Iron Within, Iron Without.

[Tyear]

The ground trembled at the sound of a thousand feet, thumping in a perfect rhythm, no not perfect. There was a flaw in there, Rorke scanned the line of slave soldiers and spotted the man, his leg was hobbled. A glance was enough to have him plucked from the line of soldiers, dragged away by a giant clad in Mark three plate, ancient armor and still working. It was a blessing, the man was placed in another line, these were all the wounded and those most worthy of being discarded. Rorke's fingers drummed the handle of his ornate weapon, a stolen relic from an Imperial Fist killed during the battle for Terra, the man had been a Captain and had died by his hands. The weapon was his prize.

 

Rorke turned from the line of slave soldiers and nodded, the man who had been besides him, if such a thing could still be called... man, spoke in a chattering voice, "The repairs are nearly complete Warsmith Rorke", it's head bobbed as it walked behind the Warsmith, "The Iron Prince will soon be operational", Rorke's choler rose, the ancient war machine had been badly damaged during his last engagement, still a blessing it had survived at all, a testament to the twisted machine spirit within the Baneblade after having been struck by a Shadowsword. "Good", Rorke's voice rumbled, "Do you have any.. news from your masters?", he spoke with a harsh bark from his vox speakers attached to the dark silver of his helmet.

 

Though it rankled Rorke to curry favor with the members of the Dark Mechanicus he could not fault their ability at devising new ways of dealing with the Loyalists, the man's head bobbed up and down in an almost playful childlike manner. "Oh yes Warsmith Rorke. My master is coming here", the Astartes stopped for a moment, turning his helmet slightly so that he looked over his shoulder before turning completely. The chainmail cloak hanging from his back brushing the dirty red ground, "When?", there was a clicking sound in the man as it twitched before Rorke, "Now", the voice that spoke was not that of the creation before him, smoke slowly pouring from the side of it's skull. "I have finished upgrading the Iron Prince", the man thing collapsed before Rorke who simply walked deeper into his camp.

 

To the left a large cadre of Iron Warriors were in drills, these were young Iron Warriors, the thought rankled him, they were not true Legionaries, they had not been apart of the Long War, had not stood on the ground of Isstvan V and slew their Brothers. Still they were needed, few enough of the old breed remained, some had succumbed to the insidious whispers of dark things within the warp, others had died ignobly on some battlefield. Whilst some, he ran his fingers over the leather holster at his side, the hum of the weapon within drawing his fingers back. It still did not favor his touch, not even after it's masters death. It did not matter, these were his Iron Warriors now and he sought to continue bringing the Imperium down, they fought the Long War.

 

As he crested the hill Rorke saw the camp below, the industrious nature of the Dark Mechanicus revealed, here the Grand Company was being refitted, some line Astartes had new armor forged themselves, others simply hammered old dents from their armor, unwilling to part with it. To the west were the training grounds, here the Dark Mechanicus forged the new breed of Astartes, children claimed from a thousand worlds, pushed into battle with each other and themselves, constantly tested, out of ten thousand perhaps only ten were worthy. Before the defeat at Terra his Father had but stamp his feet and another Grand Company would emerge, now they troubled to keep their ranks properly reinforced.

 

His eyes however were not upon the west, but rather what lay straight ahead, the great foundries, the constant hammer strikes on anvil, a million slaves all wasting away, but they were cheap and plentiful and the Mechanicus did not care what resources it expended. Still it was rare to see a member of the true Dark Mechanicus, one who had been on Mars, who had actually fought in the Long War as many years as Rorke had. "Magos", Rorke offered with a slight nod of respect. The creature, for this was truly no man, turned on tracked wheels. It's body was thing, but sported a whirring array of mechandrites, Rorke's helmet tagged at least six of the twenty as threats, though no doubt all harbored some secret weapon. "Warsmith Rorke", the creature seemed to have no voice unit, but still it's tinny sound was heard within Rorke's mind. The Iron Warrior gritted his teeth, he disliked warp craft.

 

"Your Baneblade is remade", indeed, the left side which had melted nearly completely under the sweet ministrations of a Volcano cannon now looked fresh as new, it had been a costly affair though Rorke had not yet heard the price. The Magos whirred closer, it's eye units scanning the battle plate and it's mechandrites moving across it. Immediately combat stimulants flooded Rorke's body, his fist sliding across the handle of his power maul and gripping it tight. But the Magos did not mean harm and if it suspected Rorke's murderous intent, for a moment at least, it did not show. The patches and gouges in the armor were sealed and remade, soon enough the armor was better then it had been before, Rorke offered another small nod. "My gift for the Dark Mechanicus", he reached to a small pouch at his belt and placed it upon a nearby workbench.

 

The Magos' eye units whirred as it took in the gift, the mechandrites clenched and undulated in rapture as it stared. An STC, one of an order they had not seen before, a new Superheavy battle tank. Immediately the Magos understood where the plans to upgrade the Baneblade had come from, the STC itself was a further improvement on the Baneblade platform, allowing it to withstand more punishment then it should otherwise. A small void shield generator was now attached and coupled to the enginarium. This would allow it safety against even a Volcano cannon firing fully upon the Baneblade, allowing it to retaliate. A boon indeed for the forces of Chaos.

 

"You had a gift for me as well Magos?", the Warsmith asked as it watched the Magos pocket the STC quickly, no doubt the information was spreading throughout the Dark Mechanicus, or perhaps not, perhaps the Magos would seek to further his own position, it did not matter to Rorke, their games were their games. "Yes..", the tracked unit whirred away and Rorke followed. Suddenly aware that the left lower section of his power armour was active again, he stepped to harshly, though the second step was perfectly in tune again. Deeper into the forge they went and were it not for the sanctity of his armor Rorke had no doubt the heat would have caused even his superhuman biology a deal of distress. Then they emerged at the cages, several things stood behind massive locked gates, their bodies however were not active.

 

"They have not yet been given hosts, but they are being prepared as we speak, my gift to you, Warmsith Rorke", the Warmsith stared at the three creatures, two were clearly armed for long range combat, the other however was classed for something much more intimate, close combat. Rorke turned to the Magos and hammered his fist onto the chest plate, honoring the Magos before turning and leaving him alone. Up above beyond the clouds lurked his craft Dominatus, a treasured Strike Cruiser it had harbored the Seventh Grand Company for longer then Rorke had been among the Astartes even.

 

He stood there and looked at the data scroll at the side of his helmet's display, they were nearly at full readiness. Soon they would strike out from the Eye of Terror again and seek to claim the lives of those foolish enough to side with their Corpse God.

[Tyear]

The dusty arid winds of the planet whipped up around Rorke as he stood with his gaze towards the heavens, the helmet still firmly attached to the raised gorget an addition from the Magos to better protect the Warsmith. Unlike many other traitor warlords Rorke had no honour guard, no men to protect him from harm, for men were fickle things even the mighty Astartes were able to fall to infighting and were often at odds with one another. Even before the rise of the First Warmaster had it been so, Rorke had instead crafted something not akin to the Lord of Iron's own former praetorians his own Iron Circle stood behind him now. Not a single word was ever heard from them, yet they followed his every will.

 

Rorke allowed himself a moment to remember how imposing his Father had been, the Lord of Iron, the very embodiment of their legion. Of all the things that had happened after the Battle for Terra, after the retreat towards the eye, the furious battle at the Iron Cage, after it all, nothing came close to the sight of Perturabo on Isstvan V. The knowledge was in his eyes then, he knew what he was doing, Rorke had only been a line Captain then, a part of the Seventh Company. Though like all his Brothers he had raised his bolter, seen the shock on the faces of the green clad Salamanders, saw the betrayal rend something deep within them. Then as one their bolters barked and the moment was lost, death had come to the Loyalists on Isstvan and they would be their hammer.

 

A ping sounded in his helmet and Rorke was torn from his memory, the last of the drop ships was leaving the planet, the massive bulk carrier which housed a portion of the slave soldiers beneath his command, to his side his own craft stood. The sweeping wings of a Thunderhawk whirring to warmth as it's master's attention gazed towards it, the servitors within completely attuned to Rorke as he strode forward, the sound of seven machines following him into the interior. Rorke felt the Thunderhawk depart the world below, the churning foundries still belching black acrid smoke into the sky. The colored clouds, tinted by the venomous belch of chemicals departed and Rorke stared into wrongness of the Eye. The churning maelstrom that was now their home, his fingers clenched the handle of his Power Maul as he looked out. It rankled him to hide in such a place, to still know that the Imperium they had fought for, bled for still remained.

 

As the Thunderhawk touched down Rorke marched off the back ramp, his guard in tow. Another Astartes approached, the front of his armor held a defaced icon of the former Imperium. A smashed lighting bolt, "Warsmith", he hammered his fist onto his chest plate, "Captain Callis", he responded, "Iron Within", the return phrase was willingly given. "How goes the training of our new.. Brothers", he walked onwards, the other man besides him, his muscled bulk neatly contained by the sizable armor, even before Callis had been a freak among Astartes, but he had grown even larger, a better killer and Rorke often send his battle group against enemy strongholds. "Well enough, they do not harbor our emotions though, they simple wish to kill the Imperium for that has been what they've been indoctrinated to do", Rorke gave a low nod, "The genecraft however was sufficient, they are Astartes, though they are not of the Legion", Rorke turned his faceplate, the snarling demonic mouth on the front giving out a low appreciative sound.

 

"We need them Callis, for without them, we would not be able to continue the Long War, take the best and brightest killers from our new brothers and hammer them into shape, they will reinforce your battle group", Callis gave an appreciative nod. The Astartes standing near as tall as the Warsmith's praetorians, though did not match them in bulk. "And I have another gift", the two demi-gods strode through the halls of Dominatus deep towards the vehicle bay. The hum of many vehicles still gave Rorke a delicious feeling, many were former battle tanks, taken from the defeated ranks of the Imperial Guard and re-purposed to serve the Grand Company. There was a deep roaring sound and Callis tensed for a moment, both hands reaching towards his killing blades. A pair of power swords he had taken from a dead Raven Guard on Istvaan. "A daemon?", Callis poised, "No.. a daemon engine", Rorke saw the blackness erupt in fire as the creature awoke. "A gift for your battle group Brother, take it with you into battle. Use it to crack the enemy's morale", Callis' lenses took sight of the creature before drawing back to his Warsmith. "You honor me too much", Rorke waved his hand. "Enough, you are a part of my Grand Company and one of the last true Captains, we saved each other more times then I can count during the Great Crusade, during the Heresy. We are true Brothers Callis", Rorke spoke firmly before leading his Brother from the vehicle bay, stroking his fingers along the side of the Iron Prince, the mighty war machine rumbling with barely contained want for battle. "Soon", he promised the vehicle and left Callis to his own affairs.

 

The bridge of the Dominatus was a flurry of activity. Humans and servitors sat at various stations and the Praetorians took their positions as they had been designed to, they still unnerved some of the human crew, though the servitors stationed at various consoles could not care less. "Take us to Seventeen-Two", the world had some name, but for Rorke the name of such a place was unimportant, it would be yet another world for them to conquer. Already it spun in front of him, an Imperial recruitment world, the place where unwanted men and women were hammered together into Imperial Guard penal legions. He would liberate this place, slay the fools that followed the false Imperium and take the slaves for himself. He would need to gather enough men, the Warmaster would call his hand soon and Rorke would not be found wanting.

[Teetengee]

ooh

[Tyear]

The warp was a troubled place, a swirling maelstrom of energy, raw and emotional, the currents ever tugging ships off course. But Dominatus did not stray from it's desired path, the madness of the warp was it's home, it's navigator no mere mortal anymore, he had traveled the entirety of the Imperium during the Great Crusade, had guided the ship through all it's wars. Now as it slid through the churning warp the navigator felt the warp shift and open again, once more the ship had worked well with him and they emerged into real space. A rippling corona of energy casting off the hull of the ship, the prow of Dominatus making the waves travel the length of the ship.

 

Rorke stood on the bridge, this sector was small, only three planets, once of which was habitable. A truly miserable planet, it was still guarded by a small fleet that lay at anchor. Their shining proud eagles, "Prepare to meet them", Rorke said to the rabble of slave soldiers and servitors alike, all quickly barking out orders as Dominatus drifted through space, even now the enemy was turning to meet them. Brave, but foolish, they did not have the capability of truly hurting his ship. A void battle was a ballet he had once heard a son of Fulgrim say, a graceful movement between the stars where only the perfect might endure. "Warsmith, the enemy has one Light Cruiser, Defiant Class", Rorke nodded, that was their main opponent, the two escorts, both Cobras were less important. "Callis", Rorke voxed, "prepare our Brothers for boarding actions, we will lay claim to their ships", an acknowledgment burst was sent back.

 

"Get us in there helmsman. Cripple the Defiant first as it turns to launch", the massive bombardment cannon that was the Dominatus' main armament waited in careful place, "Fire", the sound echoed through the ship and Rorke saw the battle unfold before him. The left side of the Defiant's engine bay was gone, voided into space. "Fighters leaving the Defiant", Rorke turned towards a servitor unit, "Track a firing solution on all ships, probability of destruction", the servitor clicked, "Seventy-three percent first burst", Rorke's intellect moved for a second, updating the firing solutions himself, that servitor needed replacing. "Ninety-eight percent", that was acceptable. "Break them to pieces", he said with a snarl. The ship rocked as the gun batteries made quick work of the fighters in space.

 

"Callis, kill well today", the vox crackled to life, "Iron Within", Rorke responded in kind and watched as the dread claws departed from Dominatus, speeding through space. "Warsmith, escorts have launched torpedoes", Rorke stared at the bald headed man, his skin marked him, more then likely a mortal who had been with the Legion throughout the Long War, did he even know who they were fighting. Rorke planned the firing solution himself now, a burst of metal into space and several harmless detonations. "Where is the second?", he asked, "Running back to planet Warsmith", Rorke growled. "Make haste towards the planet, it seeks to destroy the facility", Dominatus' engines flared to life as the craft burst into power. Moving towards the planet the other Cobra slipped besides Dominatus, closer then it should have been, willing to sacrifice itself, to allow it's twin to preform it's task.

 

Rorke waited until the torpedoes left their tubes and bursted them again, this close to the other ship it send explosions shattering into the escort craft. "Is there a safe entry point?", Rorke poised to the servitor unit as it scanned the Cobra, "Negative Warsmith", the tinny voice responded, "Then destroy it", the weapon batteries fired again and the Cobra shattered into several smaller pieces, it's engines flaring wildly as it died in the void. The second Cobra locked into orbit and made it's firing solution, the torpedoes loading as it sought to destroy the prison and all the men within. It died two seconds before it could launch, the front of it a molten flaming mess, sending the smaller craft into the atmosphere of the planet, burning to death.

 

A vox message from Callis, "Ship secure Warsmith", his blood was clearly up, a deep growl in his throat, "Good, ensure dominance is provided aboard the craft, then continue onto Seventeen-Two and lock in orbit, we will retrieve the claws there", Rorke moved off the bridge, his sentinels walking in lock step behind him. Now simple to break this prison open, already orbital auspex readings were showing the fortress they had built to house these heretics. "It won't stand for long", in truth, it was not even worthy of his time, however, fresh troops were needed and several of their new Brothers needed to be baptized in the blood of their enemies.

[Tyear]

Callis strode into the loading bay, once a long time ago he had knelt here before the battle of Isstvan V. Along with all his Brothers he had heard the voice of their father, their true father, Perturabo. He had told them all what would happen, what they would do, there was no malice in his voice, only a cold clinical sound, this way something that had to be done and their father would not find them wanting. Callis had been a viscous killer during the Great Crusade, always the first one into a breach he had developed a reputation for it, something the Warsmith Geradon had seen and had given him a captaincy, under his guidance his Iron Warriors had been shaped into warriors with a reputation for close combat fighting. Oft armed with boarding shields and bolters they would carry a breach before allowing the rest of the Legion to follow through.

 

Callis looked at his gathered warriors now, once he had a hundred brothers who stood besides him, he knew all their names, their natures. Now, there were few he knew truly. Only twenty or so odd warriors of his company remained, the true veterans of the Long War, those who had spilled blood on Isstvan V, who had gone to Terra and sought to cast the false Emperor from his throne. And even among these, his eldest brothers, there was disunity, however much Rorke wished it the hand of Chaos twisted everything. Those loyal brave sons were often cutting their blades into opponents long since dead, would mutilate corpses without rhyme or reason. Only Callis' voice calling them back to some semblance of sanity, the young blood, the new Iron Warriors, Callis could feel his bile rising at the thought, were even worse.

 

They had been raised on this, on the worthy cause of supporting the armies of Chaos, brainwashed they fought because their training and history as slaves thought them they had to. They did not see the Long War, "Gather", he spoke as his company approached, "to those who are new to the Seventh, I say only one thing", he walked to a new warrior, he had seen the Astartes fight in the combat pits against several other Astartes at the same time and win. "Listen to your Sergeants, do their bidding or be cast aside. We are Iron Warriors, we are not slavering beasts wishing to spill blood in the name of some God", Callis imagined he could hear laughter fading at the edge of his hearing, "You have been assigned your Squads", Callis himself walked towards a nearby Dread Claw.

 

The inside was illuminated a bright scarlet red, for any human the light might have been unbearable, for Callis his helmet brought the light to more manageable levels. As always, he was accompanied by his chosen warriors, the ones most affected by the need to spill blood. Some were frantic as they pulled themselves in, fingers flexing as they almost shook in their armor with anticipation. Slowly Callis began the litany of Iron, speaking the words and feeling the control in those under his combat be regained. For all their faults, they remembered their father still. When Rorke spoke Callis simply voxed back, he had no reason to talk to the Warsmith, battle would soon enough be upon them.

 

Five Astartes strike teams would be deployed, each capturing a strategic location. Callis had given himself the bridge, the fiercest combat field. The sudden shift in gravity, the lurching feeling in his stomach made him realize they had been launched. "For Perturabo!", Callis bellowed, several voices shouting back in howling madness. The impact was swift and harsh as the Dread Claw bit into the hull, the melta charges blasted open and Callis checked the auspex readings, they were off target. Two sections down from where they needed to be, not a problem, they would take another route, only a two point five percent delay. Stepping into the ship Callis felt a burst of lasgun fire spatter against his boarding shield. "Wall", he bellowed and the others locked.

 

The wall walked forward, bolters booming until they neared the position, "Break", the middle opened and three Iron Warriors charged from the wall, chainswords raising and falling with glee as they slaughtered, "Brothers control yourselves, the enemy has fallen!", Callis spoke as he walked forward, grabbing a shoulder and deflecting a swing of a chainsword, immediately slamming the boarding shield into the Iron Warrior's gut, doubling him over. The warrior gazed up at him, nodding a sign of respect and moved into formation, the others culled by his voice. They slaughtered their way forward, every new hallway a fresh team waiting to assault them. But these were mere children, not worthy of Callis, once there would have been Astartes aboard each ship. They were Legions now a shadow of their former self, Callis clubbed one aside as he neared the massive shielded door that led to the bridge. The double headed eagle cast in gold, "Charges", two of his kin stepped forward as he heard screams and voices from behind the shield wall now protecting them from the relief forces.

 

As the melta bombs detonated the ship's captain twitched, his connection to the ship fading as he rose from his chair, stumbling steps as he grabbed his ornate power sabre from his side. "Off my ship heretic", Callis cocked his head and waded in, his bolter took the man's arm off, the bolt round speeding through flesh and bone, a shift brought his shield down on the man's legs, buckling them as he went down. Kneeling before Callis, "Ship secure Warsmith", Callis voxed to Rorke, the other units had achieved their missions as well. He swung his bolter across his chest, placing the boarding shield on the ground, listening to the return message. "Retrieve all soldiers and bring them to the flight deck, those who resist, slay them", he voxed to the group, keeping his slayers here. Reaching up Callis unhooked his helmet, a once handsome face revealed. Dark lines stood there now, an eternity of war did not breed handsome men. The captain shook, still staring at his arm, before Callis who reached down and grabbed hold of it. "I hate being called a heretic..", Callis spoke calmly, the captain moving his gaze to those eyes, uncaring, unfeeling and uninterested as Callis began to dismantle the captain piece by bloody piece. His fingers dripped as he turned to the bridge crew, those who had survived the initial assault.

 

"This ship is mine now, take me to the planet"