Chapter 11: The Legion of Drudges
2026-02-27 02:13:59 — Author: One-Meter-Sixty Me
Forrix was, in truth, deeply nervous. When the Emperor had informed them that their Father had been found, his heart had surged with excitement.
But what followed sent a chill straight through the spine of every Astartes in the Fourth Legion.
Why had so many Primarchs come together to "welcome" their Father — and why were they so lavishly equipped?
Why had nearly eighty percent of the Fourth Legion's weapons and vehicles been confiscated? They hadn't even been left with more than a handful of Terminator suits.
Why had the First and Sixth Legions deployed in full force? Why had even the Phalanx, which perpetually guarded the skies above Terra, been summoned here?
The Fourth Legion's own fleet had been quietly surrounded and hemmed in on all sides. Was this truly supposed to be a father-and-sons reunion? It felt far more like a threat.
Forrix did not understand. His close friend Berossus did not understand. Not a single Astartes in the Fourth Legion understood.
The Fourth Legion had been founded upon the ruins of a recidivist fortress on the Oro Plateau of Tekhsan-Amrek on Terra.
The Emperor had conquered this region, and the fierce gun-tribes of the surrounding areas had formed the Fourth Legion's first warriors.
These resilient and ferocious techno-barbarians became the Legion's primary recruitment base.
They were savage and unyielding. The Fourth Legion proved itself during the Unification Wars, transforming its territories into one of the Emperor's most impregnable fortresses.
Perturabo's gene-seed was remarkably adaptive. The rejection rates and complications in recipients were far lower than those of other Legions, which meant the Fourth Legion's augmentation surgeries proceeded with exceptional smoothness.
This made the Fourth Legion one of the largest and earliest-established Legions, deployed alongside the First and Fifth.
After the Unification Wars, the Thunder Warriors were erased. The Astartes were formally designated Space Marines, and the Great Crusade began.
The Fourth Legion continued to distinguish itself throughout the conquest of the Solar System, winning honours in numerous engagements. Most famously, in the Battle of Meh'yasht on Venus, the Fourth Legion — personally commanded by the Emperor — defeated the deadly rock golem armies of the War Witches.
On the strength of these achievements, the Legion received its first shipment of new equipment from Mars, and went on to lead the Eighth Expedition Fleet, performing with distinction across many subsequent campaigns.
This was a source of pride for every Astartes in the Fourth Legion.
Forrix was no exception.
And so they could not comprehend what they had done wrong — what could have driven the Emperor to treat the Fourth Legion and their Father with such profound suspicion.
Fortunately, once they reached Olympia, the surrounding fleets dispersed, and the confiscated weapons and vehicles were returned.
This brought considerable relief to Forrix, who now served as the Fourth Legion's acting commander.
For years, the Fourth Legion had been exploited by Horus and the other Primarchs — treated as expendable shock troops due to their manpower and tactical flexibility. The bloodiest sieges, the most grinding defensive actions — nearly all of it had been assigned to them.
In campaign after campaign, the Fourth Legion had shouldered the heaviest burdens, paid the steepest tolls in blood, and walked away with next to nothing to show for it.
In the current Imperium, the Fourth Legion, the Star Hunters, and the Alpha Legion were virtually unknown — and this despite everything the Fourth Legion had done for humanity.
The reconquest of the forge world of Incaladion had cost the Fourth Legion dearly. In a single year, they had lost nearly thirty thousand Astartes. Veteran elites had fallen in droves. The Eighth Expedition Fleet had been virtually annihilated. The Legion had not recovered even now.
And yet, even after Incaladion was reclaimed, the Fourth Legion received no honour for it. They were still pushed to the front by Horus and the other Primarchs, used as a buffer.
They and the Ninth Legion had both been saddled with ugly nicknames. Brother Legions called them "corpse-grinders" and "ghouls" in private. The Fourth, vast in numbers and perpetually consigned to wars of attrition, had earned another name besides: the Legion of Drudges.
The shameful use of both Legions as cannon fodder and attrition tools — deplorable enough if directed at mortal auxiliary forces, but directed at brother units, it drew mockery from the rest of the Legions. And so Horus and the others always had some reassuring words ready for the Fourth and Ninth.
But who was truly a fool here? Brothers dying one by one, and in the end they couldn't even get proper wargear out of it — those "ghouls" had been reduced to a pitiable state. If it weren't for Sanguinius rejoining, Horus would still be pushing them to the very front, charging into the heaviest enemy fire with the worst equipment in the arsenal.
It wasn't that there had been no complaints within the Fourth Legion. But most Astartes had said nothing. It was their duty. That was all.
Yet this latest situation had made the Fourth Legion's warriors feel cold for the first time.
Not only had the Emperor and the Primarchs intended to handle their Father harshly at their first meeting — there were signs they meant to use the Fourth Legion as a bargaining chip against him.
The Fourth Legion were not fools. How could the Imperium's movements be hidden from them? Even the Emperor's responses to their inquiries had been primarily soothing platitudes. Once they reached Olympia, their communications had been severed entirely — even basic exchanges between ships within the Fourth Legion's own fleet had been cut off.
For the first time, the Fourth Legion's Astartes felt a creeping doubt: perhaps the Emperor and the Imperium were not worthy of the loyal sacrifices they had made.
"Forrix — how do you think Father will see us?"
This sergeant, who had fearlessly led charges through the heaviest enemy fire in siege after siege, felt nervous for the first time.
Berossus was a man of few words. His tactical skill and his courage had carried him far — but neither could conceal the anxiety he felt now.
"I don't know."
Forrix shook his head.
The man who would one day be known as the Breaker of Cities was, for now, nothing more than a newly appointed acting commander — a position he had only reached because the disaster at Incaladion had wiped out so many above him.
His frame stood out even among the Fourth Legion, where the average height was only two metres twenty. Clad in masterwork power armour, he was broader and taller still than brothers wearing full Terminator plate.
This made him something of an oddity in the Fourth Legion — a Legion of compact, solidly built warriors.
In this moment, he was little better off than Berossus. What kind of man was their Father? How could he possibly know?
A Father important enough to draw this degree of attention from the Emperor and the Primarchs was clearly no ordinary individual — though whether that was in a positive or negative sense remained to be seen.
As acting commander, Forrix bore responsibility for the Legion. Not every battle-brother was eager for the return of a Primarch. If their Father proved to be something other than what they'd hoped, some of them might quietly volunteer for suicide missions in future campaigns as a way of ending it all.
In truth, the Fourth Legion's Astartes had already begun to understand why the Emperor had gone to such lengths — the moment they arrived on Olympia.
Setting everything else aside: the Fourth Legion's thinking had been thoroughly shaped over years of service, and when they saw Abominable Intelligence roaming freely everywhere they looked, their first instinct had been to draw their weapons and engage.
It was only after the Iron Custodians intervened, and after Perturabo dispatched people specifically to explain the situation, that the Fourth Legion reluctantly accepted the reality before them.
They had been assigned to a military base.
It was located on the eastern side of the Lokhos city-state, directly adjacent to the Steel Furnace's power hub. When Perturabo had originally designed this district, he had deliberately positioned it at the node with the most stable energy supply. A Legion needed reliable logistics, constant combat readiness, and seamless integration with the city's defensive network.
In ordinary times, the Iron Custodians and Olympia's standing forces were garrisoned here.
It was vast — even with every Astartes of the Fourth Legion quartered within its walls, the base felt spacious.
Perturabo had built it to this scale long in advance. This was the military base he had forged early on, prepared for the day he would take command of the Fourth Legion.
Within a single day, the Fourth Legion had learned a great deal about their Father from the mortal soldiers and Iron Custodians stationed here.
It gave them a measure of anticipation for this Father they were yet to meet. It would have been better still if those wretched Abominable Intelligence constructs would stop patrolling openly in front of them.
"What do you think Father will do with the Legion? Will he build us into something greater — like the Blood Angels now?"
Berossus's voice carried a faint note of longing.
"I hope so. But I wouldn't dare say, Berossus."
"Father may not be what we imagine. I've heard the Emperor and the other Primarchs have treated him somewhat... poorly."
Forrix's tone was troubled.
"I believe in Father. And I believe the Emperor won't do anything to him."
Berossus didn't sound entirely certain. What the Emperor had done to the Fourth Legion had left them with grievances against the Imperium that were not easily forgotten.
Forrix said nothing more.
"Come on. Assemble the companies. Father will be here soon."
After a moment's silence, Forrix and Berossus began mustering the Legion's battle-brothers. They had no wish to make a poor impression before their gene-father.
Perturabo stood outside the gates of the Fourth Legion's compound. Calliphone and Andros followed behind him.
He had resumed his true form, and wore the armour his sister had personally selected for him from the workshop — it made his already imposing frame still more formidable.
Through his psychic senses, Perturabo could clearly perceive the Fourth Legion assembled within the base. Their disciplined ranks and imposing physiques drew the eyes of nearby Iron Custodians. The mortal soldiers watched this fearsome Legion — only ten thousand of them remaining, yet radiating a force that could not be ignored.
The gates were black, unadorned. At the centre, a single large numeral — IV — caught the dim light and reflected it coldly. Perturabo had designed it himself. Simple. Precise. Nothing superfluous.
Previously, no one had fully understood why Perturabo had placed that symbol above the base entrance. Now, many were beginning to.
On either side of the gate, two Iron Custodians in grey power armour with yellow-and-black chevrons on their pauldrons saluted him. They said nothing — only silently pushed open the heavy metal doors.
Perturabo walked in.
Ten thousand Space Marines stood in ten companies across the vast training ground, arranged in perfect formation. Their power armour was silver-grey, largely unadorned.
The armour they wore was mundanely capable. Masterwork pieces and rare weapons were scarce. Some of the Astartes wore power armour that was visibly incomplete.
The Imperium's supply chains were woefully inefficient. Whatever was good went to the Space Wolves, the Luna Wolves, and the Legions of recently returned Primarchs first. The Mechanicus was never truly aligned with the Imperium at heart, and always hoarded the best things for themselves.
By those standards, the Fourth Legion's current state was still passable. At their worst, the Ninth Legion had been far more wretched — despised by all, unable to even guarantee basic supplies, forced to charge into combat with their lives time and time again, and reduced to drafting mutants just to keep their numbers from collapsing after each campaign.
The moment Perturabo laid eyes on his Legion's condition, a cold fury flared inside him.
He did not know how the original Perturabo would have felt at the sight. But he was furious.
"Horus — if you ever make Warmaster, I'll eat my own gauntlet."
He noted the offence carefully and filed it away, then walked to the front of the formation and stopped.
His gaze swept across the ten thousand warriors. They stood between two metres twenty and two metres thirty — towering above any ordinary human, yet small in the shadow of a six-metre Primarch.
He could read the emotions in their eyes: anticipation, reverence, curiosity, and a thread of unease they could not quite conceal.
They did not know what manner of man this gene-father they had never met would prove to be. They did not know how he would treat them. In the eyes of this newly returned Primarch, were they sons — or tools?
Perturabo was silent for a moment. Then he spoke.
"I am your gene-father. My name is Perturabo."
His voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly to every corner of the training ground — the Primarch's distinctive register, deep and resonant, carrying a penetrating quality impossible to describe.
"From this day forward, I will serve as your commanding officer and lead the Fourth Legion."
He paused.
"But I will not take part in the Great Crusade. Only when you face a campaign that cannot be resolved without me will I come to the field."
A subtle ripple ran through the formation. The Astartes were trained to stillness, but the weight of those words was too great to absorb without reaction. Their gene-father, barely returned to the Imperium, was announcing that he would not participate in the Great Crusade?
"I don't know what you're thinking. But I can tell you this: I will remain on Olympia. I will research weapons and equipment here to support your wars in the Great Crusade."
"The Fourth Legion will stand down from campaigning for a period. I will reform the Legion's tactics and doctrine, and the Fourth Legion will emerge from that process far stronger than it is today."
"I have not lost my mind. I have no intention of betraying humanity. And I will not lead the Fourth Legion into the abyss."
"Nor will I do what other Legions do — plant the Imperial Aquila in every corner of the galaxy, spend your lives in service to that bloated bureaucracy, trade your blood for hollow honours that evaporate in the hand."
Perturabo's gaze sharpened.
"I have studied our Legion. And I suspect you already know how others speak of us."
"Patient labour-drones. Pack animals that can gnaw through anything. Corpse-grinders."
A faint note of contempt ran through his words.
"Does it sound glorious? Does it fill you with pride?"
A low hum moved through the formation. The expressions of the Space Marines began to shift — anger, shame, resentment — a tide of emotions churning beneath the surface of their discipline.
How could they possibly want those names? They had sacrificed so much for the Imperium — and even the small measure of honour that should have been theirs had been stolen by other Legions.
"I don't accept it either. So we will change."
"From this day forward, the Fourth Legion is renamed the Iron Warriors."
"I will train you to become the finest masters of assault and defence in existence. The territories we reclaim will be transformed into the most impregnable fortresses and the most reliable logistical foundations in the Imperium."
"You already know how to maintain supply lines, how to keep a military force operational, how to keep soldiers alive in the most brutal conditions imaginable."
"You know how to crack open the most fortified positions ever constructed, and how to achieve the greatest results with the smallest cost."
"You will have the most advanced and extensive wargear. The most stable logistical support. The most unbreakable will and character."
"We will no longer be a broken Legion. We will never again be treated as cannon fodder. I will hammer you as a blacksmith hammers iron — forging you into something that nothing can break."
"So let no one look down on us. Let no one use those names to diminish us. My sons — warriors of the Iron Warriors — you will become my most resilient, most dependable, most trustworthy soldiers."
The eyes of the Fourth Legion's Astartes began to gleam. It was the light of being recognized. Of being understood. Of having found a place where they belonged.
Perturabo looked at them, and something complex stirred inside him.
They had been used as instruments. Sacrificed as expendables. Rarely given the respect they were owed.
But that would not happen again. He had returned. The Iron Warriors would never again be condemned to that miserable fate.
"I will not take part in the Great Crusade. I will not lead you to conquer the galaxy, to spend your lives on behalf of bureaucrats. But you must go."
The Fourth Legion's Astartes exchanged uncertain glances. What did their Father mean?
"Father — we don't understand."
The tallest figure at the front of the formation — Forrix — voiced the question.
"My son. What is your name?"
"Forrix. First Company Captain. Father."
Perturabo nodded.
"Because humanity needs you. Xenos are inflicting unimaginable extermination and enslavement upon human beings. We were born to fight for those who cannot protect themselves."
"I know you don't wish to be used as tools. Neither do I. But humanity needs you — not because of the orders of bureaucrats, not because of the Emperor's will, but because in every corner of this galaxy, there are countless human beings waiting for us to save them."
Perturabo's voice deepened.
"I will remain here. I will build our fortresses, develop new weapons, forge better wargear. While you fight on the front lines, I will ensure you have the finest weapons, the strongest armour, and the most abundant supplies."
"But the fighting — that must be done by you yourselves. Because that is your duty. And it is your glory."
"Not for me. Not for the Emperor. Not for the Imperium. But for the human beings who need protecting. For your own dignity. For the oaths you swore as Space Marines."
"Do you understand?"
When Perturabo finished, the base fell into silence — broken only by the movement of patrolling Iron Custodians and automata.
Thud.
Forrix was the first to kneel. Then, like a chain reaction, every Astartes of the Fourth Legion followed — dropping to one knee as one.
Silver-grey power armour gleamed in the light of the training ground. No one spoke. But the power contained in that silence was louder than any battle-cry.
Perturabo looked at them, and a feeling unlike anything he had known rose inside him.
It was a call from deep within his genetic code — a bond that bound them together inextricably.
These were not the daemons he had seen in the Warp. Not the wretches he had enslaved. Not replaceable components in a mechanism. These were his sons. His warriors. His Legion.
The feeling ran deeper than anything he had built with the Iron Custodians or the automata — that had been constructed step by step over years. This was something else.
They would follow him without reason. Believe in him. Fight for him. Die for him.
It was a responsibility. And a weight.
"Rise, my sons."
Ten thousand warriors stood as one — perfectly synchronized, as though a single body moved.
Perturabo turned and walked toward the edge of the training ground. He stopped after a few steps and looked back.
The base gates swung open slowly.
"From this moment, I will personally begin the reformation of the Fourth Legion. This is the first step."
He issued commands through his neural cables. The Logic Engine moved instantly.
Countless masterwork power armour sets and weapons from the production lines were carried out by the automata.
Grenades. Bolters. Plasma guns. Terminator and Centurion armour — delivered piece by piece.
Beyond the gates, vast steel vehicles rose up from underground. Among them, several Achilles-pattern Dreadnoughts walked steadily forward.
When had the Fourth Legion ever witnessed anything like this?
Even a Mechanicus forge world might struggle to produce this volume of equipment and vehicles all at once.
Their Father had only just returned to the Imperium — so why did he already possess this much Imperial equipment and materiel? And sacred Dreadnoughts?
Those were reserved exclusively for the Legio Custodes!
But before the Fourth Legion's Astartes had finished being astonished, the ground began to tremble.
On instinct, the Astartes shifted into combat readiness — but when they saw the Iron Custodians' faces betray not even a flicker of reaction, they understood. This must be another of their Father's works.
Then they saw what was rising from beneath the earth — and every one of them went still.
Twenty-two enormous humanoid Titans emerged from underground.
Each stood over a hundred metres tall. Their hulls bristled with an array of gun barrels and missile systems. Their left arms mounted either massive Volcano Cannons or oversized bolt cannons.
Their right arms — uniformly equipped with massive power claws — set them apart from any Imperial Titan pattern ever seen.
Every one of these Titans possessed the firepower of an Imperator-class god-machine, and each moved with a fluidity that far exceeded any Imperial Titan — equally deadly in close quarters and at range.
These were the superweapons Perturabo had constructed after the original Titan design, and they would make the Fourth Legion unstoppable in the wars ahead.
And alongside them, Perturabo had produced matching Warlord-class, Warbringer-class, Reaver-class, and Warhound-class Titans — all sealed in underground storage.
This was what Abominable Intelligence could do. How could the Mechanicus's hand-crafting efficiency possibly compare with a production line?
Perturabo was already fabricating warships kilometres, even tens of kilometres in length as casually as rolling out dumplings. A few Titans were nothing beside that.
Even their Void Shields were fitted to the highest possible standard. Every Titan and every warship had been equipped with a minimum of twenty-two layered Void Shields, stacked concentrically — enemy long-range fire was utterly useless against such near-absolute defence.
Unless an opponent's technology matched that of Golden Age humanity — capable of ignoring Void Shields outright — or their physics-defying force was on the level of the Necrons — who could simply hammer straight through with raw material force — the only options remaining were overwhelming direct bombardment or a boarding action.
Ship-to-ship broadsides were sometimes unavoidable, but in a straight contest, what warship could trade blows with the Imperium's iron behemoths? Even the Necrons' living metal would have to carefully weigh whether it was worth the trade.
"From this day forward, the Iron Warriors will never again want for equipment. Every world we bring under our dominion will become our most solid foundation."
"Iron begets strength. Strength begets honour. Honour begets faith. Faith begets iron."
"We are the Iron Warriors. Steel without and steel within."
Perturabo stood in the shadow of the Titans. Yet no shadow could diminish the Iron Lord's presence.
"Iron begets strength. Strength begets honour. Honour begets faith. Faith begets iron."
"We are the Iron Warriors. Steel without and steel within."