The plague had just been purged from the Subsector System #17. Ground troops were already boarding transport ships, their armor still scarred from the campaign but polished clean of contagion, preparing to return to the two cruisers stationed in the system.
Just as the task force was preparing for Dimensional transit back to the Talon System, a surge of violet warp-light shimmered across the void.
Both cruiser captains immediately turned their auspex arrays toward the anomaly. Their visual displays zoomed in, focusing on a point thousands of kilometers away, and there, bearing down, was an approaching fleet.
Twelve warships were approaching their fleet. Their sensor signatures identified two Lunar-class cruisers and two Storm-class frigates. Alongside them moved other unidentified warship patterns, distorted by warp interference.
Most of the captains and void-crew of the Talon Fleet lacked real combat experience, being largely untested in battle. But their intensive training with immersive simulations had drilled them for moments like this. Thus, the two cruiser commanders immediately realized something was wrong.
The enemy formation was... off. Like a simulation gone awry, the kind of decoy used in war-games or bait used to provoke a response and analyze an enemy's readiness.
Regardless of their intent, Talon Fleet doctrine dictated one response in such situations: do not engage; jump to designated strategic points and regroup with greater firepower.
All ships activated their Dimensional Engines. After ten minutes of charging, the fleet vanished into the blue light.
The energy signature of their departure was noted by the twelve approaching ships.
....
"No more energy signatures detected," a crew-serf reported. "Looks like they've fled, Lord Captain."
Aboard the lead Lunar-class cruiser, all data was being relayed to the bridge. The Captain stood upon a pulpit of living, quivering flesh, observing the void beyond through stained warpglass windows.
Where a standard Imperial bridge would have been lined with brass, cogitator stations, and proud banners, this bridge was a nightmare of fused organic matter and rusted plating, the proud craftsmanship of a cruiser replaced by rotted flesh and leaking orifices.
Tentacles erupted from the hull, flailing in spasmodic rhythm, sometimes slapping against the window like some obscene heartbeat. The pulpit beneath the Captain's boots pulsed and writhed, fanged maws exhaling green miasma. The reeking fumes drove the corrupted crew into manic fervor.
"L-L-Lord… it seems they were afraid… t-t-they ran," a green, pustulent daemon-creature stammered, clambering onto the Captain's shoulder. It was a Nurgling, a minor daemon of the Plague God, often used as familiars or mascots by Nurgle's followers.
The Captain nodded slowly and turned toward the beast standing behind him. "Then… are we free to withdraw?"
The figure towered over him, clad in ancient, pitted Power Armor soaked in filth and decay. A Manreaper scythe rested in his massive hands. Upon the bloated armor of his gut, a leering maw gurgled and lashed the floor with a mucus-coated tongue.
This was no ordinary warrior. A Plague Marine, one of the genetically-engineered elite of the Death Guard Traitor Legion, his name lost to rot and memory, known now only as the Corpse-Robe.
The Corpse-Robe said nothing. He merely rested the scythe across the Captain's neck.
"W-wait! You c-c-can't! We had an agreement!" shrieked the Nurgling, voice rising in pitch.
The Captain gently patted the Nurgling in reassurance, signaling silence. He turned back to the stars.
"It seems… this is our fate."
"Nooo…" the Nurgling sobbed, clinging tighter to the Captain's neck.
"At least… we'll always be together." The Captain gently stroked the daemon and issued a final command: "Advance."
The twelve vessels pressed deeper into the system, spreading like a cancer across the void.
Their corrupted hulls oozed foul energies detectable even at extreme ranges, a sickly trail marking their passage across the cold darkness.
From the moment these ships arrived, the system, once purged of pestilence, began to rot anew. Across the worlds below, entire populations succumbed, transforming into plague-ridden Plague Zombies.
The Plague Sorcerers aboard the corrupted fleet confirmed it: the plague had returned.
But something was… wrong.
"The plague's spreading too slowly," the Captain muttered. "It's nothing like what we saw at the Cadian Gate. I thought this system would've been overwhelmed by now."
"For some unknown reason, the plague's strength here is… diminished," the Sorcerer rasped. "It's lost… its purity. Had we not arrived, the contagion may have been fully expunged."
"Hm." The Captain rubbed his chin. "That might explain why we can't breach the Talon System directly. It's as if the entire region is wrapped in some kind of… Gellar Field. And the place itself feels wrong. Haunting, even."
The Sorcerer nodded, closing his eyes in grim communion with the warp.
As the pestilence resumed its crawl across the system, the Sorcerer's senses expanded, the warp screaming its secrets into his soul.
Moments later, he whispered, "The people here… they lack faith. Their belief in Him is… shallow. Like stagnant water. If their faith were strong, the plague would have no grip at all. But this… I suppose that's expected. This is a backwater system."
"Him?" the Captain chuckled. "Which 'Him' do you mean?"
"You know… Him," the Sorcerer answered vaguely.
A crewman jeered, "Which one? The one who just sits on his golden chair all day?"
The Sorcerer fell silent, choosing not to dignify the jibe.
Laughter erupted throughout the bridge.
Until the sensorium servitor screamed. "High-intensity energy spike! Coordinates—!"
The auspex array he was overseeing exploded in a burst of sparks and warp-tainted fire before he could finish.
Ahead of them, realty-flashes rippled across the void. Dozens of vessels emerged from seamingless nowhere.
The Captain narrowed his eyes at the incoming forces. Most were but specks at this distance, save one.
A Battleship.
One of the largest and most heavily armed vessels humanity had ever produced.
"Retribution-class…" the Captain whispered.
Then he bellowed: "We came here knowing we would die. The time is now. Prepare for battle!"
The Corpse-Robe withdrew his scythe. The bridge lit up with red warning lights as the entire ship entered combat readiness. Battle-stations sounded across the daemon-infested ship.
The rest of the twelve-vessel fleet followed suit, rallying for combat.
The warband of Nurgle was ready.
....
The cruisers that had jumped away earlier had returned.
And they had brought reinforcements.
Ten additional cruisers. Twenty frigates. And the mighty Talon's Wrath, a Battleship that resembled the Retribution-class of the Imperium.
Its armored hull bore no gothic spires, no baroque iconography. Instead, sleek plating of reflective alloy, modular weapon housings, and dim blue luminescence traced along its edges, an aesthetic of function and control in a galaxy of madness.
The Talon's Wrath moved into the center of the fleet formation, forming a mobile bastion, while smaller ships fanned outward in attack wings.
Within its command deck stood Lord Admiral Adam, his gaze fixed on the grotesque enemy fleet.
Even from this distance, the corrupted vessels radiated revulsion. He instinctively recoiled, but clenched his jaw and began issuing orders.
"Do not let them close. Focus fire. Destroy them at range. Break their formation before they reach our battle line."
All captains acknowledged the command.
Massive banks of particle lance arrays charged and opened fire, beams of concentrated energy scything through the void.
The Talon's Wrath unleashed its full armament: an array of seven long-range particle lance emitters. Each individual weapon outclassed the lances of a standard cruiser in both power and range.
Blazing beams of light tore through the void, streaking toward their marks with surgical precision.
The barrage was devastating. Over ninety percent hit-rate.
When the first salvo ended, eight of the ten enemy frigates were reduced to debris. The void shields of the remaining two frigates and both corrupted cruisers flickered dangerously, on the verge of overload.
The battle had begun.
.....
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