Jaghatai Khan stared through the viewport at the world below, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the coiling miasma of Chaos, before flatly denying Jubal's request.
Commanding a battle from a golden throne was not his way. He would descend to the surface himself to discover what had silenced his faltering falcons. Moreover, Jaghatai placed absolute trust in Jubal, just as Guilliman reposed his faith in Marneus Calgar. Throughout the ten millennia of his absence, the White Scars had endured and functioned flawlessly, an unassailable testament to the loyalty and prowess of each successive Great Khan.
No one could sway the Khagan's resolve. Both the ancient Legion veterans who had returned with him and the Chapter successions who had only recently met their gene-sire held unbroken faith in the Primarch's absolute strength.
At Jaghatai's command, the fleet abandoned its cautious reconnaissance stance. Since the sensor shrouds blinded them to the exact conditions on the ground, the warships adjusted their orbital parameters and unleashed a devastating, synchronous orbital bombardment to scour a clean drop zone.
Deep within the hangar bays of the battle barges, Techmarines and Tech-Priests readied the ancient Stormbird transports that the Khan had brought back from the Webway. While the modern Chapter had long lost the means to replace these rare relics, and the younger battle-brothers had never trained in their tactical integration, the ten thousand Legion veterans who accompanied the Khan handled the ancient craft with effortless familiarity.
The Khan's personal presence on the front lines galvanized the entire host, instilling a profound sense of purpose across every rank.
A wave of Stormraven gunships, many still bearing the distinct heraldry of the Salamanders, roared into the atmosphere alongside heavy automated drop pods. Each Stormraven carried an Intercessor assault squad and heavy fire-support assets. Many of these warriors wore armor refurbished with disparate components from Mark VI, VII, and VIII suits, the pristine white lacquer of Chogoris barely concealing the deep green primer beneath.
Furthermore, deviating from traditional White Scars doctrine, these boarding parties were heavily outfitted with promethium-burning flamer units, a clear signature of the logistical support provided by Vulkan. These specific gunships differed significantly from standard Forge World patterns; the Salamanders had even packed their ordnance bays with heavy Hellstrike incendiary munitions.
As the drop commenced, these vanguard elements tore through the pulsing Chaos barrier, securing a perimeter at the designated drop site to anchor the main advance.
Among the descending armada, one particular Stormbird groaned under the immense weight of the Khan's elite vanguard, an entire company of Keshig. These one hundred veteran terminators were charged with the protection of their sire.
Following close behind them, thirty Thunderhawk gunships descended from orbit, their underbelly clamps carrying Rhino armored personnel carriers filled with White Scars legionaries, flanked by waves of drop pods laden with assault bikes and Land Speeders.
The moment the Stormbirds and Thunderhawks breached the thick, suffocating warp-shield blanketing the planet, Jaghatai Khan felt a sickening, greasy weight press against his senses. The very air reeked of systemic corruption.
Piercing the dense curtain of toxic smog, the landing forces beheld a scarred expanse where the orbital strikes had violently stripped the landscape bare. The churning firestorms had died down, but an unholy, defiled energy continued to ripple across the blackened earth. The pulverized soil was laced with crystalline shards that caught the pale light in sickening, prismatic reflections.
Beyond this scorched perimeter lay the writhing, predatory jungle, its gray-black vapors radiating pure, unadulterated malice.
"A plague of Chaos," a warrior muttered through the vox. "It seems our cousins' gifts were exactly what the hour required."
Initially, some of the White Scars had quietly chafed at the unconventional weapons provided by their Nocturnean brothers. The Scars did not share the Salamanders' obsessive infatuation with the flame, preferring the clean bite of the blade. But looking out at the sprawling horrors of Nurgle's rot, they had to concede that fire was the only absolute purgative.
Whew!
Boom!
Just as the primary wave of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds flared their engines for final descent, the ambush detonated.
From the shifting treeline, a tides of warped, asymmetric monstrosities rushed the hastily established defensive lines of the vanguard. The heavy support squads unleashed hell, their heavy bolters singing a deafening chorus as they poured oceans of heavy rounds into the oncoming mass. At the outer perimeter, the automated sentry pods spun on their mounts, their autocannons chewing into the ranks of the shifting beasts.
The shattering roar of mechanical gunfire tore the quiet of the dying world. The heavy autocannons possessed far greater destructive force than standard bolters, each high-explosive shell tearing apart massive clumps of necrotic meat.
Suddenly, a volley of missiles erupted from the deep canopy, screaming toward the descending transports. Lance-beams of sickly green melta-fire lanced out, striking the automated sentry pods and reducing them to slagged, glowing husks.
Violent detonations ruptured the mid-sky. Two Thunderhawks and several equipment pods took direct hits, the crippled gunships spiraling out of control through the burning air. Several tragic souls were thrown clear into the sky, but the greater catastrophe befell the Rhinos clamped beneath them. Falling from an altitude of over a hundred meters, the heavy steel hulls crumpled upon impact, leaving almost no survivors within.
The exploding supply pods rained jagged shrapnel across the landing zone. Two battle-brothers were crushed beneath the tumbling wreckage of an assault bike. The devastation momentarily disrupted the defensive firing arcs, causing a critical drop in fire volume, and the plague-spawned horde surged forward, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
These grotesque abominations did not merely bleed toxic vectors; their rubbery, sloughed flesh offered an unnatural density that shrugged off anything short of a direct hit.
Through the smoke and billowing fire, the Khan glanced out of the Stormbird's primary observation slit, his eyes locking onto a profane gathering at the edge of the jungle.
A vanguard of hulking Deathshroud Terminators stood frozen like ancient monoliths, framing an even taller silhouette draped in rags. Jaghatai knew that gaunt, skeletal frame instantly. It was his fallen brother.
Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard.
"Damnation! This is not Isstvan III! And we are not the Imperial Fists!"
Jaghatai's wrath flared to a white-hot fury as he looked upon his slain vanguard.
The crude drop zone cleared by the orbital barrages stretched across a dozen square kilometers, its outermost pickets separated from the treeline by several hundred meters of open ground. Yet, this distance offered no sanctuary. The claws of the Death Guard had lain in wait for this exact deployment.
The Thunderhawks slammed down onto the scorched earth. Under the barked directives of their Sergeants and Centurions, the legionaries evacuated the holds, sprinting toward the embedded supply pods.
Static defense was anathema to the sons of Chogoris. They needed to move.
Warriors threw themselves over the saddles of their assault bikes, twisting the throttles until the engines roared, leaping clear of the shallow trenches. Their chainaxes and Chogorian power-daos shimmered with lethal energy. The twin-linked heavy bolters mounted on the bike chassis spat continuous fire, supplemented by the heavy weapon systems of the skimming Land Speeders.
Suddenly, a heavy, organized fusillade of bolt-fire erupted from the twisted treeline, dropping dozens of White Scars in their tracks. The rusted, plague-encrusted forms of the Death Guard began to emerge from behind the charging screening beasts.
Concurrently, massive, catapulted globes of putrid meat, necrotic fluids, and concentrated bacteria rose from the jungle canopy, sailing through the sky before smashing down into the landing zone.
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