“Two Ultramarines, Pelius and Drractus, die in the first hail of shells. They are cut apart by sustained fire. Then Brother Lycidor topples over a rail, headshot. His cobalt-blue figure drops into the assembly area below, arms outstretched. The Ultramarines fire back, covering the structures above them in a cloud of bolter blasts. Word Bearers topple, but more fill their places. Many more. Guilliman roars a challenge to them. He condemns them to death. He condemns their master to a worse fate. He hurls himself at them. The primarch is, of course, their greatest asset, Thiel realises. Not because of his physical superiority, though that is hard to overestimate. It is because he is a primarch. Because he is Roboute Guilliman. Because he is simply one of the greatest warriors in the Imperium. How many beings could measure favourably against him? Honestly? All seventeen of his brothers? Not all seventeen. Nothing like seventeen. Four or five at best. At best. The Word Bearers on the upper structures see him coming. They are kill squad strength at least, the best part of a full company. At least a proportion of them are vaunted Gal Vorbak elite. But they see him coming, and they know what that means. It doesn’t matter what cosmic dementia has corrupted their minds and souls. It doesn’t matter what eternal promises the Dark Gods are whispering in their ears. It doesn’t matter what inflated courage the warp has poured into their veins along with madness. Guilliman of Ultramar is coming right at them. To kill them. To kill them all. Even though they stand a chance of hurting him, they waste it. They baulk. For a second, their twisted hearts know fear. Real fear. And then he has them”