The previously crumbling resistance rallies with admirable quickness as the warriors of the Twentieth spring their ambush on the blood-drunk traitors. Jetbikes are wiped from the air in the hails of flak from well-hidden Hydra tanks. Bladesmen are baited into duels, Alpha Legionnaires fighting a determined, slowly retreating defense - until the hunger for glory overwrites the Scars' common sense, and they follow their prey to the killbox that awaits them. It is not glorious, nor is it elegant - but it is practical; and when dealing with the Emperor's enemies, almost everything bows to practicality. Or so the Twentieth Legion teaches, and ten thousand years of history have vindicated their opinion countless times.
Kill-squads of Astartes hunt for the dispersed traitor forces, hastening to hit them hard and fast before the Fifth Legion's forces could regroup, form any coherent response, or worse, retreat from the engagement - after spending decades designing the trap, it would be a sad waste to have the prey slip from the Hydra's grasp. From an orbital view or when seen on hololithic screens deep within the secure command bunkers, the markings signifying White Scar forces are slowly but surely entangled in the inexorable, crushing press of the vast jaws of the Hydra - formed of Astartes, Guard, and Mechanicum forces alike.
The storm cover of the Fifth Legion is rent in places, the Librarians of the Alpha Legion tearing away vast swathes of the partially-immaterial clouds, burning off the corrupted atmosphere with cold, righteous wrath in precisely calculated patterns. Guard armor elements smash into the heavy units the traitors have landed, keeping the corrupted Astartes pinned in place for the brief time it takes for the artillery shells to arrive from beyond the horizon or from low orbit when the cloud cover opens. Enhanced operatives trigger their hidden modifications in the hastily-erected slave pens, shedding their masks of innocence to reveal the dedicated killers within - killing a few of the raiders, wounding more, but more importantly, inspiring the other prisoners, and drawing additional forces from the beleaguered White Scars. Members of the Mechanicum focus their efforts on breaking and subverting the machine spirits of the traitor vehicles, attempting to confuse and delay the corrupted husks of once-noble engines for the split second needed to grant them the Omnissiah's peace.
In the darkness of the void, the Navy ships, supported by ships of the Twentieth Legion, close in on the White Scar fleet, closing off withdrawal routes with precisely choreographed maneuvers and not-insignificant firepower. The traitors huddle closer to the planet, attempting to use it as their shield against the incoming retribution, but that only buys them time - and the altered course leaves the landed White Scars without proper orbital support. There will not be quick evacuation, or devastating lance barrages to turn the tide on the surface, no snarling defiance by ramming a ship into the planet's crust just to spite the Imperium.
And yet all these reversals, all the things that turned the White Scar raid to a rout, do not manage to stop the wild, triumphant laughter. It echoes across the vox networks, worms its way into the noosphere, fills the veins of the besieged hive cities, reaches its crescendo over the desolate wastes separating the vast industrial complexes. The forces of the Fifth Legion are on the run, harried mercilessly, the storm simultaneously heralding and protecting them on the verge of dissipation, yet they are laughing - an honest, eager sound. The sound of unfettered, uninhibited freedom.
And in the wake of the joyous laughter, the dead start stirring.
Batu Khan is fighting the remnants of the Alpha Legion kill-squad who seek his head. They are good, these late descendants of the Twin Primarchs - they fight with consummate skill and determination. They even brought a Librarian along, to further stack the odds in their favor. Praiseworthy, indeed - a well-executed ambush, sprung with machine-like precision. He grins widely under his helmet. The loyalists have almost every advantage on their side, except for two things. None of them have the poetry of the plains in their souls, or are aware of the real, undeniable truth of the Imperium they serve. The White Scar considers it his duty to educate them.
"Come now, cousins, you can do better than this - if you would just open your eyes, shed your chains, you might very well kill me."
He dances to the old tunes of bolters and power weapons, each and every one of them an old friend from countless battlefields spanning over ten millennia. He knows well their siren song, the closest friend and truth all Astartes should learn - and pay for the tuition in sweat, blood, and death. Bolter shells gouge craters from his once-pristine armor, active power fields carve deep trenches into the ceramite, seeking his flesh and life. Uncaringly, he moves aside with a dancer's grace, the immense blade in his hands flashing like lightning, deep crimson sprays following in its wake.
"Why cling to those lies fed to you by agents of the rotting corpse of a tyrant, who still feeds on humanity's suffering? Why are you betraying all that your ancestors and Primarchs fought for? Why are you still feeding a soulless tyranny built on blood, lies, and blind zealotry?"
A moment of stillness, as transhuman senses registers the changed scenario, the slow collapse of three dismembered loyalists, then the smiling killer is moving again, hoarfrost spiralling from under their feet, as the powers of the Immaterium are brought to bear. The Librarian meets him halfway, their blades clashing more than a dozen times in the first second of their duel, seemingly uncaring of the others around them, who look for openings, chinks in the traitor's guard. They find many - yet the White Scar always sways aside or blocks in the last split-second. Even with the Librarian pressing him hard with blade and power, Batu manages to show a measure of his Primarch's swordsmanship to two more whelps as he rams the point of his sword through helmet and skull alike, before he rips the blade sideways, trailing blood, bone, and brain matter, then with a gentle caress of the edge, cuts through the neck seals of a loyalist.
"See? Discipline, precision, endless, repetitive drills are but the first steps." A barely visible clash of power fields, the sound of distant thunder over the plains, and another of the Librarian's companions falls, his torso carved open from shoulder to hip. The White Scar grins with unmitigated joy from behind a half-wrecked helmet, blood already clotting on his jaw. "Tell me his name, Librarian, so I may honor him properly."
Weaving amidst the fusillade of bolter shells, the Khan of the Fifth Legion draws back, opening the distance, making a mistake - allowing the Librarian to fully commit his powers. The psychic hood comes alive with actinic light, power coalescing at the fingertips of the loyalist, his mouth forming the words that will rend the traitor Astartes from existence. A white-hot spear of energy flashes from the pistol in the White Scar's hand, the beam boiling away ceramite, flesh, and bone alike, turning the Librarian's chest cavity into liquified fire and ash, the warp energy dissipating with concussive force as the damage done overwhelms even transhuman concentration.
The Alpha Legionnaires do not falter at the death of their leader, their bolter fire chases the elusive traitor who moves like the wind. A small sound halts the pursuit, instincts earned on a hundred battlefields making the loyalists wary - and at the first sign of renewed movement, they do their duty, giving their dead brethren the Emperor's Peace before the honored fallen could be further desecrated by the accursed Scars.
In high orbit, the Imperial Navy is closing in on the White Scar fleet - their guns find the range, batter at the scintillating void shields of the traitor vessels, explosives blooming with silent majesty on the dark tapestry of space. At an unseen signal, the previously retreating, cornered Fifth Legion vessels turn, their engines burning with hellfire as they race towards the brief chink in the blockade opened by a grand cruiser that is just a bit too slow to reposition itself. The loyalist shipmasters and rangefinders react with commendable alacrity, reacquiring their targets within a minute - but when facing veterans of endless void wars fought in the insanity of the Great Eye, that minute is too long.
Macrocannon barrages drop void shields, making way for the lance strikes to carve deep furrows into Imperial ships. Explosions follow in their wake, debris and air venting into the unrelenting cold. The Mercury-class battle cruiser Charybdis transforms into a swiftly expanding ball of plasma when a well-aimed shot ruptures her warp drive. The resulting confusion is enough for the White Scar vessels to break out of the blockade, the fleet maneuvering as one, intent on venting their traitorous wrath on the Imperial ships still trying to get their bearings.
They spot the immense vessel too late, as the gigantic behemoth seemingly materializes from the void itself, a predator from the depths intent on devouring its prey. In midnight clad, born in darkness, the opening salvo from the Eighth Legion battle barge turns a White Scar cruiser into a molten, drifting husk.
