Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 518 Isstvan III (3)

"The Titans are coming, sir. They are emerging from the southwest of the Ross River Gate towards the shed area. The attack is expected to be carried out in the direction of the Weak Sound Palace in the outer city."

Warsmith Bronne listened to the reports of several of his company commanders, looking up from the round table and making eye contact with his colleagues.

The senior commanders in charge of defense have already responded to the latest intelligence in their own customary ways. Some use classical voice or text, while others follow their genetic fathers and gradually use bundles of neural communication links to replace unnecessary physical sounds.

Bronne chose to connect his temple to the datapad with a pipe. Although he was an extremely skilled stone carver when not at war, he was no more averse to a newer way of life than any other Olympian.

And at the head of the hall, their silent commander-in-chief's performance in the war was still so pleasing to the eye, his fingers tapping on different steel screens one by one like flowing water, and the digital streams rolled horizontally on different horizontal planes like the wind. Everything was like an orderly forging, and Perturabo seemed to be born for this.

"How many Titan troops are there?" Browne turned back and asked his lieutenant to answer on the internal channel.

"After the bombing, the enemy forces reorganized and now there are two teams. In addition, there are two corresponding knight units, three air cover support units, and an air transport unit. The Thousand Sons warriors are deciphering the enemy's assembly orders."

"Contact the warsmiths in the underground hive and have them bring the cannons above ground. We're going to give them a war."

Browne tapped the side of his helmet, leaned back, and closed his eyes, data and thoughts blending in a void, deep into the detector systems outside the War Fortress that opened to him.

He heard the mortal soldiers and servitors in the fortress busy loading and firing shells, and hurriedly, non-stop, and heavy-footedly went to complete their war missions between the long corridors, the hot hangars, and the roaring energy room walkways. Each person only had time to be responsible for a single action, and had no time to pay attention to how many bunkers and flesh and blood bodies were shattered by the continuous sound of artillery fire...

The shaking void shields burst into bright spots of topaz and red garnet. The arms of the giant machines were replaced by hot chainsaws. Clusters of gun barrels were spinning, and flashes of blue flames burst out from the elliptical ventilation holes on the sides of the gun barrels, accompanied by the furious roar of the overloaded reactors. The concrete on the ground cracked and shattered under their giant feet, and white light filled the vaporized steam everywhere...

The entire battlefield is so hurried, and every part in the war is just a worker bee in a hive. Perhaps the hive is destined to be filled with some kind of life in the hive, whether it is the local residents of Isstvan III or the bodies of the warring parties, alive or dead.

This long scroll seems to be constantly moving, yet it also seems to have been frozen in time, just like the stone carvings he once carved, capturing a moment of time...

The sky above their heads was burning fiercely. Flames were falling continuously from the sky, and dozens of tiny reflective points flew up like meteors against the rain of fire. The wings of the fighter planes sprinted, hovered, spun, and dodged under vector acceleration, drawing extremely bold and sharp arcs, and the bright beams that pierced the black smoke, as well as the missiles that outlined the arc of fire, together weaved this gray sky...

The thunder of artillery bombardment...

A scream-like sound breaking through the air...

There was a murmur.

The silent noise suddenly cut out a huge blank in the various audios - or rather, it was a particularly dark gap.

The Warsmith suddenly opened his eyes, and his colleagues also felt something.

There was a quietly advancing force that suddenly overwhelmed the information transmission in their link equipment, tearing a completely different silence in the torrent of all the shouts, yells and rolling gunfire.

"Reporting, Tech Sergeant," Bronn whispered. "What is this?"

His team of technical sergeants did not answer. Before they could, a voice seemed to come from the void in the hum of silence, like a song in a torrent:

"... Embracing divine revelation... Beyond the flames of war, it is the mercy of the God-Emperor that is calling you. Your loyalty is misplaced, and your guilt is yet to be determined... Your hands no longer need to be stained with blood, but will be lifted up and led to the peaceful shore leading to the Throne of Light... The only true glory is the Holy Name of the Emperor... Think about why you attacked your compatriots and your neighbors; oh, brothers, when will you make up for this sin and shame..."

Warsmith Bronne's brows were furrowed as deep as a knife, and his fists were clenched. The other warsmiths were either serious or annoyed. Some of them temporarily turned off their headphones, indignant that the singing of the Word Bearers was spreading everywhere.

A wave of rage surged in Bronn's iron chest. "Has the Word Bearers gone mad? Coming to shake our loyalty?" he said.

"Loyalty to whom?"

A low voice fell from above their heads, and the Iron Lord Perturabo stood up from his throne wrapped in layers of chain-like pipes, his eyes looking far away, as if he was still immersed in his fully focused command of the war.

When his eyes met Browne's directly, Browne suddenly felt a chill as if he was being locked by the entire weapon system of a city, even though the feeling was fleeting.

"Loyalty to you, my Lord," said Bronn, his nerves tense.

Perturabo was noncommittal. "What do you think of this battlefield?"

This question made Browne's spirit tense and his mind worked quickly. He needed to come up with a general and comprehensive layout, just like carving a stone statue, starting with the largest outline, then changing tools to chisel out details bit by bit, and finally grinding the silicon carbide stylus and adjusting the sandpaper...

"We have to maintain the front line in this area. This is the primary task of the City of Anthem." Brown stood up, called up the hologram, and drew a long red line on the map with a data pen. "In this area, the enemy needs at least eight to nine companies, as well as all the corresponding mortal auxiliary troops, engineers, medical soldiers, air support teams and rear firepower; and their attack radius should be in this area." He added two dotted lines, "We must guard the fourth trunk line of the land train to replenish troops to the front and ensure stable control of the air take-off and landing port. To this end, I apply to mobilize two additional rocket regiments to this area."

"Do you think this is enough?"

Brown was silent for a moment. "First, we need to restore the normal operation of the communication channel."

"So what if it's hard to accomplish?"

"No, sir, we can—"

"We must assume that. The Thousand Sons are too weak," Perturabo said.

Bronn understood the Iron Lord's hint. The Word Bearers were not using purely technological means. Of course, in the prayers they chanted in unison, they disguised the sorcery of the Warp as divine arts bestowed by the God-Emperor, and regarded the flow of their own corrupt blood as a manifestation of loyalty and bravery.

"Our loyalty will not be swayed by the Word Bearers' fair words, my lord."

"Loyalty to whom?" a repeated question.

"Loyalty to the Empire." Browne blurted out. It was such a familiar answer, but this time, his voice gradually lost its former determination.

Perturabo's eyes cut through like a knife. "A collapsed empire?"

Bronne lowered his head and was silent for a moment. The Iron Warrior's armor seemed to turn into iron chains, locking his chest tightly.

He had to rethink the Primarch's question.

In the past, this would not have been a question - loyalty to the Imperium, loyalty to the Emperor, loyalty to ideals, loyalty to the Primarch... He could have given any of those answers, and the entire Iron Warriors would have proudly agreed with him.

What now?
"Loyal to our ideals," Browne replied nervously. As soon as he said this, he seemed to feel something strange, as if this sentence was incompatible with his beliefs.

"An ideal to conquer for mankind?"

"Yes, my lord."

"So we can pursue a golden and peaceful future?"

…Istvaan III evaporated into a cloud of ash in their hands, fodder for war itself.

"Yes, my lord," said Bronn, his lips pressed together.

Perturabo laughed coldly, and his light eyes fell on Bron's face. The reflected light was like the sharp edge of a scalpel, gently and accurately dissecting Bron's mind.

"Then you should listen to Aurelion and side with the Throneworld," Perturabo said, "for we are waging a war against humanity that will reduce half the Imperium to dust."

Browne was silent. His face was burning.

"We are to be loyal to you, my Lord." He repeated this answer, and even though it was not what Perturabo wanted, it was the only one he could think of at the moment.

"Sit down," Perturabo said.

Browne held the armrest of his chair and sat down at the round table again.

"Yes, sir," he said reluctantly.

"The last person to whom we owed personal loyalty was the Lord of Mankind," Perturabo said softly.

The Warsmiths were all silent, staring at their Primarch without blinking.

"The Lord of Mankind. The future. The ideal. The Empire. All of this is in the past. We are bleeding. Evaporating into smoke under the fire of the Titans. All of this is no longer about the loyalty and the oaths we made in the past, because we have broken them all. Therefore, there is no glory anymore." Perturabo said forcefully.

"Loyal to pain. Loyal to death. Loyal to war. Loyal to the gifts you were forged with. Loyal to the steel outside of you, and the steel within. All we have to offer is war. More war. I care not to whom you are loyal, my warriors, I only want war to burn beneath the throne."

Brown felt his bones trembling slightly inside the armor, half of it was the fear caused by the moral norms taught by nature, and half of it was the excitement turbulent in his blood and genes.

He seemed to hear the hum of a stone drill at the front edge of his skull, hammering in an iron nail that would never rust, piercing through his brain...

"Yes, my Lord," Browne murmured, almost instinctively, as if he had never doubted it. "We are ready."

Perturabo turned and stepped across the richly carved golden floor, his footsteps easily interrupting the rhythm of the Word Bearers' preaching.

"Steel inside and out," Browne heard his partner say, trembling, and he whispered it after him, his own anger and fear strangely calming.

Calm as steel. So cold.

"Andraz, go find Angron. Ask him to come here," Perturabo said suddenly. "And Bronn, I want you to remember everything you saw."

"What for, my Lord?"

Perturabo paused for a moment, then sat back down on his iron throne, and the metal plates began to slide down, covering him.

"Because you are a stonemason," Perturabo replied. "There will come a time when we will all need to remember what is happening. When you are no longer carving for yourself, but for someone in the future. Anyone." Bronne's heavy heart lifted a corner slightly, because it meant only one thing to him, that Perturabo had promised them personally that there would be a future.

-

"All he wants is a war." Gavial Loken heard the voice of the Wolf God again in his mind. Horus' eyes were extremely cold, but with some indescribable complexity.

He turned sideways, swung his sword, and the blade pierced through a piece of blue and white armor. He blocked and counterattacked, and raised his right hand. Killed in one blow.

The World Eaters came upon them in an endless stream, and beneath their feet piled up corpses that they had no time to collect, nor the inclination to do so.

The raindrops hit his visor and turned into white steam in an instant. It was raining in the Anthem City, and the gunfire of the Iron Warriors was thunder in the rain. The rain blurred the vision in the distance, and those God's machines were like burly giants, biting the gunmetal battlements... Those sharp giant power claws and rotating blades cut out a piece of broken light.

A slightly smaller knight, like a small bird, flew into the battle formation with fluttering flag feathers, and was then hit head-on by a cluster of hot rays. A handful of white mist erupted in the fire. The knight fell down, and the deformed metal legs broke on the ground. The pilot's wet and soft body rolled out of the open cabin.

The corpses… piled up in the rain, and in the countless days when the flames of war were extinguished, the corpses were the brand new mountains on the surface of Isstvan III, and the layers of history would be the layers of rock strata of the mountains themselves.

"Should we give them?" Loken recalled his answer, with mixed feelings. "Give them war?"

He remembered the last look Horus gave him, the thoughtfulness in his eyes when he mentioned Perturabo, and - sadness. A delicate mental turmoil made the wolf god's expression difficult to hide.

He aimed forward, his sights moving between several locations in the misty rain, trying to determine the hiding places of the snipers in the buildings of the hive. A shock wave exploded around him, pushing him backwards. He immediately pulled the trigger, and the explosive bullet passed through the air wave and hit the target high up. Several pieces of broken metal cut through the raindrops and disappeared from sight in the blink of an eye.

More explosions occurred around him, and the entire street fell into endless turmoil, as if he himself was standing in a rolling kaleidoscope. He gasped and dodged, the strong smell of oil and blood was filtered by the mask, leaving only a faint trace, and the tip of his tongue was filled with the smell of hot metal.

The stone slabs beneath his feet shook as he jumped. Loken's body instinctively leaned forward, holding his sword tightly, preparing for a fierce counterattack. The World Eater rushed out from the heavy rain, swinging down with a huge hammer, tearing the air apart. He had no time to think, his intuition and training made him dodge sideways, and his sword slashed through the air, brushing past the opponent's hammer. The violent collision almost made him lose his balance, but his steps were still as steady as a rock, and he quickly counterattacked, picking off the metal chain wrapped around the enemy's arm armor with one knife.

"Wolves are born for this." Horus answered briefly, without a trace of hesitation in his tone. A few days later, he left the ground and returned to the high starry sky of the Isstvan system, commanding the endless battles of the void fleet, keeping the fire burning in the far sky.

The rainstorm intensified. Perhaps their actions on this continent had intentionally or unintentionally promoted the gathering of rain clouds. Once again, the rain and blood mixed together. Loken did not dare to look back and could only move forward. The knights in front were flattening the slippery streets in this hive city. A building was completely sunk from top to bottom under the thin floor, and people on both sides fell from the edge of the breach.

Locke turned on the sound array, tightened his neck muscles, and the throat microphone began to capture sound signals. He quickly issued some instructions to improve the detection of mines, trenches, and engineering obstacles, and to strengthen the support of the front line. In this chaotic battlefield, any second of hesitation could lead to irreversible consequences.

The laser beam flew past his calf, and he felt the blood splattering from the wound. Beside him, the Moon Wolves were dying in a new round of hidden volleys, being torn and injured, and the corpses kept accumulating on the wet rainy street. The red armor of the Word Bearers when they fell filled with a bright cinnabar blood color...

If no one cleans up the battlefield, perhaps a plague will eventually break out among fragile mortals, endangering both sides. This is an invisible bomb that hurts both sides - but it is not difficult to imagine its tragic possibility.

After all, despite Loken's orders, despite his efforts to ensure that every detail was arranged accurately, they were still just wasting their time on the outskirts of the city, piling up their own corpses day after day.

The Iron Warriors guarded the ground, the Imperial Fists defended the sky, the World Eaters and the Emperor's Children... they could not defeat the enemy. And no matter how many times they charged or bombed... the battlefield seemed to be just an endless cycle, repeating the same blood and destruction. The Chancellor Palace still stood proudly in the upper nest, the tip of the gold and red diamond reflecting the hazy white light in the rain.

The war has lasted for nearly two months.

"All he wants is a war." Loken whispered to himself. The words were like a hook, deeply hooking his heart, making him begin to doubt his every move and the meaning of this battle - if it really had any meaning. In a brief moment, this doubt almost overwhelmed all the anger and sadness that had accumulated in his heart.

As the negative emotions rising in his heart dissipated, the air on the battlefield suddenly changed, as if distorted by some invisible force.

A strange sound came from his voice beads that kept capturing the rumble of war and urgent instructions. At first it was just a faint, sharp busy tone, difficult to detect in the thundering artillery fire. But as time went on, the sound gradually became clearer and could not be ignored.

It is a choral singing.

It did not come from any single human throat, but rather some kind of mechanized chorus, ethereal, eerie and sacred, as if hidden in some unspeakable power - making Loken almost wonder if this was the most true masterpiece of the Word Bearers Astrologer Choir.

The melody is light and distant, yet also extremely corrosive to the mind, like a poisonous snake lurking in the heart, slowly climbing up the nerves and tearing down the barriers of reason.

"... All glory to our God-Emperor. Your bravery and crimes will be counted on the day of reckoning... We long for His mercy on your behalf, and ask Him to turn His face to your true heart..."

The song slowly rose, echoing in this half-ruined city, carrying an indescribable sacred aura, as if this bloody and wet battlefield itself was endowed with a lofty meaning. It was like an obsessive-compulsive disorder, tightly grasping everyone's heart. Although the artillery fire was still thundering, and the smell of blood and decay was everywhere...

How did the Word Bearers do it? Loken thought silently, as a series of new data rolled on the inside of the visor - the identification code of the Word Bearers.

However, what methods did these lunatics use to completely occupy the audio information channel? It couldn't be that they really relied on their piety to the Emperor of God as they said?

"We firmly believe that in this world, we will definitely see a kingdom that embraces all believers. You must have the courage to find true loyalty..."

All his comrades who were wearing blood-red armor beside him stopped what they were doing, as if some irresistible call had given their souls a place to rest. It was not difficult to imagine how their faces under the masks trembled slightly and how their expressions became as if intoxicated - and on these devout believers, a layer of dark invisible film flashed by, and some flames disappeared without a trace before licking the surface of their armor.

Even if the next moment, the Iron Warriors' attack hit the entity again, those who had managed to escape for a second had their lives taken away again in the next second as if fulfilling a silent promise.

Regardless, this brief miracle only fueled the Word Bearers' ecstasy, and their war cries could be heard even through their helmets.

...Inside the sound array, the singing became clearer and clearer, like a horn from the sky, causing a kind of sacred fanaticism to spread among the team. To a certain extent, Loken even deeply doubted whether this had affected the Shadow Moon Wolves.

Is the Emperor watching us? Loken wondered anxiously.

If this was a feeling born from his heart, he probably wouldn't be so uneasy, but it was the Word Bearers who brought in this sacred source. This added an indelible shadow to all the glory... In the final analysis, he couldn't eliminate his prejudice against the Word Bearers, perhaps it came from the assassination that year, or perhaps it was some natural hostility.

It was in this song on the radio that all the pain and blood were sanctified, and all the violence and slaughter were given meaning. The song became louder and louder, like simmering spices for offering, and the dark flashes pounced on every inch of his skin and soaked into every drop of his blood, dyeing the notes with fanaticism, and this fanaticism was like a rain curtain, covering all the death and pain in this place with a glittering veil.

For a moment, he felt that he was isolated from the world by the heavy rain and out of tune with this war.

Even though his bolter was emitting brilliant flames and his power sword was piercing deep into the enemy's ribs, he suddenly drew his sword and spun around to block.

"The wolves were born for this..." Horus' voice sounded again in his ears, calm and deep.

Then came Saul Tarvitz's heavy answer, and his - mercy. No doubt.

Loken took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He let the bolter roar in his hand and decided to see this battle as just another insurmountable challenge, another mountain to climb. Nothing more.

Until he received new news. He had waited for a long time, and now he still felt a little happy when he heard it.

The reinforcements summoned by Lorgar Aurelion have already separated from the Warp route of Isstvan III and arrived in real space.

-

Without any connection, he thought of a world that he had once executed.

At that time, he stood on the bridge, pointing his sickle forward, and the atmosphere on the planet's surface was torn outward by the explosion of the broken core. The gas, which had been dyed a light pus green by the poisonous fog, spread into the surrounding darkness like a broken moon, gradually becoming thinner and scattered.

Soil, rock and a few minerals were scattered into fine dust, floating to every corner of the universe. Some of them were crushed by invisible hands and sank into the deep darkness forever, while others were sucked into the companion star by the ruthless gravity, creating a second catastrophe that swept in without warning and destroyed more lives.

He witnessed the death of life on the bridge, and felt neither joy nor sadness. Even for him, his emotion was more inclined towards the former.

For he is the Emperor's sickle, and sickles are made to harvest. Whether it be crops or anything else, the only thing to be harvested is life.

Yet, even during that time, the planets he executed still left behind pieces of debris, as the discarded debris of the universe, waiting to be transformed into nutrients one day. One day, from the yeast of death, the sweet wine of new life will be brewed, dedicated to all those who deserve to continue to live...

Prospero had a different fate.

Magnus too...

Their disappearance was complete, without any room for error, and completely wiped out.

When he tried to pursue it, questioning Prospero's ending with a heart full of disbelief and betrayal, all he got was a handful of dust.

Mortarion strode through the plainly decorated halls of the Endurance, a gray and cold ghost - but tall enough that this fragile paleness itself turned into an overflowing horror. His anger was steaming in his chest, almost floating out of his gray and yellow robes, turning into another handful of dust, a pale dust condensed from anger and pain.

Finally, outside the domed mathematical divination room, Mortarion stopped and lowered his head to respond to the sound of footsteps following him.

As for Karas Typhon, he was willing to accept the questions that the other party was about to ask.

Typhon's armor was engraved with many geometric patterns and simple formulas, as well as runes of numerology that Mortarion had studied himself, and array seals that Magnus had added. On Typhon, these patterns were just decorations carved with a knife, without real power. This was a physical recording of his past learning process, and now it has almost become a carrier of memory.

"My Lord," Typhon looked confused, "Do you really believe what the Word Bearers say?"

"The words of a group of sycophantic jesters? The words of a coward who was forced to kneel before the Nicaea Assembly?" Mortarion said, hooking open the door of the Scrying Chamber with his sickle, his robes rippling with his every word.

Typhon nodded. Ever since Lorgar Aurelion had publicly expressed his opposition "with those mysterious nonsense" at the Congress of Nicaea jointly convened by Mortarion and Magnus, Mortarion had never had a single positive comment about the Word Bearers.

He was very clear about this. He had always been very close to Mortarion and could smell the pungent anger and hesitation on him. These emotional hormones seemed to float outside along with the smoke from the small incense burner hanging on his body, enveloping the Lord of Death.

He narrowed his eyes, thinking, assessing the situation. When Mortarion stepped into the Scrying Chamber, he boldly followed. Sure enough, his Primarch let the door close naturally after he entered.

"And yet, we are here, my lord. We have come all the way to Isstvan III."

"Because this is the Emperor's will," Mortarion said, stepping over the crystal mirror circle displayed on the ground and coming to the center of the room. The broken crystals were arranged into looping circles nested in each other, embodying a kind of endless quality with inorganic matter, surrounding the Lord of Death.

"At least, that is the Emperor's will as conveyed by the Custodes themselves," the Primarch added, his face shrouded in the shadow of his sallow hood.

(End of this chapter)