# Carrion Lords



## Sigmatus (Nov 22, 2009)

*Chapter One: Drops of Steel* 

Bolter shells spanged from the hull of _Filth Nest_ as the assault ramp dropped opened, letting the harsh, reddish sunlight of Gorgon into the Land Raider's corrupted interior. Commander Morbaine shouldered his massive terminator-armored form past his bodyguards, stomping out into the churned-up mud of the battlefield. Clouds of flies followed him as he stepped over the corpse of a fallen Blood Angel, his storm bolter barking into the ranks of the approaching enemy squad. A single power-armored warrior was pitched off his feet, a shell taking him through the eyepiece of his helmet. The rest surged forward, emboldened by their battle brother's death.
"Revenge! Revenge!" They cried, returning fire with bolt pistols as they closed, chainswords roaring.
Morbaine chuckled, phlegm bubbling up in his throat. To battle at last. _The Filth Nest_'s treads spun again, spraying mud everywhere as the last of the plague marines piled out, slogging to stand at their commander's side. The Land Raider trundled off, supporting the Death Guard squads further down the line, its lascannons hissing as it spat angry bolts of energy at the False Emperor's lackeys.
The plague marines held their ground, the bolt pistol slugs slamming into their armor, denting it in places, blasting apart ceramite in others. Brother Torvis took a mortal wound to the chest that sprayed diseased blood and pus all around. The plague marine staggered backwards, but shook off the blow and returned fire with his own bolter. Brother Rorun at Morbaine's left finally fell to the incoming fire, his body shuddering under multiple blows.
Morbaine mentally opened the vox link to his bodyguards. "Now." He rasped.
As one, the squad of plague marines ceased their bolter fire, each of them plucking a fleshy, pod-looking device from their belts. The pins were pulled, and the squad tossed the blight grenades into the advancing Blood Angels. The weapons exploded, discharging a foul green vapor. The furious Blood Angel charge faltered as its warriors ran into the cloud, and perhaps fifteen feet from Morbaine's squad, they shook their helmeted heads and coughed. The momentum was lost at a critical moment.
"With me, Death Guard!" Morbaine cried, his storm bolter blazing. His free hand ripped his plague sword from its scabbard, the blessed weapon oozing snot and filth. His battle brothers lurched forwards with him, drawing their combat knives and slamming into the Blood Angels.
Morbaine met with the enemy squad's sargeant first. The Blood Angel swept his shimmering power sword at the Death Guard Captain's face, sliding in the mud with the momentum of his attack. Morbaine easily parried, bashing the power weapon aside and smashing the pommel of the plague sword into the sargeant's face so hard his helmet was wrenched from his armor. The Blood Angel sagged to his knees, and flies greedily swarmed from Morbaine's infested body towards the sargeant's exposed face. The commander cut the feasting short with a point-blank blast from the storm bolter to the sargeant's head that geysered gore to and fro.
Speed and fury belonged to the Blood Angels, but tenacity and ruthlessness belonged to the Death Guard. Traitor and loyalist fought tooth and nail in the slippery mud, bashing, punching, stabbing and shooting one another. One plague marine fell as a chainsword bit into the back of his leg, severing the limb below the knee. He didn't scream, only glutched curiously at the stump of his leg. His Blood Angel opponent stepped round his prone body, raising the chainsword up for the coup de gras. The blow stopped short as Morbaine struck out, decapitating the warrior mid-swing.
The dirty lenses of the downed plague marine regarded his commander passively for a moment, before a throaty laughed filled the vox in Morbaine's ear. The commander couldn't help but laugh as well. The Death Guard commander turned to find fresh opponents, and the prone plague marine remained seated, snapping off bolter shots into the melee swirling around him.
The plague sword rose and fell; rose and fell, burying itself into loyalist armored flesh, landing with meaty squelching and ripping free again with wet sucking sounds. The more souls it reaped for Grandfather Nurgle, the thicker the cloud of flies surrounding Morbaine became. A sword-arm severed at the wrist here, a Blood Angel spitted through the breastplate there. At times, Morbaine thought, it was almost understandable why so many warriors walked the path of the Blood God.
Almost.
The last of the Blood Angels squad was roughly shoved off his feet by a pair of plague marines, and he splashed backwards into the blood-soaked mud. Before he could right himself, both plague marines brought their bolters around, riddling the warrior with bolter shells.
Morbaine turned his head, regarding the skyline before him. Dozens, if not hundreds of little red-hued drop pods descended from Gorgon's atmosphere. His eyes swept down, and before him on the muddy, flat badlands, the front lines of his army was pushing the Blood Angels backwards. A victory, true, but soon it would not be enough. There were too many.
He switched the vox channels to the primary command node.
"Yuman?" He voxed.
"Yes, Lord Morbaine." His personal sorceror voxed back from somewhere deep inside the curtain wall at his back.
"The counter-attack fares well, but more of the Corpse Emperor's lapdogs are arriving as we speak. Has there been any sign of the primarch?"
"No, Lord. No word from Mortarion." Yuman replied. "Our fleet in orbit is still evading. Should I give the order to try and intercept?"
Morbaine frowned. So, he thought, the primarch really had abandoned them. With all the traitor fleets reeling from the death of Horus, most had abandoned the tiny empires they had created on their march to Terra, and fled into the Eye of Terror. Mortarion, however, had urged his commanders to dig in and defend the worlds of the Ullian Subsector to the last. More and more, however, it seemed that the primarch had merely used them as a rearguard to buy time for his own escape. The promised relief fleet was still nowhere in sight, and the full-scale counter attack by the loyalists was punishing.
Commander Morbaine growled angrily.
"My Lord?" Yuman asked again.
"No. Our fleet is outnumbered by the Imperials and having them dash themselves against the enemy ships will only buy us a week's respite, maybe less. We're returning to the fortress. I have another plan to discuss with the company leaders."
"Aye, dark one." Yuman replied. "Grandfather watch over your return."
Morbaine cut the link.


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## Sigmatus (Nov 22, 2009)

*Chapter Two: The Mad Court*

Hundreds of meters of rock surrounded the Death Guard central command on Gorgon. Built into the side of the mountain, the Skala Fortress was accessible only by two massive adamantium doors built in front of twin narrow ravines that funneled into a single kill zone in front of the primary gate. Casements and bunkers sprang from the rock face, overlapping fields of fire bearing down on the approaches, the heavy bolter emplacements manned by the soldiers of the Putrid, Morbaine's army of mortals and renegades.
Further outwards was the curtain wall, from which Death Guard and the Putrid alike had been harrying the enemy, launching counter attack after counter attack, disrupting the Blood Angels efforts at organizing a coherent frontline for a siege.
Deep inside of Skala, Morbaine wrenched his horned helmet free and thumped it down on the long tactical map before him. Around the table in the situation room stood the most senior of his warriors. At his right stood Yuman, the bloated, fat sorceror inscrutable under his skull mask. Maggots cloyed at his diseased skin, lovingly corrupting his flesh.
Across the table, his power armor adorned with dozens of shrunken heads of vanquished foes stood Morbaine's champion, Toth the Vulture. Despite the mottled condition of his scalp, Toth still retained a dirty tangle of long black hair, his lips rotted away to reveal rotted teeth. The Vulture leaned on a massive scythe, pus dripping from every oriface of his face.
Finally, at Morbaine's left stood the simple, unimposing form of Demetrius Vandrick, the nominal commander of The Putrid. The Putrid were an invention of Morbaine's, created when the Death Guard first conquered the Ullian subsector before the Siege of Terra. When Morbaine had been given the rights to Gorgon, he immediately conscripted every able-bodied man and woman on the planet into a renegade force that fought like a twisted parody of the Imperial Army. Vandrick had been chosen to lead the Putrid, having been an Imperial Army colonel before pledging himself to Mortarion. Despite how out of place The Putrid senior officer looked amongst the astartes before him, Morbaine knew he was a ruthless, dedicated servant of Nurgle. Vandrick stood with his gas hood lowered, his boil-covered face set hard, his eyes weeping a yellowish fluid.
What a blessed gathering, thought Morbaine.
He swept his head over the campaign map. "We are utterly surrounded, and we ultimately face two options. If we stay here and maintain the garrison, we'll reap a bountiful harvest of souls. But ultimately we will be defeated." The Death Guard had no use for soaring speeches or false hope, only phlegmatic pragmatism.
"What of our primarch?" Toth asked, mucus rattling in his throat. "Mortarion promised to use his fleet as a mobile reserve. Perhaps if he can force a landing behind our hated brothers, we can sally forth and crush them in a pincer."
"Mortarion is not coming, Toth. Banish the thought from your mind." Yuman answered, sounding immensely displeased. "We are left to face the full wrath of the Imperial counter attack alone. We are abandoned."
"You don't know that." The Vulture answered tersely.
Commander Morbaine sighed. "I don't want to believe that, but I am forced to concede that it sounds likely. The entire sub-sector is under siege. The Blood Angels and Imperial Army hit us in this system, while Russ's wolves ravage another. Already two worlds in the Ullian sub have fallen to the Imperial push. Mortarion knows that this corner of space is lost. He has left us for the Eye."
"We have to assume that, at any rate." Vandrick put in. "The Putrid stand ready to die, if our lives are asked. What is the other option, my lord?"
Morbaine strode around the map, looking each of his commanders in the eye. "We may yet have a chance to evade the enemy, and regroup. The enemy fleet dispositions in the system are powerful and numerous, but their strategy is flawed. Yuman? Illuminate."
The Nurglite sorceror cleared his throat. "My magisters and I have cast our warp sight far, and it reveals a fatal weakness in the enemy fleet's tactics, born of hubris. Each flotilla besieging our worlds has positioned itself in a picket formation, intent on keeping us contained for a ground war. Few if any ships have been kept in reserve. If we can escape Gorgon with our local fleet intact, we can jump quickly to the neighboring systems and hit the enemy on the flank, exposing each of their ships to the combined fire of our cruisers. This could have a domino effect. With each of our sister worlds we liberate, their Death Guard contingents and ships will be added to our own."
"And we move from world to world, bringing more of our abandoned brethren into our flock." Morbaine added. "The most difficult part will be getting our local forces off Gorgon intact, and into orbit with the _Pandemic_." Morbaine smiled at the thought of being reunited with his prized flagship. "It currently hides behind the system's star, along with its escorts, awaiting orders."
The Vulture seemed unsure. "So then, how do you propose we force a breakout? The Blood Angels grow in number each passing week."
Morbaine smiled again, running his rotted tongue over his cracked lips. 
He turned his head towards Vandrick. "Do the Putrid still maintain the stockpile of biological weapons, as ordered?"
Vandrick laughed, his fists clenching and unclenching at the thought. "We do, my lord."
Morbaine nodded, and turned his head towards the Vulture. "That is how, my dear Toth. We are going to kill Blood Angels. Many of them, all at once."


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## Sigmatus (Nov 22, 2009)

*Chapter Three: Angels in Red*

"Anything on the augurs yet?" Blood Angels Captain Martel asked from the bridge of the battlebarge _Red Fury_, the flagship of the Blood Angels fleet in the system. The deep red of the captain's cape swirled around him as he turned, bringing his hard gaze to rest on the rows of cogitators that made up the sensorium station of the bridge. The legion serfs were alert, backs bent over their tiny screens, headphones covering their ears as they exchanged data with their counterparts on the scattered ends of the massive ship.
The sensorai moderatus inclined his head respectfully to his commander. "Nothing, captain. From what we can see, the _Red Fury_ and its sisters are alone in the system."
Martel grunted, dissatisfied. "The _Pandemic_ is still here, lurking about somewhere. Somewhere in the system. I can feel its taint." The captain looked out the massive viewport at the front of the bridge, the swollen mass of Gorgon occupying the majority of the panorama. Stars twinkled around it where the atmosphere gave way to hard vacuum. Though they could not be seen with the naked eye from this viewpoint, he knew that the rest of the combined Blood Angels and Imperial fleet were positioned in similar locations around the planet. "So long as the traitor flagship remains in one piece, this planet is not fully secure."
Successful as the ground campaign has been thus far, Martel was truthfully not satisfied with its progress. The mighty Blood Angels had been reduced to a besieging force, a pace which was without dignity for an astartes legion. The initial attack on the planet had vanquished the Death Guard holdings at various points throughout the planet, but they had been caught unawares when the civilians on the planet itself had attacked them.
They had changed. The same taint that had corrupted Horus and led to the death of the beloved primarch had spread into the general population of Gorgon, and Martel had no doubt that the Death Guard were to blame. The civilians had fled from them, some even throwing themselves against the Blood Angels in a futile attempt at defiance. In some spots the traitor marines had met them, counter-attacking with dogged determination. In others, the Blood Angels were slowed by the sudden appearance of Imperial Army renegades, normal humans in off-white uniforms and gashoods calling themselves the Putrid. 
Then the strategy had changed. The planet itself could not be liberated, and the authorization to deploy cyclonic torpedos had been recieved; but Captain Martel was no coward. He would not simply bombard his enemies from afar. Though the planet-killing torpedos were primed and ready for use, he would crush the nerve center of enemy resistence first, to show them the full measure of the Blood Angels' fury. Then, and only then would Gorgon die. First the Skala Fortress would fall.
From the data streaming on the command lectern before him, Martel could see that the siege line was holding well, taking casualties at its forward elements but otherwise holding. The full disposition of the enemy forces within Skala were unknown, but it was only a matter of time. The Death Guard were cut off from reinforcements and utterly surrounded. Even if the _Pandemic_ reappeared, rebel forces planetside would be unable to reach it to safely escape. The enemy battle barge would be battered by the combiend fire of an entire fleet as it recieved its refugees, and it would be annihilated.
"Captain Martel," The communications adept called from the comms pit at the edge of the bridge. "Incoming hail from the planet's surface, but it lacks the authentification codes."
Martel squinted. "The enemy is hailing our ship?"
"It seems so, sir. Shall I open the channel?"
Martel sneered, turning to face the hololith screen. "Bring it through."
With the press of a few buttons, the hololith winked to life. Looming over the Blood Angels captain was the three-dimensional image of a huge being in terminator armor, his face pocked with sores and a maze of scars.
"So the filth comes to speak? Perhaps to beg for mercy? I should warn you, I have nothing but pain and death for you." Martel remarked, looking up at the image of the traitor marine.
"Captain Martel." Morbaine smiled. "We have a matter to discuss."


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## Sigmatus (Nov 22, 2009)

*Chapter Four: The Axe, Before the Fall*

Toth the Vulture and Vandrick walked side by side, the Putrid commander have to bring himself to a trot to keep up with the astartes. He was having a difficult time focussing on what Toth was saying, as the vox-link in his ear was alilve with the sounds of war. The Imperial Army was hitting curtain wall hard, with the Blood Angels making surgical attacks on heavy weapons emplacements and command bunkers. Casualties were mounting, but so far the line continued to hold.
"We should not be in here." The Vulture growled. "In the depths of Skala, mulling over doomsday weapons and deception. I should be on the front. I should be slick with loyalist blood."
The pair rounded another corner. In truth, Vandrick wished The Vulture wasn't here either. Even after nearly a decade of loyal service, it infuriated the Putrid commander that Lord Morbaine still insisted on having an astartes leader babysit him in the most important matters. Toth knew nothing about the virus warheads tucked away in the depths of Skala's hidden orbital missile batteries. Still, Toth was astartes, and Vandrick was not. In the end, that was all that seemed to matter. During his service on Gorgon, raising and training the Putrid for Morbaine, using them to uproot and slaughter those civilians still loyal to the Golden Throne, Vandrick ached for the Death Guard commander's total trust. More than that, he ached for elevation to the ranks of the Death Guard. He knew he was strong enough. In his heart, Vandrick knew it. He had watched the Putrid's strongest and fittest warriors elevated, few though they may have been, and watched jealously.
One day, Vandrick swore.
At last, the pair came to a massive, rusted pair of blast doors at the heart of Skala, flanked by a pair of Putrid soldiers. Glowglobes flickered around them as artillery shells crumped into the earth above them. The Putrid sentries nodded their gas-hooded heads, saluting their commander and the astartes champion respectfully. The soldiers turned to the keypads flanking either side of the door, simulataneously entering a long series of numerals.
"Password accepted. Voice identification required, command level vermillion." An electronic voice rasped from the keypad. Vermillion level. Only Lord Morbaine's inner circle could open these doors. Vandrick stepped forwards.
"Commander Demetrius Vandrick. Putrid High Command." There was a whirring, clicking noise, and then a hard metallic thud as the vault's locks disengaged.
"Acces granted." The voice returned, the blast doors sliding opened. "Praise the Lord of Flies."
"All praises be." The Vulture answered.
Vandrick turned to the door sentries. "Get on the vox. I need all available engineers down here." One of the Putrid nodded, keying his vox and relaying the orders.
Vandrick and the Vulture walked into the orbital missile battery. "You are sure the warheads can be detached without releasing the virus?" Toth asked, sounding dubious.
Vandrick grinned. "Well, I suppose we'll find out."


"I'll make this quick, Captain Martel." Morbaine said, gazing up at the hololithic image of the Blood Angel commander from his situation room. Yuman stood quietly in the corner, passively using his sorcery to block any tracing devices the enemy might link to the broadcast. "This whole invasion, this war is all well and good, as wars go. I have seen it firsthand, but one thing troubles me. I have yet to see you on the ground, fighting amongst your brothers."
Martel laughed, his manner harsh. "My battle brothers can dispose of you filth easily enough without my help. I am content to watch your deaths from orbit. Besides, someone has to remain in command of the _Red Fury_, ready to tear the heart out of your flagship whenever it deigns to return to the battle. Now, does this communication have a point? Just looking at you makes me sick."
Morbaine hocked, hacking up a wad of phlegm and spat in on the floor before him, relishing the look of disgust in the Blood Angel. "I'll get right to the point then. I want to test your mettle. I want to fight you myself. I would like the opportunity to break you, infest your body with Nurgle's blessings, and be your salvation. You are lost, let me help you to be found."
Martel squinted, his face conveying a mix of disbelief and ammusement. "I have no time for your tricks. You are unworthy to face me in single combat. You are a traitor, worthy only of annihilation. This communication is over."
"Did Sanguinius have the same qualms?" Morbaine blurted out quickly. He watched the image of Martel flicker, and then return to full power as the Blood Angel restored the link. The captain's jaw flexed, his eyes suddenly full of murder.
"Do not dare speak his name."
"I think he did not." Morbaine added. "Judging by your hesitancy, and the ineptitude of your battle brothers that I have killed with sword, fist and bolter, I should say cowardice must be an integral part of the Blood Angel geneseed."
Martel was visibly shaking with rage now. "You-"
"In fact," Morbaine interrupted. "I imagine that Sanguinius was struck down from behind by Horus, bludgeoned in the back of the head as he attempted to flee single combat with the warmaster."
"Enough! I shall kill you for your words, you bastard!" Martel spat, his face shuddering.
"Doubtful. I am no longer interested in fighting you, coward. I will not allow myself to taste the same disappointment Horus did. I apologize for wasting your time." Morbaine replied, feigning disinterest. "If you will excuse me, I have a war to conduct."
"No! I will tear out your black heart and leave your body in the void! I will face you, only name your terms!"
Morbaine looked up at the image of Martel for a long moment before answering. "Very well. I will even give you the home turf advantage. I will launch assault boats I have stowed away in Skala. I will be aboard one of them, as will an honor guard. You are to order your fleet to hold their fire, allow us to close. When we board the _Red Fury_, I expect to find you waiting to face me in single combat, though I must say, I am prepared for disappointment."
Someone was saying something to Blood Angel from the side of the hololith, but Captain Martel silenced them with a hissed rebuke. "You shall have your fight, you hellspawned filth. My crew will stand down to assault boats, and assault boats only. If my augurs detect any torpedos, then the deal if off. Come to me, and find your death."
"There's a good lad. Be sure to think of some fitting last words before I arrive. Your primarch begging Horus for mercy was most unbecoming." Morbaine severed the link before the incensed captain could reply.
Yuman laughed in the corner from behind his skull mask. "So, he is a dead man then."
Morbaine smiled and nodded. "Send the order. Load the warheads into the assault boats."


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## Sigmatus (Nov 22, 2009)

*Chapter Five: The Vulture, Unleashed*

Lieutenant Greise dropped into cover behind the overturned chimera, hearing the vehicle's steel rattle from the incoming whiz-crack of lasbolts. His command squad dropped in behind him, their gashoods failing to hide their wide-eyed expressions. The Imperials had them, they were pinned.
Greise tapped his voxbead again. "HQ this is Putrid Five! The enemy is through the curtain wall! I say again, our line is rolling up! Requesting armor support, over!" The link was alive with similar requests from other platoons, and Greise cursed.
"Damn it, we're dead!" Frost, the ironically named flamer-toting soldier exclaimed, peering round behind the wrecked transport. "Blood Angels are moving in behind them! Damn it, Damn it!"
"Shut your mouth, Frost, you idiot!" Greise screamed over the din of battle, but sliding down in the mud and looking for himself, the Putrid platoon leader could see it was true. For every Imperial Army platoon that darted from cover to cover. clambering over the wreckage of the curtain wall, a squad of red-armored astartes waded through the carnage, spear heading the assauly, and seemingly untouched by the lasbolts sailing through the air.
"All Putrid units," The vox clicked in Greise's ear. "Be advised, reinforcements inbound. Hold them back, in the name of the Plague Lord." It was Commander Vandrick's voice.
Easy for you to say, Greise thought bitterly. You're holed up in Skala and out of this hellstorm.
"Slow them down, best as possible!" Greise said aloud to his squad. The soldiers under his command went prone, finding tiny firing lanes between bits of twisted metal in the chimera's hull. Greise switching vox cannels. "Fifth platoon, I need covering fire! Focus on the astartes with the heavy weapons!" At his left and right, the lieutenant saw the line was falling to pieces. At his left, The Putrid fought with sabers and knives in hand to hand combat against the Imperial soldiers. Men on both sides were stabbed and clubbed and shot at close range. At his right, things were worse. One of the Blood Angels squads had lobbed a grenade into one of the interior bunkers, the crumping explosion killing the Putrid trapped inside. The heavy weapons fell silent.
"Shit, we're going to be flanked. We have to make a run for it!" Greise called out.
"Where to?" Frost asked. "We're going to be shot in the back as soon as we stand. We're dead!"
A humming sound cut in over the cacophony of battle, and Greise watching as the enemy soldiers and astartes alike looked and gestured to the air behind him. Tearing his eyes away from the advancing enemy and curling himself more tightly into cover, Greise eyed the horizon behind him. 
Three mottled green Thunderhawks closed in, and from where he crouched Greise could just barely make out the insignia of the Death Guard on the hulls. The lieutenant grinned beneath his gashood.
"Grenades free, give them room to breathe!" He voxed. On command, the squads in his platoon could be heard relaying the order. Along the line, those Putrid who were not being butchered in cose combat were lobbing frags grenades into sailing arcs before them. Answering explosions kicked up grey, pasty mud and shrapnel. Dozens of Imperial soldiers, ducked into cover, their advance faltering. One Blood Angel even dropped into the mud, dead.
As they closed, the Thunderhawks tilted their noses down, and a cluster of hellstrike missiles whooshed from their wing mountings. Riding contrails of white smoke, the lethal projectiles screamed towards the breach that was now teeming with enemy reinforcements.
"Down! Cover!" Greise voxes. The earth shook, and eardrums ruptured as the deadly payloads struck all at once along the already pulverized curtain wall. Fire, limbs and chunks of rockrete sailed in all directions. Greise laughed at the carnage, his ears bleeding.
"Eat it, you bastards!" He yelled, though no one could possibly hear him.
The Thunderhawks branched out, crawling to a slow hover along the weak points in the line. As they slowly lowered, their hull-mounted heavy bolters chattered into the ranks of the survivors. Tracers lit up the sky, and Blood Angels and Imperial soldiers alike sprinted for cover or were scythed down. Still, further back the enemy pushed anew from the breach.
One Thunderhawk hovered in the air just a few meters above Greise's position, and from it leapt Morbaine's personal champion. The Vulture splashed down into the mud behind their position, the Manreaper schythe held in his powerful arms. Three Death Guard squads leapt out behind him.
The other two Thunderhawks further down on either side of the line were disgorging what combined must have been an entire company of Putrid, many of them toting heavy and special weapons. The reinforcements surged forward as the Thunderhawks remained hovering, throwing down covering fire.
"Up!" Greise voxed to his platoon. "Five platoon! Up and at the loyalist scum! For Grandfather Nurgle!"
His platoon rose from cover, howling and firing from the hip as they advanced.

The Vulture ran as fast as his genetically altered speed would allow, his massive power-armored form splashing up mud and puddles of gore as he moved. The plague marines ran at his back, firing their bolters as they moved. He raised the Manreaper in the air as he ran towards the enemy. He wanted them to see their deaths coming.
As he ran, Toth watched a squad of Blood Angel assault marines vault over the curtain wall, their jetpacks screaming. They were out of his range, but it was clear that they were moving towards one of the Thunderhawks.
"Carrion two," Toth voxed. "You have incoming! Pull back!"
It was too late. The assault marines touched ground, darting from cover to cover, avoiding the chattering heavy bolter fire of the flier. Their chainswords slaughtered stranded Putrid soldiers as they moved. Then, as soon as they were within jump range, the packs flared again. The Blood Angels soared into the air, gliding alongside the Thunderhawk's hull. As one, the assault marines tossed melta bombs into exposed hatches and along the crevasses in the wings.
Explosions blossomed along the Thunderhawk, and carrion two strungled to stay aloft. It surged first right, then left before secondary explosions in the remaining hellstrike missiles were touched off. The Thunderhawk exploded in a fiery blossom, its bulk crashing into the ground and throwing debris everywhere. An entire squad of Putrid were smashed by the smoking adamantium.
Toth cursed, leaping over cover and into the midst of Imperial soldiers. He crushed one with his heavy landing, feeling the man's bones snap beneath his colossal weight. A dozen lasrifles and bayonets pointed towards him. Manreaper swept out, shearing apart lasguns, arms, legs and torsos. Five men died immediately, another two falling with infected wounds. The plague marines piled in behind him, bludgeoning the soldiers with the stocks of the bolters, bashing them about the face with power-armored gauntlets, and raking them with their combat knives. Flies swarmed over them. Nurgle was watching.
The counter attack moved all along the line, the Putrid screaming as they advanced on all sides. Toth leaped up onto the smoking remains of an enemy sentinel, looking back towards the enemy assault marines. The loyalists were butchering through one of the squads of Death Guard at his back. The Vulture roared a challenge, and the assault marines sargeant's helmeted head swiveled in his direction. Toth beckoned him forward with a sweep of Manreaper.
"Come! Come and die! You are but wheat before me!" The Vulture screamed. The sargeant decapitated a plague marine, and chopped his black-blood spattered chainsword in Toth's direction. Slowly, the victorious Blood Angels were moving towards Toth's squad.
"Push on to the breach" He voxed to the plague marines around him. "Drive them out. I have a harvest to reap." Toth stomped off alone towards the assault marines squad.


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## Sigmatus (Nov 22, 2009)

*Chapter Six: Father to the Sick*

Yuman shuddered, his arms extended at his sides in the ritual chamber. He stood in the center of a stylized eight-pointed star, scrawled in blood and filth across the stone floor. At each point of the symbol stood one of Yuman's sorceror's, chanting in infernal tongues, weaving the elements of the summoning together like a fine fabric.
Morbaine said he wanted a distraction for the Imperial ground forces. Yuman would give them a distraction they would never forget.
Yuman raised his own voice to the chants, calling his charge by name.
"Ma'bus, great and undying baron of Grandfather Nurgle's foetid swamps, your children call you forth now. We bid you, lend us your protection. Sweep our foes aside in a tide of bile and wrath." The air in the chamber grew humid and sticky, and the dull humming of flies could be heard above him. Still, Yuman could not glance up. Nothing could interrupt the ritual, or he would be destroyed by it's rogue energies.
"Crawl now from your cradle of sickness and death. Show us your immortal power. Fill the husks for our mortal foe with maggots and leave their carcasses to rot before the Lord of Flies. This we beg of you."
"We beg of you!" The sorcerors cried as one.
The eight-pointed star on the floor began to glow an unhealthy green, and Yuman began to convulse. The arrival of Ma'bus was upon them!


Toth hit the assault marines like the Grandfather's own avenging angel. His armored bulk slammed into the first of them like a sledgehammer, pitching the Blood Angel onto his back into the muddy earth of Skala's killing field. The Vulture stamped down his throat before he could rise again, bringing the manreaper up to parry a trio of chainsword blows.
The blades coughed as they hit the cursed weapon's rusted surface, spraying sparks everywhere. Toth took a single step backwards, using the flat of the manreaper like a spear, pushing the Blood Angel attackers off of him. His head turned, seeking out the squad's sargeant as he did so. He saw the helmetless warrior pacing at his left, looking for an opening in his guard, his lips curled back and revealing a pair of gleaming fangs.
One chainsword thrust in at him, pushing a bit too far and biting into the ceramite of Toth's thigh. The Vulture smiled, feeling the pain as only a dull, distant ache. Black, necrotic blood spurted from the wound as he stepped forward, bringing the manreaper up and exposing himself to momentary attack. One chainsword sliced into his torso, and another glanced his pauldron as the weapon came down again, shearing two Blood Angels in half. The heavy bulk of their jump packs pulled the upper torsos of the warriors apart with a wet ripping sound. 
Another blow struck Toth along the rear of his armor, the angry teeth of the whirring chainsword chewing a huge gash out of his flank. This time there was pain, and the Vulture responded to it angrily. He brought the haft of his schythed weapon around, smashing it into the assault marine's wrist and forcing him to let go of his chainsword. The weapon remained in Toth's back, spraying his diseased blood all about. 
The disarmed warrior held his hands up uselessly as the manreaper came for him again, this time with the edged portion exposed. The schythe cut easily through both forearms, and opened the Blood Angel's throat to the air. Arterial spray gushed from the trio of wounds, and another foe fell to the ground.
Toth fought off the disorientation of his wound, swinging himself around to meet the charge of another enemy. This time the manreaper came from below, hooking below a Blood Angel's thigh and shearing the leg free. The warrior rose with the momentum of the sweep, and thumped to the ground. Another blow from the flat end of the manreaper broke his neck.
Ceramite exploded as a chainsword erupted from Toth's chest, the teeth clogging with decayed flesh and diseased blood. The Vulture shuddered, blood erupting from his mouth as the assault marine sargeant, the sole remaining member of the squad withdrew the blade. The corrupted astartes took a few tortured steps, clutching at the gaping wound. If he had organs that still functioned normally, they'd have been destroyed utterly.
"Now you die, traitor." The Blood Angel said behind him. "Turn, so you can see it coming."
The Vulture hissed with pain, such an unfamiliar sensation. His long, matted black hair stuck to the bloody patches on his face as Toth turned. His yellow eyes fell upon the sargeant, full of hate.
The Blood Angel smiled, his fangs exposed. "Answer for your crimes now, before the Emperor himself." The sargeant charged forward, his chainsword roaring.
Toth smiled himself, bringing a plasma pistol up from its holster at his belt and firing. The super-heated energy splashed into the sargeant's exposed face, melting flesh and exploding eyeballs. The Blood Angel's head exploded a split-second later, all a mix of charred flesh and blue energy. The headless torso took two further steps, and then fell.
"The Emperor is dead." Toth said. "See for yourself."


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