Chapter 139: Iron Decays, the Stone Endures!
"Iron decays, the Stone endures!"
A great roar erupted from the daemonhost, exploding across the bridge of the battle-barge Iron Darkness. Whether by coincidence or design, the war-cry, transmitted through the vox-system, extended to the very lowest decks. Even the void-rats, who lived by gnawing on the scraps of flesh and blood, trembled at the battle-hungry shout.
"Shut your damned mouth!" the Iron Castellan's voice thundered through the bridge. His fist, wrapped in ferocious power, slammed into the still-shrieking daemonhost.
With a dull crack, the daemonhost's head instantly shattered. Black blood and rotten flesh splattered onto the Castellan's Terminator armor, hissing and corroding, eating away a portion of the paint.
Ever since they had engaged the False Emperor's forces, the performance of these daemonhosts had become increasingly bizarre. Their actions had become dull and sluggish, false intelligence spreading like a plague, their reaction times unbelievably slow.
And now... now this...
"Iron decays, the Stone endures!"
The war-cry echoed in the Castellan's mind, like a blunt knife, repeatedly sawing at his sanity. His fists clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched, his knuckles cracking.
Rage. Uncontrollable rage.
Countless emotions, enough to make an ordinary man fall to the God of Slaughter, ravaged his mind. He could even feel the enslaved daemons in their daemon engines letting out low, mocking laughs, the engine-forges roaring with glee.
"The False Emperor's lackeys are playing their evil tricks again," the Master of Executions, at the Castellan's side, said, his voice cold as he stared at the mangled daemonhost. His gaze, through his lenses, swept his surroundings, the crimson light of his eyes, long since corrupted by daemonic power, flickering. His armor was covered in ancient battle-scars, each scratch telling a story of endless slaughter and betrayal.
"Control yourself, Castellan," the Master of Executions said slowly, his voice carrying an unquestionable authority. "I do not wish for Idriss to return and not find his second-in-command."
The Castellan's breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, but he finally nodded, his fists slowly unclenching.
Seeing this, the Master of Executions gave him a slight nod, then stood as still as a statue.
Although they had accepted the power granted by the Chaos Gods, the Iron Warriors always believed that this power was merely a tool for them to fight against the False Emperor. The Master of Executions allowed Chaos Space Marines who had accepted daemonic power in his ranks, and he was not stingy with the use of daemonic power, but he would not tolerate any member who was seduced by a daemon and lost his mind.
A daemon resided in his eyes, allowing him to see through the soul of every enemy, to see the lies and corruption within.
"We are iron! Iron within, iron without!" the Castellan roared in a low voice, his words filled with a suppressed fury.
"Yes, we are iron," the daemonhost, its upper body gone, was not completely dead. Its lower half was still writhing, its slick colon swinging, the pipe making an intermittent sound with each contraction, as if trying to complete its comical drama. "I have no fear, I have no emotion, I have no loyalty, I have no honor, and I have no Primarch—ah, the Iron Warriors, I feel, are not as good as the Iron Circle..."
SQUELCH!
"Enough!" the Castellan roared, reaching out to grab the damned carcass and throw it into outer space.
But someone beat him to it.
The Master of Executions strode forward, his steps heavy and powerful, each one making the deck of the bridge tremble slightly. His eyes, which had long since turned into horns due to daemonic possession, stared through his lenses at this manipulated puppet. He then raised his foot and stomped down hard.
With a sickening crunch, the remains of the daemonhost were completely crushed, turned into a pile of minced meat that fused with the deck of the bridge. Black blood slowly flowed, exuding a pungent, foul stench.
The Master of Executions withdrew his foot and looked coldly at the remains. He turned and grabbed a mortal menial by the head, "How long until the enemy boards?"
The skull was under pressure, the bones creaking under the strain. A deafening pop echoed in the menial's eardrums, and then the world fell silent.
"My Lord—" the mortal menial's voice was weak and trembling, blood spilling from the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin. His eyes, bulging from the sudden increase in cranial pressure, were filled with fear and despair, but he still tried his best to maintain a final shred of respect. "I do not know." He answered with difficulty, his voice almost drowned out by the blood in his throat. He couldn't even see the observation window. How could he possibly know the enemy's movements?
The ships of the Iron Warriors followed the tradition of Perturabo, sealing all their viewports. Only through the auspex and special observation windows could one directly see the outside world.
"Lies," the Master of Executions's voice was ice-cold, as if from the abyss. His hand suddenly tightened, and with a crisp crack of bone, the menial's head was instantly crushed. Blood and brains splattered, staining his armor.
SPLATTER—
The menial's headless body fell limply to the ground with a dull thud. A few other menials quickly came forward and expertly dragged the body away, as if this scene was a common occurrence.
The Master of Executions flicked his hand, shaking off the bits of flesh and blood, his movements calm and cold, as if he had just crushed an insignificant insect. He strode towards his comrades, the joints of his armor humming in a low tone.
"How long until the enemy boards?" he asked.
"Four minutes and thirty-two seconds," the Iron Warrior replied precisely, his tone unwavering. His gaze was fixed on the data of the auspex, his fingers sliding quickly across the control console, calculating the enemy's distance and speed.
The Master of Executions nodded with satisfaction, his gaze sweeping over everyone on the bridge. The tips of his horns glowed with a pale blue light, as if he could see through everyone's soul.
"The enemy are Imperial Fists?" he asked again.
"Black Templars, Crimson Fists, Executioners," the Iron Warrior continued to reply.
"Sigismund, Polux, and Fafnir Rann's descendants..." the Master of Executions's lips curled into a sneer. Those old rivals had long since turned to dust. His opponents had changed, one after another, and yet he still stood.
His gaze swept over the image of the enemy ships on the auspex, and then he roared, "Ram them." His voice held an unquestionable resolve.
"Those are two Gloriana-class battleships, and an endless stream of escort fleets," the Iron Warrior replied calmly, a hint of a reminder in his tone. Even during the Great Crusade, such a scene was extremely rare. And they were no longer the Iron Warriors of the Great Crusade.
Lord Perturabo had abandoned almost all of the Iron Warriors. All he had with him were the newly appointed and randomly updated members of the Trident, and a handful of Primarch's guard—the Iron Circle robots.
The former first captain of the Iron Warriors, Warsmith Forrix, one of the original Trident during the Great Crusade, had been abandoned because Lord Perturabo felt he was not to his liking. Now he could only be taken in by a Chaos Lord, let alone the others.
Idriss, due to his extraordinary "networking" skills, had managed to pull together a massive force of nearly three thousand men. They roamed the galaxy, searching for the most precious materials for Perturabo, trying to win back their Primarch's favor.
However, even their warband, which was considered powerful among the Iron Warriors, was not enough to fight against such a massive fleet.
According to the unwritten rules of the warband, they should now abandon their comrades on the surface and quickly withdraw. Because even among the Iron Warriors warbands, few had a planet with shipbuilding capabilities. The complete annihilation of their fleet would mean the annihilation of their warband.
As for their comrades on the surface—good luck to them. If they could gather the sacrifices in a short time and complete the ritual to open a portal, then perhaps they still had a chance to escape.
"Ram them!" the Master of Executions's voice thundered through the bridge, his eyes crimson, as if burning with an endless fire. He slammed his fist on the control console. The metal surface instantly dented, emitting a piercing screech.
If they chose to run in this battle today, they would never be able to hold their heads high in the galaxy again.
Void combat had never been the Iron Warriors' strong suit. Moreover, the disparity in strength between the two sides was so great that even if a Chosen of the Gods were here in person, it would probably be difficult to turn the tide.
The only way to win against such odds was to board—to take the battle into the enemy's ship in the most savage, most direct way.
The Master of Executions felt incredibly clear-headed. He knew very well that if he chose to retreat at this moment, he would face a true death, not just the destruction of his body, but the complete collapse of his honor and dignity.
Right, he's lost it.
Even after being corrupted by the power of the Warp for so many years, the stubbornness of not admitting defeat still flowed in the bones of the Iron Warriors.
An "Iron Warrior" shrugged, a hint of helplessness on his face, which was hidden by his faceplate. He quickly manipulated the warship to adjust its position, while silently allocating a shuttle for himself, his movements calm and precise, as if he were long accustomed to such life-and-death situations.
There was no longer any need to be a spy in this warband.
"Master Ramesses's skill is truly profound," Romulus remarked, standing on the command platform of his flagship. His gaze swept over the chaotic formation of the enemy ship, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration. He knew what was happening on the enemy's ship, and he knew what Ramesses had done.
This trick might not be effective against some weirdos who didn't care about honor, like the Carcharodons. They never cared about honor. There were plenty of records of them running from a strong enemy in the outer dark due to battle damage. Even if you cursed the Emperor to his face, they would first go and deal with their blood and grey tithes, get back up to a thousand men, and then come back to settle the score with you.
But the Iron Warriors were clearly not in this category.
One war-cry, followed by a bit of psychological warfare, and they had lost their minds. The most fatal thing was that Ramesses, through his Warp-amplifier, had let everyone, including the daemons, hear that provocation.
If the Iron Warriors ran today without a fight, or were just casually wiped out by the sons of Dorn... then in the future, in the Warp, there would probably be legends of "Iron decays, the Stone endures" everywhere.
"Detach a battle group. Press forward, intercept the battle-barge, and conduct a boarding action," Romulus conveyed his command to the fleet. To casually detach a battle group... the extravagance of this crusade was evident.
Compared to worrying about the politics of the various planets along the way, worrying about the future of the Imperium, Romulus sincerely felt that fighting a war was a kind of enjoyment.
Satisfying!
High Marshal Helbrecht stared at the battle-barge that had suddenly broken from formation and was charging straight for the Eternal Crusader. His brow furrowed slightly, a sharp light in his eyes. He recognized this ship at a glance—it was the very battle-barge that Romulus had specifically emphasized for a boarding action.
He immediately turned and looked at Ramesses, who had just teleported to the bridge. The Librarian was standing with his eyes closed, as if listening to some distant voice.
Noticing Helbrecht's burning gaze, Ramesses slowly opened his eyes, a faint psychic glow still lingering in his golden pupils.
"Bring the Eternal Crusader closer. Launch the teleportation beacons. We are conducting a boarding action." His voice was like celestial music to the ears of the sons of Dorn. At the end, his gaze fell on the bridge officers. These people's hands had already begun to tremble slightly, their faces pale. They were clearly the unlucky ones who had lost the internal dueling election. If they couldn't fight in this battle, it would be a huge loss.
A hint of pity appeared in Ramesses's eyes, and he added, "Everyone who wants to go, can go. I will be responsible for the teleportation. The opportunity is limited." His tone was light, as if he were talking about a celebration that was about to begin. Anyway, if they died, there was a one-stop service for the Golden Throne's Legion of the Damned. If they fought well, they could even get a mark, and maybe they could be pulled out to fight again in the future.
Huh?
The "bridge officers," who had been hanging their heads in despair, thinking their lives were over and preparing to say goodbye to the Chapter and go on an eternal crusade to Cadia, their eyes suddenly lit up, as if they had been re-infused with life.
The atmosphere on the entire bridge was instantly ignited, like a searing flame spreading through the air. The banners held by the Chaplains billowed without a wind, the runes on them shining with a brilliant golden light, as if in response to the fighting spirit of the crowd. The relic-weapons in the hands of the champions also began to glow, emitting a holy light, as if cheering for the coming battle.
Everyone's eyes reflected their own name. The light seemed to be proclaiming their honor and their mission.
Forget whether I've killed anyone. Did I participate in this boarding action or not?
You could feel the surging fighting spirit in every breath. And Helbrecht, having received his answer, roared, "Did you hear that, Captain?! Bring the ship closer!"
It was so easy!
Helbrecht excitedly gripped his Black Sword. Now he didn't have to worry about the problem of allocating personnel. The enemy had made the first mistake. Once the teleportation beacons were planted, they could all go over. Then it would be a matter of individual skill.
The High Marshal watched as an Armageddon-class battlecruiser broke from the fleet, with a fleet of its own, and precisely cut off the Iron Warriors' subsequent support. Then two battlecruisers, along with the Eternal Crusader, began to approach.
They were the highly close-combat-oriented Avenger-class battlecruisers. The firepower they burst out with, under the precise control of the Archmagos, quickly overloaded the battle-barge's void shields, and then they began to concentrate their attack on its aft engines.
The Iron Warriors had truly lost their minds. They were determined to get close to the Eternal Crusader, to the point where even their standardized counter-attacks were only perfunctory. They were just charging forward.
And the precious Gloriana-class, of course, would not directly collide with a battle-barge. The advanced power system, which was state-of-the-art even during the Great Crusade, quickly maneuvered, dragging the twenty-plus-kilometer-long Eternal Crusader like a fish, missing the battle-barge that was coming straight for it.
The burning gaze of the sons of Dorn was fixed on the battle-barge that was passing on their left.
There was very little Chaos corruption on this warship. Compared to the Chaos warships that glowed with a biological light, it was a simple metallic color, just like the Iron Warriors' own color scheme. And at the stern of this battle-barge, the already heavily damaged power system was pushing the bloated behemoth to turn. The fragments that were constantly falling off with the vibration and the ship's movement left a trail, which, under the light of the star, was like fine stardust.
Archmagos Cawl's fire control was always precise. Romulus had also taken it upon himself to install automatic loading devices on every ship. The reason he used to persuade everyone was that the Emperor's flagship, the Imperator Somnium, had also used an automatic loading system, and it had received the unanimous approval of the old veterans.
After ten thousand years, for void combat to have regressed to manual loading is too heretical.
On the Eternal Crusader, the sons of Dorn were sharpening their blades. At the very front of their formation was the Phalanx Warders, in their Tartaros-pattern power armor, holding their boarding shields. The quality of the Emperor's "Stormcast" was all top-tier, all at the level of a Primarch's guard.
These elders, who in the past had always passed on their experience to the younger generations with a steady demeanor, were now like a dormant volcano, reawakening.
The enemy was Idriss, who had participated in the Siege of Terra. And on their side were the Phalanx Warders, who had participated in the defense of Terra.
"..."
Fafnir Rann, one of the commanders of the Phalanx Warders, and also the first Chapter Master of the Executioners, gripped his twin axes. To make these successors, who were ten thousand years younger, have to face these enemies from ten thousand years ago... it was their failure.
And now—
Feeling the power surging in his body, far greater than ten thousand years ago, Rann took a deep breath and looked at Ramesses, who was preparing the teleportation ritual. It was a good thing that with the help of the lords, they could once again fulfill their unfinished duty.
The Imperial warships had consciously stopped their attack on the Iron Darkness to prevent friendly fire.
"My Lord!"
Seeing the two ships completely pass each other, Rann couldn't help but urge him on. They were even more anxious than these younger ones. They had let these guys run ten thousand years ago. This time, they would not let them go under any circumstances.
"Excellent."
After throwing a pile of rocks at the predetermined marker points and finding that the landing points were all precise, Ramesses immediately began his own operation.
An Eldar Farseer was teaching Ramesses, hand in hand, a psychic application technique that could instantly project an entire legion to another area. And the transmigrators didn't have to worry about the evil beings in the Warp, so they could use certain techniques very simply and brutally.
"Immediately," Ramesses said calmly, beginning to repeat the spell. The psychic power, under the guidance of the Farseer, was precisely correcting reality. "I've tried my best to pick a good landing point for you. Be vigilant and follow Romulus's commands."
"Yes, my Lord!"
What answered him was a unified and fanatical roar.
'Excellent. Very spirited.'
Ramesses surveyed the Warp and unhesitatingly activated the spell.
"Lackeys of Chaos! Traitors to humanity!"
Rann's voice thundered through the Iron Warriors' ship. His sharp axes glinted, every swing accompanied by the tearing of metal and the splintering of bone. The movements were swift and precise, like a roaring tiger, wantonly releasing a wild desire for battle.
The axes pierced through thick armor, shattered the enemy's skull, and then split him in two. Blood and brains splattered, staining his battle plate, but he paid it no mind. Rann's mind was incredibly clear. He calmly received the combat orders from Romulus, and then swung his axe again, taking the head of another Iron Warrior.
"I am Fafnir Rann, traitors," the figure charged forward, like a war god returned from ancient times.
"Come and meet the death that was prepared for you ten thousand years ago!"
Behind him, the warriors of the Executioners followed closely, their movements in unison, a pack of bloodthirsty hunters.
This scene made Helbrecht feel a pang of envy. The Crimson Fists had Dantioch, the Executioners had Rann, but the Black Templars did not have Sigismund. It wasn't that the other elders were not good. The return of every elder was an equally important and cherished miracle for them. It was just that the absence of that legendary figure always made one feel a sense of regret.
Speaking of which, where is Lord Arthur?
Helbrecht thought to himself as he charged, a flicker of doubt in his mind. In the past, Arthur would not have hesitated to lead them on a charge. But the subsequent orders from Romulus quickly made him dismiss this doubt. His gaze swept over the battlefield, and he quickly adjusted his direction, heading for the warehouse area.
The elders needed to settle their old scores, and they had to pursue the fruits of victory.
And as the sons of Dorn fanned out, the thunderous war-cry once again echoed through the entire ship.
"Iron decays! The Stone endures!"
CRASH!
A fist shattered the vox-transmission device. The Castellan roared, "I will tear the mouths of these sons of Dorn!"
(End of Chapter)