“We are definitely on the wrong side…because both sides are wrong.”
-Argel Tal, First of the Gal Vorbak, XVII Legion
“Zis is insane.”
Vortun’s pronouncement framed what Lorkhan was thinking well enough, and so he kept silent. The occasional clatters and creaks from the ship’s superstructure that reverberated around the hold filled the quiet well enough as it was; even more so, when the pained moaning that danced on the edge of perception was factored in.
“It is certainly regrettable, sir,” Mordecai agreed, eyes focused on the same point as the Obliterator’s and the Warsmith’s. “But, I fear, a grim necessity. Your brothers will thank you for it.”
“Spare me the rhetoric.” Lorkhan growled, clutching the glowing object in his hand. Bisecting the Crystal heart had been a simple task – one clean swing of his axe had split it into two halves. That had been the easy part of the process. “You know as well as I do that we cannot turn back now. We’ve committed.”
“How do you know zis vill even vork?” Vortun queried, ever-mutating face looking down at the Warsmith. Lorkhan sighed, pulling as good a shrug as he could manage.
“One must not feel too despondent, sir.” Mordecai said cheerily. “And I must say, using the remains of the wolves’ bodies for the Engine was astute. Top show, indeed.”
“I’m not much more of a fan of empty praise.” Lorkhan muttered, eyes still focused on the wooden construct before him. “I have built better. Far better. And this…thing barely qualifies when compared to what we used to be able to get our hands on.”
“That is…true, sir. But given the circumstances of its construction, a superlative effort if nothing else has been enacted on your part.” Mordecai said reassuringly. The Warsmith’s response was naught more than an angry sidelong glance.
“To answer your question, Vortun, I don’t.” Lorkhan conceded after a few moments. “The trinket that Zuko lost an arm for doesn’t behave like any sort of power source I’ve tried to use before.” Dying lights flickered overhead, bathing both the three Olympians and the construct before them in flashes of gloomy blackness. “On a scientific front, it seems to be powered by positive emotional energy and ‘charge’, for want of a better term…which sounds bloody inefficient to me, but also no longer surprises me considering what else we’ve seen, which is almost depressing.” He paused, casting another look down at the stone fragment in his hand. Where once it had emitted a cool blue aura, now the glow was an angry red. “Binding any sort of Warp energy to it proved to be less than straightforward.”
“Again, sir, I feel we are looking through rather a negative lens at this state of affairs.” The Psyker put in. “One must remember that, in the end, you were able to successfully enact the required amalgamation. Our theoretical has thus far been sound in every calculation that we have run, and I cannot foresee any reason why things would begin to go belly up now.”
“And you are certain that the soul we used is adequate?” The Warsmith inquired, almost hissing. He raised the half of the Crystal Heart he held to where his ear would be, tilting his helmet as if that would help. The agonised groaning could be heard a lot clearer now; no sound left the stone, but still Lorkhan could feel it rattle through his mind. Even after all the millennia, it still threatened to unsettle the veteran Astartes.
Mordecai nodded. “I agree that our friend Mr Discord was…less than co-operative to begin with, but I rather think that the time he has spent with the Burdened has made him a great deal more malleable, sir.” He allowed himself a slight chuckle. “At the very least, I suspect the Neverborn have taught him a valuable lesson indeed concerning the dangers of rummy advertisement.”
“God of Chaos mein arse.” Vortun rumbled, by way of contribution. Lorkhan felt his remaining eye roll. He cast a look to the second half of the Crystal Heart, wrapped in cloth and set aside upon a nearby workbench, a wide exclusion zone of any other item formed around it. Unlike the half in which the Draconequus was bound, this one was silent; its occupant used to the constraint, and content to wait and watch like some coiled viper.
“Why’s he so…groany, anyway?” Lorkhan asked. “He was trapped in stone, surely he should be used to it by now?”
“With respect sir, I daresay that the methods we have used, and intend to use, are rather more discomforting to the unfortunate chap than those forced upon him by the Princess and her supporters.” Mordecai responded. “Particularly, the process of actually stripping the soul away with enough Warp energy remaining upon it required-“
“Oh save it, the last thing I want are specifics.” Lorkhan said, holding up his free hand in a gesture of disgust. The three Iron Warriors were quiet for a moment, content to let the creaking noises fill the air as they were lost to their own introspections. “What about you, Vortun?” The Warsmith asked, not looking around at him. “The last time I asked you what you thought of this plan, you managed to dance around it with commendable agility considering what the hell’s happened to you. Do you think this will work?”
Behind him, he heard the Obliterator’s hulking body move in its interpretation of a shrug, whilst one of the arms morphed into some new death-device. “Vatever happens, mein Kapitan, it vill undoubtedly be on ze wrong side of hilarious.” Lorkhan cast him a sidelong glance now, the ‘skull’ portion of his helmet grinning towards his mutated brother.
“You might be blessed, Vortun, but you’re still more than a little creepy.” Vortun’s pulsing features cracked into an ugly, leering smile. Lorkhan looked back to his creation, taking another sigh. “This whole bloody thing is shit.” He muttered with a shake of the head. Mordecai’s vox made the tutting click of his tongue unmissable.
“Oh come now sir, I would expect such language from perhaps Rorke.” Lorkhan laughed, a sound utterly devoid of humour.
“Where is he, anyway?” the Warsmith asked. Vortun shrugged again. Mordecai just looked away. Lorkhan did not pry, still standing motionless for a few moments more. Eventually he seemed to reach some sort of decision, taking slow steps forward to kneel beside one of the wooden monstrosities in the room with him. With gentleness uncharacteristic for an Iron Warrior, he traced an armoured finger around an open crevasse in its chest. The gap was just the right size for a small handful of stone.
“Iron Within.” The two voices from behind surprised him; one deep and rumbling, the other polite and reserved. To hear such dissonant companions utter the Legion’s words simultaneously stuck in the Warsmith’s mind more than he would have liked to admit. Even so, he nodded in his crouch, placing a fist over his chest.
“Iron Without.” He concluded. Any time for ceremony passed, and Lorkhan thrust the hand holding half the Crystal heart into the chest, twisting it and not removing the gauntlet until he was certain the possessed stone had been enveloped.
In the darkness of the Olympian Suns hold, something opened two burning eyes, and growled.
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He found his brother alone.
Rorke paused as Zuko came into view. The other Iron Warrior leant over the nearby railing, the ship below them dropping away into a darkened pit. One of his hands was, as ever, gloved in a chevroned power fist, whilst the other emitted the tell-tale hiss and clicks of a fresh bionic. The tattered red cloak still hung from his shoulders, though all Rorke could see of the Marine’s helmet was due to the illumination provided by the burning cigar held loosely between his fingers. Zuko turned to look at Rorke as he approached, eventually offering him a grim nod. Rorke’s response was merely to stare.
“You never take that off.” He said at last, coming to stand beside Zuko and stare into the depths of their home. Neither looked at the other.
“Truly, brother, you and your observational talents are an asset to us all.” Zuko replied, without a hint of sarcasm. “Although I admit I’ve no idea whether you’re referring to the helmet or the cape.”
“Both.” His brother said. “Although the cape makes you look like more of a fucking idiot than the helmet.”
To his veiled surprise, Zuko nodded. “Aye, perhaps it does.” Rorke didn’t get a chance to inquire further before his counterpart went on. “I like them. Isn’t that enough reason to keep them, brother?” Rorke’s response was an unintelligible grunt.
Zuko took another deep breath, looking down into the pit again. “I suppose you’ve heard about what Lorkhan’s doing, then?” he asked.
“Heard you punched the witch.” Rorke replied. Zuko’s bionic arm twitched slightly as if in response. “Heard it was a damn good punch. I almost envy you.”
Zuko was unable to stop himself chuckling at that, though it was mirthless. “Don’t tell me we actually have something in common besides our gene-seed, brother?” he asked, shaking his head.
“I certainly hope not.” Came Rorke’s drawled response. Zuko shrugged, pauldrons rising awkwardly.
“Yes, I did punch him.” The sergeant confirmed. “And I suspect you’re not the only one who finds it funny, Rorke. In any case, after the Warsmith bolted this arm onto me, it feels like I’ve been put on the naughty step. The others don’t speak to me; I’ve not even seen Varvillon since I got back.”
“He’s not here.” Rorke said simply. That did make his brother look round, his helmet tilting to the side slightly in questioning.
“He’s off hiking in those mountains to the north.” Rorke told him, sounding annoyed at being pulled into a conversation. “Something came up.”
“And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is, are you.” Zuko concluded, looking away again. Rorke’s silence was answer enough. The two Iron Warriors observed their own silence for several long, drawn out moments, each one casting crimson glares into the blackness.
“This is wrong.” Zuko said at last, not meeting his brother’s gaze. Rorke did his best to quiet the sigh, his own hand twitching and spasming slightly.
“Shut the fuck up, Zuko.” He said in a tired voice. The other Marine chuckled again.
“Why? Because you know I’m right? Apologies, brother, I know what a sensitive soul you are.”
“We’re finally doing exactly what we should have done a long time ago.” Rorke told him. “I’m not the one getting squeamish over a little bloodshed. Besides, the Gods-“
“-Your Gods.” Zuko said harshly, rounding on him and fixing the Champion with as angry a glare as his helmet would allow. “They’re your shitting Gods. Not mine, brother.”
Now it was Rorke’s turn to snigger. “You’ve never had a problem using their gifts before.”
“That’s what you think.” Zuko corrected, with a shake of the head. “I’ve never thought this was a good idea. I haven’t thought a single thing we’ve done since the Siege was a good idea.”
“What has gotten into you lately?” Rorke snapped. “You’re going soft. You used to be aggravating enough, but at least you could fight worth a damn. Now you’re shying away from killing a few – deserving – Xenos.”
“ ’Xenos’.” Zuko parroted, genuine amusement creeping into his voice. “Xenos, Xenos, Xenos. You all keep using that word, and I’m not sure any of you know what it means. Riddle me this, Rorke, if they’re the ‘Xenos’…then why are they more human than we ever were?” His voice had dropped to a whisper as the tip of a power talon poked the other Champion in the chest.
“I-“ Rorke began, but Zuko wasn’t done.
“I meant what I said to Mordecai, brother. I hate this Legion. I hate this Legion, I hate everyone in it, I hate what we’ve come to represent. This is not what I signed up for when we joined Horus, Rorke, and I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’t what the Primarch wanted either. Is it so wrong to remember the original mission? Get to Terra, break the haughty, kill the False Emperor – that’s what I believed in, why I fought. Our brothers bled and died to make a better, fairer Imperium. And how do we repay them? We spend what’s left of the Legion’s strength attacking people and species that can’t fight back – not because it has any strategic value, but just because it makes us feel better and takes our minds off how utterly worthless our lives are.” He paused for a moment in his tirade, sighing heavily as he looked down. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, and as close to mournful as a Space Marine could ever get. “We started off as well-intentioned rebels, knowing we’d have to do bad things, but fighting for freedom against an institution that was corrupt and genuinely deserved to be extinguished. Then, we were forced to become pirates, trying to complete the original mission whilst also fighting for our lives.” He looked back up at Rorke, and though his gaze seemed to have lost some of its vitriol, it was still far from joyous. “We were all those things, brother…when did we become evil?”
The question hung in the air between them, like an electric crackle that would have jolted any skin were it exposed. Rorke stepped back a little, snout nosed helmet looking his brother up and down. “I’ll be fucking honest here, Zuko…I didn’t come to debate Legion philosophy with you.” The other Iron Warrior nodded, almost glumly.
“I’ve known why you’re here since the moment you arrived.” Zuko admitted.
It was all he could do to stumble back as Rorke leapt at him, the power sword drawn with remarkable fluidity and already raining blows at Zuko’s head. The Astartes kept trying to retreat as Rorke pushed him back, leaving the railings where they had been stood and being forced down one of the Olympian Suns’ labyrinthine side-corridors, the energy fields of the two weapons sparking off one another where they collided.
By all rights, in such cramped confines the power fist should have granted Zuko the advantage, its bludgeoning power better suited to the environment than the sweeping arcs favoured by swords. Yet Rorke was a blur of furious steel, devoid of any finesse or even skill as he chopped down towards his brother in rapid, frenzied succession. He gripped the pommel two handed, both lending weight to his blows and making it near impossible for Zuko to grapple and disarm him. Whenever he did manage to establish a grip, the force of Rorke’s body shunting into him as enough to make him let go.
He could not block forever, and there was no room to dodge. Rorke’s advance was frentic, yet utterly focused, burning red eyes never once leaving Zukos’. He took step after step after step, each one placing his brother more and more on the defensive. The sound of clashing power fields and metal on metal rang through the venerable Strike Cruisers’ halls.
Their brawl eventually carried them through into a wider room, door sliding open to allow them access. Perhaps ironically, the pair of clashing Astartes found themselves within the ships’ Armorium; had either of them been in any position to look, they may have noticed the vast majority of weapons had been removed, leaving only the choicest items. The human detritus that toiled within gave the warring demi-gods a fearful expression, rushing to evacuate. One was not quick enough, and had his chest accidentally crushed by Zuko’s backswing for his troubles.
Capitalising on the open space, Zuko tried to retake the initiative, clenching his fist and swinging at Rorke’s head in a wide right hook. The maddened Astartes only just managed to duck beneath the blow, but it gave him the opening needed as he brought his sword in an uppercut motion. The blade moved seamlessly, leaving a deep vertical slice on Zuko’s chest plate. The stricken Marine did not have time to respond before Rorke went on the attack again, cutting another line across the width of Zuko’s helmet. Sparks flew from the damage the powered blade left, seeming to almost blind Zuko temporarily. A couple of brutal kicks reduced him to one knee – it took Rorke grabbing one of the horns sprouting upwards from Zuko’s helm, and using it as a handle to bring his brother’s face slamming into his rising knee to force him onto the other. A couple of artless backhands and punches were enough to seemingly stun Zuko, the sergeant driven to kneel and pant hard and painfully. The murderous onslaught of the sword-wielding Marine stopped, and Rorke stepped back; a hunter, taking the measure of his wounded prey.
“Good afternoon, brothers.” Rorke’s helmet-vox crackled into uneasy life, though in his current state he only half heard it. He was just about able to recognise Barbus’ voice. “Everyone’s favourite bastard Sorcerer has kindly requested our presence on deck. Don’t ask me where the Warsmith is, you won’t like the answer…oh, and Rorke. What’s taking you so long?”
The feed went dead. Rorke’s face twitched as much as the rest of his body in mild irritation, but his attention was soon captured by the other Iron Warrior. He could not be certain, but something from Zuko’s slump told him he had heard that too. Hearing that Barbus – perhaps the only brother Zuko had still trusted, after all this time – was aware of whole thing had seemingly done more damage than any sword blow.
“Ah, Zuko…” Rorke’s voice was shaky and erratic, but he was able to exercise just about enough will to maintain some semblance of sanity through the red mist. Something at the back of his mind told him it would be the last time he would be able to do so. The knowledge did not bother him. “So fucking righteous. So noble, honourable even. So quick to blame others for your own faults. You had every chance to walk away…every chance to say no…and instead you went along with the whole thing, whining and crying and complaining about us every step whilst committing all the same sins. We…we can’t have anyone threatening to stand against us. Not now we’ve come so far.” He slowly managed to shamble forward, tip of the blade trailing on the ground. “Maybe it wasn’t us that was the problem. Maybe it was you, and your inability to accept that times changed. You speak about the Gods like they’re some evil force to be denied, whilst leeching off those who don’t give a shit about imaginary notions of honour that we supposedly possessed.” He drew level with his brother, stamping down on the power fist. Zuko looked up the other Champion; the hatred in his red lenses mixed with a thousand other emotions. “You’ve fought in their armies and alongside their boons, but you’ve never once believed.” Rorke went on, voice a demented whisper now. “So let me enlighten you.” He raised his sword, placing the crackling tip in part of the groove on the chest his earlier strike had left.
“Blood,” The Champion slurred, “for the Blood God.”
He thrust the sword forward, power field once more cutting through armour like paper and erupting from Zuko’s back and through his cape in a miniature spray of gore. The Iron Warrior’s body tensed, vaguely aware of his heart exploding in his chest as it was pierced by the crackling blade. Rorke stayed for a few moments more, slowly twisting the sword within his brother’s cracked sternum. Finally, he yanked the blade back out with no hint of gentleness, taking a step back. Zuko stayed kneeling as he was for a moment, staring blankly forward and emitting strange gargling noises as the blood rushed into his throat and out his mouth. Then he keeled forward with a crash, a river of red running out from under him and spreading across the armoury’s floor. The rich liquid pooled at Rorke’s feet.
The remaining Astartes stayed motionless, sword in hand, for a few moments more as he watched Zuko’s body. Yet it did not rise, or even stir. Were he a World Eater perhaps, he would still have fallen upon it in frothing rage to tear it limb from limb. Maybe if the IV were sentimental, he would have instead stayed to pay it a moment of ever-respectful silence.
When he was certain, Rorke turned with a grunt and marched from the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. The doors slammed closed behind him as he left, locking what remained of his Legion’s last loyal son in darkness.
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“Sweetie Belle!”
Rarity’s shrill voice echoed throughout the boutique, meeting with nothing but empty air. The Unicorn pouted for a moment, irritated by her sister’s silence, when realisation crept back to her. Her pout morphed into a downcast frown, and she could not stop herself from sighing wistfully as she closed the door behind her. It was quiet without Sweetie and the other Crusaders around…more so than she’d like to admit. Rarity consoled herself with the knowledge that they should indeed be back from whatever camp they were on soon, but even so her home felt decidedly empty.
She placed the groceries that had been levitating beside her down on the kitchen counter, the blue magical glow around them dissipating. She sighed again, standing up on her hind legs and resting her forehooves on the counter in a moment of reflection. She willed it to pass, turning her gaze skyward and flicking her wavy purple mane elegantly. An afternoon of work in her imagination room would help remedy these blues, Rarity decided, as she felt the hint of a smile pull at her lips.
She froze, eyes wide, as something clattered to the floor in the next room. Those noise had been unmistakeable, and in the unicorn’s mind a thousand thoughts raged, each one more worrying than the last. Ignoring, for once, the sweat that now dirtied her brow, and her trembling lower lip, Rarity steeled herself and slowly began to pace towards the door. She reached out with her magic to envelop the nearest object that could be weaponised - in this case, a long wooden spoon. From behind the door, the noise could still be heard. She breathed out heavily, trying in vain to calm her racing heart.
The door swung open as the crouching giant within raised back up to his full height, the grey robe that hung around his legs blowing gently in the draft. He seemed to have been setting something, though Rarity could not see what. It took a considerable amount of self-control not to spring at him or yelp in fear, and Rarity took another deep breath, burying her confusion and annoyance under a broader grin now.
“Mordecai, darling.” She began, swallowing. “How…pleasant to see you. Though I must say, such an entrance is not the traditional method of paying one a visit here in Ponyville.”
The sorcerer did not reply immediately as he looked at her, and though his body language was as controlled and tight as always Rarity thought she detected some slight change in his manner; almost a sharpening of the Iron Warrior’s posture.
“Have I ever told you of our kin in the XVII Legion, my lady?” He asked at last, red eyes focused on her. Rarity blinked in surprise at his words, letting go of the spoon without thinking. Her eyes flickered away for a moment as the uncomfortable feeling began to rise in her gut.
“Um, I…that is to say…n-no, I don’t believe so.” She replied, feeling the smile that she didn’t believe in crack her face further. Mordecai nodded, ambling from the room and into the kitchen at a leisurely place. Rarity gulped again as he passed, running a marshmallow-esque hoof through her air.
“No, I cannot imagine I would have done.” He said. Much like the last time he had visited her, the sorcerer began to stare out the window, and Rarity realised that there had been something different in his tone. The cheerful edge had gone, and though it was still nothing but polite it was now almost…mournful. “They are not anything we of Olympia like to discuss. The Word Bearers, they name themselves – far too esoteric and fanatical for the liking of an Iron Warrior.” He paused, seemingly lost in reverie. “I must admit though, I have always found them more tolerable than many of my brothers do. Perhaps it is due to our shared fascination for the Warp, but in any case, I have had ample opportunity to study with the most darkly accomplished of their Apostles.”
Rarity nodded dumbly, padding at the ground nervously. The suspicion that something was wrong here had become an absolute certainty, and though she didn’t know what was wrong she knew she had to get out. The Unicorn began to make her way back towards the door with painstaking slowness, clear blue eyes still locked on the occupied Astartes.
“It was the Word Bearers who first discovered that the sentience found within the Warp is not subject to random, indecipherable chance.” He went on, hand clasped behind his back. “Though with a name such as ‘Chaos’, one would be forgiven for thinking so. The Gods are very much watching, and with sufficient rites –with supplication, with ritual – we may invoke some portion of their favour to aid us.”
“I…see.” Rarity said, trying to hide her rising panic.
“One in particular has always stuck out to me, though I confess the reasons why have never been apparent. It was learned from a warrior of the XVII named Sorot Tchure, a man who was at one time a close correspondent of mine.” Mordecai explained. “It spoke of betrayal, of the nature of it. The Warp is sensitive to emotional change, you see. Every action that we sentient species commit ripples on its tides, stirring the realm beyond. And in betrayal, we find the most potent of shifts, the most poignant of sacrifices. It anoints and taints us, investing us with some measure of divine blessing. The spark that ignites the conflagration, as it were.”
His words were the final straw, and Rarity made to turn and run, but the Space Marine was faster. Mordecai pirouetted, extending a hand towards her. Invisible telekinetic force smashed into Rarity, and she was thrown backwards with a squeal, and defying all odds managed to land seated on one of her dainty wooden chairs. The unicorn attempted to squirm, but the Psyker’s power held her bound in place. She could not even move her hooves.
“For an ally to turn upon an ally is one level of betrayal.” He went on, slowly walking towards her. Rarity’s struggles stopped as she turned to stare at him open mouthed, heart hammering in her ears. His voice had changed, now seeming to be outright apologising. “But greater sacrifice could always be made. For a friend to turn upon another friend, to sin against someone who had actually come to trust them? That is the most powerful of betrayals. A pact signed in actions that can never be forgiven.”
He crouched beside her, the helmet’s red eyes meeting hers that were now glistening with frightened tears. “Can I…get you anything?” he asked, and for once Mordecai sounded almost unsure. “Would you like some tea?” Rarity could only pant in response, trying to stop herself crying as her mouth moved wordlessly.
“Please…” she managed at last, in an emotion-cracked whisper. “Mordecai, darling…why…please, w-why are you doing this?”
He sighed, looking down at the floor, before standing back up. Rarity saw his hand move to rest at the holster by his side. “My brothers, for the majority, have never had the inclination to beseech the Warp for aid.” He told her. “They do not see it as the Iron Warrior’s way. Yet, I have always been of the belief that without the Gods, our Legion cannot evolve to deal with those who would do us harm…and it never hurts to hedge one’s bets with the winning side.”
The sorcerer drew the small pistol from its holster, casting a look at it. Rarity’s breath caught in her throat and she saw it, and she gave one last thrash against the psychic bonds. It was to no avail. Mordecai hesitated a moment longer before flipping the safety off, aiming the barrel straight at Rarity’s temple. The unicorn struggled to breath as she stared into the metal-rimmed hole.
“I truly am sorry.” The sorcerer told her. The worst part was, she knew it was sincere. “And it really is nothing personal.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“W-what was that?” Fluttershy squeaked, wings flapping involuntarily as she nestled closer to Lorkhan’s legs. The Warsmith did not reply, staring forward as the wind ripped around him. He knew the sound of a bolt pistol firing well enough by now. Overhead, thunder rumbled; the Pegasi seemed to have scheduled a grim black pall for this autumn day. It seemed to be coincidence, but if Mordecai’s babbling had been accurate, the weather was strangely fitting.
She had come to call on him shortly after his project had been completed. There had been snickering from his brothers, and embarrassment on Lorkhan’s part, but he had found himself compelled to go. It couldn’t hurt for a moment of relative peace. Not now. They stood on one of the grassy hills overlooking her fortress-house and the remains of the Sun, Ponyville not far off in the distance. It looked quiet from here, and for the first time in his life Lorkhan found he could use the word ‘idyllic’ completely un-ironically.
“I-it came from the town!” the flustered yellow Pegasus stammered, hair draping over one of her eyes. “Oh my, I hope the others are okay! Twilight gets so flustered when things like this happen, and she’s been so stressed lately, what wi-“
“She’ll get over it.” The Warsmith said bluntly. Fluttershy gave another frightened squeak, nodding.
“I-I guess…I mean, she has got Spike and everything…” Fluttershy said, nodding. A frown crossed her face. “Although…I-I haven’t seen him for an awfully long time now…”
“The lizard and you are close?” Lorkhan asked, looking down at her. She nodded, shying away a little.
“Oh, Spike’s a wonderful friend…most dragons are really scary, but he’s not scary at all!” she told him, speaking almost at normal volume. The Warsmith was quiet for a moment longer, leaning on his axe as he considered her words.
“I know what that sound was.” He said at last, looking away. Fluttershy tilted her head, big green eyes watching him. “My brother just shot one of your friends.”
The wind picked up around them, running off the Iron Warriors’ armour and ruffling the ponies’ fur.
“What?” She asked, though even he struggled to hear her. “I…I don’t understand.” The look of hurt in her eyes was palpable, the pleading expression reminding Lorkhan of someone from long ago. He pushed the memory to the side, looking down at the pony. Her ears and wings had flattened against her body, and she was now visibly shaking, almost on the verge of hyperventilation. For once his Mechatendrils did not snap at nothing, the snake-like tendrils hanging back warily.
“My brother has murdered your friend in order to invoke some form of ritualistic significance, and as a signal for the Iron Warriors to begin madness that we are about to undertake.” He told her, keeping his voice as level and emotionless as he could. Comprehension seemed to dawn in Fluttershy’s eyes, and with t a superb grasp of the obvious.
“You’re…you’re going to kill us.” She said, looking up t him. Lorkhan made no swift move to respond.
“It gets worse.” He told her. She didn’t have time to react before a second noise drew her attention, drawing the pony to look for its source with a gasp.
With an ominous rumble, one of the few gun hatches that remained on the corpse of their flagship ratcheted open. The sound of claw on steel could be heard, even from this distance, as could the near-animalistic whines coming from within. Fluttershy was rooted to the spot as the dark shape pulled itself out. It was huge and wooden and horrible, eyes glowing with an inner light as it gave an almighty flap of enchanted timber wings that should never work. Emerald fire spewed from between its jagged teeth, and yet the creature did not set alight. Lorkhan was distinctly aware of Fluttershy’s whimper as the Heldrake threw back its head and unleashed an ear-piercing shriek that rocked the world.
“A-a dragon?” She stammered, looking she was about to faint. “You…you built one?”
“No.” Lorkhan replied. He carried on, even though she was already running by the time the second draconic daemon engine pulled its way free from its iron cocoon. “I built two.”