‘I call this Conclave to order.’
Bolaraphon dominated the small antechamber that the Iron Warriors had designated as their impromptu strategium. A handful of sergeants and senior leadership that remained from the warband were arrayed about the central table, the majority of them newly promoted after his Iron Field dominion, when nearly all of the original hierarchy had been lost to the Chaos rift. Operations on the planet’s surface had been suspended as the Warsmith called his best back before him to convene aboard the Damnatio Memorae.
At the height of his power, a time that felt aeons past to Bolaraphon despite being only weeks ago, the Conclave was a formal gathering of the warband’s elite. Victories were lauded, aspiring champions were granted elevation, disputes were debated and resolved, and the preparations for future conquests were made. The vast machine of Bolaraphon’s kingdom was continuously sharpened, its every effort meticulously calculated and guided by his will.
The Warsmith looked at the warriors gathered around him now. He could not help but see the ghosts of the great brothers that had been taken from him, keen minds and trusted blades lost forever to the maw of ruin. Of those who looked to him now, most were soldiers of the line. All were capable and ruthless sons of Perturabo, for otherwise they would have never survived within the warband, but still they were far from the elite whose places they now occupied. Only three had held the rank of sergeant prior to the catastrophe.
‘An appraisal of the strategic situation,’ rumbled the Warsmith. ‘Now.’
The assembled Iron Warriors were silent for a moment, before one of their number stood. His burnished plate was blackened with soot from recent combat. Bolaraphon knew him as Zikon.
‘Our pacification of the planet is proceeding at speed,’ said Zikon. ‘The major hives on the surface are largely abandoned, and whatever population remains has long since left them in favour of scattered surface-level settlements. As a result we have had little recourse to pursue any prolonged sieges, and the organised defences present have done little to disrupt our operations.’
‘What is the disposition of oppositional forces?’ The Warsmith’s growl dripped with venom.
‘A small garrison was present, some thin-blooded cast off of the Ul–’
Another of the Iron Warriors stood sharply, rustling the cloak of heavy mail that hung from his shoulders. His armour was ornate for an Olympian, the plates etched with kill markings and the names of conquered worlds leading back to before Horus’ great betrayal.
‘Be silent, Zikon,’ he warned, his silver eyes flicking towards the Warsmith. ‘Their name shall not be spoken in our Warsmith’s presence.’
Bolaraphon’s fist smashed down against the table, silencing the Iron Warriors. The ringing clang of ceramite against steel echoed in harsh waves around the chamber.
‘That name shall not be spoken here,’ Bolaraphon rumbled, repeating the words of his lieutenant. He nodded to the warrior. ‘You will let him speak, Beniah.’
Beniah inclined his head. Of all the warband that remained, Beniah held seniority. He had led his own company during the rebellion, and had served alongside Bolaraphon since the days when the IV Legion was still intact.
‘As you wish, my Warsmith.’
Bolaraphon turned back to Zikon.
‘The,’ Zikon formed his words carefully, ‘Imperial garrison was small and therefore unable to withstand our assault. The enemy Adeptus Astartes were scattered and as of now we are combing the surface to purge what remains of them. It should not be long before they are fully eradicated.’
The Warsmith gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘They must be exterminated, utterly and completely. The armour we have will be made operational for immediate deployment, and all efforts will be made to rouse Tokagol. Inform the hunter-killer units on the surface that they are behind their allotted time to accomplish their objectives, and every moment longer will only increase the price they must atone for to me, personally.’
Zikon gave a half-bow and returned to his seat. The Conclave continued on for some time, as Iron Warriors stood and gave reports on the enslavement of the planetary population and the acquisition of available resources, and as timetables were established for bringing the warband and Damnatio Memorae back to full operational form. Satisfied that he had absorbed all of the relevant data, and that his subordinates were fully cognisant of his intent, Bolaraphon dismissed the assembly.
‘You,’ said the Warsmith, pointing a talon at Beniah as the others departed. ‘You will stay.’
Beniah stopped, his expression guarded as he watched the others file past him. He set his horned helm back on the table, his cloak of dark mail rattling behind him as he approached Bolaraphon.
‘What is thy bidding, my Warsmith?’
‘The task that I have given you,’ said Bolaraphon, his voice lowering to a tectonic growl. ‘What have you discovered?’
Beniah smiled thinly. ‘Like my Warsmith, I had reacted with some surprise to see the augur coding return for this savage little rock we arrived over. Per your command, my teams have scoured its surface to verify its identity. We gathered records from the ruins of its principal hives, as well as from the data repositories of the garrison held by the lackeys of the false emperor. We now know the truth of this world, my lord.’
Beniah leaned closer. ‘It is Quradim, my Warsmith. There can be no doubt of it, however much time and circumstance have changed it.’
Bolaraphon took a deep, rumbling breath. ‘The loyalists speak of us as nothing more than agents of taint and corruption. Yet look at how this world has been ruined under their stewardship.’
‘Hypocrisy has ever been the gilt upon the Throne of Lies,’ said Beniah. ‘My Warsmith knows this.’
Bolaraphon grunted. ‘The taint has followed us from the Iron Field.’
‘Yes, I heard about Krynix,’ said Beniah. ‘I heard the creature spoke of–’
‘Careful, brother,’ warned Bolaraphon.
‘I am thy right hand, my Warsmith. I would stand between you and any blade, just as I would stand between you and corruption to spare you its venom. I contemplate these realities and provide you with their relevance, if any exists from the lies and damning riddles they croak.’
The Iron Warrior paused, considering his words. ‘I wonder if there is any truth to it, that he has indeed somehow returned, and is coming here.’
‘I will not allow their lies to chart my path!’ snarled Bolaraphon.
‘Could they know of this world’s history?’ Beniah pressed. ‘If they are still here–’
‘They are here,’ said Bolaraphon with finality.
Beniah dipped his head. ‘Then all the more reason for us to move with speed. If those thin-blooded castoffs that were garrisoned here know of them, they must be silenced. If more are coming, then we must be prepared.’
Bolaraphon seized Beniah by the collar, his razored talons against the warrior’s face.
‘You will find them, all that we seek here. And if there is any truth within that creature’s lies, and the dearest of the corpse god’s lap dogs has risen, then he will find me waiting.’
With effort, Beniah tore his gaze from the talons, and smiled at his master. ‘Of course, my Warsmith, by your will.’