Hour of the Gorgon

[Iron Hands Fanatic]

I've been writing short narrative segments in the setting for a while now, for various DIY IAs and whatnot, but this is my first attempt with established factions.

 

I basically wrote this after reading the preview for The First Heretic by ADB on the Black Library website (man, I have got to get that book),

because I thought it would be good fun to write about a Primarch, and I wanted to put a slightly different spin on the way an Astartes might consider them (at first).

 

This covers the 10th Legion meeting Ferrus Manus for the 1st time, which was quite fun as there isn't much existing written about the Gorgon. The reason he has a sword instead of Forgebreaker is because he hasn't met Fulgrim yet (I know they met on Terra, but seeing as that passage in Fulgrim says the Phoenican was accompanied by his Pheonix guard, I figured it would be stupid if a later-discovered Primarch had taken command of his Legion first, especially as Massacre mentions Ferrus took command of the X faster than most Primarchs did).

 

And yes, after proof-reading this, I did realise I use triplets a stupid amount, but hey, its a better way of adding emphasis than putting exclamation marks everywhere.

 

Anyway, enjoy & all C&C is very welcome.

 

 

 

HOUR OF THE GORGON

 

Arvo had been there in the beginning, when the first Astartes had been birthed in hell of the unification. He remembered the first human soldiers he had faced, terrified wretches who had shrieked as the armoured behemoths before them butchered their way forward. Much the same as he must have felt when he first looked upon a Primarch, he mused – remembering the nausea he had experienced when Horus Lupercal, the first discovered son, had been toured through the ranks of the assembled Legions in the aftermath of the annihilation of the ‘Krooked Klaw’ Greenskin Empire.

 

But he was a different man now. Although that occasion had not been many years past, command had changed him - as a Shield-Centurion, Arvo was relied upon by his subordinates. He had to be the calm in the eye of the storm, adaptable, unflinching – awe, shock and surprise were all emotions he had repressed during his service as an officer of the Iron Tenth. He had observed the god-machines of the Titan Legions Obliterate whole cities with cataclysmic power, stood witness as xenos psykers turned Legionaries to liquid within their own power armour, fought shrieking horrors whose screams had turned men insane.

 

He once again checked the arrival timer on his helm’s tactical display, feeling the familiar tinge of resentment as he considered the Legion’s assembly. This man, for he was still a man at heart, had been the crucible from which he and his brothers had drawn the genetic material with which they had ascended. But Arvo felt no debt, no onus towards this son of the Emperor – did he feel endebted to his parents, who had spawned him amongst the chaos of Old Earth? No. Why should he pay this gene –sire any greater regard? 

 

He had heard the talk of this dour colossus, who could shape steel with hands of quicksilver, and shatter buildings with a single blow. But he was not a leader, not of Astartes. He could wander the wastes of a forgotten world, awing the primitive natives with mechanical feats and besting the metal demons of its ashen sands, but he had not learnt the skills of commanding a Legion. The most powerful of weapons in the Imperium, to be wielded by an untested commander.

 

Arvo swallowed his distaste. He knew where this train of thought would lead. It was the decision of the Emperor to award this Primarch with lordship of the Tenth, and questioning the order of such a being would be insanity. Besides, what did it matter to him? In a Legion, he was insignificant, another gear in the unstoppable machine of war.

 

He turned his gaze to a figure stood before the massed Legion, the image on his lenses adjusting to focus on the Astartes stood half a kilometer away. Amadeus DuCaine. Lord Commander of the entire Legion – the most feared and respected figure within the entire force of the Iron Tenth. Arvo already stood in the presence of a giant. The Primarch would be eclipsed.

 

A flashing alert on his tactical display told him that the descent would be imminent. Without a murmur, the entire legion shifted to attention, weapons held tightly in place across ceramite the colour of dull iron. With theatrical timing, an amber glow lit the clouds above, a massive shuttle descending on pillars of blistering flame. Dust whirled into the skies as the viodcraft touched down, the whine of engines powering down the only sound for a dozen kilometers.

 

No sooner had the bulbous craft settled on the scarred surface, than its embarkation ramp lowered effortlessly, sending flashes of crimson light dancing across the plate of the nearest Legionaries as the warning lights within flared. Massive figures were silhouetted against the intermittent glare, heavily armored warriors with tall plumes and viciously curved spears.

 

The Custodes were larger than the Astartes, raised above even their post-human might. But they were utterly dwarfed by the giant stood amidst their ranks. Easily twice the height of an Astartes, the dim glow of twin suns washed over ebon plate as the colossus of flesh and blood stepped forth onto the alien world.

 

Both Russ and Horus had an air of savage nobility about them, kings among warriors. This demi-god was different. Everything about him was severe – the taught line of his jaw, the tracery of scars knitted across his face, the beautiful brutality of his warplate. This was no vain swordsman, no pious duelist, but a conqueror, who would achieve victory no matter the cost.

 

With one hand he planted a greatsword the colour of burnished copper into the earth, as tall as any of the Custodes at his side. The eyes of every Legionary of the Tenth who could see his colossal form were fixed upon the hand that had placed it there. The silver in place of his skin seemed to flow under their gaze, flawlessly smooth. It moved as effortlessly as the flesh beneath it, but every warrior of the Legion had heard of its strength – that it could manipulate metal without the touch of flame, and that it could shatter blades and smash stone to powder.

 

Passing his gaze up from the Primarch’s forearm, across the majesty of his warplate, Arvo finally looked upon the face of his genesire. Horus Lupercal had grinned with satisfaction upon seeing the assembled legions of the Emperors Space Marines, but this giant was utterly impassive. The Primarch’s face spoke more about his past than words ever could – weathered like granite, it had endured trials that were as astonishing to Astartes as their own feats were to mortals.

 

Just as his eyes reached the Primarch’s own, Arvo’s vision blurred and he winced in pain. Taking in the visage of one of the Emperor’s Sons was an ordeal normally, but this was something else. Assuming a defect in his Power Armour’s autosenses, he cycled through its visual range, but the disturbance would not clear. Clenching his eyes shut, he repressed the feelings in his gut, the feelings he refused to acknowledge. Apprehension, admiration….awe.

 

Once again he tried to focus on the Primarch’s eyes. His vision was clearer this time, but he had to look away after only a moment, fearful of what he saw there.

 

The same shimmering sliver as his hands, the Primarch’s eyes were without irises, the black pinprick of pupils their only distinguishing mark. But somehow they communicated a deep intelligence, a wisdom concealing a volcanic anger boiling deep within.

 

For a second, although the Primarch was not looking at him, Arvo had felt those glimmering eyes pierce his very soul, reaching into his mind, into the darkest depths of his being. To look upon the merciless giant was painful, but to match his gaze was agony.

 

Sweeping his sight across their massed ranks, the Primarch took in the Legion with calculating precision. Satisfied, he raised his gaze to the stars, just becoming visible as the weak suns dropped below the horizon.  With terrifying force, he tore the blade from the earth, thrusting it forwards to point at the blackening sky.

 

In a voice that would condemn star systems and bring ruin to entire civilizations, Ferrus Manus spoke.

 

“To War!”

 

In a rumble that soon escalated to a thunderous crescendo, the Tenth Legion answered.

 

[jokaero weaponsmith]

Would love to see this over in the iron hands forum so it can get the love it deserves.

Well done.

[Olis]

Interesting piece, brother. Barring the odd grammatical slip (like "Obliterate" and it's unnecessary capitalisation) it seems reasonably well written. :tu:

[Iron Hands Fanatic]

Interesting piece, brother. Barring the odd grammatical slip (like "Obliterate" and it's unnecessary capitalisation) it seems reasonably well written.

thanks brother,

recently every time I read through anything I've written, there seems to be a random spattering of pointless capitalisations - I'm hoping its just a phase

[Olis]

It happens, brother. You'll get into the habit of spotting them, if not avoiding them. ;)

[Bowlzee]

I really like it, the first few paragraphs had some sentences that were a bit difficult to get through, and had to reread. But that could be my dyslexia. Well done :)