AN : Heya folks, I've been trying (and failing) to find some Iron Warriors or Perturabo redemption fanfiction, almost all the redemption fics here are about Horus. So, I've decided to have a little crack at it myself. This is a hobby project which means updates won't be super frequent. This is also my first foray into actual writing, so any feedback (and criticisms!) would really really be appreciated. My English isn't very strong, so bear with me if there's some little errors here and there, and if there's any, point em out and I'll fix them ASAP. Cheers!
Book 1: The Weight of Iron
Chapter 1
The fires of the Warp crackled and roared across the dark void, casting unnatural hues over the fortress-world of Medrengard. Here, the Iron Warriors reigned, their towering citadels scraping the blood-red skies of the Eye of Terror. Each fortress was a testament to the Legion's mastery of siegecraft, an endless landscape of walls, towers, and bastions, all built with brutal efficiency and the cold logic that defined their Primarch. Yet for all their strength, the planet reeked of despair—a poisoned monument to unfulfilled purpose.
Within the obsidian walls of Perturabo's throne room, the Warsmiths gathered in sullen silence. Each one bore the scars of recent defeat, their armor battered and caked in gore from a failed campaign.
They had been tasked with taking Fornax-9, an Imperial forge world situated on the fringes of the Cadian Gate. The planet's manufactoria held priceless archeotech designs, relics that could bolster their failing war machines and fuel the wars of the Dark Gods. The assault had begun with cold precision: orbital bombardments to soften the defenses, a series of lightning-fast breaches that shattered the outer walls. The Iron Warriors had deployed daemon engines and warp-forged artillery, but the Mechanicus' vast legions of Skitarii and battle-automata had held.
Worse, a Dark Angels strike force had arrived midway through the siege, bolstering the loyalist defenders. Perturabo's calculated plans unraveled as the sons of El'Jonson exploited every weakness in the Iron Warriors' advance, turning the battle into a grinding war of attrition.
Even as the IV legion retreated, the loyalists had dealt a crushing blow. Ambushed by a Navis Imperialis battlegroup during their escape into the Warp, the Iron Warriors had lost several ships, their corrupted hulls broken apart by coordinated volleys of torpedoes and macro-cannon fire.
The legion had returned to Medrengard bloodied and humiliated, their gains nullified. Their pride as the masters of siege warfare had been reduced to ashes. And now, they stood before their primarch, awaiting judgment.
Perturabo's iron throne loomed above them, a grim construct of jagged metal and intricate gears. The Primarch sat rigidly, one massive hand gripping the throne's armrest, his gauntleted fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His bionic eye glowed faintly in the dim light, scanning the assembled Warsmiths like a predator sizing up its prey.
"You failed me," Perturabo began, his voice low but resonant, like the rumble of a distant avalanche. "You failed us."
The Warsmiths remained silent, their heads bowed. Perturabo leaned forward, his imposing form casting long shadows across the chamber.
"Do you understand what you've done?" His voice rose, a blade honed with fury. "Do you know what it means for the Iron Warriors to lose a siege? To falter before the enemies of the gods we serve?" He spat the word "gods" with venom, though none dared to comment on it.
The Primarch's gaze settled on Drestak, one of the senior Warsmiths, whose Cataphractii-pattern terminator armor was still marked with scorch marks from the plasma bolts of the Skitarii. "You were entrusted with the western flank. You assured me that your advance would hold. Instead, you crumbled at the first sight of Deathwing reinforcements!"
Drestak shifted uneasily, the ceramite plates of his armor scraping against one another. "My lord, the loyalists brought an unexpected—"
Forgebreaker fell, crushing transhuman flesh, heretical augments, and corrupted war-plate into gory paste with a single blow. "Silence! Do not speak to me of the Lion's whelps!" Perturabo roared, his voice echoing through the hall. The room fell silent.
Yet before he could continue the tirade, the fortress trembled. Distant booms reverberated through the walls, faint at first but growing louder. The remaining Warsmiths exchanged wary glances.
"They come again," one muttered.
Perturabo growled, his voice dripping with disdain. "Angron's wretched curs."
The World Eaters had descended on Medrengard in a frenzy, evidently viewing the Fourth as weakened prey ready to be torn apart. Their berserkers screamed ecstatic litanies to the Blood God as they ripped through the orbital defenses and boarded Iron Warriors ships before the rest of the fleet could respond. The attack had been a brutal testament to the XII Legion's madness: an uncoordinated but savage assault fueled by bloodlust.
Perturabo had personally overseen the defense, deploying the cold might of his Warsmiths and daemon engines to crush the berserkers. The fighting had been fierce, even for the Iron Warriors. Chainaxes clashed against power mauls, and warp-forged bolters roared as the halls of Medrengard's fortresses ran red with blood.
In the end, the World Eaters were repelled, but the cost had been steep. Dozens of Iron Warriors lay dead, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition. Ships that could scarcely be spared had been destroyed, their wreckage now drifting aimlessly through the Warp. And now they had returned, no doubt probing for more weaknesses to exploit.
Perturabo turned away from the Warsmiths, pacing before his throne. "Even Angron's rabid curs think us weak enough to attack. Do you see what you have allowed?"
None of the Warsmiths dared respond. They knew there was no answer that would satisfy their lord.
The Primarch's bionic eye flickered, its gaze fixed on the distant Iron Cage, visible through the great window behind his throne. "I built this," he said quietly, more to himself than to his commanders. "I built this Legion. Every fortress, every bastion, every soldier. And yet, for all my labor, we are beset on all sides."
The room fell silent. Perturabo turned back to the Warsmiths, his expression a mask of cold fury. "You will rebuild what you have lost," he commanded. "You will not rest, you will not falter, and you will not fail me again. Is that understood?"
The Warsmiths saluted, their fists clanging against their breastplates. "Yes, my lord!"
"Leave me," Perturabo said, his voice icy and dismissive.
As the great iron doors closed behind them, Perturabo slumped back onto his throne, his gauntleted hand resting on his chin. The weight of his failures bore down on him, heavier than any fortress wall.
For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder: Was this what the Iron Warriors were destined to be? A legion of broken soldiers, fighting endless wars for masters who cared nothing for them?
But the thought was fleeting. There was no place for doubt in Perturabo's mind. Only iron. Only war.
The clang of bolter fire and the screams of the dying echoed through the cavernous halls of Fortress Malebris. Warsmith Karvek Urgrax strode through the carnage, his company arrayed in disciplined ranks behind him. Clad in unholy war-plate daubed with brass sigils of Khorne, Karvek was a towering figure of fury, a champion of the Blood God who had led countless slaughterfields in the name of his patron.
"Forward!" he roared, his voice booming over the din of battle. "Let the blood flow! Claim skulls for the throne of Khorne!"
The Iron Warriors who followed him were a reflection of their Warsmith. Corrupted by centuries of warfare and servitude to their patron, they bore chainswords and axes inscribed with runes of hatred. Forgefiends belched gouts of warp-flame, their claws shredding World Eaters berserkers who charged heedlessly into their firelines. The halls shook as chainaxes struck power armor, and the stench of charred flesh and spilled ichor filled the air.
Karvek reveled in the slaughter, his massive chainfist cleaving through a berserker with brutal efficiency. The World Eater's upper torso spiraled away, blood and gore spewing over Karvek's armor. He grinned behind his horned helmet, feeling the approval of his god in the heat of battle. The blood-soaked corridors of Malebris had become Medrengard's finest altar to Khorne's will, and Karvek was its high priest.
Yet even as the World Eaters fell, more came. They crashed against the Iron Warriors like a tide of red and brass, howling prayers to Khorne as they tore into their fellow traitors. The screams rose above the din of combat, driving the beserkers to greater heights of fury and slaughter. "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE! MAIM, KILL, BURN!" Karvek's warband fought with cold precision, a stark contrast to the frenzied madness of the XII Legion. Discipline won battles, Karvek believed, even in the service of Chaos.
But the berserkers cared little for tactics. Their charge was relentless, a hurricane of rage that threatened to overwhelm even the most ordered ranks. Karvek smashed another assailant into the wall with his chainfist, but the warrior's dying howl was drowned by the roar of another wave surging forward.
"Hold the line!" Karvek bellowed, stepping into the breach and activating the power field of his axe. The daemon-forged blade crackled with energy as it hewed through three berserkers in a single sweep. "Hold, or Khorne will take your skulls as well!"
The World Eaters came at him like a living tide, their attacks fueled by mindless rage and an all-consuming lust for slaughter. The Warsmith met them head-on, chainfist and Thunder Hammer rising and falling in brutal arcs, severing limbs and spilling blood. He felt no surprise at their fury—this was the nature of Khorne's devotees, to destroy without thought or restraint. But there was something... wrong.
The berserkers fought with an unrelenting desperation, their howls raw and jagged, as though their violence was less an expression of wrath and more a futile attempt to drown out some deeper torment. Karvek shoved the thought aside, focusing instead on survival. He had no time for mysteries amid the carnage.
Hours passed in a red haze as his warband slowly pushed the enemy back. The floors ran slick with gore, the acrid tang of blood thickening the air. Finally, the berserkers faltered. Their assault broke, leaving mountains of corpses in their wake.
Karvek straightened, leaning on his hammer as he surveyed the aftermath. His warband was battered, their numbers diminished, and even the daemon engines stood silent, their infernal energies spent. The Warsmith snarled under his breath, disgusted by the cost of the victory.
Then, a deep, guttural growl cut through the oppressive silence. The air grew heavy, oppressive, as something stirred behind the piles of dead. Karvek turned sharply, his grip tightening on his weapon. The bodies shifted and parted as a hulking figure stepped over them, wreathed in unnatural bloodlust.
It was an Eightbound, an abominable host of eight Khornate daemons bound within the body of a heretic marine. The creature's body was grotesquely distorted, its warplate fused with the writhing forms of daemons bound within it. Its limbs clawed at the air, each movement radiating raw power.
"You fought well, Warsmith," the beast snarled, its voice an unholy blend of guttural tones and overlapping whispers. "Khorne is pleased. But you fight for nothing."
Karvek charged with a roar, meeting the creature head-on. Their clash shook the ground, his chainfist biting deep into daemonic flesh while the Eightbound's claws raked across his armor, tearing rents in its surface. The daemon was fast—too fast—and Karvek found himself driven back, its strength overwhelming.
With a surge of effort, Karvek managed to parry a killing blow, his hammer turning aside one of the Eightbound's scythe-like claws. Seizing the opening, he lunged forward, slamming the weapon into the creature's flank with inhuman force. Warp-forged metal clashed against corrupted flesh, his weapon blazing with energy as it shattered armor and bone. The Eightbound shrieked, a hideous sound that echoed with the voices of the daemons writhing within its form. The beast staggered back a step, ichor spilling from the wound, but the momentary reprieve was short-lived.
The daemon came at him with all the fury of the Blood God. Limbs lashed out in a whirlwind of claws, fists, and blade-like protrusions, forcing Karvek to retreat. Each strike was a blur, faster than any mortal could follow. Sparks flew as claws raked against his armor, tearing chunks of ceramite free. Karvek ducked under a wild swing, retaliating with a horizontal slash aimed at the creature's torso, but the Eightbound twisted unnaturally, its body contorting to avoid the blow.
"Is this all the mighty Warsmith of the vaunted Iron Warriors has?" the creature taunted, its voice a chorus of mockery. It lunged forward, hammering him with a double-fisted blow that sent him skidding across the blood-slick floor.
Karvek growled, rising to his feet. His body ached, his augmented frame strained by the ferocity of the fight, but his rage was undiminished. He activated his inbuilt grav-thrusters, surging forward with unnatural speed. The sudden movement caught the Eightbound off-guard, and Karvek slammed into it shoulder-first, the impact sending both of them crashing into a nearby wall. The daemon shrieked, flailing with its claws, but Karvek pinned it in place, driving his fist into its chest with brutal efficiency.
The Eightbound roared, its strength undiminished by the grievous wound. A clawed limb lashed out, catching Karvek's arm and tearing through the cables and servos beneath his armor. Another strike followed, ripping him away and sending him sprawling. The Warsmith rolled to his feet just in time to intercept the next attack, his hammer meeting the daemon's claws in a shower of sparks.
The two combatants clashed again and again, neither gaining the upper hand. The Eightbound was a blur of relentless ferocity, its attacks a storm of claws and daemonic energy. Karvek, despite the Blood God's rage in his mind, fought with the precision of a master tactician, each ferocious strike calculated to exploit a weakness. He ducked and weaved, chainblade carving deep into the creature's limbs, but it seemed unstoppable, shrugging off blows that would have felled lesser foes.
With a sudden burst of speed, the Eightbound slammed into him, its clawed hands closing around his neck. Karvek snarled as the beast lifted him off the ground, its unnatural strength overwhelming even his augmented frame. He could feel the pressure building, his armor groaning under the strain.
With a roar of defiance, he activated the power surge in his bionic arm, releasing an arc of searing energy. The sudden discharge staggered the Eightbound, and Karvek wrenched himself free, landing heavily on the ground. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his fist cleaving into the creature's midsection.
The Eightbound screeched, ichor and daemonic fire spilling from the wound. It retaliated with a wild backhand that sent Karvek crashing into a pillar, the impact cracking the stone. Blood seeped from beneath his helm, his vision swimming, but he forced himself to rise.
The daemon came at him again, a blur of claws and fury, but Karvek met it head-on. He sidestepped a killing blow, his hammer crashing down in a devastating overhead strike. The weapon shattered the Eightbound's shoulder into bloody ichor, severing one of its arms. The daemon staggered, its form flickering as the warp energy sustaining it began to waver.
Sensing weakness, Karvek pressed the attack. He unleashed a flurry of blows, his fist carving through corrupted flesh with every strike. The Eightbound shrieked, its strength waning as the Warsmith's relentless assault overwhelmed it. Finally, with a roar, Karvek delivered a crushing blow, his hammer blowing a sizeable chunk out of the abomination's torso.
Panting, Karvek stood over the smoldering corpse, his battered warplate groaning with each movement. But as the daemon's form crumpled, its voice rose again, faint yet unmistakable.
"Do you see, Warsmith?" it hissed, its words carried on a dying breath. "Khorne cares not whose blood is spilled. Yours. Mine. Your warriors'. Your enemies'. It is all the same to him."
Karvek froze, the creature's words cutting through the haze of his rage.
"The Blood God's throne is built on betrayal," the daemon rasped, its voice weaker with each passing moment. "Your skull will rest upon it alongside the rest. And you… you will thank him."
With a final shudder, the Eightbound's mortal body expired, the daemons within returning to the roiling currents of the Empyrean. Karvek stared at the remnants, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts.
He looked around at the battlefield once more. The bodies of his warband lay side by side with those of the berserkers, their blood mingling into indistinguishable pools. There was no triumph here, no glory. Only death.
Khorne cares not whose blood it is, so long as it flows.
For the first time in centuries, Karvek Urgrax hesitated.