TRISTAN BERTRAND


Word Bearers turned and fled in horror at the sight of a Daemon Prince falling before them at the hands of a 'Primarch', all uncertain if this was truly the primogenitor of the Iron Warriors who had waded through their numbers alone or if some other force of nature had been visited upon them. The sight of the Logos was unmistakable for the veterans among their ranks who had been fighting the Long War since its beginning, and just as the appearance of Abaddon so closely resembled the Primarch Horus so did Jarn resemble his own forebearer.

For an average Heretic Astartes witnessing what appeared to be a living legend tear a Daemon Prince limb from limb before brutally beating their material form out of existence was a sure sign to retreat and fight another battle, even if the circumstances were not quite what they appeared. Jarn had interrupted the Daemon Prince's summoning right before its completion, leaving it weakened compared to what it may have been, and despite what they believed he was truly just an Astartes albeit one whose strength and drive had allowed him to corral his own Warband of Iron Warriors.

With the remainder of the Word Bearers fleeing from the medieval town he found himself in Jarn was left to himself amidst the wreckage: he had descended from the nearby mountain which possessed the temple he slew the Dark Apostle within and engaged the Word Bearers here to satiate his need to repay the deaths of his comrades and make this deployment worthwhile. Now that he was no longer shifting from one fight to another he could see the bodies of not just his defeated foes but also of their own victims with corpses of innocent townspeople and traitorous Chaos Cultists alike littering the streets.

To their credit Jarn noticed that this was not a singular battle but rather evidence of weeks of conflict which only escalated upon the Word Bearers' arrival, as some of the bodies seemed to have fallen close to a month ago if their state of decay was a reliable measurement. The last of those resisting their Chaos-warped brethren had been those being sacrificed as a part of the ritual summoning the Daemon Prince to the material realm, and Jarn paid them a moment of respect for fighting to the death rather than join with those of the Ruinous Powers.

Elsewhere Jarn's forces were engaged with the Word Bearers on various battlefronts, but with very few wounded and no actual losses Jarn was content to let his forces finish mopping up the Word Bearers they were engaged with before returning to the fleet. While they possessed the upper hand now it would not last forever given the entire planet was infested with Word Bearers and there was but a few thousand Iron Warriors present.

They had accomplished their primary objectives even if they had been too late to save Luther's followers on this world which reminded Jarn of the lost Caliban, so everything from this point was just venting leftover spite his men possessed from the years they spent lost in Warp travel assailed by Daemons and their ilk as their Gellar fields wavered. Like he indulged his own desire for revenge so too would he allow his men to exhaust their spite for now, knowing that their officers would reel them in when the time came to leave once the world's resources were extracted.

None of the buildings of this place held a candle to those of Olympia, or even to those of Kimara, but Jarn found himself captivated by them all the same as he made his way through the ruins of the town. The architecture was of another era entirely than what he could typically witness on a modern world, and the builder in him found beauty in it even if he knew ways to structurally improve what he was seeing.

Truth be told, like his Primarch before him Jarn had always enjoyed constructing fortresses and monuments of his own more than he did tearing them down, the same drive which saw him create the armor he now wore. He had witnessed Perturabo in the flesh see a device for the first time only to intrinsically figure it out and be able to recreate it, fully understanding it, and it was that same spirit which Jarn had tried to live up to all of these years. It was evident by looking at his surroundings that these people were but a few years from making major technological strides, but while they were stuck wielding naught but swords and spears they had the misfortune of drawing the attention of the Word Bearers.

'It is a shame that this world would be besieged by followers of the Dark Gods right as it lay on the cusp of technology,' he thought.

Jarn planted a foot down on the skull of a Possessed member of the Word Bearers who he had cut down earlier, only to just then realize with a 'clank' against his back that he had deployed the Servo Arms he built into the Logos Secundus in order to overpower the Daemon Prince. It was so second nature to him by now that he hadn't even thought of the action, he simply did it to bolster himself during their power struggle before then tearing the creature's arms off before their followers.

Retracting the arms to fold against his back took but a moment, but it gave him a moment to realize that one building nearby him differed from the others severely. While they were almost all at a level of technology primitive to him, this one possessed a mass of metal forged around various sections of it like a secured bunker. By modern standards it was still incredibly antiquated, and it was roughly made, but it caught the Warsmith's attention all the same for whereas the other buildings had the blood of innocents splattered across their broken or burned husks this one had not seemingly been breached.

Curiosity piqued, Jarn approached it so as to get a better look at the peculiar building that was such an oddity compared to those nearby it. While not a living soul existed in the rest of the now barren town, perhaps someone still lived within: someone who may possess answers about what happened, and may even know about the Fallen who had come to live near them.

A giant slab of metal covered what once was the entrance to the facility, and from the general construction of it all Jarn surmised that this was the local blacksmith's forge: no wonder then that they were able to create some degree of defenses to wall off those who raided them. It would have been easy for a Word Bearer to tear down the metal here and elsewhere around the location, but they were too caught up in slaughtering the prey elsewhere that this place seemingly was left as-is for the time being...Jarn killing and scattering their members had inadvertently spared whomever remained within these walls of the same fate which befell those outside of them.

With one hand Jarn ripped the metal slab off the forge and tossed it aside, taking a small degree effort to make sure it crushed a fallen Cultist's body in the process. He had not bothered to use his suit's scanners since he rightfully did not perceive anything which lay within as a threat, but that did not mean there was no surprise to be found when the forge was forcibly opened.

The very next moment Jarn felt a powerful impact against the front of his armor, not so strong as to actually cause it any harm but enough that he recognized what he was now looking at even before his eyes registered the sight of it.

Some local just fired an autocannon at him. An autocannon as primitive and weak as one could expect of a world still burdened by swords as a primary weapon, but an autocannon all the same.

Jarn found himself actually smiling as he stepped through the smoke left after the weapon's firing, having to bow down briefly to enter before rising to his full height in the forge's spacious interior.

"A noble, if futile, effort," he spoke in as humorous a tone as the Warsmith could manage.

Before him he could see tools for metalworking strewn about, many half-broken and those still functional barely so after having been used relentlessly by the forge's inhabitant...a mortal Jarn was intrigued to find was naught but a young boy. The child was trying to get their makeshift cannon to fire again, refusing to let their intruder take them without a fight, but rather than have the boy possibly bring harm to himself Jarn bent the contraption's barrel such that it could no longer be used as a weapon.

That only inspired the child to grab a nearby spear, one of many crafted by the town's blacksmith no doubt, only for the boy to trip and fall as he did so: it was apparent that Jarn's earlier observation that this conflict had been going on for weeks was true, as it appeared the boy had not eaten in quite some time. Malnourished, his ribs were visible within his shirt and it was obvious that he had not left this place for anything at all since the beginning. Without more modern food preservation systems he had likely been left to live off of what little they could store within the home built off of the forge...however rather than idly sit and wait for the end the boy had created a crude mimicry of a weapon the invaders possessed.

Rather than let the starved child flail about on the ground Jarn did him the favor of picking him back up and planting him on his own two feet, in the process knocking over from a table some basic tools forged to help lift and place the metal outside. The boy offered a brief struggle, but stopped when he realized that he was not being harmed but rather helped: this in turn brought a light of curiosity to the child's eyes, as he had yet to figure out what the giant before him desired and it seemingly was not his imminent demise.

"Tell me child, who crafted this weapon? Was it the same one who barricaded this facility?"

The response was slightly hoarse, but that did not detract from how blunt it was from the boy who now was staring up at Jarn with suspicion.

"I did."

Jarn nodded, having surmised as much given that he could not hear another living being within the rest of this forge's innards: it was possible that before perishing whomever was the child's caretaker had helped design the weapon, and the boy finished it. While a farcry from the genius of Perturabo, Jarn recognized the skill it would take for one so young to accomplish such a feat on such a backwards world.

'It would seem that this world had something else to offer us.'

To appear less threatening Jarn bent down onto one knee even if he still towered massively over the mortal, "Your parents aided you, no doubt. Still, for one your age it is still an impressive feat."

Those words prompted the child to look down at the ground, whatever curiosity he held a moment ago lost as other emotions flooded him.

"They're dead. Been for days...maybe weeks...I saw one and tried to make it."

That was a surprise, and Jarn actually found himself speechless for a moment as he came to the obvious implication: this boy born on a world without even the most basic of firearms had managed to create the most rudimentary of autocannons.

Eons ago Forrix had recruited him to the Iron Warriors after a display of Jarn's ingenuity and leadership even at the age of thirteen, and Jarn did not doubt that how Forrix felt then was similar to how he felt now. Other Astartes were recruited for displaying immense physical might or skill while still ten Terran years old, so why not recruit a promising young mind instead? If the Iron Warriors were to continue forward they would need more than brawn, and Jarn had no doubt that this particular boy would always lack it: he looked to be wiry even before his starvation but a mind which reminded him of Perturabo's own, even if not of the same caliber, was worth recruiting all the same.

As gently as he could Jarn touched the child's shoulder, afraid he would crush him given the boy's physical status and Jarn's own might, "I am not going to bring you harm, so tell me: who was it that took their lives?"

The boy took a moment to respond, as if traumatized by what he had experienced until now given how his eyes still lingered down towards the floor, "Ones like you. Red armor. The ones possessed by the Beasts."

Jarn had surmised as much, and felt a degree of satisfaction at having killed the Possessed first among those he fought here. Those who relied on the power of the Warp were worthy of the scorn he felt, a hatred he sensed now was shared by this innocent boy whose family was taken from him.

"They are not like us, for we are far more," the Warsmith spoke confidently before standing up, prompting the boy's eyes to lift up to follow the rising height of the Astartes before him. Until now he had only seen these titanic beings as enemies, but Jarn was surprising him just as he had done in return.

Jarn turned so he could point out of the forge and towards the mountains of dead outside, many of the Cultists there slain by Jarn personally and all of their Astartes masters cut down by him as well. Just as he had taught Levente, so too now would he impart an important lesson to this child he sought to take under his wing.

"Only the weak who are otherwise unable to accomplish their goals must rely on the strength of Daemons, 'Beasts' as you call them. For my warriors it is the iron of our spirit and the iron in our hands that will see our goals made manifest."

With the same might he demonstrated before Jarn bent the autocannon's barrel back so that it could fire once again, doing his best to impress rather than intimidate the young boy before him.

"You built this weapon to use against those foul Beasts and their followers, yes? None of them are as stalwart as me, but even so you would only likely slay one or two before they would swarm you with their rabble...depending on their particular worship they would either cut you down or carry you off as some sacrifice."

Despite this statement of fact it did not dissuade the child whose eyes were as possessed of cold fury as the Word Bearers had been of the Warp's energies. It was an odd sight in one so young, but seeing every single person you know be slaughtered like animals by beings no better than animals themselves could do that to someone.

"So long as they die too."

That would be a waste, and so Jarn scolded the boy for being so eager to die fighting even if it was against a worthy foe.

"Do not be so eager to throw your life away, for every life has its worth. That is why while some may need be spent to achieve victory, it is a sin to sacrifice it without greater purpose. Death in service of your Emperor, of your brethren, or of utopia, it matters not so long as one fights for what they believe in."

Jarn lowered a hand down to the boy, as if to symbolically offer it to him as he continued speaking.

"If you come with me I will teach you how to cut down scores of the wretched filth who have laid siege to this world. To lay them asunder with your own strength of mind, body, and will..."

Shifting the hand he offered, Jarn brought it to once again gesture to the death and destruction which lay beyond the broken barricade of the forge.

"Or I can leave you here to your fate. Leave you to die for nothing greater than your own despair and anger, no better than an animal like the 'Beasts' you hate."

While Jarn was impressed by the boy's mind, if he was too foolish to choose the superior method of enacting revenge against those who harmed his people and family then Jarn had no regrets about leaving him behind. Someone who would throw their own life away for nothing would throw away the lives of those under their command just as easily, and he had no place for such a mindset in his ranks.

Once again offering his hand, Jarn gave him the chance to take it this time if the child so wished, "It is your choice, Boy...will you die killing one or two of those who murdered your family, or will you one day fall in battle as a true warrior having slain millions of them?"

"Tristan."

Having expected a nod or shake of the head no from the terse child, the statement of a name actually surprised Jarn.

"What?"

Weakly the boy knelt down on one knee just as Jarn had previously, having to fight to not collapse as he did so but powering through all the same so that he could maintain his own pride, "Tristan of House Bertrand, son of Sir Markus the Blacksmith."

Jarn gestured for him to rise, and so Tristan did while also placing a palm upon Jarn's outstretched gauntlet offered to him.

"And I am Trahaearn Jarn, Warsmith of the Iron Warriors. Pledge your fealty to me and I shall grant you your revenge, Tristan Bertrand, and see to it that a mind of your caliber is not wasted upon a dying world such as this."


A/N: I appreciate the support many of you have already lent to this project, and I hope you will continue to enjoy it as I post the remaining segments of its full introduction. This is the follow up to the first story segment, and the next post will continue from the initial post's background information.

If you enjoyed please let me know your thoughts in the reviews below, and remember that you can see artistic renderings of the above story in the style of official codexes if you visit the other sites I post this on as well (Spacebattles and Ao3). Wish I could include the images here as well, but alas I cannot.