"It is nearly time, my children. The unbelievers die this day, and the Apostle shall lead us on the path of the gods." The hissing voice toned from behind the golden helm. Amphion felt a surge of pride as he scanned the small crowd of mutants and heretics he had brought with him to this legion. Leering abominations of twisted, buldging, cracked or rotting flesh more at home in the sewers of a hive world, and the desperate gangers and beggars willing to sell their very souls for the smallest trace of power and acceptance, their bodies marked with crude carvings of the eight-pointed star. 

Thirty in all, sure to perish at the hands of the loyal Night Lords when the time came. He expected it to be within the hour, when his own flock would join his master's in the slaughter, falling on the for with autoguns and crude hand weapons. Khorne would be pleased by their blood, and Slaanesh their souls, and Tzeench their sacrifice in their betrayal. It brought satisfaction to the sorcerer. He raised his staff as he spoke again.

"When the Apostle summons us, you will storm the bridge. Leave none of the unbelievers with breath, offer up their blood for Khorne, and their skulls for his throne. Feed their souls to Slaanesh, and bask in his blessing when the time comes. You will need it when we set apon the path."

The mob chittered, bleeted and roared in adoration and exaltation. It would not be paid any special mind. The Night Lords cared little for these beasts and traitors, and paid them no heed. It would prove a costly mistake.

"I await your call eagerly, Apostle."