Gdolkin and the rest of his force would have to fight their way through the insanely fanatical Shinarii in order to get to their Traitor Marine overlords.

Word Bearers. The corrupted spawn of the Chaos-cursed gene-seed of their traitorous Primarch Lorgar. In many ways they were the most fiercely zealous of all the Traitor Legions who followed the Despoiler in his Black Crusade to overthrow the rule of the Emperor. Ten thousand years ago, before one of the darkest times in the history of the Imperium, that of the Horus Heresy - when the Emperor's most trusted son turned on his father, along with half the Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes First Founding Legions - they and their primarch had been fanatical devotees of the Imperial cult. But now they worshipped the Fell Powers that gnawed at the bones of reality, whose desire, and indeed need, for worship outstripped that of the Emperor. The Word Bearers had dedicated themselves, body and soul, to the power of Chaos, in its purest, darkest, most inhumanly evil form.

Gdolkin fixed his eyes on the Dark Apostle and felt fire burn within his heart, as hot as the fires burning in the braziers that cast flickering orange shadows across the Word Bearer's face, giving him a daemonic appearance. That the warped creature should attempt

an act of such blatant Chaos-inspired blasphemy on one of His Imperial Majesty's sovereign worlds, and right in front of the Omnissiah's most blessed Iron Hands, was an outrage!

And now this vile servant of Chaos dared to continue his foul rite in front of their very eyes. As the Iron Hands commenced their assault on the cultist throng, the Word Bearers too were distracted for a moment, surprised by the presence of the Space Marines, although their demagogue would not be stopped so readily.

Such was the fear and awe that the Chaplain of the Word Bearers inspired in the Shinarii that the invocation continued, cultists possessed of a fanatical hysteria shouting the twisted words of their evil litany even as they came at the valiant Iron Hands.

The Traitor Marines encircled the obelisk, protecting their Dark Apostle, so mat he might complete whatever blasphemous rite he had set in motion.

The Word Bearers' Chaplain was surrounded by a shadowy miasma that writhed with unnatural life. The darkness shrouding the Traitor Marine seemed to be seeping out of the very fabric of reality around him. Evil of unfathomable malevolent intent was undoubtedly at work.

Thule's servo-skulls were buzzing around the structure of the obelisk in erratic spirals, carrying out scans of the artefact whilst trying to avoid the attentions of the Word Bearers, sensors keeping them alert to the actions of the Chaos Marines below. But it was not enough. There was the rattling roar of ancient wargear and the three servitors were blown to smithereens, pieces of bone and shrapnel landing at the feet of the advancing Iron Hands.