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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.