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Join Marneus Calgar and his Barmy Army as they once again fight for the right to enjoy a merry Christmas, in an adventure ranging from the Tyranid-haunted depths of Macragge to Tzeentch's Impossible Fortress. Destiny has seen fit to make Lord Calgar miss Home Alone 2 once again. Can he rescue his friends from the Eye of Terror in time for Christmas Day? Grimace at the destruction of your childhood in this insulting parody, loosely based on the He-Man and She-Ra Christmas Special.

Author's Note: This story refers to 7th edition rules and fluff. Please refer to the Marneus Calgar's Barmy Army thread for more madcap adventures, our theme tune and an explanation of who's who in the Barmy Army universe.

MASTERS OF THE WARDIVERSE

Part One

MACRAGGE, 23rd DECEMBER, M41

The entire Ultramarines Chapter had foregone the fight against evil and returned to Macragge for Christmas. The xenos and traitors could wait: Home Alone 2 was on soon.

“Do you know what Flat-Head’s got us for Christmas?” Brin Milo asked Dick Bannerman as they strolled through Ultrasmurf HQ.

“Dunno, young Tanith,” replied the Chapter Standard Bearer with great wisdom. “I suspect, from the massive eBay order he placed using my Imperial Credit card, that he bought everyone a HTC One M9.”

“Oh, brilliant, archaeotech for Christmas again.”

“Take heart, young pipe-player,” said Dick. “It could have been worse – he could have bought iPhones and turned us into a brotherhood of posers. Besides, it is better than the rubbish he bought us last year.”

“I thought you loved the life-sized cardboard cut-out of him that he presented you with?”

“Milo, he decreed that anyone unhappy with their gift would have his head stuffed up his own arse. What did you expect me to say? The wretched thing scares the feth out of me every time I wake up and see it smiling at me.”

The pair walked along corridors where statues of pious warrior-monks, carved from Terran alabaster in a time when the Immortal Emperor walked among men, were having fake snow sprayed on their bald heads, loops of tinsel draped round their necks and fake presents placed into outstretched, praying hands.

“We should reinstate some older Christmas traditions,” Dick said. “There's not much to do once the decorations are up.”

“I think Flat-Head likes it that way.”

“Perhaps we could reinstate the Six Cathedrals Pilgrimage?”

“Yes,” Milo said with no enthusiasm, “I enjoyed walking non-stop for twenty-one hours a day and then not being able to move for a month.”

They emerged into the feast hall where twenty Ultramarine Centurions and four Dreadnoughts were trying to erect a massive Christmas tree.

“Do you think the old bulliwug bought a big enough tree?” Milo asked as the fir tree split under its own weight and collapsed on a Dreadnought, immobilising it.

“The Company Captains attempted to remind our august lord that the feast hall is only forty feet tall, and would not accommodate an eighty-foot tree. He responded by calling us ‘fething humbugs who need to stop feeling each other’s bums and start listening to their leader.'”

“FETHING BELL-ENDS!” roared a voice from the other end of the hall. Everyone was startled and turned to look. Techmarine Nerdingham was standing by the far entrance looking startled by his own outburst.

“Er, I mean, season’s greetings, gentlemen,” said the Techmarine.

“Nerdingham,” Milo said in disbelief, “you managed a proper sentence! When did you learn to talk without fething up your Rs?”

Dick used his genhanced eyesight to peer at Nerdingham’s mouth.

“Your overbite, brother!” Dick exclaimed. “It is missing. Your big teeth are gone!”

“Indeed, brother,” Nerdingham said, looking pleased with himself as he came over. “I performed a sacred and dangerous operation on myself.”

“So did Milo last night while thinking of Sanian,” a voice boomed from behind Dick and Milo. Lord Calgar sauntered into the room looking pleased with himself. He clearly had an erection tent-poling his power-trousers but didn’t realise anyone could see it. Nessa Bourah walked in, carrying an armful of presents. She dropped them when she saw Calgar’s trouser-lascannon.

“My Lord,” said Nerdingham, “I performed the sacred ritual of dental surgery precisely and with due reverence to my teeth-spirits, whom I believe were once called Tooth Fairies. The operation was a complete success. TOSS BISCUITS!”

“With one possible side effect,” Calgar said, looking displeased.

“Ah, yes, my Lord. I seem to have suffered brain damage resulting in outbursts of dodgy behaviour. I intended to discuss this with you AT YOUR MOTHER’S HOUSE, FARTARSE! My apologies.”

“Nerdingham, there aren’t enough hours in the day for all the nerve glove action you're getting,” said Calgar. He nudged Milo, power-strength nearly sending the podgy pipe-player stumbling, and nodded in Bourah’s direction. “Why’s that little bird staring at me, does she fancy me or something?”

“Er… my Lord… I hesitate to ask this,” Dick Bannerman said, trying not to look at Calgar’s bulge, “but what have you been doing all morning?”

“Well it’s nearly Christmas, so I had to burn off my excitement. I’ve been running round the corridors re-enacting the first level of Time Crisis for the Playstation.”

“So how did that make you look like David Bowie in Labyrinth?” Milo added.

Calgar glanced down as if seeing his boner for the first time. He casually cupped one of the Gauntlets of Macragge, sacred heirlooms of their long-dead Primarch, over his crotch, as if that would erase the horror his Chapter had already witnessed. No-one loved Time Crisis like the Spiritual Liege.

“That reminds me,” said Nerdingham. “Lord Calgar, I’ve got something to show you. SUCK MY MECHADENDRITES, BITCHES! I’m terribly sorry.”

=U=

While the Chapter prepared the Christmas festivities - “Let the fething Ultramarine B-team protect the Imperium for a change,” Calgar proclaimed, referring to the dozens of successor Chapters who never did anything of note while a thousand Ultramarines were somehow everywhere in the galaxy at once – Nerdingham brought Calgar and Bannerman to his secret technology testing site out in the mountains. Calgar excluded Milo and Bourah on the grounds that this was Ultramarines-only stuff. The Smurfs had to brave snows and winds that were colder than Leilith Hesperax's heart. For once, the skies were blue and sunny, although sunshine brought little warmth on this barren world.

They regarded a rickety-looking spaceship waiting on a launchpad. Human technology had been mated to that of the Tau, resulting in a weird-looking mushroom that sagged under its own weight. The saggy bits, unfortunately, were the Imperial parts. It pointed towards the sky as if straining to escape this planet of Wardian self-righteousness.

“Right,” said Calgar, rubbing his chin with an oversized gauntlet. “What is it?”

“It is a deep-space recon vessel based on captured Tau technology,” Nerdingham said with pride. “It has taken all of my points allowance for the last six months. TONSIL TENNIS!”

“So you’ve basically spent six months insulting the Machine God?”

“Don’t worry, your Highness,” Nerdingham replied. “I simply strapped a few parts from a Tau Manta onto a decommissioned Navy torpedo. It will probably explode before it reaches orbit. A BIT LIKE YOUR PECKER! I do beg your pardon.”

“You built an interplanetary skimmer?” Bannerman looked at the creaky, unbalanced-looking thing. “Why?”

“It’s my attempt to marry the finest Imperial rocket science with… whatever the Tau are doing. After all, for a young species, they are are performing relatively well against the Orks and Tyranids. The only trouble is, I still haven’t worked out what half of their systems do. BUST ON ME, BITCHES! Ahem.”

“Let me check my understanding,” said Bannerman. “You built a blasphemous monstrosity that will probably blow itself up, and it's loaded with technology that no-one knows how to work?”

“Mechanicus through and through,” said Calgar.

“I sense dismay,” said Nerdingham. “Why?”

“Because… because…” Dick struggled to find the words. “Because look at it! It’s ridiculous, and it’ll draw the Inkies like Orks to a punch-up. This is a flying Exterminatus request!”

“But I constructed it using White Dwarf's vehicle creation rules,” Nerdingham protested. “This is Chapter Approved BY THE MIGHT OF GAV THORPE'S SLENDER DONG! How can you hate on it?”

“Because we don't see the fething point!” yelled Calgar.

“THEN LOOK DOWN YOUR TROUSERS! Er, I mean, of course, that Chaos is invading the Cadian sector again, and rumours are that the morons at GWHQ will use this to perform an Age of Sigmar-style reboot. All our fluff will be destroyed and people will migrate to Warmahordes. We all know that Games Workshop's planners live in the Eye of Terror. It would prove most helpful if we could send unmanned spy ships in there to see they are up to. Presently the Inquisition is having to send teams of psykers in, and their underwear bill is preposterous.”

Dick looked to his Lord. Calgar was grasping the situation for once.

“It's actually a fair idea. I give it Calgar's Thumbs Up of Approval. When is the test launch?”

“I flew the prototype last week but it did not go well, as I failed to understand how the Manta’s gravity repulsion drive works. KNOCKERS! Unfortunately I managed to crash it into the open market in Civitas District.”

“Oh, that was you, was it?” Calgar snapped. “I wondered why the Civitas Public Lavatory collapsed on me. Three fething days for the servitors to dig me out! I ought to put you in the stocks for a week and have people chuck used sanitary towels at you. Your piloting skills should improve after a slap in the face from Khorne’s tea bags.”

“My Lord,” Dick said, seeing things were about to escalate, “I think you’d better have a nice lie down watching season two of Stargate Universe. That always chills you out.”

“Good idea, Number Two,” Calgar said. “Nerdingham, you no longer have the Thumbs Up of Approval.” He stomped away through the snow.

=U=

When they’d gone, Bourah and Milo stood up, shaking snow from their Tanith camo-cloaks. Their 6+ cover save, increased to 4+ by going to ground, then escalated to 2+ by some rules lawyering nonsense, had disguised them as snow drifts within earshot of the Ultramarines.

“Who’d have thunk it, eh?” said Milo. “Old Nerdingham pulling his plonker over xenos tech and Calgar letting him get away with it! I'd be tempted to call the Inquisition if I wasn't a part-time unsanctioned psyker, my home world hadn't been tainted by Chaos, I'd not fought hand to hand against the Traitor Legions and I'd never bent the Sabbat Martyr over for a seeing-to.”

Bourah shrugged. Being deaf, she hadn't heard a word of anything that happened on Macragge since she'd arrived. She was consequently having a better time of it than Milo. She pointed at the ship and signed, Let’s take it for a spin. They monkeyed their way into the shuttle and sat at the controls.

“Not much room in here,” complained Milo after banging his head on a support strut.

The cockpit was crudely made, which in the Imperium was a mark of craftsmanship. There were Christmas decorations everywhere and coloured fairy lights strung around the windows. The dashboard looked like the machine off Chocablock. There was a dedication plaque on the dashboard: Guilliman's Finger.

“Stay classy, Ultramar,” Milo muttered.

Bourah sat in the co-pilot’s seat, flipping switches and pressing buttons. Milo grabbed the flight stick and pretended to be dogfighting against the Eldar.

“Take that, heretic scum!” he said, making autocannon noises. He glanced across to see Bourah pretending to fire missiles. Then she pressed something that made the ship shake as its engines came online. External vocalisers began to bellow Merry Christmas Everybody by Slade.

“Oh feth,” Milo said over the rising whine of rocket motors and Noddy Holden yelling “Does he ride a red-nosed reindeer?”

Nessa cast him a stricken look. She didn’t need her sense of hearing: the ship was juddering and it began to lift off. They got their seatbelts on in record time as Guilliman's Finger set off to penetrate the Eye of Terror.

=U=

Back in the planning room of Ultramarines HQ, Calgar, Bannerman, Chaplain Derrick and the Company Captains were seated in a semi-circle behind Brother-Tech Nerdingham, Calgar leaning dangerously far back in his chair. The Masters of Ultramar watched the venerable Mars junkie as he programmed the tactical console, pausing only to slap the cogitator’s sides to encourage its truculent spirit.

A massive hololithic display leapt up. WINDOWS IMPERIUS HAS ENCOUNTERED ANOTHER ERROR. DO YOU WISH TO INFORM A SENIOR ADEPT?

“Feth!” said Nerdingham. He clicked NO, I SHALL CHASTISE MYSELF FOR MY UNWORTHINESS AND APOLOGISE TO THE SACRED MACHINE-SPIRIT. It was the only option. The screen went blank. He busied himself pressing random buttons like they do on Star Trek: Voyager.

“There is a hidden option to notify the Adept Senioris,” he explained to the bored Chapter Commanders. “He'll sort this out.” The control console chirruped, then a small piece of parchment fed itself out of a slot on the right hand side. A servo-skull drifted from a shadowy corner, eye-lasered the parchment free then caught it in a tractor beam emanating from its grinning mouth. Nerdingham took the parchment and examined it.
“
I’m the senior adept,” he said, realising that everyone was staring at him. “NICK NACK TALLYWHACKER!”

“You mean you just notified yourself?” said Dick.

"I did not invent this time-honoured Martian ritual, YOU HAIRLESS APE! Ahem, I mean to say that I simply perform the rituals, they are not some time-wasting pantomime."

There was a massive crash as Calgar's chair slid out from under him and the Chapter Master went over backwards, his head bouncing off the floor with a WOK!

“Which stupid chuff bought these chairs?” Calgar grumbled as he lay on his back with his legs in the air.

“Is there any chance you might finish your ritual before Lord Calgar breaks every bone in his body?” asked Dick.

“This is interesting,” said Nerdingham, the only one who wasn't red-faced from trying not to laugh. “It appears that the cogitator's SNIFF BUCKET, er, memory bank, is full. Someone has routed a pict-feed through all communication channels. We're broadcasting something into deep space. GROTBAGS!”

“Well block it!” Calgar said in alarm as he clambered to his feet. “It's probably some tosser from the Alpha Legion broadcasting our defence secrets!”

“I have it here. Routing it through the viewer now.”

The hololithic screen displayed a pict-log of the Lord Calgar sitting on his bunk wearing only his Ultramarine-issue underpants, strumming a guitar.

“What the feth is this?” Dick Bannerman said as the company commanders clutched each other to try and stop themselves from laughing out loud.

“My Lord, it appears to be your personal log,” said Nerdingham. “Someone is sending it as a general broadcast. It's currently being received across the known universe.”

“TURN IT OFF!” roared the Master of Ultramar. He turned to his assembled commanders. “If I find out who did that I’m going to package them up and mail them to Commorragh. Why are you all crying?”

His men brought their chuckles under control, then Captain Astred snorted and set everyone off again. Nerdingham disabled the personal log and displayed the launch site where Guilliman's Finger should have been waiting. He turned to address his audience.

“KNICKERS JOHNSON! I mean, behold the salvation of the Imperium,” he said with pride.

Calgar and his subordinates were looking at an empty launch pad.

“Er… where’s it gone?” said Calgar.

Nerdingham turned, looked properly at the screen and did a double-take that set the Captains snickering again.

“CHEST COCONUTS!” said Nerdingham. He pressed several buttons. Calgar winced, expecting his personal log to come back on, but the view changed to the Finger’s interior. Milo and Bourah could be seen swearing in fear as they fought the ship’s controls.

“It appears as though someone took the salvation of the Imperium for a joyride,” said Dick.

“Those little ferret-feeders,” Nerdingham griped. “Wait until I get my mechadendrites on THEIR FRESHLY-BUTTERED BUM CHEEKS!”

“Where are they?” asked Bannerman.

“It's rather difficult to tell from an image of their faces, my Lord. However, Guilliman's Finger was programmed with a course that would take it directly into the EYE OF THE TIGER, I mean the Eye of Terror.”

“This is the best Christmas ever!” Calgar cheered, punching the air. “Hey, we’ll get to see Abaddon’s face when Milo plays those fething pipes!”

“You surely can’t abandon Milo and Bourah to the torments of daemons, my Lord?” said Dick.

“Fething watch me mate.”

“If I can calculate their exact trajectory,” Nerdingham said, “I might be able to teleport Brin and Nessa back here. Guilliman's Finger will still be able to complete its mission, as it was designed to be unmanned, A BIT LIKE YOUR SISTER'S PLASTIC LOVE ROCKET! Even if it crashes, it will land on Abaddon's head – another victory blow for the Emperor.”

“How long will it take to get them back?” said Dick.

“The cogitations will take some time, at least five or six hours, as it involves slathering everything with sacred unguents and having my backside whipped. It is not an easy life to be a Techmarine.”

“Six hours!” Calgar protested. “That's when Home Alone 2 starts!”

“But sir,” said Dick, “we are supposed to protect all loyal humans, not fire them off at the Chaos Gods then sit down to watch a film.”

“What's with the backchat?” Calgar snapped. “Macragge isn't a smegging democracy, you know!”

“Er... yes it is, my Lord,” said Dick. “At least, it is when you're off-world.”

“For feth's sake!” Calgar said. “We'll miss Home Alone 2 again! You're all going in the nerve glove after this, pain level: listening to all the songs from that musical episode of Buffy – on permanent loop!”

Shocked and chastened, the Ultramarines grimly went about their duties, dreading that bit where Buffy sings “Hea-ven.”

Christmas was fethed.

=U=

Somewhere in the depths of the Warp, the power known as Tzeentch existed as a haze of energy in the centre of his Impossible Fortress. A thousand Lords of Change worked throughout the Fortress, scrying the tides of fate in the sure knowledge that Tzeentch had a plan, that he would win the Great Game against his brothers to send Nurgle packing, Khorne weeping like a bitch and Slaanesh – well, s/he would still be playing with him/herself no matter what happened, so who cared about him/her. Then Tzeentch could turn all of his attention to the one problem he had never solved: understanding women.

“FETHING LOAD OF RUBBISH!” the Change God roared from a million intangible mouths, sweeping every counter off the board. “You're supposed to be blind to the present! How come you keep beating me?”

Fateweaver drooled and cackled as he retrieved his counters and placed them back on Lion's Gate Space Port.

“Perhaps you should not spread your invasion force across the entire planet,” said one of Fateweaver's heads.

“And stop rolling a 1 for the number of traitor guard regiments,” said the other.

“Those are the ways to avoid being tabled on turn one,” both heads said together.

“I declare the original Horus Heresy board game to be an abomination of Nurgle,” Tzeentch said, deleting it from history. “Beat me now, bitch.”

They stared at each other for long moments, then sighed unhappily.

“We need a new game now,” said Tzeentch.

Suddenly Fateweaver straightened. The head which saw the future squawked in alarm, then began chanting gibberish. Tzeentch listened intently, gleaning the wisdom among his favoured servant's madness. He heard of a steel blade of righteousness puncturing the heart of Chaos. Not only would this create untold havoc, it would poison the Realm of the Gods with something that led to their inevitable defeat.

“I was hoping the mortals might do something interesting,” said Tzeentch, “but I never imagined Gulliman's Finger flying up my arse bringing joy and warmth. We must prevent this at all costs. Fateweaver, I charge you with this solemn task: bring me the greatest villains in the Milky Way galaxy, that I might impress upon them the need to destroy this new enemy... this spirit of Christmas.”

=U= END OF PART ONE =U=

=U= PART TWO =U=

“Are you done yet, Nerdingarse?” Calgar yelled, his voice muffled by the toilet door and unable to completely cover the sound of something plopping into water.

“Almost, my Lord!” the Techmarine yelled back from his control room. “I’LL BOUNCE THOSE BAPS LIKE RENEGADE SQUIG HOPPERS! I do beg your pardon.”

Dick and the other Chapter Commanders were slumped around the command centre, fed up with waiting on Nerdingham. The rites of Mars were long and bizarre. Dick had protested during the first Branding of the Buttocks which servitors inflicted upon Nerdingham when he fethed up one of his calculations, but apparently all criticism of Mechanicus rituals had to be addressed to the Fabricator General. Not only would his reply take three hundred years, it would likely be a print-out of his backside and a refusal to supply any more armoured vehicles. So the Smurfs waited. Calgar began to whistle loudly from the ablution cubicle. His subordinates could still hear the farting and splashing it was supposed to drown out.

“Got it!” Nerdingham said at last. “The cogitator has told me how to build a precision teleporter. There is one caveat, though.”

“Which is?” Dick said unhappily.

“It requires a specific type of power crystal which can only be found in the Abnett Zone.”

“Not the Abnett Zone!” Calgar yelled from the bog. “Anything but the Abnett Zone!”

“What's the Abnett Zone?” asked Captain Remora.

“I don't know, I've never heard of it!” said Calgar. “But if we've got to go there, you know it'll suck harder than your namesake!”

“You leave him out of this!” Remora snapped.

The cubicle door creaked open. Calgar stuck his head out to look at the captain.

“Aren't there still rumours of Tyranid activity in that region?” Bannerman said, wisely steering the conversation back on-topic.

“YER MOTHERRRRR!” Nerdingham trilled, unable to stop himself. “I'm terribly sorry. Yes, there are reports of a so-called Bug-Monster, a terrifying bio-titan with a penchant for falling on its arse. Someone needs to brave its lair in order to retrieve the crystal.”

“The Bug-Monster is real?” Dick said in wonder. “I thought it was just some crap Milo made up.”

Further conversation was interrupted yet again by Calgar.

“Gordon Bennett,” he could be heard muttering to himself, “what have I done? Talk about a Yuletide Log!” He flushed the toilet three times. “Bloody eco-bogs! Feth off, the Emperor's Grace compels you!”

“There is another risk,” Nerdingham said. “Conditions within the Abnett Zone are impossible to predict. The laws of the 41st Millennium may change without warning or regard for fluff and this will affect forward continuity. For example, it is possible that you will be ambushed and defeated by an equal number of ordinary humans, or that you'll become latent psykers with enough power to destroy our solar system. PEEL MY TANGERINES YOU OVERGROWN LADYBOYS! Please pardon my outburst.”

“We will meet each challenge and defeat it, no matter how improbable,” Dick Bannerman said. “Even if we suddenly start getting beaten up by girls and referring to well-known weapons with silly names, we'll bring you that crystal.”

Calgar emerged from the toilet, bringing the most unbelievable stench with him. Everyone cried out in dismay, choking and grabbing their throats. When he'd recovered his wits, Nerdingham grinned.

“I've just thought of a new weapon,” he said.

=U=

Deep within the Eye of Terror, Tzeentch had created a huge chamber in the heart of a daemon world. A platform looked out over an immense, fleshy gulf lined with eyeballs. These eyeballs peered at the two transhuman figures standing on the platform. Those figures were engaged in a massive argument, ignorant of the swirling morass that appeared before them. Tzeentch watched, amused by the bickering of mortals.

“And which rewards have you been gifted with, Reaver?” Abaddon the Despoiler snapped. “A stupid nickname, which overlooks the fact you actually have TWO hearts, and a Goa’uld hand device! You are called Apophis behind your back.”

“How dare you insult me while wearing that ponytail?” Huron Blackheart shot back.

“How dare I? How dare you! Would you have me shave my skull and become a slaphead like you? I have news for you, reaver. The last man who copied your style was executed by the fashion police. I should kick your arse for the glory of Chaos.”

“As if you could, Abaddon. My bionic eye sees through your fancy armour to the cowering fool within. Your chest is speckled with acne, to say nothing of your backside. Try getting washed now and then!”

“I shall remain unwashed until the false Emperor is pitched from his throne to land on his fething face. And if I wanted a better bionic eye than yours I would tear one from the corpse of a Guardsman.” He drew his sword. “Look upon me! Stare with envy at this blade, Maelstrom vermin! This sword once sliced in half an adamantium gate which was four times thicker than the sword is long. Ponder this violation of physics as you imagine what it will do to your sphincter!”

“Gentlemen,” Tzeentch said, now bored.

“The only sphincter I fear for is yours,” said Huron. “Tell me, heir to the galaxy, how many Black Crusades have you led straight into history's toilet? Is it more than the number of times you impale yourself on your own blade in a six-turn battle? They'll end up rebooting 40K because of you.”

“You cannot comprehend my tactical genius. Each Black Crusade was a success.”

“The Imperium fell thirteen times, then?”

“That wasn't my aim,” Abaddon growled.

“Gentlemen,” Tzeentch said again.

“Was I incompetent when I combined the forces of all four Chaos Gods and led countless incursions into Imperial space?” Abaddon went on. “Your forces cannot even break out of the Maelstrom. I possess daemonic gifts of untold power. Do you think them inferior to your stupid lizard?”

“How dare you insult Harry! It's lucky he isn't here, he'd have your face off for that. You found your sword under a rock. Harry was a gift from the Gods themselves.”

“Some gift. Tell me, for what fell deed does an Astartes commander win an iguana? I shall consult the Codex Retardicus to find out.”

“Shut the feth up!” Tzeentch roared, slamming his ever-changing fist against the deck. “I did not spend all night lost in my own maze to hear little girls squabbling over who is Barbie and who is Cindy. Heed my words or I shall curse you both with manhoods resembling a baby’s little finger!”

The two Chaos overlords promptly let out farts of fear. Abaddon’s was commanding and rich with reprocessed grox-beef, while Huron’s came out embarrassingly squeaky, preceded by a burst of gas.
“A great and terrible evil has come to the 41st Millennium,” Tzeentch said. “A force whose influence is spreading, firing the hearts and minds of humans everywhere. It will undo the fabric of our universe.”

“It is a reboot,” Blackheart groaned. “Well done, Abaddon.”

“Shut it!” Tzeentch snapped. “This force represents a great evil, bringing peace and goodwill. The Realm of Chaos is becalmed. Half of my daemonic legion are watching a family comedy about an ingenious child pursued by bungling burglars. My realm is defenceless.”

“What is this new evil?” Abaddon asked.

“It is called the Christmas Spirit. It must be extinguished. No quarter, no mercy. Untold rewards shall be heaped upon the one who accomplishes this.” He held one hand palm upwards and an image of Guilliman's Finger appeared above it. “Destroy this ship at all costs. Then take your fight to the source of its corruption – the Ultramarine home world, Macragge.”

The two Chaos Lords bowed, looked at one another, then broke out running, trying to beat each other back to their flagships.

“I trust you heard all that,” Tzeentch said to the empty air.

A shadow in one of the chamber's corners began to lengthen. Something stepped forward, appearing to take on physical form as it moved from the darkness.

“I did indeed,” said the arrogant figure who smirked before a God. “And I trust you know my price.”

“If you do this for me, Slaanesh will never take another Eldar soul,” Tzeentch promised.

“Then consider Macragge an abattoir,” said Asdrubael Vect, voice fading as he retreated into darkness.

=U=

Lord Calgar had assembled Chaplain Derrick, Apothecary Mender, Dick Bannerman the banner man, Techmarine Nerdingham, plus two anonymous first company bodyguards carrying plasma guns. Our heroes geared up for their mission to the tune from Home Alone 2, when Kevin McCallister is building his defences. Backpacks were plugged into power armour; bolters were loaded and their slides racked, even though 41st Millennium guns didn't need the latter doing; Calgar's personal Land Raider, with its highly illegal twin-linked assault cannon sponsons, chugged into smoke-belching life; Nerdingham wore his combat harness with a leather cape that hung down around him like a skirt; the Astartes said their final battle prayers and swore an Oath of Moment, another retcon which had started in the Abnett Zone.

Then Nerdingham presented Calgar with the ultimate doomsday weapon.

“Handle it very carefully,” the Techmarine warned. “It is extremely fragile.”

“What is it?” asked Calgar, staring at the test-tube filled with green fluid.

“It is the nostril apocalypse, my Lord, the Bog of Eternal Stench times ten: a potent blend of farticles captured from the air of your ablutions chamber and bacteria from Mender's long-neglected toothbrush. It's the most wretched skank-pong in the universe.”

“Steady on mate,” said Calgar. “A, this is really quite offensive, B, no-one deserves that lot in their face.”

“They will by the end of this story, my Lord. Choose your target wisely, throw it at him and run like you've never run before, including that time your opponent deployed a Shadowsword directly opposite you. And whatever you do, do not break it by accident, or we'll be swimming in Nurglings within seconds.”

=U=

The Land Raider was ponderous, but still quicker than the British vehicles in World of Tanks. Our heroes rumbled past the outer perimeter of Macragges's civilised region and into the ruined wilderness beyond, splashing through vast, cratered tracks of waterlogged mud. After a while, the Land Raider halted so violently that Lord Calgar managed to get his finger jammed up his conk. Never pick your nose in a vehicle driven by Brother Armantius. So caught up were the Ultramarines in their struggle to pull Calgar's finger out – half of them gripping Calgar's body, the rest his arm – and so distracted was their driver by the bitter recriminations flung towards him by the august Chapter Master, that Dick Bannerman had to take charge. He hit the release button on the Land raider's assault ramp. It dropped to the floor, throwing mud in every direction.

“Where are we, driver?” Bannerman voxed to Armantius.

“On the outskirts of the Abnett Zone, sir.”

Dick popped out to examine the reason for their halt. Some kind of mechatendril protruded from the ground, tracking his movements.

“That isn't Imperial tech,” said Dick, “but it doesn't look like any xenos tech I've ever seen. Nerdingham! I need you.”

“SO SAID YOUR MUM!” the Techmarine bawled. “Do pardon me.” He picked his way gracefully around the rugby scrum of Astartes, ignoring their curses.

“How did you get it so far up there?” Apothecary Mender said.

“Shut up and get pulling!” Calgar snapped. “This is an emergency, it's tickling my brain! Derrick, get your hand off my arse!”

Nerdingham joined Bannerman as they stared at the sensor. He waved at it. It regarded him with evident curiosity.

“Well?” asked Bannerman. “What the feth is it?”

“It appears to be a bendy metal thing,” said Nerdingham.

“Your Mechanicus training pays off every day, doesn't it,” said Dick.

The sensor pulled itself back into the ground and didn't re-emerge.

“I wonder where it went?” said Nerdingham.

A tremendous popping sound came from the Land Raider. Lord Calgar's finger was free. Cries of horror came from the honour guard and they evacuated en mass.

“What's wrong, you big girls?” Calgar said. “It's only a bit of snot!”

They set off again, everyone except Calgar walking beside the Land Raider, unwilling to go back in and face whatever had come from the Chapter Master's nose. They crossed into the Abnett Zone, knowing they would soon have to face whatever terrors the Bug-Monster had in store.

=U= END OF PART TWO =U=

=U= PART THREE =U=

Speaking of terror, Brin Milo and Nessa Bourah were standing in the cockpit of Guilliman's Finger, clutching one another like Shaggy and Scooby. They stared in barely comprehending horror as the Eye of Terror yawned open before them. Their ship had crossed the galaxy in only a few hours, skipping in and out of the warp like an old-school Titan missile, effectively leapfrogging the vast space battle going on around Cadia. Guilliman's Finger was designed to capture enormous quantities of data and yet its surveyor systems were being swamped: the Imperial Navy ships were vastly more powerful one-on-one, but the forces of Chaos outnumbered them many times over. Only a lack of discipline, lack of training and mutual self-hatred kept the Chaos fleet from swarming across human space. As many battles were raging between traitor factions as they were against Imperial battlefleets. Abaddon's latest Black Crusade was therefore going as well as the rest.

“Driving home for Christmas!” Chris Rea bellowed at 110 decibels across the vox-net for light-years all around, as Nerdingham's illegally-downloaded Christmas album continued to play. The spy ship rocketed into the Eye of Terror, dodging incoming fire, swerving around Death Guard battleships, heading on its course to Emperor knew where. The two Tanith looked at one another, knowing that wherever they ended up, they were doomed.

=U=

Blackheart's tiny flotilla raced pell-mell against the Despoiler's mountainous battleships. It was evident that Blackheart was not going to get there first, but fortunately he had other tricks up his sleeve – or he would have if his sleeves hadn't been melted to his skin. The reaver sat back in his command throne on the bridge of his vessel, grimacing at the pain in his burned body. Brother-Captain Devin, formerly of the Vorpal Hounds Chapter, stood beside him. They watched the viewscreen for a while, trying to calculate a way around the Cadian warzone. As much as they wished in their vile hearts to join in the battle, Blackheart knew that to abandon his mission would see him mocked in the showers for millennia.

“What concerns me, Lord,” said Devin at length, “is how we are supposed to track and destroy this Imperial spy-ship Great Tzeentch told you of. Did he say where it was?”

“Actually, no,” said Huron. “This mission gives my arse a headache. We can't sweep the whole Eye of Terror.”

“Shall I contact our allies within the Eye, see if they can lend us a squadron or two?”

“Good idea except for one detail. We haven't got any allies here.”

“Let's ignore the ship, then. Let the fething Bronie Legion deal with it. In the meantime, I hear that Panthrax, Dirty Devil of the Moggeddon Cluster, has taken his Death Guard fleet to Cadia. We can get them to break off, help us find the Imperial ship. He's been your supporter ever since you sent him fifty thousand skulls.”

“What?” Huron said, struggling to sit upright. “Those were for the World Eaters!”

“Thrash me if you must, my Lord, but I put the wrong label on the shipping container. The good news is, Panthrax found it rather amusing; his men built a giant throne out of the skulls, than Panthrax did a big poo on it. I hear that Nurgle rewarded him well for this affront to Khorne. The Death Guard will support you, I am sure of it.”

“So that was the good news – what's the bad news?” Huron said, sitting back with a hand against his forehead.

“Let's put it this way... if you see any Chaos Marines carrying chainaxes, you might want to run for the saviour pods.”

“I wonder if Abaddon or the wretch Calgar have to put up with flunkies like you,” Blackheart growled. “Helm! Make haste for Macragge! Let's ruin Calgar's Christmas.”

=U=

Abaddon, meanwhile, was consulting a cabal of his most powerful Sorceror Lords representing all three of the psyker-friendly Chaos Gods.

“We will need everything we've got to crush Battlefleet Ultramar,” advised Zaraphiston, Abaddon's least treacherous minion. (Yes, you read that right. Poor Abaddon had to wear a Helm of Many Eyes while he slept.) “I suggest we leave the less glorious crap to Huron Blackheart.”

“Agreed,” Abaddon agreed. “We'll let that idiot destroy Guilliman's Finger. Onwards, to Macragge!”

=U=

Asdrubael Vect was back in Commorragh, glaring down from his living throne upon his elite guard. Drazhar, Master of Blades, stood at the head of two hundred Incubi. Leilith Hesperax and fifty of her deadliest female Wych rivals were behind them in loose ranks, no doubt planning a women's equality campaign which would see them placed in front of the men in future. Shadows flickered around the edges of Vect's flesh-lined throne room; creepers summoned from their dark hell to freeze the hearts of mortals.

“You understand that my plan is inglorious?” said Vect. “It is dirty, it is vile and it may require several stories to pan out?”

His warriors said nothing, which was all the counsel he wanted from them.

“If we fail, Tzeentch will personally deliver me to our Great Enemy – which is to say, I will deliver all of you in my place. The price of our victory is this galaxy and everyone in it.”

=U=

The Land Raider pulled up before a ruined manufactory. The scale of this building was mind-boggling. It had been built on a rocky outcrop over the continent's north sea. Water crashed hundreds of feet below. Calgar looked at the empty building, knowing that thousands of people had toiled here in the centuries before the Tyranids came. Now the whole region was a blasted ruin. Even the sky seemed bruised by the long-vanished war. Smurf HQ with its fairy lights and roast chestnuts seemed light-years away.

“There is a crystal through here,” Nerdingham said, consulting his personal auspex. “We'll have to proceed on foot. Part of this building has fallen into the sea, forming a sort of lagoon. That's where our treasure is. I TOUCHED YOUR MUM'S TREASURE!”

“Three guesses where the Bug-Monster lives then,” said Calgar. “On me, lads.” He led his honour guard into the building. Eons of dirt, dust and neglect made the going tough. Much of the building's interior had been vandalised. A giant cobweb criss-crossed one corridor.

“Dick, it's the inside of your wallet!” Calgar said.

Some walls were crammed with notes dating from the Tyranid invasion, begging for information about missing loved ones.

“Anyone else getting that 28 Days Later vibe?” rumbled Mender.

“Look at this,” Dick said, indicating a wall where a poignant prayer had been written. Meanwhile, Calgar peered at something which had been scratched onto an open locker door.

“Marneus Calgar bends over for – which traitorous bastard wrote this? I've never even heard of Biff Tundrish!”

“This is an ill-starred place,” said Chaplain Derrick, holding tightly onto his crozius.

As Nerdingham promised, they reached an area where the building simply ended. The Ultramarines stared at artificial lagoon. Mender removed his helmet to spit down into the water. The apothecary's nose wrinkled.

“I smell Tyranid,” he said.

“It's probably just Dick's aftershave,” Calgar said, beginning to climb down. The cliff face was treacherous, ready to collapse at any minute.

“I'm not joking, fool,” Mender growled with customary lack of respect. “The Tyranids are highly adaptive. There's no telling how they've evolved to survive on a Space Marine homeworld.”

“Well unless they've evolved an immunity to bullets, I think we're all right,” said Calgar. The ground collapsed beneath his feet. In an instant, the Lord of the Ultramarines was riding a stone avalanche on his arse, straight into the Bug-Monster's lagoon.

=U=

“Yes, that's correct,” Blackheart said to his astropath. “Abaddon the Despoiler is planning to attack the Ultramar region in two hours.”

“And you came by this information how?” replied the Warden of Naval Intelligence, Battlefleet Ultramar, through the astropathic conduit.

“We are tracking a sizeable warp wake. A wake of that size can only be caused by one thing: Abaddon's ego.”

“I see. And you are?”

“My name? Oh, yes, it's J. R. Hartley.”

“Well thank you, Mr Hartley, we'll dispatch a few squadrons to give him a good kicking.”

Huron Blackheart laughed cruelly as the communication ended and his astropath exploded in a shower of gore.

“This'll teach Abaddon, the useless git!”

=U=

“Is this the Office of Naval Intelligence?” Abaddon said to his astropathic daemon.

“This is our emergency channel,” a female voice replied via astropathic conduit. “Reporting a non-emergency on this channel may result in death by torpedo.”

“It is most definitely an emergency, Imperial whelp,” Abaddon said without thinking. “Renegade corsair Huron Blackheart is taking his fleet to the world of Macragge as we speak. He intends to attack -”

“Excuse me, sir, there appears to be interference via your conduit. Who is leading a fleet?”

“Huron Blackheart, a renegade -”

“How do you spell that?”

Abaddon had to literally spell his rival's whole name.

“And who is he exactly?”

“I do not believe this,” Abaddon said. “You are supposed to be Imperial Intelligence! Have you not heard of the infamous Maelstrom Reaver? Corrupter of the innocent, leader of the lost, all-round tw@t?”

“I'm sorry, the only Huron Blackheart I can find listed is under category P, as a minor irritant. You need to speak to Officio Tertius.”

“For feth's sake! Very well, put me through, but hurry before my manhood dwindles.”

“I'll... do my best, sir. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Er – er – Zephro Carnelian.”

As he waited for the astropaths to change channels, Abaddon rubbed his gauntlets together.

“Have some of that, Huron! Steal my thunder now, you robbing bastard!”

=U=

To everyone's combined relief and dismay, Calgar's head bobbed back above the lagoon's surface. The Chapter Master scowled up at them.

“Are you all right, my Lord?” Dick yelled down.

“What do you think, you fething idiot? I just fell two hundred feet!”

“He never stops moaning,” said Mender.

“I think I broke your secret weapon,” Calgar said.

“We'd know if you had,” Nerdingham shouted. “Did you find the MIRRORED CEILING OF KINKY LOVING, I mean the crystal?”

“Yes, I got the fething crystal, but it's gonna take all of you to pull it out from where it's lodged!”

“Good God-Emperor,” said Dick.

“Any sign of the Bug-Monster?” asked Mender.

“Yeah, mate, he's standing right next to me, but only people with peckers longer than half an inch can see him!”

“Why didn't he just say no?” said Mender.

Calgar began to swim for the closest shore. He didn't see the epic shark fin breaking the surface behind him.

“The Bug-Monster!” Chaplain Derrick gasped. “It will take our lord from behind!”

“That's not the Bug-Monster,” Dick said. “It's supposed to keep falling on its backside. Sharks don't have backsides, do they?”

The building began to shake around them. Something burst out of the ground in the middle of the manufactorum, huge and rank with xenos slime. It reared up, and up, and up, until a Tyranid monster the height of a Warhound Titan loomed over them.

“That's the biggest Mawloc I've ever seen,” Mender said in awe. “A Mawloc Prime!”

“What are you thinking, Dick?” said Nerdingham.

“I'm thinking I should have put underwear on my Christmas list.”

Acting as one, the Bug-Monster and the Bio-shark went in for the kill.

=U=

Tzeentch was less than thrilled with events in the mortal realm. Those idiots Abaddon and Blackheart were creating their own Little Bighorn, Vect had disappeared off the map and meanwhile, the Tyranid Hive Mind was about to assimilate the spirit of Christmas. There was no way even the Great Conspirator could Just As Planned his way out of this.

“Sod it!” he said to no-one in particular. “Fateweaver, get out there and do something – but whatever you do, don't let them know we're involved!”

=U=

“Move!” Dick roared, unloading his bolter on full auto. Nerdingham hiked up his skirt and ran into the manufactorum, Mender dived off the cliff, Chaplain Derrick leapt to attack the Mawloc and the two anonymous battle-brothers blasted down at the shark in defence of the Chapter Master, their plasma bolts creating geysers in the water. The Bio-shark surfaced as it moved, proving far uglier and more disturbing than even the Bug-Monster, its face a leering, distorted mess of eyes and teeth. Calgar screamed like a little girl when he saw it and his arms whirled like Sonic the Hedgehog's legs as he swam for his life.

Just as the Bio-shark seemed certain to devour Calgar, Mender bounced off it at 120mph, dazing it and giving Calgar the time he needed to clamber ashore. The Chapter Master went up the cliff nearly as fast as he'd fallen down it, leaving the Apothecary behind.

“Oh, feth!” Mender said when he realised the stupidity of his actions. “Dick, help!”

Bannerman was discovering something about Tyranids that hadn't made it into the Codex. As it roared and thrashed, the Mawloc Prime gave vent to its enthusiasm with a thunderstorm of flatulence which pushed away all oxygen. The Ultramarines would have suffocated were it not for their iron lungs, but they still weren't doing well.

“I don't remember this from He-Man and She-Ra!” Dick coughed.

The Tyranid swatted Derrick away with its tail, the Chaplain crashing down through several floors.

“This one doesn't seem to have an arse either!” he said.

Dick looked to where the two plasma gunners were helping Calgar up over the cliff egde.

“I can't believe you two are still alive!” Calgar said to them.

“I've got an idea,” he said, turning back to the Bug-Monster. “Oi!”

The Mawloc was too busy rearing and thrashing to pay him any heed. He blew a raspberry at it. That got its attention.

“Your mum's a Spinegaunt!” yelled Dick.

The Bug-Monster bellowed, shaking the region and causing another avalanche of rock which Calgar and his men only just avoided being part of. Then the Tyranid monstrosity set off to gobble Dick. The banner man dropped his bolter and ducked, drawing a small wooden pole from where it had been clamped across his backpack. The pole grew in length like the acrobat's staff from the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon, catching the Bug-Monster's belly. Dick levered the monster over him as the Ultramarines Chapter Banner unfurled itself. The Mawloc shrieked as it went over the cliff and landed backside-first on the Bio-shark, thereby proving that the Bug-Monster did indeed have an arse, and only just missing Mender – who was rapidly finding out that he couldn't swim.

“You fething idiot!” yelled the Apothecary. “How was that helpful?”

Dick stared down at him, thinking that the medic was about to cash his chips. Rescue came from an unexpected quarter.

“Season's greetings, mortal vermin!” a voice boomed from the heavens. The Ultramarines stared skyward, unable to believe their eyes. Twelve reindeer pulled a giant sleigh, upon which rode a jolly fellow most often seen in Coca-Cola adverts, waving and smiling at the human warriors.

“It's Father Christmas!” Calgar said with childish delight.

“Marneus Calgar, you've been a good boy for a change!” said Daddy C. “I will grant you one wish.”

“I want an Xbox One,” Calgar said immediately.

“I'm sorry, my boy,” Father Christmas said, cupping a mittened had to his ear, “did you say you want me to defeat those Tyranids?”

“No, I said I want an Xbox One!”

Father Christmas held up a glowing blue present. The sides of the present folded down on their own, revealing a morass of energy which flickered between pink and blue. It leapt down at the two Tyranids, transforming them into a pair of Orks. The greenskins looked at one another for a moment then immediately began to fight, strangling each other and trying to push one another under the water. Mender was able to safely climb back up to his brothers.

“Wish granted! Ho ho ho!” Father Christmas said as his sleigh turned in the air and blasted away, vanishing in a little starburst.

“Hang on, do I still get an Xbox One?” Calgar shouted after him, looking absolutely gutted.

The Ultramarines lined up along the cliff edge – all except for Nerdingham, who had forgotten the And They Shall Know No Fear rule – and opened fire as one. The Orks were blasted, shredded and disintegrated.

“Right,” Calgar said, clapping dust from his gauntlets, “let's get the feth out of here. Don't know why I let you talk me into coming to this dump.”

=U= END OF PART THREE =U=

=U= PART FOUR =U=

Nerdigham claimed to have been building the teleporter while his brothers faced the Nids, and as evidence he presented the actual teleportation unit, but Calgar still called him a ponce. The crystal was duly retrieved by the honour guard taking it in turns to jump up and down on the Chapter Master's stomach. Nerdingham placed the crystal into a recess on the teleporter unit. A soft luminescence filled the Land Raider's interior.

“Let's hope our Tanith friends counter-intuitively step into the light,” said Nerdingham.

Moments later, Brin Milo and Nessa Bourah materialised, looking completely terrified.

“Are we dead?” Nessa signed to Brin.

“Worse,” he signed back. “We're on Ultramar!”

=U=

As the Ultramarines were heading home, looking forward to Michael Buble's Christmas album and mulled wine, the Land Raider ground to a halt once more.

“Feth's sake, Armantius!” Calgar roared, having banged his head on a stanchion, “learn to drive!”

“You need to see this my Lord,” Armantius voxed back.

The strange metallic probe Dick and Nerdingham had wondered over earlier was back. It protruded from the ground, poised like a snake before a rat.

“We should attempt communion with it,” said Nerdingham.

“Blasphemer!” hissed Derrick.

“What are you going to do?” snorted Calgar. “Say 'ba weep gra na weep ninny-bon' and give it some energon?”

“Whatever you do,” said Dick, “for the Emperor's sake don't say anything rude!”

The Techmarine dropped the assault ramp and the Ultras marched out, guns ready. Unfortunately Nerdingham didn't say anything rude; he said something dumb.

“Greetings from the Omnissiah. Are you an archaeotech?”

The tentacle-like thing withdrew into the earth.

“I'm not sure what it's more scared of,” said Calgar, “your stupidity or your breath.”

“My Lord, I was able to scan it. RESULTS INDICATE THAT IT'S SMALLER THAN MY MANHOOD! Ahem, I mean to say, the probe is constructed from maximantium, the hardest metal used by humans before adamantium was developed. Only the oldest and most closely-guarded Imperial technology uses it... including STC units. There may be such a unit hidden beneath the planet's surface. We must find it!”

“We'll leave that for next year's Barmy Army story,” said Calgar. “Come on, you've no doubt got dozens of my presents still to wrap.”

Whatever else it might have been, the probe wasn't scared. Metallic creatures began to pull themselves from beneath the ground until they surrounded the Land Raider. They looked a bit like boxy Necrons, except they lacked faces – they were heavily armoured, studded with sensors and their arms ended in buzzsaw blades, machetes and weird tube-like guns. Several of them had long probes protruding from their heads. It was one of these that had been watching the Ultramarines.

“What are they?” Calgar asked.

“STEEL DILDOS! Er – I don't know,” said Nerdingham.

Calgar looked at Milo, distracted by the Tanith ninny's erratic breathing. The young pipe-player was gripping his chest, in the middle of a panic attack.

“I know them!” he said, looking terrified. “We fought them at the start of the Sabbat Worlds crusade. They're Iron Men!”

=U=

Deep in the warp, Tzeentch chortled at the skeins of fate as they whirled around him.

“Iron Men!” he said. “I never saw that coming. I must spend less time spying on Slaanesh in the shower and more time charting the flow of destiny. Still, what a fething show. Let's see Calgar bitch his way out of this!”

=U=

“Who are the Iron Men?” asked Dick, looking at the silent robots.

“You don't want to know,” said Milo.

“Mankind's greatest – and foulest – invention,” Nerdingham said reverently. “The humans of that era didn't have Astartes to do everything for them. The Emperor had not yet risen LIKE HUGH HEFNER'S MORNING GLORY! So they created the Iron Men. Unfortunately, something went wrong. Humanity's golden era became THE AGE OF WOMEN'S UNDERWEAR!”

“Unable to identify,” one of the Iron Men said. “Sensors indicate human DNA recombined with DNA of unknown origin. Threat level: significant.” They raised their weapon arms as one.

“That Star Trek stuff never works in real life!” Calgar yelled, putting his fists together and blazing away with their built-in bolters. Milo and Bourah dived back into the Land Raider, closely followed by Nerdingham.

“Get out here, cowards!” Derrick yelled at them, before hurling himself at the Iron Men and smashing one to scrap with his crozius. Return fire bounced off his righteous shield of faith.

The Iron Men were equipped with strange weapons pre-dating the Age of Strife. They fired particle streams with a weird zipping noise. These shots could penetrate Astartes power armour, as Nerdingham found when he was peppered with hits, all of them in his back. Their own armour was potent but at this range they couldn't withstand the Smurfs' return fire. The robots closed in to hack away with deadly efficiency.

“Armantius, do something!” Calgar yelled as his bolters clicked empty. He punched an Iron Man in its blank face, sending it flying over a ruined building. The remaining Iron Men stood straight and began to launch some sort of metallic tape at the Ultramarines, snaring their weapons. Calgar headbutted an opponent as it strode forward to take his face off with its sword. Headbutting a robot is never a good idea: Calgar cried out as his nose crunched against maximantium.

“I can't, my Lord!” Armantius voxed. “The fething Land Raider won't work. I believe the Iron Men are wresting control of its spirit.”

“I am ON IT LIKE IT'S ROSE BYRNE,” Nerdingham voxed.

Lasgun fire joined the cavalcade of noise as the Tanith soldiers joined in. Milo knew where to hit the enemy so that his crappy lasgun would penetrate. Bourah was a quick study and her needle sniper rifle, sorry I mean her “long las”, caused unsaved Wounds left right and centre.

The Land Raider began to rock as more Iron Men pulled themselves from the ground to attack it. Luckily the tank had 14 armour all round and a ton of hull points, so even with Rending attacks, the Iron Men had their work cut out.

“I'd better use my special weapon,” Calgar said, reaching for the stink-bomb which was in a belt pouch.

“NO!” Nerdingham screamed from inside the Land Raider. “It will only turn them green!”

Calgar used his Kelloggs Special K-enhanced strength to snap his binds. He strode into the centre of the Iron Man horde with his arms out to either side; then he began to pirouette on the spot, freshly-reloaded bolters blazing, until he formed a one-man whirlwind of destruction. Several Iron Men were sucked into it and catapulted into the air, crashing down around the embattled Ultramarines. Disappointingly, none of the Iron Men exploded.

“Throw one to me, my Lord!” yelled Chaplain Derrick from five hundred yards away, having battled his way across the ruined ground until he was left on his own. He was kneeling, one of his legs a mangled ruin. “Allow my shield of righteous faith to smash one more traitor into ruin!”

Calgar grabbed an Iron Man by its arms, whirled it around and let it go. It spiralled towards the Chaplain. Bizarrely, Derrick elected to take it on the head, perhaps believing the Emperor's might would turn his skull into a wrecking-ball. It didn't. The Iron Man landed on top of him, knocking him out!

“Fething idiot,” said Calgar.

The remaining Iron Men retracted their bindings and fled, some digging back into the ground, others running away holding their weapons up. Calgar got the distinct impression that this was the Iron Men's way of giving him the finger.

Mender jogged over to the Chaplain, who roughly shoved him away.

“Get your fething hands off me, unless you've washed them,” Derrick growled.

“They nearly destroyed the human race?” Calgar said, watching the Iron Men go. “Pre-Strife humans must have been a right load of cabbages.”

“Shall we go after them, my Lord?” Dick said, reloading his bolter.

“No, we can leave that for another story as well. It's gonna be Christmas soon. I can already taste the turkey – first dibs on wings and skin!”

“I should warn you,” Milo said, “they'll learn from this. They're constructed by an STC unit and they'll use it to make more of themselves. They'll hit us harder next time. I recommend we finish them now.”

“Who's the leader here?” Calgar asked.

“You are, sir.”

“And who's the Tanith ninny?”

“That would be me, sir.”

“Isn't life simpler when we all agree? Nerdingham, get the fething tank fixed. I'm glad you're wearing that skirt so we can't see the brown stain across your backside.”

=U= END OF PART FOUR =U=

=U= PART FIVE =U=

Abaddon's ships came under attack the instant they dropped from warp. It wasn't just the expected Ultramar system fleet, mighty as that was; he'd anticipated them and brought enough warriors to bludgeon their way through. The Ultramar defence fleet had been substantially reinforced by squadrons from at least two other battlefleets. Everything in the system had its guns aimed at the Vengeful Spirit, even the merchant and pilgrim ships. Someone had stolen Calgar's personal shuttle and even this insignificant thing had a target lock on Abaddon.

“We're about to lose the pride of the Chaos Legions,” Zaraphiston hissed, untouched by the shaking, motion-blurred devastation around him. “You should have brought the Planet Killer, not the Vengeful Spirit.”

“This was the fething Planet Killer!” Abaddon raged. “Someone's been in the Abnett Zone again!”

While outnumbered and surrounded, the Vengeful Spirit was a Gloriana-class battleship, built for a god among men. It roared through the carnage unleashing broadsides that simply melted enemy capital ships away.

“Time to show the galaxy how to do it old-school,” Abaddon said. “Helm, plot a course for Ultramarine HQ, ramming speed!”

=U=

Blackheart, while not exactly the poster child for Chaotic victory, was doing somewhat better. Only a token fleet had been dispatched against him, somehow intercepting him within the warp itself. His corsair vessels had seen them off and they dropped into realspace behind Abaddon's fleet, watching the Black Legion take a kicking.

“Heh,” he said. “Target Abaddon's ship and send him a Christmas present.”

The bridge was rocked by unexpected impacts. Consoles exploded, crew members were thrown around, sevitors were immolated and Harry the Hamadrya went flying from his perch on Blackheart's shoulder.

“What the feth was that?” Blackheart roared.

“Dark light weapon,” Devin said, bent over the tactical console. “We're under attack by Eldar. We've lost half the fleet!”

“Eldar? What are those fairy feths doing here? Show me.”

The main viewscreen displayed a fuzzy image of black darts, barely discernible with the naked eye, gliding around like a shoal of fish and slicing through the corsair fleet with exotic weapons.

“My lord, we have an incoming transmission from the Eldar.”

“Put it up!”

Asdrubael Vect appeared on the viewer. His expression was the most epic trollface yet seen in the 41st Millennium.

“Vect!” Blackheart said. “I'll deliver you to Slaanesh myself!”

“Ultramar is mine,” said Vect. “My agents are there already, working to claim the prize Great Tzeentch has offered, and your assistance is not required.”

“Sir, if we don't get out of here now, we never will,” Devin said.

“This is where I wish Harry was a cat,” Blackheart said, looking at his cringing pet. “Then I could kick him up the arse. Withdraw!”

=U=

The Vengeful Spirit took everything Macragge could throw at it. Shot by shot, the Ultramar defences reduced the most powerful Chaos ship into flaming wreckage, yet this was a ship built by the ultimate guardians of human technology in an age where gods fought side-by-side with men. Nothing the Ultramarines possessed could destroy its core – a core filled with the baddest and most terrifying of all Chaos warriors. Torpedoes exploded all around and defence lasers stabbed the Vengeful Spirit's carcass, and still the ship came on, angling down to blaze its way through Macragge's atmosphere.

“Aim for Smurf HQ!” said Abaddon, ignoring the madness around him. “Order all hands to prepare for disembarkation.”

Squads of Terminators clanked onto the bridge, completely unaffected by the shaking, burning destruction, until twenty tusked nightmares had assembled for battle. They watched the main viewer, at the rapidly widening spread of ground below them; they were going to miss Smurf HQ by several miles. Not a man flinched at the thought of being pancaked for these were no ordinary men, nor even average Astartes. These were the most hardened, most soulless of all Traitor Marines, a cynical, emotionally burned-out bunch of bastards.

The Vengeful Spirit piled into the ground.

=U=

Calgar and his honour guard watched, aghast, having disembarked from the Land Raider to get a better view. They saw an unbelievable sight, a mountain falling from the sky surrounded by Imperial fighters trying to destroy it, a spear chucked by the Dark Gods themselves.

“Oh, bollocks,” Calgar said with vim.

The traitor ship concertinaed into the ground, throwing fire and debris for hundreds of miles in every direction. Plumes of dust flew from the ground in an expanding circle as Macragge's primary tectonic plate gave way. Dust thrown into the atmosphere by the Vengeful Spirit's crash-dive caused arcs of lightning to crackle in the sky. A glowing sword cut a doorway out of the Vengeful Spirit's hull.

“HERE I COME, CALGAR!” Abaddon roared. He leapt out of the ship, falling hundreds of feet, confident that the Dark Gods would protect him. The weight of his wargear swung him upside down. The Warmaster of Chaos planted himself head-first into the earth, legs wiggling in the air. Twenty Terminators beamed down around him and pulled him out with a tremendous POP!

“My Lord, why did you not simply use your teleporter?” one of them asked him.

"They're for girls," replied the First Lord of Chaos.

“Feth off, Abaddon!” Calgar yelled through cupped hands. “Bloody Christmas Day in seven hours, I'm not having this lot!”

“Humbug!” Abaddon called back. “Face me and die, you mincing bastard!”

“Sir, he just called you a mincer,” said Dick.

“Thank you, Number Two, my ears are still working.”

Abaddon stuck his middle finger up at Calgar.

“He's flagging you off, sir!” said Dick.

“Bannerman, unless you want a spell in the nerve glove on pain level 'S-Club 7', shut up!”

A horde of roaring Chaos warriors poured out of the Vengeful Spirit's hold, not caring that half of them were on fire. They represented a fraction of the force Abaddon had brought with him. These were the deadliest warriors in the galaxy, the ones who could survive anything. The entire Chaos force began to charge across the wasteland towards Calgar and his men.

“Sacred feth,” said Milo.

“This would appear to be it,” Mender said. “Thanks for literally leading us to ground zero of a Chaos invasion.”

“Shut up you moaning old bag,” said Calgar. “Armantius, is the tank working properly?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You see those dirty bastards heading our way?”

“Oh, yes, my Lord.”

“Each and every one of them has said something about your mum.”

There was an ear-splitting whine as multiple assault cannon whirled into life. Blizzards of tracer rounds streamed into the approaching traitors, none of whom was able to claim any b.s. cover saves. Calgar and his honour guard blazed away until everyone except Nessa Bourah was out of ammo. The sniper took down bad guy after bad guy with an astounding string of 6s on her rolls To Hit. Finally, “only” Abaddon and seventeen Terminators were left. They were panting, haggard, each man among them wounded and scarred, but now there was nowhere for the Barmy Army to run. Lightning arced overhead, casting a fearful radiance over the showdown.

“Doomsday, bitches,” Abaddon said.

“Yeah, for you!” Calgar took Nerdingham's ultimate weapon from its belt pouch. “Merry Christmas from the Emperor!”

“My Lord, don't!” Nerdingham cried as Calgar drew his arm back to throw. The test-tube burst in Calgar's gauntlet and the stench of unbelievable guff slapped the Ultramarines in their genhanced faces. They rolled around in torment, retching and gasping for clean air.

“Oh God-Emperor, it burns!” Dick cried, rolling in the dirt.

“My faith is my shield!” Derrick prayed. “My courage is the armour that – Primarch, save me!”

“I'm turning into a Plaguebearer!” Milo squeaked as his skin turned green and began to blister.

“You dirty bastard!” Bourah choked. “Now we know who ate all the figgy pudding!”

“My eyebrows are falling out!” said Mender.

“Faugh!” Armantius called from inside the Land Raider. “The machine-spirit recoils in agony! We are losing all power! Talk about a brownout!”

Abaddon clutched his sides, leaning against one of his Terminators as he laughed so hard no sound came out except for a girlie, high-pitched whine. Spit drooled from his open gob. Even the jaded Terminators started laughing, a sound they hadn't made since they raided Fabius Bile's outpost and caught him dancing in front of a mirror dressed as Lelith Hesperax.

Calgar was finding that he couldn't smell by breathing from his mouth: unfortunately, he could now taste it instead.

“I'm never eating beef stew again!”

Abaddon recovered from his laughter, although it was hard to see through the tears in his eyes. He held Drach'nyen aloft, the weapon shining with infernal radiance. “I HAVE THE POWER!”

He was struck by lightning. Bolt after bolt made contact with the tip of Abaddon's blade until his glowering face was replaced by a skeleton whose eyebrows stood on end, to say nothing of his fething pony tail, which reared up like a War Hydra of Naggarond. The First Lord of Chaos soiled himself explosively and collapsed sideways, smoking.

Then the stink of Nerdingham's weapon reached the Chaos Marines. Even Terminator armour was no protection; nobody was laughing any more. Vomit exploded from mouth grilles and they doubled over or collapsed to their hands and knees.

A pair of long, green claws appeared out of nowhere, pulling reality apart. Ku'gath Plaguefather poked his revolting head out of the Realm of Chaos and looked at the suffering warriors.

“How are you, gentlemen!” Ku'gath chortled. “Do I smell Nurgle's perfume?”

Gripped by unexpected presence of mind, Calgar pointed towards Abaddon and his men.

“They said they're so good at building bio-weapons, they make Nurgle look like a washed-up prune!”

“Did they really?” said Ku'gath. “How splendid! He'll want a word with them about that!” Quicker than a lunging shark, he swept Abaddon and all the Chaos Marines into his arms and dragged them into the Realm of Chaos.

“Season's Cleansing!” Calgar quipped, but there were no heretics left to hear it. The rift in reality sealed itself behind them, leaving only silence as ash fell onto the exhausted Barmy Army like snow.

=U=

“What the feth is going on?” said Tzeentch. “My plan has unravelled and no matter what I do, I can't conquer Ultramar. The Spirit of Christmas is going to prevail. FATEWEAVER! GET IN HERE!”

A blue mist formed in front of Tzeentch, rapidly taking on the form of Fateweaver.

“You have failed me,” Tzeentch said. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“You lose,” Fateweaver's heads said together.

“Eh?” said Tzeentch.

“You said we needed a new game,” said Fatewear. “Looks like I won it.”

“Why are you talking like that? What's wrong with you?” Realisation crept into Tzeentch's mad, splintered brain. He swept an immaterial hand at Fateweaver, watching without surprise as the Lord of Change shattered into a million springs and cog wheels. The Changeling materialised behind Tzeentch, giving his master the cliched slow-clap.

“Fateweaver was never here,” said the Changeling. “He is in the Warhammer world, trying to sort out the mess GW have made of their fluff. You have been dealing with a puppet under my control. You wanted a new game. I have provided it; and I have done you once again.”

“You cheating fether! I'll turn you into a plague toad!” Tzeentch cast a devastating spell of transformation which passed straight through the Changeling.

“Oh, I'm not really there,” snickered the herald. He began to flip Tzeentch the V, which is the British equivalent of the middle finger. “Merry Christmas ya filthy animal!”

=U=

Guilliman's Finger had evaded Panthrax's fleet; this is 40K, where the forces of Nurgle always seem to fail their missions. The spy ship tore through the Eye of Terror sending vast quantities of data back to Ultramar, before it reached its ultimate goal. Tzeentch had forseen what would happen, but the tides of fate were ever-shifting, and he had assumed it was a metaphor. It was not: Guilliman's Finger crashed through the Impossible Fortress and lodged itself between the Great Conspirator's buttocks. Noddy Holden screamed a muffled IT'S CHRISTMAAAAAAAS! from within Tzeentch's guts. Nine times nine Lords of Change were needed to pull it out... but they were all busy watching Home Alone 2.

Tzeentch's howls echoed throughout the warp, causing Khorne to smile for the first time in eons while hanging skulls from his Christmas tree; Nurgle to laugh until he cried into his cauldron, where he was stirring Abaddon and his men into a monstrous Christmas pudding; and Slaanesh to rub his breasts and lick his lips while dressed as an Elf.

=U=

Christmas morning found the Barmy Army characters sitting amidst piles of presents. The rest of the Chapter had elected to open their presents outside in the continuing storm, where they were safe from the unwashable reek of Nerdingham's weapon. Someone had lost the Michael Buble Christmas CD so they had to put up with Milo's “Christmas with Disney” album, which was slowly driving Calgar mad. Festivities were halted when Cullinus Rex, astropathic Master of Sendings, came into the hall. He was old and tired, now using a cane to help him walk.

“Oh, no,” said Calgar. “Not on Christmas Day. Not in the middle of opening my fething presents.”

“I am afraid so, my Lord, “ Rex said wearily. “I bear a message from the Inquisition.”

“Oh, brilliant,” said Calgar. “What do those wallies want?”

Rex cleared his throat and stood straight. Another man's voice came from his mouth.

“Lord Calgar, we received a disturbing report that a man named Zephro Carnelian has been sending astropathic messages from the Ultramar region. He is a highly dangerous renegade. I require your assistance to track him down.”

“And you are?” said Calgar.

“Inquisitor Jaq Draco of the Ordo Malleus.”

MARNEUS CALGAR WILL RETURN

So here it is, Merry Christmas,

Everybody's having fun,

Look to the future now,

It's only just begun...

- “Merry Christmas Everyone”, Slade, M2

Have a wonderful Christmas one and all from NoPoet and Marneus Calgar's Barmy Army!