My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 399: The Crusade of Steel (Part 1)
This was a war belonging solely to steel, machinery, and gunpowder.
Upon a killing field where steel and iron grew in jagged profusion, the victor ascended the throne, and the defeated were reduced to rust.
Steel clashed with steel. Gods slaughtered gods.
. . .
Iron-shod boots thundered across the plains. Warships tore through the fog, and amid the roar, searing-hot engines shuddered, bearing the murderous intent of blades drawn from their scabbards.
The bitter wind howled, scraping across the chiseled, icy features of the Primarch as he strode forward. The warhammer Forgebreaker plowed calmly through the earth, and upon the blood-soaked soil, refined steel shimmered with rippling light.
At Ferrus Manus's side, the silhouettes of Predators advanced steadily. Reflected in iron upon iron, the color blocks of Baneblades, Land Raiders, and Malcador heavy tanks flowed past. Farther still, on the distant battlefield, the towering forms of Titans and Knights strode amid countless surging torrents of steel.
Ironstrider engines also advanced across the field. Overhead, Stormbirds screamed past, tearing open safe corridors of air with their shrill howls.
"The flesh is weak!"
The wind and the roar of steam shattered the battle cry of the Iron Father into fragments of rage, replacing it with the ceaseless thunder of engines. Binary hymns exalted justice and truth. Crimson banners streamed through the steel tide. Servitor-engines flashed with lethal cold light. Tech-Priests and the Skitarii shouted litanies of praise—
Due to their cold temperament and the extreme intensity of their wars, the Iron Hands were not a favored choice for mortal auxiliary forces. Thus, under Ferrus's command, the Iron Hands' auxiliaries were largely composed of the Skitarii and the Cult Mechanicus's restoration orders. Of course, battle-hardened human veterans were also part of the Iron Hands' auxiliary forces.
The storm swept on. Steel knew no fear.
The iron tide advanced inexorably, swallowing one blackstone pylon after another. Artillery fire blossomed, yet it was no more than a faint murmur within a metallic ocean.
Beneath the blackstone pylons, blinding, ominous psychic arcs flared to life. The warriors of steel showed no fear as silvery liquid metal slowly flowed over their armor, tracing distinct veins.
Black-armored mortal soldiers marched in silence around the Iron Fathers. A darkness thin as black gauze spread outward, devouring the light of sorcery.
"Come out." Ferrus spoke calmly.
His iron-gray eyes reflected the long, monotonous horizon ahead—dim, shrouded in weapons.
"Perturabo, come out." Ferrus said it again.
He felt anger igniting in his eyes. He could feel him—steel resonating with steel, a burning pulse proclaiming another's presence.
"He's here." A broken transmission came through the vox.
The Silent Sisterhood where Hades resided had always maintained a delayed position within the same war zone. Behind the legion, the awakening blackstone pylons heralded the approach of the Lord of the Underworld.
Ferrus breathed steadily. The Iron Fathers gathered around him, and he felt that vague sense of powerlessness recede—this was no good thing. It meant that ownership of the psychic domain in this space was being transferred.
Red light surged in Ferrus's eyes.
Scorching orange-red flames dyed the horizon, and waves of heat rolled violently.
Chains slammed against chains, hammering out a chorus of screams. Ferrus's pupils widened for a brief instant. He had thought himself prepared, but at the moment he beheld such blasphemy, he shuddered and drew in a sharp breath.
Flesh was torn apart, grotesquely fused with steel. Fire flared from blazing furnaces. Charred flesh melted under the intense heat, dripping foul-smelling oil. Agonized howls rang out from within layers of chains and girders. Daemons were sealed within abominable machines, reduced to fuel for their engines.
Flesh, daemons, and steel wrought together…
…this was utter madness.
Ferrus stared fixedly at that creation—the blasphemous hybrid of flesh and machine. His heart pounded with fury, the sense of violation blazing in his mind.
The imprisoned, enslaved daemons wailed in piercing anguish. Sound waves and heat waves together played the overture to a war of steel, as one steel abomination after another surged into view on the horizon.
At their feet stood expressionless Iron Warriors, their helmets reflecting the infernal flames. The Iron Warriors and the monsters from hell stood together, facing Ferrus.
Ferrus tightened his grip on Forgebreaker. He calculated—and then—
"Attack."
—He said it softly.
This was a collision of iron fist against iron fist. Any clever finesse would become a laughable trick beneath absolute frontal assault, and it seemed both sides thought the same—
They stood here, upon the open plains, charging straight at one another, openly baring the blades known as Legions.
Stormbirds were the first to move, coordinating with ground fire as they traced elegant arcs across the sky. The roar of their engines drowned out the shrieking wind. Avian servitors aimed, locked on, and in that final instant, the ammunition exposed beneath the fuselage reflected the faint firelight of the battlefield below.
The guns of Iron Hands ground vehicles screamed past the circling Stormbirds, missing them by a hair's breadth, seeming almost to collide. Yet under flawless calculation, the shells surged forward, smashing head-on into Iron Warriors ordnance. A massive cloud of smoke detonated outward, the tail end—mixed with solid debris—plummeting toward the earth.
The Stormbird's intact hull burst violently from the gray firework, fearless as it rushed to meet the enemy warships ahead. Pairs of fighters twisted and clashed in the air, darting at high speed like Aeldari Harlequins locked in a deadly, extravagant group dance.
Across the vast sky, every twenty seconds on average, the dying scream of a fighter crashing into the wasteland could be heard.
The heavy footsteps of god-machines slammed into the earth. Titan against Titan. Knight against Knight. Predator tanks leveled their black gun barrels at opposing Predators. Amid thunderous war cries, the blades of the Iron Hands struck at the Iron Warriors.
Skulls of the dead gleamed upon armor as a Medusan Immortal roared and charged forward.
"For Ferrus!!!"
He bellowed as he unleashed a burst of fire at his foe. The Iron Warrior who met him turned sideways, absorbing the impact with his pauldron, then fired a lance of plasma straight at his helm. Fearless, the Medusan Immortal surged forward, sword raised, hacking down—his power blade shearing through steel even as another blade flashed toward his waist.
Without a trace of hesitation or evasion, the Medusan Immortal thrust straight ahead!
A smooth shhk sounded. With his free hand, he released the enemy sword now lodged uselessly at his side. His power sword pierced upward from the chin, punching clean through the enemy's skull. Thick crimson blood streamed down the upright blade. Without pause, he wrenched it free, and the enemy corpse collapsed to its knees before him.
He charged the next foe.
The same scene unfolded across every corner of the battle line. The blood of the Iron Warriors and the blood of the Iron Hands soaked deep into the earth.
The Skitarii hurled themselves fanatically at the enemy in suicidal charges, buying precious moments for the Iron Hands. Gun barrels and plasma coils were already overheated, yet silvery tears flowed slowly down their metal faces as they continued, loyally, to fulfill their purpose.
After the brief initial clash, each Iron Clan—led by its Iron Father and centered around an Archmagos from the auxiliary forces—engaged the Iron Warriors in brutal combat. In ordinary wars, the Archmagos were not pivotal figures, but at this moment, as they loudly praised the Omnissiah and Hades in ringing prayers, faint pale-green arcs of electricity began to glow—
Everyone knew exactly what that meant.
Ferrus swung Forgebreaker. The foul, blasphemous flesh of a Soul Grinder belonging to the Forge of Souls, to Vashtorr, exploded apart, splashing streaks of meat across his armor.
Ferrus listened coldly and angrily to the daemon's shrill wailing beneath his feet. This, unmistakably, was a creature of the Warp—the feedback surging through his gauntlets told him so with absolute clarity.
The Blank warriors following him stomped down upon the mound of rotten flesh and scrap. With one final scream, the daemon was silenced forever.
"For the Emperor!!!"
Ferrus roared, his voice tearing through the heavens. Countless war cries erupted in an instant, answering their father.
The layered ocean of battle cries was suddenly broken by discordant grinding steel. Ferrus frowned—he caught the stench of something unbearably rotten.
From among the blasphemous constructs emerged a monster with jagged steel wings growing from its back. Nauseating cable-worms writhed as it turned its gaze toward Ferrus. Brilliant arcs of abhorrent lightning crackled and snapped, and ominous white light gathered upon that artisan warhammer.
The sinful creature stood far off on the horizon, its hellfire—like a rising sun—setting the sky ablaze. From that distance, it gazed mockingly at Ferrus, and the sight only fed Ferrus's fury.
The Primarch did not hesitate. A new wave of Iron Hands firepower concentrated its aim on Vashtorr.
Space itself began to tremble uneasily. With Vashtorr's arrival, blasphemous flames roared skyward, while pale green arcs of energy flickered erratically. Ferrus frowned and began calling for Hades, receiving an immediate response—The Lord of the Underworld told the Lord of Medusa that he would need more than ten minutes to reach the battlefield.
At the same time, Ferrus saw Perturabo.
Amid the chaotic din of war, Ferrus's world went blank for a single moment, leaving only a droning buzz inside his mind.
Perturabo… was standing there.
The Lord of Iron stood there, right beside Vashtorr—standing shoulder to shoulder with that monster.
Perturabo had grown larger. He had never been a towering Primarch, but now Ferrus was certain that Perturabo's stature exceeded his own.
Perturabo wore a brand-new suit of Terminator armor, wrapped in writhing cables similar to Vashtorr's. Dazzling white arcs of electricity surged around him, and bright yellow lights burned within his eyes.
He had become… different.
Ferrus stared at Perturabo. Perturabo stared back. Then the corners of Perturabo's mouth split into a mocking grin.
"My brother," he said. The voice came from all directions, and Ferrus realized with shock and revulsion that it issued from the mouths of every Iron Warrior.
"It's been a long time. You're still so willing to be a tool in someone else's hands."
"I have nothing to say to a traitor!" Ferrus roared, glaring at Perturabo as countless deep-bored gun barrels unfolded from the master-crafted backpack on his back.
"You—what have you done to the Iron Warriors?! What have you done to them?!" Ferrus thundered his accusation.
In answer, the Iron Hands surged forward. Now that Perturabo and Vashtorr had revealed themselves, Iron Hands fire poured toward them like an endless mountain sea.
"And you?" Perturabo replied unhurriedly.
He began to walk slowly toward Ferrus through the ranks of the Iron Warriors. The sea of iron parted before him and then closed again, perfectly synchronized—like the heartbeat and pulse of a single being.
Moments later, assault squads that had driven like wedges into the Iron Warriors' battle line began transmitting death reports. Countless notices of loss flooded toward Ferrus like snowflakes—in an instant, the Iron Warriors they faced had become stronger, swifter, and far more skilled in war.
Perturabo smiled as he looked at Ferrus and said, "I once thought you and I were very much alike."
Ferrus spat onto the ground at his side. The flesh-soaked earth hissed in response.
"Why cling so desperately to serving him, Ferrus?" Perturabo spoke calmly, dangerous depths glinting in his eyes, as though he had endured countless trials.
"What has he truly given us? We could have lived far more freely, been masters of ourselves, rather than puppets of his bloated Imperium."
"For the sake of maintaining the integrity of his imperial borders, the Iron Warriors were forced to wage war against utterly worthless xenos civilizations, to ignite wars on human worlds that longed for peace, to dig trenches on countless planets unfit for life, merely to hold those so-called chokepoint fortresses."
Perturabo snorted softly, as if mocking his former self.
"And he…" Perturabo spoke softly, "In the future he desires, there is no place for us, no place for the Legions. He has already begun to discard us, hasn't he?"
"Why persist in such willful blindness?" Perturabo said—but he had already stepped into the direct firing envelope of Ferrus's master-crafted backpack, so Ferrus chose to answer Perturabo's question with gunfire.
He raised Forgebreaker. The weapon Fulgrim had forged for him blazed with light.
The next instant, Titans, blasphemous amalgams of flesh and machine, and Perturabo himself charged toward Ferrus.
. . .
"Traitor!!!"
Ferrus roared. Explosive thunder detonated at his ears. In the fury of that moment, Forgebreaker tore the air apart, generating a sonic boom. A burst of white shockwaves instantly drowned the two locked in combat, yet neither Perturabo nor Ferrus slowed in the slightest.
Gone was Perturabo's earlier mockery. The Lord of Iron's face was taut with strain, teeth clenched as he fought with all his might against the Lord of Medusa's assault. Short-range weapons mounted on Ferrus's master-crafted backpack poured fire relentlessly at Perturabo, forcing him to dodge again and again in ignominious fashion.
Beside the two grappling Primarchs, daemon engines shattered by the backpack's firepower collapsed into heaps of rancid sludge. Meanwhile, Iron Warriors Titans acted as long-range fire platforms, suppressing the remaining output of the master-crafted backpack. Ferrus was forced to divert part of his firepower to counter the Titan cannons firing upon him.
The two Primarchs were locked in battle, and none could intervene in their war. Ferrus could no longer spare attention for the wider battlefield around him. The Iron Warriors began to push back, and the Iron Hands who had charged into their ranks alongside Ferrus started to fall into disadvantage.
Beneath a blackstone pylon, Vashtorr chanted loudly. At its side, a Warp rift cracked open faintly, indistinct, inexpressible powers of belief swirling around the Lord of the Forge.
As Vashtorr swung its artisan's hammer, worm-like steel cables and white lightning flared. A tide of psychic force washed across the battlefield, battering the soul of every living being.
+...+
+I AM THE LORD OF ALL MACHINES!!!+
Some of the Tech-Priest and Skitarii suddenly began to scream in agony. Within the Iron Clan closest to the front, an Iron Father watched in horror as metallic worms burst violently from a Magos's head.
"For… the Omn… issiah…" Broken words spilled from the Magos's mouth.
The Iron Hands immediately leveled their bolters at the fallen Magos. After a burst of gunfire, the Magos's body lay limp upon the ground.
At the rear of the battle line, Hades—standing atop a galloping Knight—drew in a sharp breath.
He tightened his grip on Obituary. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as Hades instinctively touched the middle-finger bone of the Emperor's hand hanging at his neck. He remembered… remembered that day.
The next instant, violent green arcs of lightning erupted!
"False god," The signal howled across the battlefield, long and far-reaching, flowing like a stream into the minds of every believer in the Machine God.
Hades spoke calmly, silver anti-gravity tears surrounding him.
"This is heresy. Believers in the Truth, kill it."
The next moment, the Iron Hands witnessed in astonishment the Archmagos' clothes being torn apart by the unfolding of countless hidden weapons.
"For the Omnissiah! For Hades!!!"
<+>
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