High above Equus, so far from the ground that to say they hung in the sky would be an understatement, a great vessel crossed the inky blackness of space. A title was painted onto the side of its red hull, the Wrath of Angels.

Three-and-a-half kilometres long, built from thousands of metric tonnes of metal and ceramite, this vessel was a giant. It was built to an aesthetic that the ponies below could not begin to describe, for nothing like it had ever been built on their world. It was a Gothic masterpiece, almost more a flying cathedral than a spaceship. A massive Bombardment Cannon ran along the underbelly of this monstrosity. Its starboard and port sides each bore a massive weapon battery; to starboard was a massive array of plasma weaponry, while to port rested the laser cannons. Towards the stern rose a massive tower, a command centre fit for a king, filled with all manner of mighty technologies, and manned by loyal Chapter serfs and mindless servitors. In its underbelly sat the technological heart of the vessel, the engines, overseen at all hours by a well-studied Techmarine. There were barracks able to house a full Company of mighty Space Marines. Armouries filled with weapons and ammunition lined the spine of the ship, joined by storage bays for all manner of vehicles, from light troop transports to massive super-heavy tanks. The bow of the ship was a five hundred-metre long launchbay, designed to hold hundreds of fighter-craft, dropships, and Drop Pods.

This day, however, these bays sat almost empty. It had only a handful of vehicles, even when lumping aircraft in with the tanks. The barracks held only a quarter their full complement. For a normal Imperial commander, the vessel’s load would be just short of an insult.

However, Chaplain Alessandro of the Blood Angels Space Marine Chapter was not in the mood for normalcy.

“How long has it been since we last saw the light of Imperial stars, Shipmaster?” Alessandro asked, not bothering to turn his head to the captain’s throne.

“Almost two years, Holy Chaplain,” answered Shipmaster Rodri.

Rodri, like all Imperial shipmasters, was as much a part of his ship as the engines. He had once been just a man, a Serf to the Blood Angels Chapter, a failed aspirant to the status of Space Marine. In service to those who had succeeded where he failed, he became one with his captain’s throne, connected directly to all systems and cameras across the Wrath of Angels.

Standing next to the shipmaster, Alessandro was a giant. Eight feet in height, and clad in armour as black as a heretic’s soul, the Chaplain was imposing even by the standards of the Space Marines. His head was concealed in black helmet with a white, skull-like face. An inferno pistol, one of the signature weapons of the Blood Angels Chapter, sat in its holster on his left leg. From his hip hung the symbol of his office, the Crozius Arcanum. It was a stylized mace, with a golden eagle, the Imperial Aquila, for a head. The weapon bore a special generator inside its haft which projected an energy field that allowed the weapon to tear through armour like paper.

Throughout the Imperium of Man, many were they who preached the Holy Word of the Emperor. For most, it was the Ecclesiarchy, with their priests and missionaries, who fed the people’s faith. Among the Adeptus Astartes, the Emperor’s Space Marines, that honour fell to the Chaplains. Men like Alessandro, veteran Space Marines with a skill for oration and an unshakeable faith.

They were not, however, known for making good small talk.

“How are our supplies?” Alessandro asked.

“Running low,” Rodri answered. “We have not resupplied in three years. Our stores will last us three more months, maybe four. Then your soldiers will have only empty bolters and toothless chainswords. And my crew will have only empty stomachs.”

“You suggest we turn from out appointed path?” Alessandro said, turning his gaze to catch the captain in the corner of his eye. “That we abandon the righteous pursuit of these heretics? Is that what you are saying?”

Before Rodri could respond, another voice intervened. “It matters not what he suggests, my old friend. We have no choice left but victory or death, except maybe both at once.”

Alessandro turned and smiled beneath his helmet. Amidst the whirring of ancient machinery and the clatter of heavy ceramite on the deck, Codicier Renato entered the bridge. Adorned in powerful Terminator Armour coloured in the traditional blue of his station, Renato was a sight to behold. He was a Librarian, a Space Marine with mastery over the psychic power of the Warp. His kind were as rare as they were powerful, and they were very rare indeed.

“Our last astropath just died,” Renato explained as he slowly trod towards Alessandro. “That leaves us with no Navigator, and no way to communicate with Baal. We are stranded in this system, and barring some miracle, there is no escape for us.”

“Miracles are the purview of the Emperor, Renato,” Alessandro replied. “And it is in him that we have faith. The loss of the astropathic choir is lamentable, but not at the moment important. Shipmaster, pull up the planetary scans.”

A large screen fizzled to life, revealing an image of the verdant world below. Alessandro pointed to a small dot on the map.

“There is the ship of the foul traitors we have been pursuing these past five years,” he said. “So much time lost, so many battle-brothers. But now we are rewarded for our faith and our diligence. The traitors are at last cornered, and none will save them from the Emperor’s wrath!”

Renato stepped forward, his armoured hand stroking his chin. “But why would they stop there? They know we are pursuing them.”

“An excellent question. Shipmaster?” Alessandro said.

The screen flickered for a moment before changing to a series of charts and scan reports, with a small map in the corner.

“Our sensors have revealed that Chaos forces have made landfall here,” the Shipmaster said. “They appear to be moving towards this village here.”

The map zoomed in on a gaggle of primitive houses.

“Tell me captain, what built these?” Renato asked. “They remind me of some Feudal Worlds, but we are beyond the Emperor’s Light here.”

“I cannot say,” Rodri said. When Renato and Alessandro both turned to look at him, he continued. “Our sensors are giving… confused readings. At one moment they say we have found humans, at others xenos or mutants. I advise caution when dealing with them, whatever they are.”

“Your advice is noted, shipmaster,” Alessandro said, turning back to the screen. “Whatever they may be, we have our mission. If the foul traitors are interested in this village, then we shall be also. Renato, what remains of our forces?”

Renato cleared his throat. “Aside from we two here, Sergeant Dabriel’s Tactical Squad is at full strength, as is Priam’s Assault Squad. As I’m sure you’re aware, Champion Orlando and the Priest Domenico are both ready for war. We have three Veterans left, as well as our old friend Paolo. Durante and Flavio also remain, and Castello’s chassis has just finished repairs.”

Alessandro considered the situation for a moment. “Excellent. Gather them in the hangar bay. I will be along shortly. Shipmaster, prepare a drop pod and one of our Stormravens.”

“As you will, Holy Chaplain,” Rodri said. Before he had even finished the words, he had sent out orders to the crew.

“Come, Aless. We have a Kill Team to assemble,” Renato said, gesturing to the bridge’s exit.

Alessandro shook his head. “Go in my stead. I have some business to handle before I join you.”

Renato’s expression fell. “You mourn his loss.”

“I mourn all who are lost,” Alessandro said. “He was no Astartes, but he was still a Man. The Emperor sheds a tear for every lost son of Terra, and so must I. Go, Renato. I will be there shortly.”

The Librarian nodded and quit the bridge, the echoes of his heavy steps carrying down the long halls of the vessel. Alessandro turned to Shipmaster Rodri one last time.

“Shipmaster, make ready the bombardment cannon. After we deploy, I want you to blow that affront to the Emperor out of the skies,” he said, gesturing to the picture of the Chaos starship on the screen.

Rodri smiled. “As the Holy Chaplain wills, it shall be done.”

Alessandro exited the bridge, leaving Rodri to his command.
_______

Several kilometres away, the frontal hangar bays of the Wrath of Angels were a-bustle with activity. Mindless Servitors performed the rituals of preparation for the drop pod and Stormraven Alessandro had ordered. Chapter Serfs and mere crew members dashed to and fro, carrying loads of ammunition and fuel for their Space Marine masters.

The Space Marines themselves were similarly at work, though they seemed to mortal eyes to be far less concerned.

Twenty of the Wrath of Angels Astartes complement were already in the hangar bays, making their final preparations for the battle ahead. Sergeant Priam and his Assault Squad were assembled near the Stormraven Honour of Meros, fitting fresh teeth to their chainswords and refilling the promethium tanks in their jump packs. Not far from them stood five of the most veteran warriors on the ship; led by Orlando, the Champion of the Fourth Company, they were Alessandro’s personal Command Squad. Three were warriors of the fabled First Company, the most elite cadre of warriors in the Blood Angels Chapter. The fifth was among the few figures who could claim a higher fame than they, Domenico, one of the Sanguinary Priests. He stood in the midst of legends, bearing in one hand a golden Blood Chalice, a mystical artifact which contained the essence of the great Primarch Sanguinius, and in the other, his personal Power Sword, the Crimson Knife. These five went about their preparations in the same manner as Priam’s squad, though with an ease and precision born of their long centuries of service. Their jump packs were already strapped on, having been refueled even before the orders had come down.

A full half of the Astartes in that bay, however, were gathered not near the Honour of Meros, but rather next to the drop pods which lined the edges of the bay. These were the warriors of Squad Murata, led by the noble Sergeant Dabriel. They were Tactical Marines, experienced warriors, skilled in the use of all Imperial weaponry, from the lowly combat knife to the mighty lascannon. Like their jump pack-wearing brothers, they were hard at work readying themselves for the battle to come, though they had a different focus; where Orlando and Priam would fall from the skies, Dabriel and his men were to stride across the ground.

Among these mighty warriors stood the newest addition to the squad, young Brother Marco.

Marco stood slightly away from the rest of his battle-brothers, quietly intoning the Liturgy of the Flamer as he poured the last few drops of Holy Promethium into the tank of his Heavy Flamer. He was as new to the weapon as he was to Dabriel’s squad, but he was determined to prove himself worthy. The loss of his last squad would not be in vain.

“Marco!” a voice intruded on Marco’s thoughts. He turned to see one of his new squad-mates, Brother Tonio, approaching. “Hail, brother. How are your preparations coming?”

“I was just finishing,” Marco replied as he sealed the fuel tank. He sighed, admiring the weapon. “It’s still strange. I just can’t get used to having a weapon so heavy, but not have to worry about stabilizing it before firing. We had nothing like that in the Devastators.”

Tonio chuckled. “Ah, I remember when I was first promoted to the tactical squads. I felt the same way. I think we all do. Or in the case of some brothers, we’re just so happy to be able to sate the Thirst that we don’t care.”

“I heard that!” Brother Severo said loudly. Marco and Tonio turned to see their battle-brother anointing his bolter with holy oils. A scowl sat on his angular features. Tonio laughed again.

“Why, Severo, have you something to admit? I do not recall saying your name.”

Severo’s scowl darkened. “You did not need to. You have heckled me over that incident for decades now. It was one time!”

“Beware, Brother Marco,” Tonio said with a grin. “That you do not become like our dear brother here. I’d hate to have to heckle you every day of your life too. Far too much work.”

“Tonio, are you bothering my best marksman again?” the gruff, weathered voice of Sergeant Dabriel intruded on the conversation. Marco snapped to attention, his hands crossing his chest in the sign of the Aquila. Dabriel chuckled, his gaze passing to Marco before shifting to Tonio. “Now, brother, tell me why you can’t be more like Marco here: dutiful, respectful, a model Astartes. Why he reminds me of myself when I was but a simple line Marine.”

“But sir, the scandal of it all!” Tonio said, flourishing his hand in a farce of offense. “Who would you pick for all the worst duties? Why, if I weren’t such a troublemaker, you’d have to assign hose by merit, and poor Severo would never get a chance to shoot again!”

“How dare you!” Severo leapt to his feet, a flicker of black flitting through his brown eyes. “I’ll…”

“Stow it, Severo!” Dabriel said, a laugh in his tone. “You know he means nothing by it. Come now, brothers, double-check your weapons! I’ll not have this turn out like Belatash!”

Marco turned to Tonio. “What happened at Belatash?”

Before Tonio could give an answer, Dabriel himself appeared by Marco’s side, a grin on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. “Ah, what a day. We had been hunting a Tyrannid splinter fleet for several weeks, and had at last tracked them to the ice world of Belatash. It was a Death World, where the temperature never rose above seventy-three Kelvins and the hail could punch through Guardsmen armour.”

“Sarge, that doesn’t mean anything,” Tonio interrupted. “Anything can punch through-”

“Dabriel! There you are!” Heavy stomps echoed across the hangar bay. Walking towards Squad Murata came one of the oldest veterans on the Wrath of Angels, Brother Paolo. He was clad in a suit of ancient Terminator Armour, with a massive Power Fist on his left arm. In his right hand he held a strange device.

“Paolo, what brings you here?” Dabriel asked, distracted for now from his war story. “And bearing a teleport homer, no less?”

Paolo handed the homer to Dabriel. “Aside from dear Aless’s call to arms? This, of course. I was passing by the armoury and decided to save you a trip.”

“My thanks, honoured brother, but I was given no word that…” Dabriel began.

Paolo laid his free hand on Dabriel’s shoulder. “Aless and I are old friends. I know how he thinks, and I know that he’ll be ordering you to carry this. How else are Renato and I to get down? Now come on, we’ve wasted enough time talked. We have a battle to prepare for!”
______

Ponyville was in flames.

Though the town was no stranger to monster attacks and magical mishaps, none of the inhabitants had ever dreamed such a day as this might come. They had no walls, no town guard, nothing that could offer any defence against these alien invaders.

The first few moments had been among the worst; Princess Twilight soaring into town, screaming about monsters in the Everfree, followed closely by Starlight Glimmer and the young dragon Spike. Most onlookers had been surprised, but few gave any real credence to the threat; the Everfree was filled with monsters, after all, and with the Elements of Harmony in town, what did they have to fear?

That question had been horribly answered just a few moments later, at Pinkie Pie’s ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ Party.

Pinkie had spent the past hour hastily assembling a party for the visitors she had sensed coming. For a normal pony, this would have been an impossible task; less than a half-hour to prepare for an unknown number of unknown visitors? Madness. But for Pinkie Pie, it was as easy as the cake she had just finished baking. With a speed that would boggle the mind of any who tried to seriously examine it, she gathered food, banners, streamers, guests, and a great many balloons. She even found music, convincing Ponyville’s premiere musicians, Vinyl Scratch and her sister Octavia, to collaborate for the party.

The last preparation had, in fact, just been finished at the very moment Equestria changed forever.

Four minotaur-like creatures with skin the colour of dry blood tore into Ponyville with a fury never before seen in all Equestria. Every one of them carried two axes with strange whirring teeth. The ponies Pinkie had gathered for the party leapt out to greet the newcomers.

“Surprise!” the ponies shouted.

“Blood for the Blood-God!” the crimson monsters replied. Moments later they struck the crowd of ponies. The streets ran red with blood.

The survivors screamed and ran, dashing about in a desperate attempt to escape. Some did; others did not.

Two more monsters, these ones having pink skin and truly warped faces, ran up beside their berserk brethren, wielding strange devices somewhere between guitars and weapons.

“Feel the music!’ one of them shouted as he strummed his guitar-gun. A massive wave of sound blasted from the end of his weapon, destroying a nearby house with its force. He shivered with delight as the vibration reverberated through his body, senses long-since rendered worthless stirring at last. “Yes, yes!”

Moments later, twenty-three more of the monsters appeared. They too had red skin, just like the berserkers who had since dispersed throughout the town, but few would ever mistake one of these for the wild beasts which had been unleashed. They marched in orderly lines, an act far too disciplined for the berserkers. Their skin was engraved with all manner of profane symbols and words, as was the parchment which hung about them. Each carried in his hands a black box which spat fire to the beat of the chant they all sang. Among them, five did not carry these deadly boxes. Two bore strange barrels which spewed forth fire like a dragon’s maw, and a third carried a massive box which spat death at twice the speed of its lesser brothers. The last two were marked out from their kindred; their heads were smaller, and seemed almost out of place with their bodies. The heads of most of these chanters were almost frozen; their expressions never changed, and they were never anything but some variation of hate. These two, however, had softer faces of some shade of brownish-pink, which seemed capable of displaying a full array of emotions. They each wielded a sword and a smaller box in the strange appendages which sat on the ends of their forelegs.

They were joined by the most disgusting of the invaders, three of the rotten things which Twilight had encountered near Zecora’s hut. Two of them carried normal boxes, while the third wielded another of the massive boxes.

These invaders poured fire and death into Ponyville, slaughtering anypony who dared appear in their sight. None dared to fight back, so terrified were they; flight was the only option available to their horrified minds.

Not all, however, had the luxury of falling prey to fear.

On the edge of Ponyville, not far from the schoolhouse, two grey-coated mares, one but a young unicorn filly, the other her beloved if clumsy Pegasus mother, were nearing the end of their walk. Dinky Hooves had already been nervous, fearing that she would be late to school again, and the sudden cacophony had done nothing to calm her. Derpy did her best to help her child, but despite her enthusiasm, social skills had never been her strong suit.

“Come on, Dinky, don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Derpy said, doing her best to give Dinky an encouraging look. “Pinkie’s just having a party, I bet.”

“But mom,” Dinky said, her heart beating against her chest. “Pinkie’s parties never make ponies scream like that.”

“I’m, er, uh…” Derpy scrounged through her thoughts for anything she could say to help the poor filly cowering at her hooves. In that moment, she very much so wished her husband was there, instead of running the clock store in town.

Her attempts were then rendered moot by a sudden, furious shout. “Your skulls for his Throne!”

Mother and daughter spun around, their eyes shooting wide at the terror before them.

One of the crimson-skinned berserkers was charging at them, his twin axes screaming as the teeth whirred and whirred.

Before any thought could cross her mind, Derpy made her choice. “Run Dinky!”

Dinky barely had time to react before Derpy Hooves shot into the air. The ground where she had stood cracked under the pressure. The air parted before her. She slammed headlong into the berserker with the force of a thunderstorm.

The creature’s skin, however, was built to survive far harsher forces than that.

Derpy fell at the creature’s feet, sitting in a lump, dazed and addled by the blow. The berserker fell back a couple steps and shook its head. In the millennia it had fought in the name of Bloody Khorne, it had fought and killed many things, seen creatures that would drive mortal minds to madness at the mere mention of their names. Yet it had never encountered any creature as audacious as this. The mere thought of such an act boggled the berserker’s mind, driving back the bite of the Butcher’s Nails which ate at its brain.

But it was only for a moment. The berskerker recovered and raised it whirring axe above its head, screaming, “Blood for the Blood-God!”

As the axe reached the apex of its swing, all Dinky could do was scream for her mother. “Help! Somepony, help us!”
________

As Ponyville burned, the last two invaders strode into town. Both were massive even by the scale of their kindred. One, who had the crimson skin of the chanters, had the same manner of small, deformed face as the sword-bearers. His right foreleg was almost comically massive, ending in five golden talons, each sharpened to a killing point. In his other foreleg he bore a strange variation of the killing boxes of his brethren. It was as though someone had cut one of them in half and attached a strange, green-glowing coil in its place. The other had exotic blue skin, with strange pillars extending up from his frozen face. He carried a long, ornate staff, with a small killing box hanging from his belt.

Krev flexed his Power Claw as he strode into Ponyville, laughing at the carnage. “This is what I live for, Son of Magnus. The chance to worship Chaos with glorious battle? What better life is there for a warrior?”

Iphotek mumbled something under his breath as he calmly threw a bolt of psychic lightning at a pony trying to sneak past him. “For a warrior maybe. I would rather we stop wasting time and get on with our hunt. Killing these xenos gains us nothing but spent ammunition.”

“Hey, what happened to the party?” a pink-coated pony appeared as though out of thin air right next to the two servants of Chaos. Before either could react, the pony gasped, pointing with her hoof. “The cake! No! That was going to be delicious! Who would ever want to do something so horrible?”

Krev made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl and grabbed the pony with his Power Claw. She gasped for air, as the claw tightened around her throat. Krev laughed, a wild look in his eyes.

“Be silenced!” he said as he crushed the life out of the pony with a flick of his wrist. Without another thought, he dropped the corpse to the ground and walked away.

At that moment, the real Pinkie Pie walked around the corner, humming to herself as she carried a platter of fresh cupcakes to the party. As her eyes fell on the corpse of her doppelganger, she froze, her jaw falling silently open. Seeing what by all accounts should be her own corpse lying across the street, Pinkie chose the only sane option: she turned and ran, making sure to keep the cupcakes balanced the entire time.

Krev strode into town square and stood there for a moment, his weapons raised to the sky in praise. “Thank you, O Lords of Chaos, of today you have given unto me a great boon! Let this battlefield be a sacrifice to you, and may you be pleased with it!”

Krev leveled his killing box at the fountain and fired twice, reducing it to nothing but rubble. He grinned. “Nothing can stop me now.”
______

Deep in the bowels of the Wrath of Angels lay the infirmary. It was largely a place for mortal men, a haven for healing and the last home of many of the ship’s crew as they succumbed to the horrors which lay between the stars.

It was because of this latter purpose that Chaplain Alessandro now breached this sanctuary of mere men. With his skull-faced helmet hanging from his hip, he stood beside the bed of the latest casualty in his Crusade.

As a rule, Astartes were not known for crying, and much less the Chaplains to whom they looked for spiritual guidance. This rule held true here, but not for lack of emotion. Though only another Space Marine could have perceived it, Alessandro was saddened. He gently laid his hand on the forehead of the corpse on the bed.

“You served well, Astropath Dart,” he said. With eyes closed, he uttered a simple prayer. “O Holy Emperor of Mankind, look favourably on this noble son of Terra. Only in death does duty end, and he did his duty well. Welcome him to your holy breast, of Master of Mankind.”

Alessandro sighed as he looked over the dead astropath. Dart had been the last in all things; always the weakest of his choir, always the last chosen for any special task, always the last in line for food or bedding. But never once did he waver, and in the end, his faith proved stronger than that of his fellows, for he had been the last to die. He may have been a witchmind, tainted by the touch of the Warp, but in Dart there had been more courage than Alessandro had seen in many priests of the Ecclesiarchy.

“Chaplain!” a voice interrupted Alessandro’s brooding. He turned to see two Astartes clad in golden armour, with white-painted wings affixed to their backs. Durante and Flavio, two members of the Sanguinary Guard who had agreed to accompany Alessandro on his quest, all those years ago. It was the former who had spoken.

“Brothers. What brings you here?” Alessandro asked, already knowing the answer.

Durante grinned. “All is in readiness. The servitors just finished strapping Castello’s chassis into the Stormraven, and everyone else is just waiting on you.”

“Very well then,” Alessandro took one last look at poor, dead Dart. “Servitor, ensure his body is cremated with the utmost honours.”

The Servitor gave no acknowledgement of the command. It did not matter; they always heard, and always obeyed. That was their purpose. With that order given, Alessandro turned his attention back to his fellow Astartes.

“Let us away. This day we shall know battle, and these deaths will at last be vindicated,” Alessandro said, placing his skull-faced helmet back on his head. “For glory. For honour…”

As one, all three Space Marines shouted, “For Sanguinius and the Emperor!”

Author's Notes:

Well, that turned out longer than expected.
Also, bonus points to whoever understands the "Fear To Tread" reference.