Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 500 Red Sand
Barabas Dantioch noticed a subtle change in the furnishings that Perturabo had arranged in the great hall of the palace of Lokos. From a distance, he was certain that something was missing from the Iron Lord's table, but he could not be sure what it was.

"What are you waiting for?" Perturabo's voice came from inside the hall, pulling Dantioch's feet over the threshold.

The warsmith stepped into the ivory-white hall and heard the sound of his armor knocking against each other.

Perturabo's hall was still spacious and bright. The high ceiling was painted with the Iron Warriors' achievements in the past two hundred years and the magnificent hall they had built. It was decorated with flags and pillars all around. Each Iron Warrior company had its own formation number and logo on the dark iron-colored brick floor. The natural wind from the Lokos Plateau passed through the wide windowsills, swept through everything in the hall, and swept out from the other side. Even today, this place is still like this.

One difference is that the Eagle emblem on Perturabo's back has been removed.

That gap hurt Dantioch's eyes, and his chest seemed to emit a faint scream inside the armor. He leaned forward in front of Perturabo, who was sitting on the Iron Throne, and said, "Dantioch is summoned, father."

Perturabo did not immediately start a pertinent conversation. His gaze was as cold as a glacier, piercing into the gaps between his armor, as if peeling off his armor and looking directly at the scarred old flesh underneath. He was holding something in his palm, but it was blocked by the back of his broad hand, so Dantioch could not see what it was.

"I remember that you no longer needed this armor to survive." Perturabo said lightly.

"It is my custom, my lord," Dantioch quietly changed the address.

"What habit?"

“Remember the disasters that have happened so that they will not happen again in the future.”

Perturabo looked at him silently for a moment, his hand tightening around something.

"Replace it, change your memorial. I will not allow my Trident to wear a set of functional medical armor that can be easily penetrated by plasma."

Dantioch paused at a word in Perturabo's sentence, even if he did expect it, which was probably why Perturabo had summoned him today.

"Trident?" he repeated.

"You are my second halberd blade, Barabas Dantioch."

"Yes, my lord."

"I appoint you as one of the Tridents, as my legion's deputy, to follow me in my attack on the Empire."

Dantioch leaned forward again. "Yes, sir."

"Speak your mind." Perturabo rapped the tabletop harshly, disrupting the rhythm of both Dantioch's hearts.

"No complaints, my lord. I accept your judgment and commission. I will never let the Iron Warriors down." The new Trident said quickly. "I will change my armor."

He felt Perturabo's gaze upon him, and the pause lasted only a moment before Perturabo gave his second order.

"Come to my side, Dantioch," the Iron Lord said, his focus no longer on Dantioch. "Also, you can keep your visor design."

The Lord of Iron's mind returned to the galactic map before him: a bowl-shaped deep pit with a complex projection floating in the middle. The Primarch did not need to move his hands, relying solely on the nerve manipulation of these cables. He pushed the information on the image to change rapidly every moment, just as the cables that looked like the Lord of Iron's falling black hair occasionally emitted a crystal clear cold light.

He continued to calculate and reason, and several bright spots were gradually marked out, listed in the local language of Olympia at the edge of the projection. Each of them was the intersection of the subspace routes, and each of them was on the track leading to the throne of Terra. He was working, but the content of the work was different from before.

For some reason, this reminded Dantioch of Olympia in recent days. He had not seen such a large-scale construction for a long time: new airports were planned, heavy transport platforms and residential modules occupied the vast plains that were originally the lush wilderness of Olympia, a large number of new railways and roads crisscrossed the map like a spider web, orbital fortresses and a large number of artillery groups were put into the factory production lines, and as for the factories themselves, a batch of civilian factories were being converted into wartime military factories.

Perturabo was very good at doing all this, and he mastered every chord of the whole variation skillfully, as if he was born for this. His talent was both creation and destruction, and he was good at both. The only thing that constrained him from taking pleasure in the latter was the fragile morality that had been built on him for two hundred years.

Dantioch thought, with an indescribable complex feeling, and walked to the side of the Iron Lord, watching the galaxy that was about to burn from the same perspective as him. When Perturabo approached him, he quietly put away the thing in his hand and placed it in the secret compartment of the long table.

"The Thousand Dust Sun is on the verge of destruction, and Azak Ahriman has other wishes. They cannot be relied upon."

Perturabo raised his head and spoke in a low voice. His fingers clenched, free of the spasms.

"There is no news from the Imperial Fists. He is not under our control for the time being. Many other legions that could be won over have also failed to make contact. In addition, the World Eaters Legion Captain Kharn sent a reply saying that Angron is not in the legion and his current location is unknown. This is not a good situation, Trident."

Angron is not in the World Eaters... Is this an excuse, or is it the real situation? Considering Khârn's character, Dantioch believes it is the latter. But perhaps this is even worse news: after all, the last missing Primarch was named Magnus.

"The Astronomican has just been lit. It will take time to restore contact, sir." Dantioch said restrainedly, "We still have a chance."

"Before the first battle begins, we must at least ensure that there are more than three legions on our side. We still have a chance, but we don't have time."

When Perturabo said this, his eyes suddenly moved to the east side of the hall, and a trace of contemplation passed across his frowning brows.

He retracted his gaze and exhaled a breath of hot air from his lungs. "Assist me in selecting combat locations. I will describe the geographical strategic significance of these locations and the differences in suitable tactics."

The Iron Lord's narration was steady and indifferent, as if he was sitting here operating a machine, rather than a more specific person. Vigilus, Helotas, Istvaan, and even Orask, who was near the edge of the Solar Segmentum in the Ultramarine... and Colchis.

Yes, Dantioch noticed the worlds listed in the catalog, including the former homeworld of the Word Bearers, now the dead world of Colchis. If he had not always been with Perturabo, he would have thought that this traitor of the human empire had foresight and had seized the homeworld of another primarch long ago, just because Colchis was indeed a suitable battlefield...

The Trident accompanied his Primarch, thinking and analyzing the pros and cons of each location, even though he quickly realized that Perturabo did not need his help. The Iron Lord alone was enough to complete all the battlefield strategy planning and predictions, and the amount of data flowing through his mind in an instant was a laborious task that only a large company of Astartes could handle. And he, an Astartes, stood here... ...because he played the role of a living listener or recorder, and he believed that Perturabo was dissecting every aspect of his soul.

Before Perturabo, he was the face of the Iron Warriors, confirming their full support for his plans, assessing the strength and resolve of his men. This scrutiny made Dantioch shudder. He tried to smother the fear that rose in his heart, a physiological response to facing a terrifying beast.

You have to know this: when Perturabo decided to betray the throne, they actually - strangely, before they heard the reason given by the Iron Lord, they actually wanted to follow. As early as when they first swore, Perturabo said that he was willing to share honor and disgrace with them, and they were vice versa.

"Father," he whispered, and even he was surprised at how soft his rough voice sounded.

"Hmm?" Perturabo looked at him.

"Your decision is valuable." Dantioch emphasized seriously, even though he initially wanted to persuade Perturabo, who had been working all day recently, to relax for even fifteen minutes.

"Yes." Perturabo nodded, and at that moment, the atmosphere between them seemed to ease. Dantioch regained possession of the Primarch, and Perturabo believed that he once again possessed him, as well as all the Iron Warriors he represented.

Under the Iron Lord's gaze, a new batch of icons emerged on the galactic interstellar map. Every surviving company of Iron Warriors engraved on the floor tiles of this hall had its own icon in the projection. Gradually, some icons flashed with a fictitious glimmer, departing from Olympia, and under the predetermined dispatch, they tried out the possibility of going to different places.

When a cold wind from the mountains suddenly swept through the hall, Perturabo's narration came to an abrupt end.

He narrowed his glassy light blue eyes, turned his face to the east side of the hall, and sat silently on the Iron Throne, still holding the unknown object in his hand.

Around them, an invisible energy shield was rippling in the air, blocking out the wind. Above the pillars, the previously invisible disassembled gun groups quietly poked out, and the defensive lasers rotated, locking onto a specific angle of view - Dantioch quickly realized that the angle was manually designated by Perturabo himself, because his own monitoring equipment detected nothing.

"I am glad to see you again," Perturabo said, his words drawn out like a question.

"Really, Perturabo?" The newcomer did not hesitate to expose the Iron Lord's greeting.

He stepped into the room with the east wind, but before that, a faint smell of spirit and dried blood had already been sent into the hall of the ruler of Olympia.

The originally light footsteps suddenly became heavy, demonstrating the legitimacy of the person who came: such a tall giant, the bloody aura occupied by his presence was several scales larger than his body covered with scars and bronze armor. The first moment he stepped into the hall, he attracted Dantioch's attention, because the entire magnificent ruling hall was eclipsed by his primitive and rough blood.

A pair of bright amber eyes were embedded in the dark, rough face of the newcomer, as if they were burning. The blood scars around his face were carved into every turn of his cheek, and some of the scars were still dripping with drops of dark blood. A pair of battle axes were held in his hands. There was no blood on them, but they were indeed covered with dangerous scratches. Apart from this, his expression was unusually calm, without anger or hesitation.

Perturabo nodded, letting the blood drip down his calves and soak the iron-colored ground. "I was indeed waiting for you, Angron, and here you are."

"And I am surprised at what I hear, Perturabo," Angron said coldly, his tone dangerous. He slowly raised his axe. The edge of the weapon was covered with sharp teeth-like bumps, as if it had been damaged by long hacking and some kind of energy turbulence.

Dantioch took a step forward, walked around the long table, and stood guard in front of his Primarch. The tip of the battle axe pointed in the direction of Perturabo, and stopped steadily at a downward angle.

"You come from the Webway?" Perturabo asked.

“It is full of cracks and storms, Perturabo. There is debris and shards that threaten every corner, and darkness lurks beyond the membrane, waiting.” Angron said heavily, taking a step forward. “They are dying in droves, and I know… I can feel it. Magnus is gone.”

"I know, I'm sorry. Is the Webway still usable?"

Angron stared at him.

One by one, the neural cables fell off the sockets. Perturabo stood up from his Iron Throne and walked slowly to the edge of the energy shield. His breath created ripples like steam rising from the transparent shield.

"So you have found a path that still connects, Angron, and have come to me for help and answers," Perturabo said. "I accept your trust."

"First tell me what happened, Perturabo!" Angron growled, shaking the hall. "Tell me what I heard! What were you thinking, attacking Terra? Is that you, Perturabo?"

"Does this disappoint you?" Perturabo asked, his voice unmistakably calm.

He fearlessly stepped outside the shield's reach and grasped Angron's raised wrist with his free hand, staring into his face, which was filled with worry. "You should not ask if this is me, Angron. You should ask if the Emperor is still on the throne."

Angron's blood vessels constricted.

"Explain it all, Perturabo," he said hoarsely.

Perturabo did not release him. "You will listen to my words and make your choice, Angron. If you reject me..."

He let the implied words that followed dissipate into the air.

"But I believe you will choose me because of your reason and emotion." The Iron Lord said flatly, mentioning this group of words as if it were a bolt and a splint.

"Perhaps," Angron whispered, still holding his axe tightly. Perturabo was so close to him...

"Let's start with Magnus, then," Perturabo said, pulling back his gaze and spreading his other hand to reveal a tiny model of a red-haired man.

What he recently placed in his palm was the miniature statue left by Magnus in the past - it was no longer lively, but its exquisiteness and lifelikeness remained unchanged, and it could still bring about some illusory imagination.

(End of this chapter)