My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 392: Before the First Battle
The shaft of the scythe plunged straight into the yellow sand and gravel.
Firelight flickered across the pitch-black, silent armor, reflecting a hazy blue from the veiled horizon, only to be torn apart again by drifting smoke and gunpowder.
Silvery tear-like streaks slid down from the pauldrons. An incense censer, like a small meteor hammer, hung low; within the arc of its black iron halo, the giant's expression was obscured beneath shadow, unreadable.
He gripped a deep-obsidian long scythe. Silver fissures crawled from the haft up along the blade like lightning, the edge sharp and flawless, a dim, eerie green glow shimmering at its tip—an ominous, alien light.
Two large pistols hung at his waist: one entirely jet-black, its body thick and heavy, with massive, glowing charge channels embedded within; the other bone-white, its lines sharp and severe. Black and white ammunition was likewise strapped to his belt.
A massive broken sword, half-wrapped in cloth, was carried on the back of the black-armored giant. His entire being radiated an uncanny aura. The fractured edge was jagged and rough, and countless densely packed runes of some unknown tongue were exposed where the blade was bare. For a moment, Perturabo even thought this greatsword shared a kinship with Death of Faith, the weapon that had wounded Lorgar.
Perturabo paused, his gaze shifting.
He stared at the figure's face in the image, but darkness surged and writhed, making it impossible to see clearly.
…Was this the same Death Guard commander from his memories?
Perturabo remained silent, pondering, but Vashtorr's voice cut off his thoughts.
+Stop him.+
There was a note of urgency in Vashtorr's tone. Sparks burst from its furnace-like maw, splashing against Perturabo's pauldron.
Perturabo frowned imperceptibly, yet he too seemed to realize something. He let out a cold chuckle.
"Ferrus's forces are still on the way. And on Cadia, a large-scale landing is clearly impossible, this is nothing more than a small team."
There were not many warriors of the Silent Sisterhood, to say nothing of the fact that their combat power was even weaker than that of the Space Marines.
And now Cadia held the bulk of the Iron Warriors' forces, as well as a third of the Word Bearers—countless trenches and defensive bastions beyond measure.
"I am assembling my armies. He chose a remote corner; at best, he's only buying a little time."
Perturabo said this, yet the Primarch still did not dare to be careless. Just now… just now, had that Death Guard carried out a solo atmospheric insertion?
The drop pod had evaded the void shields deployed by the Iron Warriors on Cadia, and a target that small was ignored outright by the missile arrays—or… perhaps not merely because it was small. But the missile silos of the Iron Warriors truly had shown no response earlier.
Perturabo fell silent. From within tens of millions of trenches, Iron Warrior formations began to mobilize. Knights strode forth, Titans slammed their immense weight into the ground, and the engines of countless tanks and Stormbirds roared to life.
Vashtorr paused. On the artisan hammer it wielded, strange waves of warp-energy flickered.
+…It doesn't matter.+ The Lord of the Forge spoke softly, though there was a hint of uncertainty.
+This… this too is part of fate. A contingency plan.+
+We need Lorgar. The Word Bearers have been entrusted with the authority to channel the power of faith. The might of the gods can only descend through them.+ Vashtorr spoke, coaxing and persuasive.
+I will also lend you my strength, Lord of Iron. We cannot delay any longer. The prologue must not be too long, otherwise, it will give them time to react.+
Perturabo glanced sideways, fixing Vashtorr with a cold stare.
"And how will you and the Word Bearers assist me?"
Flames climbed over Vashtorr's form. Cables writhed like living serpents, arcs of electricity flashing.
+I will bestow upon you the Machine God's blessing. You will be favored by machinery.+ The Lord of the Forge spoke as he extended his long, bladed talons.
They lightly tapped a firearm that Perturabo had casually set aside on the workbench. An arc of electricity flashed past, and the metal of the gun seemed to come alive, gleaming with an eerie light. Coarse iron chains emerged from some unknown source, coiling tightly around the weapon's frame.
Perturabo did not bother to hide his frown, but Vashtorr—wholly absorbed in the weapon's transformation—failed to notice. It continued, its voice thick with temptation:
+Within the Eye of Terror, my power can descend far more easily… we should be grateful for that.+
Vashtorr hissed softly. Here, it was no longer the fragile being that, in the material universe, could only act through summoning and possession. Now, it was powerful enough.
Empowered by the Warp, its strength was sufficient to contend with a pseudo-god bound to the physical realm.
Even so, carelessness was not an option. Vashtorr could not be certain how far Hades's authority had reached—between the two of them, who truly held the upper hand?
And so, it required more insurance.
Vashtorr spoke slowly as it turned and began to pace around Perturabo.
+With a few rituals from the Word Bearers, I can summon my armies here, to fight alongside you.+
That was precisely why it had to be the Word Bearers. Only those well-versed in faith and religion could harness the power present on Cadia—or perhaps the Thousand Sons, masters of the psychic arts.
But there were no Thousand Sons left. Not even ashes remained.
Perturabo stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the firearm now bound in chains. The weapon radiated a Chaos-tainted aura that the Lord of Iron found distasteful… it reminded him of ships once eaten through by rust.
In truth, Perturabo had never intended to open the Eye of Terror so hastily. He needed time—and leverage—to maneuver against the monster at his side. But the Iron Hands had breached their defensive line far too quickly.
"You're nervous." Perturabo pointed it out without hesitation.
"About the Abhorred One, what else have you not told me?"
Vashtorr spread one hand.
+His abilities are terrifying. Control over machinery. Harvesting of souls. I believe you have already witnessed this.+
Perturabo's voice carried a hint of mockery. "He merely counters your kind. Long-range firepower can easily avoid such problems."
Vashtorr paused. The demigod stared at Perturabo in silence.
He had not yet realized it, his understanding of the enemy was still dangerously vague.
Vashtorr calculated swiftly. At present, the only Imperial forces within the Eye of Terror were the Iron Hands. Time was still on their side.
It seemed necessary to make Perturabo face reality.
Vashtorr fell silent. Then, at last, its voice softened in concession.
+You seem not to desire our aid?+
Perturabo crossed his arms and stared back, tacitly accepting the statement.
A fissure split across Vashtorr's metallic face. It spread its arms gracefully and inclined in a half-bow.
+Then please, proceed. I look forward to your performance. But should the battle turn ill, I ask that you accept my power. There is not much time left for trial and error, Lord of Iron.+
+And one more thing,+ Vashtorr added.
+I need Lorgar and the Word Bearers to accompany me.+
Perturabo stared at Vashtorr for a long while, then he laughed.
"Lorgar? Isn't he already your slave? Why bother asking me?"
. . .
Hades gazed into the distance.
He could see the figures of the Iron Warriors—Titans among them.
In the airspace above him, Thunderhawks of the Silent Sisterhood circled, locked in combat with Iron Warrior anti-air defenses, while their ground forces deployed below.
Across the savage continent, the silhouettes of Knight Errants loomed indistinctly through the haze.
But that was not all.
Hades planted his black scythe and stood unmoving.
Psychic energy crackled to life at his side.
The earth trembled. A god-machine descended.
Beside the immovable Hades, the colossal form of a Warlord-Sinister-class Psi-Titan manifested in full view.
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