The Great Hall was filled with the noise of many aristocrats at dinner: the low buzz of gossip exchanged in cultivated accents, explosions of laughter too high pitched to be sincere, the tinkling of porcelain and crystal, orders barked to servitors for more wine.

The venue, it must be said, was grand. The high domed ceiling of the chamber was frescoed resplendently with scenes of Saint Plutus' defense of Stygia against xenos and mutants. Below this, tall windows looked out on the palace grounds, manicured lawns blooming with golden flowers and adorned with clutches of red-leafed gavo trees, all bathed in the orange light of the evening sun, slipping behind distant mountains.

The occasion for the feast was the birthday of the Governor Subsector's favorite niece, Athanasia, who turning fifteen had at last become eligible for marriage. Thus, the great and good from across Seleucis- and even a few from beyond the subsector- were in attendance.

To marry into the family of von Ravenstein was to join one of the most powerful dynasties in the Segmentum Pacificus, one with an ancient, and extraordinarily lucrative, alliance with the Adeptus Mechanicus.

The young lady of the hour sat in the center of the head table, fidgeting uncomfortably in the voluminous frills of her dress. Her mother, Agrippina von Ravenstein, sat to her left, her face caked in white makeup that clashed horribly with the bulky black metal augmentics protruding from her head in a tangle of snaking wires and cold, glowing optics. She was in the midst of an animated discussion with Cardinal-Governor of Ptolomea, whose chins were busily multiplying as he frowned.

The Governor Subsector himself sat to his niece's right. A short man, not quite fat, balding and sallow-skinned, dressed in a black military tunic devoid of medals.

Konrad von Ravenstein did not look much like the most powerful man in the room, let alone an entire sector. He did not look like a subduer of worlds, like a man who could have done what he was said to have done- engineering the defeat of the greenskin king Durkash the Toothsome, or quashing the Kandlemas Rebellion in only six days, or defeating the Overghoul of Travosk in an ugly war of attrition.

He did not, in short, look much like a warlord.

His only striking features were eyes, bright green and sly as they wandered over the hundreds of guest assembled in his Great Hall, and a magnificent mustache, black but flecked with grey.

The Governor was seated next to a rather grotesque Magos of the Mechanicum, whose ragged red robes bulged and writhed as metallic tentacles slithered beneath them. The techpriests cared little, usually, for birthday parties of aristocrats, almost as little as aristos wished them to attend. But form demanded they be invited to a gathering of such significance, and respect for the careful alliance between Celestine and the forge-world Serpens demanded that the invitation be accepted.

The Magos slurped horribly with withered lips and prosthetic probisci at a bowl of nutrient broth. Lord von Ravenstein sipped his wine and watched his guests.

Outside, as the last light of day sank behind the jagged horizon, there was a flash of bruised purple in the darkening sky, followed by another, and another.

The Great Hall fell quiet as heads turned to the windows. There were gasps. A woman screamed.

Something was wrong. The sky was wrong.

Auroras of bright blue and arcs of violet energy swirled across a sky filled with sinister and unrecognizable stars.

The Magos beside Ravenstein blurted something in techno-cant and spilled his broth all over the tablecloth. Young Athanasia clutched at her mother, terrified.

Lord Ravenstein took another sip of wine and stood, slowly, as his House Guard burst into the room, a captain making straight for him.

"My lord," said the guard officer, "We have word from-"

"Not here," replied Ravenstein. Under his breath he murmured, "None of these people are to leave the palace without my express permission."

"Yes my lord."

Ravenstein signaled for the Magos to join him as he stode from the Hall, in which the cries of shock and dismay were becoming increasingly hysterical.





Those bits of sky which could be seen between the shadowed spires of the hive were filled with smoke and fire and the huge black silhouettes of the Archenemy's ships.

The noise was unbelievable. Screams, explosions, gunfire, the impact of orbital fire that shook the immense hive to its foundations, all set against the city's emergency klaxons blaring on endless loop.

RETURN TO YOUR HAB-UNITS. AUTHORITIES ARE RESTORING ORDER. MARTIAL LAW IS IN EFFECT. RETURN TO YOUR HAB-UNITS. DISOBEDIENCE IS A CAPITAL OFFENCE. OBEY THE EMPEROR. RETURN TO YOUR HAB-UNITS.

Arbitrator-Sergeant Vigo reloaded his bolt pistol. He was standing at the base of a statue of one general or hero or other, and had orders to hold the Square until the last truckloads of aristos and upper-hivers could make it through to safety. The PDF- those parts of it still following orders, at least- were abandoning Hive Ollianus and making for Hives Antenora and Bolgia, which were reportedly holding out well, still protected by void-shields.

Vigo wondered whether he'd live long enough to be part of the counterattack that retook Ollianus. At this rate, he doubted it.

"They're coming again," one of his men shouted, and the arbitrators under Vigo's command locked their shields as boiling torrent of lunatics and hive gangers erupted from a side street into the square. Gunshots rang out, powermauls crackled once more to life, and the battle was joined.

Where were the transports?

A PDF fighter, its engines burning, cartwheeled suddenly through the air above Victory Square before crashing into the Hive. Dust and debris showered Vigo's men and heretic mob alike. He was thrown off his feet by the blast.

Blinded by smoke and swirling dust, deafened by the cacaphony around him, Vigo struggled to sit up. Dimly he realized that the blaring klaxon had changed its message. A garbled, shrieking monotone had replaced the mechanical woman's voice.

THE NAMES OF THE WARP ARE A BILLION AND ONE AND ALL ARE DEATH TO THE EMPEROR. FEED THE GODS OR BE THEIR FOOD. THE WARP IS DEATH AND SALVATION. BOW BEFORE IT. FEED THE GODS OR BE EATEN IN TURN.

Vigo pulled himself to his feet.

Around him was nothing but fire and swirling darkness.





The command center beneath the palace was a long, vaulted chamber of marble and brass, like the nave of a cathedral or the bridge of a warship. Servitors and adepts were joined intimately with cogitator consoles on both sides of the central aisle. They were typing frantically, blurting bursts of data-cant to each other as information poured in.

Governor von Ravenstein stood at the apse, surrounded by officers, holodisplays of the sector flickering before him.

"...astra telepathica is describing a warp storm of unique intensity, engulfing five systems-" said an officer in tacticae uniform, reading rapidly off a data slate, "and we have word from arbites on Dis. The planet is being invaded. PDF is under attack by traitor forces- including astartes- and it seems there is a large number of defections among planetary populace and soldiery. The planetary governor- they say he has likely joined the heretics."

"Lord Varod has joined the Archenemy?" asked Ravenstein, raising an eyebrow.

"He is not replying to arbites queries, but his palace has not fallen, and PDF units under his command are reported to have sacked the planetary inquisitorial fortress."

Lord Ravenstein turned to the Magos who was standing a little outside the circle of military men.

"I will need you to return to Serpens, and convey to your fellow Magi the gravity of what confronts us. Without the armies of the honored Mechanicus, I cannot defend this subsector. Your world and ours will fall. I need the Magos Dominus Xo, and his legions."

The Magos bowed deeply, and shuffled off into the darkness of the command center without speaking.

Ravenstein turned back to his officers, "If Dis falls, where can the Archenemy strike next?"

A man in an admiral's uniform replied, "The Navis Nobilite has just completed their analysis, my Lord. The most stable warp-route would take them to Pontius Secundus. From there, the Archenemy could strike the rest of the system."

Ravenstein produced a cigar from his tunic and lit it carefully. He took a puff, his green eyes tracing the holograms of planets revolving before him.

"Pontius," he said, almost to himself.

ASTROPATHIC COMMUNIQUE

- CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: CRIMSON -

YOUR EYES ONLY

Commander,

At 0400 hours this morning, sidereal, a major warpstorm enveloped the Seleucis Subsector. Communications with planetary governments there have been patchy, but the intelligence we do have paints a grim picture. The Hive World Dis has fallen under attack from traitor elements: heretical Astartes and Sororitas arrived on planet just as the warpstorm struck. By the time you receive this communication, the planet is expected to have fallen.

The Governor Subsector, Lord von Ravenstein, has assumed direct command of all forces within the subsector and conscripted all planetary defense armies directly into the Imperial Guard. Ravenstein is fortifying the industrial world of Pontius Secundus, which lies along the only useable warp-route to the rest of the subsector. But Ravenstein is outmatched by the numbers and resources of the heretics, and Tacticae predicts defeat if he is not reinforced.

Commander, augurs suggest a brief break in the Warp storm in ten days time that will afford Imperial forces an opportunity to enter the Seleucis Subsector and rendezvous with the defenders. You and the forces under your command are ordered to reinforce Ravenstein on Pontius Secundus and ensure that the Seleucis Subsector does not fall.

In His Name,

Antiochus Nox, Inquisitor
Ordo Hereticus

As Strike Cruiser Emperor’s Hand broke through the warp barrier, the entirety of the ship felt the energy of the storm ravage through the ship, searching for a weakness in its faith. The wax wards and scribbled parchment of prays that lined the narrow corridors pulsed an array of blue and white light – repelling the dark taint that tried to corrupt. Within the chapel, priests dawned in crimson silks and fabrics marched down the procession, waving incense burners as their smoke would completely soak the room. Their chants of prays echoed throughout the chapel’s colourful walls.

Kneeled at the alter were five Knights of Titan. They murmured their own prays in silence as the ship’s Chaplin gave upon them his final blessings, flicking the divine water onto their ancient armour. As he did so, he turned to Mal’vex, who, with the assistant of two squires anointed her with her gold and silver armour which had been passed down through her family for generations. Her scythe was sheathed and her armour locked down.

Giving a small respectful bow to the Chaplin she then turned her attention to the knights, whom were still kneeled before her.
“Rise, Knights of Titan. For now, your service to the Imperium is needed once more.” She bellowed with pure authority.

Without a second’s hesitation, the Justicar stood, quickly followed by the rest of his men. Their glowing blue eyes fixed upon her.

“We are yours to command, Inquisitor. We only need to know where to strike, and we will strike with the wrath of the Emperor himself!” The Justicar spoke, his voice on par with Mal’vex’s. This pleased her greatly. She has often worked with those who do not have the same level of spirit as her when it comes to combatting the forces of Chaos. Now… now she knew that requesting the assistance of the Grey Knights was the right choice.

“Very good, Justicar. There is much evil to be vanquished here, you and your men will need such enthusiasm when it comes to our ground operation. But I warn you, this mission is much more than a purgation.” Mal’vex said as she began to pace. “As you know, we are here for another reason. Your prognosticators foresaw that this region would come under attack from Chaos forces and that there would be a person of interest to your order. After years of searching the archives and datalogs we believe that we have located such a person.” Mal’vex explained as she drew out a small holo-display from her belt. As she pressed the button engraved on its side, a green projection of a young male, roughly in his twelfth year of existence. “Tidus Malcore. A less than average child that worked as a deck hand at a fabrication unit. However recent screening as suggested he may hold great psyker prowess. It is only due to your masters pulling strings that a Black Ship hadn’t picked him up yet.”

Hammon Blarr was a man of little patients, and with a bad Temper. Letting out a sigh as he raised his bolt pistol, he looked into the old mans wrinkled face. Bruises and other marks of a heavy beating showed that he had put up quite a fight. "Its nothing personal, yet we cant allow any lose ends! We will keep your service in good memory, old man!" While he cared little about the lives of his informants, he knew appreciate their value. An information was worth more then gold in this times, a lose tongue in close range to a noble was a true goldmine. He was the dancing teacher, a true master of his art, and an open ear to the endless flow of words that the young daughters of lower spire nobles would exchange while waiting for their turn. The moment the young daughter of house Vlarr had told her friends of her betrothal to the young scion of the house of Marek, she had signed the death sentence for her whole family.

For Marek was loyal to Lord Varod, while Vlarr had been seen as a supporter of Ravenstein. Of cause, the Vlarr´s were just a single pawn in the great game, yet even the smallest change in the balance of the status Quo could have major backlashes. An example had to be made, and fear had to be spread. And there was no better tool for this, then the iron fist of Ravensteins rule, the Blackcoats!

The whole family had been assembled for the celebrations of his patriarchate, including the daughter who´s loose lips had doomed them all. The little company of hired guards could do little to stop the blackcoats when doors were kicked in, and Guncutters were closing in. Nobody was left alive, and the whole house was wiped out. A clear message had been send, for all who dared to stand against the rule of Ravenstein.

Placing the bolt pistol on the old mans forehead, Hammon Blarr looked away, like he always did when he shot a man like that. His eyes moved over the pleasure garden, futher over to the titanic towers of the spire. Up here one could even see the sky, a privilege only a few enjoyed Hive Ollianus. "For Lord Ravenstein and the Duke! MA..." His eyes grew in shock, as he took a step away from the man. Shock moved on his face, as the men behind him began to gasp, or even scream.

The enemy was here...the one true enemy!




Eugen Julus Ernst von Dagmar-Regen, Duke of Neo-Thuringia was a man of extravagant taste. Yet even for the decadent Nobility of Dis, he showed up new heights of creativity to push the limit of the possible. Growing a lush hunting and pleasure Garden in the middle of the toxic wasteland of Dis was surely something few had ever dreamed of. Of cause, it took some favors from the Mechanicus, and a massive, artificial arcologie, to protect the plants and the prey from the toxic storms, yet he was confident that soon he could dine in the middle of a lush forest, on some fresh, healthy game. Until then, he would have to pass his time with other means. Scratching the ruins of his nose, the lord took another sip from the imported wine, as he glared into the fire of his chimney. All windows had been replaced to show holo-pictures of the lush forests that soon would grow outside, instead of the wasteland outside, and the construction site of the arcologie.

Just as he was about to stand up, the door was slammed open. In shock the lord almost fell over, before staring into the face of a small pale servant, who´s face was in a state of pure terror. "S.s...sir..y.y." Eugen quickly closed in, before grabbing him by his neck. "How dare you, you pathetic worm to interrupted me like that! Oh, i will make sure that they flogg you till you..." The pale man opened his mouth, yet only brought out two words. "Hammon... Blarr!"

It didnt took him long to get to his personal office. An Impressive globe of Dis also served as a Holo table. Nodding to his personal secretaries, the Duke move to his chair, behind his desk. Still the glass of wine in one hand, he rolled with his eyes. "Get him trough! This better be as important as he claims it be!" A few data-prayers were muttered in the background, as the channel of the Blackcoat-Captain was connected.

Hammon Blarr face was covered with dirt and blood, and as the broad shouldered man appeared as a hologram in the middle of the room, the Duke was shocked to see him in such an condition. "Captain, how dare you to come under my eyes in such a state! What possibly could excuse this lacking standard in clothing!" It was then when he noticed the noise of gunfire in the background, and the flashing lights of distant explosions. Blarr´s breath was heavy, as he glared into the light of the servo-skull who was recording this. "Sir! I am sorry for my lacking standards of an officers uniform! But we are under heavy fire! The enemy is outnumbering us greatly and we dont know how long we can hold out!" The Duke raised an eyebrow, as he took another sip. "So, Lord Varod has finally shown his true colors and rebelled? Good we sha..." Blarr took a step closer to the Skull. "Sir! This is a full scale invasion! The PDF is fighting traitor-astartes!" Swallowing to much of the wine, the duke had to cough, before looking up. "This is impossible! There are no traitors..." Now the Captain just grabbed the skull and pointed it the sky, showing the ships, the falling pods and the fire coming from it. "Sir! By all due respect, might i advise you to take a look out of the window?" Losing all color from his face, the Duke waved to one of his servants to turn out the holo-projectors in the windows.

A scream left his lips, and the glass in his hands busted, with sharp splinters cutting deep into his hand. His eyes moved back to the holo, where Hammon, had turned to the side, to fire his pistol at an advancing enemy, before shutting down the connection. "G..get me an ASTROPATH..NOW!"

ASTROPATHIC COMMUNIQUE

- CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: CRIMSON -

YOUR EYES ONLY

Lord Governor,

Dis is under attack! My men are pressed to hold their ground, yet cant withstand the amount of enemy troops! Loyal forces of the PDF have been found and can be attached to Blackcoat command at your order! Preparing evacuation! Need Reinforcements and awaiting futher orders!

Your Loyal Servant,

Eugen Julus Ernst von Dagmar-Regen, Duke of Neo-Thuringia

++Sometime during transit to the Seleucis sector++

"Forgive me for this cowardice, lord Emperor. I'm out."

"The Omnissiah fails to grant me the courage to proceed. I submit."

They both lean up from the table: one with irritation present at the epicentre of hazel eyes, and the other cool headed and blank behind a pair of bionic lenses.

"Happy birthday to me! I've got enough here for a happy ending on Deck 9." The third Erupted in drunken laughter, patted his subordinates on their backs and letting his cards flop down onto the table. Greedily, he scooped up the colourful chips into his thick, bulbous arms and continued to chuckle, much to the discontent of the other players. "Come on guys, be happy for your ol' pal! I've milked enough cash off you fools to get me some fancy metal legs like Jarosh the cogboy here."

Spluttering a binary curse, the priest slowly began to rise from the steel chair and stomped away, with his crimson robe trailing at his feet. The other figure pulled a black jacket from off the back of his seat and hastily adorned it, fitting a black hat that had previously sat lazily on the table onto his balding scalp.

"Apologies Mikhal, but I can't stick around to chat. I need to meet the other Commissars and Colonel Jakobe, and determine our landing strategies before we get into the thick of this war, or else we'll be about as effective as an Ogryn with a sniper rifle." He stood up in a much more casual manner. "You should come too, I expect to see you there in five."

The lieutenant nodded and waved his right hand. "Sure, yeah, I'll get right to it 'trenko. I just need one quick..."

***

"Wake up!" Snarled a mysterious female. "You've slept long enough to miss vital orders, I'd recommend moving before you're repremanded for incompetence."

Jerking out of his seat, Mikhal painfully met the floor with a loud crack from the shot glass in his hand. Warm alcohol splashed against his cheek, yet the distinct aroma of freshly brewed Tanna grabbed his senses by the scruff of the neck, and stood him up. Glazed, his vision could only pick out the oblong shapes of three men in his line of sight. Instinctively, he saluted, although the gesture came out sloppy and the sudden change in weight distribution sent him careering into the table, swiping away the mountain of chips he had so elegantly stacked earlier. How much earlier was still a mystery, to which the answer was unlikely to be good.

"Colour Sergeant, please, there's no need for raised voices." A wrinkled hand took Mikhal's shoulder with surprising strength and lifted him up. "There's nothing a bowl of Tanna can't do to fix up our Platoon Commander."

"M-Mister Jakobe, sir, I'm s-sorry." Mikhal blubbered, wiping his eyes with his pale fingers. "Mikhal Le Noir, reporting for duty."

"Are you this drunk in battle, lieutenant?" Vlad's raspy voice inquired, with an unsettling degree of distortion in the augmented tone. The fibres of his drab greatcoat rubbed static onto Mikhal's crisp white fatigues.

"Never, sir."

"And tell me, how many times have you lost a battle?" His lips curled in a smirk around a thick cigar, which puffed smoke around the thick head of silver hear he wore, within which hid a bulky earpiece.

"Never... sir."

"I see a patten forming, mister Le Noir. Now get yourself sober before I see you again, and we can forget that you almost spent our first battle here face down in a bar five decks below." He passed a bowl of seductively warm broth into Mikhal's welcoming hands, wiping a few drops of spillage from the carapace plates on his chest.

"Wait, my lord, did I miss the briefing?" He panics, almost spilling the tea. "How long was I out?"

"Barely 5 minutes, lieutenant." Commissar Grigori smirks in the doorway, tipping his hat in greeting. "You were out before I left the room."

Hobbling past, with Jakobe and the Colour Sergeant in tow, Mikhal has just enough time to utter a string of curses to the commissar before turning the corner and pushing deeper into the vessel's murky interior, as the metal hulk joins an assembly of Navy vessels in preparation for the first strike on the heretics of the Seleucis sector.

It was no hidden secret that all branches of the Adepta Sororitas wished to die in the Emperor's name; To martyr themselves against the enemies of man in such a fashion that all loyal followers of the God Emperor would hear of it for thousands of years, if not more. That was the 'Dream' as far as the 'daughters of the Emperor' were concerned...

As he walked through the blood splattered floor of the hallway that lead to the Shrine's armory, 'Colonel' Melchior Siegenhausen couldn't help but grin a little to himself; He had granted the sisters what they wanted... through maybe not in the manner in which they had hoped. While he had been elsewhere during the betrayal and putting a bullet into the back of the head of the high bitch herself, he had heard of what had happened there; A couple of squads had managed to infiltrate the armory, seized a couple of the sisters own 'Holy' Bolters and set themselves up to to defend the location from all comers before the alarm was raised. It had been nothing short of complete and utter slaughter.

Passing by the now raided armory, Melchior's smile faded into something more thoughtful as he spied what he was looking for; Several of his men standing around an impressive looking closed vault door, having a rather intense discussion. Now that he could see it for himself, Melchior could understand the hold up. They didn't really have the right equipment for breaching something like this... Not yet anyway.

............................................


Several men saluted as they stood at attention, having traded their old uniforms for the brand new ones of Blackcoat command. The story they told had been a grim one; They had been ordered by their commanding officer to inform the brass that an unknown number of the sisters of the burning violet had betrayed the God Emperor, summoning demons and slaughtering their loyalist sisters in their own shrine. The rest of the regiment had tried to intervene and salvage the situation but all communication with both armed forces had been lost.

With loyal gusto, these men went about their new duties without question... but eyes and ears open for information and possibilities.

The small dark lit chamber rumbled with the Cruisers engines as it sailed through the black void. The room was illuminated by a half circle of candles, the majority of which focused atop a small altar. Positioned crossed legged in the center of the circular room before that same altar and devoid of equipment or armor Canoness Superior Veruya Mercia sat in the middle of the room motionless. Breathing air in slowly through her built in respirator that aided her cybernetic lungs, Veruya could practically sense the palpable calm that had just come over the ship, signaling the sudden exiting of the unpredictable warp into real space. The change from exiting the suffocating shroud of the Empyrean was like a breath of fresh air. The gnawing energies of the warp finally lifting was a relief to the Canoness. The light of the Emperor always seemed so much fainter when in the bowels of that place.

Several minutes after the shift came the hiss of hydraulics which signaled the opening of the only door into the chamber. In stepped a robed figure, and without looking Veruya knew it was Digna Macvicar of the Sisters Dialogous.

Stopping a respectful distance away Digna reported, “Canoness, we have now exited the warp and are within the Seleucis Subsector, the Imperial captain estimates we will arrive within the orbit of Pontius Secundus within four Terran hours.”

Veruya did not respond for a short while-- then said in an oddly synthesized booming voice, “very good Digna. Have the sisters ready within the hour. We will meet in the main cathedral and begin prayer followed by preparations for the coming crusade.”

“Of course Canoness,” the sister dialogous bowed before turning on her heel and leaving through the door once more. Having accomplished her given duty to inform the Canoness Superior when they had arrived.

Veruya lifted her head toward the altar before her, before her gaze fell unconsciously toward her right arm as she raised it. The long sleeve of her robe fell away to reveal a metal hand that gleamed a metallic shine from the light of the nearby candles. Her thoughts went to the dark day she had faced death in her near fatal duel against Warboss Klog. The Ork who had led the mighty ‘waaargh’ on Nuskerus. The result was a dead xeno and the majority of the Canonesses chest caved in and a broken ruined arm. She might have died from her injuries had it not been for the quick thinking of a techpriest that recommended the immediate cybernetic surgical implants that had replaced a great deal of her internal organs such as her lungs along with her right arm up to the elbow. Reinforcing her spine, and augmenting the strength of her right arm. In fact, it was these same cybernetic implants that had spawned the name of Veruya’s order that was born a few weeks after the war ended. All in honor of her efforts in the purging of Hive world Nuskerusof the ork scourge.

In turn, many of her Celestian sisters had since undergone bionic improvements. Primarily those who had received fatal wounds during the long campaign. Even those who were unharmed had done so, seeing it as a form of paying homage to their beloved Canoness. At first, Veruya had not known what to think of such an act; while the benefits to their performance were unmistakable. The shift from organic to mechanical was not something to be taken lightly. While it was true that it was said that the Holy God-Emperor and the Omnissiah were both held to be aspects or faces of the same divine being. Any learned scholar of the faith knew it was a highly contested view between the cult of Mechanicus and the Imperial Creed.

The last thing she wanted was for her order to delve into the fetishism level of love the Iron Hands displayed for all things cybernetic. Flexing the metal fingers of her bionic arm, she sighed, even the sound of breathing out so was oddly synthesized and artificial thanks to the cybernetic components that made up her upper neck and entire lower jaw.

The candles had begun to gutter low in Veruya’s private chapel. They burned in sconces formed of greenskin skulls taken on the open streets of Nuskerus, the largest one at the foot of the altar belonging to the warboss himself. Light shone from the empty eye sockets, and wax dripped from yellowed tusks. Veruya had taken the skulls herself and remembered each blow with eidetic precision.

The sword that struck these heads lay on the obsidian altar she knelt before; its edge was keen as the day it left the techsmith’s forge. It was a potent and blessed power sword named Shades of Violet Mercy, called so due to its violet finish, colored so thanks to the rare mineral it was forged from. When charged with power it hummed a deep amethyst light that seemed to resonate in the hearts and minds of those who witnessed its power. Condemning the damned and inspiring those loyal to the Emperor's light.

Like the masterfully-crafted bolt pistol sitting next to it, the weapon was bound to her by a duty without equal. Finally, she sensed her silent vigil was over; having entered her fast since they had entered the warp to reach the subsector. As always she performed them when traveling through the Immaterium as to ensure safe passage through its madness. She stood smoothly, lifting the sword and pistol from the altar as she rose. The blade captured the light, reflecting a violet glow from its star-forged edge. It was time to make the necessary preparations.

The Devastation pushed forward into the crippled Word Bearers strike cruiser, the length of her hull aflame as she plunged through a firestorm of firepower from the small flotilla she had ambushed. The wrecks of two frigate escorts drifted lazily through the battle, their hulls cracked open and their innards gutted with uncharacteristically accurate fire from the World Eaters strike cruiser. Krale watched silently from the command throne as his shipmaster, a mortal who had once been a Cadian fleet officer, now his world was forgotten, the only sign of it was the violet eyes that were filled with satisfaction as the crew he had drilled from the scum and slaves that filled her halls performed with more skill that even the World Eater Krale was impressed.

The Ursus Claws, a weapon that had been almost exclusive to the World Eaters fired into the rotating flank of the Word Bearer ship, the immense cables pulling taut and dragging the ship towards the Devastation, Krale grinned beneath his helmet as he could almost feel the slaughter that was to come, worthy skulls aplenty with the Word Bearers aboard that ship. He stood without a word, and stalked his way through the halls of the strike cruiser that had been his home even before the Heresy, with him stomped seven of the deadliest fighters of his warband, including himself and he had the holy number of Khorne himself, a good omen if one was to believe in such things.

The crew were busy with damage control or with other tasks that kept them from standing idle, but as the party of World Eaters approached they cleared the way instantly, almost crushing one another in a press so thick it was surprising this many people could breath on the ancient strike cruiser. Krale thumbed the activation rune of his immense, two-handed chainaxe, the daemon bound within sensing the bloodshed to come, revving itself hungrily as he felt its presence merging with his own mind. The Butcher’s Nails sensed the intrusion, and reacted as he knew they would, coursing pain and rage into his mind, he could feel the bloodlust coming, the red haze creeping into his eyes.

“Enough!” he snapped, swinging the axe sharply to his right, the unfortunate slaughterscum who stood within reach screaming in pain as his chest was ripped open by the teeth of the still weapon.

Kor’agrash, the daemon bound within the axe hissed in his mind, trying to forge itself into control again, feeding the Nails and the rage they controlled, within his mind he could see it grinning at him, the red-skinned creature had once been a Bloodthirster, defeated in combat by Krale many millennia ago, the hatred it felt at being trapped within a weapon was almost visible in the space between them, and every day Krale felt the daemon trying to break free of the bindings. Krale took a deep breath before continuing to the hanger bay, Kor’agrash was a threat that he had countered in the Eye of Terror, and the longer he kept from Eye the more annoying the daemon became, as if the distance from its own realm angered it even more.

“My lord, the Stormbird is ready for you,” said Hanger Master Balkus, an ancient mortal, who had a mastery of the logistics required for running of a hanger that was almost preternatural.

Krale didn’t answer, he simply walked onto his personal Stormbird, his chosen squad filing in behind him, two more squads climbing in after them, the tension was visible, an almost electric charge filtering through them all as the slab-like ramp rose into place, casting them in the deep red of the interior lighting, the dirge-caster throwing the calls of the Blood God’s daemons and the screams of dying to wash over the assembled warriors. He felt the surge of the Stormbird roaring out of his strike cruiser, slamming the base of his chainaxe against the metal grate beneath him, pounding out a steady beat, watching the distance-counter on his lens ticking away rapidly, other World Eaters following suit, the interior filling with the clattering of weapons and feet on the deck, fists on chests and against the walls of the venerable Stormbird, it wasn’t for any reason other than to distract them and prevent a brawl within the tight confines of the Stormbird, but as the distance dropped, the beat increased, like a rumble of thunder announcing a storm, it built in intensity.

The Stormbird itself was flying through the scattered interceptor fire the Word Bearers still had operational, a flight of Hellbats a variant of corrupted Fury’s, favoured by the Imperium, flying close protection around it, even as the Thunderhawks and other transports filled the space between the two ships, not everything was surviving the short flight, a thunderhawk bearing renegades of the Crimson Sabres, long since calling themselves the Crimson Slaughter, sworn to his service was destroyed, casting the tattered remains of the Astartes within through the void like debris. A fat troop carrier with slaughterscum, the dregs of humanity so lost to bloodlust they could be called beasts, exploded spectacularly so violently its death caught one of the many Hellbats roaring between the transports.

“Ten seconds!” roared Krale as he pushed to the front of the gathered World Eaters.

“Maim! Kill! Burn!” chanted one of the World Eaters, the chant being echoed by the twenty-four World Eaters rapidly as the slaughter came that much closer.

They all jerked forward as the Stormbird hurled into the launch bay of the Word Bearers, its weapon systems wiping out any groups of the enemies, the ramp slamming down with a clatter on the deck, the scattered remnants of the Word Bearers deckhands backing away as the World Eaters charged out of the ancient gunship. Krale was the first into the enemy, his hungry chainaxe cleaving through mortals without pause, but it was too easy, the mortals falling like wheat to the scythe, and it was then that the real threat came into the launch bay. Two squads of Word Bearers, bearing their bolters at the ready filing out of the entrance portal. The blood-crazed slaughterscum charged straight into the Word Bearers guns, bursting apart easily as they made no headway in reaching the Astartes.

One of the Word Bearers carried a heavy bolter, and raked his weapon through the mortals, loyal to both the World Eaters and the Word Bearers, Krale picked up a dropped power sword of one of his World Eaters, the previous owner laying in a pool of his own congealing blood, armor pulped by the heavy bolter. Throwing it like a spear he didn’t expect to even wound the Word Bearer, but it did catch his attention, ducking back as the sword sailed past. The momentary reprieve in firepower allowing the Astartes of the Blood Hands warband to charge forward, half a dozen of the renegades who had joined the band falling before they reached the Word Bearers, a couple of World Eaters knocked off their feet, and then the battle was joined, ceramite clashed against ceramite, the screech of chainweapons carving into ancient armor, bolters discharged at close range, throwing bodies back. Krale dragged his weapon clear of the stomach of the Word Bearer he gutted, kicking the dying warrior to the ground and marching past, the champions were his goal, and they were skilled, working together to cut down any who closed with them.

“Blood for the Blood God!” he roared, leaping at the pair, he heavy axe driving one champion to his knees as he blocked it with both his power swords. His comrade sweeped into try and catch Krale as his weapon was engaged, swinging a power maul for the side of the World Eaters warlord.

Krale stepped back out of the blow, pulling his weapon back, the head of the immense weapon dragging the two swords with it, pulling the Word Bearer off balance. Spinning on the spot he brought his axe around on the stumbling Word Bearer, the axehead smashing into the faceplate, the revving engine suddenly roaring again as Kor’agrash tasted the blood of another Astartes, the champion falling with half his skull removed, the jagged remains spitting blood before the body toppled over. Krale didn’t stop though, stepping around the toppling body to swing his axe overhead, slamming into the raised weapon to block in, driving the Word Bearer to his knees, the teeth scraping against the pauldron of the warrior. He kicked out sharply, pushing the champion to the deck, he struggled to defend himself as the axe came down again, smashing into his chest, the power of the strike crumpling the armor and the daemon feasting on the rich blood of another champion.

His warriors had slaughtered the rest of the Word Bearers, not free of losses, a trio of World Eaters lay in the heaped warriors, as did many of the renegades that had joined the Blood Hands. Krale shrugged as he ripped his weapon free of the champion’s body, and led the charge into the bowels of the Word Bearers ship, slaughtering the crew as they went, battling the Word Bearers as they found them. The Blood Hands swarmed the Word Bearer’s ship, filling the halls with their own slaughterscum and bloody butchers as they claimed deck after deck, the gunnery deck fell silent, the few remaining weapons no longer spitting angrily at the Devastation as the slaugherscum overran the gunnery crews and slaves. The engine room fell to a freakishly coordinated attack from both entrances by World Eaters and members of the Skulltakers, the Apothecarium was taken from three squads of Word Bearers by a swarm of slaughterscum and fifty Astartes owing allegiance to Zathos Krale, the Bloody Hand.

All that was left, was the bridge, the blast door sealed, the bodies of a squad of Word Bearers and their cultist followers, mixed with the odd body of one of Krale’s warriors and mounds of slaughterscum, and Krale licked his lips as the largest World Eater, and most ancient of their number stalked forward, his immense armored form dripping with gore, the World Eaters bowing their heads in respect to this most ancient of their former Legion. Varkas the Immortal, sealed within the corrupted form of a Contemptor-pattern Dreadnought, his sanity still in check, for he never suffered the bite of the Butcher’s Nails, although the blood lust of Khorne could overwhelm even his ancient mind at times.

“Brother Slaughterer,” growled Varkas as he stamped past, drawing his form back and lunging forth to slam his powerfists against the blast door.

Again and again he struck, the doors designed to protect the most critical section of the bridge could not withstand the power arrayed against them, over and over he struck the metal bending at first, and then the breach appeared, enough for one of the thick fingers of the powerfist to grip, hauling the breach wider as a hail of bolter fire rained uselessly against the Immortal’s skin, detonating against the massive powerfist currently ripping the blast door apart. The Immortal shattered what remained of the door, stomping into the bridge and flooring Word Bearer after Word Bearer, crushing some beneath his tread, smashing others with blows of his fists, keeping his weapons clear of the World Eaters that swarmed in after him. The slaughter was complete, the Word Bearers Dark Acolyte fighting to the last, but his skills were found wanting as Krale cut down his personal champion, only for Varkas to lunge forward and tear the posturing fool in two with an almost casual gesture.

The slaughter was complete, and the World Eaters and their renegade cousins began the grisly task to claiming the skulls of the fallen for Khorne, the holds of two fat transports filled to the brim as Krale reached the launch bay again, stepping over discarded bodies, the armor stripped from the fallen being piled by the slaves of one of the warpsmiths of the Blood Hands, the weapons similarly being placed for collection. He stalked past them all, reaching his target, the Warpsmith Tygarias, formerly of the Iron Warriors, his bloodlust brought common cause with the Blood Hands, serving as their chief master of the machines.

“What did we get then?” he growled, planting the head of his axe against the deck.

“Another Stormbird, and two more Thunderhawks from this bay, the other has only one serviceable Thunderhawk, but requires some repairs,” said Tygarias happily, looking at the forms of the ones to be salvaged for parts. “These however will need to be pulled apart, even I can’t get them to fly again,”

“Anything else?”

“A few empty dreadnoughts, and a mess of hell machines that seem to be waiting for daemonic insertion, they should be ready for the next war you find for us,” the warpsmith twisted the bolter in his hand slowly, the attached plasma device was spent, but the warpsmith didn’t care overly much, his gauntlet absorbing the weapon easily, the Obliterator Virus within his body aiding him in his belief that the machine would best the flesh. “We have the gene-seed of their apothecarium, enough to make perhaps fifty warriors, and the arms and armor of the dead would go a long way to arming them,”

“And the kill count?” grumbled Krale as he pictured bastard sons of Lorgar fighting alongside his warband.

“Final tally of worthy kills? One hundred and sixty-three Word Bearers, including the ones on the bridge, and we lost eighty-three of the renegades, and twenty-six World Eaters,” said Tygarias peacefully, watching his arm form into the combi-bolter he had just absorbed.

“Get it aboard the Devastation, and set the charges, the Word Bearers can have their ship back, doesn’t need to be easy for them though,” said Krale stepping aboard his Stormbird.

He had another war to reach, and he would reach it before the month was out, of that he had no doubt, the bloody dreams that plagued his moments of sleep showing a war with many worthy kills to be had. With a roar to Khorne he threw himself into one of the seats of the Stormbird, panting as the flashes of memory filled his mind of the slaughter that had just happened, the champions who fell to him, the warriors who barred his path, glimpses were all he had, the Butcher’s Nails had turned it all into a blur of movement and flashes of the blood red he enjoyed seeing. Looking at his hands, the blood coating him so thickly that the brass edging along his armor was all but gone, the planet in the great maw was still visible on his pauldron, as was the blood hand placed over it, as though even Khorne wanted people to know who was to be killing them. Soon it would happen again.

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