A Son of Magnus. Even chaos marines distrusted them. Agathon was right however. For a Thousand Son to be on Minoa III, alone, meant he was up to something secretive and involved. Such was no surprise for a servant of the Great Architect. 

The cloaked sorcerer came to a purposeful halt neatly in front of the Palatine Blade warrior, his sparking weapon lowered. He spoke slowly, dragging out his words as if talking were a loathsome, mundane task. "No. This is NOT my fight." From that, it was obvious that the Son had no interest in fighting the enemy Imperial forces. That was not even why he was there. However mysterious his reasons, in the pressing moment, he was not forthcoming about them. 

What was already known about the sorcerers of Magnus was that they were the only sentient, free-thinking warriors The Red King had left of his once loyal and troubled legion, and there weren't many of them. Of course, what was free-thought when Tzeentch had you by the balls and there was nothing you could do about it? Still, regardless of whether or not they had been exiled, neither Magnus nor Ahriman would disperse them so lightly. They were not to be wasted on a any random battlefront in the Black Crusades unless the engagement was personal, for that was how Magnus operated. The Thousands Sons swore no loyalty to chaos united, nor even to Tzeentch officially in many cases, although they served the designs of the Changer of Ways whether they were willing or not. They were masters of such incredible power, yet not masters of their own fate. 

The armored mage went on, indicating the collapsing lines around him. "I have no interest in wasting time on the failures of the Black Legion. My master has need of me and that is all you will know."  The Thousand Sons' classic arrogance was shining through. "Now come, further bickering is pointless. Flee with me, for I know that my fate is not to perish upon this world, and we will escape." He gestured toward the perilously waiting ship. "Make haste, Child of the Emp..."

His tone had only begun to twist into a mocking slurr when a chainaxe whirred unreasonably close, breaking Sanakhet off mid-sentence like sonic phallic symbol. For some reason, to the carefully focused mind of the sorcerer, it was the most annoying sound in the world. 

Sanakhet turned sharply from Agathon, yet not so much as to leave an opening for the third legion astartes' Charnabal Sabre to strike him easily in an attack of opportunity. The heat of his glare was legible in the silence of his stare at Guroth. Liquid fury rose up in the sorcerer, and the grip on his force sword subconsciously tightened. Only many millennia of strict self control was able to keep the damn from breaking before Sanakhet's hateful wrath at the servant of Khorne. He knew his was not the time for a deathmatch. His intellect was fortunately his greatest attribute and dominated his actions. Yet, how could a sudden conflict be avoided, right here, right now? It couldn't. He damned the dancing threads of destiny. 

Sanakhet flexed his knees ever so slightly as he postured, raising up a gauntleted hand and speaking soft words in a low voice that struck anyone who heard them like a slap across the face. The air wiggled around him like heat rising off his armor. Clearly he was preparing for an unwanted confrontation, but gods damn anyone who knew what in all unholy warp he was casting. It was probably wise to step back.

"Khornate swine..." Sanakhet hissed the words, yet all could hear him and feel the narrowing of his eyes behind his helm as he glared in the Skulltaker's direction. Sanakhet recalled the unforgetable laughter he had psychically witnessed as his primarch had been hurled back into the warp on Fenris after receiving a wound from a Khornate berserker's axe. It had been the laughter of the god himself, mocking the folly of Tzeentch's chosen champion. The hatred was real. Vengeance was due. 

Guroth would suddenly feel his body becoming more and more difficult to move. His muscles cramped and his blood ceased flowing in various parts of his body until it nearly paralyzed him, forcefully halting his advance. Sanakhet wasn't going to even bother killing him. Let the oncoming Imperium do that. He relished the thought of the red-clad chaos marine being obliterated by bolterfire as the gunship took off in front of him. To the others, there was little point in trying to save the random Skulltaker's life by dragging him along. It would simply be easier to leave him behind, a victim of the enmity between two gods of chaos. Inwardly, Sanakhet grinned, his place on the escape vessel assured, for who would oppose him while he had the upper hand?