A heavy explosion shook the ground, and corporal Frost of the 21st Christos Regiment of the Imperial Guard tried to crawl deeper into the cover of the makeshift log bunker as red-hot earth rained down on the rapidly dwindling number of human survivors. The Night Lords had come out of nowhere, descending on the planet like wolves, and now Frost’s platoon was cut off and surrounded.

A missile streaked through the night with a tail of white fire and slammed into the bunker, detonating with a thunderous concussion. Logs and Guardsmen were thrown into the air by the blast. Frost silently offered up a prayer to the Emperor.

“It’s no good!” a Guardsman with a commlink shouted over the sharp snap-crack of Imperial lasguns and the roar of the enemy’s weapons, “Something’s jamming the vox signal, I can’t get through!”

“We have to get through to HQ Company!” sergeant Herix yelled over the din of weapons fire and explosions, “Vasquez, get word to Captain Remus, if he’s still alive!”

“I’m on my way sir!” said Vasquez, and headed off at a crouching run. Within seconds the shadows swallowed him and he disappeared into the night.

Private Daros commando-crawled towards Frost and blindly fired off a burst from his lasgun into the darkness.

“What the feth is going on out there?” Frost shouted, and ducked as a shell screamed down from the sky and exploded violently somewhere behind them. A scream from someone who had been hit rent the air. Red bars of light flashed away into the night as Daros fired a second hail of shots.

“Don’t know, corporal!” he answered, “The Chaos bastards seem to be…”

Daros was abruptly cut off and thrown backwards as he was struck by a bolter round. Blood splattered over Frost and he tried not to be sick as he looked at the gaping red crater that had a second ago been Daros’ face.

Sergeant Herix crawled over, looked out over the top of the makeshift bunker and quickly ducked back down.

“Feth!” he cursed quietly.

Another volley of bolter fire hammered into the bunker, sending wood splinters flying from the barricades, as Cain and Drecta dived for cover behind the wall of logs and slammed fresh power cells into their lasguns. Peering into the darkness ahead, Frost could just make out the scene through the intermittent flashes of light from laser weapons and exploding ordnance. A monstrous Chaos Defiler scuttled forward on six jointed legs, blazing away with all its weapons. Its turret swung round, and the ground quaked as it fired its battle cannon, discharging a high explosive shell towards an unseen target. As Frost watched, a lascannon beam lanced out and struck one of the Defiler’s insectoid legs, smashing the joint and bringing the walker crashing down. As it slashed the ground uselessly with its claws, the daemon within the machine howling in impotent rage, several Guardsmen came running out of the darkness past the immobilised Defiler, firing at something behind them. Suddenly, a mechanical roar split the night. A Rhino APC that’s very hull seemed to warp and shift into images of screaming faces careered out of the dimness with a siren-like howl, a crewman at the top hatch spitting fire from a pintle-mounted combi-bolter. The explosive projectiles threw up columns of dirt as they sought targets. The rearmost Guardsman screamed as he was hit and pitched forward with both his legs blown away. He continued crawling frantically towards the safety of the bunker, but the Rhino bore down on him relentlessly. His scream of terror and pain was quickly silenced as the Rhino ground over him, crushing the unfortunate Guardsman beneath its armoured treads.

Frost looked around. Everyone was crouching behind the cover of the barricade as bullets ripped through the air above them, everyone except for Commissar Arcturus. The Commissar stood defiantly upright by the barricade, seemingly oblivious to the enemy fire screaming through the air around him. He calmly fired his bolt pistol as if on the firing range, and the gunner on the charging Chaos Rhino slumped as several shots found their mark. He snapped off another shot and the now unmanned combi-bolter was ripped from its swivel mounting in a shower of metal confetti.

“Get up!” the Commissar roared to Frost and the others, “Stand and fight!”

Commissar Arcturus’ last bolt pistol clip clicked empty. He discarded the weapon and pulled a laspistol from the hand of a dead Guardsman who had been cut in half by a burst from a Reaper Autocannon.

“You are Imperial Guardsmen!” the Commissar shouted, “Come on, men! With me!”

Their morale bolstered by the Commissar’s calm, commanding presence, the few remaining humans broke cover with murmured prayers and opened fire.

Laser bolts scored black marks on the front of the Rhino, but it did not slow down, its shifting, mutating hull seeming to absorb the shots. It crashed through the bunker wall, sending logs and guardsmen flying and smashing it to pieces with its immense weight. As the vehicle slewed round to a halt, a rear ramp lowered, crashing down with a sharp metallic ring, and several Chaos Marines in morbidly decorated midnight-blue armour leapt screaming from the APC. Genetically engineered warriors of superhuman size and strength, gifted with horrifying mutations by the dark powers of the Chaos Gods, they fell upon the Imperial Guardsmen with a blood-chilling war cry and a flurry of blows from daemonic claws and talons. Frost brought his lasgun up to parry a vicious downward slash, but the Possessed Marine’s other clawed hand came up out of nowhere in a lightning-fast uppercut and slammed into the Guardsman’s body. Frost fell back in a pool of his own blood, with a gaping wound across his chest. Sergeant Herix’s chainsword roared into life, hacking off the arm of one of the Chaos marines, before one of its foul brethren raised a hand and shot arcing lightning from its fingertips. The ice-blue electricity coruscated over the sergeant, and the man screamed as a smell of burning flesh filled the air. Frost dimly saw the sergeant’s blackened skeleton fall heavily to the ground and disintegrate as Cain was decapitated by a sweeping blow. His executioner held the man’s severed head aloft and hissed. A Possessed Chaos Marine with fingers mutated into barbed tentacles that coiled and writhed with a mind of their own ensnared Drecta, crushing the life out of him. A barbed tongue shot out of his mouth, piercing the Guardsman’s throat. As blood spurted over the Possessed marine, he ripped a bloody shred of flesh from the man’s neck with serrated teeth. Another fallen Guardsman screamed as two Chaos marines tore at him, eating him alive.

Commissar Arcturus roared in anger, slashing with his glowing power sword and bisecting one of his opponents, the crackling blade cutting easily through his armour.

“Emperor damn you to hell, you bastard!” he roared as he struck down another Chaos marine with a sweeping blow. Blood hissed as it vaporised on his white-hot blade.

Suddenly the Commissar staggered and fell back as both sword and hand were cut from his wrist by the lightning-fast blow of a taloned hand. The claws swept back and forth again and the Commissar collapsed, his chest shredded. As human blood flowed freely and stained the dark earth, the Chaos marines gathered eagerly round the fallen Commissar. As they towered above him, the Commissar’s face was still twisted into a defiant snarl.

“I hope you choke on me you fething bastards!” he spat.

A daemonic claw slashed down, and blood splashed against the barricade.

As the Possessed marines stooped and began feeding on the Commissar’s corpse, Frost saw another towering figure emerge from the Chaos Rhino, his ceramite boots clanking against the metal of the ramp.

The tall imposing Chaos marine laughed, a low threatening sound that made Frost shrink back in terror. The marine wore a black cloak and his armour was covered with raking spikes. Hanging from his belt was what looked like an hourglass, only instead of sand it was filled with something red. He removed his winged helmet, sculpted in the visage of a terrifying daemon, and turned to look at Frost. A disfiguring scar ran diagonally across his face, twisting it into a permanent snarl. That snarl was even more pronounced now as he advanced on the fallen Guardsman, rows of spikes glinting on the armour of his forearms, his eyes burning like bale-fire. Those pitiless eyes staring down at him was the last thing Frost ever saw.

* * *

Slowly, I survey the bloody scene, and laugh coldly. One of the fallen Guardsmen twitches. The Possessed looked up, their fanged mouths stained crimson, and make a move towards the still-living human, but stop as I raise a gauntleted hand. I stride over to the disabled Guardsman, seize him by the throat and haul him upright, slamming him against the barricade. I clench my right fist and the concealed blade slides out - I punch downward, stabbing into the Guardsman’s neck once, twice, three times, before finally letting him slide down the wall in a spray of blood. In the hourglass at my waist, a tiny droplet of blood materialises and splashes into the lower crystal bulb. I throw the body to the feeding Possessed, and laugh again before touching a communicator built into the wrist of my left gauntlet.

“No prisoners, no survivors.” I broadcast to my troops, glancing around at the bunker that has been transformed into a charnel pit.

Around me, the screams finally die down as my Night Lords complete the destruction of the Imperial outpost.

I look up and see the Imperial Guard massing for battle. They form up on the hillcrest, while under cover of the nearby woods my warriors in their midnight-blue power armour do likewise, assuming combat positions with practiced efficiency. Our enemy are mainly Conscripts from the new and hastily-raised PDF regiments who should prove little challenge in the coming battle. The Ultramarine squad standing defiantly on the hillcrest above me however interests me. Loyalist scum, pale shadows of true Marines after millennia of decay, I think, but with them are three mighty figures, one of whom I recognise with horror thanks to his trademark Gauntlets of Ultramar. Marneus Calgar, here? Anger grips me - very well then, he shall die like the rest of them.

I stand alone at the bottom of the hill, in front of several roughly-hewn wooden crosses to which are nailed the mutilated corpses of our latest victims. One of the loyalists steps forward from the ranks and walks slowly towards me. He holds a finely-crafted two handed sword and his Terminator armour is richly embellished with purity seals and prayer scrolls.

I holster my bolt pistol and raise my own blade, a warp-forged sword with the hilt crafted into the Night Lords badge of a winged skull, in ironic salute.

“Traitor,” the champion hisses, “You turned on those you swore to fight by until the end and sold your soul to the Ruinous Powers, but even now it is not too late. Submit to the will of the Immortal Emperor, save your soul and earn His forgiveness. Repent your sins and I promise you a quick and painless death.”

I almost laugh behind the snarling mask of my faceplate.

“I will not extend you the same offer, son of Guilliman” I say mockingly, “Death to your False Emperor.” I add, knowing it will infuriate the champion.

With a snarl of rage he lunges towards me, his sword flashing in the failing light. Our crackling power swords crash together, arcs of lightning flickering outwards as each power field strains to override the other. I step back, blocking each of his blows in turn. This champion is good but I am better. The loyalists take perhaps one in a hundred recruits to become Space Marines. I was the only one of over a thousand aspirants to succeed in becoming a Night Lord, and one of the few of many more to survive the thousands of battles we have fought over the centuries. Also I have a greater advantage - speed. The champion’s Terminator armour is strong but cumbersome. Bringing the sword in my left hand up to parry his latest lunge, I lash out with a backhand blow of my right, slamming the spikes on the vambrace of my armour into his chest and sending him reeling back.

“You are no match for me, loyalist.” I say, lowering my sword and turning my back on him, “Very well, I will give you this one and only chance. Shoot me.”

A tense silence hangs in the air for several seconds. Then I hear a dull thud as the champion throws down his storm bolter.

“There is no honour in shooting a defenceless opponent in the back,” he says at last, “I don’t fight that way.”

This time I really do laugh.

“I do.” I whisper icily. I spin round, and the skull-engraved bolt pistol I have just drawn roars in the still air. The flame-wreathed bolts, enchanted by the Tzeentchi sorceress Taimat, tear into the champion. He jerks back, sparks flying from his breastplate, blood spraying where the explosive rounds pierce his armour. His sword dropping from his nerveless fingers to clatter on the ground, he falls to his knees. Placing the heel of my right hand on the pommel of my sword, I drive it through his ribcage, the shimmering powerfield cutting through his armour like a hot knife through butter. Blood vaporises off the glowing blade in a red mist as the tip explodes from his back.

“Long live the Dark Gods.” I snarl at the dying warrior, and kick him off the blade. Another drop of blood drips into the bulb of my hourglass.

I hear enraged shouts from the hillcrest and see the remaining Ultramarines heroes charging towards me to avenge their slain champion, followed closely by the Guard. But, disdaining to run, I walk calmly back towards my own line. I catch the eye of Dekreth, Aspiring Champion of Soulcrusher squad, and he smiles coldly before donning his winged helmet. Raising my still-smoking blade, I point it towards the advancing Imperials and slash it downwards. My troops surge forward. Raptors soar into the air on screaming jetpacks. Battle is about to be joined.

I pace the pitch-black chamber of my personal quarters on the Incendria Mortis restlessly. Every now and then, a flicker of static lightning from the stellar dust cloud my ships are using as a base - the nebula masks us from enemy sensors and also lets us strike at passing ships without warning, like an assassin’s dagger - bathes the room in reddish light from the viewing-port before plunging me back into blackness. I am not troubled by the dark, for my entire legion are disciples of shadow, but the last battle has given me pause for thought. The Imperial Guard PDF, predictably, barely even tested our patience let alone our skills, but the Ultramarines were a force to be reckoned with. Their legendary Chapter Master, most powerful psyker, and a Captain who had matched me in combat, were not to be underestimated. Stranger still, I could have sworn I saw a squad of Dark Eldar pirates in jagged armour fighting alongside the Guardsmen…

I turn as the door irises open behind me, and comes to rest with an echoing clang. My two elite bodyguards either side of it turn as one, training their boltguns on a tall, thin silhouette standing at the threshold. Red laser targeting beams play over the figure, but she whispers a password with a sibilant hiss, gesturing angrily. The bodyguards lower their weapons and return to their stations as the Chaos sorceress Taimat glides into the room. One of the sorceresses that orchestrated our doomed summoning ritual on Elsinore, she too survived the battle whereas her mentor Morrigan perished. A seemingly slight and pallid human girl of just seventeen, she is nevertheless a powerful psyker - I have seen her flip Land Raiders with a whispered word of power, and incinerate whole ranks of enemy troops with daemonic fire from her fingertips. In the Imperium, a psyker as powerful as her would surely have been condemned as too dangerous to be allowed to live, but in my service and in the service of the Dark Gods, she can develop and exploit her frightening powers to their full potential.

“Our preparations for the ritual are complete. It is time, Commander,” she hisses softly, her cat-like eyes glittering ominously in the darkness. I nod silently and push the uneasy thoughts from my mind - they are of little consequence for the present. As I move out of the room after Taimat, my two bodyguards silently leave their posts to follow, flanking me protectively.

* * *

I stand in the centre of the eight-pointed star formed by the dark chamber, surrounded by my hand-picked bodyguard and the Aspiring Champions of my force. At my side, Taimat chants softly, her strangely-elongated canine teeth glinting in the purple Warp-light that plays about the otherwise unlit room as she nears the end of the complex incantation.

I step forward and hold up the now-glowing Hourglass of Blood before turning it over and placing it on the stone altar in the room’s centre. The blood inside immediately begins to trickle through, and Taimat’s chanting reaches a new peak of intensity. As the last drop falls through the Hourglass, she raises both hands in the air, Warp-lightning crackling along her arms. The Mark of Tzeentch on the back of her right hand and the Mark of Chaos Undivided on her left blaze like fire. A blinding light fills the chamber and a fountain of blood explodes outwards from the altar, covering me, Taimat and everyone present. As the light fades, a blood-drenched figure has appeared on the altar. Slowly, he looks down at his red-stained hands, then touches his face. A low, menacing laugh fills the chamber. As he reaches down to pick up the glittering black sword at his feet and holds it aloft, we all fall to our knees as one and bow low. He steps down from the altar and with my Chaos-gifted night vision I see his face and know that the ritual has worked. Lord Xorak the Executioner is born again.

“Rise, my trusted lieutenant,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. I do as he commands, though I cannot hold his gaze and avert my eyes, bowing my head respectfully.

Xorak bows to the sorceress Taimat, who returns the gesture and moves to retrieve the now-empty Hourglass of Blood from the altar. Sheathing his re-forged Dark Blade, Lord Xorak strides purposefully from the chamber.

“Our agents have done their work well, my Lord,” a heretic tech-priest reports as we stand on the ramparts of the captured Imperial base where we are stockpiling supplies for the next phase of our campaign, “Around 10% of the local population has rebelled against the Imperial government since we arrived, and the slave workforce of mutants is also rising up against their oppressors.

Weak, frightened fools, I think to myself, turning on their own comrades rather than face our terror troops in the vain belief that we will spare them their wretched lives.

“Let them,” answers Xorak as he gazes out at the blood-red sunset, “It does not concern us, and the anarchy they cause will greatly benefit our operations.”

I turn towards Xorak expectantly as the tech-priest bows and makes a swift exit, all too glad to be out of the presence of this sinister Chaos lord, the dark ceramite plates of whose armour seem to suck all available light from their surroundings and give him an overpowering aura of ominous darkness. I sense that I am about to hear my lord’s new plan.

“You must know that the Hourglass of Blood is an incredibly powerful artefact,” he begins, taking the small object from me and turning it slowly in his hand, “And you know of the power it has to resurrect the dead.”

“The moment I heard of its existence I knew what I had to do, my lord,” I said.

“And you have my thanks, Executor,” he replies, “But did you know that the Hourglass also has power over time?”

I stare at the tiny hourglass in wonder, my thoughts turning instantly to the debacle on Elsinore, and how close we came to unlocking the Warp Gate.

“You mean to go back and rewrite the events on Elsinore?” I ask, clenching the hilt of my power sword as I think of the revenge I will take on the Eldar of Reia-Hal.

“No,” Xorak says abruptly, “I have set my sights on a far greater goal than that. We shall go back 10,000 years to the time of the Horus Heresy itself, and change history by destroying the Emperor before he can challenge Horus aboard his battle-barge at the Seige of Terra. That is where the outcome of the war was decided, and if we can change that…”

“…Then the Imperium will never exist, and the dream of a galaxy ruled by the Dark Gods will become a reality!” I finish, stunned by the enormity of his proposal.

“I entrust the Hourglass to you, Executor,” says Xorak, handing it to me. I look at it with a new awe, almost feeling the dark power radiating from it.

“Such a timeshift will take ten, twenty, maybe a hundred times as much blood as was needed to resurrect me,” says Xorak, “The teeming capital city of Hive Santiago would be the ideal source.”

At this he points over the crimson horizon.

“Assemble a strike team, Executor - go forth and spill the blood for the greater glory of Chaos! And you,” this is to Aspiring Champion K’tel standing behind us, “See that nothing happens to the base during our absence.”

“Yes, my lord!” K’tel replies dutifully, ejecting the sickle magazine from his bolter, checking it and then slamming it home again.

As night falls and we prepare to move out, a slight rustle in the undergrowth of the nearby wood makes me turn. Gripping my bolt pistol and wondering whether to alert K‘tel, I stare at the trees for a long time. Nothing emerges. I turn to follow my strike force with a frown - it must have been just a passing breeze.

* * *

It has been a fruitful raid. We fell upon the pathetic inhabitants of Hive Santiago and slaughtered our way through its winding spires and plazas after we had dealt with the PDF and Arbites police that attempted to stop us. Our Raptors drove hundreds of fleeing civilians into ambushes to be captured and sacrificed to the Hourglass. Before the nearby Imperial Guard units could intervene, we vanished into the night leaving behind us a hell of flame and anarchy, the streets of the Hive’s western Habs running with blood. In the wake of the terror and panic caused by this first of many attacks, the Imperial citizens of Galna III will be under no illusions that the war is just beginning.

I sit alongside Taimat and Xorak inside a Rhino APC as it roars back towards the outpost at the head of our column. I am pleased with our night’s work, and with the amount of blood that has been added to the Hourglass. Though we still have a long way to go, achieving Xorak’s goal does not now seem so improbable.

“You are sure, Executor?” Xorak asks me as we discuss our last battle before his resurrection, “You definitely saw Dark Eldar fighting alongside the Imperials?”

“Yes my lord, I am sure.”

“There were rumours of a brotherhood of Mandrake assassins living on this planet,” Xorak says thoughtfully, “But I didn’t expect them to intervene, a minor error on my part. But if they have decided to stand against us then something has to be done - they must be crushed ruthlessly.”

“Perhaps not, my lord.” Taimat puts in.

Xorak raises an eyebrow, and I fear that his potentially lethal anger is rising at this interruption. However, he merely says:

“Explain, sorceress.”

“Perhaps if they can be bought off, we will not need to waste resources dealing with them.”

“Continue.” Xorak says.

“I know one of the Brotherhood who is particularly…malleable, and who should be susceptible to the right offer. Such an alliance may also have benefits of its own…”

She lets that thought hang for a heartbeat, glancing at the Hourglass at my waist as she does so.

“Very well,” says Xorak at last, “You look surprised, Executor,” he adds, “I don’t have any qualms about accepting a good idea just because it wasn’t my own. As long as you are sure, sorceress?”

“Trust me.” she replies simply, with a wolfish smile. And with that she jumps lithely out of the Rhino, summons a winged daemon and jumps onto its back to disappear into the sky.

As we reach the crest of the hill before our base, our driver lets out a shout of angry disbelief.

It seems that the Dark Eldar are divided - some are following Sima Yi in embracing our offer of power and others are not. That is probably why I saw some of the pirates aiding the Imperials in our last battle. No matter - even if they do not all turn they are sure to fight amongst themselves, taking them out of the war on Galna III long enough for us to complete our mission in any case. However, I doubt that I will live long enough to see it fulfilled.

I was knocked unconscious by the Dreadnought and my troops were forced to retreat, taking me with them. Though I am well enough now to face Lord Xorak, he will surely be furious at the defeat and I, as the commander, will be the one to face his wrath.

“Come, Executor,” Xorak says quietly as I enter the vast chamber, where all of our strike force is assembled. Xorak’s bodyguards stand behind him with bolters held in silent readiness, threatening figures in the Executioner’s shadow. The Chaos Lord himself stands with his hand resting on his daemon-sword. I kneel before him, knowing that my life is over.

“The ambush did not go as planned, Executor,” he says - it is a statement, not a question.

“With the Ultramarines leading them, the Imperials proved too strong for us, my lord,” I reply, forcing a calmness I don’t feel into my voice, “I can offer no excuse for my failure.”

Xorak’s daemon-sword scrapes from its ornate scabbard - a chilling sound in the silent amphitheatre.

“I am assuming by now that you know the difference between an error and a mistake?” Xorak says, speaking slowly and deliberately, “Your error, Executor, was to not finish the Ultramarine champion in your first encounter, but nevertheless you sought to rectify that. Few would survive single combat with a Dreadnought, and fewer still would have the courage to openly seek it. The fact that you lost the duel does not in any way diminish that.”

“My lord?” I ask, allowing a note of cautious optimism to enter my voice. Xorak raises his sword and touches the flat to my shoulder plate. It pulses with a dark glow.

“Yours is the kind of determination and skill I need in my lieutenants. I can think of no better bearer for the Hourglass.”

He motions for me to stand and hands me the Hourglass of Blood, which one of my warriors must have recovered from the field of battle. There is a roar of approval from the assembled Night Lords.

“I want you to correct your error, Executor - hunt those Ultramarine bastards down. Kill them. Kill the pitiful rabble of a Guard regiment they lead. Destroy all resistance so that nothing stands in our way, and harvest all the blood from this planet so we can unleash the Hourglass and rewrite history as it should have