//------------------------------// // Epilogue-The universe of rust // Story: My Iron Warriors: Ordinance is Magic // by Perturabo //------------------------------// They had left him behind. Strangely, the notion wasn’t as bothersome to Vortun as he’d always imagined. The Obliterator stood surrounded by the wreckage of Ponyville, atop a small pile of charred timber. The fires had long since burnt out to little more than smoke on the gentle winds. Every house had been torn down and smashed, leaving the Obliterator the only living thing remaining – a true king of the shit pile. His beady, cold eyes focused intently on the city in the distance. Canterlot looked just as bad, even to his naked gaze. Vortun could make out the smoke there as well, not to mention the damage wrought to the walls and roof of the main fortress. He still didn’t understand exactly how Varvillon had recovered that Titan, but it had paid for itself. Yet even the God-Machine was silent now. Vortun could not imagine how; surely the Xenos could not have felled the Nox? That was preposterous. And yet, there was no sign of it. He cycled through the vox built into what remained of his armour, eyes unblinking. If anything had come over during his frenzied rampage, he hadn’t heard it, and now all that answered him for every one of his brothers was static or quiet. He went through the list once, twice, three times. Nothing. Even Mordecai was quiet, usually a blessing, and yet now Vortun found he would rather have had some form of response even if it royally pissed him off. He was as much a creature of the warp as he was a man now, and Vortun knew he had felt something. It was impossible to tell what exactly, but the Obliterator reckoned he could make a fair guess. Part of him wanted to be angry with his brothers for their abandonment, but he found he was not. With the possible exception of their Warsmith, a strict policy of ‘anyone who falls behind is left behind’ had existed in the ranks of the Thirteenth Company when it came to particularly important extractions. If the order had come through, and he’d missed it, then that was his own damn fault. Vortun sighed, clicking off the vox and finally averting his straight stare. He looked down at the mass he stood upon with disinterest. The more he looked, the more apparent it became that wood was far from the only thing in this heap. The damage from his weapon left them almost indistinguishable, but the mangled bodies of ponies too contributed their mass. It was a fine tally, by anyone’s standard. If he really focused, a few details could be made out; purple glasses, a red bowtie, the tattered remains of an apron. It was neither truly day, nor truly night. Even if the sky had not been an arterial red, or filled with the half-glimpsed shapes of daemonic creatures, Vortun could not make out any trace of the sun or moon. That suggested one thing – that both of the Princesses had fallen. At least his brothers had done something right, then. He flexed a talon, power field crackling along it involuntarily. The few daemons that remained prowled around through what had once been bustling streets, knowing when to keep a respectful distance from their kinsman. Ponyville was not the extent of this planet, it occurred to Vortun. Zuko’s little trip north had seen to that – there were other cultures and perhaps other creatures that would named this world their home. He didn’t known what the death of the sun would mean for them, nor did their chances at surviving in a world touched by Chaos look particularly high anyway, but to simply ignore them would undermine all their efforts here. More than that, he was an Obliterator; he had no need for food, or rest, or warmth. Destruction was all Vortun needed to sustain him. Let his brothers run and hide in the shadows of the Imperium; he was taking orders from them. Besides, there was a whole world still full of life to crush. Stepping down off the mountain of broken homes, the last Iron Warrior in Equestria set off with slow, ponderous steps. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- “F-Fluttershy?!” Despite the haze of pain and emotional fatigue that had descended across her vision, Fluttershy’s eyes still snapped open at the voice. Forcing herself to ignore the agony for a moment in an impressive display of willpower, Fluttershy’s head rose from beneath the bush she had chosen to hide beneath, looking around frantically. Normally, the Everfree would have been the last place she’d choose to go, but her injury had made travelling a long distance impossible. Besides, anywhere was better than in the path of the Space Marines. His scales were rough and stained with blood in places, not to mention the black eye that looked like it was threatening to develop, but despite all that Spike’s expression still lit up as her saw his yellow friend. He broke out in a sprint, hurtling towards her like a little purple rocket. Her joy at seeing him was such that Fluttershy tried to reciprocate and gallop out. She cried out as her broken leg took the weight, tumbling and skidding to a halt. He gasped, putting on a burst of speed to reach. “Fluttershy, a-are you okay?” He asked, looking her up and down. “O-okay…stupid question…” He breaths were squeaking and pained as tears streamed from her eyes, and it felt for all of Equestria like Fluttershy’s head would explode from the pounding that raged through it. She lay there for a moment, willing herself not to throw up. Eventually, once an ounce of strength return to her, Fluttershy leaned up, pulling Spike into a hug. He didn’t flinch, wrapping his claws round her bruised back and patting the Pegasus gently as he rested his chin on her shoulder. “I-it’s okay…” The baby dragon consoled, though they both knew it was a lie. “It’s okay, Fluttershy…t-they’re gone.” Her whimpering stopped for a moment as she drew back, looking at him with confused, puffy eyes. He nodded, though looked similarly distraught. “The Iron Warriors…they’re…they’re all gone.” Spike nodded, desperately trying to smile. “They all just…w-went away…” The news flooded her with relief, and she hugged him tighter, almost wanting to laugh regardless of the situation they had been forced into. The sensation quickly died away as another question wormed its way into her mind. “W…what about our friends…” Fluttershy asked in a tiny voice. The way the dragon’s face dropped confirmed all her worst fears, and she could feel herself tear up again. “They…it’s just us…” He stammered, looking down, though he did not release his grip on her. “The girls…everypony else…they…there’s nopony else left…” he gulped, the realisation seeming to hit him at the same time. “Rarity…I…I’ll never see her again…” he looked almost shell-shocked, claws suddenly going very clammy. She tried her best to comfort him, though in truth the fact had almost broken Fluttershy too. Spike was unresponsive for a moment, hanging in her embrace like a puppet with cut strings. “I…I hid…” He confessed, clearly ashamed by the fact. “It wasn’t like they were l-looking for me…I got a bit battered when they pulled the library down but…well, you know me, I’ve taken worse…” It sounded like he should have laughed, but Spike’s words were hollow. “But Twi…I saw her…it was like she didn’t recognise me.” His voice cracked at the admission, the child’s psyche almost threatening to collapse entirely. Fluttershy didn’t know what to say; her entire world felt it’d crumbled around her. They spent the next few moments in awkward, pained silence, not even a bird’s call or whisper of wind through the trees to break it. “Y-your leg!” He stammered, coming back to the present as he looked down. She’d almost forgotten about it. “I-I’m so sorry, Fluttershy!” She didn’t know what to say, and so Fluttershy merely squeaked, letting her tangled hair fall in front of an eye. “Come on.” Spike said after a few minutes, wiping his nose and trying to inject some steel into his voice – with only some success. “We need to get out of here…find help…c-can you fly?” It was a good question, and the answer presented itself as soon as she tried to flap her wings. Maybe it had been the sheer exertion she’d put into her escape from her house, but they felt sprained and torn. She shook her head. “G-go on without me, Spike…I’ll just slow you down…” No sooner had she finished speaking than he was getting under her left side, doing his best to keep it off the ground and support her weight. It was clearly challenge even despite her lightness, but Spike did it without complaint, knees only shaking slightly. “Nuh-uh. No way I’m leaving you, Fluttershy.” He tried to take a shuddering step forward. She hobbled along as best she could, both embarrassed and touched by the sacrifices he made for her. “S-Spike…” “Come on…” He gasped, grinding his teeth together. “We’re gonna…get out of this…I-I promise…” She didn’t argue this time, instead focusing on trying to help him along as much as she could. Spike heaving to support both of them below, Fluttershy cast a look around them, and wondered how long it would take them both to die. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- “So it’s true. Celestia has fallen.” The second Crystal Pony nodded, expression grim. It had been hard enough trying to manage the recovery of the Empire in the wake of the Princesses’ death as it was. The sudden tidal wave of slaughter the aliens had unleashed had only further complicated matters, though in light of what they had endured, it was hardly surprising. “Yes.” He said, keeping his voice measured. “The Canterlot aristocracy is seemingly wiped to a mare, to say nothing of their Guard Force. We’re on our own.” The first one who had spoken muttered a curse, looking down and shaking his head. “Damn them all…and damn us…we should have known better.” “Now is not the time to be assigning blame.” The second said. “We have bigger problems to be concerned with, in any case.” The room within the Crystal castle they were locked within was cold, and dark. Very rarely was it ever visited. It wasn’t something the ponies liked to talk about, or if they did, it was only in the most hushed tones. They both stared at the occupant of the room now, unwilling to voice their thoughts. “There’s something I don’t get.” The second said, when it became clear his companion would not be drawn to talk. “By all accounts, they referred to themselves as ‘Fourth’. Don’t tell me there are more of them?” The other pony was still for a moment, not averting his eyes. Eventually, he reached into the folds of the cloak across his back. The item he produced was so tiny the other pony had to squint to see it. Although he was hardly the expert on such things, it looked very much like some form of ammunition casing. The other pony tossed it across. He caught it in his hoof, raising it up to examine the etching on it more closely. “Who are the ‘First Legion’?” he asked, brow furrowing as he looked up. “Undoubtedly bad news, if their compatriots are anything to go by.” The first remarked. “They must have gotten in and out briefly, whilst we were all trying to clean up this mess.” “What were they looking for?” “Who knows?” The first shrugged. “But the fact we didn’t see them suggest it was probably in this room…and they probably found it.” The sentiment was an uncomfortable one; with the sky ripping itself apart, all sorts of madness had been unleashed on the Crystal Empire. It had begun to die down, but a gunshot could be hidden just as easily as a scream. Slowly, his gaze returned to the sole structure in the room. “You think they could have –“ “Yes.” The other one cut him off. “And the Iron Warriors…they say there’s something on the other side…you think…” “Without question.” It was another unpleasant thought. They stayed in silence, each weighing up the gravity of what they had just decided. Without a word being shared, the two crystal ponies turned, unlocking the door and closing it behind them. The light bled away as the crack was closed, leaving the elegant mirror shrouded in darkness. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- “Come on, Applebloom, we’ve been out here for days now…” Scootaloo was right. Everywhere they went was white, the snowfall never seeming to stop. Ever y rock, every dead tree, looked the same to Sweetie Belle. Even so, she pretended they weren’t going round in circles. That would mean giving up entirely. “Ah know, ah know!” Applebloom snapped. Her patience had finally worn thin, and Sweetie couldn’t blame her. They’d been out here for what felt like nearly a week now, constantly moving to find any kind of shelter or drink the melted snow they could find. Food had consisted of scraps of grass or other plants. All three Crusaders were chilled to the bone, and Sweetie almost wished they’d followed Zuko back despite the horrific act he’d committed. Yet, search as they’d tried, they couldn’t find him. It was like following ghosts out here. She fought the metaphor away; ever since the sky had cracked and begun to bleed, she wasn’t sure there weren’t ghosts out here with them, watching their every move for any sign of exhaustion. It wasn’t a comforting thought, and the little unicorn filly sped up to meet her friends. “Scootaloo’s right…it’s hopeless…” She said, despair threatening to take over. “We’re never gonna make it home…I-I want my sister…” She said, tears pricking at her eyes. Applebloom’s anger evaporated in an instant, both she and Scootaloo putting a hoof round her. “It’s okay, Sweetie…ah want mah family too…ah promise, we’re gonna be alraght…” The words felt hollow, but Sweetie nodded, forcing herself to keep going. It felt like the world itself was mocking them. The filly’s pulled their capes around them tighter, trying desperately to keep out the cold, but it was to little avail. Everywhere they went, they just seemed to end up in the same place. She couldn’t explain how – it seemed impossible to Sweetie they hadn’t reached something by now – but whatever it was the Iron Warriors had brought with them, it was clearly having its fun. Eventually, the inevitable happened. She collapsed into the snow, face first, trying hard even to breath. “I…I can’t go on…” She said. The other two dashed to help her, but a similar weariness seemed to take hold. They both crumpled as she did, all three Crusaders lying in a heap together. “I don’t…I don’t get it…” Scootaloo stammered, voice sounding like it was in a daze. “The…good guys…always win…” Sweetie couldn’t answer; even had she the energy, there was nothing to say. It could have been a minute or a day before the shadow loomed over them. She didn’t notice it at first, the filly reckoning it was just another hallucination heaped upon them. When it became clear it was real, she slowly opened her eyes, peering up at whatever monster had come to aid them. The Crystal Pony guard looked down at the three, face drawn with concern. She didn’t know the odds of their having accidentally evaded any patrols until now, but at that moment Sweetie couldn’t have cared less. His armour was chipped and cracked, as was that of his fellows, but she had never been happier to see anypony in her short life. “Come on.” He said in a caring tone, he and some of his companions helping the girls to their hooves. “Let’s get you out of the cold.” They supported the Crusaders as they walked, forming an escort around them that no monster could pierce. Sweetie wanted to cry, but the tears would just have frozen. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- “Did we get a name?” Brother Kage of the Imperial Fists 5th company kept his question short as he ran to meet his squad, boots hammering on the deck of the strike cruiser. He knew the way by heart after three centuries of warfare and service, and before long the Astartes had reached the line. Outside, the ship rumbled and whined, the sound of its shields being struck and lance battery fire being exchanged ringing alla round. “There’s no name.” His sergeant told him, raising the boarding shield further in front of him and gunning his chainsword. “Looks like its been scavenged. Traitor, though, that’s without a doubt.” “Which one?” Kage asked, mirroring the gesture with his own shield – the clenched fist icon of his chapter proudly emblazoned on the front – and slotting his Boltgun into the small opening carefully. To his left and right, his eight brothers did the same. “Which ones do you think?” The sergeant snarled. Kage nodded, his own expression darkening. It was true, there was only one it could ever possibly be. Iron Warriors. Even the name was hateful. He didn’t have time to consider the mutual loathing any deeper before the talons of the Kharybidis claw sank into the side of the ship. The Fists went rigid, shields bunched together as to deny their enemies access to the corridor and ship beyond. Slowly, a red circle began to form on the wall, the melta of the assault claw doing its work. It was blasted open with a roar, drowning the corridor in smoke. Kage braced himself, infrared vision peering through the gloom. The ten shapes that disembarked from the claw’s open hatch were firing almost immediately, taking cover where they could or else advancing with bitter determination. The Fists returned in kind moments later, bolters and specialist weapons spitting death. One of the Iron Warriors was struck in the eye-lens, head exploding from within. Another was struck full-force by a grav gun. He dropped to his knees, body going rigid as the armour around him crumpled inwards and reduced his organs to pulp. Had Kage had time to look, he would have noticed certain things. Most curious of them was the attire of the Iron Warriors. They did not bear horns, or spikes, or eight pointed stars. No bizarre daemonic helmets sat atop their head. They looked remarkably standard – almost like they must once have done during the Great Crusade of yore. Maximus and Crusade pattern helmets stared back at the Fists. Besides Kage, one of his brothers fell backward with a cry as a bolt round struck him in the soft armour of his throat. He kept firing, but neither side was willing to budge. Kage almost didn’t notice as the second Assault claw docked. It blew its hatch moments later, 5 colossal shapes stomping out and adding their muscle to the fight. Much like their smaller brethren, the Terminators were archaically armoured, their Cataphracti plate almost filling the room. Their contribution was enough to swing the balance, the Fists unable to do anything but give ground under the co-ordinated assault. Kage wasn’t sure where the bullet that struck him in the arms came from, but he was aware of his limb being blown off and the blood gushing out as he twisted from the impact. A second hit him in the knee, shattering even reinforced bone. He fell face-first, lying amid a pile of his dead brothers. He tried to pull himself away, but the weight of a terminator’s boot pressing down on his back held him in place. He could not physically turn onto his back as he heard the sound of a power weapon energising, but gritted his teeth, unwilling to give them any satisfaction. “Wait.” The voice was commanding, bringing the room to a stop. Kage held his breath as he realised this must be their leader – or ‘Warsmith’, as they were known. The iron lord was quiet for a moment, seeming to think. “We need one of them intact.” He said at last, already setting off with his Terminator escort in tow. “Looks like you’re it, you lucky man.” Kage could not offer any resistance as he was roughly grabbed and hauled to his knees. Two of them dragged him along roughly and without ceremony, heedless of his broken bones. The Iron Warrior on his left arm chuckled, though still didn’t look at him. When he did speak, his voice was an amused growl. “Welcome to the suck.” Kage couldn’t reply, or even spit. As he was hauled away, though, he did manage to lift his head. The Fist’s vision was blurred, but even so he could just about make out the Warsmith at the head of the procession. It wasn’t hard – he walked with a limp, like his legs were not his own, and the axe on his shoulder – the weapon that had so recently cleaved the brother-sergeant’s head from his neck – had a blade that was well-worn by age. Even so, they were not the most stand-out pieces of his uniform. Hanging across the Iron Warrior’s back was a tattered, red cape.