Chapter 291: Perturabo: If Only Dantioch Were Here
He buried his sour emotions deep. Within the silent and massive bridge, a series of meticulously planned star-lanes gradually took shape. With the authority and connection he was born with, he commanded his mortal slaves in the material universe, manipulating them with his thoughts like the strings of a puppet.
As early as the Tenth Black Crusade, launched by Abaddon, Perturabo had relied on the powerful logic-engines of the Iron Blood to calculate a warp-route for Abaddon to break out of the Eye of Terror, and had provided him with the necessary technical support. Now, everything was gradually taking shape under his careful planning.
But the Lord of Iron was in no hurry. After venting the emotions that had been suppressed for millennia in a single resentful outburst, he gazed at the network of veins on Midgardia, and at the fleet that encircled the planet. This was a truly massive fleet, composed of Chaos traitors. There were battleships and cruisers from the renegade Imperial Navy, battle barges and strike cruisers carrying Space Marines, Arks of Omen from the Dark Mechanicum, and they carried Legion warbands, renegade chapters, fallen mortal troops, and traitor Titan Legions.
A thousand engines, like a drumbeat, pounded against the Chaos barrier. Countless warriors roared in battle. In the center of the fleets of the Legion warbands that had come at his call, there was even a Gloriana-class battleship that could rival the Iron Blood. The Conqueror, led by the 'Betrayer' Khârn of the Twelfth Legion. A sergeant of the Third Assault Company during the Great Crusade, now the lord of the 'Oathbreakers' warband, he was the most powerful force to emerge from the splintering of the World Eaters Legion. He had taken control of the Gloriana-class Conqueror during the First War for Armageddon.
Perturabo's mind quickly recalled the other's data. In the Siege of Terra, he had, by himself, commanded the entire battlefield, especially the legions whose primarchs had already lost their personality and reason, like the World Eaters. So he naturally remembered this warrior who had once fought under his command.
This made Perturabo sigh at the vicissitudes of fate. He thought of Barban Falk. These minor figures who had risen in the post-Great Heresy era had, in the absence of their primarchs and the disintegration of their legions, shown an astonishing leadership talent. Even those who had been the first under the primarchs, such as Khârn or Forrix, had to acknowledge their status. They had re-united the shattered legions, had gathered the soldiers who had lost their primarchs, and had begun to lead this force with new ideas.
And now, they would submit to a greater authority.
Perturabo's gaze rested on the massive fleets for a moment, and then he looked away. He had no doubt that this was the peak of the Legions' power since the Siege of Terra. But it was not enough.
Anger, or jealousy, did not interfere with his judgment. He knew very well that these members who had turned to Chaos had no discipline. Even if they had gathered here because of his authority and his reimbursement of their combat equipment, in a large-scale battle against the Imperium, to rely on them was a fool's dream. Perturabo had personally watched the disciplined and glorious War Hounds be turned into a group of butchers who only knew how to kill by the Butcher's Nails. And the gifts of the Chaos Gods were far more terrible than the Butcher's Nails.
So in the face of these Chaos warriors who had gathered under the Primarchs' call, Perturabo was not as welcoming as he appeared on the surface. He had made his own sons, who were still loyal to him, draw a clear line with them, and had greatly reduced the tactical objectives they could achieve in his calculations. He had already suffered a great loss once.
The surrounding Chaos warband lords had dispersed on the spot after responding to Perturabo's call. No one knew what they were thinking in their hearts. Perturabo didn't care. He was focused on his battlefield simulations.
The data-stream rushed in the Lord of Iron's consciousness. Every skirmish, every large-scale conflict, would generate a sea of information. This data needed to be constantly reviewed, supervised, and corrected.
Forrix stood silently at his side, watching his gene-father's focused profile, a look of nostalgia in his eyes—just like in every battle of the past, Perturabo would throw himself into the battle plan, forgetting to eat and sleep. Before the mission was complete, he would always stand firm before the strategic table, not moving an inch. Yes, just like this, Forrix thought. Just like in the past, he would obey the Lord of Iron's command and win victory for him.
But at the same time, he also felt a slight confusion. Forrix carefully watched Perturabo's expression. The malice and jealousy that rose with his thoughts were real, but he was now rarely disturbed by these thoughts. This made the battle-hardened Warsmith's brow furrow unconsciously.
"Come with me," after a long silence, Perturabo suddenly turned.
Forrix stepped forward. His gaze discreetly swept over the screen. His long experience in assisting with battle simulations told him that the result of this simulation was not ideal. He instinctively fell into thought, hoping to be able to help his gene-father with his meager strength.
"..."
Noticing Forrix's small movements, Perturabo continued to walk ahead, impassive. The internal space of the Iron Blood was larger than in the past. The various corridors and compartments had been heightened. Because after his ascension, Perturabo was so tall, like a Titan cast of iron and silver.
Click-hiss—
The airlock released the air. Forrix followed Perturabo into the cabin. It was a small room connected to the bridge's command center. In the center of the room was a simple chessboard. There were twenty of them in total. And at the edge of the room, there were also four distinctive chairs.
"Sit," Perturabo said, coming to the seventh position and beckoning his son to sit.
"Yes, my Lord." His gaze rested on the extra chair for a moment. Forrix stood before the chessboard. After all, for a daemon Primarch, a chessboard that he needed to sit down to operate was too large for an Astartes.
The chessboard was circular, carved from stone, and was evenly divided into black and white squares. He took the black pieces. Forrix took the white.
The game on the board had already progressed several steps. The white pawns were arranged around the chancellor's position. It was clear that this was not their first time here.
'Why do I keep coming back to this place?' Forrix, standing on the other side of the Regicide board, was a little bewildered, his fingertips unconsciously tracing a cold piece. After regaining the meaning of battle, this flexible-minded, emotionally delicate Warsmith had also gradually regained his ability to think.
His gaze swept over the crisscrossing black and white squares on the board. The unfinished games were like frozen battlefields. And the Primarch would temporarily put aside his duties and come to this quiet cabin alone to play with him. This was very unusual. When had his own Primarch become like this? To be honest, ever since he had returned, Forrix had felt something was not right. Their Primarch seemed to have become less harsh on himself and his sons. Even his way of thinking had changed a lot. Just like the words he had said to those lords before.
Forrix thought silently. He could feel Perturabo's envy, jealousy, and hatred for those brothers, but he could also hear that the Lord of Iron's words were more like slogans. The Lord of Iron thought so, but he would not necessarily do as he said.
"To defeat something, you must first understand it. I need to observe the present from a past perspective," Perturabo's low voice broke the silence.
Forrix immediately looked up and met the dark pupils that were particularly sharp in the reflection of the cold light from the ceiling, as if they could see through the doubts in his heart.
After a brief reunion, Perturabo was very satisfied with Forrix. This master of assault had not regressed. His mind had not僵化 in the long years. And his past as a muddled observer had also given him a more intuitive understanding of the current state of Chaos. This was an excellent opponent. One could only say that pretending to be confused was not necessarily a bad thing.
Compared to those fools whose brains had been pickled by the blessings of Chaos, Forrix, due to his past of being too much of a slacker, although his personal strength was behind those so-called veterans of the Long War, had retained an abnormally clear mind.
"Yes, my Lord," Forrix replied again, and then picked up a piece.
Forrix had always been a nimble player, just like his attitude towards Perturabo. He could always obey, but he would also refute him when the Primarch thought it necessary. But sometimes, his delicate emotions would seem a little boring. After all, the voice that Forrix was making was not a voice that truly carried personal emotion.
As the pieces moved again, Perturabo's lips curled slightly. He pushed a piece, and then looked up at his son. At this moment, his brow was slightly furrowed, his gaze wandering on the board. He was recalling past battles, and thinking about the next defense that would satisfy the Lord of Iron.
If only Dantioch were here, Perturabo thought.
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