Chapter 273: Iron Warriors: Father, Father, Father
While the massive Dawnlight Fleet, after a brief deliberation, was steadfastly moving on to its next destination, far away, within the Eye of Terror, the Gloriana-class battleship Iron Blood, which had been lonely for nearly ten thousand years, once again welcomed its vassals, its sons.
Perturabo had installed viewports on the Iron Blood, allowing him to better scrutinize his sons' warships. At the same time, on the countless screens before him, scenes from the material universe flickered. Most of them were from the Dawnlight Sector.
Make no mistake. As a being who had not paid attention to the material universe for ten thousand years, Perturabo could not have possibly deployed spies to the Dawnlight Sector in such a short time. He had obtained so much information entirely because the Dawnlight Sector had never shied away from communication with the outside world. Although the surrounding sectors had strictly forbidden any propaganda about the living conditions in the Dawnlight Sector, the pilgrim groups had preserved a considerable amount of visual data. Perturabo could, through legal channels, learn about these 'brothers'.
And he was fiercely jealous.
The ring-base of Dawnstar, the ever-burning sacred torch of the Pierdra research world, the weather-control device above the agri-world of Ishtar, the giant shipyards of the forge-world of Mars Secundus. They were not the same old fortress-bastions, not those war-constructs that were purely for practical use, with not a shred of artistic beauty. Floating in deep space, their light was enough to make the stars dim.
Especially when his gaze fell on that giant art installation, floating in the deep space of the Pioneer system, which recorded the history and culture of countless worlds, the earliest of which could be traced back to when humanity had just set foot among the stars, the fire of jealousy in his chest couldn't help but erupt.
'Look at them, wasting countless resources just to please those mortals,' Perturabo thought, but his eyes never left the screen, observing the mega-structures of the Pioneer system, his superhuman brain analyzing these buildings. Functionality, safety, practicality, and other factors appeared in his mind one by one, and were converted into precise data.
'And the redundancy in these designs is too much, and they have no aesthetic sense. These brothers have a very shallow talent for architecture. If it were me, I could definitely design it better,' he thought, paying no attention to the sons he had summoned.
Barban Falk. One of the Trident. He was a well-known figure in the post-Great Heresy era, and also one of the most active Iron Warriors, with the most powerful warband. Since witnessing the magnificent scene of Fulgrim's ascension to daemonhood, Falk had developed a strange obsession with it. He was amazed by the power of that force, by the magic of the Chaos forces, by the fact that a human could evolve into such a being.
And so, for ten thousand years, Falk had been slaughtering the lives of the mortal world, accumulating power. He had gathered a warband, and had brought the once most powerful Trident of the Lord of Iron to his side. He had cooperated with Abaddon, and while fighting a battle of wits with him, he had also used Abaddon's name to expand his own influence. He had actively participated in the affairs of the mortal world, uniting those cousins who were trying to abandon their faith in the Corpse-Emperor, those of the Adeptus Mechanicus who were willing to embrace the power of Chaos, and had made them serve him as their master.
Everything Falk had done was for the purpose of going to his destined planet, 'Hydra Cordatus,' to defeat his enemies and complete the ritual.
But the Lord of Iron had called. After ten thousand years, the Lord of Iron had once again raised his anvil and had summoned his sons. So the Warsmith had given up his cooperation with Abaddon, had rejected the Chaos decorations that made him less iron, had put on the Mark IV armour, with no livery other than his shoulder pads, and had chosen to come to his father's side.
'Father needs me.'
Thinking this, Falk's expression grew more serious, and also more cautious.
Having submitted their docking permission, the various generations of the Trident who had gathered on the bridge of the Iron Blood saw the deep back of the Lord of Iron. They all sensed that their gene-father was not in a good mood. Unhappy. This was normal.
Perturabo had only ever shown them two faces in the past. Unhappy, and very unhappy. This made them all keenly control their breathing, their bodies standing as still as statues. The Trident were the elite of the elite. Their long experience with Perturabo in the past told them that they should be silent at this moment, to make as little noise as possible, lest they, like some unlucky fool beside them, be singled out, beaten, and put into a Dreadnought.
To have been summoned by the Primarch again, no matter for what reason, it was not good for the Primarch to be disgusted with them.
Looking at the majestic figure surrounded by iron-circle robots, Falk couldn't help but cast a disgusted glance at the Dreadnought beside him, the one called Berossus.
Berossus, commander of the Second Grand Battalion of the Iron Warriors Legion. Due to a strategic error in the Battle of Phall, he had lost to Pollux of the Imperial Fists, which had led to the Iron Blood being boarded by the Imperial Fists, and the Primarch having to face the boarding party directly. From then on, Perturabo's anger had fallen on him. Under his Primarch's order, Berossus's mangled body had eventually been placed in a Dreadnought, and for centuries, he had been tormented by this humiliation. And the other Trident also despised him. It was because of this fool that they had completely lost their Primarch's trust.
And some were quietly looking at the dazed Forrix, hoping that this Terran-born veteran, who had been heavily relied upon by Perturabo in the past, would say something. But Forrix just stared blankly ahead, as if his soul had left him.
Time passed, second by second. While Perturabo was constantly criticizing the mega-structures and redesigning better plans for them, placing them in the Iron Blood's data-center, several days had passed on the Iron Blood.
The Lord of Iron turned and glanced at the still-standing Trident. The Trident knelt on one knee, unmoving, very serious.
Perturabo first looked at the head of his Trident. To be honest, he still couldn't imagine that such a commander, with his extraordinary wisdom and excellent organizational skills, would be standing behind the unremarkable Falk. He met Forrix's gaze, and in it, he saw only weariness and indifference. Even his kneeling motion was half a beat slow.
But Perturabo did not, as in the past, rebuke him for not being iron enough, nor did he resort to fists and feet. His illusions about war had been shattered. Just like Perturabo himself, he could only continue on the path of a heretic. And unlike Perturabo, Forrix was doing so only because he had no other choice.
Perturabo saw this. Forrix was no longer afraid of his anger as the others were. He had decided to come, simply because he was following the order of his superior, Falk. His son was just a walking corpse.
"Stand up, Forrix," Perturabo said, approaching. He was not wearing a helmet. His face had become a necrotic, discolored pale, like a corpse dragged from a deep-sea trench. Thick data-transmission cables were plugged into his skull, hissing with his thoughts. His black eyes were bright and alert.
As the Lord of Iron drew near, the surrounding Iron Warriors all bowed their heads. Forrix silently stood up. The Lord of Iron raised a hand. Falk closed his eyes, unable to watch. He had always demanded that Forrix accept the blessings of Chaos, but he had always refused. He didn't know if he could withstand the beating of a daemon Primarch. Almost everyone, including himself, thought this was another of the Lord of Iron's tantrums. It had always been so in the past.
Clang~ A crisp sound echoed. It was the sound of a hand, clad in iron, patting a pauldron. Not heavy. There was no groaning of overburdened metal.
One second, two seconds... "Forrix, I need you," the Lord of Iron said. His face was a mask, showing no emotion. His tone was abnormally steady, as if he had rehearsed it countless times.
A suffocating silence filled the air.
Forrix stared blankly at Perturabo. His numb eyes suddenly shone with a vibrant light, as if life had been injected into a puppet.
Falk stared blankly at the ground, his eyes wide. He instinctively wanted to attribute the Primarch's uncharacteristic gentleness to Forrix's slow movement, and then regret that he hadn't been the one to move slowly.
Five seconds, six seconds... "I need to fight a war. I need you, my right-hand man. You will continue to be my Trident," the Primarch's voice was unusually calm, without a trace of emotion. But to the Iron Warriors, it was like a sound from heaven. And Forrix's eyes grew more and more vibrant, and even a thin layer of mist appeared.
Ten seconds, eleven seconds... "Answer me. Answer your Primarch."
The iron-like voice came again, piercing deep into Forrix's eardrums, completely awakening the slumbering soul within. "I can... Primarch," Forrix stammered, and then, as if waking from a dream, he forced his body to make the most iron-like sound.
This made Perturabo's lips curl slightly. It proved his words were very effective. Yes, this is him. This is his son. His son should be under his command, fighting for him.
"So, let's talk," the Primarch said, in a good mood. He put down Forgebreaker and placed his hand flat on the table. A hololithic projection expanded. This was a "little game" commonly used within the Iron Warriors, a simulation sand table. They usually used it for tactical communication. Perturabo also often used such sand tables to test his sons, to judge if they had a talent for command.
"Just like in the old days. Let me understand your current self through a game. Let me see if my commander can still shoulder his duties."
He looked at Forrix. Looked at the Iron Warrior who had gone from a corpse to a living man in less than thirty seconds. He wasn't looking at him. Forrix picked up the game piece.
But what did that matter?
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