A/N: Yep, that's where we begin - the Emperor turns to Chaos. Except that the Emperor is initially far more powerful than Horus, and correspondingly more ambitious...
Perturabo watched cautiously as the Dark Angels disembarked from their troop ships and drop pods. His warsmiths stood around him, also watching the arrival of the First Legion with a perplexed air.
It was not like the other legions to interfere in the personal work of the siege master. The Comrade folded his massive arms across his chest, his cold indifferent eyes giving nothing away, and none of the warsmiths dared ask what his thoughts were on this most unexpected turnaround.
Perturabo showed little interest in the machinations of his other brothers. He did not see eye to eye with any of them, for one reason or another, with only Horus and perhaps Vulkan as true exceptions. Fulgrim and Magnus were friends in much, but with deep, hushed disagreements as well.
He had received word that the Dark Angels were coming to aid them to find a solution to the siege of the Hansana Fortress. He had balked at that - the very idea that he, the Olympian, the siege master without peer, needed aid galled him; and as it had come directly from their father, it had made his father look all the slighter in the sullen Primarch's eyes.
Forrix, captain of the First Grand Company, bowed before his father. "Forgive me, my lord," he began, "but why has the First Legion been sent here? The Emperor, beloved by all, knows how we operate."
It was a while before his Primarch spoke, and when he did it was in that same tone that he always used, a cadence that would never let anyone know or understands what he really thought, not even his sons.
"That, my son, is a good question," he rumbled darkly.
The Warsmiths bowed as the Lion joined his brother and clasped his hand in a warrior's grip. The Dark Angels with him bowed their heads, but Mannran and Hardan, two of Perturabo's human bodyguard, noticed that the Dark Angels did this more out of instinct then any real respect for their father. When this observation had settled in their heads, they found themselves gripping their halberds tightly.
Still, despite what they and their brothers might have thought, the fact that they were in the presence of two mighty demi-gods awed them beyond belief. The human officers of the Olympian Imperial Army had to avert their eyes, lest they were unmanned by the sight of the two giants standing together.
The Lion looked over the trenches that his brother's sons had dug and nodded to himself. He had to admit that, when it came to this type of war-craft, even Rogal Dorn could learn a thing or two. The Lion found it amusing that his brothers referred to Perturabo as The Comrade; but he, like his brothers, was also curious, for instance about how the Iron Warriors, like the Iron Hands, managed to have such an affinity towards technology, which had led them to occasional alliances with the Mechanicum.
Not a lot impressed the Lion; but the way Perturabo seemed to sweep his stern gaze over a siegescape and know instinctively where to place elements of his legion and the supporting titans was nothing short of uncanny.
The people of this world, called by the locals D'reana Jackala or (as it translated into High Gothic) Sandstorm Plateau, had not wanted to become part of the mighty Imperium. They had long held onto the tenets of their own orders and beliefs and saw no reason why they should have to give them up. So the Iron Warriors had swept across the continent, a single landmass surrounded by one ocean, like hell unleashed. They may be masters of siege warfare, but when it came to close combat, then there were those that said they were more berserk then even the World Eaters or Blood Angels.
In a matter of days, the Iron Warriors had brought down the majority of this desert world's bastions, and now only this mighty fortress remained. The trenches had been dug overnight, and at a speed faster than anyone would have thought plausible; still, this was only the first parallel.
Perturabo ignored his observing brother and stood directly before the bastion. His mighty arms were folded across his chest, his harsh eyes boring into the hiding soldiers. His own enhanced senses heard the terrified hammering of their hearts, as well as the stink of their fear as it manifested in sweat and urinated britches and loosened bowels.
These were soldiers on the brink of surrender, and he had herded them, like a shepherd, into this fortress. It would not stand; he had already worked out the exact amount of firepower needed to bring it down. Still, this was what he did best, and he had some inane need to wipe the stern expression off the faces of the First Legion.
"Hear me and hear me well," he boomed, his voice causing more humans to cower in fear.
They had never had to face such an enemy before; they thought they were demons sent by the dark gods to take them into slavery or, worse, to feast on them. When the Iron Warriors had heard this, they had found some amusement in it. Had they been the World Eaters, that might have been a little bit closer to the mark. Still, it had served a purpose. They were fed up here and they wanted to be elsewhere; but they knew that the Emperor, beloved by all, would expect their father to pick a squad to garrison the world.
And that was something else that was getting on their collective nerves and rattled their father, too. They had brought worlds into the Imperium as well as any other legion; but that was overlooked, a lot.
"I will give you but one chance to lay down your arms," Perturabo's voice brought his sons out of their collective musings, "you have until sunrise tomorrow to surrender your arms and open the gates. This is the only chance you will get."
He stood for a moment longer, as if to emphasis his point. Then, turning his back, he walked back to where his brother stood and took him into the command tent, dismissing the other officers.
When Primarchs got together, it was for their ears only, and no one else had a right to listen.
"So, Lion," Perturabo closed the flap on his tent and met his brother's eyes, "what brings you to this godforsaken planet?"
The Lion smiled a little, and straight away a shiver of warning wound its way down The Comrade's spine. It was not a feeling he was used to and it was unpleasant.
"Father wishes this world to be taught a special lesson, brother, about how not to battle against his will and his sons."
"You know how I operate, Lion; I do not just murder a fortress or world in revenge for an insult to the Imperium, and they get one chance to surrender, no more."
The Lion moved round the tent, brushing his fingers against the desk that housed the plans that the warsmiths and their father made. It was a long while before he spoke, and when he did, his voice sounded haughtier then it usually did to the Lord of Olympia's ears.
"Things are changing, brother, and we are here to aid you."
"I do not need your help," he spat.
"Indeed." The Lion inclined his head a little, accepting that this was probably not the right choice of words. "My words were poorly chosen, Perturabo, and I – apologise. I just feel that it is a shame that your brave sons must forever garrison worlds that the humans can manage. "
"It's never been an issue before now." Not to anyone outside the Legion, at least. Perturabo frowned a little.
"Like I said, brother, things are changing; and if the humans within that bastion are foolish enough to continue this war, then allow me and my sons to wage war alongside you."
Perturabo nodded, but he did not like this sudden show of brotherly affection by the Lion: it was out of character. This was not the Lion El'Jonson he knew, and that was in itself cause for concern.
Dawn seemed a long time in coming for the Imperial Army and their Astarte masters. But if it was a long time for them, it was probably even worse for the warriors behind the walls of the fortress.
Once, they had been complacent in their view that these fortresses of stone could withstand any attack by any invader; and had it been any other invader that might have been true. Had it been any other Astartes, perhaps with a special exception to the Imperial Fists, they might still have held out.
But this was the Comrade, the siege master, and there was not a fortress built that he could not raze to the ground. This was why his father chose him for this kind of warfare: because despite his brothers rubbing it in his face that Dorn was also a master of fortifications, none other could do what he did.
The sun climbed the morning sky sluggishly, almost as if it knew that this might be the last day that the people of this world would gaze upon it after a journey of many millennia. Even the birds had fallen silent, and Perturabo, for a moment, felt sorrow for this world. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there nevertheless, not that he let anyone see it. He had a job to do, and he did not want his brother upstaging him like he seemed to upstage everyone else around him. This was his theatre of war, and the Lion would listen to what he had told him.
Whether he liked it or not.
Forrix shook his head as his father stood beside him. "They have not surrendered, my lord," he quietly said. "I see guns on the emplacements and along the walls. They want to die, I think."
"Then we shall give them their wish." He nodded to himself. "Shame, really, but they have brought this upon themselves… sons of Olympia, let's show them what it means to die with honour."
The warriors in the bastion fought with all they had left, though they may have been afraid of the giants in burnished silver with black shoulder pauldrons and yellow chevrons. They could not stop the rain of death and destruction as the mighty titans and guns that accompanied the Iron Warriors wherever they went brought the walls of their impenetrable fortress tumbling down.
When the restates came over the walls, both Iron Warriors and Dark Angels cut them down like they were nothing more than training dummies. The blood turned the remnants of the fortress stone red. Their rifles were no match against the bolters that barked into soft flesh, blowing them to pieces, or power swords that cut them in half, cauterising the cuts as they went with their intense heat.
Lion El'Jonson roared an affirmation to the Emperor that Perturabo was not altogether sure he had heard correctly. The two Primarchs battled their way to the central tower, although 'battled' was probably not the correct word. 'Massacred' their way would have been more to the point.
When they got to the top, Perturabo lowered his mighty warhammer and stood, looking at the terrified women and children, hidden here, huddling together. He had just killed warriors who really were no match for him or his sons, but he was not now about to kill civilian women and children. He stopped his brother as he came in, and looked at the leader of the shattered people. The sound of the guns, his power, and the screams of dying and wounded joined into a cacophony of noise that surrounded him; and it was working in breaking his will. Perturabo felt some anger, but so much of his mind was worried about the Lion that he decided to simply be merciful.
"Your women and children will live in the new Imperium; if you wish to live, stop now. You have my word that nothing more will befall your warriors; they have my respect, but they have lost against the forces of the Emperor."
The man closed his eyes and looked at the terrified family groups. They had been protecting their families. The news had reached him that not many people had survived the initial onslaught of the Iron Warriors.
He heaved a shuddery breath. "What will happen to us…will you kill me for not surrendering to you at dawn?"
Perturabo was about to answer when the Lion walked up to the terrified man and raised him off the ground.
"What are you doing?" Perturabo roared.
"Carrying out our fathers will," the Lion retorted. "Your people will live to serve the master of mankind, but you will not; he has no need for a broken leader." And with a deft flick of his wrist, the First Primarch broke the man's neck.
Perturabo stared and then roared. He grabbed the Lion and threw him clean out the room. He turned to his First Company. "Take the humans out of here. And the fighting stops now; we have won, do not allow any more to die."
"Yes, my lord." Forrix bowed his head and did as his father ordered, mobilising his company at the same time.
Perturabo stood over the Lion as he got to his feet. "What did you do that for?"
"Brother, they would have rebelled, you know this; your adoptive father's followers still vex you even now…"
"That," the Comrade hauntingly warned, "is none of your concern. I told him he was not going to die, then you killed him! You have dishonoured me!"
"I did what was the right thing to do," the Lion corrected
"That was not the right thing to do!" Perturabo, usually so calm and quiet, his brooding nature making his brothers and those who did not really understand him see him as a petulant child, roared his anger.
"You think they would have stayed loyal?" The Lion laughed incredulously. "They would have rebelled and you know it."
"I know nothing of the sort," Perturabo growled, "and I don't know why you were sent here; but get your sons and get out of my theatre."
"I told you why, brother; things are changing and you will change with them."
"On whose say so? That of a man so paranoid he sends half of his legion back to Caliban to forget them?" Admittedly, not as poisonous as the barb about Dammekos - how did the Lion know that anyway? Perturabo sneered nevertheless. "If this is your idea of change, brother, I want no part of it," he spat and stood straighter. "Get out of my LZ."
The Iron Warriors watched as the Lion led his sons away. Perturabo narrowed his eyes. There was no reason to kill that man: he had been beaten and he would have been a loyal citizen, of this the lord of Olympia was certain. And even if he had been a risk, what the Lion had done was still beyond belief.
"Get the remembrancers here," he barked, "bring the Imperial Truth to this world."
