Deathwing Terminators and warriors in heavy armour emerged from behind, covered in dust and grime. Marbas laughed. His opponents had only two plasma pistols left for ranged weapons. All he had to do was take flight, and the Dark Angels below could do nothing but scramble about in frustration.
Azmodai stood straight with his blade raised, its point aimed at Marbas's enormous head. He turned his left hand slightly and held it behind his back.
A battle-brother understood. He stepped forward several paces to stand before Azmodai and discreetly slipped a plasma pistol into his left hand.
"Go destroy the Chaos Titan. Leave Marbas to me." Azmodai made no effort to lower his voice. Every word was perfectly clear, and Marbas couldn't help laughing when he heard them.
He really thinks that little of me...
Oh, shit.
The vanguard squad of several heavily armoured warriors immediately moved out. Marbas didn't know whether they intended to circle behind him or break through the defensive line, but he had to stop them.
It was an open gambit.
A fresh horde of daemons poured from the altar. Wherever they passed became a dark abyss, and ghostly hands could thrust from the utterly black ground at any moment to seize an ankle.
The hands below belonged to no restless spirits, but to the Hand-Rending Daemons under Malice's command. They were a category of weak daemons, an enormous army without the strength to breach the barrier of reality and enter this place themselves.
As the daemonic horde outside raced past, the hands reaching up from below could seize powerful daemons and forcibly drag them from the Warp into the real world to join the war.
They clung to Greater Daemons' legs and poured through the passage alongside them.
Several Primaris Warriors tightened their grips on