Chapter 145: Iron And Death

This was a jungle of steel bones and sinews.

Black, grey and silver spreading as they marched onward, bright sparks flickering across metallic planes precise and aloof.

The sole bursts of color disrupting this oppressive vista were banners of the Steel Wardens dangling along the corridor, garish black-and-yellow warning all comers of whose domain this was.

The shuffling scrape of censers bumping against battleplate sounded strangely muted amidst the muffled footsteps.

Servo-skulls parted the doors open for the honored guests.

Mortarion strode through without hesitation, anointed Deathshrouds silently following their gene-sire into the vaulted chamber beyond, all wrought of the same pitiless iron.

Utilitarian lines rigidly unbroken by needless decoration stretched before them. Myriads of ebon displays dotted the walls, torrents of data surging nonstop.

And beneath that grandiose banner's shadow amidst this lightless sea of slate iron stood the Steel Lord at the room's heart.

Perturabo.

Mortarion quietly mouthed this name in his mind, evaluating the brother before him.

Formidable silver-grey warplate bedecked the Steel Lord, the very metal itself appearing molded extensions of his frame, glinting faintly in the bright illumination.

Calibrated fiber cables spidering from neural implants writhed angrily beneath his warhelm.

To Mortarion, this first look at his kinsman reminded him much of Fulgrim Manus - that same metallic quality to them, all sterile intellect and frozen emotions.

And given Mortarion's past unpleasant dealings with the Phoenician, he decided to further curb any expectations.

Mortarion's memories of Perterabo were limited to vague recollections of Macaroth's mutterings on the Olympian, quickly digressing elsewhere without elaboration:

"Very concerned about external judgment. Very concerned over his self-image."

Mortarion found these opaque descriptors entirely unhelpful, typical of the crafty politician's favored brand of ambiguous rhetoric, getting listeners to arrive at whatever conclusion he desired.

On Perturabo and his Legion, Mortarion's foreknowledge came mainly from Hades, whose Death Guards had crossed the IVth aboard Mars.

Recalling Hades' hesitant words:

"From what I heard, the Steel Wardens revere their father profoundly but fatigue and weariness lie veiled behind that awe whenever he's mentioned."

Mortarion blinked in bemusement. Awe towards their sire was only expected from sons, yet such exhaustion?

Never had Mortarion deliberately taxed his own with pointless rigors. Either awe or fear suited his purpose, not drained spirits.

The Death Guards embodied no such enervating qualities.

Nor did he, Mortarion concluded with self-satisfied assurance.

Clearly his sibling's thoughts rarely drifted towards his sons' wellbeing if eliciting such unease. Displeasure flickered briefly through Mortarion before dissipating into indifference again.

He cared not for other Legions' affairs, only that his domain remained free of disruptions. So long as no interference emerged against Barbaran sovereignty, Mortarion's gaze seldom lifted from worlds under his governance.

Seeing his guest arrive, the Lord of Iron now rose from his data terminal to greet him.

"Greetings."

Mortarion's ragged voice preceded his upraised hand, intending to convey amity.

Some perfunctory joint campaign mattered little for distracting him from tedious bureaucratic tasks, cooperation with another Legion inconsequential so long as no Fulgrim or Vulkan featured. Apathy suffusing, Mortarion could tolerate subtle glimpses of malintent from most quarters.

Watching Mortarion enter, Perturabo had specifically chosen this, his favorite data-crypt, to host the agri-world Primarch.

The entire chamber could display realtime battlefield feeds from an entire sector simultaneously, collated by Perturabo's customized algorithms for utmost efficiency - something few other brothers bothered implementing to such refined degrees.

He hoped this kinsman might properly appreciate everything laid out before them.

But Perturabo swiftly realized Mortarion had come swathed in his own obscuring mists instead.

The inscrutable rebreather mask hid Mortarion's lower face while his pulled-low cowl cloaked eyes in shadows. Curling smog trailed from the censers clattering on his battleplate, further veiling whatever lay beneath that deeply hooded countenance.

There was no discerning anything of Mortarion's current mien to Perturabo's brief bewilderment, cocking his head askance. Then a swell of annoyance instinctively rose towards the noisomely wafting toxic fumes before Mortarion interjected first with a cordial enough overture that stayed any comments.

They briefly clasped hands.

"Iron Lord of Black Reaving fourth, Perturabo of Olympia."

" Death Lord of Blight-wracked fourteenth, Mortarion of Barbarus."

By mutual unspoken assent, both quickly detached from the perfunctory handshake, each seemingly averse prolonged physical contact during initial meetings.

"The fourteenth came as soon as Gryaia's calls reached us."

Mortarion turned his gaze onto the markers scattered across the tactical display.

"Yet your campaign looks well underway."

The slightest sibilant edge whispered through the Death Lord's lightly uttered words but nothing concrete stirred from their tranquil surface.

Content at his brother's diction though, "the Forge World" rather than "Steel Wardens", Perturabo waved a dismissive hand.

"Indeed. The Steel Wardens have already commenced hostilities."

He strove keeping any tones of resignation from creeping into that admission. Truthfully the minor skirmish held little consequence, only his current guest's request for an audience detaining Perturabo here any longer.

With an ushering gesture he guided Mortarion towards the three-dimensional holotable where cyclopean projections of Mine World 106 rotated through their tireless simulations.

IVth Legion long-range artillery and air support squadrons had already thrust forwards to the 02 sector, giving his sons at the 03 front ample fire coverage.

Storm Eagles streaked overhead, coordinated strikes penetrating through AA umbrella defenses to deluge designated enemy positions after initial recon runs.

Across the infantry grind, Predators advanced in staggered bounds alongside the astartes advance, backline bombardments ensuring their wedge remained a thundering battering ram obliterating all resistance.

The sole shortcoming that stung Perturabo was the lack of serious aerial opposition, xenos forces fielding only Canoptek Scarabs leaving upper atmosphere nodes vacant on the battlescape.

Less chances to properly showcase his prowess at coordinating three-dimensional conquest.

His mind wandering away from the ticker-tape tallies and analytical indexes, Perturabo nevertheless stood patiently as caustic annoyance simmered beneath at the clinging reek from Mortarion's direction.

Behold this masterful campaign in motion upon the field, far beyond some backwater agri-world foot soldier's capacities.

Yet the revenant beside him may as well have petrified into ossified wood, betraying no visible reaction whatsoever.

Unlike his host, Mortarion found himself disappointed that the ongoing crusade required little Death Guard intervention it seemed.

Still meeting silence even now, Perturabo's arms crossed in gathering pique.

Mortarion was still trying to find sectors the Death Guard could seize involvement in.

Perturabo paced several steps around the tactical display.

Mortarion remained fixated on studying the projections.

Perturabo halted again.

Still Mortarion stood rooted and motionless.

Witnessing this scene, Hades shivered beneath his Deathshroud helm.

This wasn't looking good at all.

Unlike Fulgrim or Vulkan, Perturabo likely wouldn't tolerate some "lower tier" individual intruding into his "elevated" dialogue.

Although Hades had circumspectly spent their prior journey warning Mortarion about the Lord of Iron's temperament, hoping to brace his gene-sire's expectations, steeling him for the imminent reality check.

When hopes weren't lofty, disillusionment's sting felt gentler.

But clearly, Mortarion had been too preoccupied relishing his respite from paperwork to properly heed any advice.

Perturabo's Triarchs on the other side were also growing antsy, oft accompanying their gene-father with insider awareness of his moods. More than one had detected the mounting friction.

Other than Perturabo's echoing footfalls and Mortarion's rasping rebreather hisses, oppressive silence smothered the room.

All present save Mortarion could sense the ominous pressure building.

Mortarion blinked contemplatively. Perhaps he could get the Death Guard to drop into Sector 03's rear for a pincer maneuver, wedging apart the enemy battle line between them and frontal Steel Wardens forces.

The prerequisite was attaining brief air superiority for their landing from Perturabo's forces though, keeping hostile fire off the Death Guard until they finished deployment. Otherwise, difficult for his Legion to gain any foothold.

Mortarion quickly estimated the IVth's present assets and satisfyingly concluded they were sufficient for temporarily shielding his Legion.

Though relying on another's forces galled his pride, Mortarion understood that had Death Guard spearheaded the invasion instead, wresting aerial control would have proceeded faster than whatever victories his sibling had accomplished so far. Like all that unnecessary time spent fortifying trenches...

"Can your Steel Wardens secure air supremacy here?"

Mortarion gestured at the map coordinates in question.

Perturabo jerked slightly before bellowing loudly in sheer incredulity.

Was Mortarion actually doubting his capabilities?! Some backwater yokel with but a single skirmish demanding answers from him?

"Cannot you see we have already achieved complete domination of local airspace?! Or are you incapable of even comprehending what air superiority means?!"

Bewildered at why his brother was suddenly livid, Mortarion frowned. He had intentionally avoided directly offering the Death Guard's aid since most Legions disdained volunteering assistance unasked.

But hearing Perturabo's latter half, Mortarion swiftly switched from confusion into anger.

"What exactly is your implication?"

Mortarion's words emerged like soft viper hisses as his grip upon Silence tightened.

"Perhaps three-dimensional combined arms maneuvers still remain beyond your grasp."

Perturabo dispassionately locked gazes with Mortarion. He shouldn't have bothered anticipating any feudal backworld simpleton comprehending his brilliance.

Hearing his brother's sneering contempt sparked dry mirthless chuckles from Mortarion that sounded more like a leper's hacking coughs.

While the unprovoked vitriol baffled Mortarion, its advent hardly shocked him. He basically expected potential attacks from all quarters.

"It appears my astute brother wishes flaunting those convoluted vocabularies beyond my limited bumpkin dialects' grasp. But do enlighten this ignorance - if your battlefield acumen is so consummate, why do you tarry here at some dim-witted kinsman's side instead of the Emperor's?"

They both knew who "He" denoted.

Hoping to land a telling blow, Mortarion weaponized the meager bits he recollected on rival Primarchs and forces, recalling how Macaroth often criticized them for excessive obsequence towards the Emperor.

Not that Mortarion cared what that deceiver said, but realizing most siblings weren't as indifferent...

Perturabo roared furiously at the verbal salvo.

"As a recent inductee, what right have you lecturing on his affairs?! Those campaigns involve randomly chosen nearby Legions while our lord entrusts the Steel Wardens more glorious yet arduous tasks beyond the comprehension of laymen like you!"

Sensing his barb had struck home, Mortarion sneered in gratification. Ah, another coddled child still desperately fixated on Father's approval.

He pressed forth his perceived advantage from patched scraps of intel.

"Is that so? Those just happen to position Lupercal's Luna Wolves adjacent on every occasion?"

Mortaribo's mocking query instantly reforged Perturabo's mien into remorseless iron.

"Get out."

His verdict echoed with implacable finality.

"Rube."

Mortarion froze at the insult as frigid silence enveloped the room, his gaze flickering towards Silence.

Witnessing his father's actions, Hades on the verge of tearing out his hair in frustration prayed for some interruption towards ending this absurd clash, even opening his own vox desperately—

Alarms suddenly blared out as the stellar display abruptly birthed a seething abscess of ships at the system edge trailing lambent jade contrails, vast squadrons shaped like arcing scythe blades now angling directly for the Steel Wardens' Fleet stationed by 106's local asteroid belt!

Resultant data streams from detected enemy strengths and two Legions planetside had activated even larger awakened forces below.

Perturabo studied the xenos vessels briefly and dismissed them with a snort, vastly inferior to his own assembled naval assets.

[Mortarion?]

Seizing the pause, Hades instantly switched over to secured private vox.

[Order our ships retreating behind the Steel Wardens' for now! Have them absorb the initial volleys, Perturabo looks unaware still of what those Necron ships can do!]

The sudden alarms and Hades' urgent warning helped jar Mortarion from his anger.

He hesitated slightly in consideration. Much of the Death Guard fleet consisted of recent reinforcements, parts had been lost over Galaspar already...

Mortarion also preferred avoiding more losses pinned here under Perturabo's eyes.

[We're leaving.]

Casting his silent brother another measuring look, Mortarion simply turned to depart without further words, discussions clearly concluded.