Work Text:
This is the Requiem of Iron, hailing inbound Third Legion vessel. Be aware that Corradon 3 has already been claimed for the Fourth Legion. Break off your approach.
Message received and disregarded, Requiem of Iron, the Docents of Perfection go where we like, take what we like. We will own this planet shortly. You may take the scraps when we have finished our revels.
Silence filled the vox.
Request acknowledged. We will counter with a proposal for a joint assault. Their defenses will fall all the quicker for our combined efforts.
Silence, again. Longer this time.
Very well, Requiem of Iron. We will receive a delegation to discuss terms.
Affirmative. Requiem of Iron out.
***
"Honestly, the audacity!" complained Antinius as he lounged against the bulkhead, his pink armor gleaming in the harsh overhead lighting. "Who do they think they are, telling us what to do?"
"It's quite obvious who they think they are," snarked Eidar, "They're the Fourth Legion."
The sarcasm dripped from his voice like venom from the fangs of a viper. This elicited a laugh from the other nine lords. They had gathered in the command center of their vessel, the Angel of Agony, to plan for the upcoming invasion. This had been interrupted by an unexpected communique from a nearby battle-barge, the Requiem of Iron, whose delegation they now awaited.
"Iron Warriors..." spat Antipas. "Such boorish fools. Why can they not keep to themselves? Why spoil our fun?"
"Now now, let us not be over-hasty in our judgment," chided Herod, Lord Exultant of the Docents of Perfection, "Even half-wits such as these can have their uses. After all... someone needs to be first in the line of fire, to make way for their betters."
A sneer spread across his face as he completed his thought. Yes, this was a stroke of good fortune. Their numbers were depleted from repeated skirmishes with Eldar Corsairs, and they were in dire need of some expendable cannon fodder. That was, after all, why they had come to Corradon 3, by all accounts a hive-world of no particular note in a forgotten sector of the Imperium. Perfect hunting grounds for new thralls.
Herod and his commanders were shaken from their musings by the hiss of air from an opening door. The figure who entered was not entirely unlike what they anticipated. Tall, though not unusually so for a member of the Legiones Astartes, what was most striking about the newcomer were his robes, the deep scarlet color of a Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the numerous mechadendrites which trailed from his back, twitching to and fro as though possessing a will of their own. He paid them no obeisance when he entered, nor did the four legionaries who accompanied him, a fact which caused Antinius no small amount of consternation.
He rose to speak, but Herod cut him off before he could make a fool of himself. He bent at the waist, offering a dramatic bow. "Welcome to the Angel of Agony, most honored guests. I am named Herod Ketoris, Master of the Docents of Perfection, but you may refer to me simply as 'my lord.' Now that you are here, please, take a seat so that we may discuss the usage of your troops for my invasion."
Herod gestured to a plasteel crate, hastily set up at the foot of the table to be used as a stool. The Iron Warrior advanced towards the table, but remained standing. His retinue took up positions flanking the door, bolters held restfully in their hands. His helmet swept back and forth, evaluating the room and its inhabitants as though to determine which of them was most likely to slit his throat. Then, to Herod's shock, the red-robed legionnaire continued around the table, sparing not a glance to the officers gathered around it. He came face to face with the Lord Exultant, so close that Herod could hear his rasping breath through his helmet's vox.
Finally, he spoke. "There seems to be some confusion. This is my planet. These are my men. This is my invasion. I am here to discuss your place in it."
The Warpsmith's voice was like the sound of blades grinding against each other, a grating noise that made even the scions of the Emperor's Children wince in shock. Anger flashed across Herod's face as the implication of the visitor's words settled in his mind. As he opened his mouth to speak, to rebuke this fool of his insolence, he was interrupted by a languid sigh which echoed across the room.
Antinius stood, eyeing the Iron Warrior with a look somewhere between derision and condescension. "Really, I thought we already discussed this. We were here first, the conquest of this world is ours by right! Just what-"
Herod shut him up with a withering glare. "Perhaps I was too hasty in my assessment. I meant only that I would hear what strengths your forces would add to ours. But first, introductions. I have given you my name. It is only right that you now give me yours."
The Warpsmith stood motionless, his expression inscrutable behind his faceplate. "I am Kaios, Warsmith of the IVth Legion, 120th Grand Battalion. Now-"
Antipas cut him off. "Excellent. Fabulous. The automata has a name. Now if you would be so kind as to lead your men to the planet below, where they will no doubt do nothing but march forward ever so painfully slowly, dying in droves while their artillery does the heavy lifting, and leave the real warriors to our preparations, that would be-"
This time it was Kaios's turn to interject. "I. Was not. Finished."
Herod motioned for him to continue, but Kaios looked for no such permission.
"Yes, I am well aware of the reputation which my father and brothers garnered during the Great Crusade, for though the Legiones Astartes were bred for a single purpose, we were each cast in a separate mold. I remember well the ways that the Warmaster used us during the days of the Heresy. I was there."
He stalked around the table, stopping to loom over Antipas. "How many among you can say the same?"
The room was silent, save for the sounds of shallow breathing and of mechadendrites clacking against the bulkheads. Kaios continued to circle the table.
"Yes, I remember the days of the Heresy. I remember also, the reputation which was earned by the actions of your Legion, and those of your gene-father."
Eidar rose to protest, but Kaios continued speaking. "No, I do not hate you for the way in which the Phoenician betrayed and fractured my gene-sire. I believe in justice: that the sins of the father need not be passed on to his son, provided the son follows not in his father's steps."
He paused as he once more reached the head of the table, turning to regard the lords alongside a stunned Herod, the Lord Exultant for once at a loss for words. "My hatred for you, and your kin, comes from a far simpler, and more pragmatic, source."
"Well then, care to enlighten us, since you think yourself so wise?" Sneered Eidar, his barb drawing a snort of laughter from Antipas.
Kaios turned to face the back of the room, regarding the bulkhead as though it were far more interesting than the gathered officers. "There is a saying among my brothers. Do you know it? 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, and may it forever be so."
His voice softened at the end, as much as it could with the grinding of metal undercutting it. He spoke not as one reciting a saying, but as though expounding a fervently held belief.
He continued, "This truth, however, bears a corollary, one which I have found to be far more present in my experience. From Rust cometh Weakness, from Weakness cometh Uncertainty, from Uncertainty cometh Apostasy, from Apostasy cometh Betrayal, from Betrayal cometh Rust. This is the Litany of Decay, and it too will forever be so."
"This, cousins, is the source of my hatred for your Legion. For you were proud warriors once. Once, but pride is all that remains of what you once were. You have become sloppy, decadent, depraved, weak." He spat this last word as though it were a curse.
He continued, wheeling towards Antipas. "You lack the strength to be worthy of the title of 'warrior.' You lack the will to resist your own desires, let alone the demands of the creature you call a god. You lack iron."
Antipas had heard enough. He was a son of the Phoenician, a chosen warrior of Slaanesh! He would not sit idly by and hear his warrior pride and that of his brothers be slandered in such a manner. His hand flashed to the power sword at his waist faster than you could blink.
"You dare-"
But the words had barely left his lips when one of the intruder's mechadendrites, ignored in its confused twitching, lashed forward to strike him in the neck, like a cobra waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Antipas fell to his knees as agony such as he had never felt before wracked his system. A life spent in pursuit of sensation in all its forms, and it was nothing compared to what he now felt. It was as though his sword, his pistol, his armor itself had come alive and were seeking to devour him down to his very bones.
Kaios regarded him with a cold, dispassionate gaze. "Fortunately for you, the IVth Legion has Iron to spare."
Ignoring the marine writhing on the floor, he turned to address the remaining assemblage, many of whom had begun to reach for weapons of their own. “Now, this worthless specimen has kindly demonstrated the flaws of your ilk. You would do well to heed my words from this point forward. If not, then you may share in his fate.”
The closest four lords of the Docents of Perfection turned on their ill-welcomed guest, but they were struck down in the same instant, tormented with the same affliction which now ravaged their brother. The remaining five stood, weapons at the ready, and warily eyed their opponent. The watchers at the door remained unmoving, eyeing the inhabitants with as much passion as an executioner before the block.
Eidar was first to make his move, his rapture lash streaking across the room before catching the Warpsmith around his right armor. Its barbs dug deep into his armor, and Eidar sneered as he wrenched the enemy towards him, drawing rivulets of blood. It was Eidar who found himself pulled off his feet and over the table, however, as the Iron Warrior yanked backwards on the lash, anchoring himself with a web of mechadendrites. Eidar felt a cold sensation as a sword of black steel plunged deep into his abdomen. When had the Warpsmith found the time to draw a weapon?
The lacerations on Kaios’s arm rapidly began to close, much to the horror of the gathered lords. Where once there had been flesh and blood, swordpoints pressed through the joints of Kaios’s armor; steel closing the wounds and stopping the bleeding. Another of the Emperor’s Children was cut down before he could react, stricken motionless by shock. As Kaios engaged the final pair who stood between him and Herod, the cries of the fallen broke off as their own armor began creeping up, filling their mouths and threatening to suffocate them.
Realization dawned on Herod as the final of his lords fell, leaving him alone to face the Warsmith. A crooked smile creaked across his face. “You are not so pure as you imagine, are you, Kaios? You are as lost to the Ruinous Powers as any of the Chosen Legions!”
Kaios advanced calmly, warily eyeing the blade which Herod held in a fool’s guard. “Purity, excellence, perfection, these are your legion’s depravities. Not mine.”
The pair circled each other, each watching the other for an opening. “A fraud, then. A pretender. You lecture us about weakness, yet your only power is that which was given you! Why, you would not yet stand were it not for the daemon taken residence within you!”
Herod smiled with glee. Kaios’s stance faltered, if only for a moment, but a moment is all a true son of Fulgrim should need. Herod lunged at Kaios, and disarmed him with an expert twist of his sword. He leveled the tip at Kaios’s face.
“You are bested, Warsmith. You might have known better than to challenge your superiors. We are flawless sons of the Emperor. And you? You are nothing. Chaff in the wind, lambs to slaughter, naught but cannon fodder. You. Are. Weak.”
Herod’s every word dripped with enough venom to render a man immobile. Kaios glared back, with a hatred and malice equally potent. Still, the sentries at the door did nothing. It seemed they had learned their place with their master’s defeat. But this victory had not been without cost, and Herod grimaced at the convulsions which his men made on the floor. Antipas clawed at his face in a futile attempt to remove the creeping ceramite, only for his gauntlets to become stuck in turn.
“You are mistaken”
Herod’s eyes snapped back to Kaios as that rasping voice rang out. The Warsmith lifted a hand, but the Lord Exultant lunged faster than lightning and skewered him through the heart. In that same instant, Kaios clenched a fist and realspace began to warp. Herod felt a cold stab in his abdomen, and looked down to see his own bulkhead impale him, twisted into the shape of a sword.
Kaios moved closer to Herod, as to whisper in his ear, dragging himself further onto the sword in doing so. “It is you who is broken. You who have lost. You who is weak.”
Herod joined his men on the floor, gasping. “How-“
Kaios rolled his shoulders as the hilt of Herod’s sword sank into his chest, absorbed into his armor. “You had the correct read, partially. For that, I will credit you. It is by the Obliterator that I still stand. But it is my tool, my weapon. I host it because I choose to.”
Kaios extended a hand, and a long dagger began to grow from his hand. At the same time, a melta cutter on one of his mechadendrites began to work on the table before him. “Choice. Such a powerful thing. To serve or to betray. To live or to die. To kill or to spare. All choices. Yet there is one which supersedes them all.”
Kaios turned the dagger over in his hand: a slender weapon, an assassin’s weapon, made for slipping between the chinks in armor. “Weakness, in itself, is a choice. The greatest of them all. For if you choose to be weak, you open yourself to have all other choices taken from you by another. You choose to submit yourself to the first warlord who wishes to take you.”
At this, one of the Iron Warriors stepped forward, scattering nine vials on the conference table. Kaios continued, leaning close to where Herod now lay. “I lay that choice before you now. As for servitude, the choice to avoid that has long past you by. You will serve at my command. But the Obliterator Virus now courses through your veins. Can you feel it? Your own armor threatening to consume you? Your skin itching to tear at its seams, to offer up endless supplies of armament?”
He stood and lifted one of the vials. “You are not strong, as I am, as is the IVth Legion. You lack the will to choose. You lack iron. You will be unable to resist the Obliterator’s call, and you will become useless for aught else but to be sent into battle.”
One of the sentries shifted uncomfortably. Kaios rolled the vial about in his hand. “This vial is a creation of my best Warpsmiths. It will stay the Obliterator’s spread. It will allow you to remain as you are: yourselves, but now with the strength of iron.”
Kaios laid his dagger down next to the nine vials and began to move towards the exit. “The choice, now, is obvious. I will not insult your intelligence by lecturing you on basic arithmetic. Make your choice, each of you. But do not tarry: the Obliterator is a ravenous thing indeed.”
Antinius dragged himself to his knees as Kaios reached the foot of the table. He looked from the vials to the dagger, then all remaining color drained from his face as he saw what Kaios had inscribed on the surface of the table. One word: a command, a reminder, and a warning.
He croaked, “Decimation.”
Kaios sealed the door behind him as pandemonium erupted. Brotherhood collapsed as each of the ten Emperor’s Children scrabbled over each other, desperate for reprieve. Decimation. the first order which the IVth Legion received from its returned Primarch. One of them slammed Herod’s face into the table’s edge as he reached for a vial, an act which he repaid by a fist to the throat. Decimation. A punishment for a unit which failed to perform to its master’s instruction. Two marines wrestled over the singular dagger, each attempting to jam it into the other’s heart. Decimation. A symbol of the anvil on which the IVth Legion was formed. Kaios was no Perturabo. But sometimes you needed a steel rod to discipline a squalling child.
***
Kaios looked up from his war council. The nine lords of the Docents of Perfection awaited his judgment. Nine. Good. Perhaps this chance encounter could prove fruitful after all. He motioned for his commanders to continue preparations and went to meet his new subordinates.
Herod, the former Lord Exultant, dropped to one knee at Kaios’s approach, his example followed by the other eight. Kaios did not know who was absent, nor did he particularly care. Their faces bore the scars of the Obliterator Virus, where metal and flesh had become as one, as well as those of their struggle. Herod spoke first. “It is done as you commanded, my lord. We await your orders.”
Kaios nodded approvingly, and motioned for them to stand. “Have your men report to Centurion Tharrik. His line breakers will be glad for their expertise with a blade. You, accompany me to my council. There is much to discuss.”
Herod signaled for the lords to depart, and a nearby legionary escorted them out. He opened his mouth to speak of gratitude, of plans, of the aptitude of his troops, but Kaios silenced him with a look. “There will be ample time to discuss these things later: I called you here for a much more pressing purpose.”
Herod looked back quizzically. “What could be more pressing than the invasion, my lord?”
Kaios handed him a dataslate, full of numbers, notes and research. “You will tell me everything you know of the work of Fabius Bile, and his New Men”