The leading elements of Guilliman’s fleet started firing as soon as they approached to within a million kilometres. Broad spreads of torpedoes fanned out in intersecting patterns. Cannons hurled multi-ton anti-ship shells at the enemy. Such munitions would take minutes to arrive, and most would not hit their targets, but they were not intended to. Guilliman was closing off avenues of manoeuvre for the traitors with streams of explosives, forcing them into the positions he wanted.

The second finger of his claw was intercepted by one of the smaller enemy battlegroups. Both were travelling at such speed that only a brief flurry of broadsides was exchanged before their respective velocities tore them away from each other. The discharge of powerful nova cannons obscured the combat. A brighter light suggested a reactor death had consumed a vessel. When the augurs cleared and the light died away, the Imperial battlegroup was speeding on, leaving one of its cruisers wallowing afire. The traitor fleet had come off worse, being badly mauled. Four grand cruisers made up the core of its force, surrounded by a crowd of lesser ships. Two of the cruisers had been hit hard: one listed off the flightpath of its fellows, engines out, while fires burned all along the side of the other, and it was falling behind. The remaining two cruisers were coming straight for the flat wall of the claw’s palm.

Guilliman’s hands tapped out targeting data on his instruments. ‘Wall grouping gamma – target and annihilate traitor battlegroup,’ he said. The Master Divulgatus relayed his orders to the relevant ships.

‘They are rash’ said Tribune Colquan. ‘They cannot get by us.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Guilliman. ‘They may be attempting to disrupt our formation.’

‘To damage one battlegroup? We have seven, and the wall of the claw-palm.’

‘Then to distract us, or perhaps there has been a falling out between their warlords. Or maybe they are running.’ Guilliman took his eyes from his displays and the tacticarium to spare the Custodes a glance. ‘I make no assumptions. Neither should you.’ As he spoke, his scar itched, reminding him of the last time he had been in error, a situation the primarch had sworn privately never to repeat.

Colquan’s lip curled. He disliked being lectured on tactics. Guilliman did not relent. Though they remained superlative individual warriors, the Adeptus Custodes had rarely served as generals since the old times, and centuries of isolationism had dulled what command abilities they had once possessed.

‘Never underestimate the enemy, Colquan. Nine times out of ten, a mixed group of traitors will be disorganised and internally divisive, but the tenth time they will surprise and destroy you. Their greatest lords can forge the most antagonistic warbands into a devastating fighting force. Their intentions here are counter-envelopment and delay. Their sorcerers will be attempting to summon daemonic allies while their battlefleet keeps us occupied.’