Strategos Hieron looked upon Hyelegion, its ring of orbital shipyards and processing facilities glinting in the light of its nearby orange dwarf, the yellow light bathing the smoggy planet in a blanket of warmth. A near literal swarm of transport craft, military vessels, and trading barques streamed to and from the planet, giving the planet's citizens a near limitless supply of commodities, goods and services, and work, for every three vessels that left with guns gleaming and hulls of exemplary craftsmanship, cargo holds full of exotic goods and materials, there was a vessel that limped into port, hull and superstructure gashed and torn apart, flames engulfing decks upon decks, and skeleton crews wailing of the predations of pirates in need of new blood and extra bodies.
This world was the Iron Kings' select supply yard for warships and resupply in the Helosse sub-sector, and the world enjoyed the protection of the Iron Kings indefinitely, so long as they provided the necessary products in exchange. Fleets of warships for sectors millions of lightyears away were built here, and the shipyards of Hyelegion were known outside the Haxan Sector for producing vessels and crews of sterling quality and in abundance.
"With respect, Lord, I am unsure if your request is feasible at this time," a voice to his rear said, full of trepidation.
He turned from the viewport to a man dressed in a menagerie of expensive materials. He wore a tunic, parted, with a lappet hanging down in the front, embroidered and covered with patterns of fine quality adorning the silken material, reaching his knee in length. A mantle covered his left shoulder, with folds designed to appear graceful completing the garment. Gold armlets covered his arms, twisting three times around the fair skin of the man's arm, with golden rings with sigils and seals adorning the fingers. A diadem of gold rested upon his head, a mass of wavy, compact, curly hair surrounding the symbol of office. A fine, dark beard clung to his face. It was arranged in four rows of small tight curls, and extends from ear to ear around the cheeks and chin, neatly trimmed and well cared for. The man had a face of royalty, lacking any obtuse blemishes, but appeared older than his years, lines seemingly etched into his countenance and carrying an expression that spoke of decades of rule and unending service.
"Are you reneging on your end of our compact, Master Shipwright?" he asked.
A jolt of fear passed through the man at the astartes' words, sufficient enough for the astartes to be satisfied, but he had nothing more to fear from him. Hieron had no intention of actually harming the mortal. He was a loyal imperial servant, and thus deserving of his protection, regardless of their character, but this particular individual did not need to know that. He found that a healthy dose of fear made anyone efficient in what they did when an astartes asked it of them, and he was loath to replace efficiency with bureaucracy and useless blathering that led to nowhere. Especially with those not directly under his purview.
"No! Of course not, lord, but to construct an entire strike cruiser at this time would present a timetable that, while acceptable to most, would be unfeasible."
"Why would that be, Master Shipwright?"
"We have been contracted by the Scaria and Spartus sectors to produce five battle group's worth of vessels each, all with a Mercury-class battlecruiser as the preferred flagship for Battlefleet Scaria and Battlefleet Spartus, with an emphasis on interdiction and long range operations, requiring our best shipwrights and tech adepts. It is estimated that it would take 450 years in order for work to begin on the strike cruiser, lord, and your specifications for the strike cruiser with increased holding facilities, while in most circumstances wouldn't present an issue, would only increase the time needed for construction. Your request for a strike cruiser within 20 years, lord, is simply untenable. I beg for your forgiveness, lord, but we simply cannot build it within the timeframe you desire."
Hieron hummed in thought, seeming to ponder on what to do, but he already had an idea ever since they made wake for the shipyards. The battleship, an Oberon-class warship named the Loyal Parable , took damage during the engagement, but nothing that a moderately technologically inclined shipyard could repair within a few years. The Imperial Navy Elements were duly informed of the fleet being captured with few losses, and were grateful for the vessels returned to their possession, yet were not told of the fate of the battleship, all but confirming its destruction in the engagement in the minds of Imperial Naval High Command, all of it to obfuscate his true intentions.
He wanted the warship for his own. It was clear to all who had the ken to perceive such things that he was immediately taken by the battleship, taking strolls through the hundreds of decks encapsulating the vessel, seemingly memorizing every nook and cranny. He had taken the admiral's quarters during the three month long trip back into the Helosse sub-sector, and had familiarized himself with how the ship functioned, how the crew operated, and everything in between.
"Master Shipwright, you are informed of the battleship in our possession, yes?"
The man, prostrating himself before the astartes in the hopes of forgiveness, looked up at the trans-human with confusion at the sudden switch in topics, but nonetheless moved to answer, "Yes, lord. I am informed."
"What are the estimates on the length of repairs for the damage?"
The man immediately began to think, a look of intense concentration and thought upon his countenance, his hand absentmindedly began to stroke his beard. He had risen to his position through a combination of noble birth, royal ties and unequalled skill in the shipyards, and he was touted by those supporters of him more vocal than others to be the best shipwright in the segmentum, bar none. He had neither confirmed nor denied such claims, preferring his work to be what outsiders look to as an answer, and he put his calculating mind to work.
"The damage itself is nothing worth noting, merely minor hull damage and damaged inner sub-systems, as well as depleted munitions and a lack of viable crew. The void shields are in need of replacement, the damage to them too great to repair in any meaningful timescale-."
"Master Shipwright, the length of repairs?" he emphasized, trying to direct the man back to the point at hand.
"Oh, yes lord. Best estimates place the length of repairs at roughly a year, two if the vessel is to receive a full complement of crew and armsmen and competent command staff."
"The crew is irrelevant, so a year then?"
"Yes, a year at most."
A nod of satisfaction.
"Good, then I would have you repair the battleship in earnest. I trust this shall not be an issue?"
The man was no fool, and saw the chance at penance and the opportunity for the compact to be renewed, guaranteeing his world's safety until the chapter had need of his shipyards once more.
"Of course not, lord. We shall begin repairs right away."
The Strategos dare not try to ask for modifications for astartes usage to be done unto the warship by anyone not of the Tagma , no matter their level of expertise in the art of ship building. The shipwrights sworn directly to the chapter, few as they were, would be sufficient to make such modifications, making certain that his intentions were fully concealed to those that would take issue with his actions.
As he returned to the Iron Vigil , Tyrannus was there to meet him, accompanying his lord as he made his way to the holding facilities. He was concerned about his lord, in no small part due to the long stretch of silence aboard the Loyal Parable shared between his liege and the traitor, and the utter rage and anger in his master's subsequent words, and his demeanor following the battle. He felt the shame, the indignation and helplessness his master exuded, hidden by a thin veil of confidence and strength, something he had never felt from his liege in all of his centuries of service, and that concerned him. The discussion his liege and the traitor held must have rattled him beyond anything they had encountered before, and he intended to find out what was said. It wouldn't be easy, his lord had been quiet, directing conversation away from the incident and onto other subjects quite successfully, deceiving all, even his Exkoubitoi , but not him. Not Tyrannus. He would help his liege, in any way he could.
"Have the prisoners been treated per protocol, Tyrannus?"
The First Kentarch took a moment to answer his liege, so consumed by his thoughts that the words of his master took a moment to register, but a look from Hieron quickly pushed all other thoughts from his mind.
"Yes lord. The Chief Apothecary was quite insistent on thoroughly checking every single prisoner within our possession after you notified him of the implanted explosives, even going so far as to run tests and perform scans on the children," he explained.
Hieron nodded, pleased with his apothecary's diligence and thoroughness. He was surprised, and shocked to find young children, thin and malnourished, aboard the vessel, mingling amongst the crew and speaking to them as if they had known them all their lives. To his horror, he had discovered from conversations with the prisoners that the Iron Immortals had started breeding programs among the more fertile of the crew, picking the cream of the crop, the most genetically advantageous and promising, to breed with one another to produce a more skilled, efficient and long term solution to the ever decreasing crew population. Some had served aboard this vessel all their lives, never knowing the fresh air, clean water, and nutritious food of a homeworld, recycled equivalents being their only experiences. He vowed to himself that they would know what a true life was, and that they would know peace, safety and prosperity before they passed.
"How many explosives did he find?"
"In total he recovered 15,000 explosive devices, all crudely made and implanted. He remarked that whoever had created these devices was sadistic, but clever."
"I found them abhorrent, in all honesty, but I will admit that the thought of using the mortals as a weapon escaped me. It has been so long since we've had to suffer such things that I had momentarily forgotten such tactics existed."
"Only the most depraved of the enemy would think to use such tactics, lord, and unfortunately we happened upon such foes who specialized in that insanity and cruelty. I truly hope that this is the last we will see of such ilk."
Hieron knew in his twin hearts and soul that they will encounter such breeds of monsters again, soon, and dreaded such moments. Until he and the Tagma personally wiped out all traces of such sordid foes, they will plague all innocent servants of He Upon the Throne with unholy abandon, and will inflict terrors and horrors unseen since the ancient times of the Heresy. It would be his life's work to see such vile creatures eradicated, and their brutality forgotten by the galaxy for all time. He just hoped that he would live to see such righteous work done proper.
"I hope for such as well, Tyrannus. Have they settled in? Nothing detrimental nor problematic has occurred?"
"Nay, lord, the prisoners have settled in well. Some are still in shock that they were spared, even more so that astartes are the ones that are the main proponents of such treatment. From a few conversations I've overheard from the bulk of the prisoners, they expected to be executed on the spot, or delivered to an inquisitorial detachment for judgment, torture, and summary execution."
Hieron scoffed at the mention of the Inquisition, his temper, a thing most arduous to rouse, flared at the idea of handing subjects of He Upon the Throne, who deserved and were willing to find repentance and forgiveness, to those fanatical, trigger-happy hypocrites. They were more likely to find salvation in the malignant powers of Chaos than in the arms of the Inquisition, many loyal servants slaughtered without mercy by the whims of an eccentric, flamboyant no-name inquisitor and their retinue of oddities, heretics and xeno lifeforms.
"Send the chaplains, and have them comb through the prisoners and look for signs of corruption. Isolate those that possess them, and see if they can be saved. If not, deliver unto them the Emperor's Mercy. Once that is done, have them convert the prisoners into willing, loyal servants of He Upon the Throne, and they shall remain here until this task is complete."
"Yes lord, I shall have this done."
They reached the holding facilities, an expanse of holding cells that were more abundant on the Iron Vigil than any other battle barge he had personally visited. Hundreds of thousands resided here, and hundreds of prisoners looked and stared at the pair as they walked through the facility, some in awe and wonder, others with suspicious and guarded gazes. He nodded their way, surprising a good majority of them with his recognition before disappearing further into the facility, towards holding cells increasing in security and complexity, meant for more resistant and dangerous occupants that weren't able to be held in the normal holding facilities. In one of these cells resided Hephaestion, the traitor that had surrendered aboard the Loyal Parable to Hieron.
As the two stopped before the cell, he noted that the traitor's arm had been healed, scar tissue and grafts covering the forelimb, clothed in a simple, milk white chiton . The traitor was ancient, older than even he, as many old scars covered his ivory complexion, but he moved as if he were in the prime of his youth, full of vigor and emotion. Sky blue eyes stared at Hieron and Tyrannus, his mind as calculating as one of the magi of the Mechanicus. Yet there was suspicion and paranoia in the calculating gaze, something that Hieron had expected, but didn't care for. The traitor had no option left but to trust him and his intentions, or face his death. Either would satisfy him, but he would much prefer that the traitor see sense and return to the fold as the prisoners would.
"You have recovered well, I assume?" he asked the traitor.
Hephaestion glanced down at his arm, his left hand idly rubbing at the scars and skin grafts.
"I have, lord. Your apothecarion is extremely skilled in their work."
"Good. I have come here not only to ask of your health, but to learn all that I can about your former comrades of the Iron Immortals."
Hephaestion sighed to himself, seeming to expect this, and resigned himself to answering the questions. He had given this course of action a fair amount of thought as they traversed the warp, and had thought about the actions of his captors. They had granted him mercy, and were seemingly genuine in their offer of clemency and repentance for his actions. They were cruel. This must be a trick, a ploy to give him hope, but nothing about their behavior has indicated such foul intentions. Besides, he couldn't return to the warband. He would be killed on sight, and he would much prefer to keep breathing than be a smear of blood and crushed metal on the deck plates of Damophon's warship, and these loyalists were the best hope of that happening, so resolved to aid them for as long as possible. At least until he could find a way to escape.
"What is it that you wish to know?"
"What is their total strength? I doubt that your warband only consisted of the warriors in the fleet, and since Damophon wasn't among your number, this group was not as important as to warrant your leader's presence."
"You are correct in your assumption lord. We number in totality around 5,000 warriors of all types; from the foolhardy warriors of Angron's ilk, to the exhibitionists and hedonists of Fulgrim's brood, to the siege experts of our Primarch Perturabo's genetic line. All are welcome, so long as they submit to Damophon's authority and strength, but these three consist of the majority of the warband."
"What of the Alpha Legion? We encountered a number of them aboard the battleship and you told us about the marine who commanded the fleet."
"They are the second smallest in number among the warband, only around 250 claim Alpha Legion heritage and follow Iovinus. They were a nuisance, always blocking or hindering Damophon's plans by implementing their own, with Iovinus never explicitly calling for Damophon's removal, but his actions spoke for himself."
The mention of the marine had his hackles raised, rage bubbling below the surface of the stoic front he presented, but he forced himself to calm. His rage, his indignation would do nothing for him now. Better to utilize it when the target of his ire is within his reach and vulnerable.
"Why are they making forays into Segmentum Tempestus? What is their purpose?"
"To establish an empire of Damophon's own making."
A moment passed in silence, both loyalist marines taking in the information in stride. Taking this silence as permission to continue, the traitor began to speak.
"He wishes to rival those warsmiths who call him weak. He wants to create a self-sustaining, self replicating edifice in the galaxy for all to see, to showcase his strength, intellect, and power so that those who he wishes to rival and equal may recognize his brilliance. He wishes to recreate a legion with a powerbase that can withstand all that the decrepit Imperium and followers of Chaos can throw at it, and win."
This shocked the loyalist marines, who had assumed that the actions of the warband was mere unchecked and aimless looting and plundering, indulging in their baser urges without care upon a hapless population bereft of protection. Raiding and pillaging they were able to handle without much doctrinal, strategic and tactical changes. But a burgeoning traitor empire on their doorstep, however, was a different threat entirely, and must be dealt with in a most vicious and exacting manner, requiring the Iron Kings to leave their sub-sector for long periods of time without resupply and engage in the politicking and bickering with other elements of the Imperium. Something that Hieron loathed in its entirety.
"If his goal is to recreate a legion, then he has succeeded. He already has 5,000 warriors under his command," Hieron began.
"More than enough of a threat to warrant a crusade," Tyrannus added.
The traitor shook his head at their naivety, lamenting that these loyalists were ignorant of what a true legion of astartes looked like, and the sheer strength, power, and force of will that came with it. He remembered in times long gone a legion of astartes that could weather any storm, complete any task, and endure any privation without complaint, without comment, holding a will of iron and grinding the enemies of the Emperor into dust under the heels of their power armor. That was before He came. Then they became the remorseless, merciless 'Corpse Grinders' that were so reviled by their fellow legions, paranoid and cold to their cousins, who expected praise for tasks that were needed done, but came with no glory. The poison of envy and wounded pride infected the legion, and were easy prey for Horus' honey sweet promises, not seeing, or ignoring, the hollowness in the words and the scorn that the other legions still held for them.
Damophon would return them to greatness. He would bring back the legion of old, before the coming of the Primarch, and they would finally achieve the recognition and praise that they deserved. All the while rejecting the dogma and hypocrisy of both the Imperium and Chaos. At least, that was the idea when he pledged his loyalty to the warsmith. Now, the dream was warped, bent more towards destroying the Imperium at any cost, allying with Chaos worshipping fools and accepting others in their ranks, those that would dilute the ideals that the Grand Battalion held when they set out from their legion during the flight to the Eye. He could no longer call himself one of Damophon's ardent supporters, being replaced by hedonists and berserkers who cared nothing for what the warband stood for, only joining for the slaughter and indulgences of sensations and depravity.
"You loyalists have no idea the sheer size of a legion at its peak. The whelps of Guilliman numbered around 250,000 before the Heresy, the largest of the legions. My legion numbered 180,000 in total. Damophon intends to reach that number and exceed it."
Hieron could scarcely believe what he was hearing. A legion of traitors in the making, hundreds of thousands strong, and on his doorstep. Something was building in his breast, a feeling that made his twin hearts pump like pistons, akin to what he felt during battle, but different. He suspected what the feeling was, but vehemently rejected his initial findings. He couldn't feel fear. He was gene coded and trained to not even entertain the idea of such a thing. He was an astartes, one of the Emperor's chosen warriors. He knew no fear. What he was feeling at the moment was what the mortals would call concern. Yes, that was the word, concern. He was concerned about the potential destruction, loss of life and prosperity that such an event taking place would undoubtedly bring along with it. The loyal, innocent servants of He Upon the Throne would be reduced to refugees at best, destitute and clinging to whatever scraps they could bring along with them, or at worst slaughtered corpses, the worlds of Segmentum Tempestus burning in wrathful fire, and the Imperium suffering as a whole. He could not, and would not countenance the remorseless slaughter of innocents of the Imperium, and wouldn't allow such wanton devastation to go unchecked.
"Where is his base of operations?"
"Outside the segmentum, but the world has outlived its usefulness. He is scouting and searching for the perfect world to be the seat of his new empire and base of operations for his unborn legion. He operates out of his flagship, the Supremacy , and its sister ship the Basilisk , two Lunar-class Cruisers. A fleet of escorts, frigates and destroyers surround the twin cruisers at all times, rarely leaving them unattended for long."
"Any information on where they are headed now?"
"The latest movements were to capture mining worlds and take their entire output of raw materials. Your chapter halted such actions in their tracks. In case this operation failed, he planned on moving through clusters of agri-worlds, abducting the majority of the fighting age population of both male and female. He would turn what eligible males there were into new astartes, and have the rest put through a program to create new generations of workers, soldiers and future astartes candidates. Then after that burn through manufactoria worlds and seize their output. My estimation is that he is already on the move after having heard of this defeat. But as for specifics, I cannot say as to where he might go. He didn't discuss it. Keeps such things close, doesn't trust his subordinates with such vital information."
Hieron knew where he would get such specifics, but dreaded the inevitable interaction all the same, despite it helping rid the Imperium of a nascent traitor legion.
"Any information on his assets? War gear, weapons, vehicles, anything?"
He shook his head again, and Hieron felt the inkling of indignation, as if they were being regarded as lessers by their superiors.
"He has more than enough weaponry and material to wipe out two chapters with ease if he can pin them down long enough, particularly in superheavy armor. His prized possessions are two Fellblade superheavy tanks, left over after the Siege, and I'm certain that you don't have a counter to them. War gear that would be considered archaic are his preferred stock; Phobos-pattern bolters, Mark II and III war plate, Cataphractii terminator plate, and a standard complement of Rhinos, Predators and Land Raiders for a Grand Battalion sized element.
"If you were to face him alone, you would be slaughtered quickly, and without mercy," Hephaestion said.
This task was looking more and more difficult with each detail the Iron Warrior revealed, and he would have to request the full strength of both the Noble Crusaders and the Nova Rampagers in order to even have a chance at stopping the war lord.
As if hearing his internal thoughts, or through the machinations of his own calculating mind, Hephaestion moved to speak, "Even if you were to combine the strength of three, even four chapters, he would utterly annihilate your forces, and expand the territory of his empire in the making. The only way to destroy him, is to outnumber him and outfight him with superior firepower and overwhelming force of arms."
"What are you suggesting, traitor?" Tyrannus prodded.
"You must expand your total strength to exceed his own if you hope to have a definitive chance of victory. In any engagement, you must outnumber him in weapons, armor, soldiers and more. That is your only hope."
Legion Building, that was what he was suggesting. Expanding the numbers of his astartes beyond the strictures of the Codex. While he had much disdain for the organizational document, as it restricted what he could do in response to the innumerable threats to his charges with its limit on how many marines a chapter could have, he mostly adhered to it to keep the ever watchful eye of the hated Inquisition at bay, so that his other deviations from the document would be hidden from unwanted attention and better left alone. His practices for prisoners would already be grounds for investigation, coupled with his machinations to abscond with an Imperial Navy battleship and how his fief had dedicated regiments of baseline soldiers ostensibly under his direct command, would warrant accusations of treason and sedition. The chapter would be forced on a penitent crusade that would bleed them dry and have their relics, and their homeworld taken from them, and he would countenance no such thing, not without a fight.
Then again, perhaps it will be tolerated once the wider Imperium learns of such a threat to the segmentum, and he knew of how few chapters there were in the local volume who responded to hails and calls for aid as his chapter has done over the millennia of service to the Imperium and Segmentum Tempestus. The Black Templars, a distinguished chapter, chapter in name only, had long flouted the limitations of the Codex for as long as he could remember, and have received neither reprimand nor sanction from either the Administratum or the Inquisition due to their status and enviably long honor roll and tally of victories, and the ever growing number of threats to the Imperium at large that require their strength. The VIlka Fenryka, a first founding chapter, never complied with the codex at any point in his memory and recorded history, and still exceed the limits of the Codex without obfuscation. In both of these examples, the influence of both chapters has kept them from reprisal, and he hoped that the Iron Kings hold similar influence and the good graces of those in power.
Perhaps he could get away with a temporary increase of fighting men under arms, at least until the threat was overcome and the segmentum secure, and then he would downsize to Codex limitations. It was risky, it was dangerous and could have his chapter declared Excommunicate Traitoris and hunted down by loyal imperial subjects until they were slaughtered to the man, but if he didn't, then his chapter would be slaughtered to the man regardless, and hundreds of worlds will be crushed under the heels of a nascent traitor legion, and the innocent of the Imperium will suffer.
He would surpass Codex limitations, but only if there were no other options available to him.
"Your words will be kept in mind, traitor," he spoke. "But do not underestimate our means. We have the entirety of the Imperium to call upon in times of need, and brother chapters more than willing to lend their strength to our cause. An entire crusade could be called to eradicate your former leader."
"But would it be organized and launched before Damophon gains enough traction, is the question," replied Hephaestion. "He is skilled in logistics and can marshall hundreds of thousands to his command, if allowed enough time. A crusade large enough to utterly crush him will take time, time for him to gather enough strength to repel it. I reiterate, only by increasing your own forces will you be able to defeat him in time."
Hieron could see that the conversation had lost its momentum and purpose, and turned to leave, but the voice of Hephaestion stopped him in his tracks.
"You are strong willed, lord, stubborn even, but do not let your stubbornness be the end of your brothers. Pragmatism must prevail against dogmatic adherence and loyalty, if not for you and your brothers, for those under your protection. You care about the mortals, more so than most that I've seen from other examples of your creed. Keep them in mind when you face Damophon and make your decisions."
The Iron Warrior went silent after the proclamation, and Hieron, followed by Tyrannus, swiftly exited the holding facilities and made their way to the bridge.
"Do you think the traitor's words hold weight, lord?" his second asked him.
He sighed in frustration.
"I hope that his words turn to dust upon his tongue, for if they don't, I am concerned that the path we will be forced to take will destroy us, and we will lose all that we hold dear to those who we consider allies, who will be forced to become foes and turn their weapons against us. We must be strong if we are to come out the other side of this brewing storm, Tyrannus. If not for our own sake, then for our charges," he stated, eerily similar to what Hephaestion had said earlier.
The Kentarch nodded in agreement.
"By Our Efforts," he began.
"May His Subjects Prosper," Hieron finished.
The Veiled Regions
Iovinus braced himself for what was to come when the transport roughly swayed back and forth as it landed in the hangar bay of the Lunar-class Cruiser Supremacy , wherein his current lord resided. He and a handful of marines utterly loyal to him and him alone walked down the ramp into seemingly friendly territory, but he felt the predatory stares of the renegade astartes in the hangar, a mixture of Iron Warriors and World Eaters, looking for any sign of weakness. He saw the specific color schemes of those under his command interspersed throughout the different groups of astartes, wearing the colors of other legions but were Alpha Legion in truth, keeping an eye out for any true threats to their lord's person. These trench diggers and mad dogs that called themselves astartes were no threat, never have been and never will be, but their masters, the leaders of warbands and companies, were the ones to watch for, and his actions were a reflection of this fact. His orders to sew conflict and division amongst the differing groups had benefited him in the sense that those who may have had the acumen and power to potentially challenge or hinder him were too busy fighting insignificant challengers and suppressing faux internal conflict, allowing him to operate somewhat freely, and even eliminating these would be rivals in the ensuing blood bath. But the noose was slowly tightening, as a few of his agents were discovered amongst the differing groups and were deduced to be the cause of the internal strife within said groups, sewing shut rifts that would have kept them at bay for a little longer. Thankfully they had either gotten themselves killed or ended their own lives before any links to his person were established, but these oversights and lapses of focus were causes for concern.
To make matters somewhat worse, Damophon was, if his sources were correct, growing to suspect his actions as not wholly to the warband's benefit. The warlord had tried to establish moles within his own ranks, but a mere trench digger couldn't out-fox the Alpha Legion, and these moles were swiftly and decisively excised. Accidents here and there, disputes from others, mainly World Eaters at his agent's behest, claiming their lives, etc. He had kept the probes of his master away, but he wondered when the warsmith would grow tired of waiting and decided to mobilize his entire force against him. For now, he would play the part of loyal sycophant, as bad as he was at the act, and grovel and mewl as necessary to throw Damophon off his trail.
They made their way towards the bridge, ignoring the jeers and sneers directed their way by others of the warband, their armor's blue hue freshly polished and gleaming, a complete opposite to the decrepit, battered and worn suits used by the majority of the warband, repaired to mere functionality and nothing more. The auto-senses within his armor noted his increased heart rate as they drew closer to the bridge, but he dismissed such information, focusing on the task of reaching the bridge and delivering the report his lord was awaiting with benign interest, a thing that he hated as he couldn't discern any other emotion on his lord's face beyond that, only seeing a cold, pragmatic fury in battle as far as emotions go.
The few groups of slave creatures, baseline humans, they encountered in the corridors quickly scurried out of their way, more akin to base vermin and parasites than human, in their stance and demeanor, and he detested them, cared nothing for them, and if they weren't vital to the creation of more astartes, he would have culled them all centuries ago. He hated mortal humans, seeing them at best as useful chattel, and at worst wastes of oxygen that were more fit to be fired out of the macro-cannons at their foes for all their uselessness. He saw one of the slaves staring at him, rich brown eyes obfuscated by a thin curtain of dark brown hair, and sneered behind his helm at the audacity of the creature.
He stopped, his bodyguards following suit, staring at the impudent creature as it realized its error and tried to hide behind its fellows. He pointed to it, and the creature howled in terror, panicking as the other members of the group swiftly distanced themselves from the targeted individual, knowing what was about to happen and not wanting to place themselves between their immortal masters and their prey. He couldn't tell if it was either male or female, but from the high pitch of its scream, the length of hair, and how much smaller its overall frame was when compared to a majority of the other members of the group, he assumed it was female. The distinction had already lost its meaning, especially after it had offended him with its stare, not knowing its place.
One of his bodyguards unsheathed a power gladius, a relic pried from the cold, dead hands of an Imperial Fist Centurion during the Battle of Pluto, now being used to slaughter animals. The Alpha Legionnaire grabbed the slave thing by the arm as it tried to run, yanking it back hard enough to easily rip the arm out of its socket, causing it to howl in pain. They let go of the limp limb and seized its long hair, lifting the mewling creature off of its feet. Its sole functioning appendage clawed at the ceramite encased limb, desperately trying to relieve the tearing of its scalp, and escape what was happening, tears streaming down its dirt encrusted face, bawling pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears.
It was over in a split second, the face going slack as the body struck the floor, the stump that was its neck spurting corpulent amounts of blood onto the corridor floors. He saw the terrified looks on all of the slaves' faces, and he smirked in satisfaction. None dared to lift their gaze towards him, staring at the floor in abject horror and fear.
"Let this be a lesson, mewling wretches. Besmirch your betters, and this fate will befall each and everyone of you without mercy or reproach. You are nothing, and no one. Remember this for the rest of your short, worthless lives."
The head was discarded as if it were sullage and the group resumed their trek to the bridge, finally arriving at the entrance, guarded by two Iron Warrior terminators, clad in cataphractii pattern war plate and wielding autocannons. They were stolid sentinels, eerily still and unmoving, more akin to statues than living war machines. The only indication that they were anything but stone was the undercurrent of noise from their armor, the low thrumming of the war plate reminded him that these warriors were very much alive and ready to spring into action at the slightest of provocations. They let him pass after he requested entrance in complete silence, slightly unnerving but quickly forgotten as he strode into the bridge.
Before him was a wide open space, filled with deck officers, and astartes of varying importance, from warband captains and leaders, to the inner circle of Damophon himself, surrounding a raised throne of gunmetal grey, with jagged spikes lining the backrest, topped with the skulls and helms of various enemies, from the bright yellow helm of an Imperial Fist legionnaire, to the skull of an Asuryani Striking Scorpion. Many have fought against Damophon, and many have failed.
The warlord in question rested upon the throne, an eerie stoic countenance inspiring nervousness in all who looked upon him, even those of his inner circle, ostensibly under his direct protection and in his good graces, felt as if they were under constant scrutiny, and any failing, no matter how small, would result in their most agonizing demise in short order. His armor was of the Mark III variant, artificer armor in all but name, still bearing ancient legion heraldry and marks of glory and victory earned in two hundred years of ceaseless warfare. In his hands he held a power sword, a seemingly plain thing, but Iovinus knew better. He had earned such a blade during the Drop Site Massacre, prying it from the hands of a Salamander Fire Drake, personally slaying the mighty warrior once the betrayal was revealed in a storm of fire and blood. Respect was a given when interacting with the Iron Warrior. To not respect him was to invite damnation, and many were loathed to earn the warlord's ire.
Cold, calculating sky blue eyes tracked Iovinus' every movement, watching him as he drew closer, flicking to the honor guards when they stopped a distance away from the throne, returning to the Alpha Legionnaire as he knelt before the warsmith, prostrating himself before his lord.
"My lord," Iovinus greeted respectfully, even when the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't wait to stand over the trench digger's corpse when his scheme came to fruition.
"Iovinus. Your report," Damophon requested, an order in all but name.
"Yes, lord. Our flotilla has been destroyed, and our mission a failure. We were attacked en-route to our objective, and had no time to react. I only managed to escape with a handful of my own warriors during the slaughter."
A beat of silence followed the report, broken by the rich baritone of Damophon. "Who attacked your flotilla? You had a considerable amount of vessels at your disposal, vessels that would have benefited the Iron Immortals greatly, and a large compliment of my own soldiers to aid you. I assume that loyalist astartes were to blame, or were you defeated by mere chattel slaves of the Corpse Emperor?"
A snarl was upon his lips at the insult, his pride wounded deeply, but he forced a serene calm, his voice a steady timbre, "It was a loyalist chapter of astartes, my lord, calling themselves the Iron Kings."
Damophon graced Iovinus with the first slip of his emotionless mask in centuries. A look of curiosity, of intruigue. The mask slipped into place a heartbeat later, but he crowed on the inside at this victory. The bait was set, and taken, his lord none the wiser.
"The Iron Kings? Are they of the blood of Manus?"
"I cannot say for sure, my lord. I was unable to inquire of their origins as they were slaughtering my men. What I can say, lord, is that they made a vow of vengeance, to hunt down every last Iron Immortal and slaughter them as if they were livestock."
Another moment of silence, and Iovinus idly wondered if this was the moment he died. But, alas, this was not the moment of his death, for his lord bade him thus, "You are to find everything you know of these Iron Kings. Their tactics, strategies, homeworld and allies. I will see them bow before me as I burn their world to ash, before I slaughter them as an example to their corpse worshipping kin. The Imperium will know the name of Damophon and the Iron Immortals and despair."
"Of course, my lord. I shall see to it swiftly," Iovinus stated, rising to his feet. He made to leave the chamber, but the low voice of his lord stopped him in his tracks.
"Do not think I have forgiven your failure, Iovinus, nor have I not noticed you taking something from me when you slew that chattel slave on your way here, as if it were yours to do with as you saw fit. As penance, I have taken such from you. Your abilities are well known, Iovinus, and I am positive that you are able to handle your operations without the mewling creatures you keep in your employ, yes?"
He sharply turned to look at Damophon, an expression of nervousness behind the emotionless, silver mask. How had the trench digger found out about his mortal agents, and more importantly, how was he able to kill them all?! He had an entire regiment's worth. Surely the Iron Warrior had let some slip between the cracks. He couldn't have acted so quickly without his notice. He was of the Alpha Legion. Nothing happened without his notice.
"You may go with your failure, Iovinus. I trust you to complete your task with all haste, yes?"
Iovinus, flanked by his bodyguards, swiftly exited the chamber, and as the doors closed behind the last shred of sea green armor, an Iron Warrior moves to stand before the throne, removing his helm and revealing an olive-skinned complexion, clean shaven, with a bare skull and a electoo of the three headed hydra upon his countenance. The chamber had been presumably emptied before the Alpha Legionnaire had revealed himself, courtesy of Damophon. The Iron Warrior, now Alpha Legionnaire, knelt before his lord, bowing low.
"You have done well, Aristaeus. Your master is none the wiser to your true loyalties, and your work is unseen. As expected from such masters of deception."
"Your words do me kindness, my lord. That fool thinks himself the master of secrets and shadows, but his words ring hollow when I, a mere line captain, can fool him with ease," Aristaeus replied, his posture one of utter submission and loyalty.
"Indeed, and when you usurp your tactless master, you shall be rewarded handsomely. Control of all Alpha Legion assets and head of all operations regarding espionage, assassinations and reconnaissance, with free reign when completing your missions. You shall answer to no one but myself, I trust that you are satisfied with such an arrangement?"
The Alpha Legionnaire shuddered at the possibilities of such a position, the power, the authority. He had always dreamed of overthrowing Iovinus. The fool was leading them down a path of damnation in opposing Damophon. But, once he claimed his position as leader of all Alpha Legionnaires on board, he would lead them to an age of greatness, not seen since Alpharius bestrode the galaxy. It has been far too long, and now, he would take any opportunity to return them to glory. Then, he would focus on bigger targets, and finally get the true autonomy that the Alpha Legion deserved.
"Oh yes, my lord. You honor me with your words, and I am forever grateful for your trust in me, lord. I shall strike down your enemies from the shadows and clear the way for your ascension. This I vow," he proclaimed.
Damophon hummed in acknowledgement, but didn't believe a single word of loyalty coming from the Alpha Legionnaire. He was well aware that both Alpha Legionnaires were attempting to use him for their own ends, and knew both of their end goals. Iovinus wished to supplant him, subsequently freeing himself from his command and getting to do as he pleases with whatever is left of the Grand Company after he finishes building his empire, and Aristaeus only wanted to usurp his master and control any and all Alpha Legion assets within the Grand Company. His loyalty, while seeming to be genuine, was only because they shared a common goal. The removal of Iovinus from the equation.
"I am most pleased with your loyalty, Aristaeus. You shall have all that is promised, and my everlasting favor and trust should you supplant your master. Go now, and be my herald to all who should oppose me," he commanded.
The Alpha Legionnaire replaced his helm and left the chamber, leaving Damophon seemingly alone within the throne room, only he knew that he wasn't alone, and turned to one of the pillars that dotted the chamber, shadows covering the construct.
"Sigisvult, move from the shadows you wrap yourself in and present yourself to me."
Appearing from the shadows as silently as the grave, the midnight blue, brass and lightning streaked battle plate of a Nightlord greeted the Iron Warrior, with a bleached bone white skull emblazoned upon the face of their helm, with blood red wings, human skin stretched over the right pauldron. The astartes slammed a fist onto their breastplate in salute. It wasn't the supplication that Damophon was used to, but it was all that he was going to get from the Nightlord so he would accept it.
"You know those snakes cannot be trusted. They hide their sins behind a veil of lies, and are a threat to all those around them, themselves included. They wish to supplant you, as I have told you before. Let me and my claw end them now, before they cause more damage!" Sigisvult growled, the vox grille making the astartes' voice even more harsh than it already was, more akin to the growl of a war machine's engine than something human.
"I am fully aware of their plans, thanks to your efforts, of which I have not forgotten. However, their usefulness far outweighs the dangers they represent. I still have use of them, and when they no longer contribute to the Grand Company, I will allow you and your claw to slaughter them however you please. Be patient, your concerns are heard, and I will give the word when the time is right."
Sigisvult growled in annoyance at Damophon, but conceded to the Iron Warrior's decision. He and his demi-company, about 50 astartes in total, had been stalking and keeping tabs on the Alpha Legionnaires within the Grand Company. He knew their tricks, their methods of keeping secrets, and he resented them all. Their sins, their actions that they take away from the eyes of others disgusted him with their inane complexity and seemingly backwards logic. Their intentions are never clear cut, always hidden beneath layers of deceit and shadows. He would uncover them all for the rats, the snakes that they were, and he would relish killing them, slowly, without mercy, and he would hang their corpses along the corridors and bulkheads of the ship as a warning to those who would engage in such secrecy and perfidy. He would repay the debt he owed to Damophon, regain some of their number, and then leave into the wider galaxy to pursue their own aims. But, until that day where they sailed across the stars under their own will, he would serve Damophon in any way he wished.
The Nightlord faded into the shadows once more, leaving Damophon truly alone with his thoughts. He pondered as to the Alpha Legionnaire's message, of a loyalist chapter of astartes swearing vengeance upon him and those under his command. It wouldn't be the first time this has happened. The whelps of Dorn have made similar oaths, and those of Guilimans' ilk swore to bring them to justice multiple times, but both have yet to fulfill them. So why was he focusing on this one band of astartes among countless others? The cognomen, the Iron Kings, was what caught his attention. From hearing of them, they were likely of the blood of Manus, but their oath of vengeance conflicted with the cold, logical nature that the legion turned chapter had developed after their primarch's death, so he discarded the notion of them being of Manus.
He couldn't stop thinking about them, and so he had ordered his erstwhile servant to uncover all that could be uncovered, and hopefully some light will be shed on this mystery.