The storm lashes the war-torn planet furiously with lightning and torrential, multi-colored rain of light, and under the unholy downpour, the dead walk once again, hunting for the Corpse Emperor's faithful - and bringing down all they can with mindless hunger. It is a testament to the discipline and courage of the Guard units that they merely waver at the sight of the onslaught - not a single unit breaks. Then again, that's also due to their survival instincts; lone soldiers or small platoons are easily torn apart by the hunting wraiths. The confines of the ruined hive cities become true slaughterhouses, blood drenching the foundations, empowering the raging storm. Ghost-like giants in bone-white power armor flash amidst the patches of darkness, reaping a tally of lives, leaving only carnage and ruin in their wake. Not even the Sons of the Hydra can keep up with the lightning-quick Scars, the corrupted Astartes feeding off the spilt blood, daubing their plate with the scarlet fluid. The Imperium's forces teeter on the brink, forced ever backwards, the dead hordes and transhuman reavers a howling, moaning whirlwind of ruination, wild, unfettered laughter echoing over the vox channels and aetheric streams alike. The agents of the Ruinous Powers are ascendant, certain that this is their hour, and finally they can give the freedom of release to the ignorant masses of the Imperium. They keep killing and killing, drunk on slaughter, seeking glory in numbers of slain rather than skill of enemies. In their blood-haze, they forget to pay attention. They forget that while they can attack the Imperium with impunity, the forces of the God-Emperor will always strike back.
Retribution arrives with a boom of displaced air, amidst the coruscating energies of a teleportation. It unfolds from the many-colored darkness with predatory quickness, silent lethality. It swarms up from the dank, forgotten depths of the hive cities. In midnight clad, justice is unleashed at long last, and the warriors of the Eighth Legion set upon their traitorous kin with bolters and blades. There is no grandstanding, no calls for duel, no precisely orchestrated false retreat to prepared killboxes, no carefully-considered tactical maneuvers. The laughing killers of the Fifth Legion are stabbed in the back by lightning claws, shot point-blank by figures that seemingly materialize from the very walls, only to fade back into the darkness in search of other prey. The zadyin arga are almost swept under the tide of midnight, as the storm turns on them, hundreds of thousands of dead and dying souls howling for justice, for retribution - and the storm answers.
Batu Khan smiles with ferocity and pure happiness, the grin illuminated by the sparks from the two colliding power fields, the Night Lord's glaive scoring a deep line on his armor.
"Let's see if you can live up to your forefathers, cousin." Batu nods towards the loyalist, in respect for the other's skill.
thump
Blades clash with barely perceptible speed, a whirling dance of death, feints and counters merging with seamless precision.
thump
The White Scar parries the glaive's decapitating strike, his riposte scoring a deep furrow into the chest plate of the Night Lord. The loyalist releases his weapon to drop back and avoid being cut open. Batu closes with blinding speed, his blow deflected by the haft of the loyalist's weapon.
thump
An eager, satisfied smile on his lips, the White Scar presses the attack, upping the tempo, the ringing of metal, the sizzling of straining power fields both distant, far-away things. Hoarfrost traces patterns under their feet, the scintillating raindrops falling with stately grace around them.
thump
Sword and glaive clash with overwhelming power, the two warriors holding the bladelock for an eternal heartbeat. The smile on one's face is countered by the snarling visage of the other's still-intact helmet, then the two spin away, circling each other.
"You are good, Night Lord." A feint, a riposte, and with a grin, Batu stops the glaive's edge inches from his neck. "A shame that you sided with the Corpse Tyrant."
"Spare me the lecture, traitor." The strength of the blow unbalances the White Scar for a fraction of a second, and he can feel his armor buckling under the powerful blow of the loyalist's gauntlet. He jumps back, brings up his blade in a salute, then once again, throws himself at the Night Lord. He feels his grin widening, as the loyalist, despite being just a fraction slower, can somehow keep up with him. It has been awhile since he met such a skilled opponent. The realization hits him harder than a Dreadnought's power fist. A sublimely skilled Night Lord, using a glaive, perfectly able to counter his greater speed with almost preternatural awareness and positioning. The laughter that leaves his throat is unabashedly happy, as he begins the routines and steps of that particular dance from so long ago. That time, he could keep up for over six hours.
The Night Lord matches him blow for blow, feint for feint, and Batu can feel the blood haze trying to cloud his mind, the distant howling of thirsty, eager yaksha seeking to worm inside his mind, to usurp his place and take away the glory that will be this kill. The Khan of the White Scars just laughs at their feeble attempts - unlike so many of his own brethren, he is free of the lies whispered by the yaksha. One who has followed the Khagan when the chains laid on them by the Corpse Tyrant were thrown off will never submit to another power - only the Khagan, only Jaghatai could command his fealty.
With a brief shake of his head, Batu once again contemplates his partner for a moment, taking in his stance, movements, a myriad small tells a good swordsman would evaluate to measure his opponent. And yet, he was not quite sure, not even if he accounted for the time elapsed. Still, that skill with the glaive was not something he could forget. Bat smiled, flashing teeth. One way to find out for sure.
"Did you think we have forgotten?" The vox distorts the Night Lord's chuckle into a menacing snarl, as he parries with effort; he's just a fraction slower than the White Scar, but at this level, that's almost too much. "We remember your kind well, White Scar."
Another clash of blades, and the bat-winged mask leers close to the traitor's smiling face.
"Tell me, traitor - was the betrayal worth it?" The Night Lord underlines his question with a brutal slash, servos snarling as the two transhuman struggle. "Do you enjoy your corrupted chains, son of Chogoris?"
A flash of lightning from above, as weapons clash a dozen times before the thunder arrives.
"There are no chains on me, zealot!" Batu is no longer grinning, but he can see the savage smirk on his opponent's no longer helmeted face. For a moment, the loyalist's expression is as if hooks tugged on the flesh of a corpse. Remembering that expression, the White Scar reacts instinctively, his blade coming up to parry - and then he staggers back as the glaive's edge bites deep into his thigh from a completely unseen angle. His vision clears just in time to see the midnight-clad loyalist tower over him.
Two blades flash almost in unison, and it ends there.
Above the planet, the Night Lords battle barge is bearing down on the remnants of the White Scar fleet. While the traitor vessels have an advantage in speed and maneuverability, the Imperial behemoth's gunnery decks aim with almost preternatural precision. Every course correction, modification to speed or aspect change the corrupted Astartes vessels attempt is met with punishing macrocannon and lance volleys. Void shields shimmer in scintillating colors before becoming overwhelmed by the sheer firepower of the Imperial behemoth. It is far from the lumbering giant most would expect - then again, the long-gone Admiral Vandred has laid down a rather impressive legacy for the Eighth Legion to draw upon when conducting void warfare.
The midnight-colored leviathan circles its prey, cutting off viable escape routes with its sheer presence or the power of its guns. Return fire spatters on its void shields, bites into its armored hull, gouging furrows and craters in its wake. The vast ship plows through the traitor barrage with deceptive slowness and grace, venting tendrils of atmosphere and debris from the scratches inflicted on its ancient hide. Spinal lance batteries ignite with murderous fury, the incandescent beams of coherent light biting deep into the White Scar vessels. Secondary explosions follow, then the eternal night brightens for a moment as the lead traitor battlecruiser's engine goes critical.
The surviving ships scatter, redlining their engines in a desperate bid to escape Imperial justice. For a few minutes, they seem to succeed - as always, the White Scars' obsession with speed and maneuverability allows them to open the distance between their battered ships and the Night Lords battlebarge. Their acceleration and dispersal pattern would be enough to save them from any macrocannon barrage, and the spinal lances would not get even half of them in time.
Their assumptions and hopes are dashed when the loyalist vessel turns with a nimbleness that would be impressive from a frigate. Inertial compensators and overstressed metal shrieks under the strain, the Eighth Legion serfs and naval personnel alike praying that the Astartes at the helm calculated correctly - or at least the ship would hold together long enough to fire the last barrage needed to mete out justice.
Explosions blossom along the flanks of the battlebarge, atmosphere vents from countless microfractures, but it completes the turn, and its lance batteries flare with righteous wrath once more. A brief flicker of rapidly expanding ball of plasma, and the system is clear of traitor presence.