by Guy Haley
His crusade had been idealistic, foolish, a waste of time. These were the thoughts of the primarch as he watched his siege masters at work and remembered those days, for a great and potent rancour had flooded his being.
Perturabo had a large pavilion of iron-grey silk erected by his men, its central adamantine pole as tall as a mast and mighty enough to resist the winds that coursed periodically from the mountain’s peak. The floor was polished to an ice-slick finish and covered in washed white sand, and the pavilion had been furnished as the lords of Olympia would expect, though the primarch made it clear there were to be no chairs within. The work was simple graft for the Iron Warriors and took less than a day.
Before the sun began to sink, heralds from the nearest cities had already arrived to speak with the primarch. He stood in full view so that they might see him, but all were turned away from the top of the steps leading to the camp. Perturabo set no walls about the site or defences of any kind. This alone was enough to warn the wise of what was to come; a few of the emissaries returned home swiftly.
That night, the camp was sombre. Few lights burned. No speech or song was heard by the onlookers peering at it from the woods or encamped impatiently at the head of the stairs. Halfway to the highway, a second camp was set, where the warriors and attendants of the emissaries were told to wait. The ambassadors themselves remained at the top, lest Perturabo admit the delegation suddenly.
At dawn, First Captain Forrix came out to the representatives. Others had joined the group in the course of the night, wearing their badges and city colours proudly. None of those things had meant more than civic pride when Forrix had first left his home world; now they were markers of belligerence.
How quickly things had changed.
Stiff-limbed, the emissaries got to their feet as the steel-clad giant approached them. The pair of sentries, motionless as statues through the night, turned about and stamped their feet, marching away in lockstep. Forrix waited at the stair head, the rising sun turning his plain armour the colour of molten bronze. He surveyed the gathered mortals and their varied expressions of fear, awe and ill-temper.
Perturabo could have voxed the message he was about to deliver planetwide, but Forrix’s master understood the value of theatre.
‘I am Warsmith Forrix, first captain and triarch. I bring you words from my primarch, the Lord of Iron.’ He swept his gaze over them all, a threat that they listen properly. ‘The primarch will speak with your masters. Go to them. Inform them that he summons them all under the strict peace of Eirene that governs the lords of every city on Olympia. If your masters are like the tyrants of old, they will be craven creatures, preferring to use others to safeguard themselves. Know this - if they do not come personally, the primarch will be… displeased, so I advise you to choose your speakers wisely. You have half a day to bring them here.’
The emissaries waited. None wished to be the first to leave. An unctuous little man with the forked beard of a Vedric came forwards. He had little muscle, a contemptible specimen brought up in a world of plenty. Truly, these people did not understand what they had unleashed.
‘Most of us here are designated speakers, with full power to negotiate on our city’s behalf. All those he needs to speak with are already present. Why the delay?’ asked the man with the polished, equable tones of a professional diplomat.
Forrix hated the man at first sight. He found it shameful that they shared a common origin. This man had no honour, no warrior’s spirit. He was a viper. Men like him had knowingly led Olympia away from the truth and back to petty wars. His ilk thrived on intrigue, while warriors bled at their behest.
‘Because you are not good enough,’ said Forrix.
‘If we might speak with the primarch now, it would save much effort later,’ insisted the man.
‘You cannot see him,’ said Forrix simply, and turned his back on them. His leaving unstoppered the mouths of the rest, and they erupted with questions as he strode back towards the pavilion.
The voices of the emissaries became more strident as he moved further from them, but not one of them dared leave the safety of the steps and tread upon the platform, even though there were no sentries in sight to stop them - more evidence of their cowardice.
How low the mighty of Olympia have sunk, Forrix thought, to abandon not only wisdom but courage alongside it.
All the worst things had returned, none of the good.
They deserved to die.
The half-day passed. The cities complied, sending their nobles to the parlay. After they had arrived, Perturabo made the high men and women wait outside his pavilion for most of the day before he told his Tyranthikos veterans to allow them in. The heights of the Adarine were cold even in summer, but the air was thin and the sun strong. Despite the chill of the mountain, skin burned easily under its rays.
The nobles filed in, haughty in their bearing as if they could not see that they stared death in the face. Of course none of the tyrants or minor city princelings had come themselves.
How dare their messengers be so calm, so assured, thought Perturabo. They should be crawling on their bellies and begging for mercy.
They had with them heralds who announced them in ringing voices: Ptolemaides, Damek, Krastonfor, Falk, Arestain and a score of other noble names. At the front came the representatives of the bloodlines from whose ranks the tyrants had historically been drawn. Perturabo could see the family resemblance in these minor sons and daughters, the sneering superiority that they could not hide nor would ever have thought to. He had bested the armies of their ancestors, he had trailed footprints in their blood through the high palaces of their cities, but still they were too proud to be afraid. They looked around the sandy floor of the pavilion for seats. Finding none, their arrogance was seasoned with outrage, leaving the primarch struggling between laughter and violence.
He calmed himself. Now was not the time.
Perturabo alone had a place to sit, upon his great throne brought down from the Iron Blood. He would replace it, he decided. The style was Olympian, and he had little love for such artefacts now.
The emissaries arrayed themselves in front of the Lord of Iron. A few exchanged sharp words over their relative positioning. Around half of them wore red bands around their right arms, a smaller number blue A handful wore no ribbon.
Factions, then.
Perturabo matched the names and faces with the cities. It appeared the planet had split along the lines of the old Achaen Hexopolis and the Penthuik League, the two groupings that had opposed his unification of Olympia a century and a half ago. Predictable, and a harbinger of further fragmentation. Before long it would be city state against city state again. Perturabo was leadenly tired of it all.
‘You have chosen one to speak for all?’ said Perturabo. He was hidden in the gloom at the back of the tent. The hole around the anchoring ring of the pavilion let in a band of sunlight divided by the shadows of ropes. This solitary light was so bright that the rest of the space was cast into near darkness.
A woman stepped forwards.
‘Dematea of Achos!’ her herald announced. Perturabo did not recognise her. She had not been born the last time Perturabo had been upon Olympia.
‘Primarch Perturabo!’ she declaimed. ‘We of the Achaen Hexopolis petition you to join with us and put down these Penthuik dogs that we might have peace again.’
‘You look like yourgreat-great-great-grandmother,’ said Perturabo quietly.
The statement wrong-footed the woman. Her bearing was proud, but not proud enough to hide fear, and nor could it conceal her confusion.
‘She was a clever woman,’ continued Perturabo. ‘When I approached the gates of Achos with the men of Lochos and the Iron Band, she threw open her gates and welcomed me. Your city stands today thanks to her wisdom. I do not detect the same thoughtfulness in you.’ He looked over the others. ‘And you of the red ribbons. The Penthuik League?’ He snorted. ‘You resurrect that pathetic group? Why do you come to me? Do
ubtless you also will ask for my support in seceding from the Imperium of Man.’
Didimus Diogoras, the spokesman of the Penthuik party, seized his chance. ‘We ask no such thing. We ask only to be left alone. The Imperium bleeds us dry.’
‘Traitors,’ said Dematea.
‘Perhaps were it not for the machinations of the Achaens, we would not be in this woeful situation!’ retorted Didimus.
‘We are loyal!’ said Dematea.
‘Our grievances are the same,’ said Didimus.
‘Our aims are not.’
‘And you of no ribbons?’ said Perturabo. He spoke mildly. The emissaries would see no danger in his mood, but his sons did.
‘We are proud to stand alone,’ said one of them, misinterpreting Perturabo’s equanimity as genuine.
‘My lord, if we may begin our negotiations. There are several grievances we would put to you,’ said Dematea. ‘Once those are resolved, we of the blue ribbons will return home.’
‘The grievances we can agree on,’ said Didimus. ‘The resumption of Imperial rule we cannot. We of the Penthuik League demand our planet back.’
‘Do not listen to him, my lord. The Achaen Hexopolis wish for speedy re-establishment of proper authority, if only we can discuss the heavy burdens of recruitment upon our people,’ said Dematea.
It was plain enough that she despised Didimus, and wished to hurry through the talks to be away from him.
‘And what about your demands we cede the Ischian peninsula to your puppets in Doros? You protest loyalty, while using it as a cloak to seize our rightful lands,’ said Didimus.
‘Lies!’ said Dematea.
They began to argue, shouting at one another, forgetting that they were in the presence of a demigod. Perturabo’s irritation swelled.
‘This is not a negotiation,’ he said quietly. The argument continued, drawing in more of the delegation.
His temper broke, cresting suddenly as a wave. He slammed his hand into the arm of his chair. The clash of metal did not halt their bickering either.
‘This is not a negotiation!’ he shouted. They fell silent. ‘This is not your chance to petition me, or instruct me in your meaningless squabbles!’ He sat forwards in his throne, bringing his face into the brightness of the sun. The shadows cast on its features made it a crag as hard as any mountain’s. His voice was slow and forceful, building to a shout again. ‘All my life, your people used me, told me what to do, until my true father came You forget the new order. The Tyrant of Lochos was made planetary governor. You should have honoured the succession when Dammekos died.’
‘We are not opposed to the Imperium,’ said Dematea. ‘We are loyal to the ideal, just not the execution.’
‘The new order? Submit ourselves to hereditary tyranny of the entire planet to make your task in subjugating our spirit easier?’ said Didimus incredulously. ‘No more! We remove ourselves from your Imperium. Your new order has done no good to Olympia.’
‘No good, you say?’ said Perturabo. He lifted up his hand in a gesture of reasonableness. ‘Unity. Peace. New technologies. A life of ease free from war and outside threat. Without me, every mother on this planet would still be praying that the Black Judges choose not to visit during her children’s lifetimes. What have you lost?
‘Your ability to make war on each other? The chance for one family in each city to set themselves over every other citizen? Your accounting of the truth is poor.’
‘My lord, you relieved us of one terror only to replace it with one greater!’ protested Didimus. ‘Where once dozens were taken every century, now thousands are recruited every year.’
Perturabo’s eyes narrowed. His metal throne creaked under the strength of his grip.
‘We lose our children to you,’ said Dematea. ‘You have taken them, changed them and led them to their deaths on foreign spheres. To those who oppose you, you and your Emperor seem no better than the Black Judges, and the numbers you take exceed those the ancient lords of the Meretara Cluster stole by far.’
‘Lies!’ snapped Perturabo. ‘Your sons are heroes, not feedstock.’
‘Then show us that is so,’ said Dematea. ‘Give us the word of your Emperor that he values their sacrifice.’
A hot shiver of anger passed over the primarch’s skin. ‘Do not use his name against me,’ said Perturabo with quiet menace.
‘What of our grievances?’ said Didimus. ‘The political situation needs to be addressed. If we are to reconsider remaining as part of this polity, then our situation must change!’
Perturabo turned to him with a rictus smile. ‘What of your grievances? Do you believe them to be relevant, truly?’ He affected the sarcastic amity of a victorious despot. It was a role he had played before, and one that these men before him understood. He pretended it was necessary, and that he did not perform the role simply for the joy of it.
‘You will consider our requests then?’
Perturabo’s false smile froze and fell away. ‘Do you not see? Did you think Olympia is special somehow because I was found here? This world is like any other that has refused the light of the Emperor’s protection. It is non-compliant, and shall suffer the wrath of our Legion as a non-compliant world.’
He stood over the men and women.
‘You have not been on the front of the Great Crusade. You have not witnessed the worlds I have burned, the cultures I have extirpated, the xenos breeds I have consigned to extinction. If you had seen but one of the horrors waiting out there in the void, you would offer up your children without complaint. All that blood was spilt with one purpose - to safeguard mankind. Every human world, some of surpassing beauty and with cultures better than Olympia’s, that said no to the Emperor’s offer was destroyed. Why? To protect the greater bulk of mankind. You are rich with folly to think this slight could go unanswered. This is rebellion, no less, and will be answered as such.’
‘It is a negotiation!’ spluttered Didimus. ‘An arbitration, called under the ancient tenets of Eirene, and you threaten us with violence?’
‘You speak of peace?’ said Perturabo furiously. ‘You had peace, and you have turned your back on it. I judged you the moment I heard of your treachery, and I found you guilty.’ He took a step forwards, frightening the emissaries back. ‘There can be no negotiation with traitors.’
He laughed. A nervous note made it warble madly. The reasonable nature that had once ruled his heart watched in alarm as this pantomime unfolded, but it was powerless to stop the events’ progression. Perturabo doubted he would have stopped it even if he could. For days he had debated what he should do, sliding inexorably toward die path of blood. Now his feet were set upon it, it was almost a relief to follow it to its natural conclusion.
‘See!’
Perturabo nodded at his Dominators. With inactive power fists, they pulled heavy golden cords. Knots all along the wall tops untied and the skirts of the pavilion tent dropped to the floor, leaving the bell standing. Cold wind blew in, making the sand of the floor skitter away. Perturabo pointed eastwards towards Kardis. Its black fortifications dominated the horizon. The deep deft of the Kardikron pass faced them, showing its ranks of walls as a reptile splays its niffs in threat.
‘Before my conquest of Kardis, its walls were deemed unbreakable Not one enemy had succeeded in overthrowing them in over a thousand years, not until I brought them down. I rebuilt them to a better plan. Against any ground force they would be unbreakable save by me I will not conquer this city as I once did. I will not break its walls, or kill its people with my warriors.’
There were looks of relief of the faces of some Others were more cautious.
‘What will you dot asked Eugon Ptolemiades, whose city Kardis was.
‘I will destroy it. Utterly. I will annihilate Kardis. It was the site of my first victory in the unification of Olympia. It shall be the beginning of its punishment.’ He settled back into his throne. ‘Let fire herald the return of the Lord of Iron.’
‘No! Please my lord, I
beg you,’ said Ptolemiades.
‘You cannot—’ began Dematea.
Perturabo closed his fist.
Blazing spears of light stabbed down from the ships in orbit. Lance strikes ionised the atmosphere and sent thunderclaps of heat-shocked air across the mountains. They slammed into the near invisible void bubble covering Kardis. Unearthly growling echoed from the faces of Olympia’s stem mountains as it collapsed.
The shrieking whine of incoming heavy ordnance made conversation impossible. Giant shells fell from the sky, burning white with the heat of re-entry. They left smoking contrails that crossed one another in gentle curves, and then, in a fury of fire and roaring destruction, they levelled Kardis.
The sky blazed. The emissaries threw up their hands against the light and cried out.
An atomic bloom billowed from the city. Wind howled outwards, blowing the tent away and battering the emissaries down to their knees. Fire blasted out in every direction, setting the forests of the mountains alight and turning farmland in the valleys to poison ash.
‘I fought long and hard to find enough fissile elements to make the weapons that originally brought this world to its senses,’ shouted Perturabo over the moaning, hot death-wind blowing from Kardis. ‘Thanks to the Emperor and the priests of Mars, I have better weapons now, engines of destruction that you cannot imagine.’ The cap of the atomic cloud spread outwards, the pillar of steam and dust it rested on so thick it appeared solid. ‘You will not be given the chance to learn.’
The wind dropped, its force decreasing with unnatural smoothness to a warm breeze. Where Kardis had once stood there now blazed a firestorm haemorrhaging black smoke under a dispersing nuclear cloud.
‘The fate of Olympia will be decimation, as I enacted upon my Legion when I found it wanting. So shall it be here!’ He closed his eyes. He did not care to hide his pain.