The canvas would be the Webway. The colors subtly shifted from red to purple to white. Viewed strictly by sight, it was beautiful; but all travelers of the Webway felt Her thirst lurking just beyond the ancient barriers the Old Ones had erected. The canvas was ready, but the paints would arrive shortly, Lady Maehem thought.

She turned to face the wizened mon-keigh and his two Ogryn guards. Despite his ancient appearance and hobbled stature, power radiated from his form. The renegade primarus psyker Belaphon looked up from his scrying bones and stared past the Archon.

"They come. Velocity: 12 Aarns. Vector: 1. 3. 8. Time: 2.4 minutes."

"Thank you my dear, your assistance is invaluable as always." Lady Maehem replied in a patronizing fashion in her own tongue. "Position our craft. Its time to create our art."

"I care nothing for your thanks. Only your weaponry." The psyker croaked. As he stated this, the two Ogryns stood up taller to emphasize his point. The ugly burly creatures had burlap sacks covering their disfigured faces. They would have been imposing to a lesser race.

"My dear friend, we have such a beautiful arrangement, do not sully it with negativity." The Archon then turned and leapt from the Raider onto a nimble Venom. The craft rocketed off to join the small fleet that was positioning itself. Most Kabals would use slaves. Maehem long ago realized that, although slaves offer... consistent results, if you want exceptional performance, mercenaries were needed. Avarice is a much better motivator than pain.

Suddenly the Webway in front them shifted from reds and purples to blue and green. A massive dark tumor began to grow and bubble from the immaterium. A massive slave barge burst into existence, its engines directly facing the small fleet of the Carrion Dawn's craft. The old psyker was precise as always; the ambushing craft were hidden in its engine wash. The slave barge's attendant craft dartung around it like flies on a corpse.

A damaged corpse, Maehem noted. The Kabal of the Flayed Skull's latest slave raid had apparently encountered a bit of... resistance. Such a pity "someone" had alerted imperial forces to the impending realspace raid and had allowed them time to scramble a few defense monitors to soften up the Kabal's strike. It would be an easy thing to overpower the much diminished escort and claim her prize.

"Cripple the engines. Destroy the escort." The only response to her words was the whine of dozens of dark lances powering up. In a flash of unlight the battle commenced...

(continuing from the story above)

Dracon Ychrix hunched on his throne in the command sphere of the slave barge Torment. The dim lights briefly flickered casting the bridge into darkness. However, if anger could light a space, the command sphere would be positively incandescent. The Dracon observed the hololiths reviewing the damage reports. First the cursed mon'keigh, and now these scavengers? The pirates had no markings, but only a small kabal would be foolish enough to challenge the Flayed Skull. Once their identity was pried screaming out of the soon to be captives, retribution would be swift.

The Torment was now drifting, its drives crippled by surgical strikes. It would be an easy repair, were not the engines now held by the rival kabal. Rather than fight, he had ordered his few remaining escorts back to the Dark City. He dared not use open coms, as it would undoubtedly attract more capable predators before any help would arrive. It would be hours before the Kabal would be able to send a response team. However, upon viewing the anemic forces boarding his barge, he was not concerned. The other hololiths displayed images of unmarked Raiders and Venoms pulling up to the rear of the ship and depositing Wyches and Kablites. Many empty transports docked as well and remained. Such hubris. The fools think they would actually be able to steal the slaves that Ychrix had rightfully obtained?

The Dracon thought to himself but a moment. The slave barge held twice as many warriors as this small raiding force had. The raiders would attempt to reach the slave holds to slaughter some of the captives. Being drunk on pain would be the only way they could possibly hope to overpower the ship's crew. With a few terse commands, the trap was set. The Dracon reclined in his throne, hands pressed together, as a slow devious smile crept across his face.

*****

Lady Maehem led the rampage through the ship. The rival Kabal's warriors were no match in close quarters for the wyches. The subdermal com relayed quick reports from the other boarding teams. The raid was going well, the ship's guardians were positively melting beneath their fury.

The Archon rushed down the dark corridors, cutting down all in her path. A squad of Flayed Skull Kabalites held the next junction, taking cover in the shadows of curved bulk heads. They opened fire as Maehem charged down the corridor. In deft dodge, followed by a roll, then a brief run along the wall, she was into their lines. The combat drugs burned in her veins as her cauterblade found its mark over and over. The whole world seemed to move agonizingly slowly while her own synapse blazed with stimuli. A kabalite thrust clumsily with a wicked blade. The Lady deftly pirouetted, using the cauterblade to remove the Kablite's legs in one deft slash. Before the body hit the ground, she had quickly cut twice more to remove the arms. The torso slammed into the deck limbless, but quite alive. Maehem and her kabal favored the cauterblades because the searing heat of the power weapon combined with anti-coagulant serums left the victims maimed and quite alive for later 'collection.'

As the battle raged around her, Maehem's mind was elsewhere. It was only in the haze of combat did her mind truly operate at its peak. Plots and schemes laid bare before her as her enemies fell before her. Hellions of the Poison Quill's seizure of the Archon Dyson's skinfish farms would lead to negotiations with Archon Sykorax in the neutral ground of Abbey's fall. Two level's down, Lady Samakrish owned the territory and had been renovating the hab-block. Her latest raid has obtained void mines from the Kabal of the Dark Reach. Samakrish often dealt with the Wyches of the Impaled Prey, who had driven the Hellions of the Poison Quill from their territory. Samakrish would plant the void mines and Sykorax and Dyson would be assassinated by the collapsing of the hab-sector. How best to utilize this information. Blackmail Samakrish? Buy up skinfish futures and benefit from the collapse of the supply chain? Use this information to warn Sykorax and forge a temporary alliance? Her mind whirled as did her slashing form.

******

The darkness in the cavernous slave hold was choking. Almost as oppressive as the chill in the air. The dim lights struggled against the darkness to illuminate the elevator platform at the center of the hold. Ychrix waited patiently for their guests to arrive, on the catwalk that ringed the massive hold. The catwalk was easily 50 meters from the center of the hold. Alarm klaxons began to chime as the hatch opened and the elevator's grinding ascent could be heard. Maehem and her coterie of Wyches ascended into the center of the massive slave pen, coiled like a serpent ready to strike. They as one drew their blades and let loose a cry of adulation for the slaughter that was about to commence.

The cry died on their lips as they stood startled. The hold was completely empty.

"Missing something?" Ychrix stepped from the shadows, mockingly applauding the raider's performance. The wyches drew their splinter pistols as one and took aim.

"I would put those down. Its so rude." His words left thin wisps of vapor in the cold. To punctuate the words, the sound of shredders and blasters powering up cut through the darkness. "My trueborn do not appreciate your manners. We took all this time to prepare this room for you, clean it up, and this is how you repay me?"

Maehem nodded to the wyches, and they dropped their weapons. The Dracon continued to gloat, "Your friends as we speak are being led into similar traps. I am glad you came, however. You and your friends will be my guests for a long... long time. Every thing you shall utter from this day shall be nothing more than a scream... do you have any last words before you join my symphony?"

Maehem looked defiantly back at the Dracon, "Yes my dear, I do. You'd think the prosperous Kabal of the Flayed Skull could afford to adequately light and heat their barges. Its rather cold in here, don't you think?"

The darkness... the "empty" Raiders... the cold... No!

Hisssssssssssss....

"OPEN FIRE, CUT THEM DOWN!" the Dracon frantically screamed. The only reply was the sound of the last trueborn slumping to the ground, his throat silently cut.

The last thing the Dracon heard before the Mandrakes took him was "Our deal is complete, he is yours as promised." Then the shadows enveloped him.


******

Two hours later the repairs on the barge were complete, as was the change in management. Maehem sat in the command sphere noting how completely uncomfortable the throne was. Some people just need a woman's touch... Redecorating would have to wait however, step two of the scheme could not wait. "Set course for Gamma Gamma Phi Ro. The eastern fringe awaits..."

Ask any inquisitor what the most dangerous thing in the universe is. They will all give the same answer. It is not fleets or armies or even the warp itself. No, the most dangerous thing in the galaxy is an idea...

The grots shifted nervously as the more technically minded worked with the machine's gubbinz. They had been working on it for over 5 minutes trying to get the humie machine to work again as it had in the Mek's shop. The corpulent warlord glared down upon them from his throne fashioned from the command bridge of a warhound titan. The Grand Mekistrate, Krankskull Da Kollecta's stomach growled, causing the grots to work even more furiously.

Krankskull held his court in the ruins of an imperial titan hanger. It was the only building on the planet big enough to hold his "kollektun." Massive piles of trashes and treasures reached toward the ceiling of the once sacred shrine of the Omnissiah. Avalanches of junk were an hourly occurrence, and the Runtherds had to work overtime to keep enough grots available for "sortin" through the piles to make sure Krankskull had one of everything.

Word had reached Krankskull that one of Goresaw's Meks had found a humie machine that Krankskull did not have. Goresaw was summoned to render "tribute" to the planetary warlord. Goresaw was bored staring at his nearly panicking grotz, wishing he was back in his settlement racing his buggy with his drinking buddy Hurk. One of the grots glancing around frantically finally noticed the problem and dashed over to the wall and plugged in the machine labeled only with the words "D" "V" "D".

The humie machine's screen flashed to life and pictures began to dance across its surface. Krankskull craned his neck to look at the flickering images. The monitor showed images of what could only be a gigantic humie party. Scenes containing massive formations of wagons and planes. Humie skirmishing through the blackened ruins of once great cities. Massive explosions annihilating entire cities.

Krankskull rumbled "Wotz dat? Lookz ded great"

Goresaw, being a Blood Axe, understood humie on a basic level and translated for the Warlord. "Fing says dat the humie Amerikanz and Jermanz was fightin, and the Amerikanz won."

Krankskull sat for a second, finger deep in his nose. It was obvious the Mekistrate was thinking. After a minute, Krankskull bellowed, "Oi, you mean ta tell me da 'oomiez is having a party and didn't invite us?!?!?!"

Goresaw, being an expert on all things human responded eagerly, "Not just dat boss, but when 'oomies fight other 'oomies, da Eye boyz show up wif der big ships and extormi... extermi... dey blow up da planet!"

Krankskull began looking about his throne room at his massive piles of junk, and looked directly as his chief Big Mek and bellowed "Does I 'ave a ship dat blowz up planetz????" The Mek sheepishly shook his head no.

Krankskull roared and backhanded the Mek with his powerklaw. He turned to his Nobz and issued his orders. "Gaver da boyz. Build da shipz. I'z gunna 'ave me one of dem Eye boy shipz!"

The Nobz and grotz scrambled off to do their bosses bidding, except for one little Gretchen. He looked up at Krankskull and said "Boss, if da Eye Boyz only come if 'oomies fight 'oomies, iz dey gonna show up fer us?"

Krankskull stopped for a second, considering the grot's logic. Anger crept across his face as he couldn't think of a solution to the obvious problem... Orkez isn't 'oomies...

Goresaw spoke up before Krankskull could fly into another rage. "Boss, why don't we'z pretend to be 'oomie? We'll paint up our wagonz and jetz to look like dem Jermanz and Amerikanz. Da 'oomiez won't know da difference!"

WAAAAGH was coming. Worlds would burn, Empires cast down, all because of a simple, stupid idea.