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Strategos Alexandros was deep in prayer, praying to the God-Emperor of Man before the altar, which was shaped like an Aquila to represent the Master of Mankind, blessed be His name. His head was down as he knelt, his power-sword in its scabbard, his bolt-pistol at his side. He spoke the liturgy, of thanksgiving and prayer, in the High Gothic tongue, not the native language of Rhomaion which was derived from it. The chapel was a windowless room made of black obsidian in the heart of the Fortress-Monastery, lit only by dim candle-light. Vague details of standards were visible, showing men in ornate armour battling with foul xenos and heretics. He was speaking, in a way, for all the men of the Third Tagmata of the Guards of Rhomaion, his duty and capacity of Strategos of that Tagmata enabling him to speak for that one-hundred strong group of Battle-Brothers.

He spoke the sacred formula, believing with all his heart its truth, its glory -

'Oh Blessed Emperor, hallowed be Your name. I thank you for the victories you have granted me, of the chances you have given me, to obliterate the enemies of Man, to fight with heart and soul and body for your Imperium against the heretics and Xenos that besiege it. I ask only for more days in which to carry out your sacred task. Praise be unto you.'

- And rose, taking a moment to glance at the depictions of the Hagioi, the Megalon Strategikon that had fought and died on distant worlds for the greater glory of the Emperor and Mankind. He opened the metallic bulkhead-door, letting the light briefly shine into the chapel with its altar and standards and its multitude of gilded relics, before closing it and letting the room lie in darkness again.

_____________________

The Eclessiarchal emissary stood as proud as he could when faced with a Space Marine, those looming defenders of mankind. He hadn't been to this miserable, feudal world before, it didn't produce much of value to the Imperium. Not that it needed to, for Astartes home-worlds were exempt from tithes. And the people - they had the nerve to speak a distorted version of High Gothic, that noble tongue, as a common vernacular. This world in general irritated him, as it retained a pre-industrial level of technology, not even having gunpowder and with precious few Imperial technology. If not for the fact that the Marines kept a space-port (thank the Emperor it wasn't at the same insane altitude as the rest of their fortress - 13 miles up), his shuttle wouldn't even have been able to land.

He spoke calmly, not wishing to show the awe he felt at seeing such a wondrous being. The armour of the Marine was gilded, ornate and clearly made by artificiers who had wanted to create a true work of art. The scabbard of a blade and the butt of a plasma-pistol were visible, and he knew that this figure was the Chapter Master - or Megos Strategos as the Marines called him. His shoulder-pads and chest bore many purity-seals, the armour blood-red with green eye-lenses at the helmet and gold trim. His eyes told the emissary that this was truly a man of faith.

'The Eclessiarchy has noted your piety and devotion,' the emissary stated plainly. 'And we wish to put such things to the test. The Crusade to recapture Nike is beginning, and we feel, due to it being merely three sectors away, that you should join.'

Nike was a shrine-world home to countless cathedrals and mausoleums, invaded a century ago by elements of the Traitor Legion known as the Word Bearers for reasons unknown to the Imperium. It had been embroiled in war ever since, but now the Eclessiarchy wanted to reclaim it, as it held the bones of a saint famous throughout the sector.

'The Third Tagmata will be sent, we swear by all our relics,' the Master said plainly. 'Strategos Alexandros is known for his piety among us, and as Strategos he will command the Third Tagmata in its sacred mission.'

Tagmata, the emissary knew, meant Battle-Company. And if they were sending a hundred Astartes plus support, that was more than enough.

'Very well then,' the emissary said. 'I and the Eclessiarchy are pleased by your course of action.'

And with that, he walked from the room on the way back to his shuttle.

____________

Strategos Alexandros stood at the helm of the strike-cruiser of the Third Tagmata, the aptly named Eternal Blade. It was moving to rendezvous with other elements of the Nike Crusade, which was, in fact, barely even capable of being called a Crusade. The Mechanicus had sent a token force consisting largely of Skitarii and gigantic weapon-servitors built solely to destroy enemy vehicles. There was one Ordinatus, but none of the gigantic walking God-machines that formed up the majestic Titan legions. There were fifteen Regiments of the Imperial Guard, most notably three of the famed Vostroyan Firstborn, but barely enough to storm a planet or moon, much less hold it.

In fact, the Guards of Rhomaion stood as the only Astartes presence in the entire force. However, there was hope. Reports indicated little enemy presence in orbit, leaving it a mystery how the Word Bearers had arrived in the first place.

The ship burst out of the Warp, leaving a maddening rift in reality which lasted only a tiny microseconds before disintegrating. The view-screen turned back on at the prompting of the Strategos, revealing a seemingly endless starfield centred around the Ramilies-class Star Fortress Imperator's Vengeance, around which the fleet appeared. Nine cruisers, fifteen troopships, each carrying 10,000 men. There also were the Mechanicus ships, five in total not counting the one which transported the Ordinatus. Alexandros assessed the strength of the fleet, seeing that it would be enough to disperse the meagre orbital presence of the Word Bearers.

The strike-cruiser moved into the head of the formation, and as one, the ships moved into the darkness of the Warp.

All right, could have done with a bit more attention to spelling and such, but there's nothing fundamentally wrong with it that I can see. Let's see where it goes.

The ships of the Nike Crusade burst out of the Warp in formation, the yellow light of that world's sun shining upon them. The sun of the Nike system shone like a bright star, but no brighter - they were at the system's edge, a realm of desolate ice-moons and dwarf-worlds, orbiting endlessly in the void. The outer Nike system was uninhabited - there was barely anything of use there, and the Word Bearers had driven out what little settlement there was.

Strategos Alexandros gazed at the view-screen as the ship kept moving, slowing down as it moved at three-quarters of the speed of light, zooming past the worlds and asteroids of the system with a speed unmatched by any other vessel, its mighty plasma-drives moving it at immense accelerations. Alexandros glanced over at Bibliothikarios (a term meaning Librarian) Demetrios, his force-sword still sheathed, but emitting an ominous hum and filling the air with the actinic smell of ozone. The Librarian was searching the inner system with his psychic senses, hunting for a sign of enemy psykers. The Guards of Rhomaion did not disapprove of sanctioned psykers or Librarians - obviously they had a part to play in the God-Emperor's ineffable plan - but they hated the witch with merciless hatred, as they, like all heretics, had willingly turned their backs on the Emperor's light and his glorious, ineffable Plan.

Alexandros looked at his blade, names had been carved on it, the names of all Strategoi of the Third Tagmata, for it had been passed from Strategos to Strategos from the depths of time immemorial. It had also been recently anointed with holy oils by the Patriarch of the Third Tagmata, the blessed fluid soaking into the very structure of the blade, blessing it and making it a sacred weapon.

He briefly considered the reasons why the Word Bearers could have invaded Nike, then dismissed the thought. It was only too obvious - the Word Bearers wanted to destroy the cathedrals upon it, desecrate and despoil those mighty symbols of the God-Emperor's triumph and beneficence. They wanted to sack the planet, raze it to rubble and hoist their black banners of monstrous impiety over the ruins of its sacred buildings. It could not be allowed.

_____________________

Dark Apostle Soras Mazkazar looked at the Warp-gate as reality ripped apart within its confines and the Warp spat out a group of Space Marines. However, they did not wear the blessed crimson of the Word Bearers Legion, but mirrored armour that reflected everything that was reflected by it in a twisted, warped way. They were in a catacomb, a crypt, desecrated skulls and bones littering the floor leading up to the immense gateway made of blood-encrusted black iron that seemed to absorb the light of the torches while emitting its own red hell-glare, a semicircle resembling the upper half of the Star of Chaos set in the floor by supports of brass.

They bore bolters, with the primary figure, standing foremost and looking to be the leader, bearing a sword that stayed in its scabbard, but nevertheless filled everyone who so much as looked at it with a horrific feeling of unease. The leader also seemed to have iridescent, multicoloured feathered, angel-like wings that shifted colours constantly. His helm was a normal Astartes helm, albeit with horns that resembled the lemniscate symbol, commonly used in mathematical notation inside the Imperium to represent infinity.

Their leader took his helm off, revealing his face to be a nightmare. His skin was sallow, and from about the height of where his nose should be a mass of tendrils descended, covering his lower face and his mouth. Some dangled from his chin as well, resembling a beard. Mazkazar was used to mutation, but he had never seen such things before except among his Possessed.

'Why did you take so long?' Mazkazar demanded.

'The Angels of Tzeentch were delayed,' the Marine said, in a guttural voice. 'I am Sorcerer-Lord Koschei of the Angels of Tzeentch. Here are Grigori, Nikolai, and Alexei, my Chosen.'

'Well then,' the Apostle stated, raising his accursed Crozius, daemon-spells surrounding it like a haze. 'Can you find the Death of Light for me? I know it is somewhere on this accursed world, but where eludes me.'

'We shall discover it,' Koschei stated.

'Good,' Mazkazar said. 'Do not fail me.'

'Do not overestimate yourself,' Koschei warned.

'Of course not,' Mazkazar said.

_____________________

The Basilica of the Emperor's Light was a sacred place, where clergy prayed day after day in a permanent vigil, praying for salvation from the hand of the Chaos Marines. That prayer vigil was going to end soon, Koschei reflected. The rest of his strike-force, 50 strong, had emerged from the warp-portal and were now scurrying through the interconnected crypts that littered this planet's crust. The cathedrals were all connected via these crypts, so it was child's play to go under the enemy's lines. Koschei briefly wondered why the Word Bearers insisted on frontal assaults that were a waste of potentially useful cultists and Marines.

However, he knew the answer already, so that thought swiftly snapped out of his mind.

+++

Deacon Kyriakos looked at the crypt door, then watched in horror as some force hurled it off its hinges. He soon discovered what exactly it was, a Chaos Marine, its bolt pistol spraying out a hail of shots, blowing apart his torso instants later. A flamer set the altar-piece aflame with hellish warpflame, drowning out the sounds of fervent prayer with infernal screams of agonising pain as men mutated and burned at the same time. The greedy fires spread, devouring everything in their path. Men tried to scream for help, but the cackling of the flames drowned them out. Bolters spat forth explosive rounds, shattering statues and covering sacred images with purple-red gore. A particularly impressive and large statue of Sanguinius disintegrated into a shower of stone chips as round after round of bolter ammunition was sent into it.

A clergyman tried to hit a Space Marine with a candlestick, but a chainsword-slice sent his guts falling out of him, as the Marines left him to slowly die in horrific agony on the cathedral floor. Others were more fortunate, being decapitated or simply sliced in half by chainswords.

The fires reached higher, to the cathedral's roof, as the massacre continued. A pile of copies of the Summaria Theologica, the back-bone of the Imperial Creed, were burned to ashes without a second thought. Choirboys were murdered without the slightest shred of mercy. The fires rose high into the night, the Marines having massacred everybody in the Cathedral, going back into the crypts and leaving it to burn, it collapsing just as the fleet of the Nike Crusade arrived in orbit.