The Leonine Heresy

by Sharrowkyn

Inspired by the Roboutian Heresy, this is the tale of Lion El'Jonson's fall to Chaos as he leads half of his brothers (and not necessarily the ones you might think) in rebellion against the Emperor. All Index Astartes entries have been completed, and now we are journeying through the various War Zones of the 41st Millennium.

17. Index Astartes: Iron Warriors

Chapter 17: Index Astartes- Iron Warriors

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Index Astartes- Iron Warriors: Bitterness Entrenched

Of the Nine Traitor Legions that turned their backs on the Imperium, none can match the ruthless efficiency and methodical brutality of the Iron Warriors. The Fourth Legion was once a well-oiled machine, but the sands of time and the chains of duty wore away and weighed down the Emperor's premier siege legion until there was nothing left but the iron within. The sons of Perturabo are what their father has made them: merciless and robotic warriors who will not hesitate to commit any atrocity, for victory is merely a logical expectation rather than a prize to be won. The galaxy quakes as the endless armored legions march to war, toppling every fortress and crushing every foe underfoot as they maintain their iron grip upon the shoals of the Eye of Terror. However, their success has earned them many enemies, not least of which being the Ruinous Powers, who despise any order in their realm of Chaos. As the 41st Millennium comes to a close, enemies gather all around a legion fractured by self-inflicted civil war, but Perturabo and his sons will hang on to the bitter end, as unbending as their namesake and motivated by spite as they seek to carry out their oppressive schemes.

Origins: Big Guns Never Tire

The Age of Strife was a time dominated by only war. The promises of progress and understanding died with the Dark Age of Technology, and so much was forgotten, never to be relearned. Where super-intelligent machine-minds once oversaw wars stretching across countless light-years, now hordes of barbarians hurled themselves at each other for scraps of territory. What few flickering embers of civilization still remained were hidden away, holed up in fortresses built by better men. However, there was one who dared to dream that life could be more than an eternity of carnage and slaughter: the Emperor of Man. Determined to bring peace, justice, and security to his new empire, the Master of Mankind created numerous armies to carry out his will in the conquest known as the Unification Wars. By the time the last bastion fell, his forces had evolved, now composed of a new generation of warriors known as the Legiones Astartes, genetically-enhanced supersoldiers whose skill in battle far surpassed any mortal. Divided into twenty legions, the Astartes soon brought Terra to heel, despite numbering only in the thousands compared to the teeming trillions that called Terra home.

The IV Legion was, as its numeral suggests, one of the first legions to see active duty. They were noted for their above-average gene-seed compatibility, for Astartes then as now were created through genhancement, and their numbers soon swelled beyond that of the other legions, whose numbers would not begin to grow until the conquest of the Selenar Gene-Labs upon Luna. While their cousin legions struggled to take in aspirants, the bodies of their recruits perishing as they rejected their new organs, the IV Legion had no issues or defects, recruiting from the gun-tribes and tek-enclaves that existed all across Terra. They soon gained the Emperor's favor by virtue of their size, full battalions compared to the mere hundred or so of most other legions, and it was only fitting that such genetically-perfect specimens be called upon to deal with their antecedents, a legion far more flawed and less stable. Before the Astartes, the Emperor had crafted two other strains of demigods: the first generation was the Legio Custodes, utterly perfect save for how ruinously expensive their creation was, far too laborious and slow for the Emperor's purposes. However, the exact opposite was true for the second generation, the Thunder Warriors. The Legio Cataegis was a force designed only for war. They were utterly unstable: prone to organ failure, fits of rage, and lacking group cohesiveness. However, their brutality and ease of production made them the perfect warriors to conquer a world such as Terra. The majority of the techno-barbarian overlords who had misruled Terra for centuries quickly fell to the might of the Thunder Warriors. However, with the return of peace to Terra, their usefulness had come to an end, and so the Emperor ordered his newest creations to dispose of the old.

The destruction of the Thunder Warriors was swift and merciless as the Fourth Legion systematically surrounded their encampment upon Mount Ararat, though even they did not know why this ground had been chosen for their battle. It was here the legion displayed for the first time their specialty for which they would later come to be known, a mastery of siege warfare, as their guns pounded the Thunder Warrior encampment for hours. Their overwhelming firepower most likely killed the majority of the unstable Thunder Warriors, and when the guns fell silent, the First Legion went in to finish the job. However, despite their undeniable contribution to this and many other battles, the names of the commanders of the Fourth Legion have been lost to history. It is an anomaly that no lone individual or commander seems to stand out from the rest of his brethren when comparing the Fourth to their cousins whose legion masters are some of the most storied names in Imperial history. Whatever the reason, the Fourth continued to achieve success on battlefield after battlefield, starting with their campaign against the Litho-Gholem armies of the Venusian War Witches, where they were led by the Emperor himself. Their efficiency and obedience led them to serve under the Master of Mankind for decades, achieving an unmatched success rate, though some would later point out this was not a record the Fourth could claim on their own behalf.

However, the scale of the Great Crusade, the galaxy-spanning endeavor to reunite the lost realms of Man, meant the Fourth could not remain as one cohesive whole under the Emperor's direct command forever. Where other legions refused to divide their assets, the Fourth did not hesitate to split into multiple Crusade fleets, though they always retained the same organizational structures and operational doctrines. Many began to criticize them as single-minded and mechanical for their unwillingness to deviate from set battleplans, though just as many praised them for their dependability compared to more individualistic legions. Their talent for siege warfare continued to develop, and no fortress was proof against their mighty guns and single-minded determination. However, this focus was as much a blessing as a curse, for the legion refused to contemplate retreat or withdrawal save from express orders from high command. Their organizational structure was beyond rigid, not allowing for any operational flexibility on the part of battlefield commanders, and while it served them well on most occasions, at other times it was their downfall. Such was the case on the Forge World of Incaladion, a mighty fortress of a planet located on the fringes of the Dominion of Storms, where an unlucky shot wiped out the majority of the senior command present. The junior officers, now thrust into a role with far more operational freedom than they were used to, proved woefully inadequate, mindlessly following textbook strategies such as attempting to overwhelm the defenders of Incaladion with sheer firepower. By the end of the campaign, they had achieved a pyrrhic victory, having nothing to show but a ruined Forge World strewn with the bodies of over 29,000 dead Astartes and two million Imperial Army soldiers.

No longer the most numerous, and with the record of their entire legion now in question due to the incompetence of a few junior officers, the Fourth Legion began to decline even further in prominence. Their reputation became that of a workhorse legion, one who could be counted on for certain tasks so long as it did not require unconventional thinking. Imperial commanders began to call upon them for protracted engagements, using their superhuman might to complete thankless sieges that were threatening to disrupt timetables without any concern for the desires of the legion commanders. Damaged by constant attrition, disabused from any notions of heroism, and with a wedge between them and their cousin legions, the Fourth were left behind, their star eclipsed, and would continue to be neglected for years to come. However, not all hope was lost, for the day eventually came when they were reunited, just as many other legions had before them, with their primarch.

The Iron Lord of Olympia

At the dusk of the 30th Millennium, the Emperor of Mankind used his scientific genius to craft beings known as the Primarchs, who were to be his sons and heirs, generals who would aid him and companions who could be closer to being his equal than any other. However, then as now, his enemies were numerous beyond counting. Seeking to forestall his plans of galactic conquest, they attempted to destroy his life's work by hurling his creations out among the stars he hoped to one day conquer. The small pods containing the Primarchs were stolen away, the pod bearing the numeral IV being one of the first to be sucked into a Warp rift to be deposited far away from Terra onto a planet which bore less mercy than even the war-torn cradle of Mankind.

Located on the fringes of the Dominion of Storms, the world of Olympia was a realm of isolation and paranoia. A handful of city-states eked out a meager existence, cut off from each other by towering mountain ranges which prevented any industrial farms, large-scale metropolises, or even basic travel, for suspicion of outsiders was the norm. Technology had regressed far, ensuring that the rich mineral deposits remained out of reach beyond the primitive efforts at mining, though these efforts had long since been utilized to serve a darker purpose. Vast keeps and fortresses were fashioned from these tunnels, each city-state rendered utterly impregnable to outsiders while its rulers, known as Tyrants, turned their attentions toward oppressing their populations as they sought to extract as much wealth from the land as they possibly could.

However, despite the natural barriers separating them, the darker nature of Man meant peace was as elusive in Olympia as it was elsewhere. Dozens of minor communities and tribes of outcasts lived outside the twelve major city-states, and it was for control of them that the Tyrants waged their wars. Mercenary armies roamed the wild landscape, trading allegiances on a whim and ensuring no state gained too much power in order to maintain a lawless stability. It was to this rocky no-man's-land that Pod IV crashed, its inhabitant emerging to discover he was already being watched by an evil that does not sleep. His mind was filled with impossible knowledge, science far beyond that of primitive Olympia, and as he looked around, he quickly understood all that he beheld, or at least, their flaws. However, the exception to this mastery soon presented itself, for as he gazed up into the sky, the young primarch was disconcerted to observe a dark star, its baleful glare seemingly always upon him even though nobody else seemed to be able to observe this strange phenomenon. Thus from the beginning he grasped a sense of powerlessness, one that would stay with him for many years to come, for the star represented the single gap in his knowledge. This flaw was a lesson his brothers would not learn for many years, but the boy refused to yield, making it the base of his motivations to be superior, to achieve constant improvement so as to eventually overcome this deficiency. He was determined to endure the hateful gaze of this celestial stalker, this cosmic flaw in reality whose nature he was certain would one day no longer elude him. Thus as he sifted through the esoteric knowledge implanted within his mind, he chose his name, one that would signify his stubbornness: Perturabo.

The boy began to roam the wilds, alone save for the celestial stalker, climbing the rocky crags and plateaux that made up his surroundings. Perturabo had an innate curiosity, thirsting for knowledge and genuinely curious about his surroundings in a way the weary and suspicious people of Olympia were utterly baffled by. However, his morality left something to be desired, for he was more than willing to sacrifice others to obtain the data he sought. As he climbed, he observed a shepherd boy, caught in the grasp of a feathered serpent over fifteen meters in length. Rather than intervene and save the youth, the primarch merely observed, learning all that he could of the wildlife and learning the language of his world from the panicked screams and cries for help of the youth as he was slowly constricted to death over the course of hours. Following instincts he did not fully understand, Perturabo scaled the cliff face, discovering a village and the forge located at its heart. For the next year, the primarch lived in this tiny village as a blacksmith, crafting weapons of war as he quickly surpassed the master of the forge who owned it. Delighted in victory but dissatisfied with the mediocrity of those around him, Perturabo set out on his own once more, seeking out the nearest city-state in search of someone to best him either in smithing or in combat, for the boy had quickly discovered he possessed incredible physical prowess.

Upon entering the city-state, Perturabo was brought before the Tyrant who ruled it, a man whom history remembers only as the Satrap, who had heard of the boy's natural talent. The man adopted him, promising to give him challenges worthy of his talent, but he quickly proved unable to live up to his word, for his realm was the smallest and weakest of the twelve great city-states. However, what he lacked in riches and strength, the Tyrant more than made up for in cunning. Playing off Perturabo's pride and need for approval, the Tyrant manipulated the Primarch into disposing of his enemies within the city-state before turning him against his enemies elsewhere. Thus the man who had wanted to be a smith, a craftsman, became a weapon of war, a tool in the hands of those who were lesser than him, and he knew it. His ruthless efficiency ensured no Tyrant could stand before him and his masterful skill at siegecraft and observing weaknesses, their impregnable fortresses crumbling along with the mountains they were built upon, and soon all of Olympia bowed before him and his adoptive Tyrant father. He was harsh but fair, expecting success and punishing failure, and all men respected him, though they did not love him, for he took a cruel and unseemly delight in humiliating those he challenged.

After taking Lochos, the last of the twelve great city-states, the Satrap appointed Perturabo as Regent of Lochos and ordered him to marry Calliphone, the daughter of the defeated Tyrant Dammekos, whom he ordered imprisoned. Though his power far outstripped that of the Satrap, the primarch went along with his adoptive father's wishes and married the girl. However, their marriage was far from conventional. Perturabo showed little interest in his wife, or companionship in general, and the Satrap's desire for grandchildren and heirs remained unfulfilled as rumors the marriage was never consummated began to spread. The primarch had seemingly realized what was obvious all along: the approval he sought would need to come from someone who could surpass him, and with his new title as Regent, he had power that was ill-defined enough to make the Satrap hesitate to cross him lest he himself be overthrown. Now free to follow his own desires, Perturabo instead spent most of his time designing architectural schematics so advanced they were deemed impossible to construct with the primitive tools of Olympia, though he never gave up regardless of how discouraged this made him feel.

As the years passed, the Satrap grew more frustrated with his son's increasing independence, and eventually traveled to confront his son in private in his palace at Lochos. However, as he soon discovered the hard way, Perturabo had long since rejected the Satrap's authority, sending him to his doom by hurling him bodily from the mountainside. The primarch's next action, his first as Tyrant, was to order the release of Dammekos, appointing him as Regent to oversee Olympia while he remained in his laboratory. It was clear Perturabo himself did not desire the burden of leadership, and was content to remain in his workshop while others ruled in his stead. Under Dammekos's watchful eye, the treachery endemic to Olympian culture shriveled away even as paranoia grew under the vast police-state he established. Peace was enforced at swordpoint as incompetence was punished and corruption exterminated under the regime of Regent Dammekos and Queen Calliphone, who ruled without check to their power so long as Perturabo's demand for order and resources was fulfilled.

However, despite his uncontested mastery, Perturabo still remained unhappy, for even with his matchless authority and talent, he could not shake a sense of helplessness. None could best him in any regard, whether it be craftsmanship, skill at arms, or battle of wit, but always winning left him dissatisfied, for there was nothing he could do to give himself more of a challenge. Likewise, Perturabo's schematics and plans were beyond anything the wisest of Olympia had ever seen, but they remained merely conjectural, for they were beyond his people's capacity to create. A deep sense of dissatisfaction began to fill his days as his talent went to waste, ennui stripping away everything save a desire to be challenged. All the while, the baleful star continued to observe him, no matter where on Olympia he roamed, and the fact nobody could see it drove him to ever-deeper depths of isolation. However, his wish was eventually granted, for from the stars descended a golden warship, exciting in the primarch a sense of wonder he had all but forgotten.

"I am the Emperor of Terra and of all Mankind. You are Perturabo." It was more of a statement than a question.

"I am, I am. You know me!" Perturabo nodded eagerly, excited for the first time in his life. The man placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I see a thirst for knowledge in your eyes. I can offer you the knowledge you crave. Will you pledge yourself to me and to humanity's service?"

"Yes, yes, anything. Please take me with you! I will be your so…servant!" In his elation, the primarch's true feelings had almost slipped out, but the Emperor did not seem to notice.

"Very well. You shall be indomitable, unrelenting, my Lord of Iron." At that, the tears began to flow, and Perturabo cried out in joy. He had finally found someone who could help him achieve his dreams, who would understand him as the people of Olympia never had. Perturabo buried his face in the man's chestplate as he hugged him, and thus he missed the faint expression of bemusement on the Emperor's face. However, there were those that did, and Calliphone couldn't help but notice the predatory expressions of those around her as her husband embarrassed himself in front of the entire royal court.

Great Crusade: Iron-Hearted

For the first time in his life, Perturabo had found someone greater than him. He had always known that logically a being as great as he must have been created, and it came as a great relief to have his theory confirmed. For so long Perturabo had desired to find someone to match wits against, to give him a real challenge and offer him tangible wisdom on how to improve himself, and to his joy his father was more than he dared hope for. He accompanied his father back to Terra, leaving behind his wife and Olympia without a second thought, and spent months pouring over the ancient tomes contained within the Emperor's libraries. It was during this time Perturabo learned there were other beings like him, people he could call brothers, an equal as opposed to a superior like his father. The first of the Primarchs the Lord of Iron met was the tallest person aside from the Emperor he had ever seen, a one-eyed man called Magnus the Red, and judging from his crimson mane of hair, it was easy to see why. The two brothers struck up a fast friendship, both reveling in their mutual hunger for wisdom, though their fields of specialization were separate enough to avoid any bruised egos. Perturabo had an innate grasp of the physical sciences, where Magnus specialized in more esoteric studies, but the field of mathematics gave them an overlap and a connection that ensured they would remain close friends. The Lord of Iron was the thirteenth found of his brothers, and thus he had many to look up to. He and Roboute Guilliman quickly bonded over a shared attention to detail, while Vulkan and Ferrus Manus proved worthy rivals when it came to craftsmanship. Others respected him for his tenacity in combat, such as Horus Lupercal, and overall he was at least respected by most of his brothers even if they were not especially close.

After indulging his son's curiosity, the Emperor made it clear to Perturabo it was time to begin his training to join the Great Crusade. What took months for other primarchs to absorb took the Lord of Iron mere weeks, and soon he was ready to swear his allegiance. Perturabo tirelessly climbed the towering marble spire that was the Tower of the Astartes, quickly solving the intellectual and moral hazards contained within, and reaching the summit, knelt before his father to swear his Oath of Moment. Now an official commander of the Emperor's armies, Perturabo was taken to meet his sons, the Fourth Legion. As was customary for the legions in the Mid-Era Great Crusade who had yet to find their primarch, the Fourth had long been split into multiple smaller fleets, and by the Emperor's command, a majority was recalled from active duty, around 35,000 in total. On the way to meet them, the Lord of Iron reviewed their deployments and service record, and noted with concern the obvious drop in performance which had occurred over the previous decade, including the catastrophic losses at Incaladion. Part of him was dumbfounded, unable to comprehend why they were failing when they were following the rules of war to the letter. Another part was pure anger, a ruthless fury that they were tarnishing his reputation, for the Hammer of Olympia knew full well that reputation could make or break them in the eyes of others. However, as always, his logical side won out, and meeting his sons for the first time, he made it quite clear he expected the best from them. His sons would have one chance to impress him, and if they did so they would win his favor and the attention they so rightfully deserved. If not, well, he could always get more sons.

Reviewing the data obtained from scout fleets, Perturabo selected the Sak'trada Deeps Warzone, a system located relatively close to Terra. It was strategically useless, but it was one of the few remaining zones in Segmentum Solar outside of Imperial control, a blot on the stellar map he intended to eliminate. According to records, a strange race of xenos known as the Nocturnal Warriors of Hrud inhabited the Deeps as well as the nearby Vulpa Straits, where scouts had encountered Aeldari rangers who warned them not to enter the region. However, the Lord of Iron was not one to be deterred by the misgivings of the superstitious, and he certainly wasn't going to listen to xenos, thus the Astartes of the Fourth began making their way into the Deeps. The first world they encountered was the planet of Gugann, where the Fourth Legion quickly established a base of operations. However, it appeared they had only kicked the hornet's nest, for from a vast network of underground warrens, the Hrud came pouring out onto the surface as soon as night fell. Countless thousands of spindly-limbed monstrosities, their bodies covered in rags, came running toward the stark edifice built by the Astartes, firing off archaic rifles whose potshots seared through armor with unnerving efficacy on the few times they hit.

The Astartes on the surface quickly fired back, their bolters destroying hundreds of the creatures, but it was too little, too late, for the very presence of the Hrud was far more deadly than their rifles. Wherever the misshapen creatures walked, everything around them withered and died. At first the Fourth believed it was some sort of poison, and so did not hesitate to wade into melee combat after sealing their armor. However, as they began to die even more rapidly, the legionaries learned to their horror that it was not a toxin but entropy itself. Within minutes their armor began to rust into useless scrap, components falling off as the posthuman warriors inside withered and died, for even their superhuman genetics were unable to cope with the time distortion produced by the Hrud. Even worse was their ability to manipulate the field in other ways. Legionaries froze in time, struck by their aura, only to disappear in the next instant, hurled uncountable thousands of kilometers in an instant as the planet they were on continued to orbit its star without them.

Within an hour, the entire fortification established by the Fourth had crumbled away, and Perturabo was left to stare at the casualty report listing his five hundred dead sons. A manic fury overtook the primarch in that moment, and he demanded all his ships open fire upon Gugann, to destroy the world so that no news of this overwhelming defeat on his first campaign could get out. The surface of Gugann burned beneath the molten fury of a dozen Imperial warships, but when the smoke cleared, sensors still picked up countless minor time distortions below the surface. It seemed as though the Hrud were not so easy to uproot, but after his fury calmed, Perturabo turned to another side of his personality, the one which had seen him rise to control Olympia. Burying himself in his personal workshop, the Lord of Iron consulted with the senior tech-priests accompanying his fleet, and together they soon crafted a device to burn the Hrud from their warrens. The Lord of Iron had used his genius to devise a modified stasis field generator, weakening the field but increasing its range. Certain of his genius, Perturabo deployed to the surface alone, utterly assured his device would work. To his credit, it functioned exactly as intended, for as the Hrud threw themselves at the Lord of Iron, their fields failed to affect him or his armor in any significant way, and they soon fell back before him.

Signaling his success, Perturabo returned to his ship, ordering the tech-priests to begin producing more of these for his sons to utilize. Within a few weeks, Gugann was cleansed, and the Fourth Legion had inflicted heavy casualties on the xenos. However, they were unprepared for what was to occur next, for as they closed in on the final Hrud warren, the entire planet began to shake and crumble as continent-sized chunks began to break away. The world of Gugann ceased to be, and in its place was a collection of massive ships, fashioned from hollowed-out chunks of land that housed untold billions of Hrud who fled the system rather than face death at the hands of the Fourth Legion. Multiple planets across the Vulpa Strait began to report similar occurrences, and as the ships of his fleet began to crumble to dust around him, Perturabo realized for the first time just how much he had underestimated the situation. Now desperate for the first time in his life, the Lord of Iron ordered his flagship to escape at any cost, ramming it through one of his own vessels in order to escape. By the time the last of the Hrud had fled, the Fourth Legion fleet was in shambles, over ninety-five percent of it lost with all hands. Gazing upon his shattered forces, Perturabo felt dread in his heart, for if any were to learn of this, he would surely be stripped of command. However, the Lord of Iron was nothing if not resourceful, for despite his losses, he had technically succeeded: the Sak'trada Deeps were now free of xenos. The Hrud had yielded the system to the Imperium, fleeing east toward the Aurelia Sub-Sector, and there were no outside witnesses to dispute whatever he may claim. Surely a noble lie would be worth it to increase his sons' morale.

"We have suffered, and we have bled, my sons. You have displayed strength, will, faith, and honor this day. The wars we face are a mathematical equation to be solved, but together we can and will solve it as quickly as possible, no matter the cost! Our legion is no longer just a number on a ledger: you are my Iron Warriors!" -Perturabo's victory speech, given after the Sak'trada Deeps Campaign

Returning to Terra, Perturabo announced to his father Sak'trada had been cleansed, basking in his father's approval as he recounted the heroic efforts of his sons, who had fought valiantly and took high casualties as a result. The Imperial Council commended the Lord of Iron for his victory, and sent him on his way with a medal and resources to begin creating more Astartes to replace the fallen. Before departing, Perturabo made certain to stop by the Departmento Munitorum to ensure the coverage of the campaign was a positive one, his sheer imposing presence making quite the impression on the cowering mortals who oversaw the Reporting Bureau. The Lord of Iron recalled his sons to Olympia, confirming his father-in-law as Regent of all Olympia in his absence, and Dammekos soon set to work building a base of operations for the legion. As the Iron Warriors set out to conquer the stars, new forges and shipyards came into being, a vast supply-chain to ensure the Fourth Legion never lacked for new recruits. In his single-minded determination to rebuild his numbers, Perturabo even went so far as to order the women of Olympia to bear more sons, leaving it up to Dammekos to ensure this decree was met by whatever means he saw fit. The Fourth Legion began to swell in size, quickly becoming one of the largest due to the high compatibility rate of their gene-seed, though they also bore a casualty rate just as high. However, results were one of the few things that mattered to Perturabo, and so long as his sons were achieving victories, he didn't care how many had to die to maintain his reputation in the eyes of his father.

As the decades of the Great Crusade passed, the Iron Warriors continued to rake in victory after victory, shrugging off absurd losses in the process. Impressed by his initial success, the Imperial Council began to request the aid of the Iron Warriors more and more frequently, and Perturabo accepted each mission without hesitation, certain that his father was paying attention to him all the while. Requests for conquests eventually began to turn into garrison requests, for High Command was just as concerned with keeping worlds as taking them, and with only slightly more reluctance, Perturabo began to split his forces to accommodate them. Soon hundreds of worlds were subject to the direct oversight of the Fourth Legion, who were quick to begin recruiting there as well in order to keep up their numbers. The legion retained its talent for siegecraft as well as fortress construction, building new keeps atop the ruins of forts they had brought tumbling down, but even higher than their towers was the sense of pride rooting itself in the hearts of Iron Warriors. It was very clear to the sons of Perturabo that the other legions did not understand the sacrifices which they had undertaken for the Imperium, and they certainly lacked the stomach to pay any price in order to obtain victory. A callous indifference for their fellow warriors, a necessary psychological defense in a legion which took such high casualties, soon grew into a disdain for their cousin legions, and nowhere was this more evident in the relationship between them and the Seventh Legion.

On the surface, the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors were substantially similar, just like their primarchs. The two legions were without a doubt the most talented at siege warfare, equally determined to weather the costs needed to topple any fortress. The two had fought alongside each other a handful of times, but departed each time in anger, having rubbed each other the wrong way. No, any such similarities were shallow at best, and Perturabo could not understand why everyone compared him with the primarch of the Fists, his older brother Rogal Dorn. From his point of view, Dorn was overly blunt, entirely lacking a love for knowledge. More than that though, he was a hypocrite, and there were few things Perturabo hated more than a hypocrite. For all his claims of focusing on quality in his legion, it was evident in their smaller victory tally, despite being found nearly forty years before, that such claims were empty boasts. The Lord of Inwit was a proud man, claiming to be among the Emperor's favorite sons, and at an Imperial banquet, he even went to far as to say there was nobody that could topple one of his fortresses, slandering the Fourth as nothing more than 'Corpse Grinders'.

Unwilling to tolerate such slander any longer, Perturabo's dislike blossomed into hatred, and in that moment swore to see Dorn humbled before him. Open combat was out of the question, for Perturabo was unwilling to risk his own reputation in front of his father, but soon found Dorn's true weakness: his reliance on others. By utilizing his contacts in the Reporting Bureau, the Lord of Iron began a concerted effort to cast a negative light upon his rival, for once people believed the worst of the Fists, the only comparisons between their sons would be in Perturabo's favor. Reports of Seventh Legion setbacks were disseminated widely, while news of the Fourth Legion became more sparing in order to throw off suspicion. Rumors and doubts on the prowess of Dorn and his sons soon became the talk of the fleets, and Perturabo rejoiced with every report of Dorn's growing frustration. The news that Rogal had been humiliated by the unstable Konrad Curze was one of the happiest days of Perturabo's life, and while his brother recovered, the Lord of Iron was busy casting aspersions on Dorn's combat ability to the rest of his brothers that he campaigned alongside.

However, the Great Crusade was not always so successful for the Iron Warriors. By the turn of the millennium, it is likely they had suffered more casualties than any other legion by far, and as such never achieved the size Perturabo desired them to be, topping out at around 175,000 legionaries at their height. Most Astartes of the Fourth never met their father, instead operating as a part of smaller fleets or garrisons spread across the vast expanse of Ultima Segmentum. However, even those physically close to Perturabo were not exactly beloved or even trusted. The Lord of Iron was highly prone to emotional outbursts, unable to grasp why his sons failed to comprehend his logic, and he found himself having to explain things in the simplest of terms for them to even begin to understand his reasons. Though they tried their best to hide it, he could tell they resented him and would rather not be around him. This created a vicious circle of frustration between the father and his sons, who preferred the company of their brothers, who were less likely to lash out in rage. The death and horror they had all seen was clear to them, but Perturabo despised weakness, and thus his sons did their best to live up to the legion motto, to be both Iron Within and Iron Without. Where Perturabo remained utterly convinced of his father's love, his sons began to doubt whether the cause they were fighting for was worth the sacrifice, their pragmatism nudging them toward heretical thoughts such as whether or not there might be a better way than Perturabo's to prosecute the Great Crusade since, after all, the other legions didn't seem to lose so many of its members on such a regular basis. The desire for success remained strong in those who accompanied the primarch, but those who remained in the garrisons for decades eventually lost faith in their primarch. Those who did accompany the primarch were notably lacking in brotherhood, for they quickly learned not to get too close to squadmates who could die at any time.

Rusting Away: The Isolation of the Fourth Legion

By the turn of the millennium, the cracks which had begun to form in the Fourth Legion were still hidden beneath their iron facade. Few paid attention to them, for they were not glory-hounds like others such as the Luna Wolves or Ultramarines, but they maintained a reputation for reliability. Most importantly, those who did hold bad opinions, such as the Imperial Fists, were not in Imperial favor as a result of decades of propaganda. As such, it was no surprise when Lupercal sought aid, he called upon his reliable brother Perturabo. The Iron Warriors responded, as usual, quickly and efficiently, bringing tens of thousands of legionaries to bear on short notice. Perturabo fought alongside Horus Lupercal and Jaghatai Khan against a greenskin empire larger than any they had ever seen, but with his brothers at his side, he was certain to give it his all, for maintaining his image was of paramount importance. With his tactical brilliance, the orks were continually pushed back across the entire front as more and more Iron Warriors were drawn into the conflict. However, the true numbers of the xenos proved to be too much even for the might of three legions, and so reinforcements soon arrived. The Lord of Iron's irritation at being forced to call for aid soon turned to joy when he learned the reinforcements were led by none other than his father. Many legionaries were confused to see their father with a smile on his face, all hints of moodiness vanished, but they had learned the hard way long ago not to question the primarch about anything.

By the end of the campaign, the orks had been pushed back to their capital of Ullanor, where the Emperor and Horus fought side by side to kill the Overlord who ruled the greenskins. The Lord of Iron would normally have resented Horus for such an honor, but he quickly buried his feelings once more as the announcement of a Grand Triumph spread throughout the fleet. Perturabo busied himself giving hints to the Mechanicum tech priests overseeing the terraforming and passing the hours in the command deck of the Bucephalus, watching from a balcony as his father issued orders. However, as the weeks flew by and the Triumph grew closer, the Hammer of Olympia received a missive from a most unexpected source: Lion El'Jonson. Initially suspicious, for he and the Lord of the First had but rarely interacted, Perturabo was filled with shock as the letter revealed that his homeworld was in the grip of a rebellion. With mounting dismay, he learned that his father in law, whom he had left as Regent so many years ago, was dead, and that the order he had maintained had died with him. The Lion's message explained he thought it best to handle this sort of situation quietly, for this had never happened to another primarch, and Perturabo ground his teeth as he realized his sons whom he had left behind as a garrison must have tried to deliver the bad news through an intermediary.

There was no time to gather a larger force, for the Triumph was less than six months away and astropathic communications were far from reliable, so Perturabo took all of the Iron Warriors he had with him at Ullanor to deal with this problem. Maneuvering around the northern edges of the galactic core took the fleet the better part of two months, for Warp storms were worse than they had been in recent years. Perturabo had not been back to his homeworld since the Emperor found him over one hundred and twenty years before, but this talk of rebellion was something he had never dreamed would happen. Surely his people saw the logic, as he did, of remaining a part of the Imperium. When the fleet broke back into realspace, the Lord of Iron sent scouts to ascertain the political situation, and was unsurprised to learn the instigators for this secessionist sentiment were none other than the Tyrants of the other city-states. While Dammekos had been alive, he had ruled with an iron fist, but with him gone, the men and women who ruled the other states had not even been born when Perturabo was last there, and so they did not know or respect him. The scouts also reported that most of the cities were surprisingly empty, while the garrison manning Olympia had remained confined to barracks.

As the scouts continued to report in, they began to reveal the rebellion had not actually occurred. At most there were a few demonstrations, a singular riot here and there, far from the dire picture the Lion's missive had painted. However, any thought of restraint vanished when Perturabo learned that the rebellion was reportedly being led by his own wife, Queen Calliphone. The Lord of Iron was, for the first time in his life, lost for words at the news of this betrayal, which struck his heart like a dagger. Hadn't he given her everything a person could want: power, servants, multiple juvenat treatments to live far beyond a normal human's lifespan? How could she be so faithless as to turn her back on the man who had given her anything, even if they hadn't seen each other for a bit? Surely she had been lied to, that it was a third party who had led her astray. His sorrow soon turned to rage, for whomever had brought this dishonor upon him would pay with their lives.

The Fourth Legion descended upon their homeworld with the force of a hammer upon an anvil, obliterating entire mountains to serve as staging grounds for their landing parties. Hundreds of Astartes in their gunmetal gray began to march upon the nearest city-state, a mirror of Perturabo's campaigns so long ago. Once more the Lord of Iron took the cities of Olympia by force, utterly without mercy as they rampaged through the unprepared civilians who fruitlessly struggled to hold the same fortifications that Perturabo himself had designed many years before. The skies filled with smoke as colossal funeral pyres burned without ceasing for weeks, the few survivors struggling to dispose of the mountains of corpses before disease set in. Perturabo's fury was unleashed as never before as he led from the front, crushing whatever the so-called rebels threw at him with contemptuous ease, and his forces soon came to Lochos itself, where his wife was holed up in their palace. While the rest of the legion took the city, the Lord of Olympia marched into his home alone, determined to confront his wife.

"Who is this?" Perturabo had screamed at Calliphone. His wife had lost none of her beauty in the time they had been apart, mostly as a result of extensive juvenat treatments, but the partially-dressed man who had been in the bed with her appeared to be barely old enough to shave.

"Who do you think he is? Did you really expect me to be alone for all these years?" Calliphone sarcastically replied, her tone oozing venom and contempt. At a loss for words, Perturabo resorted to his instincts. Faster than the other two could react, he wrapped his armored hand around the young man's head, and effortlessly crushed it into a bloody pulp. However, that only seemed to make his wife angrier. She threw herself at him, pounding on his armor to no effect.

"You idiot! You've ruined Olympia, you and your Imperium."

"How dare you! I was serving my father, bringing order and a worthy dream into fruition."

"Dammekos stripped our world of its youth in the name of your dream. Our population was in tatters even before you loosed your butchers."

"I cared for you, Calliphone. I made you my queen." Perturabo's tone had changed from anger to pleading, but Calliphone's remained just as caustic.

"Even before the Emperor came, you ignored me in favor of your drawings, of your little clockwork machines and your toy soldiers. Not to mention the fact you've been absent for well over a century. Some care that was. Ever since the Terrans came, you've done nothing but scurry about, accepting every pointless task and errand thrown your way in the hopes of winning some scrap of praise. How is it that your 'brothers' refuse these same missions yet still win the Emperor's attention?"

"Calliphone, please…" Perturabo's voice had changed from pleading to a low warning growl, but Calliphone plowed on, filled with scorn and derision.

"I'll tell you why if you won't admit it. In your arrogance, you believe the Emperor needs you, that he loves you, that you're the only one he can count on. Why else would you keep accepting tasks that throw away the men of Olympia by the tens of thousands? Don't think the people you left behind haven't noticed how nobody ever returns from your 'Great Crusade'. It's clear to everyone that you're a child, Bo, who never grew into a man, and the whole Imperium knows it. How could I possibly be satisfied with a failure like you?" Perturabo's hand lashed out, seizing his wife by the throat, tears flowing down his face.

"You're a traitor. Why are you making me do this?" He sobbed, tightening his grip as Calliphone struggled, her hands clawing uselessly at his iron grip. With one final squeeze, she went limp, and he let her body fall to the floor. Rising up, he walked on unsteady feet over to the window, looking out from his balcony at the burning ruin of his world and its cities. "What have I done? How will the Emperor ever forgive me?"

As the Sack of Lochos continued through the night, Perturabo remained alone in his tower, replaying his wife's words over and over as he contemplated his situation. She was right about one thing: Dammekos had clearly mismanaged the world. It must have been the Regent who filled her head with such poison, there was no way this could be Perturabo's fault. However, what filled him with the most dread was her words about the Emperor and his brothers. Had he done too good a job of concealing his talent and successes from the rest of them in his attempts to avoid suspicion? Reviewing his previous actions dispassionately, it was possible that was the case. But he was certain the Emperor loved him, there was no way she was right about that. When dawn broke, the Hammer of Olympia emerged from his seclusion, and gathered his sons to his side once more. Singling out their commander, Consul Narik Dreygur, Perturabo ordered him to do whatever was necessary to repopulate the world, giving him and his grand battalion the authority to rebuild Olympia and make it prosperous once more. Most importantly they would need to keep the Sack of Olympia as the most guarded of secrets, for none could ever be permitted to learn about this. The Lord of Iron departed Olympia with his fastest ships, straining against the tides of the Warp to reach the Triumph of Ullanor and stand by his father's side in the place of honor he knew so rightfully deserved.

However, when the fleet arrived, they were alone. There were no parades, no grand collections of vessels orbiting above the world, only an automated message from a servitor-manned satellite announcing the Trophy World was off-limits while broadcasting a recording of the affair. Perturabo was genuinely sad at first that he had missed the Emperor: surely his father had put it off as long as he could in the hopes his favorite son would return, but the Lord of Iron knew full well his father couldn't wait forever. However, this understanding soon turned to confusion as the recording continued, displaying the Emperor crowning Horus Lupercal with a new title, that of Warmaster. Perturabo frowned, struggling to grasp the implications of such an ill-defined title which had no precedent in Imperial history, but as the Emperor continued speaking, the Lord of Iron was distracted by someone standing in the background of the shot. At first he believed it to be his brother Sanguinius, famous for his golden armor and wings, but then a panning shot revealed him to be standing elsewhere. It was with mounting fury Perturabo realized the truth: it was Rogal Dorn standing there by the Emperor's side. The Lord of Iron screamed in frustration, smashing his hololith over and over until there was nothing left but a mangled pile of scrap. His unworthy brother had gotten to stand by their father's side, no doubt whispering twisted truths of his exploits, claiming the glory and favor which should have been his by right. His fury mounted ever higher as Perturabo realized it would not have changed anything had he learned about Olympia after the events of the Triumph, that he could have stayed at Ullanor and received the adulation which should have been his.

Uncertain of what to do next, Perturabo returned to his homeworld, overseeing the rebuilding efforts and ensuring they were up to his standards. Issuing orders to his scattered fleets, the Hammer of Olympia had them bring new populations, a tithe from the worlds they conquered, and soon people from dozens of systems now called Olympia home. They would adopt Olympian culture, in time, but for now reconstruction took priority, and so most were put to work laboring while the legionaries oversaw the rebuilding of the homes for them to live in. These efforts were soon interrupted by a delegation of Custodes, the Emperor's personal bodyguards, who announced to the Lord of Iron and his senior commanders that the Emperor was calling a summit on the world of Nikaea to discuss the Librarius project. Perturabo quickly departed to rendezvous at the coordinates the Custodes had provided. He had never really been comfortable around psykers, for their powers were hard to plan around, but Magnus was his closest brother, and Perturabo would support him in his time of need, for the Lord of Iron had long known most people did not like the Crimson King. It had always amused him that Magnus was unable to understand why they disapproved of his psychic powers; he supposed some people were just oblivious when it came to getting along with others. More importantly than supporting Magnus though was the chance to see the Emperor. This would be his chance to make up for lost time, and he would not let it go to waste like at Ullanor.

When the fleet of the Iron Warriors arrived, they quickly noted with displeasure that the Seventh Legion had entered the system at the same time. The two fleets began to jockey for position, each attempting to bring their vessels as close as possible to the golden Bucephalus, flagship of the Emperor, and so claim the place of pride. However, the Custodes soon intervened, forcing both fleets to stand down, for they would brook no possible danger to the Master of Mankind or his ship, and so the Iron Warriors reluctantly moved into the position indicated to them. As they did so, the flagship was hailed by none other than Horus Lupercal, the so-called Warmaster. Perturabo was unsure how their relationship had changed, nor did he wish to test the limits of his brother's uncertain authority, and so kept his distance as Horus spoke, asking him for favors as if nothing had changed. Calliphone's words came back to him, and he began to realize his brother was taking him for granted, his tone making it clear he expected Perturabo to assent to whatever he asked, such as his request for a battalion of his sons to join something called the Legion Auxilia. As always though, Lupercal knew how to sweeten a bargain, tempting him with the prospect of building the council halls upon Nikaea itself, and so Perturabo reluctantly agreed to his conditions, though he soon wished he hadn't. As his sons began to unload supplies onto the barren steppes of the planet below, Perturabo met with the Warmaster in person, where he learned that Rogal Dorn was to assist him in this project.

As Perturabo knew from the start, this partnership quickly became an exercise in futility. Dorn's men were more of a hindrance than an asset, for their methods were entirely different to his own. Their designs lacked artistry, giving no heed to the fundamentals of Olympian architecture, and every day was punctuated by shouting matches between Dorn and Perturabo which Lupercal was forced to resolve. Eventually their brother grew tired of this, and ordered them both away. Perturabo returned to his ship, where he waited for Dorn's apology, but it never came, and the Council started in its place. After listening to the Emperor's opening speech, the Lord of Iron quickly realized he could both help Magnus and defeat Dorn if he could speak first, and so when the time came, he was the first of the nine gathered primarchs to speak. Using his brilliant logic, Perturabo laid out the groundwork for the utility of the Librarius project, and took his seat after several hours of incontrovertible evidence. To his disgust, Dorn was next to speak, and he immediately began to twist Perturabo's words into outright lies. The Lord of Iron would not stand for such slander, and began to heckle him from the sidelines. However, his scorn soon turned to shock when the Emperor arose, and in a tone which brooked no dispute, ordered them both from the room.

The shock which Perturabo felt at that moment was almost as great as the one he had received at Ullanor. How could his father do this to him? Why was he taking Dorn's side? Alone in his chambers, the Lord of Iron nursed his bruised ego and sense of betrayal, his only comfort the prospect of talking to the Emperor after the Council had concluded. When the final day of the Council came, Perturabo was finally allowed to attend again, and listened with approval to Magnus's excellent rhetoric. However, once more the Emperor rose up in anger, castigating the Crimson King for using the Warp to trick the members of the Council into siding with him. The Lord of Iron was confused, for he had not noticed any such trickery, but his father was always right. Though it was annoying that Dorn's side had come out victorious, there was no point in arguing, and thus he watched silently as the Emperor pronounced his verdict banning the Librarius and censuring Magnus. His patience was rewarded with the Emperor's next announcement, his heart leaping as his father described the position of Praetorian, a role he was clearly born to play.

However, his hopes flew too high. In stunned silence, Perturabo watched in disbelief as his father chose not him, not Dorn, whom it galled Perturabo to admit would be the next logical choice, but Vulkan. Total shock filled his body as Vulkan stood by his father's side in the spot that should have been his, which was quickly replaced by a roaring tsunami of hatred. He looked over at Rogal, and found in him for the first time a kindred spirit, someone else who understood the depth of this betrayal. Vulkan had been his brother once upon a time, a fellow craftsman, but no more. Perturabo stormed from the room, almost running to return to his flagship. A scream of impotent rage nearly slipped out as he noticed Malcador move to comfort Rogal while he himself remained ignored. Tears threatened to flow as Calliphone's words rang in his ears again and again, alongside the crushing weight of failure and solitude.

Tumbling Down: The Heresy Begins

A lesser man would have been destroyed by the weight of emotions that bore down on Perturabo that day. However, he was the Lord of Iron, and with the practiced ease of one used to being misunderstood, he buried it all, pushing his emotions aside to present his usual taciturn exterior to his sons. The roiling tempest was locked away, and so none were any the wiser as the Iron Warriors returned to Olympia. The skill of his sons was undeniable, for Olympia was nearly restored to her former glory little over a year after the Sack which had all but depopulated her. New influences were evident everywhere, for the imported populations had brought with them the distinctive flairs of their original worlds. It made Olympia feel far more cosmopolitan and Imperial, but to a man adrift from his bearings in the way Perturabo felt, it just made it seem like his home was gone forever. Only his Turrym Ferrym, the soaring spire which was his personal sanctum, remained as it was, for even in the height of their rebellion, the traitors had hesitated to disturb the fortress of the Lord of Iron. Thus after docking his ships, Perturabo ordered his sons to continue to rebuild the legion and their homeworld, and secluded himself in his lair. The legion went months without hearing from their father, and his activities remain a mystery. Some say he was brooding, others planning for the future, still others plotting his revenge. Whatever the case, there is no telling how long this self-imposed isolation may have gone on for, but it was soon to come to an abrupt end with a most unexpected arrival.

Like a shadow lengthening as the sun set, the prodigious form of a black-hulled Gloriana-class battleship crept into sight in orbit above the rocky world of Olympia, the sleek and deadly immensity growing and growing to reveal row after row of lances and macrocannon batteries tipped off with a hooded angel prow. There was no other vessel in existence that compared to such a distinct instrument of destruction, and even the aloof sons of Perturabo were amazed as they beheld the twenty-eight kilometers of sheer power that was the Invincible Reason, flagship of the Dark Angels. As they tore their attention away from its magnificence, their eyes fell upon the dozens of lesser warships orbiting it like minnows around a shark, each one a vessel capable of destroying entire worlds in their own right, but now appearing as positively puny in comparison. Alarms soon began to blare as auspexes detected incoming vessels, a swarm of dropships flying in without clearance, but for once the Iron Warriors hesitated, for even their dedication to protocol wavered in the face of a move this bold. Curiosity and indignation mixed together as an entire battalion of legionaries gathered to meet the Stormbird that could only be bearing one individual as it lit upon the highest landing pad, and at their head to meet the primarch of the Dark Angels was the Trident.

Trident

Rather than a single Legion Master to act as a second-in-command to the primarch, the dispersed fleets of the Fourth Legion required a more flexible structure. Perturabo's favor was a fickle thing, and many commanders rose and fell based on his approval. Those who retained his confidence, such as it was, the longest were referred to as the Trident. They were a group of three Triarchs, a title which gave them primacy in both authority and rank over the rest of the legion. To outsiders, the primarch of the Iron Warriors was like an imposing cliff-face, stern and unforgiving, reliable but unimaginative. However, his sons knew the truth, that beneath that iron exterior lay a fiery temper and unpredictable tempest of emotions. Thus the Trident most often acted as advisors and intermediaries who softened their primarch's harsh commands. By the turn of the millennium, the Trident consisted of First Captain Kydomor Forrix, Lord Berossus, of the Second Grand Battalion, and Barban Falk, known only as the Warsmith.

Having been witness to their father's explosive temper, the Trident were in total agreement, a rare occurrence, that Perturabo must not be disturbed. Thus as the Lord of the Dark Angels disembarked from his personal transport, accompanied by dozens of Deathwing Companions in ornate armor, a host of legionaries in the unadorned plate of the Iron Warriors stood in his way. The Trident began to speak, but were silenced with one look. Frozen in the midst of a peerless hunter, Lion El'Jonson walked casually past the assembled Fourth Legion, not bothering to speak or ask for directions as he strode into the heart of Perturabo's domain. The Master of the First moved with absolute focus through the twisting halls of the Turrym Ferrym by what must have been pure instinct, for no records show him ever having been to Olympia before, and he soon stood before the personal sanctum of the Lord of Iron. The vast adamantium doors remained resolutely shut, but the Lord of Caliban was not one to take no for an answer. In one swift motion, Lion drew his greatsword, the Lion's Blade, and cut into the wall, its mighty power field slicing clean through the meter and a half of solid adamantium between him and his brother. Kicking out, the thick slab of metal fell to the floor with a deafening clang as Lion stepped through, straightening up to look his brother in the eye. Perturabo frowned, but began to move aside the thick sheets of blueprints and designs that covered every surface of his workshop in order to clear a space for his brother to sit down. The conversation lasted for hours, but if the Lord of Iron had expected comfort, he was dead wrong.

"Live up to that logic you're so proud of and face the truth, Bo. The Emperor doesn't love you." The Lion said calmly, his voice as full of scorn as Calliphone's had been that night.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Perturabo roared, his composure long since having disappeared.

"He hasn't spoken to you in decades and you know it. His time has been spent on his favorites: Lorgar, Konrad, even Horus. He and everyone else knows about your little smear campaign against Dorn, and it disgusts him just as much as your pathetic need for approval. You're just his errand boy, running about to do his will while you hold up your bleeding wrists as you cultivate your martyr's complex in the hopes others might recognize you only to brood in the shadows when they inevitably don't."

"You don't know anything! I've sacrificed…"

"What? What have you sacrificed that others haven't? We've all lost our sons and our time prosecuting the Emperor's pointless wars of self-aggrandizement. Your foolish devotion to the Emperor is a chain, a fetter you can't even see, and an unworthy one at that."

"Why did you come here? Just to mock me? Or do you have some task you want to manipulate me into doing like everyone else does? You call me blind, but don't think I haven't noticed how you, like everyone else, is attempting to play to my ego, as if I were Guilliman." Perturabo demanded, his voice full of resentment at both his brother and his own eyes which were filled with treacherous tears of despair that revealed his weakness.

"I came because I care about you, Bo. You and I are alike, standing apart from the rest of our brothers. We both know what it's like, dealing with incompetents who can't understand simple logic. You and I have both analyzed the structural integrity of this Imperium: the Emperor seeks to pass off the work to lesser architects when the very foundations are riddled with flaws. Come now, Perturabo, you're smarter than you give yourself credit for, don't you think you'd be able to see if I was manipulating you? I'm just here to help you break free of your self-imposed prison, starting with that star that's been haunting you." As his brother finished speaking, Perturabo raised his head to look his brother in the eyes, searching desperately for a shred of falsehood to seize upon, to fall back upon cynical resentment as he knew he always had. But there was none to be found in those deep green eyes, mysterious and yet somehow full of a concern that he had never seen before, and in that moment, hope, that most dangerous thing, entered Perturabo for the first time since the day he met the Emperor.

As the sun rose over Lochos the next day, it dawned on two primarchs who had turned their backs upon the Emperor. With the aid of the Lion's counsel, Perturabo now understood the limitations he had been placing upon himself. The Emperor was not worthy of his service, just as the Satrap had been unworthy. Now he would be a servant no longer, but a partner and brother who would be free to follow his own desires after the False Emperor had been toppled. The Lion praised him in front of both their legions for his clearsightedness, and in return for his aid, the Master of Caliban gave over to him six of the largest siege guns the Iron Warriors had ever seen, relics from the Forge World of Diamat that matched or surpassed anything held in the experimental arsenal of the Stor-Bezashk. The Lord of Iron was more focused than ever before, for his brother had given to him strange obsidian stone panels with which to line his helmet and hammer, and now the presence of the baleful star was still palpable but no longer oppressive as it had once been. A new drive animated him, for Perturabo now knew of the coming storm and the need to purge his legion, to make it strong enough to survive the war to come. The Iron Warriors gathered their forces and set out for the stars once more, for the time for mercy had passed.

For the next ten or so years, the Fourth Legion journeyed to each and every one of the hundreds of worlds they garrisoned. Accompanying them were small groups of Thousand Sons, for in the aftermath of the Council of NIkaea, the Fifteenth Legion had been split amongst the legions. Through the influence of Lion El'Jonson, one of these brotherhoods had been assigned to the Fourth Legion, where they were quick to share the knowledge of the Warp they had amongst the psychically-gifted members of the Fourth Legion. So too did the warrior lodges propagate through the legion, yet another addition introduced by the Dark Angels to further corrupt them. However, to the rest of the Imperium, the Iron Warriors remained unquestionably loyal, and nobody had any reason to suspect the Fourth Legion, least of all the Warmaster, among whose Mournival advisors was Soltarn Vull Bronn, the Stonewrought, and his 45th Grand Battalion who represented Olympia amongst the Legion Auxilia forces. None who met the belligerent and forthright Bronn had any reason to suspect the sons of Olympia capable of deception, but appearances can be deceiving, for it was during this time that the Great Purge occurred. Split into dozens of fleets, the Iron Warriors bore express orders from Perturabo himself, letters of marque enabling the fleets to destroy any companies whose loyalty to the new order would be suspect. However, while the loyalty and motivation of the Hammer of Olympia may have changed, the suspicion and hidebound orderliness of his sons had not, and thus a hidden civil war erupted. Many of the Astartes garrisons were almost entirely composed of legionaries who had never so much as met their father, and the prospect of turning their backs on the Emperor was an unspeakable heresy. In his usual arrogance, Perturabo had assumed his sons would simply yield either from logic or fear of him, but not all were so quick to obey, and the Fourth was forced to besiege their fortresses one by one, their actions hidden by the ever-increasing Warp storms that continued to plague the galaxy during this era.

It is estimated that the Great Purge claimed over a tenth of the Fourth Legion before the Leonine Heresy truly began, a decimation only by virtue of the legion's great size, for such losses would have been catastrophic to smaller legions. Nonetheless, within a decade of the Council of Nikaea, the Iron Warriors stood united behind their primarch, ready to carry out his orders without question. Thus when the Lion called his brother to his side at the world of Davin, the Lord of Iron was quick to muster his entire legion, over a hundred and fifty thousand Astartes in total, to march in the place of honor provided to them in a new Grand Triumph whose scale rivaled if not exceeded that of Ullanor thirteen years before. After standing by the Lion's side, Perturabo and his sons set out to bring the galaxy to heel, one way or another. Their vast fleets moved in a southwestern thrust, a sledgehammer aimed straight at Terra. No fortress could bar them for long, and every fleet was swatted aside by their sheer numbers, for accompanying them was the Thirteenth Legion, the Ultramarines. However, the flighty sons of Guilliman quickly lost interest in their slow but steady advance, and after the Iron Warriors indicated they would not permit any foolish self-imposed challenges designed to increase the challenge of the campaign, they departed.

Over the next few years, the Fourth Legion pressed ever closer to Segmentum Solar, against the Imperial defense known as Bastion Omega. The sons of Perturabo took grim pleasure in shattering the hastily-constructed defenses laid in their path, and the knowledge the Imperial Fists, their nominal allies, were also pressing in gave them impetus to complete their conquests ever faster. Perturabo himself remained out of sight on almost every battlefield, his brilliant mind occupied with planning galactic conquest as he devised new stratagems to aid his sons in crushing the Imperium and to outdo his eternal rival Dorn. His fleets split into smaller and smaller groups as time passed: some were occupied with seizing resources to fuel the war effort, while others destroyed worlds deemed unlikely to yield, while still more abducted the populations of entire systems in an attempt to gain both workers and new recruits for the legion. Everything was proceeding as he had planned, and the Lion did not stint in praise for his brother, playing to his ego, and thus within several years, Perturabo knew it was time to enact the next stage of his plans.

Industrial Expansion: The Despotate of Olympia

No longer forced to conceal their true activities, the Iron Warriors were now free to expand as never before. The Emperor's decrees shackled them no longer, the Lion's attention was turned elsewhere, and the Great Purge was essentially completed. Thus those worlds which had once housed garrisons became tributary worlds, their resources drained to transport back to Olympia, a hub for the legion independent of any Forge World. Collected by roaming fleets, hundreds of systems yielded their bounty to the Fourth Legion, and so Olympia prospered as immeasurable reserves of stolen wealth flowed freely. Vast foundations for new fortresses were laid each day, one for each company, every Warsmith striving to outdo their fellows on the limited time between deployments, for all the while the Heresy raged on. Those companies who could not return to the homeworld began to do the same with the garrison worlds they still occupied, for the Lion had given them free rein so long as the worlds they occupied were loyal to him. Thus came to be the Despotate of Olympia, an ever-expanding new polity located in the galactic northeast that encompassed hundreds of systems.

However, this grand endeavor was not one accomplished peacefully, or even by threat alone. Many worlds refused to yield to the Iron Warriors for a multitude of reasons. Some worlds sought to take advantage of the chaos to declare their independence, but such proclamations meant no more than the empty words of so-called neutral worlds who sought to avoid taking a side. The sons of Perturabo took increasing pleasure in the suffering they inflicted on such worlds, amused at the foolishness of systems which did not understand their place or grasp that their fate was to be as resource providers to the Despotate. Others were loyal to the Imperium, requiring bloody sieges to overcome the loyalist garrisons of Astartes or Imperial Army divisions, but they always ended the same way, for none were better at such work than the Fourth Legion. Had the Iron Warriors devoted their full strength to breaking the Imperium, it seems likely that Bastion Omega would have collapsed far sooner. However, as always, the traitors were their own greatest obstacle, wasting countless men and materiel in fruitless battles against each other, striving to establish their own new Imperiums before the original had even fallen. To the northwest, the Blood Angels led by Nassir Amit had begun to claim worlds in the name of the Flesh Tearer, and so the two legions began to skirmish, for neither side had any interest in resolving their mutual claims through mere words. Though the Ninth Legion were better fighters, their skill meant nothing if they could not reach the prepared positions of the Iron Warriors. Hundreds on both sides perished in every one of these engagements, but these were no more than minor brush fires compared to the raging inferno which had engulfed the rest of the galaxy.

The sons of Perturabo and the forces of Amit could at least respect each other as worthy foes and commanders, but this was not the case elsewhere. Far to the southeast, the Ultramarines had begun to claim the systems adjacent to Ultramar, now girded by the impenetrable wall of the Ruinstorm. The Fourth had not forgotten how the Thirteenth had abandoned their brothers and left them to shoulder the burden as they even now pressed closer to Segmentum Solar as they strained against Bastion Omega. In addition, word had quickly swept through the traitor forces of the destruction of the Star Hunters after they had entered Ultramar to aid the Thirteenth in hunting down the loyalist legions trapped there. Faced with the unreliable and the treacherous, the commanders of the Iron Warriors quickly concluded no one would care if they took these systems back. The Iron Warriors were disgusted by the changes undergone by the Ultramarines, with their defaced armor, hideous ornamentation, and debaucherous cruelties which they inflicted upon the worlds they had seized. This was a war of extermination, neither side offering any mercy to the other despite the fact they were nominal allies under the Lion's banner. The Thirteenth were tenacious foes, always on the move, for they could slip in and out of the Ruinstorm freely whereas the Fourth could not. After several years, the conflict began to bog down, for both sides sought to focus on other fronts, but there were some commanders who were not satisfied with anything less than total victory, most notably Barabas Dantioch.

Barabas Dantioch, Master of the Schadenhold

The warrior known as Barabas Dantioch was once commander of the 51st Expeditionary Fleet, a rising star in the legion whose particular aptitude for the construction of fortifications quickly won him the primarch's attention when he was first united with his sons. However, his career quickly came to a halt after the campaign against the Hrud. Tasked with holding part of the Vulpa Straits, Dantioch was left a withered cripple by the time-distorting aura of the xenos that migrated past him. When Perturabo learned of his disability, he quickly dismissed him from his side, exiling him to the world of Lesser Damantyne as part of its garrison. In shame, Dantioch welded the symbol of the legion, an iron skullmask, to his own face to hide his disfigurement, and remained out of sight for well over a century.

This exile eventually came to an end with the arrival of Warsmith Krendl, who had come to ascertain the loyalty of the garrison there. To his surprise, Krendl discovered a massive fortress beneath the surface of Lesser Damantyne, the so-called Schadenhold, which had been constructed with the aid of the Ultramarines. However, Dantioch was done waiting, and with the aid of his partner, Tetrarch Tauro Nicodemus, slew Krendl, and took control of his forces. The pragmatic Perturabo cared little about this coup so long as it produced results, and so Dantioch was confirmed in his role. When the Ultramarines began to expand into his region, the Warsmith was outraged by the betrayal of his longtime partner Nicodemus, who sought the Schadenhold for his own. Dantioch swore vengeance against the treacherous Thirteenth, and has remained an implacable foe throughout the Heresy.

As the Leonine Heresy raged on, and brother fought brother, many lasting grudges and hatreds were etched in the souls of those who fought. The Ultramarines died in their thousands attempting to take Lesser Damantyne, the lynchpin of the Iron Warriors' defenses in the south, but they never succeeded. However, while they could not corrupt the world, they could corrupt its defenders. Faced with ever-greater odds, Dantioch began to heed the whispers in his dreams, which urged him to continue expanding his underground fortress to new heights of perfection. He became obsessed with crushing the Ultramarines, and would countenance any means to do so, no matter how treacherous. Thus Dantioch became the only Iron Warrior to ally willingly with the Imperial Fists, and actually became friends with their commander, Captain Alexis Polux, whose skill at hunting infiltrators made him a valuable partner in clearing out Ultramarine ambushers. However, their partnership could not last, and eventually Polux left, both to return to duty elsewhere as well out of disgust at what Dantioch had become. Those who fight monsters should take care not to become monsters themselves, and nowhere was this aphorism more true than in the case of the Master of the Schadenhold, who sold his soul to gain the power needed to crush his enemies only to embrace their corruption as his own.

Dantioch's story does not end there, but in the galaxy-spanning war that was the Leonine Heresy, other tales must be told as well. The conflicts between the Iron Warriors and the Ultramarines, or the forces of Amit, were vast struggles in their own right. However, they paled in comparison to the grand struggle between the Iron Warriors and their true rivals, the Imperial Fists. The singular alliance of Dantioch and Polux, which might have been the start of something in another lifetime, meant nothing amidst the firestorm of hate which had engulfed the galaxy. Decades of simmering resentment between the Fourth and Seventh Legions quickly flared into open conflict after the Lion's attention became diverted following the events of Molech. Notified of his brother's activities on the world of Estaban III, Perturabo had become alarmed at the realization Dorn had begun to spread his influence so far east, and quickly ordered his sons to begin seizing worlds to prevent any further expansion. While the Lord of the Fists was distracted dealing with loyalist infiltrators, as his Inwit Star Cluster was located far closer to Bastion Omega than Olympia was, the Iron Warriors struck, seizing dozens of systems and massively expanding the Despotate in the process. The two rival powers began a cold war against each other, both sides competing for the allegiance of the same systems. For the first time, the sons of Perturabo were forced to rely upon diplomacy rather than naked threats, for time wasted conquering a system was time that could be better spent obtaining the allegiance of still more worlds. On several occasions, delegations from both the Fourth and Seventh would arrive at the same system, only to be played against each other by its politically-savvy leaders. However, patience was not a virtue present in great supply amongst the sons of Perturabo, and so just as many systems burned in the fires of war between the Fourth and Seventh Legions.

As time passed, this grudge match began to escalate in scale as both sides sought to utilize their allies in their ever-growing conflict. Though most battles remained south of the galactic core, along an ever-changing front, new theaters opened elsewhere. In the northeast, resources were diverted to pursue several battalions of loyalist Iron Warriors, who had fled rather than betray the Emperor. To the northwest, the Flesh Tearers made common cause with the Imperial Fists, forcing ever-more resources to be diverted to that front to counter the increasingly-effective tactics of Nassir Amit. However, for most of the war, the primarch was nowhere to be found. After ordering his sons to begin expanding the legion, Perturabo had taken a fourth of the legion and disappeared, leaving his sons to carry on the conflict in his absence. While their discipline remained as firm as ever, a stark contrast to the other traitor legions, morale had dropped, and the Warsmiths grew ever-more independent as intra-legion rivalries grew. Commanders such as Dantioch became increasingly difficult to manage, for resentment and the desire for revenge dominated them like never before. Left to its own devices, the Iron Warriors may well have continued to throw away their lives fighting their nominal allies. However, their freedom, such as it was, quickly came to a grinding halt with the return of Perturabo nearly three years after he had disappeared.

New Battlefields: The War in the Webway

The whispers never stopped now. Ever since my helmet broke. It was a dependency though, right? I was weaker when I was hiding from the voices, from that Eye that never sleeps. It promises me such things, power to reshape the galaxy, in return for something that does not exist. My soul? Don't make me laugh. The gods are dead, human reason has killed them.

Why then won't the whispers go away? At first it was promises. Then threats. Now it's back to bargaining. Clearly it was desperate. It gave me a choice which was no choice at all. Power now, to be taken away later, or power in the future. Clearly it takes me for a fool. Of course I took the immediate power, for only a fool would make a bargain for future might with no date. Besides, if future me isn't strong enough to hold onto it, then he deserves what's coming to him.

-Fragmentary journal log, retrieved from the ruins of the Olympian rubble fields, Clearance level: Vermillion. The Emperor Protects. =][=

Faced with a galaxy-spanning civil war, the ever-logical mind of Perturabo spent most of the time devising new methods to reach the Throneworld, to carry out a decisive strike that would bypass Bastion Omega. The Warp was clearly unreliable, whatever the immaterial xenos promised, for the Astronomican was in the False Emperor's control, and should they detect the bow wave of an armada incoming, the Imperials may well shut it off, condemning any invasion to the dubious mercy of the Warp. Transit through realspace was impossible, save a long and arduous journey that would take centuries, if not millennia, during which any invasion force would tear themselves apart. However, Perturabo was undaunted by such obstacles, and his perseverance, along with an old friendship, soon paid dividends. The Lord of Iron was most amused when Magnus the Red came to ask for his aid, for his sons had discerned a new route, which he called the Webway, that directly led to Terra. However, his own sons had failed to seize it from the Imperials, and so the assistance of a master siegebreaker would be required. Delighted to aid his favorite brother, as well as gain some leverage should he ever need it in the future, Perturabo quickly began preparations to bring the weight of his legion to bear.

However, entering this Webway was easier said than done. The passages utilized by the Thousand Sons were small and narrow, suitable for legionaries or even transports, but certainly not siege engines of the size the Iron Warriors utilized. The idea of disassembling them was brought up, but quickly shot down, for the traitors had no time for such a plan. Thus a new gateway would need to be opened, and to that end, the Order of Ruin, a cabal of the Fifteenth Legion, was tasked with opening a gateway large enough for their purposes. The sorcerers of two legions put their best minds toward finding such an opening, but to their frustration, the location remained elusive, as though it were being hidden from them. Their work stalled for over a year, during which Perturabo grew increasingly frustrated, both at their lack of progress and the increasing frequency of his dreams. The helmet which had protected the Lord of Iron from the gaze of the baleful star had shattered in battle, and his attempts to repair it had resulted in a misshapen lump of horns and spikes more suited to the vainglorious Ultramarines than a son of Olympia. Without its protective aura, and determined to silence the voices, the Lord of Iron struck a deal with some sort of entity, an unknown being whose voice was filled with the clamor of industry.

Whatever the case, the entity gave the Hammer of Olympia a single word: Orcus. Combing the records revealed a planet deep in the Ultima Segmentum by that name, and so the Fourth Legion set out on what many suspected to be a fool's errand. Along the way, their vessels came under attack, not by Imperials, or even xenos, but by the minions of Chaos. Possessed Astartes whose diseased bodies had been warped by the power of the Immaterium offered power to the Lord of Iron in exchange for servitude. Uninterested in such a bargain, the Lord of Iron swiftly exterminated these would-be powerbrokers, and so the fleet arrived at Orcus, a planet no more hospitable than the Warp had been. Orcus was a dead world, its oceans black and polluted from the aftershock of the orbital bombardment which had scoured its forests and leveled its mountains. From what existed in the records, the people of this world were primitive and superstitious, their primary belief that they lived above the underworld, a thought which would have amused the legionaries had it not been so painfully literal. As the ships in orbit drilled a hole beneath the crust with precise lance strikes and explosive charges, vast antediluvian structures jutting from the smooth walls of a borehole were revealed. Just who built these cyclopean foundries was unknown, but their span was more than large enough to accommodate the vast war-machines brought by the Fourth Legion.

Down and down into the waiting dark the legionaries of Olympia marched, silent save for the metallic clank of their boots. To their credit, they did not hesitate to enter the bowels of this alien world, where deep inside, the sorcerers of two legions conducted a vast sacrificial ritual to reopen the gateway which they had found. With the blood of thousands, the portal was opened, and the legionaries marched in their ordered rows all the way up to a stone walkway overlooking an empty abyss, and in their ordered rows they walked right off the edge, their trust, or more likely fear, of their primarch overriding any self-preservation instincts. Many were never seen again, the passage claiming a toll, but the rest arrived intact in the featureless crystalline hallways. Once inside, the legionaries began their march, trusting in the sorcerers of the Thousand Sons, who had had experience in the strange realm of the Webway, to lead them where they needed to go. The blood of Perturabo, offered as a sacrifice, soon shortened their way, opening a rift-like wormhole that brought them to their true destination, the Impossible City of Calastar.

To their credit, the armies of Olympia did not hesitate as they came into contact with a foe they were utterly unprepared for: the Custodian Guard. Long had the Legiones Astartes, the Iron Warriors included, fantasized about crossing blades with the Emperor's own guardians, to test their skill and see if their martial prowess was as truly great as the legends made them out to be. Unfortunately for the Iron Warriors, the legends undersold the Custodes, who began to kill the legionaries by the dozen, hundreds, thousands. Vast Ares Gunships roared overhead, their blaze cannons melting through the hulls of land raiders with ease as their firebomb clusters burst in the midst of formations, sending burning legionaries screaming to their deaths as they plunged from walkways. Grav-tanks and jetbikes matched their strength against legion armor, and quickly proved the superior in one on one conflicts, just as the guardian spears effortlessly pierced through the ceramite power armor. Only their sheer numbers saved the Iron Warriors during that initial battle, eventually forcing the Emperor's bodyguards to retreat before they could be overrun. The promise of a swift march to Terra proved to be a lie, and both sides settled down for trench warfare, grinding against each other in the hopes of breaking them body and soul, for both the Fourth Legion and the Emperor's Legion knew their foe's resolve would never break.

Unfortunately for the Custodes, such a war was precisely in the Iron Warriors' favor. Though no legionary could best a Custodian in single combat, their sheer numbers meant they didn't have to. After seizing an outlying portion of Calastar, the Fourth Legion quickly transformed it into a veritable fortress, from which they could launch their attacks across the myriad tunnels leading in and out of the Impossible City. Perturabo directly oversaw this campaign, directing and moving his armies of legionaries and titans as though they were pieces on a regicide board, slowly bringing his superior numbers to bear. The losses the Fourth Legion suffered to take the Impossible City were truly staggering, tens of thousands of legionaries falling over the course of years, their bodies ground into the wraithbone streets and walkways as the noose tightened ever-closer around the Imperial defenders. Creatures of the Immaterium, which the sons of Magnus called daemons, began to manifest as the bloodshed and destruction thinned the walls of the Webway, a numberless horde which fought the Imperial defenders as much as they did each other. Even the arrival of an armored green giant clad in the emerald plate of the Salamanders could not turn the tide; the Lord of Iron at first suspected it to be his brother Vulkan, who had long been on Terra as its Praetorian. However, clearly it could not be the case, for though mighty, these legionaries were confirmed to be killed on multiple occasions.

Eventually, with much bloodshed, the Iron Warriors found themselves on the verge of taking Calastar. From there, as the sons of Magnus assured them, it would only be a short journey through the Imperial Webway, which would take them to the heart of Terra itself. The desperation of the Custodes was evident, for many fought visibly wounded, missing limbs and in battered armor splattered with the blood of both their foes and themselves. With the end in sight, the Lord of Iron took to the field, testing his skills against the superhumans which had killed so many of his sons and damaged so many of his war-machines. However, such combat proved disappointing, for even they could not stand before the might of a primarch, and soon fled before him rather than throw away their lives without merit. Meter by bloody meter, the Iron Warriors seized the last remaining bastions of the defenders, shattering every obstacle with the boom of their mighty guns, but in the end, their efforts were to prove fruitless. From one of tunnels filled with daemons, among whom even the Iron Warriors would not walk, a vast golden light radiated outwards, its brilliance like the sun itself.

"What are you?" Perturabo demanded. He had come to see just what had struck such fear into his sons, intrigued by the prospect of something that could make his men disobey his orders. Seeing it for himself, it was clear why, for that golden light was his father's. No, not his father, for he had no father. There was only the False Emperor, the Tyrant above all Tyrants. The radiance which had dazzled him so long ago now seemed unpleasantly harsh, illuminating flaws and mistakes and dredging up doubts, those chinks in his mental armor which Perturabo had not even realized were still there.

That wasn't what was before him now though. That light, the first dawn in the perpetual twilight of the Webway, was far away, and already fading. Instead, the deepest shadow now stood before him, an entity which had coalesced into an armored giant. Fingertips became claws as its shoulders stretched into wings, and pale flesh began to burn its way into focus, a ghost-white face whose eyes were orbs of utter darkness. Its expression was not that of anger, or rage, but beyond both. This was wrath, in physical form, accompanied by the purest hate imaginable. For a moment, it looked like it was going to speak. Then it dissolved, a cloud of black avian forms that washed over Perturabo like a tide of shadows, and when it was gone, he was alone once more.

The final, desperate assault of the Imperial defenders had finally hurled the Iron Warriors and their daemonic allies into full retreat. None could stand before the golden might of the Emperor, and by the time Perturabo rallied his forces, the defenders had retreated. Traveling deeper into the tunnels, the traitors found their way blocked by a vast sun, its energies as deadly as any star. Their way was blocked, and they had nothing to show for it save tens of thousands of corpses and dozens of shattered titans. Perturabo's fury was great indeed when he learned of this setback, but without a target for his frustration, he had no choice but to fall back. Thus the Iron Warriors left the Webway, leaving behind the swirling masses of daemons to continue hurling themselves at the psychic sun in the hopes of breaching it, along with the corpses of the Thousand Sons who had failed to predict such an outcome. However, the morale of the Fourth Legion did not waver, for losses had long since ceased to matter to the sons of Perturabo. They emerged from the Webway through portals separate to those of Orcus, and were soon picked up by their fleet. Thus the Iron Warriors returned to Olympia, weathered and battered but not broken, and ready to begin the final phase of shattering the Bastion Omega.

Gathering the Daemon Kin

"You have pursued your own methods and sought to win my war with your tactics. Your attempts were admirable, and had you succeeded, you would have been amply rewarded. But you failed. Do you know why?" The Lion asked. The Archtraitor was seated upon his command throne, a thing of imposing bulk, its sleek obsidian frame broken up by multiple spikes. One hand rested upon the Lionsword, still in its sheath, while the other toyed idly with a set of metal cables protruding from a large bleached skull. Perturabo remained silent, conspicuously avoiding meeting his brother's gaze.

"It is because this is my war, Perturabo. It will be won or lost by my efforts." His expression hidden beneath his helmet, the Lord of Iron frowned. What did he mean by that? Lost? "I realize now I have given you, and our other brothers, entirely too much slack. The end is coming, my brother, the end of the beginning. Go now, bring our lost kin back to the fold."

"Where am I to find them? The galaxy is a vast place, and they could be anywhere."

"Begin with the Twelfth. You will find them upon the world of Sarum, whose Heart will lead you to Sanguinius. Once you have retrieved the Twelfth and Ninth Legions, you are to retrieve the Lord of Ultramar. Go now, Perturabo of Olympia, and let my will be done."

After leaving the Webway, Perturabo and his sons returned to Olympia, where they were startled to discover the Lion was waiting for them. Meeting with his brother aboard the Invincible Reason, the Lord of Iron was tasked with gathering the disparate legion forces in preparation for the final push against Bastion Omega. Though it galled Perturabo to accept such a demeaning task, he nonetheless recognized it would take a primarch to retrieve their wayward brothers, especially ones that had reportedly become more powerful such as Sanguinius and Guilliman. Following the lead given to them by the Lion, they quickly located the world of Sarum in the archives, and set out to gather the World Eaters. Little had been heard of the Twelfth Legion since their catastrophic defeat at the hands of the Blood Angels, but their actions were as irrelevant as their desires. There was no chance of them rejoining the loyalists after such a heinous betrayal as that which they had perpetrated against the Raven Guard, and they would serve the Lion's purposes once more. In truth it disturbed the Lord of Iron to contemplate the fate of the Nineteenth and the Twelfth, for if the Lion could so casually twist both friend and foe against each other, what else had he done that Perturabo wasn't aware of? In addition, that shadowy warrior from the Webway was an altogether different concern, one which kept Perturabo up at nights struggling to devise a contingency plan. This entire war had thrown his assumptions out of the metaphorical window, revealing all manner of new threats he had not been prepared for, something not at all reassuring for one as paranoid as the Lord of Iron. Thus many weeks later, when the fleet broke from the Warp above the world of Sarum, the Lord of Iron had crafted a new force with which to defend himself: the Iron Circle.

Iron Circle

The Mechanicum of the 30th Millennium had access to far more variants of automata than have survived to the present day. Some designs have simply been replaced, improved upon by more venerable designs derived from STC fragments, while others have been mothballed for cost-efficiency purposes, while still others have been lost forever when their Forge Worlds of origin were lost in one way or another. However, there is another reason that certain designs have been neglected, and that is due to their deep ties to the Traitor Legions, who have long utilized wargear dating back to the era of the Leonine Heresy. Examples of this include the Anvillus-Pattern Dreadclaw Drop Pod, whose machine spirits bore a marked tendency toward killing their passengers, or the Rogal Dorn battle tank, which was taken out of production due to name alone. However, perhaps one of the greatest examples of this was the Domitar-class Battle-Automata.

Developed on Mars by the Ordo Reductor, the Domitar was a rare variant of automata designed for melee combat as opposed to fire support as most other classes were. Having long fostered ties with the intensely-logical Mechanicum, the Domitar first saw field testing alongside the Iron Warriors, whose relentless critique saw it go through many iterations before seeing mass production shortly before the Leonine Heresy. As part of their arrangement, the Lord of Iron kept one from each batch for his own personal use, often to vent his frustrations upon, and by the latter stages of the Heresy, was spotted entering battle with a bodyguard consisting entirely of Domitar automata. These were known as the Iron Circle, and bore graviton mauls, towering battle-shields, and Olympia-pattern bolt cannons, with which they coldly eliminated each and every foe foolish enough to cross the Lord of Iron. After the Heresy, the Domitar was quickly phased out in favor of the Arlatax-class, an older and more reliable variant designed on Xana II whose machine-spirits were less temperamental.

Located perilously close to the Maelstrom, the planet of Sarum was fairly unremarkable, clad in the same gleaming steel and bronze as other Forge Worlds. Regardless of whether the World Eaters were there or not, for there was no sign of the Twelfth Legion, not even a fleet, Sarum would be a useful target for replenishing their resources, which were running dangerously-low by that time in the Leonine Heresy. As the years of war had dragged on, the loyalist dogs had adopted all manner of desperate tactics in order to slow the traitor advance, and none were quite so effective as targeting their supply lines. The Iron Warriors were particularly vulnerable to such attacks based on their sheer size, and regardless of their deployment, the Grand Battalions were perennially-low on equipment and ammunition. However, the one tool they had in abundance aside from bodies were energy-based weapons such as lances, and so the fleet freely let loose against Sarum's meager orbital defenses, swiftly sending the bulk of it crashing down to the burnished plains below. Fortunately for the tech priests of Sarum, their expertise and facilities were more valuable intact, and so their world was spared the usual orbital bombardment. Thus their skies were filled with a different type of steel rain as thousands of drop pods began to rain down upon the forge world, the legionaries emerging armed with storm shields and melee weapons. While the tech priests may be too valuable to kill, their minions certainly were not, and so the streets ran red with blood and oil as the Fourth Legion mercilessly vented their frustrations upon a population helpless to stop them.

However, their rampage came to an end when a new foe emerged to take them head on: the Butcherhorde. Emerging from hidden tunnels that led deep beneath the metal surface of Sarum, hundreds of savage monsters burst forth, killing and maiming all in their path. They were mutant abominations, their fleshmetal skin as hard as adamantium, bellowing mindless warcries over the roaring of chain-blades and the crackle of power fields emanating from the many spikes jutting from their bodies. Perhaps from a range, the Iron Warriors may have had a chance to down this new foe, but up close they stood no chance. These 'mutilators', as some overheard them called courtesy of garbled vox transmissions, were their superiors by far in close quarters combat, shrugging off the desultory blows sent their way before striking back with their ever-changing weapons, and soon the Fourth was pressed into full retreat. This had the unintentional side effect of revealing the first weakness of these mutilators: their slow speed. As this and other information began to pour into Perturabo's command center aboard his personal transport Tormentor, the Lord of Iron began to devise a plan to counter these abominations. Following swiftly-issued orders, the Iron Warriors began to retreat toward their primarch's location, funneling the mutilators into ever-narrowing corridors which slowed them down while scouts observed them, gathering combat data and pinpointing new strategies on their strengths and weaknesses.

As Perturabo's plan began to bear fruit, a disconcerting revelation crept over the Fourth Legion as they began to notice a most disturbing detail about these mutants: beneath their coils and sinews of living weaponry, scraps of white and blue plate jutted out. It soon became apparent that the mutilators were none other than the World Eaters they had come to Sarum to find. Reports about a possible leader eventually materialized, for the scouts had located a mutilator whose size was far greater than the rest of the Butcherhorde. In response, the Tormentor lurched into motion, moving to an open plaza to face the mutilators. Behind it marched the reformed ranks of the Fourth Legion, who rallied around the unstoppable might of their primarch. As the first of the Butcherhorde loped into view, they were utterly annihilated by the unstoppable might of a volcano cannon, air crackling with the whine of the insane as its ruby beam atomised its daemonic target. A storm of bolter fire began to pick off others, while the Lord of Iron and his Circle moved to engage the foe hand to hand, a show of strength designed more to display Perturabo's supreme mastery and contempt for his foe than to rally the spirits of his men. Soon the leader of the Butcherhorde arrived, and the Hammer of Olympia met him with the same tireless resolve he did all foes, holding him back while the rest of the Iron Warriors fell back into position. However, the Lord of Iron had no time to showboat, and following a short command to his men, his brutish foe was ensnared, his limbs sinking into the superheated ground courtesy of precisely-aimed multimelta shots.

Within a minute, the contest was over, his foe an ichorous pulp courtesy of his warhammer. Perturabo bellowed in triumph, feeling uncharacteristically mighty here in this, his moment of triumph, and the mutilators knelt in response. The bellicose creatures seemed deferent now, meekly following the commands of the Iron Warriors sorcerers, who herded the daemonkin with mental commands back toward the waiting transports. With Sarum now firmly in his control, the remaining tech priests were quick to submit to their conqueror, offering to turn over their forges for his use, but Perturabo had other plans in mind. He demanded to see the so-called 'Heart' of Sarum which the Lion had referenced, and so with great reluctance, the cultists led him below the metal skin of their world, down and down a tunnel of impossible depth until they emerged into a vast cavern which echoed with an unhealthy rhythm. There he spoke with a truly ancient daemon, an eldritch entity known as Sa'ra'am, who was said to have first come into existence at the same time as the first weapon of war was forged. The primarch and the daemon struck a bargain that day, though the terms were known only to them, and the forges of Sarum began to churn out a new type of armament for the Fourth Legion, a weapon crafted with both daemonic ingenuity and Perturabo's own designs.

Within a few weeks, enough rifles for Perturabo's purposes had been produced, and so the Iron Warriors set out for a destination identified by the dubiously-reliable Sa'ra'am, who insisted on accompanying the legion in the body of one of the Iron Circle. Though such a perversion of his creations disgusted him, the daemon's knowledge was too useful to leave behind, and so Perturabo allowed it. However, deals with daemons are rarely straightforward: back on Sarum, far from the primarch's cold gaze, the boiling blood of Sa'ra'am continued to flow. From the lightless dungeons which held the captive World Eaters, a plague began to spread to the rest of the Fourth Legion, unseen at first, but present nonetheless. As the Fourth Legion rejoined the conflict against Bastion Omega, mutations began to occur amongst their ranks, until it became obvious to all that a techno-virus had spread and adapted to infect both them and their allied legions. However, Perturabo himself did not see this, for he and his chosen forces were upon the world of Deluge, hunting down the renegade Blood Angels. Sa'ra'am's knowledge proved instrumental here, for as a daemon of slaughter, it knew much of what empowered a creature of pure wrath such as Sanguinius, and told the Lord of Iron as much. Thus when the Iron Warriors enacted their plan, it was designed to minimize bloodshed, a most unusual strategy for an Astartes Legion. However, it proved successful, and after a harrowing duel between the Lord of Iron and the Red Angel, the Blood Angels were captured just as the World Eaters had been before them, bound in heavy chain and hurled into the dungeons until such time as Perturabo had need of them.

Thus there remained but one legion left to gather: the Ultramarines. This task would have to be accomplished quickly, for Bastion Omega was nearing its breaking point, but if handled incorrectly, would sap too much of their strength before the true final conflict at Terra itself. Nor did Perturabo wish to waste his forces battling the Thirteenth Legion, whose monstrous pride meant they would more likely than not choose death over submission. This conundrum ate away at the Lord of Iron, but as he sat poring over his troop deployments, inspiration came to him, for tucked far away in the galactic southeast near the fringes of Ultramar itself was a force of Iron Warriors led by that cripple Dantioch. Such a commander would no doubt be desperate to be reunited with his father, a trait the Lord of Iron could take full advantage of to carry out his aim of bending Guilliman to his will. Thus Perturabo made his way to Lesser Damantyne, accompanied by an Eye of Magnus, a psychic construct imbued with the wisdom of the Crimson King that would aid the Lord of Iron in this task.

The primarch spent much time consulting with the Eye, and so thought himself well-prepared by the time he arrived at the Schadenhold. After gazing upon the sheer scope of Dantioch's magnum opus, even the Lord of Iron was forced to privately acknowledge his son's talent and craftsmanship. However, it was far from a happy reunion, for Perturabo's natural lack of charity meant he felt nothing but resentment at the sight of one of his sons living out one of his dreams while he himself was enslaved to duty. Dantioch did nothing to alleviate these feelings, displaying an obvious lack of desire to be reunited with his father, evident from his borderline-insolent tone. Despite that, even he was loyal enough, or at least smart enough not to oppose his primarch, and quickly turned over all the information he had gathered while fighting the Ultramarines. However, Perturabo had long since devised a use for his son regardless of his feelings on the matter. With the aid of the Eye, Perturabo had discovered the best way to subdue his daemonic brother was through the use of his True Name. Weeks of sorcerous sacrifice had unveiled the syllables one by one, but gaining such lore was merely the first step; to actually utilize their discovery would come at a far steeper cost, for the price of such forbidden knowledge was too much for any to bear unscathed.

The Lord of Iron was certainly not going to risk himself in such a venture, but as one whose soul was already attuned to the wiles of the Prince of Pleasure due to constant contact with their minions, Dantioch would be a fitting substitute. Bound by chains both literal and metaphorical, the weight of Roboute Guilliman's True Name was inscribed onto the being of Barabas Dantioch, as well as on the backs of dozens of slaves, its impossible syllables tattooed in blood and excess upon their backs. As the final mora was sealed, the last of Dantioch's memories vanished with it, leaving him an imbecilic shell of the genius who had constructed the Schadenhold. With his amnesiac son in custody, the Lord of Iron set out for their final destination, his fleet immediately coming under pressure from the haunted stormfronts which choked the Immaterium. Warp-gheists and other horrors hurled themselves at the Gellar Fields, which threatened to buckle beneath the strain. However, their ships were sturdy things, forged from cold, dead iron, and so they held together with minimal losses as the fleet passed from reality to unreality and back again, pressing ever-closer to that baleful realm which had been with Perturabo for so long: the Eye of Terror.

Stretched across tens of thousands of light years, the scar upon reality that was the Eye had haunted the Lord of Iron all his life, and even once they managed to slip inside it, he could still feel its oppressive gaze. The Eye of Magnus pointed them ever deeper, but it was little more than a compass, for even the mightiest of starships such as theirs could only hope for luck as they were hurled about by the tornadic winds and hurricane tides. Down and down the Fourth Legion sank in the realm of chaos, ever closer to the byssos, the deceptively-stable region of calm at the center, where the birth-cry of the Prince of Pleasure had permanently reopened an old scar upon the fabric of reality. As the first of the ships floated over the edge and began to fall down further, Perturabo gave the order, and the engines roared to life, lurching most of the fleet out of its grip and into its orbit, though of course such a metaphor gives only the barest idea of what truly occurred in that realm of chaos. Now in the deepest recesses of the Eye, the Iron Warriors were able to move more freely, and they followed the lead shown by the Eye of Magnus. They passed dozens of worlds, all dedicated to the Prince of Pleasure, to which even the lethargic amnesiac Dantioch showed awareness, locked away as he was in the heart of Perturabo's flagship. In other cells, the Blood Angels screamed and thrashed, infuriated by this realm dedicated to their patron's eternal rival, their howls joined by those of the Red Angel, who roared his fury alone in his labyrinth prison.

However, the comfort of prisoners was definitely not on the mind of the Lord of Iron and his chosen sons as the fleet finally arrived at their destination: the World of Immortal Sorrows. As they began to disembark, the Iron Warriors could not help but recognize this realm was far from what they had expected. Rather than a planet full of adoring slaves, Guilliman's sanctuary was a gloomy, morose realm, more suitable for one such as Fulgrim. Accompanied by a battalion of his sons, who were there to defend Dantioch and his slaves, Perturabo and his men marched through shattered palaces filled with sighs and weeping, boots crunching on crystalline stones that wailed as they cracked. Spindly-limbed Aeldari statues were everywhere, each subtly defaced in a way that no doubt mocked their creators, while the architecture itself was an affront to human aesthetics in general. The feeling of being watched was stronger than ever, but Perturabo ignored it, and soon came to the heart of the palace.

+Hello, Bo.+ came a sibilant voice from a mound of flesh atop a divan. The Lord of Iron remained silent, despite this obvious attempt to rile him up, something which obviously annoyed the creature. The towering lump began to melt and reform, revealing two beings entwined in a lover's embrace, squirming and shifting in ecstasy. The first was obviously Guilliman, his ornate armor instantly recognizable. The second was Calliphone, who wore the dress she was wearing on their wedding day so many years ago. Perturabo's jaw tightened, but otherwise gave no outward reaction, and with a sigh, the two beings stopped cavorting, staring at him in disappointment before merging together to leave just Roboute once more.

"The Lion demands your presence, Roboute. You and your sons will come with me."

+As the pain sweeps through, it makes no sense for you.+ came the sing-song reply. +Eager little Bo, always ready to be a slave to his betters. Part of me wants to go with you, for our dear brother always gives us such interesting toys to play with." Guilliman smirked as the bauble he held transformed into Jaghatai Khan's head. Perturabo remained silent, to which the Lord of Ultramar's expression quickly turned to a frown. "However, before I go anywhere, I need to make sure they won't break too quickly. Time for a new game! My old toys will fight my new toys! Let's dance, Bo.+

As expected, the Lord of Ultramar refused to come quietly. The battalion of legionaries opened fire, shredding the daemons which began to stream out of other rooms of the palace, while the Lord of Iron began to desperately block his brother's blows. Here in the realm of his patron, Guilliman was far stronger than he had anticipated, a towering giant who smashed him to the ground again and again. If he hadn't been toying around, Perturabo may well have died there that day, alone and unmourned, but such was not to be, for he had come prepared. As the first morae of the True Name was coughed into being with a pneumonic splatter of gore, Guilliman staggered as if struck, while Perturabo began to sweat promethium. More syllables rang out, each coming in quick succession, and suddenly the roles were reversed, the Lord of Iron pounding his screaming brother into the ground with mighty swings of his blackstone-tipped hammer. By the time the last syllable ground its way into existence, Dantioch's mouth was a gory mess, the equal to the ugly pulp on the ground that was Roboute Guilliman. The last of the slaves were dead on the ground along with a few dozen of his sons, sport for the few surviving daemons, but the Lord of Iron did not care, for he had what he came for.

The surviving Iron Warriors returned to their ship, hurling their unwilling captive alone into a warded cell, for to his disappointment, there were no other Ultramarines to be found on the World of Immortal Sorrows. The Iron Warriors bullied their way out of the Eye, once more following the directions of the Eye of Magnus, which faded out of existence as they returned to realspace. As they journeyed across the galaxy to rendezvous with the Lion, auspexes picked up echoes in the Warp, and it soon became clear they were being shadowed. However, it seemed none were foolish enough to assault a vessel with three primarchs aboard, and so Perturabo arrived safely at the world of Paramar V, where his sons had been continuing the war against the loyalists in his absence. The Invincible Reason arrived soon after the last loyalist resistance had been snuffed out, and the Lion congratulated the Lord of Iron for reining in their willful brothers. However, Perturabo couldn't help but notice how his brother seemed wary of him now, ordering him to take the nearby Beta-Garmon Cluster, the final obstacle on the path to Terra. The Lord of Iron agreed, and so the Lion departed, leaving his brother with a warning to keep Sanguinius and Guilliman on short leashes. Left to wrangle the two living forces of insanity his kin had become, Perturabo began to wonder, not for the first time, whether this war might be better prosecuted under his command rather than the Lion's.

Conquering the Cluster: Titandeath at Beta-Garmon

As both a practical strategic decision as well as a reward, the Lion named Perturabo commander of the drive against the most substantial of the Imperial defenses that still remained to bar their advance on the Solar System. Nearly six hundred thousand Astartes were placed under his command, though a substantial portion were already his men, for the Iron Warriors were one of the few legions not operating under half strength by this stage of the Heresy. In addition, the full might of the Titan Legios was given over for his use, for scouts had reported a buildup of loyalist titans that their might would be required to counter. Thrilling in the authority and power he had been granted, the Lord of Iron was quick to create an attack plan, hurling his forces headlong into the meatgrinder, for the Lion had made it abundantly clear he required this system taken, one way or another. Thus did the traitors descend upon the Beta-Garmon Cluster like a swarm of locusts, battering aside the loyalist defense fleets with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. To each of the five systems which composed the Cluster descended an entire legion, carefully positioned to avoid fighting alongside their nominal allies, for the Lord of Iron knew full well how tentative their alliance had become, not least of which the Ninth and Thirteenth Legions, who only served by virtue of the power the Fourth held over their primarchs.

For over a year, the two sides clashed, thrusting and counterthrusting as they felt each other out in the hopes of finding a decisive weak spot to which they could deal a decisive blow. The traitors were everywhere all at once, for the various legions and titan maniples were present in such great numbers as to assault every defensive emplacement simultaneously. His near-limitless reserves and lack of supervision afforded Perturabo the chance to delegate his authority, using this time instead to prepare for the offensives to come. For most of the campaign, the Lord of Iron was not even present, allowing his sons to command while he remained aboard his flagship, planning out the Solar War using miniatures. Left in the hands of lesser commanders, the Beta-Garmon Cluster was convulsed in war, the white-hot center of a firestorm of countless other conflicts. A vast net had been cast across multiple sectors, tying down loyalist reinforcements from coming to their companion's aid. One such skirmish occurred upon the world of Luth Tyre, a mustering world which saw the Fourth Legion clash with the Death Guard. The mechanized siege guns boomed ceaselessly for weeks, shattering every fortress around the defenders' heads, but any hope of an easy victory was quickly torn away when the Fourteenth unleashed the local wildlife, hideous creatures known as ambulls, who rose up in countless numbers to swarm the primary landing sites. Thus did the siege grind to a halt as the sons of Perturabo were forced to turn their attention toward clearing their camps.

Similar scenes played across dozens of systems, turning what might have been a swift victory into a war of bloody attrition. Thus was the traitor strength hurled in piecemeal as its commanders bickered and vied with each other for supremacy, seeing only limited successes derived mostly from their superior numbers which they maintained throughout the conflict. However, it did not seem as though the Lion cared, for no words of censure ever came regarding their progress, and it was only the arrival of another primarch that warranted Perturabo's actual involvement and attention. The first the Lord of Iron learned of it was a series of increasingly-panicked missives from the lesser commanders who spoke of mounting losses and increasing numbers of reversals on the field, and thus with burning resentment, Perturabo made his way to Beta-Garmon itself where he discovered just who had been sent to oppose him: Ferrus Manus. He and the Gorgon had never been overly-close, for Manus had been found far earlier than he had, and the repeated comparisons of their names and mutual skill for destruction had only made them rivals, not friends. Perturabo was determined to best this brother in a contest of the mind, for neither he nor Manus were so base as to feel any need to prove their physical prowess upon the battlefield. Thus they did not duel each other as some of their brothers might have, their battle one of proxies, a game of regicide writ large whose pieces were Astartes and Titans, who died in their thousands as not an hour passed without some cataclysmic explosion lighting up the sky.

The beginning of the end came with the destruction of Nyrcon City. Growing tired of the interminable deadlock, the Lord of Iron decided to indulge his commanders, and shifted tactics. Under the leadership of First Captain Forrix, infiltrators bypassed the towering walls under the cover of the greatest bombardment yet. Once inside, they planted charges, overloading the void-shield generators and creating a catastrophic chain reaction which saw the city leveled and dozens of titans from both sides crippled. On Beta-Garmon III, Triarch Kroeger, who had risen to his lofty rank after the unfortunate incapacitation of Berossus led eight daemon-possessed titans as well as dozens of fresh god-engines from the Legio Solaria against a narrow front which forced the last remaining loyalist titans to maneuver to repel them, clearing the way for his heaviest guns to bring the loyalist stronghold crashing down. The loyalists proved unable to halt this final assault, and soon fell back into full retreat. However, the Lord of Iron was far from happy, for it had used up vital time that could have been better spent planning for Terra and beyond. In addition, barely a tenth of their Titans had survived the battle, an appalling casualty rate even by his standards which was only matched by the nearly one hundred thousand of his sons who had fallen as well.

Over the next few months, the Iron Warriors scavenged the Beta-Garmon Cluster for all the resources it could yield. Perturabo himself journeyed to meet with his brothers upon the world of Verzagen along with the unwilling Guilliman in tow. The Battle-King of Ultramar had had his lead slackened enough to take part in the conquest of the Cluster, but now that the battle was ended, the chain had been yanked that much tighter again. Dantioch still remained an idiotic shell of his former self, but his usefulness was undeniable, and so he came along to meet the Lion. The Archtraitor duly congratulated his brothers, inviting them to take part in the festivities he had planned to occupy the legions until the time came for the final push. Thus the Iron Warriors began to trickle into the Alpha Centauri System in their countless thousands, their ships forming an iron heart around which the traitor armada began to form. As they did so, the Lion sent his brother a missive, asking him to come meet with him upon Verzagen itself, where a vast fane came to dominate the landscape, constructed by the hated Seventh Legion. Suspicious but hopeful, the Lord of Iron agreed, and was gratified to learn he had been placed in charge of the Solar War, though with a few caveats.

"What do you mean the rest of the legions won't be joining me?" Perturabo complained.

"Allow me to clarify. You may have a portion of my legion, the Third, the Fifteenth, and your own sons of course, to aid you in breaching their initial defenses. The rest will be joining Dorn and myself. Surely the mighty Hammer of Olympia can handle Vulkan's ramshackle barricades on his lonesome?"

"Of course I can, that's not the point. Why am I…why are Fulgrim and I left to shoulder the burden? You and I both know Magnus won't be there, we haven't seen him since Davin."

"The Crimson King is a nuisance at best and a liability at worst, it is better for both of us that his attention and scheming are pointed elsewhere. Do you desire command or shall I find another more worthy?"

"There are none worthier!" the Lord of Iron all but shouted. Inside he was fuming, this time at himself for allowing his brother to manipulate him so easily.

"Good. Now there's one final thing I require of you: your weakness."

"Excuse me? I have no weakness."

"You do, Bo. From the moment I first approached you, you knew what it was. Now hand it over." The Lord of Iron ground his teeth, but in the end he knew what had to be done. Reaching up, he unclasped his helmet, revealing his face and its unhealthy pallor from lack of sunlight. One by one, the Lord of Iron disconnected the neural interface cords which were embedded in his skull, forcing his expression to remain neutral despite the stings of pain and bionic feedback.

As the last cable fell away, he reached his massive gauntleted hands up, and almost gingerly, removed the thin platinum cord from around his neck. It had been a wedding gift from Calliphone, so many years ago, a mark that sealed not only their marriage but his absolute dominion over Olympia. For a second he hesitated, but clenched his fist, and tossed it at the Lion's feet. His brother gave him a feral smile. "Very good, Perturabo. No more weaknesses for you. Now go, open the gate. Glory awaits us."

The Solar War: Iron Without

While the rest of the traitor forces mustered at Verzagen, Perturabo spent almost every waking hour planning his next moves with the limited forces he had been given. It was clear the Lion was testing his abilities, playing him off Dorn to see which of the two was more worthy of the title of 'Praetorian'. The Lord of Iron looked forward to claiming it off of Vulkan's corpse, for despite Magnus's claims, it was evident their brother still lived, for only a primarch could have designed a defense like Bastion Omega. Thus the traitors would need to take the Solar System planet by planet, moon by moon, not only as a precaution but as a show of strength, to prove to the foolish Imperium that they should have chosen the Lord of Iron to direct their defenses and that no hope remained to them.

However, this was a tall order, for the commanders who were to aid Perturabo were a fractious bunch. From the Dark Angels, Perturabo had hoped for Paladin Corswain, who had served as de facto Legion Master for almost a decade, but his sudden and unexpected death at the Lion's own hand upon Verzagen meant another would have to do. According to his Trident advisors, Master of the Deathwing Holguin was an aggressive man, who demanded immediate action and did not hesitate to throw around his experience, having survived all three Rangdan Xenocides, as well as his father's name to get the job done, though it seemed he had the sense to refrain from utilizing the latter against a primarch. Holguin was the exact opposite of Aforgomon the Fatewoven, an almost-ethereal son of Magnus who seemed to have his head permanently in the Warp: even Perturabo's own presence could barely make him focus or speak clearly. The final member of their group was, despite appearances, the most competent of the three. Lord Commander Eidolon was a disheveled mess, his skin pale and rotting, clearly the victim of some foul-smelling ailment, but his voice was deep and clear, rich in confidence and authority. From his arrogant speech alone, the Lord of Iron could tell this was a commander he could use, and thus did not even bother to inquire as to where Fulgrim was.

In addition to these limited legion forces, Perturabo also had access to billions of mortal troops, who would serve well as cannon fodder. Thus as the first wave began to enter the Solar System, there were no Astartes or legionary ships to be found, only Traitor Army forces and daemons. Primitive abominable intelligences, whose chassis were infected by creatures of the Warp, hurled themselves in their endless tides toward Vulkan's guns, which boomed silently in the vacuum of space. Perturabo was beginning to regret spending so much time at Beta-Garmon, for the defenses there were nothing compared to those protecting the outer reaches of the Solar System. Nonetheless, they were nothing he could not handle, as he calmly directed the armada from aboard his flagship, the Iron Blood.

Iron Blood

Built at Olympia, the Iron Blood was one of the largest vessels in all the legion fleets. A Gloriana-class battleship, it was capable of annihilating entire lesser fleets on its own, its firepower rivaled only by the grandest craft such as the Vengeful Spirit, Eternal Crusader, or the Invincible Reason, though of course even it did not match up to the titanic Phalanx, yet another sore point between the Lord of Iron and his brother. Perhaps the most unique feature was its complete lack of windows and viewports, even on the bridge, instead relying entirely upon sensors. Such a design speaks volumes about the Lord of Iron's paranoid and cold mind, for while technically he was correct that such ornamentation was a tactical weakness and that the vast distances of space meant windows were pointless, it was still a feature common to almost all human designs, and to lack them made his flagship appear inhuman.

As the first wave died in their thousands, the second wave began to emerge into reality. At the Khthonic Gate of Pluto, Holguin's forces had demanded to be the first to arrive, an honor the Lord of Iron had yielded without comment, while at the Elysian Gate, Lord Commander Eidolon oversaw the Emperor's Children flotilla as it clashed with the Death Guard who defended Uranus. Iron Warriors vessels remained interspersed throughout the fleets, mostly those who had failed and would atone for their sins with either death or glory. The Iron Blood for its part remained in the Oort Cloud, far beyond Vulkan's defenses while Perturabo directed the campaign, his men all but tiptoeing around the bridge to avoid disturbing his concentration. Soon the third wave rippled into being, as the Thousand Sons utilized their sorcerous might to arrive deeper into the Solar System than the other two fleets. The Lord of Iron watched dispassionately as the display screens revealed they had engaged the enemy at Neptune, his concentration absolute as he directed the three fleets simultaneously. Only a superhuman mind such as Perturabo's could keep track of so many vessels at one time, and even amongst his brothers, there were few that could match him. There was no doubt that Vulkan would have his loyalist brothers overseeing the defenses, for their egos would not allow otherwise, and it was thus with great satisfaction that the Lord of Iron noted the simultaneous collapse of these outer defenses within a few days. This was a feat far surpassing Dorn's son's Sigismund's assault on Pluto years earlier, but there was no time to celebrate, for the inner system awaited.

The next world standing between the traitors and Terra was the gas giant Saturn. Based on its sheer number of moons, Perturabo expected quite the fight, but to his surprise, the entire world was shrouded from sight. A vast storm covered the entire ring-world, and after several abortive attempts by Holguin's forces failed to breach it, the Lord of Iron ordered his forces onward to the next target: Jupiter. Even more than Saturn, Perturabo expected a proper fight here, and he was not disappointed, for auspexes soon detected none other than the Vengeful Spirit, the Warmaster's flagship, protecting the Jovian Shipyards. Such a move was obviously bait, but Perturabo did not mind, for he would humble anyone who stood between him and Terra, and so the ponderous bulk of the Fourth Legion armada entered the battle. Shots began to rain down from all angles as the first landing craft touched down upon the first few moons, and the Iron Warriors began to battle with the Sons of Horus who sought to hurl them back from their landing sites.

Days turned into weeks as the two legions ground each other down, but as always, the initiative was firmly in the Lord of Iron's grasp. From the beginning of this conflict, Perturabo had known full well time was a limiting factor: not only were his forces likely to turn upon each other given the chance, but loyalist forces were a mounting danger, especially those legions which, according to reports, had slipped from the prison of the Ruinstorm and were headed his way. Thus the Jovian landings were no more than an expensive diversion designed to sap the loyalist strength while the Thousand Sons completed their rituals on Jupiter itself. Though he was not privy to the exact methodology by which they worked their craft, Aforgomon's efforts spoke for themselves as the Great Red Spot transformed into a fiery lidless eye, uncomfortably similar to the one which had haunted the Lord of Iron all his life. Tens of thousands of new vessels spilled into reality, the rest of the Traitor Armada which had not been present.

The new combined fleet swiftly hurled the loyalist forces into full retreat, harried all the way by the legions of hell. On and on, away from Jupiter, through the Asteroid Belt, past Mars, and all the way to Luna did the loyalists flee, but they could not retreat forever. Above Terra itself, the greatest fleet battle in recorded history took place, and the Iron Warriors were at the heart of it all, though they were no longer in charge as the true architect of the Heresy had assumed command over his myriad forces. The icy calm of the Lion, whose voice radiated sheer lethality even over the vox, ensured the traitor armada swiftly proved victorious over their outnumbered and outmatched foes. Soon the last of the loyalist ships fled, yielding orbital control to the traitor forces, but to everyone's surprise, they did not immediately begin landing. The Lion made it abundantly clear that he would personally destroy any who attempted to land without his permission, and so for the next month, the mortal chaff accompanying the fleet were dropped piecemeal upon Terra. To Perturabo's frustration, the Master of Caliban would not countenance a wide-scale orbital bombardment of the entire world, and thus when the time came for the legionaries to land, they had to do so under limited fire support despite the fact there were enough guns in orbit to raze the entire planet.

Whatever the Lion's reasons for operating this way, his plans were his own, and so on the Fifteenth of Tertius, the Iron Warriors clambered into their drop pods, and began to rain down with the rest of the legions on Terra itself. The next few days were a blur of hatred and bloodshed unlike any previous campaign the Fourth had ever fought, for the stakes here were higher than ever before. The Salamanders had been absent for most of the Heresy, busy as they were fortifying Terra, and so the Iron Warriors had been free to paint their foes in the worst possible light inside their heads. They were utterly hated for stealing the role of Praetorian away from them, and for the first time, the Fourth fought with a passion more akin to the unhinged sons of Sanguinius than with the cold professionalism they were known for. Down and down through the trench-choked expanses of the katabatic plains and into the congested backstreets of the urban sprawl around the Outer Palace the Fourth Legion pushed, heedless of casualties in their rush to beat their rivals. However, as the first week of conflict came to a close, and the circumvallations were completed, the Iron Warriors were irritated to note only the Imperial Fists were present. It soon became clear the other legions had landed elsewhere, and were busy pursuing their own agendas. What's worse, they were doing so incompetently, and forces soon had to be diverted to aid them, lest they fruitlessly grind themselves away. Even the Dark Angels weren't present, and when Perturabo became aware just how isolated his forces were, he decided to act.

"Lion!" Perturabo bellowed upward at the imposing but empty ramparts. "Show yourself, you coward!" Beside the Lord of Iron, the battalion of his men remained still in their ordered ranks, tall metal statues amidst the empty dustbowl expanse of the plains of Urartu. It took several hours for even the Lord of Iron to cut through the confusion and red tape to discover where the First Legion had gone, but once he had, he quickly left command of the siege to others to deal with it himself, taking the closest battalion of Iron Warriors he could find regardless of their strength. Thus Dantioch stood by his father's side, lackadaisical and obliviously staring up at the towering fortress the Dark Angels had constructed.

"Ah, Perturabo. To what do I owe this unexpected arrival?" The helmeted snarl of the Lionhelm showed itself, followed by the rest of the Lion as the gates of his fortress opened.

"You know damn well why I'm here. Why are you throwing the Siege? Why wasn't I allowed to bombard the Palace with anything heavier than macrocannons? Why are you ignoring my logic? It's the right way to do things, if only you could see…" The Lord of Iron's rant swiftly came to a close with the sound of a plasma discharge. Perturabo turned in time to see Dantioch collapse to the ground, a smoking wound all that remained of his face. Bolter fire opened up from the ramparts, but not a shot hit the Lord of Iron, for it was aimed at his sons. Soon he was alone, save for the Lion, who clapped a hand upon his shoulder.

"I'll forgive your impertinence this one time, Perturabo. Why don't you go prove yourself and bring me Vulkan's head and hammer as evidence of your victory? If you can do that, then I'll tell you what I'm doing." The Lord of Iron could only nod, his complaints silenced by the deadly look in his brother's eye.

Siege of Terra: Iron Within

Though it stung his pride to be dismissed so abruptly, the Lion's offer was nonetheless tantalizing for the Lord of Iron, who had nurtured a grudge against Vulkan going back to Nikaea. In addition, if he was able to cut off the head of the snake, the loyalist defenses would surely collapse without anyone to direct them. However, Vulkan was sure to be in the heart of the palace, his true location unknown, and would thus need to be identified before any assault could be made against the inner walls. Thus over the next few weeks, the Lord of Iron made moves to entreat his daemonic kin, growing increasingly frustrated with their lack of interest in supporting his push. Without Dantioch and his knowledge of the True Name, Guilliman had slipped his leash, and categorically refused to come to his aid, while the Thousand Sons and Blood Angels were too busy following their own desires. All the while, the Iron Warriors continued their assault almost unaided, taking casualties in the thousands as they silenced the enemy redoubts one by one in suicidal assaults.

Within several weeks, the Fourth Legion was in range of the Raven's Gate Spaceport, whose colossal spires were built directly into the Outer Walls. This was an objective of the utmost importance, for if the legion could seize the spaceport, not only would they have access to its landing pads, thus enabling them to unload titans, but they would have a path directly into the Inner Palace through the sky-bridges which connected it. Thus the grandest siege-train the Fourth had ever assembled rolled into position at the base of the spire, thousands of engines of every description that created a wall of sound and fury as they opened up against the Aegis, the massive array of void shields which protected the Palace. However, these guns were not aimed at the spaceport but at other sections of the walls, for the Lord of Iron had begun his plan to stress the shield to its breaking point, a theory which would serve as a distraction for the true assault.

Thus the Iron Warriors marched against the Raven's Gate led not by their father, but by Triarch Kroeger, Warsmith of the Second Grand Battalion, a singularly-brutal and straightforward commander. The high artifice and strategy of Perturabo, whose tactical brilliance had directed the Siege thus far, was all but absent in Kroeger, who had been selected for precisely this reason so as to throw off the defenders. Thus the Fourth Legion began their assault without a preliminary bombardment, relying instead upon the animalistic savagery of the Blood Angels and World Eaters mutilators. Their only aid was the clouds of toxic gas to cover their advance while they broke through the trenches which stood between them and the gates of the spaceport. In conjunction with this attack from below, Kroeger threw dozens of transports at the upper decks in an attempt to seize the upper docks. However, mere fury would not be enough to break the defenders, the indomitable Death Guard, who stubbornly clung on to their positions for weeks. Inch by grueling inch, the Iron Warriors and Death Guard squared off, matching their resiliencies as Kroeger threw more and more men into the meatgrinder without regard for casualties.

Thus as Quartus turned into Quintus, the bulk of the Raven's Gate gradually fell into Kroeger's hands, and the Triarch himself entered the battle, determined to seize glory for himself at the climax. However, such was to prove his undoing, for in his moment of triumph, victory was snatched away, not by a loyalist rally, not some stratagem of insane bravery, but by a treacherous assault from their own allies. Marching over the corpses on the upper landing pads, tens of thousands of Dorn's sons swooped in, opening fire upon all in their path as they broke through traitors and loyalists alike. Trapped in the depths of the Raven's Gate, Kroeger found himself unable to escape or contact his men, who fell back under orders of Kroeger's rival, the Triarch Forrix, who did his best to salvage the situation while at the same time advancing his own agenda. The Warsmith of the Second eventually died as he lived, another victim of the Executioner's Tax meted out at the hands of Fafnir Rann. To top off the debacle, the loyalist forces managed to detonate the upper landing pads, ensuring the traitors would be unable to land titans within the Outer Walls. Triarch Forrix was thus left to deliver the bad news to his gene-father, but to his surprise, the Lord of Iron did not lash out in rage at such terrible news as Forrix had expected.

Perturabo had long suspected Dorn was attempting to sabotage him, and so had prepared contingencies for when the time was right. Having learned firsthand that the Lion's attention was elsewhere, the Lord of Iron finally had the chance he had been waiting for to punish Rogal for the actions of his men. The assault on the Raven's Gate was the final straw, a betrayal far beyond the 'accidents' such as friendly fire which had been occurring throughout the Siege where the lines of the Fourth and Seventh met. Thus Barban Falk, the third member of the Trident, had been tasked with avenging Kroeger, and to that end, he set about infiltrating the Phalanx, Dorn's flagship. The Warsmith called upon every debt owed by the Fifteenth Legion, and with the aid of Magnus's sons, those psykers of the Order of Ruin which had fought alongside them in the Webway, a powerful daemon known as Samus was summoned in the heart of the Phalanx, where it was left to rampage to its heart's content. However, Dorn's legion was not without psykers of their own, and having traced the incursion back to its source, friendly fire began to fall upon the Fifteenth Legion as well. The two sides began to escalate the conflict, a series of psychic duels which shattered Imperial and Traitor formations alike that were caught in the crossfire.

Lyssatra

The warrior lodges introduced by the Dark Angels spread through no legion faster than that of the Fourth. Already accustomed to paranoia and suspicion, the Iron Warriors accompanying their primarch quickly formed dozens of groups, each one suspicious of others as possible spies in service to their distrustful father. The Lyssatra, also known as the Burned Men, were perhaps the most esoteric, pariahs even among their kin. They were expert smiths even compared to their brethren, turning their genius toward crafting occult weapons forged with xenos science. When the Leonine Heresy started, these radicals were the first to adopt the methods of Chaos, infusing daemons into their wargear both large and small, and were thus crafted the first of what would later come to be known as 'daemon engines'. In the years to come, the Iron Warriors would refine this practice into a science, setting them far apart from their rivals in the Seventh.

While the Warsmith held off the Crimson Fists, Perturabo began to set his endgame into motion. He had finally gained the attention of Fulgrim, who for reasons of his own had agreed to commit his Emperor's Children to an assault against the Saturnine Wall. This was but the beginning, for the next stroke would come from above, where the Iron Blood and its escorts had finally bulled their way into position directly above the Eternity Wall. In the skies, the White Scars had finished their rampage across the Skye Orbital Plate, sending the structure careening down onto the Palace, shattering the top of the Aegis energy shields once and for all. The explosion and wreckage shattered countless lesser inner walls along with their anti-air emplacements, setting the stage for the next assault. Soon thousands of screaming Angels descended upon the Eternity Wall on wings of fire, rampaging across the ramparts in berserk fury even as the Plague Towers of the Third Legion began to trundle toward the Saturnine Wall. Even as the defenders reacted to these assaults, yet another wave was unleashed as countless colossal detonations occurred in the shadow of the Mercury Wall, where the traitor titans led by Legio Ignatum clashed with a motley assortment of loyalist titans assembled from dozens of different legios.

The sheer devastation Perturabo's forces unleashed proved to be too much for the defenders, who were unable to stop the traitors from pouring through all the various breaches in their lines. Yet the Lord of Iron still had more cards to play. Once more the siege-train of the Fourth opened up, creating its trademark wall of sound as the big guns fired tirelessly, a distraction that kept the defenders' heads down and their attention diverted from the true assault of the Fourth Legion. Operating under Perturabo's own orders, the final member of the Trident, First Captain Forrix, was tasked with utilizing the confusion to enter the Palace from above in an aerial assault that was now possible due to the destruction of the Skye Orbital Plate. Hundreds of legionaries equipped with jump packs landed in the heart of the Inner Palace, where they clashed with the Salamanders who sought to halt their sabotage. Both sides had been strained to the breaking point now months into the Siege, for even the Iron Warriors were feeling the strain of prolonged conflict. The debacle at the Raven's Gate had drained them of both men and materiel, and thus Forrix was forced to rely on infiltration storm tactics as opposed to overwhelming numbers and firepower that were being utilized elsewhere that he normally would have had access to. However, the assault troops were merely the first to arrive, for following soon after were the elite of the legion, the legendary First Grand Battalion, the Tyranthikos, clad in mighty terminator armor.

The armies of the traitors closed in around the Bhab Bastion from all sides, just as they did the Palace as a whole. The Outer Palace was left as nothing but smoking ruins, hundreds of square kilometers seized and burnt, each wall toppled or breached as the traitor's noose drew ever tighter. The pressure was constant from all sides, constricting and squeezing as Forrix's men sought to reach the lynchpin of the Inner Palace defenses: the Bhab Bastion, the brain of the defense just as the Throne Room was the beating heart. Protecting the strategiums of Bhab was a sheer cliff, an unadorned stone fist jutting from the baroque splendor of the Inner Palace around it, and as such was instantly visible from all around. Triarch Forrix's forces had the scent of victory, their semi-sentient guns hurling countless shells at the tangled mess of walls that still stood between them and the Bastion as they closed in. From his personal sanctum, the Cavea Ferrum, Perturabo tracked their efforts, ensconced within a data-cradle, which fed him streams of data on the battle as a whole. He was constantly aware of the dispositions and progress of all his forces, from those under his control such as the god-engines of the New Mechanicum, to those that weren't, including not only the loyalists but the other traitor legions.

As he had anticipated, Perturabo's masterstroke had been quickly taken advantage of by leeches and vultures. The god-engines of the New Mechanicum had been highly successful, opening a gap too large to bulldoze shut, but the tangle of the Inner Palace meant they could advance no further without excessive risk, which the other traitor legions were quick to utilize. The Thousand Sons, White Scars, and Ultramarines had all flocked to the Palace, eager to seize their share of the spoils and take part in a victory they hadn't earned. So too had Dorn's bastard sons, who had begun their own push toward Bhab which the Lord of Inwit was no doubt personally overseeing. The entire siege teetered on the edge of a knife, a race between the two First Captains, Forrix and Sigismund, who both sought to reach the Bhab Bastion in what was their legion rivalry played out in miniature. The Seventh had already seized glory from him once, back at the Raven's Gate; they would not do so again. Close behind them was Warsmith Falk, determined to slow the Fists, all pretense of alliance gone here at the endgame of the Siege of Terra. Such treachery and bloodshed only served to further weaken reality, sanity fraying as countless predators of the Immaterium began to manifest in the heart of the Palace itself.

Opposing all these forces were the loyalists, who put up a valiant defense motivated more by vengeance and hate than any real hope of victory. Far away, their reinforcements battered their way through the defenses constructed by the Iron Warriors across dozens of systems. The armies of Lorgar hurled themselves at the meager garrisons which barred their path, and with every day that passed, drew closer to reaching the Throneworld. When they would arrive was anyone's guess, but that did not stop the loyalists present from attempting to destroy the traitors before they arrived. Just as he had anticipated, Perturabo's masterstroke was constantly on the verge of collapsing under its own weight, a process aided and abetted by his loyalist brothers. As if to spite him, thousands of Iron Hands had arrived from somewhere to counter the Third Legion assault on the Saturnine Wall, while the Sons of Horus had emerged to attack the Blood Angels at the Eternity Gate. Even hurling the berserk Sanguinius at them had done nothing to slow them down, and thus the Lord of Iron was left to mitigate the damage as two legions fell back in total defeat.

Ensconced in his data-cradle, Perturabo discerned the chaos of the battle, and it disturbed him. What had started as a war between the legions had now become a battle of gods and daemons, of monsters from the darkest myths of Old Night that had shredded the creed of the Imperial Truth. The Lion remained inaccessible, and legionaries claiming to bear his words now presumed to order the other legions in his name while everything collapsed around them. This was not the cause to which Perturabo had committed his sons, and it would not be a cause for which he would die. Forrix and his men had breached the lower floors of the Bhab Bastion after a week of non-stop fighting, but Vulkan was nowhere to be found, having no doubt evacuated to some deeper holdout. Now bereft of both a target and support, even Forrix's men fell back rather than die alone and unremembered. Perturabo ignored their complaints, for he had completed his task of breaking the Palace Walls and Vulkan's main command center, proving his superiority once and for all. Ignoring the promises and threats of retribution from their allies, the Iron Warriors began to fall back en masse.

"Lord-Primarch, the Voice of the Lion is here to see you." Perturabo didn't react to the message, his mind occupied by the data streams, which had only increased after he had given the order to fall back. Not taking his eyes from the screens, he flicked his hand, which Vull Bronn took as a sign to allow the visitor in. As the doors gently opened, a hooded Astartes entered the room, his face hidden even more than his pitch-black power armor beneath long white robes.

"Greetings, Perturabo of Olympia. My name is Cypher." Perturabo gave no reaction, so Cypher continued. "By order of the Lion, you are to cease your withdrawal. The Iron Warriors must rejoin the offensive."

"No." The screens which had filled the primarch's attention for the past twelve hours went blank, and the Lord of Iron rose to his full imposing height, towering over the undeterred Cypher.

"Are you refusing the Lion's commands?" Cypher asked.

"Yes. This is not a war anymore. There will be no victory at Terra, for either side. Do you think me unaware of the bigger picture? The Blood Angels, Ultramarines, and Thousand Sons have already fled, either in retreat or in pursuit of their own ends. The Fifth and Twelfth were broken long before; the Emperor's Children are obedient, but combat ineffective compared to what they once were. We all are, save for your brothers, who have yet to enter the battle, as I'm sure you already know. Now Rogal and the Seventh retreat, for he sees just as well as I that the Word Bearers are about to arrive." Cypher attempted to respond, but the Lord of Iron cut him off by striding to another console. The walls of the Cavea Ferrum began to retract, revealing the burning husk of the Outer Palace all around them.

"I have succeeded. Their defenses are broken, and the slaughter has already begun. Why, then, do I not feel victorious?" Cypher remained silent, his expression hidden by his hood, so Perturabo continued.

"There's nothing here for me anymore. The Lost and the Damned pick over the ruins of what in another lifetime I had hoped to build. I wanted more than anything to make my father happy, to have the ones I loved gaze upon my brilliance and what I had accomplished. I believed that one day I would be able to lay down my weapons, to be allowed to build rather than destroy once the Crusade had ended. I see now that I was a fool. Your father is just like the Emperor, Cypher. They both made me want to believe in them, to serve them willingly and win their praise. But they both made me kill my dreams with my own hands. I'm done with both of them. No longer will I serve."

"The Lion will hear of this." Cypher warned. "You will be an outcast. When the Everchosen has taken the throne, he will hunt you down." Perturabo turned to regard him, removing his helmet to reveal an unreadable expression. His sapphire eyes bored into Cypher as he threw his helmet, shattering the horns along with the blackstone lining within as it hit the floor.

"And you heard me: I will not serve. My brother seeks to sell all our lives in exchange for time to complete his vanity project. His gifts are tainted, his promises naught but lies made to dead men, for already the Word Bearers breath down upon our necks. Were we to stay, I have no doubt your next set of commands would be to return to orbit to stop them. Maybe we would be able to halt Lorgar, maybe not. We will never know, because I refuse you and your master." His voice had raised in intensity until it was a snarl. "I reject you all. I deem your commands illogical. We will not break our circle of iron for anyone. Vull Bronn, send the signal to all forces, full retreat. We're leaving."

No longer bound by the Lion's commands such as those ordering them to refrain from orbital bombardment, dozens of ships unleashed a new level of destruction across the planet. Countless billions perished in this final spiteful act, their hives crumbling beneath the molten fury of the heavens. Barely a third of the legion escaped the Throneworld that day, leaving countless corpses along with thousands of legionaries who wouldn't or couldn't retreat in time, but such losses meant little to a legion as inured to suffering as the Fourth. As Perturabo had foretold, as the fleet fell back, they clashed with the vanguard forces of the loyalist reinforcements, whose arrival had jumbled the fleets in the upper atmosphere into a tumultuous mess. Tens of thousands of ships fired blindly into the void, hoping to save themselves through indiscriminate firepower, and thus the Fourth Legion fleet slipped away with far fewer ships than they had arrived with. The journey back to Olympia was a silent one throughout the fleet save for on the Iron Blood, where some legionaries swore they could hear the sound of sobbing mixed with jarring crashes coming from the primarch's chambers. Eventually these too ceased, but Perturabo remained alone in his chambers, as he and all his sons pondered on what the future might hold for them.

Post-Heresy: From a Cage to an Empire

In contrast to many other legions who felt nothing but disgrace and shame as they fled, the hearts of the Iron Warriors remained cold and distant as they retreated from Terra. War was not a thing of passion for the sons of Perturabo, merely an equation to be solved whose answer was whatever satisfied the will of their superiors. Thus their retreat was no retreat at all, but merely advancing in another direction, back to Olympia to begin a new campaign. Even after arriving, Perturabo remained in a melancholy mood, isolating himself from his sons after ordering them to rebuild the shattered legion and to fortify the Despotate. Thus over the following decades, the Iron Warriors fortified themselves once again, taking advantage of the Imperium's absence to rapidly grow in strength. The fires of industry burned without stop, millions of slaves perishing in inhumane conditions as dozens of forge worlds churned out all the resources needed to replace the catastrophic losses of the Leonine Heresy. The Lion's defeat at the hands of the Emperor was discouraging to say the least, but the Fourth Legion moved on without a second thought, working in accord with the logic of its progenitor to begin anew. Thus for thirty long years, the Despotate prepared itself, fortifying its borders and establishing garrisons on many worlds, for the legion knew full well that the future held only war.

Yet when the assault finally did come, it was not from the Emperor's lapdogs. Across multiple worlds on an ever-widening front, garrison commanders reported they were under assault by the Crimson Fists. It was clear Rogal blamed them for the loss at Terra, and had come to seek revenge and settle the score. Once more the Fourth and Seventh Legions went to war, but this time the Iron Warriors were on the defensive. However, they refused to yield to this most hated of foes, and so years turned into decades as the Despotate of Olympia was gradually reduced. Perturabo refused to countenance an offensive without his supervision, and remained isolated throughout the campaign. The Lord of Iron spent decades building upon the world of Sebastus IV, accompanied only by servitors and occasionally issuing reminders to his men to draw out the campaign as long as possible.

Dozens of systems burned as the various garrisons began to utilize their stockpiles of virus bombs and cyclonic torpedoes, ensuring all of Dorn's victories were pyrrhic ones, a scorched-earth policy on a scale never-before seen. To the Iron Warriors commanders, it seemed clear they did not have a hope of winning so long as their primarch remained secluded, for none of them could match Dorn's strategic genius. However, as the decades passed, victory seemed ever more out of their reach as the Fists drew ever closer to Olympia itself. Their greatest defeat came at the Battle of Phall, where the Warsmith Barban Falk led nearly nine hundred vessels of varying sizes to oppose the Fists' fleet, but it was to no avail. In response to his buildup, the Seventh brought their entire fleet, far outnumbering Falk's forces, and after his flagship was lost with all hands, the fleet fled the system.

Only a third of the Warsmith's mighty armada escaped the killing fields of Phall. Yet even in this, their darkest hour, no legionary contemplated surrendering or fleeing for the rumored safety of the Eye of Terror, where it was said the rest of the traitor legions had already fled after losing their holdings to the Imperium. These Iron Warriors were not the heroic Terran legionaries who had served under the Emperor, nor even the mighty soldiers who had waged the Leonine Heresy in an attempt to topple the Imperium; these were hothoused recruits, quickly and haphazardly thrown into armor as bodies to fill the trenches, and they knew nothing other than servitude. All the defiance and independence they might once have had had been beaten out of them long ago, and thus nothing more than bitterness filled their hearts as they fled the Phall System. However, fate was not done with the Fourth Legion yet, and it was in this darkest hour that Perturabo finally issued new orders to his sons. Ordering them to join him at the Sebastus System, the Iron Warriors were amazed to discover what their primarch had been doing over the past thirty years. What had once been barren plains were now covered in gleaming steel, vast towers soaring above a forest of lesser fortifications and trench lines stretching around hundreds of square kilometers. The comparatively-few veteran legionaries recognized their father's personal touches in every bit of what others might have called a vanity project, for this fortress rivaled the Imperial Palace in size, though it was far more utilitarian than glamorous. Thousands of legionaries began to fill its halls, which were supplied enough for years of siege, and Perturabo placed Forrix, the last remaining Triarch, in charge of the entire thing, ordering him to hold out for as long as possible while he prepared for a counter-strike.

The First Captain was soon put to the test, for shortly after their primarch departed, the Crimson Fists arrived. Forrix duly played the recording left for him by Perturabo, which taunted the Fists into beginning their siege of this, the Eternal Fortress. As expected, their defenses rendered the initial bombardment ineffective, and so the anti-air guns lit up as countless drop pods and transports began to rain down from orbit. For five long years, the Fourth held their ground, gradually falling back as the Fists threw away lives by the thousands trying to take their halls. Meter by meter, the Seventh was drawn further in, only to find the interior to be a death-trap as hundreds of automated guns opened fire on them from all sides. It seems the Seventh had also rapidly inducted new recruits, for there were few commanders of any renown spotted, and no Templar Brethren at all. Thus the Iron Cage ground on, a conflict which had started long before any of these legionaries had been born and would continue long after they had died, and die they did. Tens of thousands of legionaries on both sides met their end on the killing fields of Sebastus IV, sacrifices to a pointless legion rivalry that was all they had left. The world itself was strategically useless, especially compared to the nearby capital of Olympia, but Forrix knew full well that Dorn would never yield so long as he thought victory over Perturabo was in his grasp.

As the Siege of the Eternal Fortress entered its fifth year, Forrix received a signal from the Lord of Iron, who revealed he had been gathering the rest of the legion during this time. Perturabo's scouts had made it clear that the Imperium by this time had nearly seized all of Dorn's own domains, the Inwit Star Empire, and they would surely turn to Olympia next. Thus the Lord of Iron had no qualms about stripping all of his garrisons to ensure his force would be large enough to defeat Rogal, and when the time came, his armies were truly something to behold. Even after the staggering losses at Phall, it appeared to both Forrix and Dorn that the Lord of Iron still possessed thousands of vessels held in reserve for this decisive counterstrike. Caught in between the guns of the planet, which had whittled away their shields after literal years of anti-air fire, and the newly-arrived fleet, the Seventh was far from an optimal position to repel an assault of that magnitude.

Within a day of Perturabo's arrival, the Phalanx and its attendant fleet had been sent fleeing, leaving their unburied dead to rot, for despite all their bluster and rage, they had not been able to break Perturabo's Iron Cage. They had been unable to uncover the deceit, for much of this new fleet was mere illusion, counterfeit ships which were no more than hulls with engines used to add the appearance of overwhelming numbers and shield the more valuable ships located at the rear. However, they had less than a year to savor their victory, for as the legion busied itself repairing the vast scars left all over the Eternal Fortress and salvaging the hundreds of derelict ships in orbit, a new foe arrived: the Sons of Horus. Still aboard the Iron Blood, Perturabo recognized this opportunity for what it was: both a chance to strike a blow at the Imperium, as well as pay Lupercal back for the losses they had inflicted upon them during the Solar War and the Siege of Terra.

Thus just like Dorn before him, the Warmaster was baited into landing his force upon Sebastus IV. Though the Sixteenth was not nearly the equal of the Seventh in regards to siege warfare, the heavy damage sustained by the Eternal Fortress meant they had an easier time of it. Far fewer weapon emplacements and traps awaited Lupercal's sons as their speartip plunged deep into the breaches from all sides, but the Fortress was far from defenseless, and enough Iron Warriors had remained to make them pay dearly for it. In order to sell the ruse that the Lord of Iron was in the heart of his fortress, Perturabo unleashed his full stockpile of experiments, sending forth rudimentary abominable intelligences whose iron frames were infected with daemonic scrap-code to slow the enemy. The Warmaster's progress was carefully tracked, gradually separating him from his Sons through emotional manipulation and psychological warfare. Thus when Lupercal finally took the bait, only death awaited him.

When Horus charged into the heart of the fortress, all he found was a tactical nuclear warhead, embedded inside one of the Iron Circle. As Lupercal breathed his last, incinerated in atomic fire alongside even more of his Sons, the attention of the Ruinous Powers was drawn to Sebastus IV like never before. However, rather bestow their blessings upon the Lord of Iron who had orchestrated the entire affair, their favor instead came to rest upon Forrix, who had personally fought upon this battlefield which had produced a death toll second only to the final battles of the Leonine Heresy. With a scream of agonized delight, his mortal form fell away, skin becoming fleshmetal as blood transformed to oil, grinding gears and hissing pistons filling the room with the sound of industry as the First Captain shedded his mortality and his name to become the Breaker, a towering Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided whose form was a perfect blend of Obliterator and Mutilator.

His goals now accomplished beyond anything he could have hoped for, Perturabo ordered a full retreat. The battered Iron Warriors fleet left the Imperials to retrieve their dead from the ruined wastelands of Sebastus, returning to Olympia to gather the last remaining supplies. There was little left to take, for during his preparations for the counterstrike, Perturabo had stripped most of his garrisons, leaving only a few to hide his true plans from prying eyes. Thus when the Imperial fleets of the Scouring did arrive at Olympia, there were only a few thousand legionaries to defend their homeworld. The Sixth Legion took their fair share of casualties attempting to take the final portion of the now-defunct Despotate. In the end, they too were denied in a final act of spite that saw the garrison destroy the planet rather than hand it over. Centuries of over-extraction of resources had left Olympia riddled with mines and tunnels, meaning it was easy for the Iron Warriors to detonate their planet's core, shattering their home and killing thousands of Space Wolves along with themselves.

However, Perturabo was not there to see the asteroid field that his planet had become, for he and the rest of his sons were busy establishing a new domain. Now ensconced within the dubious safety of the Eye of Terror, the baleful gaze no longer haunted the Lord of Iron within the realm of madness he sought to remake in his own image. The Fourth Legion began to claim dozens of worlds in the Unreality of the Eye in what came to be known as the First Distension, including what would become their homeworld, the Daemon World of Medrengard. Their sheer numbers, hundreds of thousands in total, and lockstep organization ensured none of the disparate legions were strong enough to oppose them on their own. However, this campaign was eventually cut short by the arrival of a new power: Sigismund. By uniting forces from the other eight legions along with the armies of the Ruinous Powers, the Destroyer brought an end to the ambitions of the Iron Warriors commanders, who had been on the verge of completely conquering the Eye of Terror.

Since then, the Iron Warriors have maintained their dominance of the Eye, spending most of their time fortifying their holdings, which remain constantly under assault. Outside their domain, many worlds pay fealty to the Black Templars, to other legions, or to the Ruinous Powers themselves, and all of whom despise the order enforced at gunpoint by the Fourth Legion. However, their self-destructive nature ensures that both they and their enemies are far more fragmented than their Imperial counterparts. Though they are the most unified of the legions, even the Fourth has fragmented into warbands in the absence of their primarch, who remains secluded on Medrengard, enacting a plan known only to himself. Some say this is all part of Perturabo's master plan, to temper and strengthen the Iron Within and Without, but it is more probable that he does not care for their actions one way or the other.

Over the millennia, the Warsmiths of the Iron Warriors have ventured out many times to assault the Imperium, testing their siege-breaking skills against the defenses which gird the Eye. As the 41st Millennium draws to a close, the Iron Warriors gather their strength in preparation for the upcoming Thirteenth Black Crusade. Though their pride ensures they will not fight under the Destroyer's command, the sons of Perturabo are much too pragmatic to allow a chance like this to go to waste. Should their full power and attention be directed toward the Imperium, no bastion would withstand their mighty siege engines. However, such a move would only expose a vulnerability, and their many enemies are constantly waiting for a chance to topple the Empire of Iron and unleash greater chaos within the Eye of Terror.

Homeworld, Recruitment, and Gene-seed

As close to being masters of the Eye of Terror as it is possible to be, the Fourth Legion controls more Daemon Worlds than the rest of the Traitor Legions combined. Each of these realms is a fortified stronghold, towering palisades and spike-lined trenches which protect resource extraction facilities, outposts which fuel their never-ending war effort. Adamantium and Promethium are perhaps the most prized resources of all, for within the Eye, they are both incredibly rare and utterly vital in order to maintain the many warmachines operated by the Fourth. Slaves and the nutrients required to feed these numberless hordes are a close second, for it is from their ranks that new legionaries are drawn. The callous sons of Perturabo are forced to constantly kidnap unfortunate Imperial citizens to replenish their stock, which is constantly shrinking due to industrial accidents or utilized as cannon fodder. The style of warfare utilized by the Fourth Legion is incredibly manpower-intensive, but fortunately for them, Perturabo's gene-seed is more compatible than any other save that of Guilliman, with no known missing organs. Those who receive it tend to develop dark eyes, as well as increased intelligence, a talent for technology, and an unhealthy level of paranoia. The Grand Battalions are constantly creating new legionaries, prizing quantity far more than quality, uncaring of losses taken save for when they threaten combat effectiveness.

When their chances of success do drop below acceptable standards, the Iron Warriors fall back to one of their many fortresses, fall-back positions which are known as Akrae, for no son of Perturabo enters a battle without having planned for every variable. The Iron Warriors have had many years to perfect their craft, and it takes a substantial force indeed to halt their progress or uproot them from the siege camps which they establish on every battlefield. Their cold iron fortresses, far more secure than their resource facilities, are instantly recognizable, towering keeps covered in spikes and lined with extensive defensive networks, including moats, trenches, and gun emplacements. At the heart of each Akra are vast daemon-forges, which churn out the tools of war utilized by the legion in its conflicts, though due to the unpredictable Eye, such assembly lines are far less effective than those in realspace. Thus the Fourth is constantly attempting to claim new sources of materiel and slaves to operate the assembly lines, and nowhere is this more true than their homeworld, Medrengard.

Were it not for the wail of daemons and screams of the damned echoing from impossibly-tall towers, one might be forgiven for mistaking Medrengard, homeworld of the Iron Warriors, for an Imperial Forge World, so well-ordered is it. It is a planet of cold iron, covered in imposing fortresses and vast manufactoria whose smokestacks belch the filth of industry into the polluted air. A black sun illuminates its dead, white sky, weakly shining upon the unfortunates who live there. A jail-world would be another apt way to describe it, for working the assembly lines are countless billions of slaves, to whom even the hope of freedom was snuffed out long ago. If the realm of the Ultramarines in the Maelstrom is a slanderous likeness of the Ecclesiarchy, if Laestrygon is a foul parody of the sanctity of Terra, then Medrengard and its holdings are a twisted reflection of the Adeptus Mechanicus and Holy Mars, a realm more fortified than perhaps even Terra itself, for the Fourth Legion has had uncounted years to build and improve upon its defense. In place of Olympus Mons, the unfathomably grandiose Iron Bastion is the unbeating heart of Medrengard, the personal lair of Perturabo himself which no others are permitted to enter or exit without his permission. The primarch has not been seen in ten thousand years, only speaking remotely to those few Warsmiths he deems worthy of an audience, though none know why. Some say paranoia keeps him hidden away, while others claim he plots his revenge against all those who wronged him, while still more say he is working on a project, seeking to create or recreate that which is most dear to him.

The various Akrae serve as outposts, lesser imitations of Medrengard which project the strength of the Fourth Legion across the Eye. Their very presence is corruptive, slowly transforming the landscapes around them into featureless, dead iron as the will of the Iron Warriors molds the unreality around them. It is their icy, machine-like logic which has intentionally reshaped dozens of worlds into such lesser copies, for to leave Daemon Worlds as they were would be a deathknell to efficiency. It is this that allows the Fourth Legion to maintain their production quotas and martial dominance, and what in turn attracts the ire of the Ruinous Powers. The daemons of Chaos, as well as the other legions which inhabit the Eye, despise any order, and hate the pretensions of the Iron Warriors as an affront to their very nature. As such, these worlds are constantly under attack, but the Fourth Legion cares not, for it is in the fires of war which the Iron Within is tempered. There is no world that is not replaceable, no fortress that is not expendable, so long as it contributes to the overall victory. It is the Akrae which serve as a focal point for enemy assault, a distraction preventing the legions of Chaos from assaulting Medrengard itself. Thus the iron heart remains constantly beating, pumping out new armies which flow to the extremities and edges of their empire to conquer and be conquered in turn. Such is only befitting of the realm of elemental chaos that is the Eye, as worlds are taken and are lost in turn in a never-ending war of all against all for the pretensions of mortals and amusement of the Ruinous Powers.

It truly is a war of all against all, extending into the very legion itself, for the Iron Warriors are far from being fully united. The various Grand Battalions of the Fourth splintered shortly after Medrengard was claimed, which some say was intentional on Perturabo's part, for by such methods the legion is kept hard, a Darwinian struggle to winnow out the weak through constant infighting. His prolonged absence is perhaps the only thing keeping the Fourth Legion from acting in a concerted fashion once more, which would surely overwhelm all foes. Each Warsmith has his own keep to house his Grand Battalion, most often a tangled mess of gun emplacements, oubliettes, and labyrinthine corridors which are designed to confuse any would-be invaders. Such defenses are tested quite frequently, for there are far more companies than there are keeps. Upon its empty plains, entire mechanized divisions clash in the shadow of mighty fortresses while legions of sappers scrabble in the trenches and tunnels. Above them, the boom of siege guns is drowned out only by the sound of industry, for the daemon-forges of Medrengard are constantly at work churning out weapons and materiel. However, even these smithies pale in comparison to the factory of insane ingenuity known as the Forge of Souls.

Forge of Souls

In between and outside of the dominions of nightmare claimed by the Ruinous Powers exists a realm of madness known as the Formless Wastes. It is a realm of pure Chaos, constantly changing and formless as the Immaterium itself. Hidden in its depths, independent daemon princes and other entities with enough strength carve out their own territories, sub-realms shaped by the whims of their creators. The largest of these hells is what many refer to as the Forge of Souls, a domain of industry operated entirely by the K'daai, nightmarish daemons of an unborn god forged from arcane metals and tainted flame. It is they who fashion the great daemon engines and sell them to the highest bidder, be it a warband of Chaos Astartes or a daemon prince of the Ruinous Powers. The Eight-Arrowed Forge survives only because of its value to the Ruinous Powers, playing their rivals off of each other for uncounted millennia, just as the Iron Warriors do with the other legions which inhabit the Eye of Terror.

Long ago, the industrious nature of the Fourth Legion attracted the attention of a daemon which dared to call itself the Soul Forge King. This creature, a being known as Vashtorr the Arkifane, was found to already be waiting on Medrengard when the Breaker led his former brothers to the daemon world. The two powers sealed a pact, the Forge lending their expertise to the Fourth in exchange for a permanent garrison to aid in their defense. It is unknown what Vashtorr personally gains from this bargain, but it has been he who oversees all transactions of war machines between the two, and rumors abound of his ambitions to rule more than just the small pocket of the Warp controlled by the Forge.

However, even with the support of the Forge of Souls, the Forges of Medrengard continue to operate at barely half of their true capacity. It is neither necessary nor practical for them to run full-bore, for most warbands, already responsible for their own wargear, do not seek to conquer on a scale that would necessitate such a buildup. To churn out materiel on a scale to outfit the entire legion would require unimaginable amounts of resources, no small feat in a realm as unpredictable as the Eye of Terror. In addition, any attempts to do so would immediately face shortages, for the long-standing enmity between the Fourth and Seventh Legions saw the Black Templars enact an embargo long ago, seeking to deny the Iron Warriors the ability to leverage their greater numbers by denying them the resources they would need to wage total war against them. Promethium in particular has become highly scarce, forcing the legion to mothball its heaviest of vehicles.

In the void above Medrengard, the fleet of the Fourth is disunited and in varying states of disrepair, victims of constant warfare against myriad threats. Chief among these is the Iron Blood, flagship of Perturabo, which it has not seen combat since the Leonine Heresy, for only Perturabo could command such a mighty vessel. However, many ambitious Warsmiths would pay any price to be the master of even a similar vessel, for ships are the safest and often only way to traverse the Eye. Thus the shipyards of Medrengard are constantly busy, millions of slaves perishing to produce even a single vessel, but life has always been cheap for the sons of Perturabo. In the shadow of the Rock of Judgment, an artificial moon seized during the Great Crusade and transported into the Warp during the Scouring, a dark rival to the Iron Blood has slowly been taking shape amidst the tangled space-dock, a ship larger than any before it whose name is spoken of only in whispers: the Goliath Engine. Many Warsmiths have contributed to it, a mirage of unity that will disappear as soon as the vessel is finished as the various Chaos Lords will no doubt seek to claim such a mighty vessel over the bodies of their rivals. Others claim when it is finally completed, Perturabo himself will emerge to make it his new flagship from which he will lead his sons to ultimate victory.

Combat Doctrines and Organization

Though divided into many competing warbands, the Iron Warriors have retained their structure remarkably intact since the days of the Leonine Heresy. Rather than the fractious groupings of ambitious legionaries clustering around a charismatic warlord in search of death or glory, the true measure of a Warsmith is his success rate, both in battle and in recruitment. Long has victory for the Fourth been directly proportional with the size of its forces, and as their size is rivaled only by the Ultramarines, their success has been great indeed. As a result of the sheer number of Perturabo's sons, most warbands number in the thousands, though varying depending on combat. Led by a Warsmith, each of these Grand Companies are further split into Grand Battalions, rivaling regular warbands at around several hundred Astartes each, along with their attendant daemon engines, vehicle armory, and hordes of cultists.

Quantity is highly prized amongst the sons of Perturabo, both in army size and the amount of firepower, for the concept of 'overkill' is not in their vocabularies. It is a testament to their organizational and logistical capabilities, unparalleled by any other traitor legion, that the Fourth is able to continue to wage war in nearly the same manner that they did during the Great Crusade and Heresy Eras. However, without their primarch's iron grip and paranoid stares, treachery has become far more endemic, and many Warsmiths have met their end at the hands of a subordinate who believed it would be more logical and efficient for them to rule.

Minotaurs

Few warbands of the Iron Warriors are feared as much as the Minotaurs, a power on the rise in the Fourth Legion as of the 41st Millennium. Once a minor Grand Company, the Brazen Warlord known as Asterion Moloc has led the Minotaurs to countless victories. Contrary to the extended planning and lengthy sieges seen in most warbands, Moloc is a feral barbarian, a savage giant wrapped in ancient Olympian heraldry who projects a furnace-aura of aggression with no patience for extended planning. He has become a byword for death and brutality, most often seen in the heart of a melee, and his paranoia rivals that of his primarch's. Many underlings have met a grisly end at the tip of his Black Spear, a dark relic stolen from the corpse of a Custodian, for daring to interrupt him as he measures the blood spilt in his name from the heart of his maze-like vessel, the Daedelos Krata. The chilling apathy so common in the Fourth is entirely lacking in the Minotaurs, who have embraced their role as instruments of destruction, and have become particularly adept at fighting other Astartes.

From their earliest days in the Fourth Legion, the Astartes of the Iron Warriors are taught to know their place as expendable pawns. A brutal hierarchy of force keeps them in line, and thus successful legionaries are those who know how to bide their time and conceal their plans until the right hour. The turnover rate in legionaries is just as high as that of officers, and thus there is no shortage of opportunities to rise through the ranks. Efficiency and results go hand in hand, and thus the legion prefers to follow the same formula in every battle wherever possible. Each battle is started with multiple preliminary bombardments, most often from windowless starships in orbit abovel. Next comes waves of saturation bombing with daemon engine fighter escorts designed to seize control of the skies in order for heavy transports and freighters to begin landing supplies and prefabricated fortifications. While the guns and bombers keep the enemies' heads down, the Iron Warriors are hard at work establishing a base of operations, from which they rapidly move to encircle their targets, be it a hive, forge, or any other structure. After the first two waves are finished and the initial circum and contravallations have been completed, the legion begins to tighten the noose, utilizing automated gun emplacements to achieve overwhelming firepower superiority.

As a siege wears on, the Iron Warriors begin to probe an enemy's defenses, seeking weak points to exploit. Oftentimes hordes of mortals will be sent in unsupported to discover minefields and artillery zones, clearing out the defenses with chaff rather than legionaries as part of a cold calculus that gives little regard to human life. During this time, a deep boredom sets in for these Astartes, who are kept in reserve until their Warsmith deems it right. There is never a shortage of sappers and tunnelers, for despite the inherent danger of such roles, many legionaries see it as a way to escape the tedium of a long siege. The Havoc Squadrons are particularly prestigious in the Fourth Legion, not least of which because they allow legionaries to take part in combat long before any breakthroughs are made, a marked contrast to the lesser honors given them in more bloodthirsty legions such as the Ninth. When a breach is eventually made, the legionaries fight with unexpected ferocity, many actually enjoying the excitement and danger as a way to vent their repressed frustration and hatred.

All the while, the artillery never ceases to boom, a constant barrage of noise and shells which shatters every defense. From high above, heavily-armored starships continue to rain down pinpoint orbital barrages, a particular specialty of the Fourth. In millennia past, the legion would follow up these assaults with an armored spearhead, but promethium shortages have forced the warbands of the Fourth to rely more upon fixed emplacements and heavy weapons teams, as ammo is far easier to acquire and replace than the superheavy machines that are more resource-intensive. However, this shortcoming is made up for in many Grand Companies through the use of daemon engines, which require only death and sacrifice to be unleashed upon a battlefield. Obliterators are present in all warbands, a logical outcome of being the first legion to utilize them in battle.

Kai Bane Host

Long ago, during the 34th Millennium, the Forge World of Kai was lost forever to the Warp Storm Gae-sann. Many centuries later, the Inquisition discovered the entire world to have vanished, showing up as a daemon world within the Eye of Terror by means unknown. Home to many rare designs, Kai was perhaps most famous for its kai gun, a two-handed weapon similar to a bolter, though far more powerful. It seems that the tech-priests of Kai bartered away their skill in exchange for protection, and so it was that the Guns of Kai became used for evil, firing crystalized hatred formed from the malice and spite of their wielders, perfectly suited for a legion such as the Iron Warriors.

Beneath the black sun of Medrengard, the sons of Perturabo began to fashion hundreds of thousands of empty suits of armor, similar in appearance to Thallax automata. They were larger than any Astartes, and were equipped with Kai Guns and other esoteric weaponry. This strange action was done at the bequest of none other than Vashtorr the Arkifane, who claimed this would be most helpful if they followed his commands. When the suits were completed, Vashtorr unveiled an aetheric attractor, summoning countless furies, those pathetic fiends who inhabit the Formless Wastes between realms, and bound them into the suits. Suddenly the inert shells became animated, controlled by the furies within, and so the Kai Bane Host was born, a new army controlled entirely by the treacherous Arkifane, who had never bothered to specify who it would be helping.

Since that day, the Kai Bane Host has perpetrated many atrocities. Their metallic form allows them to endure heavy punishment, and shields the daemons inside from even the presence of Blanks and other psychic nulls. They are a threat to all life, for the creatures of pure spite which inhabit them despise the living, and the foul intellect of the tech-priests of Kai continues to equip them with new and more terrifying weaponry as the centuries roll on. However, Vashtorr retains overall control, loaning cohorts to the sons of Perturabo in exchange for their aid in retrieving what he calls 'key fragments', though what this key may unlock he refuses to specify. It is unknown how many still survive the ravages of time, but they are a force to be reckoned with, even compared to the numberless hordes in service to the Lord of Iron.

Based on their sheer size, the Iron Warriors have historically seen little need to make allies. Since the First Distension, that initial campaign which saw the legion take control of the majority of the Eye of Terror, the Fourth has maintained a position of dominance. However, the overweening pride that might reasonably be expected to accompany such a role is all but absent, in its place nothing more than a chilling disdain for those they see as lesser. As such, few alliances of any length have been sought out by the sons of Perturabo, save the pact with the Forge of Souls, whose tech-priests accompany every warband as part of an organization known as the Pneumachina. It is they who repair and salvage the damaged vehicles after every battle, crafting new monstrosities as they seek to satiate their unholy curiosity. Grand Companies who suffer particularly heavy casualties are more likely to form alliances of convenience with other traitor legions, a partnership only accepted because they are seen as less likely to betray them.

Of these alliances, most common are those that exist between the Iron Warriors and the Thousand Sons. The Fourth and the Fifteenth have ties going back to the days of the Great Crusade, when Magnus the Red and Perturabo were close partners, an alliance which extended to the War in the Webway and to the Siege of Terra. The sheer numbers and overwhelming firepower of the Fourth is a natural complement to the quality-focused sorcery of the Fifteenth Legion, but the nature of Chaos ensures the two legions can never truly trust one another as they did during the Heresy. Service to Tzeentch has made the sons of Magnus highly untrustworthy, and many Warsmiths have been destroyed through the use of reckless sorcery wielded by those they were not sufficiently paranoid toward. The Iron Warriors have little relations with the White Scars, War Hounds, or Ultramarines, as they are located primarily in the Maelstrom as opposed to the Eye of Terror, but the rare meetings between them are often fraught with conflict, for they have opposing ideologies. There are no recorded interactions between the Iron Warriors and the Dark Angels since the Heresy, though it is unlikely the two legions have never crossed paths.

As might be expected of legions operating in a domain claimed by the Iron Warriors, relations between them and the Fourth are notably poor. The sons of Perturabo despise the Emperor's Children and Blood Angels as nothing more than Slaves to Darkness, and seek to exterminate them in order to remove what they see as interlopers on their territory. However, this hatred pales in comparison to that which exists between the Fourth and the Seventh Legion. Though the name of Imperial Fists was left behind long ago, the deep-seated rivalry between the legions continues to this day. It was Sigismund the Destroyer who united the other legions in order to halt the First Distention at the Battle of Harmony, and it is Sigismund who continues to maintain pretensions to be the new Everchosen of Chaos, ensuring the two will always be rivals. The warbands of the Fourth ally with the Black Templars only on the rarest and most apocalyptic of occasions, such as during a Black Crusade, and even then, they have never fought together as allies on the same battlefield. The Iron Warriors are nominally more powerful than the Black Templars, at least in terms of resources and worlds to call upon in the Eye of Terror, but that gap only continues to narrow. As the millennia roll on, the legions of Sigismund have only grown in might, continually stealing planets and resources from the Iron Warriors as they not only build up their own power base, but also hone their skills in preparation for their Black Crusades.

The legion command knows full well their true talent lies in siege warfare, and while they are almost as good at holding forts as they are at taking them, no war has ever been won by remaining solely on the defensive, and the longer they remain on such a footing, the weaker their offensive punch becomes. Part of this is the result of being a force of ordered and efficient evil in a realm of Chaos: the very thing which made them so powerful during the Heresy has now become a liability as their foes adapt. Their preferred tactics of heavy bombardment seem almost pointless in a realm where rifts open randomly to swallow entire barrages of artillery shells, and without sufficient sorcerers, the legion is at a permanent disadvantage in that regard compared to their cousin legions. The Black Templars in particular utilize the worlds of the Fourth as a training ground for their warbands, forcing the Fourth to remain on the defensive. Such training has made them an ever-greater threat, a danger now preparing to aim at the Imperium, for the Thirteenth Black Crusade is imminent.

As a Traitor Legion, the only hatred which rivals the one between the Fourth and the Seventh is the one between the Iron Warriors and the Imperium they betrayed so long ago. The sons of Perturabo seek to topple the realm of Man at every opportunity, and oftentimes warbands will slip out of the Eye of Terror to test their might against the fortress worlds ringing it, crossing blades with the Space Wolves who seek to prevent any such excursions. A frequent target of such raids is the world of Medusa, home to the Iron Hands, whose ancient satellite, the Telstarax, is of great interest to the Fourth. Some Grand Battalions have even gone so far as to ally with the Emperor's Children, whose hatred for the Tenth Legion is as great as the one between the Fourth and the Seventh. The Sons of Horus hate the Iron Warriors like no other, for Lupercal's descendants still remember who it was that killed their gene-father, and as champions of the Imperium, it is they who are the quickest to rally to a possible Iron Warriors incursion.

However, the reverse is not true. While the Iron Warriors retain their disdainful scorn for the Tenth and Sixteenth Legions, their most hated adversary among the Nine Loyalist Legions is the Salamanders. The sons of Perturabo resent and despise the sons of Vulkan, whom they see as having usurped their rightful place as Praetorians of Terra so long ago. Countless generations of Iron Warriors have been raised to believe in an almost-mythological rivalry that most of them will never see. In ten thousand years, only a handful of Warsmiths have ever slipped the confines of the Eye of Terror to lead their warbands through the gauntlet that is the Cadian Gate into Segmentum Solar, which remains the only realm of the Imperium where the Salamanders still patrol. Thus the rivalry between the Fourth and the Eighteenth remains a relatively bloodless one, especially compared to the one between them and the Black Templars. However, the Iron Warriors maintain a firm belief that one day they will escape the Eye of Terror in their entirety, and Terra itself will be shattered by the roar of their mighty guns just as it was so long ago.

Beliefs and Warcry

Contrary to what many believe, the Fourth does not seek to merely pelt bodies at a wall until it crumbles. Rather, this is merely one out of many possible strategies used to maintain their control of the Eye of Terror. Their preferred goal is to achieve the most efficient calculus of war possible, a scenario where the least number of legionaries is able to obtain the greatest results. Those Warsmiths who do not grasp this concept often find themselves either overthrown or without a warband to command. However, certain cases do require overwhelming numerical superiority or a large sacrifice of men, and there are generally none more willing to pay any price to obtain victory than the Iron Warriors. Each Warsmith is intensely proud, most often having obtained his position through a combination of sheer determination and the will of the Ruinous Powers.

Despite their protests to the contrary, the fangs of Chaos have sunk deeply into the Fourth Legion. The sons of Perturabo like to believe they are above the daemon-worshippers so common in other traitor legions, for they seek to dominate and chain daemons rather than bargain with them. However, even enslaving daemons can run both ways. The Iron Warriors are heavily reliant upon their pact with Vashtorr, who against all expectations has upheld his contract to provide generations of Warpsmiths with the Pneumachina priests to aid them in binding daemons and writing the scrap-code that is broadcast to corrupt enemy machines. Likewise, the Fourth relies upon daemon engines provided by the Forge of Souls as much as any of the Ruinous Powers or their attendant legions. The daemonically-possessed such as Obliterators are utilized at every battle, and many warbands are ruled by a Lord-Discordant, bellowing hateful prayers as his helstalker mount devours machines body and spirit. Thus as much as the Fourth likes to boast of their independence, it is nothing more than false bravado, a comforting lie they tell themselves to cover up the reality that all who utilize the tools of Chaos are damned by it. Very few daemon princes hail from the Fourth, for to be elevated as an Undivided Prince is rare indeed, though there are exceptions.

The Breaker

Not all warbands reject the gifts of the Primordial Annihilator. Some have embraced their damnation, making it their own in exchange for power. Such is the case of the Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided known as the Breaker, who once wore the mantle of First Captain. His body fleshmetal, his blood oil, he is better than he was before, for the Breaker has become stronger, faster, more alive, if daemons can be considered alive in any meaningful sense of the word. Whereas Perturabo has steadfastly rejected the advances of the Ruinous Powers, Kydomor Forrix has willingly become a creature of an unborn deity, akin to Vashtorr but subtly different, for the two of them are rivals.

It is suspected by the truly insane that the Breaker and the Arkifane are merely splinters of an unborn Chaos God, the merest hintings of one of countless entities seeking to coalesce into being in the same manner as the Prince of Pleasure did. Maddened seers speak of a god built by mortal hands, of bones fashioned from continents of shifting gears and burnished steel. It would be a deity of oppression and innovation, of the forge and invention, a demiurge worthy of even Perturabo's worship, for both the Breaker and Vashtorr have made no secret of their belief that the Lord of Iron will one day be its champion. When that might come to pass, none can say, but if and until it does, daemons such as the Breaker and Vashtorr will remain less potent, mere unborn reflections of an Anagogic Annihilator yet to be revealed.

To call the Iron Warriors worshippers of Chaos Undivided is not quite correct. Depending on the Warsmith, some or all of the Ruinous Powers may be invoked for their blessings, but very few actually worship Chaos. Rather, they see it as a tool to be utilized, simply another variable to be slotted into their equations in the calculus of war. Mutations, often seen as blessings of the dark gods in other legions, are detested by the sons of Perturabo, who are prone to amputating them and replacing it with a mechanical augmentation instead. Likewise, their relationship with their father is strained and complex. To most, he is a distant figure, as isolated in his tower from them as the Emperor is on Terra, beings whom they have never so much as seen, let alone met. To others, notably the senior Warsmiths, he is an unspoken threat, a bad memory from days gone by when legionaries were killed by the thousands. His blood flows through them all, encouraging both creativity and paranoia, and many Warsmiths maintain contingency plans not only against their fellow legionaries, but against their own father. A popular legion rumor states Perturabo spends his days seeking to craft a living artifice, infused with a spirit of some sort, though whether of mortal origin or perhaps a daemon pretending as such is unknown.

However, judging by his prolonged absence, he has yet to succeed. It is said that he often destroys his workshops out of fury, which is said to create the rolling thunder heard on the plains of Medrengard even above the roar of battle and the cruel laughter of the gods. Scrap and refuse is occasionally hurled from on high, most notably flinders of blackstone, negatively charged with potent emotional energy. Aspiring sorcerers utilize this jetsam to craft their Hashutaar Helms, skull-horned masks which increase their psychic power reminiscent of the one the primarch himself used to wear. A true mastery of the psychic arts eludes the sons of Perturabo, for it takes a certain type of mind that most of the stolid and hyper-empirical legionaries simply lack. Thus the Helms are highly prized for their ability to act as a focus, for sorcery remains a potent alternative to those not born with psyker genes. The Inquisition has only ever obtained broken samples taken in the midst of battle, but scholars believe these relics may well be related to another possible explanation for his prolonged absence. Of the few beings in the galaxy that know of the Baleful Star which has haunted the primarch all his life, most are in agreement that the Eye of Terror is the only place its glare does not follow him so closely, and so he remains hidden from the madding stare within a realm of madness.

Though the legion pretends to feel no emotions save disdain, the truth is they are still human. The legion bitterly resents the Imperium for treating them as disposable, throwing their lives away in the bloodiest battles or under-utilizing them in pointless garrisons while rewarding other legions in their place. However, this is no more than a comforting lie, one that has been passed down through the generations until it has lost all meaning, for only the smallest handful of the hundreds of thousands of legionaries were even alive in those long-forgotten days. Beneath the facade, the legion's commanders know the truth: things are only getting worse in this pitiless galaxy. With each year that passes, more worlds slip from their grip, stolen away by rival powers who enjoy the favor of the Ruinous Powers far more than they. Filibuster expeditions have done much to stave off the slow decay, taking new realms to replace the old, but it is clear to all in the Eye of Terror that the dominance of the Iron Warriors is slowly coming to an end, a tarnished and rusted mirror of the Imperium if there ever was one. However, the decline is nothing to celebrate for the people of the Imperium, for as soon as the grip of the Iron Warriors upon the Eye of Terror is shattered, the other traitor legions and the minions of Chaos will be free to turn their attention to the Imperium once more.

Faced with such a bleak future, it is no surprise that those subjected to the mad energies of the Eye have adopted odd beliefs, perhaps the strangest of these being their emphasis on the number 4. Scholars of the Inquisition who have studied the Archenemy know weighted concepts such as numerology resonate particularly powerfully in a realm of symbolism such as the Warp; in particular, each of the Ruinous Powers has a particular number sacred to them, from 9 in the case of the Architect of Fate to 6 in the case of the Prince of Pleasure. However, the number 4 is not associated with any existing Ruinous Power, so far as the Inquisition has been able to determine, but it may refer to the number of the Chaos Gods themselves. It is believed the logic circuits of the daemon engines utilized by the legion and the Forge of Souls operate on Base 4, and the Grand Companies and Battalions of the legion are also divisible by four, and of course the legion itself is the Fourth Legion.

However, other scholars believe it may be unrelated, as even outside of the corrupt and occult, the number holds universal weight. Two examples of this include the Four Zoa of the Word Bearers, as well as the four Mournival Lords of the Sixteenth Legion. Those who hold to this school of thought often claim rather that it is related to the mysteries of the Forge instead. The tech-adepts of Mars hold the number 2 to be sacred, utilizing binharic chants to express truth and falsehood as the basis of their Lingua-technis language. If this is true, then 4 may well be the doubling of that number as well as being the basis of myriad self-references and allusions. Whatever the case, the Iron Warriors are utterly obsessed with it, possessing a superstition toward it to rival the adherents of forgotten Moirae.

The Iron Warriors have borne the same gunmetal-gray armor coloration since the days of the Great Crusade, though perhaps now more dull than the more burnished sheen of the Great Crusade when the legion still possessed a spark of honor. Even outlier warbands such as the Minotaurs maintain it as their primary color, changing only the fell icons upon their shoulders. The most common armor is the Mark III 'Iron' pattern, though Mark V is just as common, for most legionaries wear wargear that has been recycled countless times over the millennia. Many legionaries bear extensive cybernetics, another cost-saving measure which is deemed more efficient than vat-grown replacements and more pure than allow mutations to persist. However, the more corrupted legionaries, especially obliterators, have ceased caring about such matters, mutating and fusing to become one with their armor, and are more likely to bear grisly trophies such as severed limbs and spiked chains. Yellow and black industrial stripes are evident on all legionaries, chevrons varying by Grand Battalion to indicate rank and file. The legion's symbol remains an Iron Mask in the shape of a skull, suitable for a grim and dour legion such as the Fourth; the eight-pointed Chaos Star is also very common.

The Iron Warriors have but one warcry: Iron Within, a chant which is swiftly followed by Iron Without. This is often used in the heat of battle to identify other members of the legion, especially in the confusing scrum of a forlorn hope charge into a breach. This phrase is somewhat connected to what is known as the 'Unbreakable Litany', which reads as follows. "From iron cometh strength! From strength cometh will! From will cometh faith! From faith cometh honor! From honor cometh iron! This is the Unbreakable Litany. May it ever be so.' However, this is something said only amongst the legion, an ever-diminishing cry of defiance hoarsely shouted at an uncaring galaxy that presses in on all sides, a hungry darkness seeking to snuff out all the light that these traitors bitterly cling to in the hopes that something will one day change.

Amidst the twilight, ruin comes. I have known this from the day I left Terra. The light of my forges grows ever-dimmer as the years pass, yet still I remain, locked away alone in my tower. How Rogal would grin if he could see me now, if he could lift his head from his omphaloskepsis to watch me as I have watched him. The two of us are equally alone with our thoughts, for I sense much has been revealed to him, just as it has been to me. It's not like I regret how I treated him, but why does he appear more often than the others? Loyal and traitor alike, they're all coming back, I have foreseen it. The hidden return, coming to bring one last glimmer of light before the age of dusk.

My sons gather to me, hoping in their heart of hearts that I will emerge to lead them as I did in the old days. Already the forges of Medrengard glow brighter than ever before; perhaps the daemons too can sense the end is coming. Elsewhere, my bastard nephews gather in their prisons, ready to slip their bonds and bring havoc to Father's crumbling kingdom. My sons wish to join them, and part of me wishes to lead them like it was in the old days, the part of me that likes being in charge. No gods, no masters. I wonder how long it will take before the universe takes that notion away from me like all the rest.

Not that it matters. I don't know why any of them bother. What is dead cannot be resurrected, at least in the original form. Believe me, I've tried. Eidetic memory, a talent for artifice, and power beyond my wildest dreams, and yet I have nothing to show for it but failures. Attempt after attempt, all ending the same way as the ugly truth forces its way into the open. Is it because of some underlying flaw? Maybe a daemon toys with me, pretending to be someone it should not. It is that fear which keeps me from accepting the chains which bind several of my brothers, though the lie remains as sweet as ever.

Perhaps it's the exact opposite; maybe I have been succeeding, at least partially, in bringing back the past. Why, then, am I repeatedly denied? Is there some power out there preventing me from attaining that bliss which I once felt? I do not know.

All that remains is for me to give up.

Or to try again.

---

A/N: As luck would have it, the Fourth Legion arrives in the fourth month, and even as I prepare to post this, it is 4 o'clock. The only April Fool is upon me, for writing an entry of this length. Hoo boy.

This entry is literally twice the length of some of the earlier entries, and as such there is much to speak of. As Olympia is a Greek-themed world, I thought it only fitting that Perturabo's tale be a Greek tragedy, for his failings are mostly his own fault. From the outside, he is undeniably mighty: one of, if not the largest legions, with a stellar empire/empire in the Eye, and the renown of carrying a lot of the weight of the Heresy on his back. The issue is the Iron is mostly Without. It goes without saying that Perturabo is an emotional wreck, whose leadership is as much a curse as a blessing. His domains (which he has neglected for ten thousand years) are a crumbling castle, and one shudders to think what might happen when it all comes tumbling down.

Unfortunately for this grimdark galaxy in which we live, things are only going to get more dark. Up next we have the depressing tale of Fulgrim and the Emperor's Children, whose fall into the clutches of Nurgle is far from happy. And then after that of course we have the Dark Angels themselves, the legion of the Archtraitor himself. I hope you all will continue to read my stories. I greatly appreciate you sticking around this long, and I look forward to any and all comments and reviews.

Sharrowkyn, out.