Huron had ruled the Red Corsairs for a long time, and the corruption of Chaos deepened by the day. He had warned himself day after day, yet he still sank ever deeper into the vortex of the Warp.
His enormous mechanical arm rotated, venting a cloud of black steam. On the war room map, the enemy he least wanted to face was using the most methodical approach possible to destroy the territory he had spent so long building.
He had fallen to Chaos long ago and commanded a vast force, but his power base remained deep within the Maelstrom. The Expeditionary Force attacking the Maelstrom was led by the Imperial Fists.
Those troops who shoved fortresses right in your face.
If these had been the Imperial Fists of the Great Crusade, powerful warriors skilled in assault like today's Black Templars, Huron would have been confident of fighting them. Against the current Imperial Fists, however, he simply could not find an opening.
They were too methodical. The Expeditionary Force's supply lines stretched far, but the Chaos Warriors within the Maelstrom could find no opening at all. Every direction seemed to have an irresistible force attacking from it.
The Skull Feast mattered. He needed to gather more strength.
Huron excelled at giving away other people's gifts. The troops attending belonged to the various Warbands, yet Huron brazenly "bestowed" those other Warbands' forces on the eventual champion. Everyone considered this perfectly normal, and most victors either swore allegiance to Huron or declared themselves his allies.
Huron studied the war room map again and again, murmuring, "If those resources were in my hands, everything would be under my control."
The drive to replenish his forces seemed etched into his genes. He constantly expanded his power. Resources were the key, and around the time of