Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 500 Red Sand

Barabas Dantioch found that Perturabo's furnishings in the main hall of the Rokos Palace had undergone subtle changes. Looking from a distance, he was sure that something was missing from the Iron Lord's table, but he couldn't be sure what it was.

"What are you waiting for?" Perturabo's voice came from the main hall, pulling Dantioch's feet over the threshold.

The war blacksmith stepped into the ivory-based hall and heard his armor knocking softly.

Perturabo's main hall was still wide and bright. The high ceiling was painted with the Iron Warriors' two hundred years of military exploits and the glorious halls they had built. The surroundings were decorated with flags and pillars. Each Iron Warrior company left its own formation number and logo on the dark iron-colored brick floor. The natural wind from the Rokos Highlands passed through the wide windowsill and swept through everything in the hall and swept out from the other side. Even today, this place is still like this.

One difference was that the Eagle emblem on Perturabo's back had been removed.

That gap hurt Dantioch's eyes faintly, and his chest seemed to let out a faint scream in his armor. In front of Perturabo, who was sitting on the Iron Throne, he leaned down and said, "Dantioch is summoned, father."

Perturabo did not start a pertinent conversation right away. His eyes pierced into the gaps in his armor like a glacier, as if he was peeling off his armor and looking directly at the scarred old flesh and blood underneath. He was holding something in his palm, but Dantioch could not see it because of the wide back of his hand.

"I remember that you no longer need this armor to survive." Perturabo said lightly.

"This is my habit, my lord," Dantioch quietly changed the address.

"What habit?"

"Remember the disaster that happened before, so as not to repeat it in the future."

Perturabo looked at him quietly for a while, and his hand holding something tightened.

"Replace it, change your memorial. I will not allow my Trident to wear a functional medical armor that can be easily penetrated by plasma."

Dantioch paused at a word in Perturabo's sentence, even if he did expect it, which was probably why Perturabo summoned him today.

"Trident?" He repeated.

"You are my second Trident Blade, Barabas Dantioch."

"Yes, my lord."

"I appoint you as one of the Tridents, as my legion's deputy, to follow me to attack the Empire."

Dantioch leaned forward again: "Yes, my lord."

"Speak out your dissatisfaction." Perturabo slammed the table hard, instantly disrupting the rhythm of Dantioch's two hearts.

"No dissatisfaction, my lord, I accept your judgment and commission, and I will never let down the Iron Warriors." The new Trident said quickly. "I will change the armor."

He felt Perturabo scrutinizing him, and the pause lasted only a moment before Perturabo issued a second order.

"Come to me, Dantioch," said the Lord of Iron, and the focus of his words was no longer on Dantioch. "In addition, you can keep your visor design later."

The Lord of Iron's mind returned to the galactic map in front of him: a bowl-shaped pit with a complex projection floating in the middle. The Primarch did not need to move his hands, but only relied on the nerves of these cables to push the information on the image to change rapidly every moment, just as the cables like the Lord of Iron's falling black hair were shining with a crystal cold light from time to time.

He was constantly calculating and reasoning, and several bright spots were gradually marked, listed in the local language of Olympia at the edge of the projection. Each place was the intersection of the subspace route, and each place was on the track leading to the throne of Terra. He was working, but the content of the work was different from the past.

For some reason, this reminded Dantioch of Olympia in recent days. He had not seen such a large-scale construction for a long time: new airports were planned, heavy transport platforms and living modules occupied the vast plains that were originally the green wilderness of Olympia, a large number of new railways and roads were crisscrossed on the map like a spider web, orbital fortresses and a large number of artillery groups were put into the production line of the factory, and as for the factory itself, a batch of civilian factories were being transformed into wartime military factories.

When doing all this, Perturabo was very good at it. He skillfully controlled every chord of the whole variation, as if he was born for this. His talent is both creation and destruction, and both can make him like a fish in water. What bound him from being happy with the latter was only the fragile morality built on him for two hundred years.

Dantioch thought, with an unspeakable complex psychology, he walked to the side of the Iron Lord and watched the galaxy that was about to burn from the same perspective as him. After he approached, Perturabo quietly put away the thing in his hand and placed it in the secret compartment of the long table.

"The Thousand Dust Sun is on the verge of destruction, and Azak Ahriman has other requests. They cannot be relied on."

Perturabo raised his head and spoke in a low voice. His fingers clenched tightly, eliminating the traces of spasms.

"There is no news from the Imperial Fists, and he is not under our control for the time being. Many other legions that can be won over have also failed to get in touch; except for the reply from the World Eaters Legion Commander Kahn, who said that Angron is not in the legion and his current location is unknown. This is not a good situation, Trident."

Angron is not in the World Eaters... Is this an excuse or the real situation? Considering Khârn's character, Dantioch thinks it is the latter. But perhaps this is even worse news: after all, the last missing Primarch was named Magnus.

"The Astronomican has just been lit, and it will take time to restore contact, my lord." Dantioch said restrainedly, "We still have a chance."

"Before the first battle begins, we must at least ensure that there are more than three legions on our side. We still have a chance, but we don't have time."

Perturabo said this, his eyes suddenly moved to the east side of the hall, and a trace of contemplation passed through his frowning brows.

He retracted his gaze and exhaled a breath of hot air from his lungs: "Help me select the battle sites. I will describe the geographical strategic significance of these sites and the differences in suitable tactics."

The Iron Lord's narration was steady and indifferent, as if the person sitting here was a machine, not a more specific person. Vigilus, Helotas, Istvaan, and even Orask, which is close to the edge of the Solar Segmentum in the Ultramarine... and Colchis.

Yes, Dantioch noticed the worlds listed in the catalog, even the former homeworld of the Word Bearers, now the Death World of Colchis. If he had not always been by Perturabo's side, he would have thought that this traitor of the Imperium of Man had foresight and had seized the homeworld of another Primarch long ago, just because Colchis was indeed a suitable battlefield...

The Trident accompanied his Primarch, thinking and analyzing the pros and cons of each location, even though he soon realized that Perturabo did not need his help. The Iron Lord alone was enough to complete the planning and prediction of all battlefield strategies, and the amount of data flowing through his mind in an instant was a laborious task that only a large company of Astartes could handle. And he, an Astartes, stood here...

...because he played the role of a living listener or recorder, and he believed that Perturabo was analyzing every aspect of his soul.

In front of Perturabo, he was a representative of the current state of the Iron Warriors, and he was confirming whether they fully supported his plan and evaluating the strength and determination of his subordinates. This scrutiny made Dantioch shudder. He tried to wipe out the fear that rose in his heart, which was the physiological reaction when facing a terrible beast.

You have to know this: when Perturabo decided to betray the throne, they actually-how strange, they actually wanted to follow the Iron Lord before they heard the reason. As early as when they first swore, Perturabo said that he was willing to share honor and disgrace with them, and they were vice versa.

"Father," he said softly, and the softness of his rough voice surprised him.

"Hmm?" Perturabo looked at him.

"Your decision is valuable." Dantioch emphasized seriously, even though he initially wanted to persuade Perturabo, who had been working all day recently, to relax for even fifteen minutes.

"Hmm." Perturabo nodded, and at this moment, the atmosphere between them seemed to ease suddenly. Dantioch regained the Primarch, and Perturabo believed that he once again possessed him and all the Iron Warriors behind him.

Under the Iron Lord's gaze, a new batch of icons appeared on the galactic interstellar map. Every remaining company of Iron Warriors engraved on the floor tiles of this hall had its own icon in the projection. Gradually, some icons flashed with a fictitious glimmer, departing from Olympia, and under the predetermined dispatch, they tried out the possibility of going to different places.

Perturabo's story came to an abrupt end when a cold wind from the high mountains suddenly swept through the hall.

He narrowed his glassy light blue eyes, tilted his face to the east side of the hall, and sat silently on the Iron Throne, still holding the unknown object in his hand.

Just around them, an invisible energy shield rippled faintly in the air, blocking the wind. Above the pillars, the originally invisible decomposition gun group quietly poked out, and the defensive laser rotated, locking onto a specific angle of view - Dantioch quickly realized that the angle was manually specified by Perturabo himself, because his own monitoring equipment did not detect anything.

"I am glad to see you again," Perturabo said, his statement was slow and methodical, like a question.

"Really, Perturabo?" The visitor did not hesitate to expose the Iron Lord's greeting.

He stepped into the room with the wind from the east, but before that, a smell of spirit and the faint smell of dried blood had been sent into the palace of the ruler of Olympia.

The originally light footsteps suddenly became heavy, showing the uprightness of the visitor: such a tall giant, the bloody aura occupied by his existence was several scales larger than his scarred and bronze armored body. The first moment he stepped into the palace, he attracted Dantioch's attention, because the entire magnificent palace was eclipsed by his primitive and rough blood.

A pair of amber eyes were brightly embedded in the visitor's dark and rough face, as if they were burning. The healed bloodstains around him depicted every turn of his cheeks, and some scars were still dripping with drops of dark blood. He held a pair of battle axes in his hands. They were not stained with blood, but were covered with dangerous scratches. Apart from that, his expression was unusually calm, with neither anger nor hesitation.

Perturabo nodded to him, letting the blood dripping down his calf soak the iron-colored ground. "I was indeed waiting for you, Angron, and here you are."

"And I am surprised at what I hear, Perturabo." Angron said coldly, his tone dangerous. He slowly raised his battle axe. The edge of the sharp weapon seemed to be damaged by long-term chopping and some kind of energy turbulence, and was covered with sharp teeth-like bumps.

Dantioch took a step forward, walked around the long table, and guarded in front of his primarch. The tip of the battle axe pointed in the direction of Perturabo and stopped steadily at a diagonal downward angle.

"You come from the webway?" Perturabo asked.

"It's full of cracks and storms, Perturabo. Every corner is filled with precarious debris and fragments, and the darkness lurks outside the barrier, watching." Angron said heavily, taking a step forward. "They died in droves, and I knew... I could feel that Magnus was gone."

"I know, and I'm sorry. Will the Webway still work?"

Angron stared at him.

One by one, the neural cables fell off the sockets. Perturabo stood up from his iron throne and walked slowly to the edge of the energy shield, his breath causing a wave of steam on the transparent shield.

"So you have found a way that still connects, Angron, and come to me for help and answers," Perturabo said. "I accept your trust."

"First tell me what happened, Perturabo!" Angron roared, shaking the hall. "Tell me what I heard! What were you thinking, attacking Terra? Is that you, Perturabo?"

"Does this disappoint you?" Perturabo asked, his voice full of unquestionable calm.

He stepped fearlessly beyond the shield's reach, grasping Angron's raised wrist with his free hand, staring into his face, which was filled with sorrow: "You should not ask if it was me, Angron, you should ask if it was still the Emperor on the throne."

Angron's veins contracted.

"Explain it all, Perturabo," he said hoarsely.

Perturabo did not let him go. "You will listen to my statement, and then make your choice, Angron. If you refuse me..."

He let the subsequent implied words dissipate into the air.

"But I believe you will choose me, because of your reason and emotion." The Iron Lord said flatly, mentioning this group of words like mentioning bolts and splints.

"Perhaps." Angron whispered, still holding his battle axe tightly. Perturabo was so close to him...

"Then, let's start with Magnus." Perturabo said, retracting his gaze and spreading his other hand to reveal a tiny red-haired model.

What he placed in his palm recently was the miniature statue left by Magnus in the past - it was no longer agile, but the unchanged exquisiteness and lifelikeness could still bring some illusory imagination.