Chapter 46: Warsmith Valkar He'en

Chapter 46: Warsmith Valkar He'en

After a journey through the chaotic, time-distorting tides of the Immaterium, The Ironclad and its four escorts translated back into realspace. They had not taken the stable route from the Eye of Terror, but had plunged directly from the Maelstrom, navigating the Sea of Souls to reach the muster point for the First Black Crusade.

Malem. A Fortress World.

It was one of the many bastions held by the Black Legion, bristling with extreme orbital defenses and a planetary void-shield. Even if one made planetfall, the countless fortifications and gun-emplacements would make any assault a meat grinder.

Fortunately, Petros and his brothers were not here to conquer it. They were here to pledge their fealty to Abaddon—or at least, to be accepted into the battle-roster for his crusade.

The orbital plate was a chaotic, sprawling marketplace. A massive sky-hook, like the tentacle of a steel kraken, rose from the planet's surface, its docks grappling dozens of capital ships. Thousands more vessels drifted in the black, a swarm of metallic islands awaiting clearance—clearance that might never come, as the prime berths were reserved for the Black Legion's inner circle and the great warbands.

While still at a distance, Petros had his Ship-Master, Barnabas, transmit their identity-runes. The starport's cogitators assigned them a remote, low-priority holding pattern.

The Forged Steel Brotherhood's flotilla consisted of only five ships:

The Ironclad (Sword-class Frigate)

One armed freighter (Prize)

One Vagabond-class hauler (Prize)

Two Tarasque-class merchantmen (Chartered)

The last two were chartered from Daedalos. If the Vagabond was a flying target, the Tarasque hulls were just thin-skinned, juicy prizes waiting to be popped.

After moving to their position, the long wait began. Petros didn't even dare lower the Geller Field; while an Astartes could resist the slow creep of the Eye's influence, his mortal crews could not.

Finally, after several days, word came: a member of the Ezekarion, Valkar He'en, would see him. The Ezekarion were Abaddon's inner circle, his high council, the only ones permitted to address the Warmaster by his given name.

It was to be expected. The leader of a mere half-company did not warrant an audience with the Despoiler himself.

The Storm Eagle gunship touched down in a cavernous hangar bay. Petros disembarked, flanked by Warpsmith Phelon and his bodyguard, Antonius. He wore his Mark III 'Iron' Armor, polished to a high sheen, its gunmetal-grey a stark contrast to the surrounding filth. His helmet was mag-locked to his belt, his plasma pistol and power axe at his hips.

Their clean plate was jarringly out of place. The deck was slick with black, oily grime, and the walls were covered in blasphemous runes and summoning circles. Mortal slaves scurried about, and in one dark corner, a dozen Hell-Drakes were bound by heavy chains and glowing psycho-arcane wards, their maws venting flame.

A surprisingly well-dressed cultist hurried toward them, bowing low. "Lord Petros. Please, this way." Petros just nodded and followed.

He noted the heavy auto-turrets tracking their every move, and saw sections of the station's machinery that had been fused with daemonic flesh, twisting them into true Daemon-Engines.

As they walked, they passed other Astartes. Some had their power armor fused impossibly with their own twisted flesh. Others were so corrupted they were barely recognizable as human. One group, clad in bloated, cracked plate, was surrounded by a cloud of fat, black flies. They were laughing and drinking some noxious fluid from metal cups; as Petros passed, he saw a plump, white maggot crawl over the rim of one.

Phelon leaned in, his vox low. "Throne, it stinks. Look at that one, his guts are hanging out. And his codpiece is cracked. Is that what the old texts call 'indecent exposure'?"

Petros sighed. "I know you enjoy those Old Terran texts, Phelon. Try to filter out the nonsense."

The cultist led them to a massive adamantium hatch, guarded by two Black Legion Astartes. "Your weapons," one of them growled. The three brothers disarmed, leaving their axes and pistols with the guards.

They entered. The chamber was a vast audience hall. High above, on a throne built from shattered machinery and war-trophies, a figure sat, forcing them to look up.

He was an Astartes, also clad in Mark III 'Iron' Armor—the hallmark of the IVth Legion. But his plate was not the gunmetal-grey of the old Legion, nor the polished silver of Petros's own warband. It was painted in the black-and-gold of the Black Legion.

Valkar was unhelmed. His face was a mask of cold iron, his eyes sharp enough to pierce a soul. His skin was coarse, dark, and etched with the scars of centuries of war. He sat with a relaxed confidence, one hand resting on the throne's arm, the other on the haft of a massive Thunder Hammer. His entire posture radiated an unshakeable authority.

Valkar He'en, former Warsmith of the Iron Warriors' Grand Battalion, now Fleet-Master of the Black Legion, spoke. His voice was a cold, flat rumble.

"Lieutenant Petros. I am... pleased... to see you have not been twisted by the Empyrean's touch."

His tone held no pleasure at all.

Petros looked up at his former commander. "It has been a long time, Warsmith Valkar."

Valkar stared down at his former subordinate—a mere company Lieutenant. "If Captain Crassus were alive to see you now... he would be very proud."

A cold fury gripped Petros, but he held it in. That loss was not Valkar's fault. He cut to the chase. "We are here for the Black Crusade. Where is the wargear you promised?"

Valkar shifted in his throne, leaning forward, resting his chin on his fist. "Do you know how many warbands have come here, Petros? How many traitors have pledged their 'unending loyalty'? Most are liars. Cowards. Carrion-hounds, waiting for the scraps."

He tapped the throne's arm. "They were not worthy of my time. But you... you are different. You served under me. I know you have skill. I know you have resolve."

A thin, cruel smile touched Valkar's lips. "But more importantly, I know that outside of the battlefield, you are pathologically incapable of lying. So I granted this audience. I believe this conversation... will be very interesting."