Chapter 126: The Scorn of the Iron Warriors
"Sorcerer, I need an explanation."
A roar brimming with suppressed fury exploded across the bridge.
The voice belonged to a figure clad in heavy Terminator armor. Across its pitch-black ceramite base, skull reliefs and yellow-and-black hazard stripes interwove, spreading from the pauldrons to the leg plates; even the weapon in his hand bore the same patterns.
Anyone with a modicum of common sense would recognize him instantly.
—This was a Warsmith of the traitor legion, the Iron Warriors!
Behind the helmet's lenses, his eyes burned with a cold, calculated rage as hatred churned in his chest. Yet even now, the Warsmith did not abandon what the sons of Perturabo prided themselves on most: logic.
Rational calculation and cold weighing of options were the core tenets of his kind.
He flicked his gaze toward the other figures on the bridge.
—Ancient veterans of the Long War, also of the Iron Warriors: First Captain and former member of the Trident, Forrix "The Breaker"; Kroeger, also a former Trident member but now fallen into a Khornate Berzerker, his face a mask of murderous intent; and the "half-breed" Honsou, whose genes and skills reeked of heresy.
The Warsmith believed that with a single command, they would tear the posturing sorcerer before them into bloody scraps without hesitation.
"No, why such a strong reaction? Warsmith, I haven't deceived you in the slightest," the Tzeentchian Sorcerer said unhurriedly.
His voice was ethereal and mysterious, as melodious as clashing crystals yet carrying a non-human echo. Behind his blue-and-gold armor—adorned with books and crystal reliefs—nine concentric rings floated silently, rotating slowly and emitting shifting psychic light. Each pulse of the aura seemed to reflect countless possible futures.
"Are those your last words?"
The Warsmith let out a cold sneer, his fingers tapping the edge of the command console with a dull metallic thud.
The original plan had been flawless. Their battle barge was heading for the Imperial world of Hydra Cordatus to seize the massive quantity of Astartes gene-seed stored in the Mechanicus vaults. Those pure gene-seeds were not only a rare means of reinforcement for a Chaos warband under the Warp's influence but also perfect offerings for the Warp itself.
The Warsmith had hoped to use this action to draw upon the power of the Warp and complete his daemonhood, becoming an immortal Daemon Prince.
However, mid-transit, the ship had been swept up in a sudden Warp surge. Even for a Chaos warband, it was a catastrophic navigational error. By the time they exhausted all means to break back into realspace, the auspex showed the battle barge had arrived at Badab Primaris.
—The homeworld of the Astral Claws, the Wardens of the Maelstrom.
To say this was off-course from Hydra Cordatus would be an understatement; they were at opposite ends of the galaxy. Thinking of the Tzeentchian Sorcerer's ironclad guarantees before departure, the Warsmith's teeth ground together in hatred.
"I did not lie to you."
Sensing the other's killing intent beginning to physically manifest, the sorcerer stopped speaking in riddles. His tone took on a deep, seductive quality. "Can't you feel it? Warsmith, look at this system—the will of the Chaos Gods is watching this place. If you unleash slaughter and destruction here, you can easily gain Their favor, perhaps even complete your final ascension!"
"Hmph."
Naturally, the Warsmith showed only disdain and snorted in contempt.
While the Iron Warriors continued to use the powers bestowed by Chaos, they held a cold pragmatism in their hearts. We are our own masters; Chaos is merely a tool used to defeat the False Emperor, no different from a Daemon Engine.
He had nothing to say to those fanatics who sacrificed their entire being to the gods until little self-will remained. Had this sorcerer not proven remarkably accurate in previous divinations, the Warsmith would have disassembled him into base components long ago.
The Warsmith waved his hand, preparing to order the Navigator to recalculate the Warp jump coordinates and leave this cursed place. Though he did not fear the False Emperor's lackeys in the Badab Sector, he had no wish to engage in a war of attrition before his rituals were ready.
"Then, with your understanding of the Warp, why don't you 'look' for yourself?" the sorcerer's voice drifted over, laced with provocation.
The Warsmith frowned slightly. He was indeed one of the Iron Warriors with the deepest understanding of the Warp's nature; otherwise, he wouldn't be pursuing an ascension that targeted the Warp's very essence.
Closing his eyes, he sank his consciousness into that sea of unreality.
The next moment, the Warsmith snapped his eyes open.
Active?
—No, it was boiling.
The Warp here was no longer a calm abyss or a violent storm; it was more like a thick soup being heated by some invisible will. The boundary between reality and illusion had grown thin and fragile. Performing a Warp ritual here would see its effects multiplied—less consumption, stronger resonance, greater feedback.
The temptation for the Warsmith was unparalleled. He was not a follower of any specific Dark God, but a seeker of the "undivided" path. His goal was to merge with Chaos itself to ascend as a Daemon Prince beholden to no one.
If he used a massacre of the False Emperor's dogs here as a sacrifice—
A dream dormant for ten thousand years was finally within reach.
Such temptation—
"Well? You Iron Warriors claim to be 'Iron Within, Iron Without.' Surely you aren't afraid of the False Emperor's lapdogs?" the Tzeentchian Sorcerer teased, the blue rings behind his head spinning softly.
"Fear? Heh—a poor joke."
The scales in the Warsmith's heart had completely tipped. The opportunity before him far outweighed the risks.
A single Space Marine Chapter stationed here? How many could they have? Eight hundred Astartes? A thousand? He held a massive force, commanded veterans of the Long War from the days of the Great Heresy, and possessed an unmatched understanding of the Warp.
As for those Astartes, they were merely juniors intoxicated by the False Emperor's lies! Ten thousand years ago, during the Siege of Terra, when the Warsmith fought against heroes who were now legends to these youngsters, these "loyalists" didn't even exist!
Wait, that's right. Aren't the Astartes chapters around here descendants of the Ultramarines?
The Warsmith scoffed.
Never mind then.
Without further hesitation, he began barking orders.
"Relay my commands," the Warsmith's voice, cold as iron, echoed through the bridge. "All hands to battle stations. Target: Badab Primaris orbital defense array. Master of Ordnance, calculate the optimal fire pattern. Forrix, assemble our forces immediately!"
The Warsmith turned to stare at the reddish-brown planet on the holographic map, red light flickering in his lenses.
"Iron Within!"
"Iron Without!" the Iron Warriors on the bridge roared in unison.