The great golden-flaming sword, with all its incomparable might, tore straight through the psychic defences around Perturabo and drove toward his chest.
And then the scene that left both the Emperor and Malcador staring open-mouthed appeared — five-coloured radiance blazed from Perturabo's body, and he reached out and seized the flaming sword with his bare hand.
The fierce burning golden flames could not harm Perturabo in the slightest. Every last bit of it was conducted directly into the vast furnaces deep within the Daemon Factory.
In the depths of the Warp, the black smoke venting from the Daemon Factory's chimneys became noticeably more intense. Even some of the daemons, catching the faintest trace of what was being fed into those furnaces, felt their entire bodies seize up as though being scorched from within.
"You golden-skinned wretch — both of you filthy animals — today I'm taking your lives, to prevent you from causing any more trouble in the future."
All of Terra had gone dark under the force of Perturabo's power. The great guns on the upper levels of the Imperial Palace had swung to target both of them.
Drawing on raw numerical superiority and an innate counter-psychic configuration, Perturabo had both of them pinned to the ground and was grinding them into it without particular mercy.
Even the Emperor hadn't anticipated that Perturabo was this strong.
He knew this son was powerful. He hadn't anticipated this powerful. The last time they had fought physically, this hadn't been the case at all.
But the relentless bombardment had his mind rattled. The great sword was gone from his hand. Every time he tried to release the golden flames, Perturabo simply siphoned them into the Daemon Factory — completely useless.
"Perturabo — I am your father. The Great Crusade was something our whole family launched together. Doesn't some of the responsibility for how things have turned out rest with you as well?"
"And now you're trying to patricide and uncle-cide — search your conscience, you—"
The Emperor had been attempting to reach Perturabo through sentiment. Unfortunately, Perturabo had never responded to that approach.
"Say whatever you like once your souls are mounted on a production line inside my Factory. I've already had the Daemon Engines ready for both of you — I'm just waiting for two more drivers. Don't forget to sing my praises while you're at it. I might even, if I'm in a generous mood, let Horus come visit. Now die."
The fire rate and intensity climbed by three more degrees. Black-red light blazed with extraordinary force. All of Terra was completely sealed off. Throughout the Warp, every occupant of the six-pointed Chaos Star was making time and space itself unstable with the violence of the ongoing confrontation.
Fleets currently travelling through the Warp were experiencing various degrees of disruption.
"What? Year 876, M30?"
"What's the matter, Commander?"
"I left in 877, M30 — where in the forge have I ended up?"
"I was in the Warp for barely two days before I got spat out — and you're telling me a whole year has passed?"
"When this is done, I'll build statues of you two on every world I govern — depicting you in your natural state, naked, kneeling before the people, with a plaque identifying you as history's most unforgivable criminals. Every person who passes by will spit on you. When the statues wear out I'll have new ones made. I am going to nail you two births to the pillar of shame for eternity — you are never getting down."
Perturabo had absolutely no intention of showing either of them mercy. Without them, the Great Crusade would actually run more smoothly. And as for the Webway — Vulkan could figure it out himself, and Perturabo would manage from there.
"Perturabo, are you really going to—"
The Emperor started to say something, but a fresh barrage cut him off. The total-coverage fire had both of them in shambles. Malcador had been brought to near-death, barely a step from forced resurrection.
The five-coloured radiance on Perturabo's body had turned Terra — which had gone dark — into something resembling the festive light display that had heralded the Primarchs' returns.
The crimson light in particular was so intense it was almost solid — nearly tearing a rift in the Warp.
The purple and green were not to be outdone. Both were pouring equivalent force into this "brother" simultaneously. Even Slaanesh, despite its weakened state, was continuously channelling blessings in.
This damnable golden-skinned wretch absolutely could not be let off—
Fight!!!
Looking at the Emperor and Malcador lying on the ground — bloody, battered, more breath going out than coming in — Perturabo grabbed both of them by the hair and hauled them upright.
"And now the day has come for both of you animals."
"Hah. Pfft."
Perturabo spat on both of them with considerable feeling, then shrank his frame back down and began dragging them across the floor toward the underground levels of the Imperial Palace.
A long trail of blood smeared behind them as they were dragged. Broken stones embedded themselves in their already shredded flesh, adding to the suffering of two beings who were already in extraordinary pain.
"This — this—"
Magnus and the Thousand Sons, the Custodians, the senior Archmagos present — all of them were completely stupefied. The mortal auxilia were experiencing a level of mental static that made their heads throb.
Looking at the two figures being dragged across the floor — the combined shock of the observers was enough to make the sky feel like it was falling.
Had the Warmaster just — revolted?
And already succeeded in a coup?
It was over.
The Imperium was about to change hands.
Every person in the room raised their weapons in a single moment — the Custodians especially, murder in their eyes. Their absolute loyalty to the Emperor could not allow this.
Just as everyone was preparing to charge and fight to the death, and the Mechanicum Archmagos were drawing their own weapons, and the mortal auxilia and Titan Legions were bracing for final battle — Magnus stepped in front of all of them.
"Brother — what is happening? You have to explain yourself."
Magnus's voice was trembling slightly.
"Have you really turned against the Imperium? Father and the Regent are already—"
"Not dead. Just thoroughly broken."
Perturabo ignored the furious looks from everyone behind Magnus. He didn't spare so much as a glance for the Titan Legions with their pre-heated weapons.
"What happened? Have the other brothers also joined you in revolt? Or have you already dealt with Dorn and the others?"
Magnus didn't want to believe what he was seeing. But what was in front of him gave him no choice. His already crimson skin was flushing deeper with grief and disbelief.
"The pacification campaign is over. They've resumed the Crusade. I came back here to deal with these two primary sources of the problem first — otherwise there's no telling what these two animals would have gotten up to."
"I've got Dorn locked out — he can't get in. He probably doesn't know what happened here yet. If I wanted to do something, did you really think any of you could have stopped me?"
"Continue your Webway work. Make progress here as quickly as possible. And sort out your Legion's flesh-change problem. The Great Crusade still needs people."
That's — that's not the question here. The question is whether there's still a Great Crusade, or a Webway — this is rebellion, a coup — brother—
Perturabo dragged both men toward the half-constructed Golden Throne, locking down every Archmagos and Custodian who tried to rush him along the way. The mortal auxilia could only take aim — none of them dared actually fire.
"Brother — what are you doing? Don't compound one mistake with another!"
Magnus surged forward trying to stop Perturabo, but his body locked up with the rest of them. He could only watch as Perturabo dragged the Emperor and Malcador step by step toward the Golden Throne.
The two critically wounded figures seemed to register what was approaching them and squirmed in a token attempt to resist. It accomplished nothing.
Looking at those two long smeared trails of blood on the floor, the fury in the room reignited — but Perturabo's boundless psychic force kept everyone locked in place.
Two threads of psychic energy passed from Perturabo's hands into both men. Their wounds began, very slightly, to stabilise.
"You can sit there from now on. This thing isn't running at full capacity yet — whatever it draws from you won't be that much. It won't interfere with your Webway work."
"If you dare step down without permission, I'll bring Malcador up to take your place—"
Perturabo waved a hand. An enormous host of Iron Daemon legions materialised around the perimeter of the shattered Webway entrance.
"You don't want to find out what that outcome looks like. Understood? Once the Webway is complete, you can step down and leave."
Without paying further attention to the Emperor's silent and wordless pleading, he simply pressed the man down into the Golden Throne.
The Emperor felt the relentless draining force as soon as he was seated. His already-weakened body felt as though it was being drawn dry.
But, as Perturabo had said — the Golden Throne was not running at full capacity yet. Given the Emperor's rate of psychic recovery and his current physical state, a decade or so should see him restored to his previous condition. A minor matter.
The Emperor right now clearly had no capacity for resistance. He could only watch with a certain powerlessness as his old friend was handed off to nearby Custodians, while the Mechanicum Archmagos rushed forward to perform emergency treatment.
"Father! / My lord!"
Magnus and the Custodians still wanted to break through. Perturabo stopped them.
"Don't waste sympathy on him. He brought this on himself. This is still the light version of what he deserves. He'll sit there for a decade or so — consider it a moderate sentence. Focus on your Webway work. When it's ready, he steps down."
"Have him treated. Get his administrative capacity restored as quickly as possible."
Without the golden-skinned meddler causing chaos, old Malcador's administrative abilities were actually worth acknowledging.
Perturabo looked at Magnus, whose face was a picture of grief and fury.
"Sort out your Legion's problem. Then get back to the Great Crusade."
Having said this, he ignored every set of eyes in the room — most of which had gone bloodshot and were looking at him as though they'd like to eat him raw — and walked out with his head held high.
The small group that tried to approach the Emperor and pry him off the Golden Throne couldn't get within ten metres. A powerful psychic barrier blocked them completely.
They could only watch through it as the Emperor sat in the Golden Throne, his expression one of pain at the constant drain — shuddering, breaking down — a sight that felt like a blade turning in the hearts of all who saw it.
Even the rumour — brought to Rogal Dorn by a Custodian — that the Warmaster had apparently imprisoned the Emperor, Dorn had greeted by pressing the tip of Stormherald against the Custodian's skull and asking if this was some kind of fabrication.
But when Dorn finally arrived on Terra with his sons, looked at the shattered wreckage of the Imperial Palace, and understood that the Custodian had not lied — he knew.
Perturabo had actually revolted.
Perturabo chose that moment to walk out of the building. Dorn looked at the power armour — barely a scratch on it — and charged forward in barely-contained fury, seizing Perturabo by the front of his armour.
"Why would you do this?"
Facing Dorn's near-homicidal stare, Perturabo simply and calmly removed his brother's hands, his voice unhurried.
"Because they had it coming."
"If you say one more word out of place, I will give my life today to stop you here."
Stormherald came up against Perturabo's breastplate. Perturabo paid it no attention.
"Don't tell me you don't know how the pacification campaign went and what it achieved. Anyone with functioning eyes knows exactly what those two were up to."
"Wasn't making me Warmaster specifically so they'd have someone to clean up their mess and take the blame? Do you know what they were discussing when I came to confront them? They were already deciding to strip my Warmaster position the moment the campaign ended — have me carry every charge — and appropriate all the worlds under my authority, resources absorbed into the Imperium, my Legion assigned to a penitent Crusade."
"I should have held back for a single second and I'd have deserved to call myself the Lord of Iron."
"I'm telling you, Dorn — what's happened to them is entirely of their own making. If they weren't still of some use, and if it weren't for the fact that they were the ones who first stepped forward to try to save humanity, it wouldn't be imprisonment. I'd have had their heads."
But Dorn, having heard all of this, felt nothing beyond fury. His devotion to the Emperor had reached the level of Lorgar's near-deification of the man — he could not permit his father to endure this humiliation.
"Release Father."
"No."
Stormherald activated. The enormous chainblade came down — and accomplished nothing against the psychic barrier protecting Perturabo's armour.
The Custodians and Imperial Fists behind him surged forward together.
"Are you quite finished?"
Perturabo's brow drew together slightly. He locked everyone in place with a casual gesture.
"Your task remains unchanged. Guard the Solar Segmentum and Terra. If you need anything, tell me and I'll have supplies sent. When Malcador has recovered, let him work through things with you."
"I'll send resources for rebuilding the Imperial Palace. The Mechanicum will come to help with reconstruction — you coordinate it."
Everyone's bodies came back under their own control. Dorn had been about to swing — but registered the enormous gap between them. Stormherald rose and came back down without completing the arc.
"I will report your crimes to our brothers. I will rally them to strip you of the Warmaster position. You don't deserve to hold it."
Dorn said it looking directly at Perturabo.
"You think your petition matters? Without me, without the Mechanicum — do you think the Imperium as it stands can actually conduct the Crusade?"
"Even if every brother agreed to remove my position — within a few days you'd all be begging me to come back. Do you know where your resources actually come from?"
"Dorn — I don't care whether you respect the Emperor or not. The Imperium from this point forward — in terms of the Crusade, at least — I'm directing it. The Emperor and Malcador cannot interfere with me again."
"Your task is to build an impenetrable defensive line across the entire Solar Segmentum. You need people — I'll provide them. You need resources — I'll provide them. Even if you want design specifications, I'll have the finest Iron Council members from Olympia come to assist you."
"I don't care about your personal grievances. I don't care what those golden husks behind you and your sons want to do. Don't obstruct the Great Crusade. Don't obstruct my plans. I have no more appetite for killing people."
"Keep them in line. If anyone lacks the sense to behave, I expect you to handle it yourself. Dorn — I'm already very tired. Don't let anything like this come and bother me again. The way I handle things — you really won't enjoy it."
Dorn looked at Perturabo. His eyes were ready to split. The chainblade on Stormherald was spinning at full speed — and he didn't move.
Perturabo walked over, looking at Valdor holding the Emperor's Spear in two hands and clearly ready to drive it through him.
"Assist Dorn. Keep your people under control. Don't give me more disruptions. You can go and see the Emperor — I'm not stopping any of you. But if you try anything again, Dorn won't be managing you — I will. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Then Perturabo's presence disappeared from Terra.
Dorn and the others stood in silence for a long time, in front of the shattered Eternity Gate — vacant, unclear what they were thinking.
"Impossible."
"The Warmaster couldn't revolt. And he certainly couldn't imprison the Emperor."
"If you say one more word of this nonsense, I will cut your head off right now."
The Lion pulled out the black sword Perturabo had given him, with some agitation, and held it near the Custodian who had come to deliver the message.
"My lord — I was sent by Lord Dorn to summon you back. The other lords have also been notified. Lord Dorn intends to rally you all together to remove the Warmaster's position, then select someone new to lead the Great Crusade."
"Is there perhaps some misunderstanding here?"
Koswain ultimately couldn't hold back. Even an Astartes's considerable cognitive capacity was struggling with this.
The Warmaster had revolted. The Warmaster had imprisoned the Emperor. The Warmaster hadn't revolted. And the Great Crusade was continuing. Koswain felt as though his years of Inner Circle service had completely failed to prepare him for this situation.
What was even happening?
"The Crusade cannot stop. Koswain and Luther will take forward command of the fleet. I'll return to Terra."
The Lion looked at Koswain.
"Yes, Father."
Koswain had wanted to accompany the Lion — but thinking about Luther's particular temperament, he couldn't quite bring himself to leave the Legion unattended.
"So — your meaning is that the Warmaster imprisoned Father, seized unilateral power, and the Terra Administrator, appalled by the Warmaster's conduct, is summoning us back to Terra to collectively petition for his removal."
"Is that correct?"
Guilliman looked at the Custodian in front of him.
"Yes, my lord."
Even Guilliman, rational as he was, found his thoughts completely derailed by what Perturabo had done.
Brother — everyone said you were aggressively ambitious, and you just went ahead and acted on it. And most critically — you succeeded.
"Father — what do we do? Do we bring the Legion back to Terra and force the Warmaster to step down?"
Auguston was an impatient type. He didn't like hiding what was in his mind — somewhat at odds with the increasingly rational temper the Ultramarines had been cultivating, though his capability and competence were unquestionable.
"Marius — don't be impulsive. There may be more to this. There may even be a misunderstanding between the Warmaster and the Emperor."
Seila urgently pulled Auguston back. This wasn't something to say carelessly — if the Warmaster chose to make an issue of it, Father couldn't protect him.
"The Warmaster personally acknowledged that he imprisoned the Emperor."
The Custodian delivered the killing blow.
Guilliman pressed his fingers to his temple. How had things developed to this point?
The Great Angel heard the Custodian's account and fell into silence with his sons.
Perturabo's actions were simply too extraordinary.
"It seems we have become the Warmaster's confederates. If the Imperium wants to suppress the Warmaster's forces, we'll be first in line for suppression."
The Angel made a flat, cold joke. Nobody in the room could bring themselves to laugh.
"So, my lord — do you support the Warmaster?"
The Custodian's voice carried no detectable emotion — and yet it made everyone even quieter than before.
"Raldoron — you take temporary command, stand in for me and continue the Crusade. I'll make a trip to Terra."
Raldoron looked as though there was something he wanted to say. Azkaellon patted his shoulder and gestured for him to let it go.
"Calas — what are you doing? Perturabo has betrayed Father. Betrayed the Imperium!"
"How dare you — do you understand what you just did?"
Mortarion and Grail'ha had already come in with Warscythes and bolt weapons raised.
When the Custodian had told them that the Warmaster had betrayed the Emperor and imprisoned him, the deeply loyal Mortarion and a significant portion of the Deathshroud had come very close to pointing their fleet directly at Olympia for a fight to the death with the Iron Warriors.
At which point Calas had asked the Custodian — why, if the Warmaster had imprisoned the Emperor, were the Custodians unharmed and able to go out and spread this information? And Terra's Praetorian Rogal Dorn was also unharmed. So what had actually happened on Terra was still unclear.
What's that? You say the Warmaster personally admitted to it?
Evidence?
You say you all witnessed it?
Don't give me that — I'm asking for evidence. Was it recorded? Is there footage?
No? No footage, and you're still willing to randomly accuse the Warmaster of the Imperium of open rebellion and imprisonment of the Emperor?
Who do you think you are? You're just one Custodian. You claim to speak for the Emperor — does that actually make you his representative?
I could equally claim to be the real Legion Master of the Death Guard.
With the Custodian on the verge of just attacking him outright, Mortarion and the Deathshroud were already reaching for weapons.
The furious crowd had been on the edge of dismembering Typhon alive.
"What's happened now? I told you to stop shrieking every time something happens. And you — Grail'ha — someone who keeps such a cool head on the battlefield, running around screaming about things — what kind of example is that?"
Calas Typhon was entirely unbothered by the room.
"Don't change the subject. Calas — if you don't give us an explanation right now, I will cut you in half in front of Father today."
Grail'ha had his Warscythe right in front of Typhon.
Looking at the fury on his brothers' and Mortarion's faces — and at the Custodian mixed in among them — Calas Typhon wasn't frightened in the slightest.
"One statement. Who gave us our fleet? Who provided the power armour you're wearing? Where were the weapons in your hands manufactured?"
"Don't any of you forget — if not for the Warmaster, what state would our Legion be in right now?"
"Eating the Warmaster's food and then smashing his pot — and what if there's some special circumstance here or some misunderstanding, and the Warmaster deals with us once he has a free hand? Do you think we'd survive?"
"I don't want to have to say this, but — you're using Iron Warriors equipment and you want to go fight the Iron Warriors? Have you looked at how strong those Iron Circles and automata are? A thousand of them working together could beat Mortarion into submission. What are you going to use to go up against them?"
"Don't even talk about one-for-one exchanges. If you're lucky you'd come limping back with a handful of survivors crying your eyes out, and that would be a good result."
"If you want to take a crowd and go die, go ahead. I and First Company will stay here — at least we'd be keeping a seed of the Death Guard alive."
Calas Typhon mocked them without mercy.
"If you're scared of dying yourself, don't drag us in. And that business about 'your First Company' — I can see perfectly well that you want to imitate the Warmaster's rebellion and seize Father's power."
Voss was Barbaran-born like Typhon — but he had always had issues with Calas's conduct. This bastard simply didn't show Father any respect.
"Then you all go. I'm not stopping you. Leave me one capital ship and I'll take First Company back to Barbarus. You want to go die, fine — I don't want to go with you. I'm looking forward to the end of the Crusade and a peaceful retirement on Barbarus with my brothers."
Calas Typhon returned to working through the accumulated military paperwork in his hands. This mob — did they have any idea what they looked like? That overwhelming fleet of Iron Warriors — you think they could handle that?
Never mind the Warmaster rebelling — even if the Warmaster walked in holding the Emperor's head and threw it in Mortarion's face, they'd still have to smile and tell the Warmaster what fine high spirits he was in.
"Lord Dorn sent me to summon you back — to collectively remove the Warmaster's position, Lord Mortarion."
Finally, the Custodian recovered from the chaos and delivered Dorn's message.
The Death Guard's internal argument continued for some time. In the end, with no better solution available, Calas Typhon and Voss accompanied Mortarion back to Terra. Grail'ha took temporary command of the Legion and continued the Crusade.
The news that the Imperial Warmaster had revolted and imprisoned the Emperor on Terra spread quickly — and the Imperium, which had only recently begun to stabilise, was thrown into turbulence once more.
But because Perturabo had placed his own people across a significant number of worlds, the galaxy held — for now.
The common people, after all, didn't care very much about politics at this level. They only cared about whether they could eat today and tomorrow, and whether they still had somewhere to sleep.
At the administrative level, the political talent that had come out of Olympia worked hard to keep things stable.
The Warmaster had technically revolted — but the Emperor was fine, wasn't he? And the Warmaster hadn't really done anything. Hadn't gone on a killing spree among the officials, hadn't moved against the brothers, hadn't increased exploitation of ordinary people—
In fact, because of various policy decisions, life for most humans was actually better than before. Less exploitation and extraction. People could eat enough and stay warm. Why worry about who was in charge at the top? As long as life was liveable, did it matter?
So the Imperium remained turbulent — but not to the degree of another rebellion.
The loudest reactions — and this was somewhat surprising — came not from the idiosyncratic Horus, but from the half-mad Konrad Curze and the always-principled Lorgar, who had never wavered from Imperial Truth.
Curze's own sense of justice had been twisted by his experiences on Nostramo, but his powerful psychic prescience had shown him a terrifying, desperate black sun and an enormous Daemon Factory facing off against each other — and behind the Daemon Factory, four-coloured radiance flickering.
Curze could see how terrible and twisted those things were, radiating intense evil. He knew what the black sun and the Daemon Factory represented. And now, the black sun's light was growing stronger.
Curze became even more unhinged. He believed his father had been harmed, and he wanted to hunt down the person responsible and avenge him.
By the time Sevatar and the others noticed, Curze had already vanished. The entire Eighth Legion went half-mad trying to find him.
If their father actually went and tried to assassinate the Warmaster — the Eighth Legion's fate was uncertain, but Father's fate was certain. Someone had to rescue him.
And so the Night Lords simply abandoned their current campaign and pointed themselves directly at the Maelstrom and Olympia.
Lorgar, meanwhile, had already long since brought his Legion and was already approaching to surround Olympia — swearing to make Perturabo answer for this.
The two Legions happened to run into each other — and then ran into Fulgrim, who had been on his way to find out what was happening.
So two Legions and two Primarchs set course for the Maelstrom together — and before they'd even reached the outer edges, twelve Star Forts had locked on to all of them with terrifying precision.
It was a sensitive period. Because of Perturabo, everything under Olympia's authority was on high alert toward anything Imperial — nobody knew if these people might suddenly decide to perform an orbital bombardment from behind.
Even Olympia's own people and the Iron Warriors had been somewhat stunned when they learned Perturabo had imprisoned the Emperor.
They had always expected he had considerable ambitions. They had always expected he wasn't particularly happy with the Emperor's conduct. They had already quietly prepared themselves to follow Perturabo when the Great Crusade eventually ended. But they hadn't anticipated this moment arriving so soon.
And Perturabo had moved so fast. Beyond everyone's expectations. Defeating and imprisoning the Emperor had been resolved within a single day.
By the time the news actually came out, several months had already passed. Expedition fleets fighting in frontier regions still hadn't heard what had happened inside the Imperium.
Perturabo's strength exceeded everyone's estimates. The speed of his action caught everyone completely off-guard.
"So — you really imprisoned Father?"
Vulkan, who had recently left the Webway to wander and clear his head for no particular reason, had come out only to hear this from his sons.
So what were the Salamanders here, exactly? Warmaster's confederates, or loyal servants of the Imperium?
Olympia had no intention of causing trouble for these good-natured Sons of the Dragon — but the situation was sensitive, and the only option was to keep them stable inside Olympia for now.
When Perturabo returned, Vulkan immediately went to find him — and found this enormous brother holding a tall, thin black figure in one hand.
Using the instinctive gene-born perception of a Primarch, Vulkan could state with certainty — the tall, thin figure in Perturabo's hand was definitely one of the brothers he had never met.
So the Warmaster had actually revolted.
Not only had he imprisoned Father — he was already starting to purge the loyalists.
The Imperium was finished. An inexplicable sadness rose in Vulkan. He couldn't think of anyone in the Imperium who could stand against this brother.
If he declared right now that he remained loyal to Father — would this brother simply resolve him as well? Then wipe out his Legion?
Vulkan found himself in a genuine dilemma.
"Yes. I also beat Malcador to near-death, and warned Dorn and the Custodians not to give me more trouble."
So that was it. Completely over.
Hearing it from Perturabo's own mouth, what remained of Vulkan's hope extinguished.
"So you've already begun systematically eliminating us brothers who are loyal to Father?"
Vulkan looked at the Curze in Perturabo's hand, something sad in his expression.
Perturabo understood the misunderstanding, and held up the figure.
"You mean this one?"
"Yes."
Vulkan nodded.
"This fool — I don't know what he saw with that prescience of his — came screaming and raving through the Warp and somehow managed to intercept me, clearly not in his right mind, and charged straight at me making no sense whatsoever."
"What was I supposed to do? I knocked him out and brought him back. And now I'm genuinely not sure how to handle him."
"Lorgar's brought his Legion and the Eighth Legion out to the edge of the Maelstrom. Fulgrim too — clearly not coming with friendly intentions. As if I'd be bothered by them deciding to just execute everyone here."
"So you're saying all of this was an accident — you didn't plan it? You haven't actually revolted—"
"I did in fact imprison the Emperor. The rumours aren't wrong about that."
The flicker of hope Vulkan had just managed to ignite went out again.
"Why would you do this, brother?"
"Why? Do you know what those two animals — the Emperor and Malcador — were up to? They—"
Perturabo was getting angrier the more he talked, increasingly feeling that he had actually gone too easy on them and let those two animals catch their breath, which they absolutely hadn't deserved.
Vulkan's shock grew with every word — especially when he heard that the two of them had actually been planning to dispose of their tool after use, strip the brother of his Warmaster position, shove every accusation onto him, and forcibly absorb his territory and resources. That childlike heart of his was genuinely staggered.
"Brother — it must be that the Imperial Regent used slander to cloud Father's judgment!"
"You've punished the wrong person, brother — Father must be innocent!"
Vulkan had decided that it was definitely Malcador who had somehow poisoned the Emperor's thinking with whatever manipulative words. This villain — sooner or later Vulkan was going to cave his skull in with a hammer.
Perturabo had no intention of debating with Vulkan and his brothers about the precise degree of the Emperor's villainy. The bottom line was: without the Emperor meddling, the Great Crusade's progress wouldn't suffer.
Even if his brothers were all somewhat uncertain about him right now, as long as he was there to hold things together, he didn't believe Chaos could actually mount any meaningful invasion into realspace.
Even if all his brothers distrusted him — so what?
Recover the galaxy, open the Webway. When the Great Crusade ended, these brothers could do whatever they liked. By then the universe would be at peace anyway.
The Emperor could happily step down and disappear — no need to keep torturing humanity.
Perturabo genuinely couldn't imagine how you lost from this position.
Chaos? Go eat shit.
But right now, the priority was dealing with his brothers' objections and getting their focus back on the Great Crusade.
It looked like he needed to go back to Terra one more time and hold some kind of meeting to work through how to resolve things. He couldn't be too reckless yet — but the internal mines inside the Imperium had been mostly cleared. Now the issues between the various brothers needed addressing.
Perturabo fell into thought.
Only Vulkan was still lost in his fury at the Imperial Regent.