"Angron! Something's wrong! Lorgar's in trouble!"
Curze's voice, like a whisper from the shadows, cut forcibly into Angron's private vox channel, filled with battle cries and the thunder of bolt fire, with a rare note of urgency.
The lord of the Night Lords Legion stood before the observation window aboard the Nightfall, his eyes, capable of piercing appearances and discerning the essence of conspiracy and chaos, locked on the distant battlefield.
The Ork Fleet groups, which had been wildly besieging the remnants of the Word Bearers like a seething green tide, were undergoing strange changes in their attack rhythms and formations.
Some Ork ships began breaking contact and turning away, and there were even chaotic signs of fighting among their own ranks.
This was nothing like conventional Ork WAAAGH!!! tactics. It looked more as though their central command structure had suffered some internal shock or severe disruption.
More importantly, Curze's gaze pierced the chaos and fell upon the region of space deep within the Ork Fleet, previously obscured by the green frenzy.
There, the veil of space was being brutally torn apart by an entirely different power, cold and exquisitely precise!
Dusky purple and dark green psychic rifts spread through reality like festering wounds, and countless sleek ships with sinister paint schemes poured out of them.
They were Drukhari!
And this was no small raiding force, but an enormous, tightly organized main Fleet!
"What?!" Angron said.
He abruptly turned from the bridge of the Conqueror, spattered with Ork blood and flesh, his crimson faceplate swinging toward the direction Curze indicated.
Through the observation window, he too clearly saw the rapidly expanding Webway rifts and the swarms of Drukhari warships pouring from them like locusts.
Their sheer numbers instantly shifted the balance of power in that region of space, and they