The Anvil
He turned the helmet over in his hands, the glowing visors of his own battle-gear meeting its dead ones. Even now, held tightly by the Iron Warrior in the belly of the Storm Eagle, the vox-grille seemed to snarl at him; fitting, the Astartes mused, when its original owner was considered.
“You shouldn’t have taken that.” The voice hadn’t come through the vox, the Marine in question not bothering to keep the discussion private. Lorkhan looked up from the helmet and turned towards the warrior that had addressed him; they were strapped into adjacent harnesses, two of the twenty located in the craft’s main bay. The bulky engines of their jump packs were still affixed to their backs, causing the Iron Warriors to have to stoop over uncomfortably. The other 4 Marines, all that remained of the Assault squad after the bitter fighting below, didn’t turn at the sound of the voice. They probably didn’t care.
“And you shouldn’t presume to question your sergeant.” Lorkhan reprimanded, looking back down at the helmet. “Besides, do you really think Angron would care what we do with his dead?”
It was a rhetorical question, but his brother-Sartak-didn’t seem to get the message. “I don’t much care what the Red Angel thinks, sergeant. But leave it to the Night Lords, or maybe Lorgar’s zealots, to scavenge what they can get. Such action is beneath the Fourth Legion’s standards. No half measures.” He paused. “With all due respect, sir…we’re not pirates.”
With due respect or not, Sartak’s words made him eligible for more serious censure. The Primarch undoubtedly would have taken a dim view of being compared to either the Night Haunter or the Urizen. But Sartak was one of Lorkhan’s oldest brothers, and the already few in number Assault corps of the IV Legion had taken a battering in the battle they had just been fighting. On that basis, Lorkhan decided to overlook it. He kept his gaze focused on the helm’s empty eye sockets.
“Sarum pattern.” He said, idly. “A World Eater design. They’re no Iron Warriors but occasionally they do make something of value. Look, you can tell from the mouth grille. It looks a lot less efficient than our Mk2, but their Primarch must have a reason for doing it.” Beside him, Sartak scoffed.
“When does Angron ever provide a reason for doing anything?” Beneath his own helmet, Lorkhan scowled.
“Careful, brother.” He’d only overlook so much. Sartak grunted an insincere apology, turning to stare back round the hold as it rattled and the engines roared with the strain of flying through Istvaan’s ash-choked atmosphere. Lorkhan turned the helmet over and over again without paying attention, spotting something on its front.
“Look here.” He pointed out, tracing a finger down one of the four red lines that ran across the top of the helmet. “They’re a Twelfth Legion honour marking. Denotes that warrior has had those…well, whatever they are, implanted.” The sergeant tapped his own forehead for emphasis. Sartak folded is arms across his chest, and leaned back as far as he could in what seemed like a gesture of contempt.
“Know many World Eaters personally do you sir?”
“They’re not all barbarians, Sartak.” Lorkhan answered, a hint of pettiness creeping into his voice. His brother gave chukled and shook his head, but said nothing. Lorkhan sighed, before hitting the release control on the wall next to his harness with an elbow and rising to his feet. Only one or two of the other Iron Warriors adjusted to look at him as he moved. Turning to place the chipped white helmet on his seat, Lorkhan gave Sartak another look.
“I’m going to talk to the pilot. I want to get off this rock.” Sartak merely shrugged as way of response. Lorkhan sighed again, starting to walk towards the cockpit. His jump pack made moving a slight challenge, but the Storm Eagle’s bay was wide enough to accommodate. He moved into the small corridor which led to the pilot’s throne. Here Lorkhan could just about see out the front window, where what looked like black rain lashed furiously all around. Even within the metal craft, the sound of explosions and Astartes dying could be heard echoing from below. It had been at least two weeks since the drop-site massacre, but the Loyalists clung on tenaciously. As an Iron Warrior, Lorkhan could almost grudging admire that.
“Good day?” He asked the pilot, having to raise his voice to be heard above the winds that whistled all around.
“Acceptable.” His brother answered, a degree of annoyance tinging his voice. It wasn’t surprising; there were few in the Legion who appreciated Lorkhan’s chattiness. Like Lorkhan the pilot’s armour was a mix of silver and deep bronze, with the exception of a single red pauldron denoting his dual allegiance to Mars.
“What’s our ETA for docking with the ship?” Lorkhan asked, affecting a more business-like tone. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something hurtled up the side of the windscreen.
“Approximately four hours.” Said the pilot. “The Warsmith contacted us. He wishes to debrief you at the soonest convenience.”
“Wonderful.” Lorkhan answered, and not even the Mechanicum adept could have missed the sarcasm. “I’m sick of Istvaan anyway.”
“Most of the Legion wouldn’t agree.” The pilot replied, still utterly focused on flying. “They want to stay, kill more loyalists.”
“One, most likely two Primarchs are dead, with a third missing. The Raven Guard and Salamanders are not going to be getting back up from this anytime soon, whilst the Iron Tenth’s veteran cadre is gone. We’ve lost too many valuable resources, ones we can’t easily get back, and frankly I’ve seen enough ash to last me a bloody lifeti-“
He was cut off by the thudding sound on the roof. The Storm Eagle dipped slightly under the extra weight, and only now did the pilot look behind in a vain attempt to see what had caused it as he fought to climb back up. Lorkhan shot out a hand to steady himself on the wall, the other subconsciously moving to the hilt of his power sword. Curiously, force of habit had led to him locking his bolt pistol into the space provided in his harness, but he had kept his power sword. That was beginning to feel like a bad idea.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of that being Father dropping onto the roof to say a big well done and take us back home for some downtime?” Lorkhan deadpanned.
“No, there is not.” The pilot answered. For the third time in ten minutes, Lorkhan gave a deep sigh.
“Get us climbing into orbit again. I’ll go and deal with our guests.” He turned, drawing his power sword and moving back towards the main hold. When he arrived he found the rest of his brothers had already formed the beginnings of a defensive line with bolt pistols raised, cramped though it was. On the roof a few feet metres in front of them, a large square was being cut by what looked like melta-beams. That they originated from the outside was clear.
“Isn’t this thing supposed to have some kind of armoured ceramite?” Lorkhan hissed, pushing his way to the centre of the group.
“I don’t think anyone’s told them that.” Sartak replied grimly, keeping his pistol level. Before Lorkhan could ask another question, the square that had been cut in the roof gave way and fell to the floor with a clang. The Iron Warriors readied their pistols, but for a moment nothing happened.
Lorkhan only just heard the clink of something deceptively small rattle on the floor.
“Grenade!” He screamed, but in the confined space it was not enough. Two of his squad were hurled backwards with the detonation, armour cracking and shrapnel piercing the comparatively soft flesh within. Sartak and the two assault marines that had kept their footing opened fire, bolts flying through the hatch. Amazingly one of them did score a hit, if the gargle of pain that sounded like a torn throat was anything to go by. Return fire from the outside stared; most of it was bolt shells that pinged off the Iron Warrior’s armour, but a lance of melta-energy also joined the fusillade. It struck the Iron Warrior next to Lorkhan square in the chest. The sergeant swore as his brother fell to the face, a gaping and steaming hole punched clean through is armour.
They dropped down through the hole moments later, sensing the need to take the initiative. Four Salamander assault marines; apparently, they weren’t willing to just lie down and die. They were clad in heavily artificed Mk4 armour, yet even with the more compact jump packs getting through the hole they had created was a squeeze. One fell prey to the obvious danger of entering such a cramped area, blown apart by accurate pistol fire from the Iron Warriors within. The remaining three spread out the best they could, disdaining the use of their pistols for brutal chains-weaponry. The last one through was armed differently. His armour was the most fantastically wrought of all, dragons and fiery symbols playing all over it with even his helmet shaped to resemble a snarling lizard. Across a shoulder guard was draped a green scaled hide, whilst the other bore his Legion’s symbol. One hand clutched an infernus pistol, its barrel also shaped like a dragon’s head, whilst the right held onto a obsidian-headed and crackling Thunder Hammer.
The two assault marines moved to engage Sartak, who for his part bellowed his Legion’s creed as way of a battle cry and rushed to meet them. Snatching a pistol from his dead brethren, Lorkhan brought his power sword to life and charged the Salamander sergeant, a challenge of his own on his lips.
Bringing it down in an overhand sweep, the Salamander swung the Thunder Hammer straight at Lorkhan’s head. The Iron Warrior only just had time to holster his pistol and grasp the sword handle with two hands to parry it. Even then, he was forced to one knee by the blow, muscles straining as he struggled against the hammer’s descent. Lorkhan may have been a swordsman of some skill, but the Salamander had the advantage of raw strength, and in such an environment that counted for more.
“And who do I have the honour of sparring with?” Lorkhan asked through gritted teeth, lactic acid now coming on in force. By contrast, the Salamander didn’t seem to be exerting any effort at all.
“Nu’val.” The hulking green giant replied. “Assault Sergeant, 32nd Company, Eighteenth Legion.” He applied more pressure, causing Lorkhan to grunt in pain. “A Legion you and your bastard kin have all but annihilated.” A green armoured knee crashed up into Lorkhan’s chest, drawing a splutter from the sergeant and sending him onto his front. The hammer fell with grim certainty, but the Iron Warrior’s Astartes reflexes kicked in just in time and he rolled onto his side, barely missing the blow. Lashing out with a foot he connected with Nu’val’s face, sending him stumbling back. Hitting the release button on his jump pack to afford himself greater mobility, Lorkhan shed the bulky contraption and stood, swinging his sword again.
The Salamander was forced on the defensive, using the hammer’s shaft to block the sword blows. The energy fields sparked off each other, neither cutting through. Finally they attacked simultaneously, catching weapon arms in opposing hands and grappling until their faces were but a scant few centimetres apart.
“Why?” Nu’val growled. Lorkhan found it took him a moment to answer.
“The Emperor has betrayed us. Betrayed the whole Crusade.”
“You lie.”
“And you’re ugly.” Provoking him wasn’t a good idea, but Lorkhan didn’t care. The Salamander bellowed with anger as he pushed with renewed strength, almost overpowering the Iron Warrior. Lorkhan moved with the force, being carried towards the Storm Eagle’s front hatch.
Behind him, Sartak slashed his chainsword across the last Salamander’s throat and threw the choking Marine to the ground. He turned, blade at the ready. Before he could intervene Nu’val had all but thrown Lorkhan against the hatch, spinning and drawing his infernus pistol. The beam sliced through the air, striking Sartak in the head. The Iron Warrior crumpled to the ground, remnants of his skull and helmet dripping onto the floor.
Seeing his old comrade die brought another howl to Lorkhan’s lips-one that was at odds with his Legion’s cold, detached nature. He flung himself at the Salamander’s back, swinging the sword in a decapitating arc. Nu’val only just turned in time to raise a forearm gauntlet to deflect the blow, sword sliding harmlessly down his artificer armour. A fist cannoned into Lorkhan’s face, sending his head snapping backwards. He stumbled as it did so, the back of his skull cracking against the hatch’s release mechanism. Slowly, the doors opened, revealing a scarred and tattered landscape before them. Lorkhan stood before the opening, dazed but still fighting.
Nu’val came on with another great swing of his hammer. There it was, the opening Lorkhan had been waiting for. He sidestepped the blow and sliced downwards. The power sword chewed through the jump-pack, causing it to spark slightly. In his desire to kill the enemy the Salamander had over-extended, moving with too much momentum and nearly falling straight out the front. He recovered his footing and pirouetted, bringing the Thunder Hammer around again as he stood on the hatch’s cusp. Lorkhan raised an arm to block it, and was rewarded with the agonising sting of crushed bone.
But that had been what he wanted.
With his sword arm he thrust forward, placing all his strength behind it. Artificer armour was strong, but not invulnerable. The energised blade passed through, exploding from Nu’val’s back dripping with gore. The Salamander coughed, numb hands dropping the weapon to the deck. Lorkhan breathed heavily, keeping eye contact with the foe.
“We will kill you for this…” Nu’val said, voice wracked with pain. “If it takes us ten thousand years, traitor…we will kill you for what you’ve done.”
“Death to the False Emperor.” Lorkhan snarled as a reply, placing a boot on the Salamander’s torso. He kicked, retracting his sword as he did. Nu’val fell from the front of the craft, tumbling end over end as he plummeted towards the black ground. His jet pack finally exploded, dousing the falling Salamander in burning promethium. Lorkhan watched the flaming comet for as long as possible, until the ash clouds swallowed it. Sheathing his blade, he pressed the hatch control again, the doors closing behind him.
For a moment his eyes rested on the corpses of his brothers lying in a heap. Then, the pain in his left arm that his Astartes physiology had suppressed until now flared up, causing a gasp to leave the Iron Warrior’s lips and driving him to his knees cradling it. It was more than just shattered; he’d have to get a bionic replacement, there was no doubt of that.
“Sir?” The pilot’s voice crackled over the helmet vox. “Are we secure?” Blinking away the pain, Lorkhan looked up at the hole the Salamanders had cut in the roof, before turning his gaze to where he had sat not ten minutes prior. The World Eater helmet was still there, despite everything. It still snarled.
“Get us out of here.” Lorkhan finally replied, unable to drag his eyes away from the empty helmet’s glare.
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Twilight groaned as her head slammed into the book open on the desk before her. It was not in her nature to be defeatist, but this was getting too much. Holding back a sob she looked up and rubbed her eyes with her hooves, staring at the flickering candle before her.
“You okay, Twi?” Spike’s voice was laden with concern as he pushed open the door to the study. He was used to Twilight shutting herself away to work, sometimes for days on end, but this whole affair seemed to have been particularly stressful for her. The baby dragon had been rushed off his feet just making sure she was eating something.
The purple unicorn turned to look at him, and what he saw only made Spike’s worry grow. He was used to Twilight becoming obsessive when she was faced with a taxing problem, sometimes to the point of creepiness; Spike didn’t need reminding of the whole ‘missed friendship report’ fiasco. But the utter despair on Twilight’s face-the drooping ears, unkempt hair, eyes bloodshot with both sleep deprivation and frustrated tears-broke the little dragon’s heart. As Twilight turned back to her book Spike walked over, gently placing a reassuring claw on her back. The Unicorn smiled at the touch, dragging her assistant into a hug. There had been a lot of hugs recently, ever since Twilight and Spike had been reunited unharmed in Canterlot after they’d left.
“It’s no use, Spike.” Twilight said dejectedly. Spike’s eyes fell on the huge stack of books piled up on the desk; it must have been at least twice his height. He wondered how its weight was supported. “I’ve read every book I can think of that might give us even the slightest clue about the…the ‘Iron Warriors’. I’ve looked in every one of the Canterlot archives, raided our collection at least three times, Princess Celestia’s even given me access to restricted books from the Crystal Empire and Griffon Kingdoms. None of them mentions these things, or the Warp, or some ‘war’, or anything they were talking about. According to every scrap of knowledge we have, the Iron Warriors simply don’t exist.”
Spike’s chewed his bottom lip, wishing he could think of something to say that would cheer his best friend up. He finally decided to fall back to familiar ground.
“Do you want a coffee?”
For a moment, Twilight looked like she was going to buck Spike through a window. Then a weary smile broke out across her face, and she nodded, following him out of the darkened study. She squinted as she re-entered the main library, eyes stinging with the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. She walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table and trying her hardest not to fall asleep. Spike was already making the coffee, humming to himself as he heated the water.
“Anything from Princess Celestia?” Twilight eventually asked, hopefully. Spike shook his head, placing the two cups down on the table. Twilight felt her shoulders sag as she scooped the mug up.
“Aww, cheer up Twi! You’ll figure this out, you’re the smartest Unicorn I know!” Spike said with a smile, his optimism touching. Twilight smiled back, but it wasn’t genuine.
“I don’t know, Spike. Give me a mathematical quandary and I’ll have a method in five minutes, but how do I even begin trying to understand something like this when we have no records of anything even remotely similar?”
Before Spike could think of an answer, Twilight spoke again. Her voice was quieter, laced with fear.
“This is more than just some study problem. These ‘Iron Warriors’, whatever they are, they…change things. Rainbow Dash and Princess Luna may be brash, but I’ve never seen them like they were at the castle. Wherever they’ve been has messed with their very essence. If they’re in constant contact with Equestria…” She trailed off, staring down at her drink with a haunted expression on her face. Spike scratched the back of his head nervously, the implication clear to him.
“Fluttershy called earlier.” He said suddenly, trying to change the subject. “She, uhh, wanted to know if you wanted to go for dinner at hers later today.” Twilight looked up, seemingly mulling it over. Could she really allow herself to have a frivolous evening at a time like this? She had a lot of studying today, reading and re-reading the books she’d skimmed through. Fluttershy might be her friend, but-
Her friend. And there it was. If Twilight was going to stop the Iron Warriors corrupting Equestria-whether they intended to or not-she’d need her friends more than ever.
“Dinner sounds great, Spike.” She smiled, and this time she meant it. “Thanks.”
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Zuko moved back hurriedly as the Dreadnaught emerged from the darkness. Iron Warriors were big, but the Contemptor towered even over them. The Multi-melta affixed to its right arm would probably have been at least the Champion’s height.
Threat runes flashed angrily across his helmet optics. He blink-clicked them away; whilst he didn’t make a habit of getting cornered underneath a castle by fifteen-foot tall walking death machines that spewed out fire like it was going out of fashion, Zuko was fairly confident that it was a bad thing.
Alone among his brothers, who either shuffled uncomfortably or in the Obliterator’s case raised their own weapons, Lorkhan stood stock still before the behemoth. His voice was calm, almost relaxed; Zuko had served as his right hand to know that it was typically Lorkhan, both natural and enforced to throw supplicants off when they came before the Warsmith. But his seeming familiarity with the Salamander was…disconcerting.
The Dreadnaught stopped as Lorkhan addressed it, swaying slightly. Two red eyes stared at the Warsmith, the need to smash him apart evident-it was seemingly held back only by its curiosity.
“You know me, traitor?” The voice that emanated from the grille was laced with static, as if it hadn’t been used in an age.
“I killed you.” Lorkhan replied simply. Zuko’s head shot towards his master at this latest revelation. It’s okay, sir, I didn’t like having a life expectancy longer than the next few minutes anyway. The Dreadnaught looked away for a moment, as if wracking its still-waking brain for a memory. It seemed to find one, and turned back to the Warsmith, power fist clenching.
“Istvaan.” The voice was dangerously low and measured. “You were the sergeant...I told you I would kill you.”
“You can try, Nu’val.” Lorkhan answered. He beckoned Zuko to his side. Warily, the Champion complied, never taking his eyes of the Dreadnaught. The Salamander didn’t even seem to notice him. “How in the name of the God’s did you get here?”
The Dreadnaught was quiet for a moment, and Zuko fully expected to be crushed to a paste in seconds. Yet eventually the Dreadnaught did reply, the prospect of having an ancient enemy at his mercy seemingly granting the Iron Warriors a moment’s amnesty.
“My body was broken after you threw me from the Storm Eagle, but my will to fight was not. My brothers found me, remade me. I served the Legion until the end of the Heresy, and the Chapter after the Primarch’s disappearance. We were called to a world under the thrall of the Despoiler's lackeys. It should have been a simple drop pod assault, yet they were ready for us. Foul Warp-spawned magicks tore the heavens open, and we hurtled head-on into the rift. Half a company of Salamanders, gone in seconds. I do not know where my brothers were scattered too, yet I emerged on this world. I was forced to use my Multi-melta to carve out a passageway to reach this cavern, and entered a state of dormancy…that is, until you showed up.”
Lorkhan seemed to turn the information over in his mind for a moment. “So…you don’t actually know where you are, do you?”
“It is irrelevant.” The Dreadnaught tilted slightly, as if focusing in one something. “You have come unarmed. That was unwise, traitor scum.”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you why.” The Warsmith replied. The Dreadnaught looked at him for a moment, before raising his power fist. The underslung Heavy Flamer’s pilot light burned brighter. Zuko cursed.
“So be it. Burn heretic.”
The gout of flame leapt towards the two Iron Warriors the moment the Obliterator’s started firing. Any mortal warrior would have been incinerated, yet Zuko and Lorkhan were Astartes. Even with the Warsmith’s extensive bionics, they sprang out the way, landing in a crouch before breaking into a sprint. One of the Melta-beams fired by the Obliterators went wide; the other two hit their target, but dissipated harmlessly off the Contemptor’s atomantic shielding.
The power armoured Iron Warriors began to run in a general circle, seeking to outmaneuver and entangle their foe. Quite what the purpose of this was no one was quite sure, yet it seemed a damn sight better than standing around and waiting to be stepped on. Whilst they had the advantage of numbers and speed, the Salamander had armour and firepower, tipping the scales decidedly in his favour.
Zuko slid to a halt behind the Dreadnaught, not surprised to find Rorke by his side and breathing heavily. Zuko had lost track of Lorkhan and Mordecai early on, although the Sorcerer had been letting lose ineffectual bursts of telekinetic power. Rorke’s face was twisted in an even uglier grimace than usual, and when he spoke it was through gritted teeth.
“And how exactly does Celestia expect us to kill this bastard thing?”
“She doesn’t.” Zuko reminded him. “She expects us to be killed by this bastard thing.” This didn’t seem to satisfy his brother, who looked like he was about to tackle Zuko into the dirt. The helmeted champion looked back at the rampaging Dreadnaught, which had just preceded to backhand an Iron Warrior (or rather, one’s crumpled remains) into a nearby wall, tilting his head in thought.
“It hasn’t used its Multi-melta.” Zuko observed, mind racing. “It said it had to use it to break out the drop pod. Perhaps it’s run out of ammunition.” No sooner had he spoke, Zuko noticed three Iron Warriors falling back down a nearby cavern. The Dreadnaught noticed too, raising the baroque weapon in their direction. In such a confined space a Multi-melta would always be deadly, but its wielder was a Salamander and the aim was true. A beam of superheated energy roared forth from the gun, travelling with pinpoint accuracy down the tunnel and engulfing the three Chaos Marines. Their screams transmitted for a moment over the vox, before cutting out with a wet gargle. Zuko did his best to ignore Rorke’s glare.
Nu’val turned, noticing that the two Aspiring Champions had come to a halt. It raised its arm to unleash the Heavy Flamer once more, when finally one of the Obliterator’s shots penetrated its shielding. Whilst no lasting damage seemed to be caused, the beam did scorch some of the Dreadnaught’s motor servos, driving it to one knee. Zuko and Rorke took their chance, springing forward and running as fast as they could. Another burst of promethium issued forth from the flamer, dousing Zuko’s armour and blackening its edges, yet the ceramite held firm and he did not break stride.
“You realise we can’t actually hurt that thing?” Rorke hissed.
“We can distract it.” Zuko countered, shaking off the last of the fire. “And with any luck, it’ll fall on you.” They were right in front of the Salamander war-engine now, which stepped backwards unsurely; it had not expected such a move from its tiny enemies. With a snarl, Zuko and Rorke pushed off their back feet and hurled themselves onto the Sarcophagus.
Lightning coursed over Zuko’s armour as he came into contact with the Dreadnaught’s shielding. He scrambled for a grip, forcing the pain down through force of will, but he could note establish a firm hold. The shield threw him off, and he skidded across the ground on his back a few yards before finally coming to a stop, hacking and coughing. The armour smoked from contact with the atomantic device, and overall he felt only slightly better than when that purple Unicorn had shot him in the chest. Rorke had managed to hold on better, bracing himself and clinging onto a loose cable with one hand. The other rocketed back and forth, striking the Dreadnaught’s ‘helmet’. Amazingly, his punches did begin to have an effect, punching out the right eye visor. Nu’val bellowed in anger, thrashing wildly as he was reduced to half-blindness and stumbling hither and thither. Rorke was finally dislodged, thrown through the air in much the same way Zuko was, rolling head over heel before coming to rest and rising to his hands and knees with a cough.
Zuko prepared to get back to his feet, when another, shaper pain overcame him. It lanced through his nervous system like a flaming arrow, for a moment threatening to overcome his enhanced physiology. Nu’val applied more pressure to the colossal foot it had placed on the Aspiring Champion’s legs, drawing another gasp from Zuko. His power armour provided little respite, its integrity swiftly collapsing and Zuko’s leg bones with it. The Dreadnaught looked down at him, one eye blood-red, the other black and sparking from where Rorke had savaged it. The flamer came in line with Zuko’s eye level; even through his blurred vision, Astartes body racing to heal the damage done to it at the expense of other functions, he could see the nozzle clearly.
“For the Emperor.” Nu’val rumbled. In response, Zuko weakly raised a hand; only one finger was extended.
He was saved by a brother. With an incoherent howl, and carrying a rock he had picked up from somewhere in the cavern, Kravix leapt at the Dreadnaught much as his sergeant had. In all honesty, the rock would have been ineffectual at best, but it was the thought the counted. Nu’val turned to meet this new threat, diverting his attention from Zuko yet not stepping off him. The Dreadnaught extended his power fist to the side, catching the Iron Warrior in mid-air. Kravix had only a moment to struggle and slam the rock into Nu’val’s robotic hand before a compression of the power fist’s fingers reduced him to a mangled, unrecognisable mess. What had once been Kravix was released, dropping to the floor with an unceremonial squelch.
Zuko watched his brother die, hatred bubbling inside him. Yet Kravix’s sacrifice-whether he had intended such a thing or not-gave the other Iron Warriors time to fight back. A Lascannon shot from the Obliterators smashed into Nu’val’s flank, sending him stumbling backwards and finally freeing Zuko’s legs. A boulder hurled by Mordecai’s power followed suite, smashing against the sarcophagus and annihilating some of the finery carved on their. In response, the Dreadnaught raised its Multi-melta, this time turning it on Vortun and his kin. Unlike their smaller brothers the Obliterators did not have the advantage of haste, and so Vortun could only turn away reflexively as the beam reduced the Obliterator on his left to a steaming puddle of warp-tainted goo on the floor.
Zuko’s hands bunched into fists; that Obliterator was a revered member of the Thirteenth company, blessed by the Gods and part of the Warhost since its genesis. To see him destroyed so completely, on a planet populated by peace loving, pastel coloured horse-xenos, was beyond insulting. Vortun did not take it any better. With a deep, baritone growl he and his surviving brother began to fire shot after shot from many different weapons, peppering the sarcophagus with an unrelenting hail of firepower. It was beginning to count, the Dreadnaught’s armour plating running in a molten dribble here and there.
Zuko tried to move his legs, but found that he could not. Although his body worked to heal them, for now they were completely shattered. He turned onto his front, trying to drag himself along the ground by his hands, when a strong grip stopped him and did the dragging itself. Zuko couldn’t see who it was, but it was probably Barbus. Through hazy vision he watched Nu’val continue his onslaught. A great sweep of the power fist pulped another three Iron Warriors, two of them part of Zuko’s squad. He vaguely noticed their life signs flickering red on his optical stream. Another, slower Marine was merely stepped on by the Dreadnaught. He was not as lucky as Zuko, and was killed instantly by the weight.
Zuko gave a pained curse under his breath as he was dragged away. So many were dying. Why did they not just find cover? He knew the answer, of course-they were trying to distract the Dreadnaught so the Obliterators could keep firing at it, and that invariably led to casualties. As much as they hated and mistrusted each other off personally, in battle the Iron Warriors worked as a team. They had been Legio Astartes once, and they remembered pack tactics as well as any Night Lord or Space Wolf in a pinch.
“Is this all?” Nu’val shouted through his speakers, although the voice was crackly. “Is this all the vaunted Iron Warriors can bring to bear?” The flamer came to life once more, incinerating two more Astartes. “You have fallen far indeed, traitor filth.” The Multi-melta fired another burst at Vortun, but this time his daemonic heritage saved him and the shot dissipated harmlessly.
Lorkhan finally reappeared, standing as still as he had been when talking to the Dreadnaught. He had positioned himself in front of the Obliterators, providing an irresistible target. “I killed you millennia ago, Nu’val. It seems you weren’t paying attention. But I will kill you again here, and this time I will make it last. You will never re-join what passes for your thin blooded chapter. You will not fight for a dead master on a golden chair any longer. And like you fall, the Imperium will fall soon after. We will take the iron to the stone Nu’val, tear down the false Emperor’s kingdom of lies. We will end every single one of you, Salamander dog. We might not be what we once were, but we’re more than enough to deal with you.”
The Dreadanught didn’t stop coming, lashing out with a foot. It impacted an iron Warrior, sending him flying into a wall. The body crumpled lifelessly. “You are delusional and mad, every ne of you. I will never understand what drove you to listen to the Warmaster’s lies, besides your own inherent weakness, but it matters not. You will not topple the Imperium, iron Warrior. It endures, even in spite of your petty tantrums and piratical raids. It survives on the blood of Martyrs and the steel of the faithful in the face of scum like you. One Dreadnought-one old, battered Dreadnaught, isolated from his brothers and stuck in a cave-and even now I have killed over a quarter of your sorry company. How do you intend to tear down anything? You brought your whole Legion to Terra, every traitorous cur you could muster, and even then you could not do it. You will not stop us, Iron Warrior, you will not stop the Imperium’s manifest destiny.” The Dreadnought locked its remaining eye with the Warsmith’s. “You are not even a threat.”
The Obliterators ceased their firing. Iron Warriors stopped running, skidding to a halt and staring at Nu’val. Barbus dropped Zuko, and the Champion understood why. Lorkhan was as calm as ever, not a muscle moving. His voice was scarcely above a whisper.
“What did you say?”
Space Marines knew no fear, and Dreadnoughts even more-they literally dread nought-yet in that moment Nu’val stopped his advance, as if realising he had made a rather large mistake.
They were on him in seconds. The Obliterators fired for as long as they could, burning away at the flagging atomantic shielding with an unrelenting stream of hate and ammunition. They only stopped as every Iron Warrior that could walk leapt on the Dreadnought like a pack of wild dogs, swarming over and beating at the great metal beast. They were rabid, clawing and tearing, sheer weight of numbers of stopping Nu’val from dealing with them. Kayn and Aleksos had clambered onto his back, striking at the weaker rear armour and ripping out cables and important-looking moving parts whenever they could find them. Nu’val staggered, such a massed attack completely unorthodox and thus, unexpected. Zuko had never liked his brothers, not for the most part, but in this moment he considered them nothing short of magnificent. Lorkhan grappled onto the Dreadnought’s front, his Mechatendrils having stabbed through the armour plating to hold him aloft like a great iron spider. Much like Rorke, he was smashing a fist into what passed for Nu’val’s face.
“I.”
The other eye began to spark, flickering from red to black and back again.
“AM.”
It finally cut out completely, and the Dreadnought flailed even more wildly in the now total blindness.
“A.”
Another brutal punch cracked the Sarcophagus itself, shattering an intricately dragon in a way that seemed almost symbolic.
“THREAT.”
Not even a Dreadnought could withstand such a mass swarming all over it/ Cracked, blind, sparking and bleeding a thick black fuel, Nu’val began to sink slowly downwards. The Iron Warriors leapt off him back to the ground, seemingly wanting to finish this in a more dignified manner. In a last gasp act of spite, the Dreadnought grabbed hold of an Astartes’ leg as he jumped, smashing him onto the ground repeatedly with what little strength it had remaining, but it was not enough. Mordecai turned almost graceful as he landed to face the dreadnought, extending his arm and balling it into a fist. Nu’val’s Multi-melta groaned and creaked, before slowly crumpling inwards as the aetheric winds finally blew in force and let the warlock marshal his full telekinetic strength. One weapon gone, all Nu’val had was his Heavy Flamer and power fist, yet even the fire spurted forth seemed weaker and more pathetic now the Dreadnought was running out of power fast.
The Iron Warriors stood to the side, allowing the Obliterators access as they advanced, twisted guns blazing. Of all the Chaos Marines, they seemed most affected by the death of their brother; it would have been wrong to deny them such vengeance. Lascannon, plasma, and melta beams smashed into the sarcophagus repeatedly, the shielding struggling to keep up. Finally it could take no more and fizzled out completely, leaving Nu’val utterly undefended. A concentrated two Lascannon beams finally finished the job; the sarcophagus cracked open, an engine exploded as the Dreadnought’s rear armour began leaking flames, and the mighty construct toppled slowly onto its back. A tremor roared around the Iron Warriors as it hit the ground, echoing down the corridors. They did not flinch, instead watching their enemy; making sure it was dead. He had committed the cardinal sin amongst the Thirteenth Company; perhaps they were virtual outcasts from their own Legion and down on their luck, but you never ever insinuated they were not a threat. Do that, and the error of your words will quickly become apparent.
Zuko watched all of this, taking an ice cold satisfaction in watching the great Salamander twitch its last. Then, and only then, did the Iron Warrior grant himself the luxury of passing out.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lorkhan stood atop the sarcophagus, staring down at the Dreadnought’s blank and dead eyes. Smoke still filtered from the grates on its back, although most of it had already been vomited forth, and now the once mighty dreadnought was little more than hulk of metal cast to the ground.
Mordecai also stood atop the defeated Salamander, slightly behind the Warsmith. Rorke and Varvillon had gone to clean up the remains of the Iron Warriors who had perished; most of them were beyond recognition and their armour unsalvageable, but the Champion had managed to find a corrupted mk4 helmet to replace the one he lost. Zuko’s unconscious form had been dragged to the corner of the room, and with little reverence dumped there. His wounds weren’t serious enough to force him to enter a sus-as membrane coma, but Lorkhan knew his legs were utterly shattered. Even with such enhanced healing capabilities, it was highly unlikely Zuko would walk again without bionics. The rest of what remained from the company, Obliterators included, formed a circle around the Dreadnought. He didn’t know what they were thinking, but one thing was for sure; they had won a victory here today. They’d killed an old enemy. If nothing else, that would get their spirits up, even if it did little for Lorkhan. Nu’val had been right in one thing-over a quarter of Lorkhan’s brothers had died. He might have been a follower of Chaos, but any victory still felt pyrrhic, especially when one considered that they’d come here at a Ponies’ bidding.
The Dreadnought looked so helpless in death, a far cry from the beast it had been in life. Mordecai had crushed the Multi-melta with his mind, yet the power fist was still intact, and the flamer stank of burned fuel. As he stared, a though occurred to Lorkhan. He stepped back and motioned for the Obliterators to come forth. They did so, immediately catching on and digging their energised talons into the sarcophagus. Before long, they had ripped the covering off, revealing what lay within. Lorkhan stepped back up over the hole, crouching down and resting his arms on his knees.
Within lay the shrivelled hulk of what had once been a sergeant of the 32nd Company, Eighteenth Astartes Legion. Coal black skin had paled slightly in the years of entombment to a lighter brown, whilst the eyes had decayed completely. Muscles too had atrophied, and it lay curled in a foetal position surrounded by burst vials of amniotic fluid. The pathetic sight almost brought a laugh to Lorkhan’s lips. Amazingly, it was not dead; the head turned slowly and weakly towards the Warsmith. The sightless stare was unnerving, but Lorkhan was angry enough that it did not matter.
“This time…” he growled softly, finally fighting to keep his voice composed after such an extended period of calm when faced with the Salamander. “This time, you stay dead, you shit.” The husk of a Salamander said nothing, foam bubbling in the corner of his mouth. “I swear to you, Nu’val.” Lorkhan went on, now grabbing the decrepit creature by the throat and yanking it free from the Dreadnought’s confines. “I swear to you here, on the honour of my Legion. You will all die like your Primarch did. Every last, bastard one of you. I will kill the last Salamander myself and offer his soul to the darkness. Your bloodline will burn, Nu’val. Your whole bastard genetic line will be nothing but a bad memory.”
The Salamander still stared at him, tenuously clinging to life. Then, for the first time in ten thousand years, he spoke through lungs that were rapidly turning to dust.
“…Vulkan…lives…”
Lorkhan maintained his grip for a moment, as if considering the old warrior’s words. Then, he lashed out with his other fist, punching straight through the paper-think skull. He tossed the body away with a snarl as he stood back up to his full height.
“Vortun.” The Warsmith growled, still staring at Nu’val’s remains. “Destroy the body. Plasma, not fire; he would consider that an honour. Then help Mordecai tear this thing apart piece by piece.” Only now did he turn to dismount the Dreadnought and walk away, when something caught his eye. Affixed to a huge shoulder, fluttering slightly as he passed, was a small patch of green scaled hide. It would have fit snugly over the pauldron of a suit of power armour. Sartak’s face flashed before his eyes, for the first time in ten millennia.
“No half measures.”
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Technicaly, the Salamander isn't a idiot for killing the Obliterators first. They have the most firepower and are the toughest.
2638199 therefore the biggest threat and should be dealt with first
2638284
Exactly. Obliterators can destroy just about anything short of a super heavy.
2638301 too bad they didn't salvage the dreadnought
2638335
Chaos space Marines hate Dreadnoughts. They would much rather die than be placed within one.
2638349 very true but that model is so rare to come by
2638359
Chaos would have more because they have all the Competenors they took with them from the Heresy while the Loyalists have been fighting for 10,000 years with theirs, some of the CSM are fresh from the heresy having spent so many years within the warp.
Excellent combination of a small-scale action scene with some cool backstory on one of the main characters. I approve.
And I cannot believe that the "dread nought" pun has not been made earlier.
2638349
Most Chaos Legions don't use Dreads simply because they don't have any that are not possessed by deamons or something, the Iron Warriors being the exception in that they still can build new ones.
Also this guy is over 10k years old, more if you count a small journey through the warp and therefore possible time screwing stuff, the only other Dread that can say the same is Bjorn the fell-handed and he spent most of his time since the heresy in stasis sleep. The fact that Nu’val still remembered Lorkhan and the day he was entombed is a miracle in itself.
So its perfectly understandable that he reacts a bit off after a journey through the warp, awakening form stasis lasting possibly centuries and a hatred for the one who forced him into this tomb that he held alive for several millennia.
And he probably never even read the Codex in the first place.
Also those Iron warriors are really badass taking down a Contemptor inside an enclosed space while attacking it with stones and power armored fists.
Iron Without!
Bet that sun-butt is going to get a multi-melta shoved up her ass.
You should be aware this fanfic came up in a WH40k discussion, which led to me composing this:
My Iron Warriors, My Iron Warriors
Ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh...
-=upbeat=-
(My Iron Warriors)
I used to wonder what ordnance could be
(My Iron Warriors)
Until you all shared its magic with me
Big explosions
Tons of guns
A nuclear dart
Fusile and armed
Target locked
It's an easy feat
And magic makes it all complete
You have My Iron Warriors
Don't you know you have my very best guns?
So congrats, now you have a theme song.
2671452
Oh god, that's funny. I admit a friend and I made one a while ago, but yours is superior. Plus you have best Pony as an avatar, which only adds kudos. Have a mustache.
Aw, love the dreadnoughts... They're like big angry turtles.