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A WINTER'S FAIL

The Marneus Calgar's Barmy Army 2018 Xmas Special by NoPoet

“My Lord,” Bannerman's voice crackled.
“N'Kari's nuts!” Calgar yelled. “WHAT!”
“My apologies, sir, but the Lord Inquisitor requests permission to beam down.”
“Tell him to wait a fething minute!” snapped Calgar. “The Chapter Master is indisposed!”
He was cross and impatient after a year of fighting traitors, and did something that should never be done: he tried to push the vox-unit back into its niche within his gauntlet, resulting in it jamming halfway open and giving off a thin wisp of smoke. Calgar made the mistake of thinking it was broken. Instead it was locked on wide broadcast. Everything the Spiritual Liege said and did would be transmitted across the Five Hundred Worlds.
“Why is everyone in the Imperum as useless as a dildo in a fortress-monastery?” he wondered aloud. “Might as well run it my-fething-self!”

Ultramar is doomed.

A massive tide of traitors, led by the Word Bearers and Death Guard, lay siege to the Five Hundred Worlds. Orks run riot at the edges of Imperial space. And, worst of all, Christmas has been cancelled. Can a coalition of Space Marines, Astra Militarum, Imperial Navy, Inquisition and even Brin Milo save the galaxy? Probably, otherwise this would be a crap Christmas special! Let the immaturity unfold!



A WINTER'S FAIL

PART ONE

The giant in Terminator armour was exhausted. His wargear was battered and spent, his glorious combat helm squashed and thrown to the floor for a servitor to slink away with. The entire left side of the warrior's face was a chain of bruises. There was blood in his greying hair, blood on his split lip, and a horrible dump in his breath.

“What is your will, sire?” asked Dick Bannerman. The Ultramarines banner bearer was equally haggard and remained upright only by leaning on the glorious Chapter Banner. The Banner had several scorched holes in it.

“Aye,” echoed the surviving Company Commanders. They formed a tattered semi-circle behind Bannerman, each gazing beyond him to their Spiritual Liege. “What is your intent, my Lord?”

“My intent,” replied Marneus Calgar, Master of Ultramar, “is to sit on the toilet until my name changes to Rip Van Buttocks.”

=|[U]|=

Blue power-trousers crashed to the ground around a pair of combat boots, followed by equally blue underwear. A gold-plated toilet seat creaked and deformed beneath the weight of spotty buttocks. White Dwarf magazine, cunningly concealed within an Edicts of Guilliman dust-jacket, was opened with a snap.

“Ah, finally,” Lord Calgar sighed to himself. “Feth! I've missed the launch of Titanicus!”

The vox communicator built into his left-hand gauntlet chirruped and raised itself.

“Is there anything you require, my Lord?” Bannerman's voice crackled through.

“No,” Calgar said. “Bugger off, I'm on the bog.”

His vox unit collapsed back into the gauntlet, sealing so smoothly no-one would have known it was there. Calgar settled back to enjoy his first White Dwarf in a year.

“How can I possibly be constipated after what I've been through lately?” he wondered as he flipped through the pages. “This is Brin Milo's fault, we've been eating his cooking for six weeks, the fething little wretch.”

He strained several times, producing nothing but gas and embarrassing noises. His vox unit popped up again.

“My Lord,” Tech-Marine Nerdingham said, “I have devised a new technology to ease your burdens.”

“Will it enable me to poo without bursting blood vessels?” Calgar snapped.

“I, er, fear not,” Nerdingham said. “HERESY!”

“Heresy?!” Calgar echoed, leaping up and dropping his magazine. There was a red seat-mark running around his buttocks. “Where?”

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Nerdingham said. “I have operated upon my dodgy mouth once more, as people grew sick of my unintentionally rude outbursts. I have almost corrected the problem but minor issues remain. BURN THE WITCH!”

“Just when I thought you couldn't get more annoying,” Calgar grumbled, sitting back down.

“I have developed a synthetic constructor,” Nerdingham went on, “based on technology I read about in NoPoet's still unfinished 20K stories. THEY'RE WORTH THE WAIT, HEATHEN SCUM! Do excuse me. I can now create a variety of food and ammunition for distribution to the needy. In future, I hope to be able to make copies of Forge World models, meaning you will no longer need to order them from that dodgy man in the alley. You were most disappointed with those Dreadnoughts in January.”

“This is all fascinating,” said Calgar, “but I require solace to concentrate on passing this foul beetroot. Bugger off and allow me to cleanse myself, that I might more effectively wage the Emperor's wars, or whatever.”

The vox unit retracted. Ultramar's lord and master put his hands on his knees and started to strain. Then the vox popped back up.

“My Lord,” Bannerman's voice crackled.

“N'Kari's nuts!” Calgar yelled. “WHAT!”

“My apologies, sir, but the Lord Inquisitor requests permission to beam down.”

“Tell him to wait a fething minute!” snapped Calgar. “The Chapter Master is indisposed!”

He was cross and impatient after a year of fighting traitors, and did something that should never be done: he tried to push the vox-unit back into its niche within his gauntlet, resulting in it jamming halfway open and giving off a thin wisp of smoke. Calgar made the mistake of thinking it was broken. Instead it was locked on wide broadcast. Everything the Spiritual Liege said and did would be transmitted across the Five Hundred Worlds.

“Why is everyone in the Imperum as useless as a dildo in a fortress-monastery?” he wondered aloud. “Might as well run it my-fething-self!”

Millions of Imperial citizens throughout Ultramar looked to the nearest vox-speakers in surprise, wondering if this was today's motivational broadcast. Dick Bannerman and the Company Commanders were already racing to their Lord's private quarters to prevent yet another Calgar-inspired diplomatic incident, only to find that the Chapter Master had misused his Vermillian-level clearance to lock his quarters down, having grown “fething sick of minions gathering round while I'm trying to wipe my arse”. And it was true, disasters did tend to occur while Calgar was in the smallest room, but then again he was in there 21 hours a day.

=|[U]|=

Thousands of fresh Ultramar PDF troopers were assembled on Macragge's Elysium Fields. Devotional screens surrounded them, each as tall as a Warhound Titan, each displaying a glorious portrait of Lord Calgar's stern and unsmiling face. Vox units were mounted below each one.

“Uuuuuuuunnnnh!” Marneus Calgar bellowed. “EEEEUUUUUURRRRNNNNHHHHH! Help me, mother!” A series of spitting, echoing farts followed this pronouncement.

Wounded Brothers and PDF troopers thronged the medical bays throughout Ultramarine HQ. There too were mounted vox speakers of considerable size and power. This was not 25 RMS, 6-way crap from Halfords, these were Ragnar-Rock units, and they could shame the oldest and most fearsome Noise Marine. Each damaged hero listened to these speakers, seeking hope and reassurance.

“God-Emperor, I should be the one in sickbay, not that bunch of fething skivers! Now I know how Urien Rakarth's victims feel!” TOOT!

Five hundred Battle Sisters were arming for battle in their damaged fortress-monastery orbiting Macragge. Sister Superior Ultricia, their horribly-wounded leader whose mouth had been smashed in a battle with the Death Guard and repaired under battlefield conditions, ceased preaching from her pulpit. The Sisters gaped in horror at vox-gargoyles sculpted into the walls.

“Guilliman, help me!” Calgar's voice bellowed. “I'll stop calling the Sororitas 'Bolter Bitches'. I'll burn my Naughty Nun magazines. I'll even be nice to that old bag, Sister Tissue, the one with a face like a Peugeot 107!”

Ultricia's hands flew to her metal mouth. Her flock looked to her with a mixture of horror and confusion.

“The Shishterhood of Shilent Shorrow hash a new heretic to shmash,” said Ultricia.

=|[U]|=

The Battlefleet Ultramar vessel HDMS Damocles was limping back to one of Macragge's orbital stations for resupply and repair. Damocles was a light cruiser and had received horrible damage from its recent encounter with three Death Guard escorts. Plasma fire belched from a destroyed engine conduit. Atmosphere and debris trailed in the ship's wake. The blue paintwork of its hull was blackened and scorched.

Brin Milo dropped his pipes on the floor the instant he staggered into his quarters. Last year's Christmas tree was dark and neglected in a corner. Milo didn't have the energy to greet Nessa Bourah as he stumbled over to their shared bed and fell into a pumelling sleep. He'd been playing the pipes across the fleet vox for sixteen hours straight. Before that, he'd spent six hours making more pork and stuffing sandwiches to send to Macragge by drop-pod. Nor did Bourah have strength to spare on Milo. She finished dragging her brown hair into a ponytail, hefted her chipped and battered rifle – there were 148 kill-marks from this campaign alone, with three larger, red-painted scratches denoting slain Word Bearers. She swallowed another stimm pill and left the married quarters. Not that Nessa and Brin had tied the knot, it was just the only room left and seemed appropriate given that they used to hump like bunnies.

“Captain Tarnis to all hands,” a voice crackled. Even the intra-ship vox relays were on the verge of burnout. “It is now the 22nd of December. Anyone who still believes in Christmas... say a prayer, or something.”

As a pep talk, it wasn't much. There was little cause for cheer. Milo's inspirational pipe-playing was already being missed by the Fleet. No-one, repeat no-one, actually liked the sound of Tanith bagpipes – they would rather listen to the screeching of a Tyranid Norn Queen giving birth to broods of sword-armed Warriors. But it was a lot better than the motivational crap Lord Calgar bellowed every day... such as today.

“God-Emperor, it smells like Mortarion's vest in here! I need six bottles of Glade! And a priest!”

=|[U]|=

A sleek black ship hung in the void above Macragge. Many were the Imperial vessels in this system, yet all of them, from the lowliest pilgrim transports or “cattle carts” to the mightiest Ultramarine battleship, avoided it like the plague. The black ship had announced its presence as the Sapphire Eagle. All now knew its true name: this was the Tormentum Malorum, warp-ship of Jaq Draco, fearsome Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus. Within its darkened chambers lounged creepy Navigator Vitali Googol, who gazed upon the sculpted backside of Meh'Lindi, Callidus Assassin and part-time lover of Inquisitor Draco. Fair did Googol rate his chances of having a bit from Meh'Lindi; for she was basically Brigitte Nielsen in space crossed with Seven of Nine, and no doubt she was killing Draco in the sack. What a way to go, in this galaxy of horrors, crushed between the thighs of a Callidus. Googol's fate soon? A few more poems and she would surely bend over.

Meh'Lindi in turn cast her gaze upon Inquisitor Draco, although being a woman, she made sure no-one ever caught her looking at anything except her own reflection. ++ Warning, deviation from political correctness protocol detected, deploying arco-flagellants ++

Draco was an immense figure in his power armour. It, like Calgar's, was dented and scratched in a hundred places, although Draco was otherwise unharmed. He hunched across a data-terminal. Not for a moment would the Inkie's vigilance ever waver. At that very moment Draco was watching Calgar and wrinkling his nose in distaste at what was occurring in Calgar's private bog.

“He really is an unpleasant man,” Draco pronounced. “I have been to the Eye of Terror and seen an evil woman with fifty massive tits -”

Googol groaned and shifted in his chair, probably trying to hide a boner.

“- and yet still I am repelled by this oaf of a Chapter Master,” Draco finished.

“He is Master of Ultramar,” Meh'Lindi purred. “He rests after a long campaign.”

“Aaargh!” Calgar began stamping his feet and pounding his thighs with gauntletted fists. “That's the last time I eat the horrible mess Milo serves! I'll get you for this you bloody feth-wit!”

“And he is indeed an oaf,” the Assassin said.

“No wonder my spy-flies love following him. Come, Meh'Lindi, it is time we assumed control over Calgar's court. We have no time for these shenanigans, not if the Ordo Hydra has penetrated Ultramar through the rear.”

= End of Part 1 =

Part Two

The Ultramarine Company Commanders waited outside Calgar's sealed chambers, leaning against the walls with their arms folded. No man could look at his brothers. Each was shamed by the succession of trumps, grunts and curses coming across the vox.

“Do not worry, brothers,” Dick said after a few minutes. “All things pass, even Flat-Head's turds.”

=|[U]|=

It was too much. The pleasure was too much.

Urien Rakarth and his underlings sat around their stolen Xbox within a pain-nest built inside one of Macragge's many caverns. A whole year of humans battling humans, with a sprinkling of daemonic horror to spice the defenders' fear. It was like discovering a fine wine after a thousand years of Blossom Hill. The arrival of five billion Orks had been interesting but ultimately they were dull and self-limiting creatures. The only real fun to be had with Orks was flying through ten million of them and wondering if you'd survive the bullet storm.

Pain was power. Each of Rakarth's pathetic, crawling minions had been imbued with strength and vitality beyond imagining. Rakarth himself had lost at least a millennium and now resembled a young Eldar warrior in his prime. He was starting to regret the hideous, flesh-stretching technologies grafted into his body, since they now meant he stood no chance of pulling a fit Eldar bird. It was of no concern; life was bad for the humans, which meant it was good for the Coven. Rakarth had even considered sending Calgar a thank-you letter signed by Abaddon just for lols.

Sweetest of all was the undying fire within Calgar's colon. Rakarth chuckled at the fate that awaited Brin Milo when Calgar got hold of him; but it was not the young trooper's fault. It had been a Mandrake bound to Rakarth's service who had sprinkled half a pound of the dreaded Rigellian spice into Calgar's sandwiches. Now the sweating, stupid Lord of Ultramar was trying to pass a glowing boulder made of lava. Merry Christmas indeed; and if you think that is bad, Rakarth chuckled to himself, just wait until New Years Eve.

“Pain can be shaped,” the Haemonculus hissed to his minions. “Pain can be fashioned. Pain can be turned into a weapon; a poisoned arrow into the heart of Ultramar! And when the daemons of Chaos feast upon the wretched survivors, Tzeentch will honour his promise and banish the curse of Slaanesh, and then it's party time. Hahaha! Hahahahahaha! AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!!!”

“Is it my turn on Minecraft yet, master?” hissed Unctiath, boldest of Rakarth's flesh-bound slaves.

The Master Haemonculus swore as he watched a diamond pickaxe fly from his character's hand and disappear down a chasm.

“Fething idiot!” he swore, shaking a fist at the cringing underling. “Look what you made me do! I ought to sew your nose up to your knob!”

And that's the end of this scene.

=|[U]|=

Calgar reached down and took up the White Dwarf magazine, discarding the annoying dust-jacket. Might as well catch up on the GW's latest releases, since he wasn't producing any of his own.

“Wonder how much they're charging for the new Titanicus game?” the Chapter Master said. “Surely they dare not pass the seventy-five Imperial Pounds threshold.” He flipped through several pages before learning the horrifying truth.

“HOW FETHING MUCH?” he screamed.

No amount of pushing, swearing or pleading had helped the Lord Calgar achieve ablution. The launch price of Adeptus Titanicus did the trick.

=|[U]|=

Voxcasters throughout the Five Hundred Worlds blurted out the sound of an almost-empty ketchup bottle squirting out slops and air. This was followed by a splash as though the Furious Abyss had returned to Macragge from beyond the grave and committed a death-dive into the primary ocean, headbutting the planet in a fashion that would even shock the Angry Marines.

Calgar promptly fainted. Whether this was from the shock of the article, or the shock of blasting a burning cannon ball from his sphincter, may never be known. His body was held in place by the tightness of the toilet seat, confronting his men with a disconcerting sight when they finally melta'd their way in rescue him – or muzzle him.

=|[U]|=

Two hours of unconsciousness was the best sleep Calgar had enjoyed in five weeks. The Chapter Master awoke, groggy and ill-tempered, in the primary briefing room. It had been ravaged by a Word Bearers bombardment eight months ago and nobody had been available to restore it. Console screens hung at weird angles. The Christmas decorations had been left up from last year. Greeting cards had fallen to be trodden underfoot, the fairy lights strung around the ceiling didn't work any more (that wasn't due to battle damage, fairy lights never seem to work the year after you've bought them), the tinsel had lost its lustre and pine trees were now brown skeletons. It was the same throughout Smurf HQ, where alabaster saints had had their hands and noses chopped off by invading Word Bearers, and their Christmas hats had either been nicked or pulled down over their faces in mockery.

Abaddon had turned Macragge into a beacon for every murdered and heretic within 10,000 light years. Ultramar was often spoken of as a paradise; the reality was that the Five Hundred Worlds were now as surrounded and beseiged as any other.

“Basically, sir, we're fethed,” said Dick, handing Calgar a data-slate with the latest updates. “The Death Guard and Word Bearers are still all over the place. We now have five full-strength Successor Chapters supporting us and six more are currently out of contact; eighteen other Chapters are present in varying strengths, but we've lost the Scions of the Sword Chapter.”

“Who?” asked Calgar.

“A fair question, my Lord. Also, the Hellhawks have lost their entire first company and their Chapter Master is now wearing a Dreadnought. He's changed his name from Avernus Bryze to Averius Bale. Apparently he wants a word with you.”

“I might delegate that meeting,” said Calgar, looking worried.

“These disasters are further compounded by the dreaded 'clocks back' event,” Dick went on. “We gained an extra hour in bed for one night, but our citizens now have to endure sunset at 3:15pm every day for the benefit of five Scottish farmers back on Terra. Tempers are fraying, people are miserable, friends are ready to slap each other and there is a creeping and persistent feeling that we should be in bed by 6pm.”

The Chapter Master ruminated on this depressing report for a while, then his face brightened.

“Any news about my dating profile?”

Dick and the Commanders exchanged glances.

“Select index tertius on your slate,” Dick said.

Calgar did so. His mouth moved as he read. Then he jolted fully upright.

“Someone wants to meet me! Told you I was a fething stud.”

The Chapter elite shuffled uncomfortably.

“Hold on,” said Calgar. “Why is is she using a picture of Jimmy Saville?”

“That's not Jimmy Saville, sir. It's her.”

Calgar looked at him with an expression of confused horror.

“She seems very keen, sir,” Dick said. “I would even say insistent. You've already received five large teddy bears and some Christmas tree baubles in the shape of a heart with her face in the middle. We've also had to double the guard throughout Ultramarines HQ, and even install an anti-climb net on the outside of the building, but she keeps cutting through it. Those eviscerators go through everything.”

Calgar deleted index tertius.

“What about Christmas?” he said. “It's the 22nd today and I haven't wrapped a fething thing.”

No change there then, thought Dick.

If the outlook in the war against heresy was bleak, the Christmas situation was enough to turn Santa Claus into an embittered grinch. No-one had seen the Coca-Cola advert, nor had Slade or Wizard been played even once. Instead the telly companies were showing a load of feminist gak that no-one wanted to watch.

“I'm afraid we've missed Home Alone 2 again,” Dick added, cringing away from the violence that would no doubt follow. “That makes it fifteen years in a row.”

Calgar was beyond anger, beyond rage, beyond the state Angry Marines get into when they remember furry porn exists. He scrunched up the data-slate and threw it on the floor, then got up and kicked his chair over. He punched the door off its hinges and went into the corridor out of sight.

“FIFTEEN YEARS AND NOW WE GET THIS SODDING CHAOS CRAP!” he yelled. Armaglass windows shook at the fury in his voice. Then silence descended.

“Is he crying?” whispered Commander Astriid. The Chapter elite stared at the doorway.

“EVERYONE CAN FETH OFF!” Calgar bellowed. “NOW I'LL NEVER GET TO SEE TIM CURRY! NEVER!”

There was a weird, shimmering effect in the air within the briefing room. Suddenly, in a flare of light and a bang of displaced atmosphere, Inquisitor Draco, Meh'Lindi the Assassin and Grimm the Squat appeared.

“Thank the Emperor!” said Dick. “The plot arrives.”

“Lord Calgar,” Draco said without preamble, “time is short. We are all tired, in need of resupply, and the war against the traitors still rages, but we still have no...” He blinked and looked around. “Where is the Lord Calgar?”

“Candles in the...sniff...window,” a pathetic voice sang from the hallway. “Shadows painting the ceiling...”

“He is having a breakdown at the moment,” said Dick. “Can we help?”

“I was going to say,” said Draco, recovering with considerable aplomb, “we have no leads on the Harlequin Man. Someone in this solar system reported his presence last year. We still do not know who might be implanted with the Hydra-spoor.”

None of the Ultramarines knew what he was on about.

“What was all that again?” asked Commander Astriid.

“You mean you forgot the probably-heretical cabal of humans acting under xenos control to implant a psychic creature into the heads of every human, in the hope of one day turning the human race into a single mega-mind capable of killing the Chaos Gods?” said Draco.

“Er... yes,” said Dick. “Sorry, we've had our hands full.”

“NO TURTLE DOVES THIS CHRISTMAS!” Calgar yelled from outside.

“I see,” said Draco, glancing at his Assassin. She responded with a blank look.

“Listen,” said Grimm. The bearded fellow wore an ochre flak-jacket and lugged a bolter marked with runes. “You lot might have time to sit around drinking tea and suffering mental problems, but by me ancestors, we've got Hydras to pluck!”

“We agree, my Lord!” Bannerman said loud enough so for Calgar to hear. “The fight goes on!”

The Chapter Master slumped in the doorway in his most tragic pose.

“What is it, Number Two?” he sighed.

“What's up with him?” asked Grimm.

“Oh, nothing,” Calgar said. “I've only missed the BEST FETHING FILM IN 40,000 YEARS OF HOLLYWOOD DRIVEL! It's been that long since I saw it, Macauley Culkin has grown up, divorced his parents and turned into an albino gremlin!”

“The best film in...” said Grimm. “You mean Home Alone 2?”

Calgar put an arm across his forehead. It was meant to make him look grief-stricken. Instead he resembled a fat elephant with problems.

“It's a rather delicate matter,” said Dick. “So, Lord Inquisitor, about this Harlequin Man.”

“You haven't missed it,” said Grimm. “I thought we'd missed it because we were spying on you... er, I mean, we were conducting Inquisition recon...”

Meh'Lindi slapped him round the back of the head, knocking his cap off.

“Thing is,” said Grimm, bending to retrieve it, “Ultramar has more than one television channel. It's showing on Pious 24 tomorrow at half five. Look, it's here in me new copy of TV Times.” He pulled a rolled-up magazine out of his arse pocket. It had a naked, redheaded, female Squat posing on the cover. She had a beard (on her chin).

“Oh, er, heh,” Grimm said, stuffing it back in his pocket and blushing, “not that one.” He fished the TV Times out of an inner pocket in his flak-jacket.

Calgar crossed the room like Kwicky Koala and snatched the magazine. The hope on his face was embarrassing. Tears sprang up in his eyes. A remarkable change came over the Spiritual Liege.

“Right,” he said. “We've got one day to find the Ordo Hydra and kick them in the balls. Let's roll!”

= End of Part Two =

Hooray for MCBA! Christmas is here again!

Face like a Peugot 107! Love it!

Thanks very much mate, glad you enjoyed it. Am hammering away to get the next part online. Merry Christmas

Part Three

The Dark Eldar ensconced in their pain-nest were restless. Something was terribly wrong, some new equation had been added. Pain and misery were now being sweetened by hope. This hope would spread, especially when that loudmouth Calgar started blabbering on the vox again. Urien Rakarth was forced to abandon the statue he was building in Minecraft – it had begun as a tribute to Asdrubael Vect, lord of all Dark Eldar, but he had grown distracted by humorous requests from his minions to add a working genital cannon. The Haemonculus led his weird entourage to the Venom fighter-transports.

“We must go into the daylight once more, my precious ones,” Rakarth hissed. Fifty inhuman scum hissed and chortled. “We must kick the humans in their Christmas balls with an atrocity so vile, the Imperium will never again listen to Michael Buble; and while we are at it, let us capture Inquisitor Draco. He has been tainted by dread Slaanesh, therefore let us offer his skinned, screaming soul to Tzeentch. What a middle finger that will be to She Who Thirsts! Hahahahaha! AAAAAHHHHHHAAAAAAAHHAHAA!” He stopped laughing and glared at his minions, who immediately pretended to find him funny.

=|[U]|=

Sister Ultricia and her Sisters loaded onto thirty Redemptor-class bomber-transports. The craft were huge, black and bulky. The backs of their wings were styled to resemble the pipes of a church organ. A massive white fleur de lis took pride of place on the nose panel of each vessel. Hurricane bolters and multi-meltas whined as they armed. Rocket turbines spooled up, screaming like heretics being chewed by Penitent Engines.

“Right, girlsh!” the Sister Superior cried as her squads embarked. “There'sh been enough rampant shexishm in thish crappy shtory, let's get down there and sh*t on Calgar's head!”

Nobody was quite sure what was meant by that sentence but they dutifully carried on. Calgar's arse was about to be punished. (Nobody knew quite what that sentence meant either.) The Sisters of Battle deployed for war, safe in the knowledge that they weren't being written by Matt Ward.

=|[U]|=

The Word Bearers battlecruiser By Treachery's Light was hiding thirty million klicks out from Macragge, using the burned-out hulks of Ultramar vessels for cover. They had observed everything that was taking place on Macragge. Brother-Apostle Pollius was in sickbay having his sides sewn up after splitting them laughing at Calgar's toilet antics.

Third Chaplain Amalgama was less amused. Daemons mocked the Treachery's human crew from the shadows. Sibilant hisses of impending victory had been replaced with things like “Bloody idiots, you've lost this one” and “Christmas is making a comeback you invalids”. If this were the 2nd Millennium, the Word Bearers Legion would have taken great offence to this and gone to the newspapers about how they “felt quite annoyed”.

It was all premature of course. Magragge was a fething wreck; Battlefleet Ultramar was on the run; fifteen thousand Imperial Astartes hadn't turned the tide. So much for that rubbish about one Space Marine per world being enough! Amalgama's left hand clenched into a fist. His right tightened around the sacred Crozius Arcanum, the one that he'd personally shoved up Chapter Master Quintarch's anus when the Scions of the Sword were going extinct. That memory brought some relief, sweetened the ache of ages. “Looks like your Chapter is surplus to requirements” was a good line.

The daemons could eat it; if they were so good, why did they need humans to do everything for them? And yet, Ultramar still hadn't fallen. The Inquisitor was still here, Calgar was still here – and so, worst of all, was Christmas.

“You will never be First Chaplain,” the shadows hissed. Amalgama roared, turned, swung the defiled Crozius, but it met only air. Laughter echoed around him. The bridge crew ignored this outburst.

Amalgama stared at the orb on the main viewer: Macragge, First World of Ultramar, centre of resistance, land of the ponces, home of fething Christmas.

“And that is it,” the Chaplain hissed to himself, pointing his Crozius at Macragge. “That is the silver tuna.”

“My Lord,” said the ship's ordnance officer, bringing him a data-slate. “We are still incapable of attacking Macragge, but we now have enough weapons online to destroy the Inquisition ship.”

“Finally,” said Amalgama. He reviewed the data.

“You'll also note that we have a new contact,” said the officer. “We picked it up when our surveyor systems were repaired. Scroll to the bottom.”

Amalgama did so. His hearts leapt. The blackness inside him – the mark of the Gods – began to uncurl, waking for the first time in days.

“There may be something to this fething Christmas humbug,” said the Third Chaplain. He raised his voice. “All hands, plot a course for the Battle Sisters' Fortress-Convent! I will personally dance naked on their high altar!”

As his crew flinched away from that repulsive image, Amalgama whispered:

“Forget the silver tuna. Tonight we dine on mackerel!”

=|[U]|=

Early warning teams manning anti-air guns on Macragge's surface spotted the Dark Eldar for the first time. All the unmodified humans saw was a series of jagged blurs speeding by. The soldiers looked to their “friend or foe?” identification charts and found the xenos easy to identify: they were the ones with blurred silhouettes. Warnings were voxed down the lines, some guns even attempted to track the alien craft, but nobody could stop them.

They were heading for the scholam district where fifty thousand children were currently being schooled in armoured bunkers.

=|[U]|=

Vitali Googol laid on Meh'Lindi's bed aboard the Tormentum Malorum. He was finishing off a poem to her, but couldn't find anything that would fit the theme while still rhyming with “knockers”. Even a hunt through her underwear drawer had turned up empty – she simply painted herself with synth-skin whenever she needed to go anywhere. Apparently spending money on clothes was “not Callidus”. He looked around the sparse room. Tormentum Malorum could certainly do with brightening up. Maybe they could start small, with little Christmas trees on their bedside tables. A few fairy lights here and there.

The Navigator was startled back to reality when the daemonic incursion alert rang out. Red lights flashed. Tormentum's void shields raised automatically; thrice-blessed plasma weapons came online; and as the Navigator ran to the bridge, pulling his clothes back on as he went, all the tactical displays displayed warnings. “Infernal event occurring. Type: moral threat. Location: Ultramarine HQ, Macragge. Details: unidentified religious festival, suspected heresy.”

“Er, Jaq,” he voxed. “What's going on down there?”

=|[U]|=

Calgar walked straight through the vehicle hangar doors because he was “too alpha” to bother opening them. Doors and wall crashed down around him and the door frame bounced embarrassingly off his head.

“Don't do that, brother!” complained Nerdingham. “I spend more time building walls than fixing vehicles around here. VIRGINITY PROVES NOTHING!”

“Shut up and get in the Land Raider,” Calgar said, trying not to make it obvious that he had plaster dust in his eyes and mouth. He led Dick, Nerdingham, the Company Commanders and Jaq's group into his custom-built Land Raider. Draco eyed the twin assault cannon sponsons and various items of equipment that were now a bit obsolete, but said nothing, despite them being evidence of the Ultramarines Chapter Master ignoring the Codex Astartes. The Inquisitor was rather less happy with the lack of room inside Calgar's command tank.

“Er, Jaq,” Googol voxed. “What's going on down there?”

“Would that I had a clue,” said Draco. “This is all building towards something – but I'm fethed if I know what.”

Then a vox came through for the Ultramarines.

“Lord Calgar,” said Nester, a human sergeant from Macragge's PDF. “We're picking up a force of Dark Eldar. My Lord – they're heading for the scholams.”

Everyone aboard the Land Raider looked horrified.

“That's thirty-five miles away,” said Dick. “We'll never get there in time!”

“Shut up whinging, grinch!” said Calgar. “Wait til those skinny fethers see the speed of my Land Raider.”

Nerdingham took the driver's seat and started the engine. Something strange happened as it spluttered to life: a a kind of rising, whistling note came from behind the Land Raider. Everyone looked at one another, wondering what was happening now. The sound grew louder and louder until it became ear-splitting. Then the tank's engine backfired; the exhaust stacks farted out black smoke; and the Land Raider died.

“BLESSED IS THE MANHOOD TOO SMALL FOR DOUBT!” Nerdingham cursed.

“What the feth are you doing you idiot?” said Calgar.

“My Lord, I told you that we shouldn't have installed that massive turbo,” the techmarine replied. “It's never been right since.”

“Can we push-start it?” asked Draco.

“It weighs eighty tons, sir,” said Dick. “Even more with Flat-Head... er... I mean, a flat engine.”

“Feth!” said Calgar.

“I might be able to help fix it,” Grimm said. “Haven't buggered about with a spanner for a few weeks now – I'm dying for a crisis.”

“Good idea, Gwildor!” said Calgar. He jumped out of his seat and dropped the tank's assault ramp.

“Sir, where are you going?” said Dick.

“Where do you fething think? Get this lump of crud going or find some other transport and meet me in the scholam district!”

Calgar got out and started running.

= End of part 3 =

Damn, I really wanted to finish this one, but a combination of factors including my own health (bloody arthritis!) and the absolutely ridiculous extent to how busy things get for me around Christmas conspired against me. Maybe it was Tzeentch paying me back for what happened to him in the 2017 Xmas Special.

In fact, the Christmas period can be so stressful I've even written reminders to myself for when it call kicks off again later this year. One of them is to finish this story off. For the 2019 story (if I write one), I'm going back to the simple, childish magic I used to feel when writing the early ones. My "Lion, Witch and Tanith Feth-Wit" story is very far from my best writing, but I had an honest buzz while writing it, a Christmas thrill, that has been absent from the last couple of stories. Ironic considering Christmas 2018 turned out to be the best and most exciting Christmas for what, 20 years?

Suffice it to say that the 2018 "Winter's Fail" story was heading towards an apocalyptic battle and a guest appearance by a real-life celebrity, along with changes to the 40K fluff that would be so major they would split the Barmy Army off into its own parallel universe (as if it wasn't already!).

Well, I didn't get to finish this one, I may never finish it, and it's too late to wish everyone a merry Christmas so I would like to thank both the people who read it. Be bold in this new year -- always remember that nobody owns you, you don't ever need to justify yourself to anyone, make sure that you do what makes you happy and start hammering away at those stories!

Peace out!

Sorry it hasn't been a great season for you man. Hope that next year it'll be more of a "Winters Healthy Success"
(That's a crappy title though, you can come up with anything better than that.)

Too bad you didn't get to the end but it was fun to read all the same.