”History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle, but forgets the blood. Whatever history remembers of me, if it remembers anything at all, it shall only remember a fraction of the truth.”
-Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
“Move it you bastard!”
Lorkhan’s barked command was all it took for the Growler’s driver to gun the acceleration and go for it. It pulled away with surprising haste, darting round the legs of the Nox with considerable agility and making straight for the bridge into the now-vulnerable city. For Mordecai at least, his ears still rang with the aftermath of the Plasma Blaster’s discharge, but the Sorcerer was accustomed enough to the rumble of artillery fire by now to shrug it off, though he still grabbed the inner wall of the tank to steady himself as it burst into angry life. Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils provided a similar function, latching onto the walls like the legs of a grossly oversized spider as he stared intently at the view screen from behind his helm.
It felt impolite to point it out, but the Psyker couldn’t help but notice that the frontal gates were still largely intact. No magical firepower rained down from the walls onto them, a testament to the havoc wrought by the Titan’s shot, but the fact remained that at the rate they were going, the Iron Warriors were on course to smash head-on into the gates. The tendrils of the warp slowly and perversely wrapped themselves around this world, not to mention worming their way into the depths of Mordecai’s brain, but even with this redux of power he wasn’t sure he would have possessed the capability to psychically wrench the doors open before they were smashed into an ignoble wreckage.
It was when a sudden swerve caused him to drop his tea-set, the ancient enamel-white crockery shattering into a million pieces, that Mordecai found he could hold his tongue no longer. “Far be it from me to question what I am certain is a roguishly brilliant stratagem, my lord.” He said, having to shout to be heard over the rumble of the Rhino’s engines. “But I fail to see the tactical expediency of squandering our lives in a head on collision.” Lorkhan did not answer, seemingly still lost in his own private thoughts. Mordecai tutted to himself, reiterating his concern whilst casting a wary glance back to the stash of high explosives sequestered in the rear of the Rhino. If they went off whilst the Astartes remained within the vehicle, then all this planning and preparation would have amounted only to the most frightful waste.
Again, the Warsmith didn’t answer. In most circumstances, as his loyal and dutiful sorcerer, Mordecai was a bastion of patience and willingness to compromise, but given the impending calamity about to befall them – not to mention how tightly his nerves had already been wound over the last few hours – it seemed that even that patience was about to reach its limits.
“We are going to die, Lorkhan!” He snapped, the usual air of courtesy in his tone finally cracking for a moment. It was enough to attract the attention of the Warsmith, the half-skull faced helmet swinging round to face his brother. Mordecai looked dangerously close to losing his temper for a moment, before returning to his usual small, amicable smile. “I just thought it would be prudent to mention.”
Lorkhan was quiet for a moment before emitting a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, the Warsmith’s own frustrations evident. Nevertheless, he finally consented to detaching slightly from the wall, explaining the plan to Mordecai in a quiet tone. The Psyker kept dutifully quiet throughout, doing his best to give the idea presented to him its fair due. When Lorkhan was done, he leaned back, with a general body language that said ‘I don’t give a Nurgling’s arse about what you think’. Nevertheless, it was his duty to advise.
“That is…not the strategy I would have advocated, my lord.”
Sure enough; “I don’t care. Get it done.” With that the Warsmith turned away again, leaning up to force open the large top hatch of the Rhino. Wind rushed in and past them as they sped forwards, the cool breeze nipping at Mordecai’s face. He sighed, casting a look back to the explosives. Lorkhan was already pulling himself onto the roof of the moving tank, ceramite boots mag-locked to its hull. Mordecai took a moment to reaffix his helmet before kneeling down and priming the detonator on the weapons. Standing, he took one last glance around the cramped interior, resting a gauntlet almost tenderly on the wall.
“It’s been an honour, old girl.” He whispered sincerely, patting the structure before joining the Warsmith on the roof. The gate was getting closer and closer now, time rapidly ticking out.
“You’re ready?” Lorkhan asked in a grunt. Mordecai nodded, for once not speaking as he concentrated. Lorkhan moved away, slamming a foot onto the roof above the driver’s compartment.
“Up you get.” He growled through the local vox. There was a general noise of movement as the driver unbuckled himself from the Rhino’s seat, clambering up to join the two other Iron Warriors.
“Getting me out was an inefficient use of time.” He informed the Warsmith in a flat, gravelly voice as he slid back the rack on his Boltgun.
“Iron Within, Iron Without.” Was Lorkhan’s reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. He didn’t waste any more time, looking back to Mordecai with a nod. The tank was moving of its own accord now, but Mordecai still only had a few moments to marshal his power before the explosives stocked inside finally blew.
They could have waited for the Titan to recharge and fire again, but that would have lost them the element of…whatever it was they were going for here. They couldn’t go through the gate. But there was another way. Mordecai’s telekinetic force crackled to life just in time to cushion them from the blast that tore the Growler apart from the inside out. The ancient vehicle added its own explosion to the force, shrapnel flying away from the now-charred chassis as the pressure built up against Mordecai’s erected shield. Eventually, something gave; the force of the blast pushed them back, though remained unable to crack the psychic wall separating it and the three Space Marines it propelled. In essence, they managed a ‘rocket jump’, the thrust provided by the combined force of the blast carrying them high into the air in an arcing fall. They slammed down onto the ramparts of Canterlot with impressive synchronisation, rising as one to deal with the oncoming Guards that by now had managed to recover some degree of wits about them. It was an insultingly one-sided affair, Lorkhan and the line Astartes producing firearms and sending mass-reactive shells thudding through armour and into brittle pony bodies whilst Mordecai crushed their bones with but a gesture. Soon, the Space Marines were all the remained living on the walls, surrounded by clumps of fallen Xenos.
“I confess…I am pleasantly surprised.” Mordecai said, brushing himself down. Lorkhan spared him an angry glance before returning his attention back up to the Castle. Silhouetted by a now-utterly crimson sky, it loomed over the three, the weight of fate hanging over both it and their own shoulders.
The bolt slammed through their brother’s chest, tearing apart the power armour as if it were paper. The Iron Warrior’s head snapped back, dark blue flames sprouting from his eyes as he stumbled backwards and fell from the walls, tumbling end over end into the chasm below. Lorkhan swore vehemently as he watched his brother plummet, returning his attention along with Mordecai to the source of the shot.
The Princess of the Night, the one who had called for their deaths from the very beginning, hovered above them, wings flapping and face contorted in an expression of pure outrage. It all seemed, by Mordecai’s reckoning, bizarrely poetic. The sense of mutual loathing was tangible, neither side wanting to move and give away its intent to the other.
The deep, booming retort of the Titan’s war horn broke the stand-off. Both the Princess and the Space Marines looked to it, and its canine face stared back – part hungrily, part in challenge. Though it had not moved, the predatory air remained thick around it. The Pony seemed to fall prey to it, shifting her glare from the two below her to the titanic construct. Lorkhan sought to capitalise, aiming his bolt pistol straight for her. It was only an outstretched arm from Mordecai that held him at bay.
“Far be it from me to question, my lord, but I must point it out that it is still the day.” He nodded towards the castle. “Our plan takes us up there.”
“But we can kill her.” The Warsmith growled. Mordecai had to fight to hold back an eye roll.
“Of course we could.” He agreed. “Yet, haste demands we keep moving.” Lorkhan still took a moment to lower his arm, his anger at the sorcerer barely hidden.
“Who made you Warsmith?” He growled, finally turning away and setting off. “Just be ready to get us all out of this shit-hole when we’re done, I’ve already put out the recall order to all the other idiots.” Mordecai offered no verbal acknowledgement, but he knew it wasn’t needed; instead, as Luna hurtled towards the waiting Titan, he took one final glance at their objective and the flaming city before it.
It had been fun, certainly, but now it was time to finish this.
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For saying he was an Iron Warrior, trenches remained one of the most miserable locales impossible for Zuko to imagine. Nevertheless, for all the shit he had to traipse through and the endless hours of bored waiting for a brief gap in an artillery barrage, there was one distinct advantage that cramped earthworks gave him. He didn’t have to run.
The sergeant was fairly certain that whatever was left of his lungs were by now reduced to shrivelled and burnt husks within his already-abused chest cavity. He’d been maintaining an almost-constant sprint since taking his leave of Rorke, passing through what remained of Ponyville and hurdling the splintered remains of the ‘battle’ between Equestria’s tank corps and the IV Legion. The Titan loomed on the horizon, still a considerable distance away as it waited outside the city. Zuko followed the train line as closely as he could, seeming to push himself past the limits of even Astartes endurance as he ran.
He had a sneaking feeling that he knew where the strength came from. It didn’t fill him with confidence.
Against all rational odds, he made it without expiring on the spot. Zuko was even more surprised when he didn’t even collapse to his knees from exhaustion. It seemed he hadn’t been lying to his brother; he really was pissed off.
The Space Marine’s face grew as close to sorrowful as his eyes came to rest on the wreckage that had once been the Growler, lying a distance away at the other end of the bridge. It was unheard of for the Iron Warriors to even name their vehicles, but here Zuko could not help but feel a wave of remorse sweep him. Besides one another, the Growler and the Olympian Sun had been the two things that had stuck with the Thirteenth Company through all the years of warfare. To see them reduced to such a state was, in truth, painfully poignant.
The sound of gunfire echoing from the walls brought his attention snapping back to the present. It faded as quickly as it had arrived, his brothers finishing their work with trademark efficiency. Zuko considered tapping into the vox again, trying a more direct attempt to reach them, when something caught him by surprise. A shape fell from the wall, spinning end over end as it clattered down. Even at this distance, the profile of tumbling Power Armour was unmistakeable. Zuko watched it fall, unable to tear himself away until it had passed out of sight. Who had that been, he wondered? Which one of his brothers? One he’d almost liked?
Any such thoughts were cut short as the Iron Warrior’s head nearly exploded from the roar of the Warhound’s war horn. His proximity to the god-machine left him almost deafened in its aftermath, stumbling around in a daze as he willed his ears to hear again. In any case, he didn’t have long to do so. A shadowy figure appeared atop the ramparts, wings spread and a corona of magic enveloping her horn visible even from this distance. Zuko squinted through his disorientation, gritting his teeth as he made out the figure of Luna staring down the Titan. Props to her, she wasn’t backing down, but she was also making his life infinitely harder.
With painstaking slowness, the Titan began to raise its other weapon – a corrupted Inferno Cannon – and take aim at the pony. The daemon locked inside the thing’s head was growing impatient and ravenous, Zuko knew, a situation only likely to get worse as more of it kin spilled into Equestria. He took another look at the Warhound as Luna leapt from the wall, sailing through the air towards it and sending bolts of blue magic scorching into its armour. Now that the time came to actually put his plan into action, he could fully appreciate what an utterly idiotic scheme it was, but the Iron Warrior had come too far now to walk away. Taking a deep breath, and cursing himself for what must have been the twentieth time that day, Zuko ran to the Titan’s leg, grabbed some of the exposed cabling that hung from the back, and began to climb.
It was a long, difficult process, and more than once Zuko hung loose and supported by the tight grip of only one hand, legs dangling in the empty air below him. The Titan kept moving, which didn’t help matters, as it tried to pivot and keep up with the belligerent Princess. It did not fire as it took shuddering steps onto the bridge, unable to bring her into line for long enough to manage a convincing kill shot. Conversely, Luna’s shots – powered seemingly as much by rage as they were by magic – did seem to be bothering the metallic beast. One managed to strike an eye, punching out one of the red glows in a fizzle of purple light. The blasts did not stagger the Warhound, but even so Zuko twitched slightly as a magical beam sailed centimetres in front of his face.
Eventually, and with some difficulty, he made it onto the arm of the Titan – the Inferno Cannon side, to be precise. Even though the gun had not fired, it was still warm through the soles of Zuko’s boots, and he held his arms out to stabilise himself on the unsteady platform. He looked up, trying not to think of the drop or vengeful princess below him. His eyes came to rest on the walls, still some way away – if he could just get the Titan to walk a little closer…
Had he not been a hardened warrior of lost Olympia, Zuko would have yelped as he danced from foot to foot like some deranged steel monkey to avoid the blasts landing at his feet. He managed to draw a bolt pistol, hastily aiming it and sending a few worthless rounds into the sky. Predictably, they missed, Luna evading his wild shots with consummate ease. A beam landed a glancing blow on his bionic hand, knocking the pistol clear; he grunted, rubbing it as he looked at her. The pony hovered a few feet away, furious eyes locked on the Iron Warrior. No words needed to be spoken; there were none that would have mattered, anyway. She dipped her head, horn charging to power another blast that would finish him for good.
Whether by luck or judgement, it was the Titan that saved him. It jerked round to one side, Inferno Cannon swinging through the air with such speed that Zuko lost his balance. She couldn’t adjust her aim in time to account for the slide that sent him tumbling towards the side of the gun. Instinctively, he stuck out an arm, wincing as he managed to grasp one of the weapon’s exhaust ports and hold on whilst his shoulder was practically yanked straight from its socket. Luna had already taken off again, returning to engage the Titan in mid-air. Storm clouds and winds buffeted the side of it along with the magic, but the two were locked at a deadly impasse; neither was able to land a convincing, telling blow on the other. As he hung over the side, trying with all his might not to let go and tumble to his death, Zuko dispassionately wondered why Luna didn’t just use the near-divine power he suspected her kind possessed….then again, whilst moving the moon was impressive, the Princesses had only rarely demonstrated any real power – and he knew that they could die. It probably didn’t, the Iron Warrior considered, take much to rule over the ponies. It was a simplicity he found, even now, he envied.
Eventually, and though it did his arm no good, he managed to pull himself up. Forcing his shoulder back into place for the time being, and letting his body cope with the pain, Zuko took a glance over the edge. The fight had been going for almost twenty minutes without pause now, and she was clearly tiring. Folding her wings in, the Princess came to land on the ground before the Titan. Beneath a mass of ruffled hair and a wonky crown, she stared up defiantly.
The Nox was little more than a beast, a hungry and slavering thing that cared for little more than its next kill. But Zuko was a man, albeit a mutilated and corrupted husk of one, and he was able to view things with a more cautious eye. Therefore, it didn’t take him more than a few seconds to realise the trap.
“No, no, you silly bitch…” He hissed, though even he wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to the Titan or the Pony. The Warhound didn’t heed his words, aiming its Plasma Blastgun square at her. Still, she did not falter. Once again blue coils of energy lit up along the gun, the air beginning to crackle with the charge of plasma running through the Titan’s veins. Zuko barely felt it. He was already running.
At the last moment after it fired, Luna sprang into action, forcing her wings to carry her straight upwards. The torrent of fire missed her by a hair’s breath, but it did something. The parts of the bridge that weren’t atomised began to crumble; only slowly at first, but then with greater and greater chunks falling away. The damage compromised the entire structure, the walkway evaporating under the force of the blast – with the Titan still on it.
It seemed to finally realise it had been played, making a last-ditch sprint for the great gatehouse. Zuko ran with it, the tip of the Inferno Cannon the only point of the universe he cared about for that moment. The walker was not fast enough; like some bloated ballerina, it pitched, finding no purchase for its feet to stand on. An almost sentient shriek leaving its horns, the Titan began to fall.
But it had crossed the distance. Reaching the edge of the gun just in time, Zuko jumped, squeezing every last bit of strength out of his bionic legs as he could. Without them, he would not have made it, and as he sailed through the air the Iron Warrior paid a quiet moment of thanks to the fallen Nu’val. Even so, it was a close thing. His gauntlets just about managed to land atop the ramparts, scrabbling desperately for any kind of handhold. He eventually found one in the form of a chipped lump of stone, hands wrapping around it for all he was worth. The Iron Warrior hung limp for a moment facing the white wall before heaving with all he was worth, managing to get himself to relative safety on his final attempt. Every muscle in his body screaming, and the bones feeling like they were about to turn to dust, Zuko finally allowed himself to collapse to his knees, panting like a dog. He screamed a growling, incoherent shout, if only to work off some of the adrenaline. When he had just about calmed down, he turned back – though did not yet stand – to see what had befallen the Titan.
It didn’t take much deduction to figure it out. Luna had tricked it into blowing the bridge, but she was tired, and hadn’t reckoned on its size. She’d been unable to fly fast enough to evade it, ending up caught by the Warhound’s raw bulk. Denied the ability to free herself, Luna was bound to her fate as much as the beast she’d slain was. The last sight Zuko had of her and the Lupus Nox were of the pair plunging into the abyss below.
He forced the image from his mind, rising to his full on shaking knees. Part of him wanted to simply lie back down and expire on the spot. It was only his Legion’s creed that kept him going; Iron Within, Iron Without. Kill Mordecai. Kill the one responsible for all of this. Then, and only then, would Zuko allow himself permission to die.
Taking only a few moments for rest, Zuko set off towards the castle.
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The staccato, punching bark of his assault cannon slowly cycled down to nothing as the barrels smoked and steamed. Vortun’s constantly fluid face twisted in an ugly sneer as he admired his handiwork, cannon morphing back into a grossly oversized power fist. The few pony bodies that he’d torn apart with his weapon lay in broken heaps before him, the remains almost indistinguishable with the damage wrought upon them.
There was, in truth, not much more to kill. They had been exceedingly thorough thus far, the Iron Warriors making a point to scour every centimetre of the township for Xenos life. He wasn’t sure exactly where his brothers had gone, but the Obliterator had found himself so caught up in the orgy of violence that he no longer cared. Without thinking, his right hand convulsed and reshaped itself into the form of a baroque heavy flamer. Polluted flame shot from the nozzle of the gun and doused the ground in thick streams of burning promethium, soon spreading to lick up the side of the few timber buildings that remained. He swung the gun around with wild abandon, shivering in ecstatic delight at the feel of burning oil course through what had once been his veins. Losing himself to the moment, Vortun threw back his head, cackling manically.
He stomped forward, taking little time to observe the damage his array of weaponry caused as he discharged it without thought or heed. The process of destruction itself was enough to satisfy and sustain him, driving the corpulent warrior on to his next atrocity. He passed by the wreckage of the town hall, the rotund structure knocked almost flat by its collision with one of the Heldrakes. It was only a little further on before he reached another graveyard. Here, however, the situation was sufficiently odd to cause the Obliterator to pause, his brow furrowing.
The bodies of the seven or so Iron Warriors lay strewn out before him, crumpled where they had been slain. It didn’t take more than a passing glance for Vortun to reach his conclusion; these Marines had not been killed by magic or spears, but instead with weaponry that only they themselves would use. He knew the distinct mark of plasma weapon wounds by now well enough. Coming closer, another stark factor made itself apparent. Though their bolters remained, most of his brothers’ side-arms and grenades were missing. Even considering his daemonically-powered form, the scene still sent a wave of unease rippling through the Obliterator. From the corner of his eye, Vortun was just about able to make out the mashed remains of his kin. When the first Obliterator had been slain, the sense of loss was palpable. The fact that he could probably guess exactly what had laid this one low only further increased his paranoia.
Amazingly, he managed to set it aside, reasoning that the vengeful spectre of his dead brother – for what else could have been the cause? – was not here right now. It was not long before Vortun returned to his rampage, murderous intent now laced with slight amusement at Rorke’s failure. He found himself drawn to the remnants of the bakery before too long, though most of the top had already been torn away. He shouldered his way through the rubble with little effort or thought, colossal boots shattering the wooden beams that had fallen to the floor beneath him. Taking only a moment to inspect the place, Vortun let rip with the multi-melta now sprouting from his arm. Streams of super-heated microwave energy burst from his arms, punching holes clean through the thin walls.
Let it burn. Let it all burn. Months of waiting and preparation and playing nice had led to this, and Vortun’s demented fury had nowhere else to go. The violence was far-reaching and total. Let the pony-things try to run; the IV Legion was unleashed, and there was nowhere in this galaxy that they could now hide.
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He tried to get a grip on her horn, seeking any purchase he could to rip and tear at Twilight’s flesh. She was determined, even in her state, not to give him one. Twilight pulled herself back, sending a beam of coruscating energy into Rorke’s chest. The magic struck him hard, flames licking across the front of his blood-drenched chest plate, but the crazed Space Marine barely seemed to notice it as he tried to rip her limb from limb.
In truth, the unicorn had very little control of her actions remaining. Like a marionette on a string, her body was pulled back and forth, and in the back of her mind – what rational parts of it remained – the girl could feel the pull of some insane puppeteer on her limbs as she performed spins and strikes that were no longer her own.
She lashed out with the staff, striking a convincing blow across Rorke’s face that sent his head snapping to the side. It was okay, she thought to herself as she levitated above the ground. She could handle it. She was having to use a lot of power, true, but nothing Twilight couldn’t control. She…she could stop any time she wanted. This was for her friends. She could kill this guy, and go and help her friends…and…and everything would be back the way it was.
Rorke came at her again, the Iron Warrior howling like a rabid animal as something that was half a punch, and half a frenzied attempt to claw Twilight’s face sailed through the air. He moved with lightning speed, already-formidable muscles forced even further over their natural limits by whatever was empowering him. Even so, Twilight found she could move out the way with ease, sending another blast of magic into his face. Through the storm of voices, most of them unpleasant, that ran rampant through her head, it was almost as if something was whispering secrets directly into her head; allowing her to see where the blows would fall moments before they did so and react accordingly. The prognostication, however limited, was intoxicating to Twilight. She darted around him, letting the magic almost overtake her as she struck out with waves of pure sorcery.
It took her a while to realise it herself, but even with her eyes glowing an incandescent white, Twilight realised that she was crying. The tears trickled down her cheeks, glistening as they sparkled in the light generated by her spells. They did not drive her to sob, or break down, but still Twilight found she was painfully aware of every one. Why was she crying? She was winning! That’s what her friends would want…she was gonna save them…she had the power to do it, she could save every pony…
The world’s eyes were on her. Again, Twilight didn’t know how she knew that, but the roiling skies above her flashed with eager lightning as something peered down at the two duelling creatures. Despite her single-minded focus, she was unable to ignore the feeling of what she could only describe as talons tracing gently down her spine, sending a shiver through the unicorn’s body. Every nerve ending felt like it was ablaze, sending fire coursing through Twilight’s system. It wasn’t like an ordinary fire that merely scorched and burnt. This felt dirty, a filthy rock settling in her gut and slowly pushing its way to all her extremities. It tightened around her heart and brain, almost causing her vision to disappear before her as it began to constrict her brain. Twilight bit her lower lip so hard it drew blood, stumbling back as Rorke used her momentary weakness to press the attack and bear down on top of her. A couple of magical blasts were enough to free herself, but the pressure closing in on her brain remained. What sounded scarily like the cackle and cawing of ravens circling around her, each and every sound only making the feeling welling up inside her even more intense. Magic was leaking freely from her horn now, and Twilight found that she had no hope of even trying to control it, her breaths short, sharp and ragged.
They broke apart, sliding backwards to face one another; Twilight still hovering, Rorke hunched over on all fours in a bestial stoop. She gasped, the hoof carrying the heavy staff trembling in exhaustion. The noises and the flame inside her were deafening now, but Twilight gritted her teeth and fought to marshal it. Raising her head slowly, she was able to muster enough self-control to look Rorke straight in the eye.
Twilight had expected many things; directionless hatred, animalistic atavistic fury, the soulless glare of a broken madman. What she hadn’t expected was what she got. What remained of the Iron Warrior crouched utterly still, for once devoid of any twitches and convulsions. It was the eyes, however, that were the worst thing. Of the berserk, unpredictable creature she knew Rorke to be, nothing remained there. Instead, something else – an ancient, hungry intelligence – stared back out. It was at that moment, seconds before she herself was overwhelmed, that the glow from Twilight’s eyes dissipated and she realised she had never once been in control of the power she’d borrowed.
Hope, girl. That’s the most potent drug of all.
She screamed as the light slammed down from the heavens and enveloped her, finally crying in earnest; partly in agony, and part as she realised how far she’d sank. The full knowledge of what had befallen her friends sank its mocking claws into her mind, but the lilac unicorn barely had the capacity to process this information as the fires of change raged around her. Her shoulders burned, something pulsating and growing beneath the skin; without warning two colossal, feathered pinions tore their way out of her back in a shower of blood and torn flesh. She screamed again, almost blacking out from the pain brought on by the invasive growth, but worse was yet to come. Her body roiled and churned as she dropped the staff, doubling over and clutching at her stomach. Across from her, Rorke was similarly affected. He had dropped to his knees, shaking more violently than ever before; almost as if bolt after bolt of lightning was being shot into his nervous system. He held his arms out to either side, palms up and head back, as if he was beseeching the skies for something. Even more horrifically, he was answered. His armour was already covered in blood, but now it poured in rivers from his mouth, his ears, his nostrils, even his eyes. Two protruding bone horns sprouted out from his temples, and between them, a burning, skull-like mark began to emblazon itself. Twilight had only moments to take this in, the pain of the loss of her friends and what was happening to her almost too much to bear.
“I…I-I’m sorry…” the whispered words were not directed to anypony in particular. Somehow, it made them hurt all the more.
The transformation hit them simultaneously, bodies managing to both crumple and expand as the stuff of raw Chaos poured into them. Claws, talons, red scales, and beaks to name but a few features warped and formed as the mortal frames of pony and Space Marine were consumed. The masses of flesh continued to grow and expand, changing from coherent outline to eldritch blob and back again in seconds. The price on their souls turned out to be just as high.
Before they were dragged into the dark places of the warp to feed the hunger of thirsting Gods, the last thing the spirits of Twilight and Rorke saw were the Daemons of Khorne and Tzeentch leap out of what had once been their bodies and begin to clash.
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The city was a maze, a fact not helped by the devastation wrought upon it. Everywhere Zuko turned he was met with collapsing, burning buildings and screaming Ponyfolk. The sheer level of their panic had at first been both confusing and irritating, until he had taken a moment to really observe the surroundings. Though, as far as he could tell, the planet still remained more or less within its own reality for now, the scale of violence unleashed by the Chaos Marines had not gone unnoticed. Like moths to a bright flame, or perhaps more appropriately sharks upon catching the scent of blood, the Daemons had started to tear their way into real space. They materialised in small, roving packs, as opposed to a mass incursion, but even those numbers were more than sufficient. He slew any that tried to impede his path, though with the Neverborn such a feat was easier said than done. For their part, however, the Daemons seemed to more-or-less ignore the Iron Warrior; a short distance to his left, a giggling mob of Daemonettes whooped and flipped their way into a frightened mass of ponies. Sharp, crab-like talons slashed out, snipping to sever limbs and heads whilst the Daemons tossed them to one another like they were toy balls.
He didn’t have the time, the strength, or – truth be told – the inclination to stop and try to offer some assistance. His brothers and the absolution he hoped they would provide waited within the castle, he guessed, and so that’s where Zuko headed. Eventually, with more than a degree of trial and error, Zuko managed to find his way to an entrance that he could readily access, the door already pulled near off its hinges by what he assumed was the witch’s psychic power. The Daemonic intruders kept snapping at his heels, scavengers staying just out of sight, if not out of mind, as they pursued a predator in search of a bigger meal. The interior was little better than the city itself, though no-where near as confusing as the Crystal castle had been, and he passed through quite a few hallways, grand chambers, pantries and other stately rooms at breakneck speed before the sergeant felt like he knew where he was going. The Daemons had dispersed swiftly after following him in, rabid instincts focusing more on their own hunting than tormenting the Astartes anymore. That was, Zuko guessed, what accounted for the lack of Guards. Brave and loyal though they may have been, a fight against any of the Neverborn could only go one way for them.
Tapestries were aflame and burning, as were many of the carpets; the aftermath of the plasma blast that had been used to penetrate the cities’ shield. It made the already tricky process of navigation even more of a challenge, the Iron Warrior racing against time to find his way. He didn’t know how far ahead his brothers had got, or even if they were still here, but one way or another the general sense of the world ending around him was enough to spur the Space Marine on. His foot smashed through doors, bearded face twisting in a frustrated snarl at dead end after dead end. Glass and stone was shattering and tumbling as tainted winds buffeted the towering castle, drying to drag it down. If nothing else, he had to keep climbing.
Eventually, he began making noticeable progress. Gritting his teeth and with his Legion’s creed hammering through his mind, Zuko kept running as he emerged from a side-door, aiming for the grand staircase to his left. The room rumbled, what remained of the gilded chandelier above his head shaking and jangling with each reverberation. The Space Marine took the steps two at a time, bounding up as if he had springs in his heels. His impressive pace lasted until he got to the top of the stairs.
Ice-blue magic struck his pauldron, spinning the Iron Warrior round and driving him to his knees. With a pained cough, Zuko managed to stand and face his aggressor. The ponies’ white fur was matted with blood, his shield-emblazoned chest plate chipped and cracked. Not all the blood was his own, Zuko realised; impressively, the pony had actually managed to take down at least one of the Daemonic creatures. Any latent admiration that may have generated was swiftly snuffed out by the look of exhausted fury in the creature’s eyes.
“Oh, blood of the Primarch.” The Iron Warrior snapped, rolling his eyes. “I do NOT have time for this right now!” Shining Armour glared back, snarling wordlessly as he launched another volley of magical blasts. Zuko managed to avoid or, at worst, shrug them off, drawing a bolt pistol - his last one that still had ammo – and returning fire in due course. Shining managed to leap aside from the bullets with surprising athleticism, or deflecting those that didn’t explode on empty stone wall with what remained of his magical shield.
“This is your fault!” He shouted, landing on his feet and panting. Zuko’s gun chose that moment to run dry, eliciting another growl from the Iron Warrior. “Are you happy now?” Shining went on. “Do you all feel like tough guys?”
“Listen, part of me wishes I’d just let you kill me when we duelled the first time we got here,” Zuko began, seeing no harm in lying. “And…no.” He looked down, shaking his head. “No…I don’t…that’s the point of all this. I have to…I’m not even sure what this is all about any more, but I have to get up there!” His head rose, pointing upwards. The honesty of his statement seemed to catch Shining off guard. The Guard Captain raised a bemused eyebrow, mouth hanging loose. Eventually, recognition did seem to kick in, his eyes narrowing.
“It…it is you…” He nodded, baring his teeth. “When you all broke out and got us into this mess…t-then let’s finish this. You, me, one on o-“
“Not a Champion of Chaos anymore.” Zuko said, holding up a hand to stop him. “At least that’s one advantage to this whole thing.” Again, Shining was stumped, but his expression once again became hostile.
“And my sister?” he snapped, clearly close to breaking point. “What about Twily? What have you done to her?” Normally, the Iron Warrior would have felt nothing at such an accusation, but the concern for a sibling couldn’t help but stir the little fragments of humanity that still remained at the back of Zuko’s mind.
“She was already gone…though if nothing else, I expect she’s going to take one of the biggest monsters I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing down with her.” He explained. For a moment, the grief seemed to overwhelm Shining, tears leaking out as his face cracked. The expression was soon quashed, anger taking his place.
“Why are you here, anyway?” Zuko asked, confusion of his own setting in. “You’re her praetorian, shouldn’t you be with your Princess?” Again, he question seemed to surprise Shining. Where grief had existed moments before, now there was a flash of unease.
“She…told me to man the defences…” He confessed. “While she stayed in the main chamber.”
“Playing the hero.” Zuko muttered. He looked at Shining, trying his best to project some form of solidarity. “Listen…you have no reason to trust me, but this fight won’t serve either of us. Our deaths don’t matter; all that matters is I go, and I kill the bastard responsible for all of this. That is what I care about, and that is what I am going to do…but haven’t we already proven our points to one another by now?”
Shining’s response was cut short by the sound of claws raking and scratching at the door across the room, at the bottom of the stairs. They both turned to face it, instinctively dropping into a battle stance.
“Go.” The pony said, not looking away. His words were unforeseen enough to cause Zuko to look down at him. “I said go!” Shining snapped, putting on his most authoritative voice. “If you’re really gonna go and make this right, then you’d best hurry…they must be nearly there by now.” He sighed, tensing as the scratching became more frenzied. “And…avenge my sister…she didn’t deserve any of this. None of us did.” His voice grew stony, but Zuko took him at his word, nodding and turning to leave. “Oh, and one more thing.” The Guard Captain said, stopping the Iron Warrior in his tracks. He paused a moment. “I hope you all rot in Tartarus.”
Zuko too took his time to reply. “If we’re lucky.”
He left quickly, the sound of his boots on the stone floor eventually drifting away to be out of earshot. Shining almost felt a pang of regret as he left; Zuko had sounded sincere enough, but this entire day was testament to how easily they had been fooled. But…but if he was…then maybe Twilight, Cadence, and all the rest that had died pointlessly could find some peace.
As the door finally burst open and the marauding pack of Flesh Hounds charged towards him, Captain Shining Armour prepared to sell his life dearly.
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She had not been looking at anything in particular when they arrived. Even if there was something out there that Celestia was searching for, it would have been gone by now. As far as she could see was ruination. Smoke rose from what must have been the wreckage of Ponyville by now, a sad ominous blot on the horizon. In truth, it was hard to make out where the burning of the surrounding land ended and that from Canterlot began. The sound of shattering buildings, not to mention the screams of her subjects rose into the air. Every one of them tugged on her heartstrings and brought her to the edge of melancholy. At least when the Changeling’s had attacked, she could use her genuine surprise as a reason for not intervening. Now, the Princess had no such excuse, bar the simple knowledge that she couldn’t help.
She’d felt Twilight be overtaken by whatever foul things the Space Marines had called forth. She didn’t know what was worse; the fact that her faithful student was gone and there was nothing she could have done, or the terrible suspicion that Twilight had brought this fate upon herself. She’d felt the loss of Luna, too. That one was even harder to take, after being reunited after so long comparatively recently, and it was taking all of Celestia’s self-control not to hurl herself from the windows. The fact that her sister had managed to fell the monstrous war machine that had annihilated Shining Armour’s shield only made her feel even prouder, and the sense of loss that much more acute.
Celestia’s reverie was broken by the sound of the throne room’s great doors being slammed open. She turned her neck, though didn’t actually move, to look towards the intrusion. The two figures stood stock-still in the doorway, one leaning on his axe, the other with a hand on the pommel of his sword and looking around imperiously. She kept her face impassive, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of her fury, and did not speak. That seemed to suite the Iron Warriors just fine; after a few moments of silent holding one another’s glares, they began to walk towards her. The rhythmic tap of the axe-shaft on the ground reminded her of the Grand Galloping Gala, the last time she’d seen the Warsmith; despite the awkwardness, at least that had been a happy night.
“I should have executed you as I intended when you arrived.” She said, keeping her voice monotone and firm. “Perhaps then we would have avoided all this last-minute stuff.”
“We are last minute stuff.” Mordecai said politely, keeping a few steps behind his captain as they advanced. Lorkhan said nothing, red eyes locked with Celestia’s purple orbs. In short order, he had reached her, staring down at the Princess. She tried her best to remain defiant, knees refusing to quiver. Surprisingly, he did not kill her. Instead, the Warsmith turned, looking out the window she had a few moments ago. She joined him, pony and Space Marine standing together in silence as they watched the world tear itself apart.
“Well?” He asked. Something in his tone, beneath the growling and the bluntness, that Celestia could not pinpoint spoke out to her, enough to convince her to turn to him with brow furrowed. “You’re their God.” Lorkhan said, voice unchanged as he continued to stare out the window. “Aren’t you going to…drop the sun on us or something? Run us through with solar rays?”
In spite of everything, Celestia actually laughed, though it was without mirth. “And what would be the point?” She countered. “I’ll give you this much, it was a brutally efficient plan…and my hesitation only helped you.” She sighed. “You’ve already won…congratulations, Lorkhan.” Again, he was silent.
“You know…you remind me of a man called Rogal Dorn…an Imperial Fist.” He admitted, looking down at her at last. “And I hate Imperial Fists.” The truth of his words were self-evident, but still there was a hint of something Celestia could not place in his words. At his shoulder, Mordecai waited, doing his best to pretend to look around innocently
“Stop it.” It was him that spoke again. She was still looking at him, as he folded his arms, looking away as she raised an eyebrow. “I said stop.” He repeated. “Stop judging me. We all knew this would happen, and it was only ever a matter of time.” If she didn’t know better, she would have said there was almost a hint of desperation in his words, a desire to prove it as much to himself as to her. Lorkhan had always been a figure of mystery and yes, fear, to the Princess. Yet, not even when he spoke of his father had he seemed quite so maudlin.
“You want me not to judge you?” She said, shaking her head. “Please, you’re slow, but you’re not stupid Lorkhan – and neither am I.” She grimaced, something in his almost child-like indignation threatening to awake her maternal instincts. “We both know exactly what we think of the other.” It wasn’t the answer he’d wanted to hear, although she couldn’t think of what that could possibly be.
“By what right does Gold judge Silver?” His voice was a growl again, hand tightening on the hilt of his axe. “I did what I did for my Legion, and my brothers. Everything you would have done if you were in my place.”
“No.” She said, quietly. “Not everything.” The two leaders lapsed once more into an awkward silence, the usual dry and piercing remarks of the Space Marines absent. Even the sorcerer stood behind them remained quiet. Eventually, Lorkhan spoke. As he did so, Celestia finally realised what the emotion in his voice was. It was weariness.
“Then we are at an impasse.” He pronounced. They were the words she’d been waiting for him to say the moment he’d entered. She sighed, running her tongue through her cheek and forcing her beating heart to still.
“No, Lorkhan.” The Princess argued. “We are at an end.” Her words lay heavy in the room’s air, even Mordecai tensing slightly. She finally turned to face him proper, eyes still focused and resolute. He grunted, any further words rendered obsolete. The Warsmith rotated to stand square before her, both hands on the axe as he raised it up. It hovered there, for a moment; she thought he would say something, but the Iron Warrior remained quiet, all emotion locked behind his helmet. She felt that, at the last, perhaps she should say something, but the words would not come. She could not even guarantee that the Warsmith was listening.
“Wherever he is, Lorkhan,” Celestia said at last, closing her eyes. “I hope your Father is proud.”
He hesitated a moment longer, before the axe fell.
The decapitated body remained standing for a moment longer before slumping at his feet, red coppery lifeblood flowing freely from the neck. It flowed across the floor like a trickling stream, pooling at the lord of the Iron Warrior’s feet. He remained still, axe held level. The drip, drip, drip of the blood on its blade dropping onto the floor was like a hammer to the silence.
“An excellent stroke, my Lord.” Mordecai said, sounding nothing but genuine. Lorkhan didn’t look at him – he didn’t seem to be looking at anything.
“Shut up.” He snapped, casting his brother a sidelong glance with burning red eyes. The anger seemed to leave him in a sigh, shoulders falling slightly. When he next spoke, the words that followed were devoid of much of the wrath. “That…did not feel as good as I expected it to.”
Their attention was swiftly drawn back to the body as light began to envelop it. The glow was soft, disguising the chalk-white fur and bloody mess as it spread across the corpse. They both stepped back, watching intently. Neither could place exactly what it was, but given what they had observed and hypothesised of Celestia’s powers, it was hardly surprising.
“Can you work with it?” Lorkhan asked. Mordecai nodded, his body language betraying the concealed smile.
“I can certainly give it a jolly good go, my lord.” He agreed, rubbing his hands together as he stepped forward. Lorkhan left him to it, knowing better than to try and interrupt when Mordecai was muttering his incantations and playing with fire. In any case, he didn’t feel much like talking. He was walking to the window as the sorcerer worked his magic, reforming the light into the shape of some kind of doorway. Lorkhan didn’t like to admit it, but right now he was operating on guesswork and Mordecai’s assurances alone – it was he that had claimed that utilising the full extent of magical power Celestia had inside her, in conjunction with the rapidly-spreading Warp breach, might be enough to open a portal and get them ‘home’...or at least, out of Equestria. It sounded almost too good to be true, but sure enough, the whiteness began to coalesce into a portal-like shape. It didn’t stop at the height of a man, or even a Space Marine; Mordecai kept going, expanding it with whispered invocations to his Gods. Soon enough, it was getting big enough for several Astartes to walk through abreast. What was he trying to get through there? An army?
The sun had gone dark, even behind the tortured sky. It didn’t help Lorkhan’s mood as he stared out the window, though rationally he convinced himself he was glad. Celestia was right. They had won. He had won…never mind that it felt so hollow. It was for those reasons, and more besides, that he almost missed the noise of power armoured boots striking the stones.
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“You made it, then.”
Zuko had to fight to stop himself skidding as he came to a halt in the doorway. The abrupt end to the clattering of his feet on stone that had rang in his ears since he’d entered the castle was deafening, though the fatigued buzzing in his head brought on by exhaustion did help take some of the edge off it. For all the Iron Warrior knew, his lungs were no more than shrivelled husks within the cavity of his chest, and even with all his gene-wrought strength Zuko’s vision swam before him. He could barely make out Lorkhan as the Warsmith issued his statement, and so elected to say nothing, wheezing heavily, and hardening his expression in an attempt just to stay on his feet.
“You’ve lost the helmet.” Lorkhan nodded, folding his arms across his chest. The statement was painful in its obviousness, but even in his addled state Zuko could detect a hint of distraction in the other Iron Warrior’s voice. “Not surprised, it was probably getting stuffy in there.” It wasn’t framed as a joke, but even if it had been the humour was swiftly lost as the Warsmith finally noticed the wound punched through his brother’s chest. “Bloody hell…what happened to you?”
“Yes, I would quite like to know the answer to that as well.” The voice caused Zuko’s ears to prick up, gritted teeth contorting into a snarl as the Psyker stepped forth. Mordecai’s voice, usually so measured and friendly, had taken on a distinctly sharp edge. Ignoring the look Lorkhan cast him, he stepped forward, helmeted head cocked to the side. “For saying the request I relayed to our favourite little attack dog was remarkably straight-forward, one does have to wonder how you maintain such resilience?”
The sergeant did not respond immediately, the smouldering fury in his eyes that was directed straight for the Psyker being words enough. When he did speak, it was in his standard, deadpan tone.
“Friendship is magic.”
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on any of them, though Mordecai was the only one who let his head roll back and laughed. “Well said.” He chuckled, nodding. “Still, that does leave you and I in a rather…awkward…position.”
“Oh, what did I say!” Lorkhan snapped, throwing a hand up in frustration before pointing at the sorcerer. “I knew it! I knew you were up to som-“
“Yes yes, an Iron Warrior was up to something.” Zuko knew Mordecai must have been rolling his eyes as he held up a hand to quiet Lorkhan. “I was the true villain, the scheming vizier was the man behind the man, etcetera etcetera. What an unexpected plot twist. How very truly droll.” He looked at Zuko again, head tilting the other way as if he were examining some choice cut of meat. “Don’t get me wrong, your tenacity is a credit to us all, but you really have picked an appalling time to rediscover your moral compass.”
He had known Mordecai since first being assigned to the Thirteenth Company, and the temptation to throw himself at the sorcerer and rip his head off had never been stronger for Zuko. He managed to resist it, though that in itself was a challenge. He exhaled, shackling his temper, glaring at the wizard.
“It’s amazing what you can pick up on the vox, Mordecai.” Was what he did say, choosing not to rise to the bait. “What did she look like? Rarity, the one creature here who actually liked you.” His eyes narrowed even further. “Before you ritually murdered her for no discernable reason.”
“Probably the same as her sister when you brought her world crashing down around her.” He retorted. Zuko flinched as if struck. “Apologies.” Mordecai said, the sincerity in his voice making the sergeant’s skin crawl. “That was childish of me, brother. I had no intention of burdening you with that particular betrayal.”
“Forgive me for breaking up this little meeting.” Lorkhan hissed, stepping forward. “But the point remains, you’ve still crossed a line, witch.” Despite his dislike for Mordecai, it was rare for Lorkhan to call him ‘witch’, and it suggested only one thing. Zuko’s brow furrowed in confusion as he shifted his gaze to the Warsmith.
“You…didn’t know…” He said, slowly. The Warsmith looked at him, the grin of the skull half of his helmet utterly at odds with the tension in the room.
“Of course I didn’t bloody know.” His voice was low and threatening. Mordecai was unfazed, stepping back as he reached into the pouches at his belt.
“You wound me, my brothers. I have done nothing to deserve this antagonism, bar acting in the manner befitting our status as rightful inheritors of the Galaxy. Really, you should be thanking me. By my efforts, the Gods themselves know of our deeds here.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.” Zuko growled, still rooted to the spot. Mordecai chuckled again, although his irritation remained just under the surface, as he produced a small flat device from his belt.
“It was not so very long ago you both were content to serve in much the same capacity, willingly or not.” He pointed out. “I must say, the lack of stomach you both seem to have developed is rather jarring. You need only look at what we have accomplished here!” He clicked his thumb on the side of the machine, light spluttering up from it. Zuko wasn’t sure where the holographic projector was drawing its feed from – servo skulls the Psyker had released, perhaps - but sure enough the blue image crackled into 3-D life. The dilapidated, broken ruins of Ponyville appeared, drawing all their eyes with unerring focus. He clicked again, the image this time shifting to the remnants of Sweet Apple Acres. Although he couldn’t see it, Zuko knew the Crusader’s clubhouse lay in the trees not far off. The angry knife twisted further in his gut as he realised that it too was probably little more than burnt timber. The Psyker clicked again, this time the picture actually shifting to something living. If Lorkhan had before been hunched and brooding, now he stood straight as an arrow.
“She wasn’t part of the deal.” In all the years Zuko had known him. He’d never heard more emotion in the Warsmith’s voice, which came dangerously close to cracking. Mordecai nodded, still keeping the image of Fluttershy trying desperately to hide with what looked like a mangled leg on the projector.
“No.” He agreed. “She was not, and I truly am sorry. The poor little wretch has done nothing to deserve this, bar inhabit the home we built for her. Yet, needs must.” There was an unmistakeable sense that he was enjoying this a little. “Although I must say, Lorkhan, many of our brothers in the fourth legion would disapprove to see the regard you hold for this…Xenos.” Lorkhan was silent, still staring at the trembling pony projected before them. Zuko watched him, but had no idea what thoughts were going through his head.
“You must have known…” He said at last, clearly struggling to keep his emotions in check. “That I would not permit you to do this.” The grip on his axe tightened, yet still Mordecai showed no sign of distress.
“Alas, we appear to have reached rather the same conclusion, my lord.” His voice was heavy in regret. “Though in sight of all we have accomplished together, this all feels so decidedly…uncouth.”
He moved like lightning, free hand drawing the sword at his side and whipping it round, before stabbing forth like a rapier. The Warsmith was an experienced warrior and clad in thick plate, but none of that stopped the glowing, runic blade punching straight through his chest. The sound of Lorkhan gagging as blood welled up in his throat rang in Zuko’s ears as he stepped forward, raising an arm out as if that could stop anything. Withdrawing the blade, Mordecai inclined his head slightly, a blast of telekinetic energy pushing the limp Warsmith across the floor and slamming into the wall. He crumpled, Mechatendrils slack and lifeless. Mordecai regarded the body almost piteously for a moment, before chucking over the projection of Fluttershy to skid and rest by his side.
“An unfortunately necessary sacrifice.” He sighed, returning his attention to Zuko. “You mustn’t feel guilty, brother. I confess, such an eventuality did seem to be likely whether you arrived or not. Our lord, despite all his virtues, would never have understood the purpose of this.” He gestured behind him to the glowing white portal. “If I am disgruntled at anything, it is the fact that your presence has distracted me. This still requires the finishing touches.”
Zuko looked at it, though the image of Lorkhan’s murder was still burnt into his mind. He’d always imagined Lorkhan would fall in stupid single combat with something they couldn’t run away from fast enough. To see him struck down like that felt…dirty in its wrongness. “I’m guessing…” he said, face level. “That that isn’t designed to get us back to Medrengard safe and sound.”
“Very astute.” Mordecai complimented. “Though as of now, I suspect it fulfils that function, or near enough. When it is done, however, a fully stable Warp portal shall be opened within the walls of this very castle. The Legions of the Powers shall enter this world proper, and the Iron Warriors shall add more lands to our domain. We shall spread at the head of our Daemonic hosts, subjugating the other worlds sure to be found in this galaxy. Once again, the IV Legion shall be strong, taking its proper station at the feet of the Pantheon.”
All of that sounded decidedly unappealing. “You are insane.” Zuko said, conviction carried effortlessly in his words. There was no chuckle this time, but Mordecai was clearly amused.
“Look around you, brother. Look at the armour we wear.” He spread his arms wide, as if trying to take all of Equestria in their grasp. “We’re all mad here.”
There was little more to be said, and more to the point, Zuko didn’t doubt that Mordecai was fully capable of carrying out his plan. They were brothers of blood, but any common cause was irrevocably sundered. It was time to do what he’d come here for.
“You.” Zuko’s words were stone cold. “Me. Let’s finish this. No weapons. No magic. No bullshit.” Mordecai watched him for a moment, as if trying to discern whether the other Olympian was serious, before removing his helmet and sword, setting them on the ground with a brisk “Very well.” Zuko followed suite, unclipping his bandoliers of guns and knives and dropping them from his shoulders. They faced one another, Mordecai’s fists raised like a formal boxer, Zuko more akin to a brawler. Neither wanted to make the first move.
It was Zuko who cracked. He pushed off on his back foot, hoping to use the momentum to deliver a punishing right hook to the now-exposed face of his enemy. With little more than a contemptuous raise of the eyebrow, Mordecai blocked the blow with ease. He followed the motion into a spin – surprisingly elegant, despite his power armour – that culminated in a stinging backhand across Zuko’s face. The struck Marine stumbled, trying to regain his footing. Mordecai didn’t give him the chance, following him back and launching repeated jabs into the face. Eventually, Zuko managed to duck below one, countering with a solid uppercut beneath the chin that sent Mordecai’s head snapping back. The sergeant rose with the punch, intending to bring his other fist slamming onto the Psyker’s windpipe. He caught the blow at the last moment, giving Zuko’s arm a vicious twist. It forced the trapped Iron Warrior to his knees, then to his back as Mordecai’s foot struck up into his chest and booted him across the floor. He just managed to pull his head out the way to avoid a curb-stomp, scrambling back to his feet and launching off another barrage of punches. Their blows and parries slammed into each other’s armour, sending shockwaves of energy and the sound of ceramite on ceramite around the room. Zuko managed to launch a successful feint, ducking under a right punch and managing to come up behind the sorcerer. He moved fast, hooking his arms around Mordecai’s neck in an attempt to choke him. It was only briefly successful; as far as Zuko could tell, Mordecai was keeping to the rules and not using his powers, but he had the advantage of being in far better physical condition right now than Zuko. He reached back, flipping the sergeant over his shoulders and bringing him slamming onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. It knocked the wind clear from Zuko, bones jarring at the impact. Mordecai kept staring down at him with his hawk-like face, placing an armoured boot on his brother’s chest. The wound had long since stopped bleeding, but it was still painful to the touch.
“You drive me to agitation, brother.” Mordecai sighed, shaking his head, as if all this was somehow Zuko’s fault. He made a beckoning gesture with a finger, mentally dragging his helmet and weapon to his side. Reaching down, though still pinning Zuko in place, he replaced the vestments. “You’re all so…old fashioned. Behind the times, unwilling to move into this modern age. We all have fond memories of the Crusade; I respect that, I truly do. Yet it is an age long since passed, these ideals that you and the Warsmith clung too. The Legion needs Chaos if it is to survive, to thrive. It needs to accept the way of the universe, and our new place in its order.”
Even now, with Death reaching its cold fingers around Zuko’s one remaining heart, he found he could not pass up the opportunity to spite the posh bastard that kept him on the ground one final time. “The Legion…needs a soul…” Zuko breathed, wincing at the effort. “It needs…a purpose…to remember why we fought and died…to make things better. Because…if we let ourselves be slaves, Mordecai, whether it’s to the Emperor or your Gods…then we have to face the harshest truth of all.” He closed his eyes, and despite his situation, Zuko found he was finally at peace with the idea. “That everything the Iron Warriors have done…has been for nothing.”
The sentiment clearly wasn’t one Mordecai shared. “Though, in lighter times, I would have relished the chance to debate the issue with you, I am afraid that given the circumstances I must disavow you it far quicker brother. Perhaps it escaped your attention, but it was the Ruinous Powers that won us this victory. This is not the work of the mere subsistence pirates we had been reduced to. I respected the Warsmith as much as you, but under Lorkhan’s command, we were not a threat. And yet now, in our triumph, you-“
He stopped, frowning slightly in puzzlement. As Mordecai turned his head to the side, his expression froze. Zuko squinted as he followed his gaze, looking straight up at the dark shape that towered next to him. Blood poured down the front of Lorkhan’s armour, and his bionic arm hung loose at his side, but despite all that the burning wrath in the red eyes could not be mistaken.
”I am a threat.”
With more strength and haste than Zuko would have thought possible, Lorkhan sprinted, roaring as he grabbed Mordecai in a bear-like embrace and pulled him along. Mordecai’s movements were borderline panicked as he punched at the Warsmith, trying desperately to prise him off, but Lorkhan’s grip was vice-like and his momentum unstoppable. Pushing well through the pain barrier, Zuko forced himself to his feet, sprinting after them in one last gasp. As they just about disappeared through one of the smashed windows, Mordecai screaming as Lorkhan hurled them both over the edge, Zuko leapt with them. He slid forward on his front, arm outstretched and hand ready to grasp. Amazingly, it tightened around something.
The grip of Zuko and Lorkhan on each other’s arms was tenuous at best, the sheer weight of the Warsmith threatening to pull Zuko over the edge despite his prone posture. The fact that it was the arm that had so recently been dislocated didn’t help matters. The Warsmith hung there, dangling helplessly as he looked down.
“Don’t be a bloody idiot.” He said at last, the agony in his voice forced down under layers of iron-hard grit. “Neither of us can hold this, and we both know it.”
“This isn’t a debate, Lorkhan.” Zuko said, trying desperately to pull him up. The Warsmith hardly rose.
“Look at us, by all rights even we should be dead, and we’re bloody Astartes. Let’s assume you do somehow get me up, tearing both our insides to pieces in the process. Then what?” He looked down to the sheer slope of the castle below them. “All that’ll mean is it’ll take him a little longer to climb back up and finish us.”
Zuko followed his gaze. It was true; Mordecai had managed to smash his fingers, probably helped by his wizardry, into the stone walls – tearing out little hand holds. It was difficult to make out through the gloom and the smoke, but he was climbing slowly back up; red eyes like two small foglights focused firmly on them. “That’s just not logical.” The Warsmith concluded. “And you know how we all feel about that.”
“Lorkhan, don’t you dare.” Zuko instructed firmly. It garnered a laugh that quickly devolved into coughing.
“Don’t tell me that, as well as all your other foolishness since we arrived, you’ve actually started to develop a liking for me?”
“No.” Zuko clarified, unable to stop his grip loosening slightly. “But I really don’t want your job…and you are my brother.” They stared at one another a moment, something almost like fraternal warmth threatening to pass between them.
“I can take him.” Lorkhan growled, dispersing the feeling. “I can drop…catch him…drag him down with me. Most of the others would have jumped at the chance.” Without warning, Zuko’s grip gave way. Now the only thing that kept the Warsmith hanging there was his own hand round Zuko’s metallic arm. “Okay, that was a poor choice of metaphor.”
“Why now?” Zuko grunted, teeth bared from the effort of holding him up. “After all this…why are you choosing now to be the noble one? It doesn’t exactly fit the IV’s ethos.” Lorkhan chuckled, sighing deeply.
“Because I really fucking hate Mordecai.” He answered, simply. “And because…because damnit, you were right. We have fallen. We are scum. This, all this, everything we’ve done here…it’s nothing more than a testament to our petty, fragile egos.” A strange intensity took over his words. “I want the filth cleaned from our ranks. I want the name ‘Iron Warrior’ to mean something again. I want to go back to the way things were…when all this had a point, when we were relevant.” He looked up, eye’s locked with Zuko’s. “I’m not the man to do that. I never have been, I only got this job because you dragged me out of the wreckage of that command bridge millennia ago…which I still haven’t forgiven you for by the way. But maybe you are that man, brother. Make our Legion great again.”
He had no words. Lorkhan could not be dissuaded, and something told Zuko it would be wrong to try. His shoulder burned as it was pulled. Beneath them, Mordecai was still scaling the wall.
“Iron Within, Warsmith Lorkhan.” The sergeant was quietly pleased as he realised there was no trace of sarcasm in the words.
“Iron Without, Brother-Sergeant Zuko.” He paused a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “It’s okay…because it turns out…I don’t need a Legion, or an Emperor, or even my Primarch to tell me I’m good…” He pulled up as high as he could, casting his eyes over the lip of the window. Across the room, the hologram projector still lay there; Fluttershy’s face covered by her hooves as she trembled and whimpered. He watched it for a moment, utterly focused. “Because if that little pony liked me…then how bad can I be?”
He let go.
Zuko watched them fall, instinctively reaching his arm out after the dropping shape of the Warsmith. He was on the edge of passing out, but he felt it would be wrong not to watch this to its conclusion. Lorkhan fell, arms out to his side, like a silver leaf dropping from a tree. Mordecai’s cry of indignation could be heard as they collided and he was pulled harshly from the wall, the two falling down end-over-end until eventually they were hidden by the smoke.
Zuko remained watching a moment, replaying the image over and over. Eventually, he stood on shaking knees. Were he one of the Imperial Fists he so despised, it occurred to him, maybe he would have offered something like a respectful nod of the head. As it happens he merely watched. It would not do for an Iron Warrior to show such weakness.
Finally turning away, he limped over to where Lorkhan had been thrown into the wall and left for dead. The holographic projector was there, still focused on Fluttershy. He entertained the notion of taking it, even kneeling down beside the device. In the end, he decided against it. As he stood, however, he did recover the Warsmith’s axe. Its weight was unfamiliar and unwelcome as he rested it on a pauldron, and part of Zuko knew that he would never truly get used to it. But that was okay. It did not matter what he felt. It only mattered what others thought he felt.
The white, glowing portal still remained. He had no reason to doubt Mordecai – that, in its current state, it did function as a doorway – but Zuko remembered other things he’d been told over the years of carnage. They were unstable, unpredictable devices, and his utilising it before it was fully prepared by the sorcerer would most likely cause it to collapse – possibly with him in it. But maybe that would be no bad thing. In any case, the sound of daemonic howling that was slowly rising through the lower floors of the castle didn’t give him much of a choice.
Axe over his shoulder, knees threatening to buckle, Sergeant Zuko of the Iron Warriors left the war-wracked remnants of Equestria behind him, and stepped into the light.