People always hope for good things. Reality rarely cooperates.
Baal had been brought back to life — and Sanguinius had immediately found himself with a new problem.
Before, he hadn't needed to worry about it. Now he did. Breaking his people's faith in him had become a serious and pressing question.
Sanguinius could see it clearly: even the threat of burning at the stake would not stop these mortals from believing in him.
"Are you leaving, brother?"
Sanguinius was in the fortress working through administrative matters when Perturabo came to bid him farewell.
"Yes. Baal Secundus is complete. The primary world and Baal Primus will be finished in the coming months — my engineering fleet will see those through to the end."
Perturabo had no interest in involving himself further in his brother's domestic affairs. There were limits to how much outside interference was appropriate.
Besides, there was a great deal waiting for him in Olympia. New Star Fort designs. Weapons development. Fleet restructuring—
Even during his three months on Baal he had been continuously drafting schematics for the next generation of war fortresses. Construction of those needed to begin in the Taros System cluster now that it was secured.
Then there was the reorganisation of the Iron Warriors' Great Crusade fleet — with the dramatic increase in warships and war machines, the Legion's overall combat power had grown substantially, and Perturabo had developed new plans to account for it.
He was genuinely busy. If Sanguinius were anything other than his brother, he would never have committed this much time to rebuilding someone else's home world.
"Very well. I had hoped to share a drink with you on the day the wine was finally ready."
A faint note of regret touched the Angel's expression.
"There will be time for that. If you ever want to visit, come to Olympia. Our doors will always be open to you."
"When the wine is ready, I'll send you the best vintage. Every year after that, Baal will send its finest wine and its friendship."
Perturabo looked at him. The Angel's face carried a smile — noble, flawless — and yet something in the warmth and approachability of it kept the effect from feeling distant or untouchable.
He thought, not for the first time, that the Blood Angels' improved standing in the Imperium owed a great deal to the Great Angel himself.
Setting aside questions of character and capability — Sanguinius, simply by existing in a room, made people want to love him. It required no effort on his part whatsoever.
"Those mortals. What are you going to do about them?"
Perturabo asked the question anyway, one last time.
Sanguinius gave a rueful smile.
"I'm not sure. Perhaps I'll follow your suggestion — bring in refugees from across the Imperium, replace the existing population gradually, and spend time educating them properly."
"I believe, eventually, they'll come to understand."
Perturabo nodded.
"Take your time, then. If things escalate beyond what you can manage, contact me. I'll come and resolve it."
"Thank you, brother. But I think I can manage. I already owe you more than I can repay."
"You operated that boring machine well. Better than the logic engine handles it."
Sanguinius blinked, then laughed.
"If I ever have time to spare and you have somewhere that needs building — come and find me. I won't disappoint you. At least, not where boring machines are concerned."
Perturabo's figure disappeared from the monastery corridor without a sound, leaving Azkaellon mildly bewildered.
"How is the progress on Raldoron's work?"
His father's voice brought Azkaellon back from his daze.
"Construction on Baal Primus is mostly complete. The primary world needs another three months — fortress construction and topsoil work have already begun."
"Father — Terra has also sent a directive. The Emperor is requesting we return to the Great Crusade as soon as possible."
"Yes. I know."
Sanguinius bent his head and continued with his work. But looking at the directive that Azkaellon had handed him, he sighed quietly.
If he could, he would have liked a little more time to keep building.
"Send our reply to Terra. The Blood Angels will resume the Great Crusade in one month."
"Yes, Father."
In the Iron Citadel of Olympia, Perturabo had barely returned before he was already setting the construction of his new-model war fortresses in motion across the Taros System cluster.
He summoned the logic engine, adjusted several previously established plans, and issued updated orders for a series of weapons projects — what to upgrade, and when to begin the transitions.
The Iron Warriors' fleet was already back in motion, resuming the Great Crusade. A skeleton force remained in the Taros System cluster alongside the Iron Council's personnel to oversee construction.
A separate contingent of Iron Warriors had been recalled to Olympia under Decree Eleven, and were currently undergoing retraining.
If Olympia's locally-raised recruits had finished their own training cycles, those new warriors would have been in the same training cohort. The recalled veterans were already burning with shame just from the cold looks Olympia's general population gave them — the prospect of being drilled alongside fresh recruits would have broken them entirely.
Truthfully, dying on a battlefield was preferable to coming back to Olympia for remedial training. At least that outcome was one they could accept with their dignity intact.
They had begun marking their helmets — a notch scratched into the metal for each time they were recalled. A mark of shame. A reminder. A warning to themselves.
Perturabo felt, in quiet moments, that he might have pushed things a bit far. But walking that back now wasn't really an option.
Nothing to be done. He could only keep building more warships and better equipment to keep his sons alive.
The casualties since his return had been minimal — and those who had fallen were now serving as overseers in the Daemon Factory, acting as de facto foremen over their supernatural charges. Not exactly a comfortable existence, but they were making do. Whether they'd ever get to operate in the material universe again was another question.
Why were these foolish children so stubborn? Not one of them had come to him and formally registered a complaint? Now he couldn't back down even if he wanted to.
The Olympian Crusade fleet continued to expand. Under the logic engine's guidance, the Fourth Legion had launched a new campaign — this time against a pocket empire left over from the Dark Age of Technology.
Olympia's administrative envoys, dispatched to negotiate terms of surrender, had been killed.
Perturabo had issued the order: total elimination. Not one left alive.
Even if this pocket empire was a human confederation, Dantioch and others had submitted some concerns — the common people being exploited at the bottom of that society were innocent.
Besides, it contradicted what Perturabo had always taught the Iron Warriors: that protecting humanity was their purpose.
But Perturabo had sent back a single line — "Whether they are the enemy is for you to determine" — and the Legion had stopped transmitting objections after that.
The logic engine spoke.
"General Kelbor-Hal has transmitted an encrypted communication. Seventy-three Archmagos from Mars are requesting access to Olympia through various channels."
"Grand Archmagos Hermekh has submitted twenty-two research reports covering plasma reactor optimisation, void-shield energy distribution algorithms, and the formula for a new alloy composite."
The volume of petitioning Archmagos was somewhat beyond what Perturabo had anticipated. After all, he was an outsider by any reasonable metric — the Emperor was the legitimate authority.
"It appears the fractures within Mars have nearly reached a point of irreconcilability."
"Analysis of available intelligence indicates the majority have been directly influenced by Hermekh's report."
The logic engine continued.
"The document — formally titled 'A Conclusive Demonstration That the Fourth Primarch Perturabo Is the Omnissiah and the Voice of the Machine God in Flesh' — has propagated extensively within Mars. The Fabricator-General has attempted to limit its spread, but with limited success."
"Can't these cogheads stay quiet for five minutes?"
Perturabo genuinely had not anticipated that Hermekh's report would cause this level of disruption.
"Is there not a single one among them who doubts it?"
"There are some, but few. Furthermore, Cyclothrathe, Lucius, and several other major Forge Worlds have begun dispatching Archmagos of their own. Grand Archmagos Hermekh's work has circulated far."
Perturabo concluded that most of these cogheads were beyond saving. And they called themselves the vanguard of technological advancement.
"Handle it as you see fit. Tell them a number of them may remain in Olympia to study and work in the field — the rest is up to them."
"Yes."
Perturabo turned his attention to the worlds he had pulled back from the darkness beyond the light of the Astronomican.
Most were mineral-rich planets, all converted into full-scale industrial Forge Worlds running continuous production lines. Warships and weapons poured out of them without pause.
Olympia's combined count of Abyssal-class and Gloria Regina-class warships had long since broken a hundred. Titan Legions and Knight households were at near-capacity. Five more Star Forts were currently under construction, due for delivery in four months.
This was the primary reason Perturabo wanted to reorganise the Legion and fleet structure.
At two hundred and twenty thousand warriors, the Iron Warriors were large enough to be divided into two to four independent fleets, each operating on its own axis — combined with Olympia's standing Crusade forces, multi-front major campaigns became entirely viable.
This would dramatically improve overall efficiency. Situations like Taros and Solk, which had required the full Legion to deploy, would no longer necessitate that level of response.
Military strength and resources were being underutilised.
Perturabo's plan was to divide the Legion into five primary fleets. Ferrix would serve as Supreme Commander and coordinate between them. The remaining four fleet commanders would be selected from among the Warsmiths.
Each primary fleet's standard complement: one Abyssal-class warship, three Gloria Regina-class warships, five Star Forts — the rest allocated on demand. Firepower and resources were abundant; the commanders could requisition what they needed.
Manpower was still slightly short. Perturabo intended to wait until the young men being raised within the territories came of age, then select a new intake of recruits before implementing the full restructure.
"My lord, Terra has just transmitted news. The Fourteenth Gene-Father, Mortarion, has been found by the Emperor on Barbarus in the Storm Worlds."
Mortarion.
Two chess pieces appeared in Perturabo's hand. One was clad in sickly green, carrying an enormous scythe, with two ill-proportioned, vestigial wings folded behind it — the overall impression was of a very large, unfortunate moth. The other was draped in pale armour, face hidden behind a mask, equally large scythe in hand, black fumes leaking from the poison vents on its back.
"Has he been brought back to Terra?"
"Yes. A reception has been arranged in his honour on Terra. However, the Fourteenth Primarch does not appear to be particularly fond of the Emperor. Reports suggest there was some form of confrontation between them on Barbarus."
Perturabo made a short, dismissive sound.
One had the emotional intelligence of a wild boar. The other had the temperament of a very large, sulking infant. That those two had gotten along poorly was not remotely surprising.
"Leave it. None of my concern. Return to running projections on the war fortress construction schedules in the Taros System cluster."
"Yes."
Kelbor-Hal was deeply anxious.
He had learned of the developments with Cyclothrathe and the other Forge Worlds.
Those damned heretics — did they think this was some kind of open market? Their noses were sharper than the Craethos xenos ever managed.
He had no choice but to make the trip to Olympia himself. He was not prepared to let the Omnissiah's favour be claimed by someone else.
"My lord, the Fabricator-General has arrived and requests an audience."
Perturabo was in his private workshop, further refining the Vindicator tank's systems, when the logic engine spoke.
"Let him in."
"Yes."
Kelbor-Hal was impatient, but afraid that any irregularity in his movements might displease the Omnissiah — so he kept his mechanical workings and his pace carefully suppressed.
This body double was extraordinarily valuable, maintained in near-real-time synchronisation with his primary form on Mars. A technique learned in Olympia, now applied here.
That same imposing frame. Even the rhythm of the great hammer rising and falling was precisely as consistent as ever.
The Machine God had grown stronger.
Kelbor-Hal could sense it.
Looking at the Resentment Intelligence and advanced technology on display — clearly operating at a processing level beyond his own logic systems — and noticing five Emperor-class Titans now standing in dedicated display cases, Kelbor-Hal was more certain than ever.
"Great Lord of Iron, I am grateful for your audience once more."
The instinct to kneel moved through him.
"Don't kneel."
Perturabo's words stopped him before the motion completed.
"Has Mars become so idle? I am given to understand that the Great Crusade's logistics and equipment supply chains are barely functioning — and yet here you are, making the journey to Olympia. Are you not concerned the Emperor will hold you accountable?"
Perturabo spoke without looking up, continuing to work on the component in his hands.
"Mars has always maintained high efficiency. Instability in Warp transit routes has caused certain difficulties — that responsibility does not lie with us."
"And the warships and weapons you've been donating to Olympia? What you've given us would fully equip three Legions. And I suspect that barely touches your reserves."
"Defending yourself to me is pointless. Save that argument for when the Emperor brings the First Legion to your doorstep — try it then."
Perturabo still hadn't turned around. The sound of the hammer striking the casting bench made Kelbor-Hal's internal systems momentarily erratic — though he concealed it well.
"Enough. I have no interest in how much you've been stockpiling. What have you actually come here for? Say it plainly."
"To learn something new, or something else? Grand Archmagos Hermekh will show you around. Go."
"My lord, I have not come to study this time."
"Then what for?"
To compete for favour.
But Kelbor-Hal could not bring himself to say that aloud.
Instead, something almost like defiance seemed to rise in him.
"My lord, I believe Grand Archmagos Hermekh was not wrong. You are the Omnissiah, the Voice of the Machine—"
"I am not a god."
Perturabo's voice cut across the declaration like a blade.
But paradoxically, that response caused the anxiety subroutines running through Kelbor-Hal's systems to cool significantly.
Good. The lord had not shown particular favour to any single Forge World. His position as Fabricator-General remained secure.
"Yes, my lord."
"I simply have some questions I wished to bring to you for resolution."
"Then say what they are. Why the theatrics?"
"You have already given me my answer."
"Keep talking in riddles and I'll send you back to Mars."
"My lord — I wish to leave this body double here. To study, in residence."
"Then go and study. Stop bothering me."
Perturabo set a gun barrel aside and picked up a piece of alloy, heating it rapidly.
"Yes."
Kelbor-Hal departed — and this time his footsteps had a noticeably lighter quality.
Perturabo's hands paused. He looked at the Archmagos and priests arriving from Forge Worlds across the galaxy, and felt something that was not quite exasperation but was adjacent to it.
All he had ever wanted was to quietly cultivate a few senior Archmagos within Mars, then secure stable access to STC data and resources through the Mechanicum. He had genuinely not anticipated that the situation would escalate this dramatically in such a short time.
There was no possibility of keeping this from anyone paying attention. The Emperor certainly already knew what he was doing.
"Are all Mechanicum people like this?"
His sister's presence materialised nearby. She had watched the entire exchange with the Fabricator-General from a short distance.
She had come to understand a great deal about the Mechanicum over the years — the sheer scale of the Imperium had become something she could at least partially grasp.
Many cogheads had come to Olympia to study over the years. A substantial number had taken up long-term residence or were now working in field deployments.
"If their greed and their religious compulsion cannot be eradicated, humanity will never return to the heights of the Dark Age of Technology."
Perturabo said it plainly.
"Are there none among them who are different?"
Perturabo looked at his sister.
"There are. But they're all in one place."
"Where?"
This time, Perturabo didn't satisfy Calliphone's curiosity.
"Are you tired, sister?"
The moment he said it, Calliphone came alive.
A rapid, unbroken stream of words followed — complaints about the volume of administrative work, the constant frustrations of it, how even with the logic engine's assistance the work remained overwhelmingly difficult.
The vast quantities of data spinning through Calliphone's mind were constant now. She sometimes worried seriously about her mental state. She had occasionally considered whether to have neural-interface cabling installed, like her brother had done.
But looking at her own dark hair, she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. She didn't have her brother's ability to simply grow her hair back at will.
Administrative work — anyone who did it knew, and said nothing. You looked at it and went quiet.
"Take a day off then. We'll bring Andos and go to the opera."
"Really?"
Calliphone's expression brightened immediately.
"Yes."
"Then let's go now."
"You'll have to wait. I need to finish this Vindicator first."
"Then I'll wait for you."
Calliphone didn't particularly understand opera. But that didn't matter. Being with her brother was what mattered — it was enough to make her genuinely happy.
Ferrix stood on the bridge of the Iron Indomitable, watching the system being marked on the holographic display.
Zenobia.
One of humanity's colonial systems from the Dark Age of Technology. Three habitable planets, now hosting an independent polity calling itself the Zeno Alliance.
Population in excess of two hundred billion. A complete fleet and surface defence grid. Technological level marginally above the Imperium's current standard.
A decent enough civilisation, all things considered. Mediocre, but passable.
And they had killed Olympia's diplomatic envoys.
The audacity.
Lawless, ungrateful, and entirely deserving of an iron fist.
Ferrix kept his father's order firmly in mind: Not one left alive.
"Patch me through to Dantioch and Tolaramino."
"Commander."
"Within three hours, I want to see the heads of every enemy on those three planets piled in the wilderness."
Ferrix issued the order with cold detachment, his eyes flat. A few tens of billions was not a figure that troubled him particularly. This was not the first time.
"Yes, Commander."
"Fleet: begin the assault. Full elimination within two hours. Fifth Fleet: move to encircle and seal the system. No vessels leave."
"And remember — if a single one slips through, every last one of us goes back to Olympia for retraining."
The five Star Forts in the forward position opened fire simultaneously.
A volume of fire capable of blanketing entire planetary surfaces concentrated on the Zeno Alliance's fleet. In the first instant alone, three hundred warships were destroyed before their void shields had even begun to cycle up.
The Zeno Alliance's fleet shattered into chaos.
They had, apparently, realised at this point that they had antagonised something they should not have antagonised. But it was too late for that realisation to be useful.
When the Iron Warriors' fleet had first arrived in their system, they had panicked immediately.
There had been internal discussions about whether to stage a quick coup, deliver their own leaders' heads as an offering, and submit.
But they hadn't anticipated that the enemy would simply begin shooting without a single word of communication. No preamble, no ultimatum — just immediate, overwhelming fire. Some of them had tried to open a channel to surrender, but the calls weren't answered. Now they were standing in the wreckage of every decision they had made, deeply regretting all of them.
Third and Fourth Fleets began dropping assault pods and deploying the Titan Legions — full-force engagement from the opening moment. Father's order had been absolute. Not one left alive.
The Titans' Volcano Cannons lit the surface. Knight houses pressed the hardest, advancing with the particular intensity that Knights brought to close engagement. Armoured companies ground through every obstacle in their path without pause.
Every vehicle's treads and tracks were layered with scorched flesh and bone fragments, mixed with dirt, leaving a long trail of devastation across the ground.
Hive cities fell quickly. Countless ordinary people were caught in the fighting.
Dantioch had not wanted it to go this way. His initial instinct had been to push fast, decapitate the leadership, then offer surrender terms to what remained.
But war doesn't conform to individual intention.
Once the Titans committed and the armoured companies drove forward, Volcano Cannons and railguns did not distinguish between civilians and armed combatants.
Bolt rounds were not selective. Shells did not pause for the elderly or the young.
Dantioch's Astartes physiology let him hear the cries of the people below with terrible clarity. The sounds of the old and the children and the women made something in him reluctant to continue.
This sort of thing came up constantly in training simulations. Some things were unavoidable.
But every time it happened in practice, Dantioch's reaction was the same quiet, involuntary reluctance.
He did not order his brothers to stop. One mistake and there would be casualties on their side — dying to protect the enemy's civilians was not a trade Dantioch was willing to make. He understood where the line was.
"Soft again?"
The guard standing nearby — Tolaramino — had noticed the change in Dantioch's manner.
"I know what I'm doing. Don't worry."
"You always say that. The Commander has spoken to you about this before."
"Last time, you charged into a xenos formation to save a little girl — that kind of risk isn't appropriate for a commanding officer."
Tolaramino's concern for his friend was genuine.
"They weren't capable of threatening me."
"The xenos head you cut off had a melta charge packed inside it. One bit of bad timing and you'd be in a Dreadnought right now."
"You shouldn't take risks like that."
Dantioch said nothing more. He looked at the Legion advancing ahead of him.
"You know better than anyone what Father and the Commander expect of you. A Battalion Warsmith cannot afford this kind of indecision. A commander shouldn't carry it."
Tolaramino pressed the point, trying to reason with his friend.
"I know. Don't worry."
The advance moved quickly. Two hours in, Dantioch was standing in the ruins of what had been a hive city. The senior leadership had been destroyed in the bombardment — the Commander's specific order, technically speaking, had not been fulfilled.
The Iron Warriors halted their advance.
All around them: rubble, and refugees. A mass of people weeping in the wreckage, eyes full of deep terror and hatred.
In their understanding, they had been invaded without cause. Their families had been shattered in front of them. Their homes had been reduced to ash in moments.
Some of the auxilia and Iron Guard were already moving to clear the survivors. The logic was straightforward: leaving any of them was a security risk, and no one could guarantee that enemy combatants weren't concealed among the civilians.
Dantioch noticed what was about to happen. His instinct was to stop it, but Tolaramino caught his arm.
"Warsmith."
Looking at his friend's carefully neutral expression, Dantioch let the order go unsaid.
Flamers and bolt weapons swept through the remaining civilians.
"If it were Father — would he support what we're doing right now?"
Dantioch kept his voice low. Tolaramino heard it.
"Father wouldn't put us in danger. He wouldn't leave this kind of threat behind."
"But he also told us these are the people we exist to protect. That's our purpose. And right now we're killing people who are innocent of any decision because it saves us time and trouble."
Tolaramino didn't know how to answer. He wasn't someone who worked through difficult questions like these — as far as he was concerned, a warrior's job was to obey orders.
"I don't know."
"But it's for safety and efficiency, Warsmith."
"Our people shouldn't die to risks that might materialise from leaving these survivors. Some of them could—"
Dantioch stopped listening and walked forward.
Ahead of him, a small boy was crying.
The enormous armoured figure lowered itself to one knee before the child.
A frame close to three and a half metres tall, even kneeling, cast its shadow completely over the boy's body. The joints of the precision-crafted Tyrant Terminator plate produced soft mechanical sounds that carried clearly through the silence of the ruins.
The boy was shaking with fear. These terrible giants had destroyed his home. Killed his family. His sister's upper body had been taken apart by a bolt round right in front of his eyes.
He didn't understand why one of them was crouching in front of him now, pretending to be something other than what they were.
His eyes held hatred. His body was shaking. But Dantioch could see that rage was filling every part of this child, and the fear had not overcome it.
Dantioch didn't ask another question. He stood up.
"This kind of thing will happen countless times more. Are you certain you can keep going?"
"The people we protect, in the end, are only those within Father's domain. Before the Great Crusade ends, we will face many more situations like this one."
"I understand now why Father still has us continue the Crusade, Tolaramino."
"To protect the people within our borders."
Dantioch said nothing directly.
"Tell the Legion not to harm the children. Have them taken to our academies."
"Warsmith—"
"Children are not our enemies, Tolaramino. I'll explain it to the Commander and Father myself."
Fifteen minutes later, an Iron Circle arrived at the command post.
"Enemy fully eliminated. Children secured and awaiting disposition. Awaiting your orders, my lord."
"We should move, Warsmith."
Dantioch gave a small nod.
"Warsmith Dantioch. Captain Tolaramino. Return to the bridge immediately. The Commander has issued an emergency transmission."
The logic engine's voice cut through everything. Both of their expressions became serious.
What had prompted an emergency notification from the Commander?
On the holographic display, Ferrix's face appeared. His expression was calm — but Dantioch had known him long enough to recognise when something was genuinely serious.
Ferrix said nothing at first. He called up a data file and expanded it across the projection.
A visual feed.
The space at the outer edge of the Zenobia system suddenly distorted. A massive Warp rift tore open in the void — thousands of kilometres across — and from it came enormous wrecks of ships.
Looking closely at those ships, some of them apparently had no engines at all.
And yet they flew out of the Warp regardless, and despite looking like they should have fallen apart at any moment, they held together.
WAAAGH!
There was no sound in vacuum. And yet that roar reached Dantioch and Tolaramino clearly and distinctly.
Then three enormous spheres emerged from the rift.
Each one the size of a moon.
Their surfaces were covered in dense arrays of gun barrels and spikes, like three mobile steel planets. Their hulls were painted in red, covered in enormous tooth patterns — and on closer examination, tiny green figures could be seen moving across their surfaces.
Greenskins.
Dantioch and the others knew these creatures better than they wanted to.
"How are Greenskins suddenly here?"
Dantioch's pupils contracted slightly. The breath he drew was not entirely steady.
"Three Battle Moons."
"Why would Greenskins of this strength appear here without warning?"
Ferrix shook his head slightly.
"They probably sensed a major battle. You know how these things work — no logic to them."
"First Fleet is already moving to intercept. All Star Forts have deployed. The Battle Moons are manageable. The priority now is finding the local Warboss and running a decapitation strike."
"Otherwise these Greenskins will keep getting stronger as the fight goes on, and if any of them slip out of the cordon we'll have a much larger problem later."
"I've notified Father. The timing of these Greenskins' appearance is unusual enough to warrant investigation — he'll find out why. In the meantime, we proceed."
Ferrix's expression was steady. The situation had complicated, but it was still within the range of what could be handled.
"Berossus and Saxtus are already leading fleets to press both flanks. The other Warsmiths are completing the encirclement. The ground campaign, however, still needs direction."
"Understood, Commander."
"Stay careful. These Greenskins aren't simple. Bring extra melta and Vindicators. Tolaramino will engage the Greenskins on the fifth primary world. The fourth primary world is yours."
"Yes, Commander."
With his orders received, Dantioch brought his fleet into position in orbit above the fourth primary world.
The sheer density of the Greenskins below made something crawl across the back of his scalp.
He had faced these creatures many times in training. Powerful, unpredictable, difficult to kill, and entirely immune to logic — and that Waaagh! force they generated defied all rational explanation.
Routing them in open combat wasn't enough. You had to confirm the Warboss was dead. And you had to burn every crack in the ground afterwards — every crevice, every cave — because no one could tell you how many Greenskin spores had been left behind, or how quickly they'd grow into the next generation of problems.
Dantioch had once gone boarding with Ferrix on a training simulation — a Greenskin force that had also fielded three Battle Moons. It had taken everything the Commander had to finally put his power fist through the Warboss's skull.
And then the Warboss had kept fighting without a skull for another thirty minutes before it finally died.
That was the moment Dantioch had been genuinely, profoundly stunned for the second time in his life. He had never encountered anything that dangerous in training again.
And now, in the real world, the very first Greenskins he actually faced were of exactly that calibre.
Were all of the Imperium's enemies like this? Were all of them this terrifying?
Dantioch reflected that the galaxy the Imperium was trying to conquer was full of impossible things — and the Emperor's insistence on the Great Crusade began to make a different kind of sense. If these threats were simply left alone, humanity's situation would become very quickly untenable.
The Commander was stronger now than he had been in those training exercises. Facing a Warboss again, he should be able to handle it more comfortably.
On the Greenskin side of things, there had also been developments.
Crushskull had declared that an absolutely unrivalled WAAAGH! was waiting here for them.
So they had done what Greenskins do — assembled a massive mob at lightning speed, gotten three Battle Moons rolling, loaded every ship they had, and charged out of the Warp.
BIG WAAAGH! CAMPAIGN — BEGIN!
They'd even caught what might have been a glimpse of Gork — or possibly Mork — and had started screaming for no particular reason, their bodies expanding steadily as they did.
They were getting stronger. They could feel it. So they were, in fact, getting stronger.
Right up until they tore through the Mandeville point's Warp seam and found twenty-two Star Forts — nearly the size of Battle Moons themselves — plus thirteen Gloria Regina-class warships and an equally imposing fleet, all of them already locking on.
Greenskins live for war. This was right and proper.
Except—
"Boss, if I die now, how am I supposed to keep going WAAAGH! later?"
"Yeah yeah, if we just throw ourselves in like that and die, how we gonna keep shootin' stuff after?"
A few of the dimmer Greenskins, voicing concerns, took several small steps behind their considerably larger and broader Boss. The heavy bolters and chainswords in their hands had somehow started feeling heavier than usual.
"SHUT YER GOBS. We Blood Axes LIVE for this. Gork's eyes are on us. This fight's gonna be the most WAAAGH! fight of all WAAAGH! fights."
"Open fire. Destroy them."
Ferrix's voice was quiet and precise.
Twenty-two Star Forts and their accompanying warships fired simultaneously.
Nova Cannon beams and electromagnetic Nova Cannon shots filled the system with light.
The crude Greenskin ships crumpled in front of the beams like wet paper — one after another detonating, turning into tumbling fireballs drifting through the void.
The Battle Moons began to return fire. Against the volume of what was being thrown at them, their counter-fire was visibly inadequate.
But the Greenskins were getting more excited with every exchange.
The WAAAGH! they had been waiting for had not disappointed. This enemy was genuinely, magnificently tough.
GREAT! WAAAGH!
"Commander, we are detecting boarding action from the enemy."
Ferrix paid it no particular attention. Boarding? The Iron Circles and automata would demonstrate what Olympia's iron fist actually meant.
Did they understand what it meant to face a force in full precision power armour and Terminator plate?
Since taking the role of Commander, Ferrix had not personally fought in combat. He was beginning to suspect his power fist was going to rust from disuse.
Unfortunately, these Greenskins almost certainly didn't have the ability to board the Iron Indomitable — and even if they managed it somehow, they would not reach the bridge.
"Have the brothers stand ready. Continue searching for the local Warboss's position."
"Yes."
Come on then, you rabble.
Something briefly feral moved through Ferrix's eyes.