Shape became light. Light became colour as form and ethereal construct seamlessly melded around itself in a bespoke dance. Stones used to a life of dull neglect and claustrophobic deprivation of light’s rays were illuminated for the first time in years by the kaleidoscopic array of sheer existence that caressed them. The light twisted and cavorted even more, a faint whistling beginning to rise as the spectrum entwined further.
The rainbow continued to warp, expanding so as to lap at every corner of the chamber. It could well have been considered beautiful by those who watched; all bar one, who’d never understood the concept of beauty in his life. The whistling grew louder and more harmonious as bolts of lightning discharged from thrumming Van Graffe devices affixed to hastily erected generators. These electrical surges now began to coalesce themselves at the centre of the multi-hued storm that had expanded to fill nearly the entire room. From behind the magically-warded pane of glass that separated the onlookers from the genesis taking place, gasps emerged. They were unanimously from equine throats.
As the lightning and the rainbow fused, a second birthing took place. At the eye of the storm a tear began to grow, itself warping around its own form. The tear stood in contrast to that which surrounded it; black against light, silent and withdrawn against the radiance. It throbbed as the generators poured more power into the storm, expanding here, withdrawing there. A sizzling soup of colour surrounded it, yet somehow it could not disguise the black; instead making the omission of being all the starker.
Paradigms shifted. Reality jolted. The black within the rainbow began to expand now, enveloping all else. It devoured light and lightning, tore through the polychromatic prison. Yet everything it consumed, it vomited forth as it retracted even swifter now to a fraction of its size. Expansion, contraction, expansion, contraction, like a balloon being inflated and deflated far too rapidly. The black grew ever further, enveloping what the light had once covered, before contracting in one final time. This last recession went further than ever before, the sound of a vacuum sucking all in replacing the pleasant whistling. Then, with a *ping* the black tear blinked out of existence, leaving the rainbows to drift by idly. For a moment, all was still.
“Oh, shi-“
The explosion blasted even those behind the glass backwards, miniature Xenos bodies smashing against the harsh rock. Only two, the Goddess and the Smith, remained standing-yet even they were forced to avert their eyes as sheer waves of energy crashed against the seemingly meagre protection afforded to them. Torrents of reality and unreality repelled one another as they buffeted against the magical barrier, their disharmony serving to make the tide even more treacherous. Fleetingly, it seemed the shield would crack and all behind it would be engulfed in the contrasting true realm and realm beyond, ripped to shreds by the psychic forces at play with their souls the foodstuff for the waiting Neverborn that lay beyond.
Yet suddenly, the storm receded. The black and the rainbow pressed upon one another, each crushing its opposite to naught. The forces unleashed were sucked back into the realm from whence they came, leaving naught behind. As the tear closed shut with a final snap, an eerie silence descended over the room.
The Goddess was unresponsive for a moment, before reaching out with an alabaster hoof. The glass shattered, the magical wards protecting it dispelled now they were no longer needed. Ignorant of the shards cutting into her flesh, she stepped fearlessly into the chamber where moments ago creation itself had run rampant. The Smith followed behind; he had no hooves, yet the impact of ceramite boots on the glass that marked their failure somehow seemed to hurt him more. A gaggle of scientists and other personnel trailed afterwards, whispering excitedly whilst ensuring to remain apart from their displeased Princess and her even less amiable guest.
The chamber was a ruin, even more decrepit now than when they had arrived. One of the generators had been dragged into the non-realm by the tear, whilst the other’s metal ran freely like molten wax. Holes had been blasted in the stone walls, allowing the light of the sun to stream in-real light this time, not the fake light of the rainbow.
It was to one of these gaps that the Goddess’ eyes were drawn, as two brown Pegasi ascended to hover just outside. They clutched their spears tightly, and the normally detached mask they wore upon their face was replaced by a look of deep consternation.
“Princess Celestia!” One called out. “Are you alright?”
“I’m quite alright, Master Sergeant.” Celestia replied with an elegant smile, forcing herself to sound calmer than she felt. “Just a little experiment gone awry, that’s all.” The two Pegasi looked at one another unsurely, but eventually nodded and floated out of sight. With a deep breath, Celestia composed herself.
“Your ‘Warp drive’ didn’t work, it seems.” She called over her shoulder.
“The device was fine.” Lorkhan muttered in response, seemingly to himself. “It must be you. Something in your magic prevents it from bonding with the Warp.” Celestia let him ramble and ponder, instead directing her attention to the group of academics accompanying them.
“Someone get a clear-up team here.” She ordered. “The rest, back to the drawing board.” The ponies filed out with meek supplications, leaving the Princess and the Iron Warrior alone in the shattered tower.
“At least we have windows now.” Celestia ventured, attempting to inject some joviality into the situation.
“Most of the Legion’s ships didn’t have windows.” Lorkhan replied, absent-mindedly. “We believed you could know everything you needed to about a battle through data streams, and windows were an unnecessary weak-point. Our ship, the Sun, was one of the few that did. The Iron Blood certainly didn’t.”
“’Iron Blood’?” Celestia repeated, mystified. “You mean to say you have more of those things you dropped from the sky in? What was the Iron Blood?”
Lorkhan cursed his momentary lapse under his breath. “All the Legions maintained their own war fleets, in order to ferry us across the stars to battle.” He began, hoping to change the subject. She cut him off.
“Yes, but what was the Iron Blood?”
Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils snapped angrily of their own volition as he sighed, looking down at the floor.
“It was our flagship.” He said slowly, voice heavy with remembrance. “It was his ship.”
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Two hundred Warsmiths. Two hundred of the greatest warriors ever known to his Legion stood here, packed tightly onto one ship’s bridge. And Lorkhan was one of them.
He stood between two Warsmiths he did not know, of the 27th and 15th Grand Battalions. The fighting on Hydra Cordatus had been costly, with many of the Legion’s senior commanders dying in the gritty and back-breaking war, but the chance to humble Dorn’s sons had been too great for the Iron Warriors to pass up. Now they were assembled on the Iron Blood-the Flagship of the Fourth Legion, and perhaps single most fearsome war engine mankind possessed bar the Vengeful Spirirt or the Phalanx-to receive their next tasking. The order demanding his attendance had surprised Lorkhan-the battle had been his first command, and he’d played relatively little part-but nor could it be refused.
The Iron Blood’s bridge was always dark, and cold. Not dark like a Night Lord vessel, or cold like Russ’ dogs liked it, but there was nothing in the way of comfort or leisure. Lumen strips bathed the warriors below in a shallow light, reflecting off their battered and grimy steel plate. Most hadn’t even had time to wash their equipment. No starlight aided in providing illumination; there were no windows. On the walls hung dusty banners and tattered maps of old Earth, tied together with oath paper naming the Legion’s greatest victories. They were names no-one outside this room would recognise, Lorkhan was sure. He didn’t know why they were here, but he also knew better than to ask.
Before the gathered Warsmiths sat a raised dais. A throne was constructed upon it, fashioned from cold iron and the remains of a tyrant’s treasury melted down. It was still blood-stained; remnants of Phall, where the corpses of Imperial Fists had not long ago littered the floor of the bridge. Lorkhan was a giant to ordinary men, but the throne would have been far too large even for him.
Before the throne, stood a demi-god.
“We are done with this world. Its fortress is dust, and its defenders ash.”
Perturabo stepped forward to the edge of the Dais, his voice deep and rumbling. Lorkhan’s gut began to twist as he tried to focus on anything other than the Primarch in his entirety. It was true the Lord of Iron didn’t have the stature of Horus, Guilliman or the Angel that could drive Astartes to their knees with their mere presence. Yet Perturabo was still one of the Emperor’s sons, even if that Emperor was false, and being in such proximity was potent enough. Lorkhan found it easier to bear by focusing on a single aspect of his Primarch at a time-the massive Warhammer slung almost casually over his shoulder that had been taken from the body of the dead Ferrus Manus, the stone pendant in the shape of their Legion symbol that the Phoenician had gifted unto Perturabo and clasped the cape that was draped across the back of his armour, or his grey, cold and eternally disapproving eyes. No cheers met Perturabo’s words; he did not ask for his son’s affections, only their compliance and understanding.
“We join our forces with that of the Third Legion, our mission to break open a xenos fortress and obtain weapons of such power that we will no longer need to take the metal to the stone. Win this war and our days of breaking earth will be over. We will be warriors again.”
“My lord, do we now take our orders from the Phoenician?”
Lorkhan smirked lopsidedly beneath his helmet, anticipating the moment the outspoken Warsmith’s head-Toramino’s-would be sent sailing through the air in one of the Primarch’s increasingly trademarks displays of terminal violence. Instead, and to Lorkhan’s surprise, the Lord of Iron shook his head.
“No, Toramino, we do not. Brother Fulgrim presented me with an opportunity to wipe away our failure to destroy the Imperial Fists at Phall, and I chose to take it. In the absence of orders from the Warmaster, we will seize the initiative and become stronger than ever before.” The Primarch was quiet for a moment, winteryeyes passing over all his assembled sons. ”That is all. Return to your Grand Battalions.”
There was nothing more to be said on the matter. Lorkhan found himself practically swept off the bridge by a tide of his fellow Warsmiths. He knew they were thinking the same things he was; namely, he didn’t trust the Emperor’s Children. Something had infected them on Isstvan V, something…unwholesome. Zuko, the new sergeant of fourth squad, had been the one that’d said it, and whilst Lorkhan had had to reprimand him for insulting another Legion it was what a mirror of what he himself thought.
Still, Father had not had to ‘discipline’ any of his Warsmiths today, which meant that this fresh campaign had focused him and improved his mood. If such were the case, then Lorkhan reasoned he could handle a few personal misgivings.
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A few weeks later he was in the Dodekatheon.
Before Olympia had burned, before the Dropsite massacre, before any of this had come to pass, the IV Legion had had the unusual pleasure of receiving a visitor. It was rare that any sane man or Astartes chose to spend time with the grim and humourless Iron Warriors, yet this visitor-a warrior of Lorgar’s Chaplains-had come to walk amongst Olympia’s finest. Many honeyed words had escaped the viper’s lips; all of them were seemingly ignored by the Iron Warriors, although looking back Lorkhan wondered just how large a seed of treachery had been planted within them at that meeting. Yet one thing the Word Bearer had said met with particular derision. The holy man had spoken of the quiet orders present in various other Legions-the warrior lodges of the Sons of Horus and Death Guard, or Brotherhood of the Phoenix of the Emperor’s Children for example-and had sought to introduce such a fraternity within the IV. The Iron Warriors had laughed in his face for his troubles. They had always possessed their own brotherhood, and no black armoured fanatic would change that.
The Dodekatheon was no secret, for the Iron Warriors had very little to discuss that required secrecy. Beneath the soft glow of flaming torches were political alliances between companies brokered and plotted, tactics discussed and new designs for fortress or war machine unveiled. Lorkhan had never had the opportunity to attend a meeting before-whilst feasibly open to any warrior in truth only those Iron Warriors of rank were to be found within the Dodekatheon. After attaining said rank, Lorkhan had simply never bothered.
There was little of interest within the walls of the secret place that held interest for Lorkhan. A few Warsmiths had come to try and meld the newly invested commander to their will, but once Lorkhan’s lack of aptitude or inclination of subtlety and intrigue, and predisposition towards idle chatter became apparent, he was more or less ignored by those gathered. He’d shared a mostly amiable conversation with ‘Honourable’ Soulaka-an Apothecary who was the unofficial head of the Dodekatheon-where choice opponents from within the other, Throne-loyal Legions were discussed. But otherwise, the only other feature of note the gathering possessed did not grasp at Lorkhan’s attentions. Using holographics, recorded video data and simple wooden blocks Warsmiths refought battles from the past over various tables, ostensibly to evolve their tactics and contingencies and be better prepared for future battles. A noble endeavour, but with the huddles of other Warsmiths gathered around shouting and hollering like children, the whole affair the appearance more of a bull ring than serious strategic exercise. Coupled with his belief that the only experience worth having was in the field, Lorkhan was less than inclined to join in the activity.
Besides, playing with toy soldiers was a bit weird.
Yet today had witnessed something special, something the Dodekatheon had not witnessed for a long time. Perturabo himself had come, and was promptly challenged by the most upstart member of the Trident-his cadre of three senior Warsmiths that served as advisors. The board recreating the Emperor’s Palace was a permanent fixture within the Dodekatheon, and it was there the Primarch and Legionnaires had done battle. In both attack and defence, even with all three of this Triarchs united against him, Perturabo had won effortlessly. The engagements were over almost before they began. No simulation was perfect of course, Lorkhan knew that, but watching the impetuous and aggressive Kroeger be put in his place was certainly gratifying. More than that, it reaffirmed-had there been any doubt in his mind-that the Primarch knew what he was doing. It reaffirmed that they could win.
Yet now the battle was done, things had grown stale. Perturabo had left and in his wake conversation dropped to a low ebb of Warsmiths seated around several tables. It bored Lorkhan, and before long he turned to leave, slipping out of the Dodekatheon down a side corridor. The walls of the Iron Blood were unpainted and unadorned, and in their frosty confines Lorkhan crossed only the occasional mortal serf. He paid little attention to the maze of corridors he was being led down, instead planning in his head how to return to his own ship. He almost made it to the hangar when he registered the deep, heavy footfalls behind him, and had stopped before his pursuer called out.
“Warsmith Lorkhan.”
The voice was iron and stone and steel distilled into one sound. Lorkhan felt a coldness unlike any he was used to seep into him as he realised that such a powerful tone could only have come from one being. He straightened and turned slowly on his heel, taking care to keep his gaze focused downwards.
The Lord of Iron stood before him, hands resting on the top of Forgebreaker’s head and an unreadable expression plastered on his face. He was flanked by two of the Iron Circle; Perturabo’s colossal robotic bodyguard outfitted with Thunder Hammer, Storm Shield and Assault Cannon. Lorkhan had seen the robots in action and they were fearsome indeed, yet he still had trouble believing the living god before him needed a bodyguard. Without thinking Lorkhan found himself dropping to a knee, a murmur of “my lord” barely audible.
Perturabo watched him for a moment, face unchanging. When he spoke, his voice was as monotonous as ever.
“Is it to your liking?”
Lorkhan blinked in confusion, without thinking turning to look at his Father in puzzlement. Perturabo held his gaze.
“The floor.” The Primarch continued. “Is it to your liking? You seem to be examining it quite thoroughly.”
Lorkhan felt his face flushing as he rose to his feet. The Primarch rarely jested, and being the target of one made the Warsmith feel even smaller than he already did. The fact he didn’t know whether Perturabo was genuinely displeased made it worse.
“I made sure to speak with you before you returned to your ship.” Perturabo said, cutting Lorkhan off before he could speak. “You are not to accompany the rest of the Legion.”
Disappointment and confusion flared within Lorkhan, yet he was still an Iron Warrior and master of his own emotions. Fighting through his awe, the Warsmith forced a smile to his face.
“I realise I may offend Fulgrim’s sense of style now, my Lord, but I’ve heard I clean up nicely.”
An even icier look settled in the Primarch’s eyes, as Lorkhan cursed his poor attempt at a joke. Perturabo removed a hand from the top of Forgebreaker and let it rest at his side, before going on.
“Your predecessor, Kargarra, often acted as an independent agent for me. You shall perform the same tasking. Break off from the fleet before we enter the War; I shall deal with Fulgrim if he asks. Make course for Ultramar, and follow our forces there. My brother Horus would not condone or appreciate my interference there, and I trust him to command us, but I must take precautions to ensure my more…unpredictable brothers remain true to the causes’ ideals as far as they can be. Report back to me whenever is appropriate.”
The matter was decided, and Lorkhan knew it was pointless to argue. Ultramar would be a hard target no doubt, but if the Word Bearers and World Eaters had been let off the chain as much as the Primarch suspected then perhaps it was not impossible.
“It will be done, my Lord.” Lorkhan said finally. Perturabo’s response was a curt nod, before turning and marching down away into the darkness down the corridor. The Iron Circle followed just behind, each of their steps noisy and crushing. Lorkhan watched the three go, working up courage within himself.
“My Lord!” He called out. The three giants before him stopped, but did not turn. Lorkhan felt the courage he had fostered evaporate, and for a moment was unmanned.
“Yes?” The threat in Perturabo’s voice was evident, and Lorkhan blanched as he hurried himself a long.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent Lord, but it’s just…I think…Why me?”
Silence reigned for a moment, as Lorkhan tensed himself to receive what would surely be the inevitable blow. It never came. Instead, Perturabo turned so as to give the Warsmith a sidelong glance.
“Three reasons.” He said, slowly and patiently. “Firstly, I need someone to keep watch on my brothers, and you’re not exactly popular. No one will question where you ae. Secondly, the Olympian Sun is one of the fastest ships in our fleet, and I don’t want all our ships in one place alongside the Emperor’s Children. When…if they betray us, I need Iron Warriors out there who can take word to the Warmaster. And thirdly.” He stopped, now turning to stare Lorkhan fully in the face. “Because you are my son.”
When Lorkhan did not reply, Perturabo turned and left. His footfalls could be heard even when he’d disappeared into the dark, before eventually being snuffed out and leaving the Warsmith alone aboard the Iron Blood’s creaking decks. Lorkhan was glad of the dark in this instance. He was glad he wore his helmet.
This one time, he didn’t want his brothers to see his face.
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“And that was the only time you ever met your Father?” Celestia asked, her disbelief evident. Lorkhan still stared at the stone floor.
“No.” He said at length. “I met him twice more after that.” He didn’t elaborate, and Celestia knew better than to pry.
“You said your meeting place was called the Dodekatheon.” She interjected, hastily changing the subject. “Why was that?”
“The Dodekatheon was named after the twelve tyrants who had ruled the cities of our homeworld, Olympia.” Lorkhan explained, relaying the history lessons he’d learned by rote without thinking. “But the order existed even before the Primarch walked amongst us.”
“Tyrants?” Celestia repeated, as confused as before. She seemed to ponder this for a moment, before her face mellowed a fraction. “You were born in tyranny.” Lorkhan’s sidelong glance told her exactly what he thought of her pity. He tapped the ground with the butt of his axe as he turned and stalked out the room.
“If your little menagerie stops shitting rainbows and bleeding candyfloss for long enough to think of another way to get us home, then contact me.” He called over his shoulder, not looking back. “I’m going to be with my brothers.”
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Applebloom fought down a groan of boredom as Ms Cheerilee’s voice swam over her. Normally the farm pony made an effort to listen in class, but the sun was particularly fierce today and she doubted that even her favourite teacher could make the life cycle of the common Possum interesting. Squinting groggily in a last ditch effort to keep her eyes open, Applebloom gave a distracted look around the room.
From the looks of things, her fellow Crusaders were about as enthralled as she was. Sweetie Belle rested her chin on a hoof and was scribbling nonsensical patterns on her note-paper, whereas at the back Scootaloo had gone to sleep proper. Even Twist, normally so attentive, seemed to be finding the going difficult.
“Okay class, now I have a special treat for you!”
Applebloom’s ears perked up as the words ‘special treat’ flowed into them, eyes widening as she leaned in as closely as her desk would allow. It seemed to have the same effect on her friends; Sweetie Belle squeaked excitedly and straightened, whilst Scootaloo noisily snorted herself into wakefulness.
“A thurprithe?” Twist asked, with excited trepidation. “What kind oth thurprithe?” Cheerilee beamed at her, before addressing the whole class again.
“I’m glad you asked, Twist. To make our biology lessons a bit more fun, we’re going to be doing a group project!”
An eager buzz of conversation descended over the classroom at those last two words. Applebloom grinned from ear to ear, looking at Sweetie Belle and then back to Scootaloo. Group projects were always a great chance to get the Crusaders together during school hours. If they actually got the project done as well, so much the better.
“However.”
The smile froze on Applebloom’s face.
“Since everyone tends to work with the same partners, I thought it might be interesting this time to mix things up and choose out of a hat.” Cheerilee said, still all smiles. Before Applebloom could respond she had produced just such a hat, crammed full of slips of paper, and placed it on her desk. Reaching in with a hoof the teacher selected the first name, then the second.
“Snips and Snails…okay, then.”
A jubilant cry went up from both colts as they slapped their hooves together. Applebloom’s whole body was rigid, eyes wide.
“Featherweight and Starry Sky.”
“Morning Blossom and Berry Pinch.”
“Twist and Archer.”
“Scootaloo and Dinky Doo.”
“Applebloom and Diamond Tiara.”
“WHAT?!”