hand of domion

	The Orks bellowed and roared, charging in, waving their blades and firing their smokey guns, but what did it matter?  This was no mere Space Marine or Stormtrooper, this wasn’t even a Terminator.  This was Guilliman.  This was the Avenging Son, the Scion of Ultramar, the Lord of Thirteenth.  At the absolute height of the Imperium’s power, there had been perhaps eight people in the galaxy who could match him in battle.  In this dark, squalid, ugly age of stupidity and flaws?  Two.  Maybe three.  At most.

	The Orks screamed and surged, but Guilliman closed the gap faster than their beady red eyes could track him.  There was open, soot-stained dirt with a huge humie at the other end, and then there was just blue, gold, red, and the end of the world.

	Domack wasn’t inexperienced enough to make the mistake of stopping to gawk, but in truth, the Primarch was slicing through the Orks so quickly that Domack just had to jog in his wake, perhaps fire a shot or two from his bolter.  Guilliman was a whirlwind of movement, like an Eversor Assassin but ten feet tall.  Even that wasn’t a fair descriptor, though.  Guilliman was moving forward at a pace Domack would have had to match at a fast run if the terrain were flatter.  Ork bodies weren’t collapsing to the ground, they were soaring aside in pieces. Fire from the Emperor’s Sword arced between dying aliens, evaporating slits in greenskin bellies open faster than even an Imperial Fist could see.  Ash spewed from the cuts instead of blood as the Emperor’s hate burned them from the inside.

	The Primarch wasn’t making a sound, either.  No war cries, no battle chants, no coded messages, not even his Chapter’s name.  He was just moving, like death over the plain, like a wraith over the ice of Inwit when the blizzards subsided and the predators came out to kill.

	There, the Hand of Dominion flared orange and raked two Wartrukks with AP bolts.