The mouth of the Machine God gapes open even though there are no more slaves to feed it. 

Its jaws are as unhinged as its scale, hunger as as dead as He on Terra, vast conveyor belts extending out like licking tongues into every wall and facility along the line. You have met daemons today and none of them are as deranged as this combination garbage dump, crematorium and arms foundry. Here all the dead and damaged of the entire fortification sector are to be cast into the pit, tech-barbarians hurling everything they do not know how to fix into the mouth of this hungering volcano god, praying that it vomits back out new munitions. You descend through clouds and rain, catching only glimpses of the vast cyborg skull as it spreads out across the earth for miles in every direction. One of its eye sockets is a major spaceport, one filled with shipbreaking equipment that it might cut apart even slain starships to feed its insatiable hunger.

But no one feeds it. The gears of Empire have stopped. The volcano god has gone out. The cranes and loaders are gently rusting in the rain, servitors sitting peacefully and watching the moss grow upon them. Eternal labour has for the first time been broken by peace.

Before being ended by violence. 

You step out into warm summer rain, onto ferrocrete slick with water and huge pools forming around blocked drainage channels. You see many red-robed bodies have been butchered where they sat, priests and servitors broken apart without raising a hand in their own defense. You see, too, that the work of slaughter is not yet done. To kill five hundred thousand diseased magi, labourers and servitors by hand is a task of almost incomprehensible scale. Here and there, servitors go about this bloody business - lobotomized workers in Draupnir blue slowly trundling from victim to victim, crushing heads Martian red with unhurried movements of their servo-claws, before moving silently on. 

These are slow, weak, mindless drones, barely cognizant of your arrival - a cleanup crew. Of the true warriors of the Machine Cult there is no sign but for the almost inaudible roll of thunder in the distance where Aedir and his Ruberics have made planetfall.