Blank faced logisticians connected directly to the ship's surveyor systems ringed the wide table - gridded with spatial coordinates - using long, flat-headed poles to move scale representations of the various ships of the fleet.

The Admiral nodded curtly and spun on his heel, marching towards his commander's lectern. Bregant de Corte was a tall, wiry man, with gaunt, pinched features and a thin, pencil moustache. His admiral's uniform hung from his emaciated frame and, upon meeting him for the first time, many found it hard to believe that this was the man who had destroyed the Ork raiders of Charadax, who had ended the piracy of Khaarx Bloodaxe and whose masterful strategy had halted the K'Nib from invading the Sulacus Rim.

He stood behind the lectern, pouring himself a glass of amasec from the crystal decanter that always sat there and taking a deep breath. He took a moment to look around his bridge, allowing seconds to pass before issuing his orders. It was important that he not appear intimidated by the alien fleet approaching and his calm demeanour would be a guide for the rest of his crew to follow.

He drained the glass of amasec and said, 'My compliments to you all, and I wish you honour in this glorious battle.'

Jaemar, the ship's commissar, nodded in approval at the admiral's words.

A naval rating, traditionally the youngest man on the ship, approached the admiral. Sweat glistened on his brow as he asked, 'Is the word given, admiral?'

Admiral de Corte replaced the glass on the lectern and said, 'The word is given. Issue all ships with the order to attack. Glo-riam Imperator! '

The two fleets drew closer, though the ranges between them could still be measured in tens of thousands of kilometres. The ships of the Imperial fleet spread out as the attack order filtered through to the various captains and the admiral's plan began to unfold. There appeared to be no strategy evident in the tyranids' approach, the bio-creatures rising to meet their enemy in a homogenous mass.

The Space Marine strike cruisers, together with the rapid strike cruisers of Arx Praetora squadron, advanced before the armoured behemoths of the battleship Argus and the Overlord battlecruiser, Sword of Retribution.

A trio of Sword frigates flew in a picket line before the fleet, supported by two Dauntless light cruisers, the Yermetov and the Luxor. Their fearsome lance arrays were sure to be decisive in the coming engagement and de Corte was taking no chances with their safety.

To either flank of the fleet, two squadrons of Cobra destroyers, Cypria and Hydra, surged ahead of the main fleet, their cavernous torpedo bays loaded with sanctified weapons and their pilots eager to unleash them upon the foe.

The massive hive ship at the centre of the tyranid swarm shuddered as though in the grips of a powerful seizure and expelled millions of spores, trailing glistening birth streamers as they sped away from its toughened hide.

The majestically swooping manta creatures moved as though swimming in a deep ocean, their wide, chitinous wings rippling with the motion of the solar wind. The bladed creatures that flocked around their birth queen swarmed forwards in a wave of seething claws, overcome with the instinctual urge to destroy those who threatened the hive.

The Battle of Barbarus had begun.

'Order the Sword frigates to push forwards,' said Admiral de Corte. 'Those beasts at the head of the fleet are increasing speed. I don't want them in my battle line.'

'Aye, sir,' replied Jex Viert, his senior flag lieutenant, conveying the order to the signals officer.

De Corte studied the observation bay, trying to guess how the tyranids would react to their movements. So far, he did not rate the tactical acumen of the enemy, if such a thing existed in the tyranid fleet, and he allowed himself a tight smile. He watched as the logisticians began moving the Sword frigates forward with their poles.

'These ships that approach us, Lord Kryptman, what can you tell me about them?'

The inquisitor walked stiffly along the nave of the command bridge to stand before the apse of the observation bay. He leaned closer, as though studying the creatures more closely and shook his head slowly.

'They are drone creatures, nothing more, though they are extremely resilient. I call them kraken and the will of the hive mind controls them. Do not allow them to close with you, they are filled with all manner of deadly warrior creatures.'

'I understand. Mister Viert, issue orders that no captain is to allow any alien organisms to approach to within five thousand kilometres of his ship.'

'Five thousand kilometres. Aye, sir.'

Satisfied his order would be obeyed with alacrity, de Corte returned his gaze to the observation bay. One of the larger creatures was detaching itself from the main body of the tyranid fleet, using short flaps of its wide wings to power itself forwards in sporadic spurts of motion.

'Hydra squadron to take up blocking position on the right flank. Order the Sword of Retribution to follow the frigates in. Yermetov and Luxor to escort her.'

'Aye, sir,' said Viert, punching in the admiral's orders. 'Might I also suggest that the strike cruisers of the Space Marines advance with the Cobras of Cypria squadron? If these alien vessels are indeed as resilient as Lord Kryptman suggests, then their heavy bombardment cannons will be of great use.'

'Your suggestion has merit, Mister Viert. Make it so, and confirm readiness of lance decks and gun crews.'

The admiral watched the dance of ships on the plotting table, seeing the plan of the battle unfold as the captains of his fleet obeyed his orders.

'All weapon decks report readiness, sir. Senior gunner Mabon reports he has a firing solution for the nova cannon.'

'Understood, inform him that he may fire when ready,' said de Corte.

He saw that the Cobras of Hydra squadron would soon be in a position to fire as well, and the Swords had rapidly closed on the first wave of the ships Kryptman called kraken.

The gap between the two fleets was closing fast and he knew it would not be long before aliens would be dying.

Deep in the bowels of the Argus, the fifty-metre wide door of the nova cannon's breech groaned shut as thousands of sweating naval ratings dragged the massive weapon's recoil compensators into position. Hot steam and noise filled the long chamber, its cavernous structure fogged with the furnace heat of lifting mechanisms that hauled the enormous projectiles from the armoured magazines below.

The chamber ran almost the entire length of the ship and stank of grease, sweat and blood. A booming hymnal echoed from ancient brass speakers set into grilled alcoves in the wall accompanied by the droning chant of thousands of men.

Senior gunner Mabon watched from his gantry above the firing chamber as a series of bells chimed and a row of lights lit up along a battered iron panel before him. He couldn't hear the bells, his long service as a gunner in the Imperial Navy having deafened him decades ago.

The shell was loaded and he muttered the gunner's prayer to the warhead as he squinted through a bronze optical attachment that lifted on groaning hinges from the panel. He clamped his augmetic monocle to the optical, lining up the thin crosshairs on the red triangle that represented his target. The target was closing on them so he didn't have to make any adjustments for crosswise motion. It was a simple shot, one he could have easily made, even in the earliest days following his press-ganging on Carpathia.

Satisfied that the shell would be on target, he lifted his head and ran his gaze across the chamber, checking that his gunnery crew gangs were clear of the greased rails that ran the length of the chamber and that each had their green flag raised to indicate that all the blast dampers had been closed. He reached up and took hold of the firing chain that hung above his station.