheon had blessed, and he carved it across his face, obliterating the visage of a tactician and replacing it with the mask of slaughter. Then, he turned from the Daemon, and, aware of its eyes upon his back, took up the pursuit of the Bucklers, howling his new patron's name like an animal.

Farhome was a remote place.

Far from BigMountain, far from Riverbend, so far, in fact, that that very piece of trivia had become its namesake. It was such a remote village, in fact, that the townsfolk told themselves, in their heart of hearts, "we are safe", "none shall come here", "the problems of the big city are for the big city". They were, it turns out, quite wrong.

The star grew swiftly above them, burning through the sky on a precise trajectory (for the Daemons who'd aimed it were creatures of precision), an arrow fired by a bow of stars.

It struck the earth in the fields outside the village, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris, showering the town with fragments of trees, a fence post or two and the old bolder that Harris had thrown his back out trying to life.

The townsfolk had been besought by their city kindred when the war started. They knew the visitor was likely hostile. The menfolk fetched their short las's, their poorly maintained combat blades, even weighty rocks. The womenfolk began to evacuate the town, but there was nowhere to go save down the road.

As the armed throng, for throng it was, no disciplined squad this, closed on the grounded space relic, they breathed a sigh of relief. It was small, too small to be a troop carrier or drop pod, such as the Emperor's Angels used in the ancient tales. This looked more like...

A Coffin.

When it's front opened, with an audible crack, everyone took a step back. Hissing steam, literally hissing, rose from it, writhing and dissipating like smoke from a burning house on a windy day.

Vrakk rose from his transit tomb, gazed around. He took in the pastoral scenary of northwest New Codexia. He took in the rubble caused by his landing. He took in the armed, terrified and hostile mob, outnumbering him 50 to 1.

His face distorted in a horrifying smile. His black voice whispered to him "I'm going to like it here", and he nodded in absolute agreement.

From the north, the taint spread.

Over weeks, a month, the War People, flush with their victory over the Bucklers, their breaching of the Wall, and the confidence of their Warmaster, came south in a flood.

They were opposed, in places, diverted, in places, and assailed, sporadically, but overall the forces of New Codexia resisted their urge to do battle and fell back before them. Such was the will of Gargan, and the command of Governor Shastler had been to obey that will.

The armies of the Archenemy were bolstered now by forces Daemonic. The Warmaster's destruction of Dhuurock had blasted Narl's fog from the world, and the indiscriminate slaughter his legions practiced soon drew the servants of his Patron to the world. His army was as much a creation of the Ruinous Powers as it was a conventional foe. A literal extension of his fury, a crawling throng of angry impulses, channeling a rage that could split the sky's vault.

Gargan understood this, knew that a tipping point had been reached. The next battle must decide the issue, or the land would be tainted too deeply to recover. If allowed to fight, to triumph, the gates of the Warp would be thrown wide, and the land would fall beneath the brass tread of the Daemons. By contrast, if the Warmaster could be defeated, the War People would lose their Daemonic masters, and the gaze of the Gods would be averted in shame. The next battle, for good or ill, would decide the issue.

As a result, it couldn't be trusted to a regional army, couldn't be delegated to nobles, or the PDF. Only the fortifications of Central City, only the Grand Army of New Codexia, bolstered by the Space Wolves, led by Gargan Silverpelt and sheltering in the Emperor's light. Only such a mighty host could prevail against the coming storm. His orders insured the final clash. The Daemon would sense the same, would be drawn to the center of the land's defiance like a moth to flame.

From the north they came, a tide of crimson and brass, a wave of murder, an ending to the peaceful veneration of the Emperor which was most hateful to them. But one thread in the skein of fate lay unaccounted for, and it gnawed at the vestiges of Hraavack's soul.

He was not, yet, the appointed victor of the contest. He'd glimpsed it, as he closed on his foe in the grand melee. A Zepp'lin, holding the final locus, the Princeling's pawn. His Red Lord demanded that he bring the Imperium to heel, but he was bound by the rite's obligations to overcome Sylvester. The twin pressures split his attention, and the slaying of a world demanded his full attention.

Fortunately, a solution presented itself, in the form of his unexpected vassal. The Bloodfeeder pulsed in his mind, and he made its desires known to it. Soon after Xull and the blasted creations known now as the Obliterated veered from the path of the horde and moved to the west. With them went the favor of Khorne.

They would be his hand, his flaying knife, his will made manifest. They'd track down and destroy the Slaaneshi champion, even as the Warmaster cast down the corpse worshippers.

Beyond even the complication of Sylvester, there was one further aspect of the battle that neither of the opposing generals had considered. Time had passed, with their maneuvering and jockeying, and Lord Gribbly had put his house in order. Now, with the power of a Battle Barge at his command the erstwhile referee of this game would enter it.

this is awesome! Keep it going!
Only two things you could do better: 1.Less Characters, and 2.Better Surroundings.

1.More characters means more sidetracks. It eventually comes to the point when you forget
names and where a character is currently located. Well, it is fun to see everything from
many points of wiew as it makes the conspiracy(ies) much more entertaining for
the reader, but it's not fun when it's done to the point when the reader has to go
checking the previous pages thinking ''who the @!£¤ is this guy?''

2. At some places you did'nt really describe the surroundings very well.
For example, the battle against the Bucklers. I myself cannot remember any
descriptions of the surroundings in that piece, although i did imagine some sort
of plain. The same for the Rubric marines drop spot, where i imagined
a desert due to the 'die of thirst' thing. You did, however, perfectly describe
the swamp, and i give you credit for that.

Apart from the above points, the story is great. You should publish this
some day, with a few minor alterations Keep it going!

Thanks for the compliment. I can't really publish this, as, ya know, GW owns all the IP, but I put it on some fanfiction sites.

I try to use honoriffics to describe who characters are. That is, if you don't know that Hraavack is the Khornate guy I hope that calling him Brother Slaughterer will convey the point. It's certainly a problem though (particularly as he goes by Warmaster now, post Daemon Prince-ification). Vrakk, in particular, just kind of showed up when I realized I needed a Possessed guy for a thing later on.

You make a good point about the surroundings for the big battle. In my mind it was just sort of plains area, somewhere SW of Bigmountain. In particular, I imagined the War People rushing across the fields of Gettysburg (hiked there once), so I guess it was a grassland. I should have made that more clear.

Sylvester steered his stolen vehicle down the road, raging inwardly at the vehicle's lack of responsiveness.

He longed now for the Sonic Transit he'd left on the barge. He longed for a simple bike of human manufacture. Even an Ork buggy would have been preferable to his current mode of transit.

The Sonic Champion was driving an Imperial supply truck. A vehicle wrought from an ancient and decayed understanding of the Standard Templates, a vehicle built for power and reliability, and wholly incapable of any kind of speed.

No matter what kind of pressure he put on the accelerator, no sensation rewarded him. Oh, it screamed along as well as it could, two or more times as fast as any New Codexian had ever driven such a vehicle, but not nearly fast enough to excite his jaded sensitivities.

He tried to make things more interesting by risky maneuvers, but the vehicle simply wasn't unpredictable enough for such things to thrill him. When he crosscut a convoy he was in no doubt that it would miss him by a millimeter. When he wove in and out of civilian transit the only thrill he got was the familiar and jaded pleasure of causing death. There simply wasn't any uncertainty.

He made up his mind to seek some. With Dhuurock and Glubbulous (he could FEEL the absence of Nurgle's soldier) out of the picture, he could afford to spend some time. Hraavack was a savage, a creature base in its appetites and conspicuous in its presence. Even transfigured, it wouldn't take him long to provoke his own destruction.

Brother-Fether Sylvester, champion of the Dark Princeling and erstwhile sergeant in the Flawless Host, had only to wait.

He hated waiting.

TOO LONG/DIDNTREAD

Edited by Moderator.

Thread necromancy WTF?