Editing Toyhammer (section)

=Chapter 16=

hought for the Day:
"WAAAAAAAAGH!"

The Orks were here.

Of course.

Vinters shook his head with a barely checked grin as he turned to face the oncoming green horde as Ork Rokkit Boyz slammed into the ground around him, joining their flying comrades in their eager rush for battle.

With the assorted armies rampaging around upstairs and the Orks below, any attempts at holding the green tide back inside of their basement would have been useless and inefficient, considering the problems that were currently demolishing their coffee table.

However, orders had been distributed throughout the lines. Let them pass.

The greenskins were pouring in – literally – from the basement, crashing into whatever forces they could find.

Because of that, the Imperials, Eldar and Tau steered well clear, or otherwise told the WAAAAGH! happy orks that there was a 'bigga scrap dat way' and eagerly transported the Orks to the battlefield. More bodies on the line meant less casualties for them, right?

It was an odd sight, to see a Tau Fire Warrior running alongside an Ork.

Madork Gunna was chortling as he roared loud enough to make his neighbors flinch.

"WAAAAGH! Dat'z moar loik it! Green! Bloo! Peenk! Whoight! All of us iz Big Boss Mikkey's boyz!"

The Orkish horde echoed the sentiment, shaking the bristles of the carpet they stood on with their roaring throats.

An Ork hefted his choppa. "Le's ge' us sum spoikey boyz!"

The rumbling ground heralded their approach, and Vinters watched as the entire battle shifted before him, with the green tide merged with the coalition, crashing onto the Chaos rabble.

Chaos Marines, vehicles, traitors and cultists all were reduced to a panicking rout as a mixed company of Orks, Humans and Eldar advanced under covering fire from Tau lines.

Maybe for the first time in history, Orks and Imperials fought side by side as they rushed the Chaos lines, some even competing against each other for the largest number of kills at the end. A Shoota Boy and his Deff Gun challenged and a Space Marine Terminator with his Assault Cannon, seeing who could first deafen the other with their dakka.

Force Commander Eizak smashed his way through a Chaos Marine, only to be met by a heretical Terminator.

The heavy, millenia old warrior was sent sailing as both Eizak and Madork Gunna both punted him high into the air, riddling the traitor with bolter and shoota rounds on his upwards journey. He fell down in a rain of ceramite and gore.

More Cultists swarmed around them. One screaming heretic was cut down by a stream of plasme fire.

"I shall cover you, Gue'la! Advance!"

Commander Firestrike let rip with his burst cannon, showering the human fodder and their Chaos Marine masters around him with a stream of plasma fire, his expert aim keeping them cropped up and bracketed in as the two commanders charged.

Madork Gunna and his Nobs surged forwards with their usual blood-lust, wading into the fray of suppressed Chaos worshipers and liberally applying his quad barreled auto-shotgun and shoota into faces and chests, cackling wildly all the way. The hurricane of metal bits both large and small was enough to completely shred the band of Cultists. There wouldn't be much more than a red pockmarked smear on the ground after the first out-burst of dakka.

A quick backhand of his powa klaw sent a cultist flying, and his nobs eagerly played skeet with it, although with the usual Ork standards of accuracy, this meant that they were instead just wasting time and munitions.

Kasrkin Sergeant Leon quickly snapped up his hellpistol, and fired one sundering lance of light. The Cultist exploded as he flew over his comrades, showering them with internal organs. His black blade then flickered and neatly cut a cultist from right shoulder to left hip, the two slabs of meat sliding off each other as Leon passed by.

The Orks chuckled, and then bellowed with laughter, congratulating the Guardsman with heavy slaps to the back and shoulders.

Leon returned the favor by punching one in the gob, an action which only drew out more encouragement as the two warriors focused on inflicting as much collateral damage around each other as possible. Soon, there were a dozen or so Cultists - it wasn't quite easy to count up the sum of the body parts – lying around them.

"You'ze 'ard enuff." The Nob chuckled as he retrieved one of the three choppas he carried around with him.

"How much did you get?"

The Ork Nob shrugged as he pulled ot number two. "Err... lots? 'old on..." He looked at a Cultist that had obviously been felled by his third axe. "One, two... yeah, nevva mind. Lots. Wot abouts you, oomie?"

An amused huff came from behind the faceplate of Sergeant Cadiasson as he shrugged. "Twenty seve-"

There was the sudden intake of air as Leon raised his Hell-pistol and blasted a hole in a twitching Chaos Cultist, right under the Nob's boot.

"Twenty eight." He muttered.

"Oi, wazzat fer!" The Nob growled, baring his tusks. " 'e woz righ' an' proppa ded, ya zoggin' git!"

"He was twitching." Leon retorted, pointing at the Cultist.

"COZ OF MAH BUZZY CHOPPA IN HIS SPINE, OOMIE!" The Nob demonstrated by grabbing his third choppa and wrenching the power axe back and forth, the residual electrical charge spasming out-of-control muscles. The parts of the body that still remained began to dance on cue.

Madork Gunna stomped on another twitching Cultist, a wide grin on his face. He turned to the two competitors.

"Dat'z more like it! No more runnin', jus' keep foightin'! You'ze grey-skins an' oomies arn't all dat bad, roight, boyz!" He slapped the nearest nob who didn't cry out in agreement quickly enough.

"Roight, Boss!" The unfortunate individual immediately replied, another dent forming on his metal skull. Its powa klaw whipped across, snapped shut and neatly parted a cultist's head, sending the hairy ball rolling across the floor.

There were a few more laughs from the Nobs.

"An' we'ze gonna haz a lotz of 'eads for da Big Boss' pointy stick, aren't we?" He chuckled.

"I do believe that he will ask you to dispose of them first." Chaplain Morteus quipped as he jogged past, hurrying to join the battle, his holy mace neatly decapitating a cultist's head as he passed by.

The Orks just shrugged, and then charged into the fray again.

As the pitched battle soon became a rout for the Chaos forces, the Orks took over in their orgy of destruction, the rout gave way to farce.

Grey Knight Silverite was chuckling madly as he emptied both his silver-plated bolters into the mass of cultists, and soon he and an Ork – it seemed to be of the 'tankbusta' flavor - grabbed a few of the hapless traitor within their reach and began playing 'Heretic in the middle', then later 'Toss the explosive laden Heretic as far as you can', and finally, after Silverite found some percussion detonators, 'shoot the grenade laden Heretic in mid-air after you throw him as far as you can'.

Canoness Samisha stood beside Justicar Amadeus as he palmed his faceplate, comforting him with a gentle punch to the man's massive pauldrons of gleaming ceramite.

Amadeus' blurring arm clouted a passing cultist, knocking it to the ground. Samisha stomped on its throat with her armored boots, and Amadeus drove his Force Halberd into its chest. Their eyes never left each other as they debated the actions of the rogue Grey Knight.

"Don't worry, at least he's using heretics this time... right?"

An Ork 'Choppa Boy', laughing as he brandished his namesake axe, flew through the air to land on a cultist. Canoness Samisha sighed. Amadeus walked over to a disabled Rhino and began to apply his head to the charred armor.

Silverite was already swinging the next one by the ankles in a classic hammer-throw routine.

"At least they're xeno?" She asked, hopefully.

"Hey, Silverite!" One of the other Grey Knights shouted, his Nemisis force halberd inscribing glowing arcs through the air. "Me next! Me next!"

"..."

… okay, that was unexpected. But what of the boy, little witch? WILL YOU SAVE HIM!

"TREMBLE BEFORE ME, WRETCH!"

Vincent ducked under the grab, and managed to get an elbow in the way as the long-winded kick smashed into him. He rolled backwards, bruised and battered, as the daemon strode up to him.

Coughing, his hand found their grip on a long-ago discarded piece of wood. Michael had – in the past – tried to build a fence out front. Now it was mostly rotting wood and chipping paint as he piled up the flat panels in a corner of the garden.

His wandering hands found a pair.

Bringing them around, the nerd broke the first mold-ridden slat over its head.

The two combatants stared at each other for a moment, and then the daemonhost grinned.

A sigh escaped the bespectacled Asian as he realized how deep he was in it right then.

Slat number two came up in a rising slash.

That whipped the thing's head around, and shattered the rotten wood on its jaw.

Again, the twisted face grinned, albeit with a slightly discolored jaw. Vincent stared along in disbelief. It was fast healing, however, confirming Vincent's fears of the daemon possessing this body having given regenerative abilities to its new shell.

In quick succession, Vincent broke another three slats on the daemon's face, nose and forehead (in that order).

The daemonhost was still grinning as Vincent assessed the damage he had dealt. The hopeful look on his face changed to accommodate a crestfallen sigh as he inspected the damage he had just dealt.

"You use botox much?"

Growling with anger, the Daemon's return consisted of one surgically precise jab, knocking Vincent's glasses off his face and smashing him into the ground.

"NOW, HUMAN WHELP, YOU SHALL D~"

The sudden burst of purple lightning seared both his retina and Ryan's back, the whip of bright light snapping around to lash him onto his knees as the tendons at the back of his knees were shredded. Vincent tore his eyes away from the sight, through the halo of light that surrounded...

"Wh- Batel!"

The penitent witch teetered on unsteady feet. "Hy haff chohzen..." [I have chosen...]

She was in shock, Vincent realized; shaking limbs, uncontrolled outbursts... "Hyoo hefferhy dhay... hyoo chortoored huss..." [You... every day. You tortured us.] Batel brought the whip up and then back down. Snap. The length of warp-fire broke Ryan's shin as it turned solid an instant before it touched his leg.

"Mahter... mhy mahter! Hyuu... hyuu bhrok hher! Hyuu... mauhnshtar!" [Mother... my mother! You! You broke her! You... monster!]

Batel, you have no idea how accurate that last word was.

She sobbed again, lashing her whip across the daemon's body. Vincent gasped as he scrambled for his glasses, the whip of pure psychic power – the essence of Batel's tortured soul – passed inches from his shoulder. Even from that distance, the heat was intense.

"Hy hwash hoonhly ahnovher chuul. Ah shiink choo kheap mahter khwaiat." [I was only another tool. A thing to keep mother quiet.]

Batel let out another ragged breath, her eyes pulsing into a deep purple as she lashed out again. This time, its right hand simply disappeared, leaving only a blackened stump. Her hands moved to cover herself, wrapping around her body to shield herself from the man.

"Han' ahnaffa tchoy choo prreay hwiff. Tuu shikk bhashturd!" [And another toy to play with. You sick bastard!]

Her arm went up, ready to strike... no, smite the daemon for her step-father's sins.

The thing, however, was still grinning.

An icy hand squeezed his gut.

It wanted her to do this... to kill, and fall back to Chaos.

"NO!" Vincent tackled her as she brought the whip down again, wincing as the warp-fire brushed against his arm; it burned through his jacket instantly, searing the limb and quickly dragging a pained scream as his flesh sizzled.

Batel let out a strangled cry as she fell to her knees, the warp whip gutting the lawn as it fell to the ground and then disappeared. She was bleeding from the mouth, the nose and ears. Her tears were starting to become pink as well. Vincent comforted her as best he could – he wasn't used to giving out hugs – his arms cradling her head as she sobbed uncontrollably, soaking his jacket's collar as her tears and blood flowed freely.

"I need some help, here!" He shouted to the psykers.

The Daemonhost's anguished face slackened, the mask of anger untwisting as it tipped over backwards, falling tot he ground with a sickening crunch: The Chaos Rhino had simply been crushed under the weight.

See? You have saved your friends... and you are mine again. But be warned, child... I cannot help you all the time.

"Psychic overload." Yoza commented, inspecting Batel from his skimmer. They were gathered around in a quieter corner of the garden, leaving the former step-father by the curb on the other corner.

The Seer council around him nodded in agreement. His green-tinged witchblade waved left and right as he inspected her.

All pretenses of his comedic grammar-defilement was gone now as he looked on with a grim face.

"This... girl. She has power... a lot of it. But she must learn how to control it. The pressures made by the Warp and those who wield it can translate to physical pressure all too easily..."

Vincent nodded. Batel's heart-breaking sobs were slowly easing themselves into sniffles as she calmed down, and he found himself enfolding her in his arms. Looking around in confusion, he saw Yoza lowering his arm. A grim chill ate at his stomach. Yoza had made him do that with a simple gesture; what else could this Eldar Warlock do?

But his worry-streaked face told him that – for now – he would be safe from the tiny psykser's control.

"She seeks comfort, Vincent... stay, and keep her safe. The Chaos forces broke when their Sorcerer fled..." He looked out, to where a gaggle of Space Marines were throwing the bodies of cultists and dead Chaos Marines out into the garden. "That brute of a mon-keigh... Eizak, was he not? He was most impressive. Two more steps and the Sorcerer would have been ended."

The nerd nodded again, and Yoza smiled in return.

"Keep her safe... I have a feeling that this girl has more secrets to her than she may think she has."

The warlock looked up as the sounds of fighting intensified.

"Oh... and it appears the Daemon is recovering... its proximity to their cultists may have... oh dear."

Vincent stood quickly to the snarls and gnashing teeth of the daemon.

It was rising from the circle of cultists that had hastily begun a ritual around him. The daemon had regenerated its mangled flesh, but... it had also mutated. Wildly. Shattered limbs were stitched together with some kind of living glue, which screeched and howled with a mind of its own. Vincent peered closer, his nose twitching from the smell of burnt flesh. He realized, with a shudder, that the newly replaced flesh was made up of sacrificed cultists. The hand that had been removed by Batel's psychic rage had now been replaced by a clawed one. Torn and burnt skin was traded for a blue, scaly hide.

The Sorcerer – the real one – was howling with fury as he broadcast his rage. "YOU DARE! YOU DARE DEFY ME!"

Vincent blinked a few times."Yeah, I do."

Immediately, the air vibrated from the shriek of unholy frustration. Vincent checked himself. The nerves were really getting to him now; he was shooting his mouth off. No doubt, this would be funny to everyone else if they weren't already in this fight.

"I AM BELAVICH THE SHADOW-CALLER! FEAR ME!"

The Asian nerd flipped him the bird. "I don't, little man."

But he did. Very, very much so. That was a naked lie if he ever said one.

Yoza, however, was laughing with just as much sincerity as Vincent, while in the distance the Sorcerer spat froth from his mouth.

"I SHALL REND THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES! I SHALL FEED YOUR SOUL TO THE WARP! I SHALL GRIND YOUR MIND TO DUST! I SHA~"

"Are you done yet, tiny one?"

"FFFF-"

Even the Daemon itself clapped its hands over its ears as the Socerer threatened and swore. Vincent took the opportunity to talk with Yoza, seek his advice.

"What now?"

"Well done, mon-keigh. I do believe you have gotten him angry. We will need to find help... we cannot bring down this daemon-titan alone."

The vox-jockey, Amira Sulein, was broadcasting over a Chimera's vox. "Titanicus Vincent! A vox from Michael!"

Michael's familiar voice had a buzzing edge to it, as expected of someone talking over a vox.

"Vinny! We're comin'! Just hold out for another two minutes!"

Vincent tried to swallo, but found his throat totally dry. He closed his stinging eyes, and calmed his ragged breath. He coughed a few times, and looked at the minis all looking up at him.

Bravado, a faux confidence... Vincent knew he needed to keep up an idealized image of himself, even if he was close to collapsing.

"Sure. Just get here fast, Mickey. I'm gonna need someone to help me clean up." His voice was loud enough to carry over, and the Daemonhost screamed out his fury as it stomped past the line of battle-tanks, scattering them as if toys.

Again, the armies of Chaos were milling about his legs. The two sides were gearing up for round two, it seemed; reinforcements were streaming in from both the Chaos van – Vincent was surprised that they were smart enough to keep reserves – and from Michael's house.

He hefted another half-rotten stick, and stood in front of Batel's unconscious form.

"Oh no you don't!" Another slat was brought around, nearly pinning the puppet master atop his toy's shoulder. The stinging slap made the Daemonhost stagger, fighting to keep control of the off-balance body.

The Sorcerer snarled.

"I SHALL FEAST ON THY HEART, MORTAL!"

His opponent snorted in false humor. "Its thine, ya stupid bastard!"

The Sorcerer's finger-sized bolt of warp-fire struck him on the shoulder, and Vincent could feel his very mind scream in pain, even as his own throat declared his agony.

Damn...

Dropping to one knee, he hoped the sagging rod would not snap as he tried to support himself, patting at the warp-fire to try and put out the flames.

Around him, the battle raged.

"C'mon, c'mon!" Michael swerved around the corner, Alice squealing as she was thrown against the window. His left shoulder felt like it was on fire, no doubt from the strain of him twisting and throttling the wheel.

All of the warriors gritted their teeth as they heard the rapid-fire reports coming in through the vox. General Faust was down, in critical condition. A tank commander was cut off lost as his Vanquisher was obliterated. Tau were forming up at Fridge Pass – where the hell was that? - and holding back the Chaos forces.

The Colonel of the logistics division had just been evicted from the former DVD cabinet as suicide bombers overran their position.

All along the frequencies Orks were having a hell of a fun time as they butchered the Cultists gathered near the TV. This got the few Orks that came along for the ride a lot less happy, and they began shouting for Michael to hurry up.

More reports streamed in: The cogboys were getting pretty beat up as they rushed to the aid of the disabled vehicles, Eldar were making advances as they cleared out the dining room, the Inquisitional forces were ordering people clear them a path out so they could engage the Daemon.

The blond driver did a double-take. "Wait, Daemon!"

Michael stepped on the gas, and the car lurched forward as he shifted gears.

Commissar Tomas Sturm swore as he was thrown onto his ass by the sudden acceleration, but still managing to hang on as he tumbled past a strapped-down Chimera.

Zara was screaming at the top of her lungs, warning Michael to drive carefully, as were a half-dozen other voices.

The Ork contingent, however, was hooting with glee.

Staggering back at the half-daemon half-human mongrel, Vincent looked around for some kind of help as it leaped forward, undisturbed by the anti-tank fire being shot at it from the Imperial tanks.

The first blow he was able to duck simply by letting his knees give out, and crossed arms managed to absorb the blow from the sweeping kick that followed. Vincent was rolled backwards, but was fast enough to get up in time to slap a punch so that it passed over his shoulder.

A missile – from the Tau Sky-Ray, it seemed – streaked between the two of them and landed somewhere in the middle of the street.

Two more attempts at bear hugs were foiled by Vincent simply falling down onto his knees and scrambling back, and the stomps that followed by him had him rolling to the side. He staggered to his feet as the two sides clashed along the bushes that had been planted on either side of Michael's foot-path, using them as cover and concealment. It was trench warfare all over the garden.

"ONE MINUTE!" Broadcast Vox-operator Amira, her voice echoing up and down the street. A dog started barking.

A punch smashed into the Asian youth's chest, sending him up off the ground and throwing the nerd bodily over the bushes. He was treated to the sight of empty driveways before he crashed back to the lawn.

Damn it... it was maybe just before noon, Tuesday. Everyone was out at their workplace or school. No help from the neighbors.

Picking up a Chaos Vindicator, Vincent hurled it at the Daemon, who slapped it out of the air and into the ground. It burst into flames shortly after. A Chimera was thrown in return, which Vincent caught as it smacked into his chest. The crew were cursing and swearing, bruised but otherwise okay. Setting it on the ground, he looked up in time to jump back from a back-hand swing.

He and the daemon were now on the street, and now he looked around for a weapon of some kind, trying to think over the sounds of battle; the boom of cannon, the chatter of machinegun and bolter fire, the dakka-dakka-dakka of Ork shootas and the sound of accelerating vehicles.

Vincent did a double take as he looked down the road.

The daemon quickly turned to follow his gaze, hissing at... nothing.

The Asian nerd grinned to himself as he threw himself backwards.

If he had any more breath, he wanted – so very badly – to shout out 'Psych!'.

Accelerating past the fifty miles per hour mark, the pickup driven by Michael slammed into the daemon's back as he mounted the curb.

The daemonhost was thrown through the air, and landed with a sickening crunch as it hit the stack of slats.

"Take that, ya warp-spawned mongrel!" Grinned Commissar Tomas, who was already organizing the expedition forces to redeploy from the truck and form into a battle line, while one of his lieutenants shouted out direction and range, the twin Leman Russ battle-tanks tracking around to open fire at the exposed rear armor of the Chaos vehicles. A Tau Hammerhead cleanly bisected a captured Chimera with its rail-gun, and the Eldar Falcon was pumping lance after lance of bright energy into a corrupted Leman Russ battle-tank.

"Battle team Aquila! Re-group with the Imperial battle-line, and reinforce any weak sections! I want tanks in the middle and on the flanks, infantry and support weapons in between them!"

He quickly dashed onto a Tau Devilfish, climbing into the deceptively spacious troop transport, and pulling his vox-jockey in with him. Tomas gave a quick nod to the Eldar and Tau warriors inside.

"Pilot!" He shouted, tapping the Tau pilot on the shoulder.

"How may I help you, Gue'la?" She asked him.

"We need reinforcements out in the Living Room! Can you take us there?"

"Alright! But strap in, Gue'la!"

Tomas nodded, and hurried to do so.

Alice was busily unloading the troop transports, picking them up off the flatbed and placing them on the ground as Michael placed the Space Marine Land Raider on the pavement. He trotted over to Vincent, who was more bruised than... well, a noodle-shaped nerd who went toe-to-toe with a pro heavyweight boxer.

Vincent limped over to the back corner of his pickup truck, ripped open his toolbox and pulled out the crowbar that he kept in there, hefting the familiar tool, now weapon as he handed it to Michael.

"Think fast."

Michael's hand caught the lobbed crowbar and gave him a 'what the hell are you doing with that thing?' look.

"I know. Too much Half-Life. Want me to grab the wrench instead?"

He hefted a heavy Stillson wrench, spray painted a dark red color, in his right hand. There was a short period of appreciation for the weapon as he swung it down onto his waiting palm, testing the weight and feel of the weapon.

Michael palmed his face. "... seriously, where do you get those things?"

"Ryan and Son. Y'know that shop just off Fountain street?"

The two simply stared at each other, and then looked at the twisted puppet and its fuming master as it was halted with a withering barrage of lascannon fire. They were keeping it hamstrung, it seemed, the lances of red light piercing his kneecap once more. More cultists died as they were sacrificed in an attempt to keep the daemon mobile.

"Vincent! We can't keep it down much longer! Capacitors for the lascannon are overheating! HURRY!"

Alice tapped the panicking nerd on the shoulder.

He turned to see her hand outstretched, her empty palm facing up. "I need a weapon."

Commissar Tomas swung around, his power fist knocking down the cultist as it charged him and the coalition squad that he had attached himself to. The Eldar 'Dire Avenger' behind him emptied a burst of shuriken fire into the cultist as she dove behind an Ork for cover.

Finding himself in a temporary lull in the battle as a series of Tau missiles peppered the cultists around him, Tomas switched on the comm-bead. Closing his eyes, he recalled the mental map of Michael's house. Tomas' mind began working, snatching a near-nonsensical babble over the comms and translating it to actions and reactions in that map, collating reports as they streamed through the command channel.

Chaos forces are retreating from Fridge Pass as Guardsmen were reinforced by the Adepta Sororitas. They were beating them back and using the high elevation to site their observers and heavy weapons.

A screaming rocket barrage landed all around the coalition squad. Eldar, Tau and Human alike were thrown to the ground as mixed small-arms fire zipped overhead.

Eldar Aspect Warriors were making small advances from the dining room; the table, chairs and space underneath was now a forward operating base and general rallying point for the forces in that area.

Red lines of Imperial lasguns blinked through the air as balls of Tau plasma fire shot forward to strike down the line of advancing traitors. An Eldar Ranger hefted his long-rifle, his artificial arm rock-steady as he sighted through the scope. One, two, three cultists fell with metronomic precision as they were picked apart by precisely placed shots.

Behind him, the Tau were arrayed in a firing line, their pulse rifles flaring as they sent a series of plasma balls into the massing horde. Each fired independently but in the direction of the orange-helmeted sergeant, who was lobbing 'photon' grenades from the launcher of his carbine, each flaring in a supernova of light and sound. The assault was cut off sharply as the Tau were joined by a pair of Guard squads, their plasma guns coming to bear and cutting down the Chaos Marine champions.

Tau and Imperial artillery and massed sniper fire were keeping the traitors that were trying to rally and attack the forces pinned on Coffee Plateau. The Air Assault group was recovering their wounded there and the elite airborne warriors were quickly being overwhelmed.

Tomas watched in awe as, in the distance, a Crisis battlesuit stood back-to-back with a Space Marine Dreadnought and an Eldar Wraithlord construct. The small ring of the elite armored warriors were surrounded, an eye in the storm of Chaotic warriors. And they were winning. Cultists and Marines alike were shrinking back from the hurricane of firepower that the trio were pumping into their surroundings, the crushing arms of the Dreadnought and the whirlwind fast sword in the hands of the Wraithlord were shredding the heretics

An Ork-Marine mashup company would be reinforced by the Grey Knights and a detachment of Sororitas to form a sufficient force to counter-attack with, streaming out of Fridge Pass in concert with another advance from the dining hall to relieve the defenders trapped on Coffee Plateau.

Wading through heretics and cultists, his power fist and hell pistol whirling around him as he parried and counterattacked, Tomas was near the front of their group's advance; he was preceded only by the eight Howling Banshees, their bone-white armor and fire-red tassels blurring as the speedy warrior women brandished their mirror-bladed power swords.

It was like watching a dance, seeing them move. Graceful and swift, the Banshees quickly reduced the first wave of cultists into red gore, screeching a song that tore at the mind.

A second wave of cultists crashed into them. Uncaring for their casualties, like so many times before, the cultists grabbed onto limbs and bodies, using their weight in both numbers and mass to bring down the Banshees.

Tomas had his hell-pistol up and firing. Behind him were a squad of Guardsmen; assault specialists armed with shotguns. He waved his power fist at them, before pointing at the Banshees.

"Help them! FORWARD! FOR THE EMPEROR!"

Falling in, the Guardsmen piled in with their shotguns, blasting apart cultists as they tried to rip off the wraithbone armor of the Howling Banshees. Tomas found one, her helmet having been ripped off and exposing her civilian persona to the horrors of war. He brought his armored fist around, punching the lightly armed cultist's torso into a fine mist.

Hauling the pink-haired Eldar warrior woman to her feet with his free hand, Tomas began firing into a group of cultists as more Banshees – both dead and alive – were pulled from the heap of dead cultists. Guardsmen around him formed up into a firing line as he shouted orders up and down the improvised line of defense. Tau Fire Warriors and Eldar Guardians flowed in, spraying fire in all directions as they joined the human Guardsmen.

Tomas hurried to join them, but found himself looking at one Howling Banshee had been literally ripped limb from limb, and he carefully pulled the glowing red orb of her soul-stone from its place at her throat. Walking over to another, he hauled the shaking warrior to her feet and placed the blood red crystal in her palm. It seemed to calm the Banshee down, and soon he was helping her snap the locks of her mask back onto her face and following her into battle.

He found himself wondering about his duties.

The Commissar shook his head. His duty was to make sure that the warriors that were placed under his care were fit for battle. He had simply been going through the motions of his profession with a more exotic warrior than was intended.

Another report filtered into his still-active comm-bead.

Heavy psyker activity outside! All Ordo Malleus and psykers to head there immediately!

Tomas looked up, at the advancing line of cultists as they surged towards the front door.

He pointed with his Power Fist, a sudden rage giving him previously unknown vitality.

"Squad! Face left! Advance! I WANT TO BE ABLE TO TOUCH THEM WITH MY FUCKING FINGER!"

Space Marine Force Commander Eizak Aruleius charged forward, his retinue now a mixture of Orks and Marines. As much as it grated against his every instinct to simply leave his back open to these Orks, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered thus: These Orks will not turn upon you. Why, he could understand: They Orks now saw the Marines as – if anything – foes to take on later. The Chaos 'boys' were only here for a limited amount of time, so they would fight them first, then everyone else later. As for the survivors of that, they would be able to focus on seeing who was the new Warboss.

A pack of cultists approached them. They seemed... familiar. Eizak shuffled through half a millenia's worth of battles. They were using Cadian pattern equipment. That would mean that they were one of many, many worlds that monkeyed the best Guardsmen humanity could offer. Their flak vests were desecrated, the holy aquila of the Emperor replaced by foul symbols that nauseated the mind to simply glance upon them.

The pack – for that was what they were: 'squad' or 'team' would indicate something resembling discipline and coherence – suddenly stopped and stood their ground, which made Eizak hesitate for the moment. From a rabble of crazed cultists, they were now... organized.

A figure moved around behind them, seemingly a massive parody of a Space Marine, holding an unique weapon in his hands – an assault cannon, or a copy of one. Eizak blinked. He had encountered them before, near the Maelstrom. It was a smaller caliber version of the rotary bolter, used mainly against swarms of enemies and didn't fire bolt shells in favor of solid slug projectiles like that of an autogun. But it could spin up and fire a lot faster than the heavier Asssault Cannon... they were called... minicannon, wasn't it?

There was a whining sound, keening and scratchy as the many barrels of the miniaturized assault cannon spooled up, and then the buzzing came.

Swarms of munitions – a mix of high explosive and armor piercing pellets, it seemed – scythed through the ranks of unarmored Orks and surprised Marines. The single cultist that was wielding the weapon cackled as he saw two Orks go down, shredded by the stream of projectiles that chipped them apart, piece by piece.

Around him, his pack-mates had hefted heavy shields from their rearguard, protecting the minicannon from return fire. Three cultists to one shield. Bolter shells bounced off harmlessly, while a plasma gun's miniaturized sun simply splashed off.

Eizak clenched his jaw. That was the same kind of armor used by Titans... just how did they...

The heavy weapon cultist was roaring with laughter as his minicannon poured weapons-fire over Brother Melavich, forcing him down onto his knees from the sheer weight of fire, the bullets cutting through hydraulic lines to force the full weight of his quarter-ton suit down onto its user. Surprised, there was a crunching sound as a round slipped between his armor plates and detonated inside of his elbow. His sharp cry of pain was cut off as his helmet was smashed apart by sustained fire.

Eizak charged forward, roaring a challenge as he advanced. Inside his helmet, warning lights began to flash through his vision as his right pauldron was breached. Hissing and clacking as his artificer armor protested. The minicannon was concentrating solely on him now, but Eizak ignored it for the moment as he knew his Iron Halo and master-crafted power suit sufficient to shrug off the majority of the weapons fire directed at him.

Both shield bearer teams advanced, crouching close to each other as another weapon was brought up... a single missile streaked out from their mobile redoubt.

Eizak roared. "EMPEROR GUIDE MY HAND!"

He hefted his Thunder Hammer now, and swung it around in a rising swing.

As the missile streaked past, the power field neatly crushed the space between the warhead and the rocket motor, destroying the guided explosive with the unlikely combination of brute force and grace that was a Space Marine.

Eizak didn't stop there, as he began to swing his hammer around again, charging to meet the pack of cultists. They backed away, closing ranks as they did.

They were deceptively disciplined, for Chaos worshipers.

Both shields closed up, and small arms fire began pouring out of the firing slits.

Eizak charged up as the two shields locked down into one, the minicannon occupying the slit in the middle, pouring its river of steel into the single figure that was advancing upon it. Even the Orks had stayed back, watching the Space Marine commander charge forward with mild interest.

He reached the joined shields, and smashed into it, his hands clutching both edges of the massive battle-plate. The minicannon was now pouring point-blank into his face, and Eizak felt his helmet disintegrating around him. Sensor relays and communicators were smashed. His fingers flexed, and then locked down onto the massive shield. Purity seals and decorations were mangled and pockmarked beyond recognition. His feet shifted apart, shoulder width, and his legs braced. An eyepiece caved in, the bullet slashing a line parallel to his right eyebrow like a hot blade. Eizak gritted his teeth as he steeled his arms.

The minicannon ran dry.

Eizak grinned.

"My turn."

Lifting up the shield and its six bearers, Eizak flexed backwards, holding the panicking cultists in the air for a moment, and then downwards, bringing down the shield on the pack of Chaos dogs behind it.

At least half a dozen were simply crushed under the weight of the shield, and whatever had survived that now had to deal with Eizak jumping on top. He was blind, now. His helmet had been utterly destroyed, simply a hunk of metal wrapped around his head. The feeling of his armor, now incomplete... it was as if he had lost his fingers... again. Hissing as they popped their seals, the commander pulled off his shattered helmet. How he hated having to discard it... Eizak felt, for the first time in many decades, vulnerable.

A cultist roared as it clambered out of the wreckage.

"Khorne is pleased! Blood has flown!" He laughed, blood running from every orifice on his face. From behind him, he drew a knife, a crudely fashioned, jagged piece of metal.

The cultist charged, roaring a battle-chant.

"Slice! DICE! KILL! CRUSH!"

Eizak stood his ground, waiting. As they closed in with each other, his hands blurred. The blue-armored left hand slapped the knife coming at his face, and then he smashed his opponent's head in with a backhand blow, using the helmet in his right hand.

The cultist's neck snapped as the helmet whipped his head around, and whatever doubts the Space Marine had about the berserker getting back up were dashed to pieces along with its skull as Eizak brought the helmet back down onto its forehead.

There was a chuckling from behind him. A large claw slapped his back.

"Now dat woz ah good foight, beakie!"

"Stay back! Stay back!"

The front doorstep was scorched black as the purple light flashed across it.

Lightning danced from her fingertips as Ishabeth desperately whirled around in a spin, her staff tracing jagged arcs as she leaped back from the crackling lance that snarled from the hands of the Chaos witch. Creating a twist in the fabric of the Immaterium, she managed to disrupt the weaponized lightning.

Ishabeth breathed in a sigh. Her parchment-brown robes were charred and tattered from the series of both mental and physical blows that they had exchanged.

Both psykers again squared off in the middle of the raging battlefield, which was now becoming more and more desperate as the psychic essence fueling their combat began to run dry.

The Sanctioned Psyker is breathless, her chest heaving under the heavy flak-vest material that made up her battle-robes. Her left arm is burned, charred by warp-fire. It is only by virtue of the elastic chord she keeps around her wrist that the las-pistol is still in her hand. The staff, imbedded with psychic wards and channeling lines of blessed metals, is held loosely beside her. Ishabeth breathes out a long held breath, and focuses her senses on her opponent.

The witch is a twisted parody of her Imperial counterpart. Her only garments are a pair of sashes nearly identical to the one around Ishabeth's waist – presumably taken from murdered Imperial Psykers, and then defaced by Chaos sigils – that are wrapped around her chest and hips, the latter of which as a tabard. Piercings and tattoos, ritual scars and burns adorned the rest of her body, which was beginning to lose its pinkish coloring for a blue hue.

"So young... I do wonder if you know the pleasures of surrendering yourself to the Warp, sister."

Re-engaging, the two clashed yet again with both psychic attacks and physical blows. The spear slipped between the plates of armor on Ishabeth's left shoulder, but the Sanctionite pulled back and away before it could do any real harm.

Smiling, the Chaos witch purred as she stood up straight and proud, her fingers crackling with purple lightning.

"So fast! So fast! I do wonder... is it because you have something to lose? The others I've..." There was a poisonously sweet giggle as the witch ran a hand along the two desecrated sashes. "... met were rather sorry affairs."

She cackled as the two sobbing souls of the psykers faded into view, twisted and horrible shells of their former selves.

"Alone, afraid and at my mercy... such exquisite agony." The witch whimpered from the memories. "Are you convincing yourself that you aren't alone, sister? That there's someone here to care about you? Don't you know, that your false Emperor is dead? DO YOU STILL BELIEVE YOURESELF TO HAVE COMPANIONS!"

Ishabeth tried to pull herself to her feet, to prepare herself for battle.

The Chaos witch heard another voice, ragged and breathless.

"She does."

Behind her, Tomas fired at point blank range, two quick shots in quick succession into the back of the witch's head. The foul wards that had so deftly deflected las-bolts and psychic attacks shattered, and the follow-up punch from the power fist was simply for making sure that – unlike the cockroaches – the heretical psyker stayed down and stayed dead.

Ishabeth picked chunks of the witch's skull from her garments as Tomas rushed for her, firing off a few shots at whatever targets he could find. He had gore stained all over his long coat.

"Messy." She observed, as she dove into the Commissar's waiting arms, his embrace restoring the warmth that had been gone for so long. Ishabeth shivered as the cold metal of his power fist brushed against the back of her neck, the armored finger caressing her skin.

Around them, coalition forces swarmed the Chaos psykers, brute physical force overwhelming them where psychic attacks had failed.

There was a change in the Warp, like the ripple in a still pond...

No, not like that. Ishabeth pulled away from Tomas, as her mind's eye Saw through the darkness.

It was more like a sudden calm before a storm.

"I SHALL FEED YOUR SOULS TO THE DARK GODS!"

"Then allow me."

Captain Eizak reached out and palmed the snarling Chaos Marine's faceplate, lifting him up clear off his feet and then slamming him head-first into the ground. He stood, his Thunder Hammer arcing up and then down, the holy metal and powerful force-field that wreathed it simply crushed the traitor with its righteous weight.

Around him, his loyalist retinue poured bolter fire onto their traitorous brothers, or closed into hand-to-hand combat with their chainswords and combat daggers – 'daggers' being a relative term for a blade the length of a sword – and again a common scene of the Horus Heresy was re-enacted; the best of the Emperor's troops and the heretics of ten thousand years closed in upon one another, their weapons clashing as the veteran Space Marines danced their deadly art of strike and counter-strike, feint and slash.

They were advancing now, slowly but surely, towards the coalition forces – the airborne warriors – that were now trapped around the giant plateau known as the Coffee Table. Eizak and his mixed horde of Orks and Marines were moving as quickly as they could towards it.

A Havoc opened fire on Eizak and his squad, his autocannon giving off the familiar thump-thump-thump as its heavy rounds discharged in concert with a cultist charge. Casualties began to mount as heavy weapons were brought to bear. For any one of the loyalist Marines or Orks that were felled, there was his Chaotic counterpart that was also struck down by the overwhelming firepower. Cultists poured over them, obscuring their vision even as the heavy anti-tank shells tore through them.

Eizak ignored the armor-piercing shells that glanced off his artificer armor, and charged forwards as his Iron Halo flared and sputtered from the series of shells that slowly drained its protective charge. Gritting his teeth, he holstered his gun in favor of getting a good double-handed grip on his Thunder Hammer. More autocannon and some bolter shells splashed off his already taxed armor. The heraldry adorning his left shoulder pad was sheared off as a lascannon's beam splashed over the rounded pauldron.

The Space Marine Force Commander and the five man squad of Chaos Havocs met.

The first he caught in a sideways swing, the rusted and poorly maintained armor creaking as it tried to keep up with the speed of the well-oiled Artificer Armor. Eizak's Thunder Hammer claimed the first Havoc as it was knocked to the side, sent tumbling across a few meters of empty carpeting before smashing into a throng of cultists.

Havoc number two was quicker on the uptake, quickly drawing a bolt pistol and joining the point-blank barrage of his brothers, sending two of the bolts into Eizak as their autocannon and heavy bolters hammered his armor. The Marine felt his right lung collapsing as an explosive bolt detonated inside of his chest.

He closed the gap between them, throwing the Thunder Hammer into the air. Hands shooting out, Eizak seized the Havoc by the neck, his fingers wrenching the helmet up, exposing the soft neck-seal. Thumbs struggled into position, and squeezed. The Marine choked as the two digits punctured arteries and his windpipe, and as Eizak's fingers clamped down, he tore his hands away, taking large chunks of armor, flesh and muscle with him. Spinning around, the blue-armored boot came around and knocked down the black-armored traitor Astartes.

The Thunder Hammer hit the ground beside him, and he picked it back up, ready to engage the rest of the Havocs.

As one, the heavy weapons specialists began pumping heavy bolter shells and autocannon rounds into the commander.

His left arm was simply ripped off as a high-speed pencil of metal passed through his shoulder, the dead arm dropping to the ground. Eizak roared, and charged forward. His right hip and the majority of the internal organs surrounding the lower right side of his torso were liquefied as another autocannon round punched through the double-layering of armor inside. He continued to close the distance between the Havocs and himself. Behind him, Brother Lekoras leveled his plasma gun and fired off a fist-sized sun, which simply melted through the right arm of a Havoc. Eizak finished him off with a back-hand.

A heavy bolter round detonated inside of his chest, and through the dull agony that was sawing away at his senses, he could feel his lung collapse and the fused ribcage on his chest shatter.

The fourth Havoc went down as he grabbed onto him, and brought their heads together. His Iron Halo gave him the slight extra advantage needed for him to crack the traitor's skull with his own.

Finally, the last Havoc.

Eizak swung back with his Thunder Hammer, almost too weak to lift it. A series of shots from Eldar Warp Spiders had entangled the heretic.

He brought his hammer down, the discharge of destructive energies simply crushing the Chaos Havoc as Eizak emptied the power reserves built into the gold and silver weapon.

Falling to his knees, Eizak collapsed a labored heartbeat later.

"Apocetharion!" Shouted a Marine. The Force Commander quickly riffled through the names of the Marines in his group. Nikolas. He was – relatively speaking – a newcomer to the Space Marines, newly inducted as a student to study the ways of a Space Marine under him. Eizak felt a flush of pride as his student displayed clear-minded thinking in the middle of combat.

Fighting was easy to do, but thinking...

The sound of creaking power armor made the Marines look up.

"Death or healing, of which do you seek?" Apocetharion Eyugeen Rho was amidst them, white and red armor dulled by the smoke and grime and blood of combat.

He knelt beside a fallen Space Marine, and carefully examined him. Even in the deafening hurricane around him, Eizak could hear the soft click as the Apocetharion placed the geneseed extractor to his neck. Eyugeen gasped as the bloodied gauntlet of his fallen commander seized his arm.

Behind the expressionless helmet, there was a rasping croak. The medic moved quickly, manipulating interface plugs and panels, and then eased the helmet off the commander's head.

"... hhhow..."

"The battle goes well. We have turned the tides. Our brothers of the air are relieved"

Eizak's mouth twitched into a smile.

"And so I shall move on, to the Emperor's side."

As his eyes closed, Rho shook his head.

"Sleep the sleep of the dead, commander, and may The Bell of Lost Souls ring loud and clear for you."

Michael and Vincent both hit the ground, both their improvised weapons and bravado scattered out of their reach or from any hope or recovery. Grinning, the daemonhost snarled almost playfully as it looked at them, helpless prey, its master cackling wildly as he stood atop the crazed thing's head.

The overweight body of Ryan now crouched down, almost on all fours, as it gnashed its teeth and snapped his still growing canines at them.

The Sorcerer laughed.

"Oh, how stupid you mortals are! Thinking you could defeat me!"

Alice whimpered as she writhed on the ground, pinned by her neck, struggling under his grip. The clawed hands had traced a trio of parallel lines from the back of her neck in blood, and as the newly inducted Sororitas flailed about, Ryan's body chuckled.

"FOOOOOLS!" He roared. "You believed that the three of you would be enough?"

They were overconfident. Too eager to rush into the fray against a wounded daemonhost. Sure, they had managed to bruise the steel-tough skin, but... Michael flinched. He wasn't

The daemonhost joined in the Sorcerer's laughter as the white-haired girl struggled uselessly. Michael wiped the blood from the cut that traced a neat arc from his neck to ear. Vincent was down for the count, barely moving as he struggled to put as much distance between him and the Daemonhost, his wrench discarded a few feet away.

"Oh, how shall I feed you to the Dark Gods, I wonder? Of course, Khorne will be more than happy to receive the souls of you two... how many lives have you claimed? A few dozen? A hundred between you two?" His gaze and attention shifted down to the white haired girl in his grip.

"As for her." The Sorcerer chuckled, and waved his hand.

Alice gasped as the scaly hand tightened around her neck, and another clawed at her clothes. She squirmed uselessly as Ryan's husk strangled her.

"I think we shall draw their sacrifice out much longer." The Sorcerer mused. "Nurgle or Slaneesh... either of those two would be more than happy for us to... experiment on them. I do wonder if the Prince of Excess will respond to her screams... you see, poor little Ryan here has been most patient in waiting for his... heheh... satisfaction."

Both servants of the Chaos Gods began to snort and chuckle, their laughter clawing at Michael's senses.

The snarling cacophony was cut short suddenly as something smacked into the daemonhost, knocking it down and punching three messy red craters into his chest. A split second later, three overlapping cracks of a rifle firing split the air.

Michael turned around, to see Miles halfway down the street. He was crouched down, a compact rifle in his hands. It was made of the same grey plastics and had the same hallmark characteristics of a M4 carbine. He was still shooting as he walked forwards, picking off Chaos tanks and vehicles with single shots.

Vincent, probably dizzy from blood loss, began to laugh hysterically.

Beside him was Emma.

She played with lines of light that wove around her fingers. Her eyes shone bright blue as the strings sprung forth, wrapping around the wounded daemonhost. It screeched in pain, its flesh burning as the strings caressed the daemonic skin.

Librarian Vasili's jaw dropped.

Every other psyker within the vicinity began screaming in both agony and joy. Once, many centuries ago, he had been able to genuflect within half a kilometer from the Golden Throne. As he bowed his head, the Emperor's grace had touched him. All beings in the universe left a unique wake in the Immaterium.

Sometimes it could be disguised or toned down, but never changed. The Emperor was no exception.

Falling to his knees, he felt his hands shaking in pure fear or unrestrained glee.

Since his birth, the Holy Emperor had watched over mankind. In its shadows, far below his rightful place at the head of its glory, the Immortal Guardian of Humankind had taken up many names and many shapes over the years.

A carpenter in Nazareth, one that healed the sick and fed the hungry.

A soldier-saint of Silene, slayer of dragons and bringer of faith.

A peasant woman of France, liberator of her country and people.

A brash leader of men in Britain, unrelenting in his quest for freedom.

A little girl, standing in Belmont Street, weaving strands of light with her fingertips.

Watching from a distance, he saw Emma reach back, a spear of light forming at her fingertips.

The remaining two thirds of the Chaos forces voided their bowels.