My Iron Warriors: Ordinance is Magic

Chapters

So, where are we again?
Celestia's benevolence
Bug Spray
Come the Apocalypse
Pollos
Hermanos
The Anvil
Party Mafia
Attack the block
OiM Special: Olympia boys
Iron Blood
Champion Zuko vs home security systems
Run CMC
Jägermeister
And Up She Rises
OiM Special-Our Spiritual Liege
IV
The Iron Price
Hisarna
OiM Halloween Special-The Twilight Zone
I see Fire
The Hammer and the Storm
Mortmain
Deum Ferrum
TPK
Iron Within, Iron Without
Epilogue-The universe of rust
Crash Landing
Castle Crashers
Rock-em Sock-em Renegades
Champion Zuko vs the World
Iron on Iron

So, where are we again?

“So let me get this straight.”

Zuko shifted uncomfortably under his Master’s scrutiny. It could never be said that the Warsmith was an object of any sort of personal, or least of all religious significance to the warband-they weren’t Word Bearers, with their thrice damned Dark Apostles. The Iron Warriors were a more…practical brotherhood, the Aspiring Champion supposed.

None of that meant he particularly enjoyed being the object of the Warsmith’s ire.

To his left, Rorke gave an uneasy cough and stared at the ground some more, his fingers drumming on the hilt of his sheathed Power Sword. Rorke, de-facto sergeant of the Iron Warrior squad that wasn’t Zuko’s. He’d taken that sword from the corpse of a Son of Horus at the Siege of Terra, as the Warmaster’s forces had routed and fallen back to their ships. Even then, he’d found the time to loot and steal; but that was Rorke all over, conniving and desperate to a fault. Despite his own unease, Zuko couldn’t help but allow himself a small grin inside his helmet at the other Champion’s nervous state.

He risked a glance at the Warsmith. The Lord of the Iron Warriors looked less than pleased. His armour, once the pinnacle of an artificer’s craft, now sported designs that were clearly dragged from the realm mankind had elected to call Hell. Tendrils snaked out from it, from the chest plate and the baroque power pack mounted on his back. Their heads were the heads of avian and snarling Daemon beasts, and they coiled around their owner like loyal concubines entwining a prince; each also conveyed their master’s anger, coiling and tensing as if to strike. He rested his gauntleted hands on the top of a wicked looking axe, one crossed over the other in a gesture of deceptive calm. The blade emitted a sickly green glow, as if it was sick to its very soul. Zuko didn’t doubt it.

“We are stranded here, wherever HERE is…and if one of you idiots manages to figure out where exactly that is then please do share it with the rest of us…we’re stranded here with half a bloody ship, half our bloody armoury missing, no way of replenishing our bloody ammunition, and only half our bloody crew!”

Angry smoke belched from the leering gargoyles that functioned as exhaust points for his power pack. Rorke flinched, and for once Zuko couldn’t blame him; they were all well used to the Warsmith’s foul temper, but the touch of the warp that covered them all infected him most deeply, and the way it reacted to his rising fury still had the capacity to take the veteran Legionaries off guard.

A small, polite cough broke the expectant silence that had descended. The Warsmith turned with a growl, his Mecha-tendrils snapping round with him to hiss and snap at the source of the noise. Within his helmet, Zuko closed his eyes with another small smile, and breathed a sigh of relief. The fourth Astartes in the circle leaned on his sword, the tip of the serrated weapon embedded in the ground. He wore the same iron and bronze coloured armour of his fellows, but it was decorated with faintly glowing runes of dark origin, and his helmet was fashioned in the shape of a snarling hound’s maw. The lower half of a robe draped his legs and feet in black cloth with golden lining, and a musty tome bound with heavy steel clasps hung at his belt. The air became charged and crackled around him, reality seeming to rebel at his presence.

“I assume you have something brilliant to add to our little debate, Mordecai?” the Warsmith asked, his impatience clear. The other Marine made no comment, merely tilting his head to the side.

“With your permission, my lord.” He asked. His voice was polite, well spoken. There was none of the usual snivelling madness that clung to those who dabbled with Warp sorcery; for all his evident threat, this was a man of refinement. The Warsmith gave a single nod, to which Mordecai cleared his throat again.

“We appear to be on a Daemon world of some kind, although I must say that the architecture is much more…how can I phrase this…’quaint’ than is usual, shall we say. That said…there is extensive magic of a kind here, although it has been perverted and I cannot precisely identify its source.” Mordecai paused for a second, seemingly apprehensive. “I confess, the touch of the Realm is strong here, Lorkhan. You heard that…singing earlier as much as I did. We should exercise caution.”

The Warsmith bristled at the use of his real name, the grip on the shaft of his axe tightening. Zuko wondered whether he was about to discipline the warlock, before Rorke butt in.

“How exactly did that rabble of walking grit dispensers get the drop on us? I didn’t think there were any of them left after that cock-up on Fenris?”

“Nein, some of ze Legion survived. Now zey are just a band of petty knowledge thieves scrabbling in ze dirt for lost glories.” A deep, gargling voice countered. The fifth assembled member, Vortun of the Cult of Obliteration. He loomed over all the others in the circle, even Lorkhan. Flesh twisted and ran like a river across his armour. It was even more cracked and pitted than Zuko’s yet somehow managed to provide even greater protection. In place of easily identifiable hands, a mish-mash of different weapons sprouted and steamed. Plasma Cannon, Multi-Melta, Heavy Flamer-truly were the Obliterators the avatars of the Omnissiah the False Emperor had once claimed to be. Vortun was from the Pan-Europan hives, one of the original members of the IV Legion. He had never lost the accent, even after all these millennia.

“It still makes no damn sense. Sure, they’re great Psykers and all, I’m not denying that. But they shouldn’t have been able to take us so unawares, not in the ancient bucket of shit they were using as a Cruiser.” Rorke answered, folding his arms.

“It was still in their original Legion colours.” Zuko responded, his voice quiet and measured. “Crimson and Ivory, with the sun symbol. You must have noticed that, Rorke.”

“Why the hell would they do that?”

“I’m from Olympia, brother, not Prospero. Strangely enough I haven’t subscribed to the Cyclops’ newsletter.”

Rorke was about to reply, when Zuko something rest on the back of his helmet. Before he could respond, his head was violently thrust forward, knocking him off balance. His forehead violently collided with Rorke’s, who had suffered the same fate, and both Iron Warriors collapsed to their knees grunting with pain. Looking up, Zuko saw two of the snake-headed appendages on Lorkhan’s armour retracting.

“If you’re quite done debating fifteenth legion philosophy.” The Warsmith asked. Zuko nodded, and slowly stood. Rorke just swore.

“Yes, whilst I am partial to intellectual discussion and theorising as much as the next purveyor of knowledge, this is hardly the appropriate time gentlemen.” Mordecai chided. He removed the tip of his sword from the ground and pointed the blade ahead of him, aiming towards a forested area at the edge of the area cleared by the Cruiser’s impact. Following the line of the sword, Zuko saw that what he had assumed was a tree was, in fact, a small cottage. Clearly, Lorkhan saw it too. He growled.

“Especially considering we have been being observed for the past twenty minutes.” The Sorcerer concluded.

“Wh-What are they, Twi?” Spike asked, panic clear in his voice as he bit down on his claws. Twilight ignored him, rather continuing to look out the window with Applejack, Rainbow and Pinkie. They hadn’t managed to convince Fluttershy to vacate the bedcovers, and in any case the figures she had spotted were of more immediate concern.

Three of them were moving towards the house now with paced, murderous intent. As they approached, Twilight could see them in greater detail-their helmets were horned, and from chains bound to their black shoulder plates hung bones belonging to animals she didn’t recognise. One of them clutched a heavy firearm with both hands, easily as long as a Ponies’ head. Another held the same gun at his side, whilst in the other hand he gripped a long metal pole. It was crowned by a jagged, steel eight pointed star and torn red rags. The last-who Twilight assumed to be the leader-held another small one handed gun, but this one had green coils that emitted a menacing light, and his right hand was clad in a set of large fearsome talons. They didn’t look like anything Twilight had read about in any of the bestiaries of Equestrian animal life.

“Horse apples, they know we’re here.” Applejack muttered, turning to look at the lilac Unicorn. Twilight didn’t reply, but put a reassuring hoof around Spike’s neck in an effort to appear a lot more confident than she felt.

“So what? I’m telling you guys, we can take ‘em!” Rainbow said, hovering up into the air and giving it a couple of boxing jabs with her hooves. Pinkie Pie started bouncing up and down, grinning excitedly.

“Oh! Oh! Maybe they’re friendly! We could have a party, with balloons, and firecrackers! We could even have punch, but not like the punch that I made for you when you first got here Twilight because that was too hot, but this would be supedy dupedy mega-awsomearrific punch that I just know would make us best friends for EVER!” she said, becoming more and more giddy as she went on.

“Ah’m pretty sure they ain’t here tah make friends, Sugercube.” Applejack hissed. Twilight had to concur. Pinkie, for her part, looked disappointed but said no more on the matter. They turned their attentions back to the advancing creatures. By this point they had stopped about 10 metres away from Fluttershy’s home, and with a sinking feeling in her gut, Twilight realised that they must have seen them. The tension was palpable-even Rainbow Dash seemed on edge. Fluttershy by now was peeking out from under the covers, still shaking with fear. Nothing else moved. Nothing else stirred.

Then, the taloned creature nodded its helmeted head a fraction, and the other two brought their guns to bear.

Twilight didn’t bother explaining herself as she teleported the group outside; in any case, she wouldn’t have had time to. The purple light enveloped them, and moments later they were outside. The Unicorn wasted no time in deciding their next move:

“Everypony RUN!"

The bullets began to fly only seconds later. They easily penetrated the walls of Fluttershy’s humble dwelling, lodging in beams and support. They exploded moments later, sending out shards of wood into the air. Furniture was chewed up in seconds by the storm of mass reactive rounds, legs blowing off tables and chairs and fabrics simply being reduced to ribbons. The noise was terrible, a throaty roar coming again and again and again. They never stopped, never even slowed down until they ran out of shells in their magazine. The cottage tottered slightly before the nearest wall began to collapse. With a groan, the whole structure disintegrated, falling into ruin. As she ran the butter-coloured Pegasus turned to take one last look at her ruined home, tears streaming down her face. She quickly turned, unable to face it any more, sprinting to keep up with her friends.

“C’mon!” Twilight called back, Spike clinging onto her for dear life. “We’ve got to get back to Ponyville and warn the others, and then go and see the Princess! She’ll know what to do!” She turned back, focusing on keeping up her speed. Something impacted her hard, sending her sprawling onto her rump. Blinking the stars dancing in front of her eyes away, Twilight looked up into a familiar Stallion’s face.

She had never been so pleased to see someone.

“You’ve stepped in something, ‘Kor.”

The icon bearer swore as he looked at the structure that was now clinging to his foot. He extracted his heavy boot from it and kicked it away, causing it to splinter into a thousand pieces. Despite himself, Zuko chuckled.

“What even is this place?” Basikor asked, adjusting his grip on the icon pole. “I struggle to believe that anything this fucking…cutesy wutesy could ever be a gift from the Pantheon.”

“Well, Mordecai says it is, and I think he knows a little better than you do ‘Kor.” Said Barbus, the other Iron Warrior Zuko had chosen to accompany him. He aimed his bolter up and down, trying to take all their surroundings in. It was clear this whole situation was amusing him; then again, Barbus had always had a twisted sense of humour.

“Mordecai’s an aristocratic mental case who we should have given to the Ultramarines a long time ago. Gods know, he’d probably prefer their company.”

“You just don’t like him because he’s polite.”

“No, I don’t like him because I don’t like anyone.”

“Quiet, both of you.” Zuko cut in. Barbus gave one last snigger, but complied, as did ‘Kor. Zuko appraised the room again, spotting something. Holstering his pistol, he crossed the floor and bent down. When he rose, the others could see he was carrying a photograph in his power fist.

“What did you make of the Xenos we spotted?” he asked, not taking his eyes of the picture. Barbus raised one pauldron slightly-the most he could shrug.

“I’ve never seen anything like them. They looked like…well, they looked like horses.” He replied. Zuko nodded, flipping the photo around. It was a group of six small equine creatures, all of different colours; blue, purple, white, orange (this one, strangely, wore a hat), yellow and pink. They appeared to be embracing.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Barbus drew in breath to reply, when something distracted him. Looking down towards his feet, he beckoned his brothers over. The Iron Warriors encircled it, tilting their heads in confusion.

It was a rabbit. A small, white rabbit. How it had survived the bolter fire Zuko didn’t know, but it stared at them with angry eyes, tapping one foot on the ground impatiently as if to inquire what they were doing here. Zuko had only seen rabbits once before, on the world of Lorn IX. Well, before the company had put it to the torch, that is.

“Interesting.” The champion muttered, before unholstering his Plasma Pistol. A raised hand from Basikor, who had holstered his own Boltgun, stopped him in his tracks.

“Let me.”

The rabbit’s eyes widened as it seemed to realise what was coming, but it was too late to get away. Taking the shaft of the icon in both hands, Basikor speared the bunny through the spine. There was an audible crack as the bone splintered and snapped. The rabbit fell onto its front, blood seeping from the wound on its back and being coughed from its mouth. Air bubbles started to form as it took its last breaths, and the pristine white fur was slowly stained a visceral red. Moments later, the sole of Basikor’s boot slammed down on its head; the bone shattered instantly, leaving only a crushed paste and two sorry looking ears in its place. The icon bearer wiped the bloody residue on the ground, in an attempt to clean his armour.

“Charming.” Barbus said.

They turned as Lorkhan entered the shattered building, picking his way over the rabble, Mordecai following a few steps behind. Rorke and about seven other Iron Warriors held the rear, whilst Vortun and one of his Coven prowled on the flanks.

“Having fun?” the Warsmith asked. He didn’t wait for a reply, looking around at the devastation. “You’ve made a mess.” Turning, he let his gaze fall on Zuko again. “Report?”

The Champion flipped the photo around to show Lorkhan, still clutching it delicately in his power fist.

“This place appears to have been occupied by some small, equine life forms, lord. They appeared to…to disappear when we began firing.”

“Teleportation, I suspect.” Mordecai said, seemingly uncaring that no one was listening. “There is certainly some sort of magical flux in this area.”

Lorkhan just stared at the photo for a while. “Horses.” He said finally, his voice incredulous. “We’ve crash landed on a planet of magical, brightly coloured horses.” Zuko squirmed slightly.

“So…so it would seem….I think they can talk, too. If it helps.”

Zuko braced himself for, at best, a verbal berating, when there was all of a sudden a loud bang and flash of light. Looking up, the Astartes could see that a dome of pure purple energy enveloping them. Instantly, battle instincts kicked in. Warriors unleashed their bolters, firing short controlled bursts, whilst the Obliterators sent out bursts of warped Chaotic plasma fire. Only Mordecai was unmoved. None of the weapons seemed to have any effect, their munitions simply absorbed by the dome. Finally, Lorkhan called them to halt, though no warrior was quite content to drop his aim.

“It’s not going to work.” Mordecai said, more than a hint of smugness in his voice. “That’s powerful magic. Even I can’t dispel it.”

“Find a way.” Lorkhan hissed. The sorcerer chuckled.

“It wouldn’t do us much good I’m afraid sir. Take a look.” He pointed, with his hand this time, and Lorkhan followed his direction.

They were surrounded. Outside the bubble, there were hundreds of the Xenos, spears lowered and wearing armour. They all had a single horn atop their head, faintly glowing. He turned back to Mordecai.

“We can take a couple of these…whatever they are.”

“I don’t doubt we could. But if they wanted to kill us, I’m sure they could have done by now. Might I suggest caution once again, sir? Perhaps co-operation is in order here.” At that, Lorkhan couldn’t stop himself giving a snort of derision.

“You aren’t suggesting we surrender to horses. Please tell me that isn’t a thing.”

“I’m not, sir.” Mordecai responded. Before he could finish, a voice cut over him.

“By order of Captain Shining Armour of the Royal Guard, and Princess Celestia of all Equestria, we hereby demand that you lay down your arms and submit yourselves to Her judgement!”

Lorkhan was about to let them know exactly what he thought of their offer with another burst of bolter fire, before Mordecai caught his eye. The Sorcerer just nodded. For a second, Lorkhan considered going through with attacking anyway-but then again, annoying as he might be his advisor was very rarely wrong, and if the other’s in the Legion heard about him dying in glorious battle against pastel-coloured horses, ‘doing a Lorkhan’ would forever be a watchword for hilarious failure. Somehow, the notion didn’t appeal.

“We’re actually going to do this, aren’t we?” he asked no-one in particular, letting his axe drop to the ground. Around him, some Iron Warriors looked confused, but followed his lead anyway and placed their weapons on the ground. The Obliterators, for their part, just stood around confused, not entirely sure what to do in a ‘lay down your weapons’ scenario. “We’re actually surrendering to a pretty pink pony princess.”

There was a slight pause.

“Fuck me, we suck.”

Author's Note

Sorry for the drawn out start to this one; I wanted to make sure all the Iron Warrior characters were introduced, so we could get to the meat of the matter (so to speak). Not massively exciting I know, but I thought it 'twas necessary. I promise Mordecai won't be a Mary Sue. Honest.

I don't like writing Pinkie, I've found. Maybe it's just because she's my least favourite of the main 6, but I find it difficult to write her without resorting to "LOL SO RANDUMB xD". We'll see what happens.

Bonus points if you can guess who my favourite Pony is from these two chapters. Next one will have more Ponies, I promise. 'Till then, Iron Within, Iron Without.

Celestia's benevolence

“Sis’, wah are there Cutie Marks on thar shoulders?”
“Hush now, AB.”
“Yeah, and why do they all have the same one?”
“You too, Scoots.”

“Aww…” the little orange Pegasus’ face dropped as she glumly padded the ground with her hoof. Applejack didn’t allow herself to mellow, instead turning her head and gently picking Applebloom of her back, placing her on the stone floor of the castle’s interior. AJ sighed; she hadn’t wanted the Cutie Mark Crusaders to come and watch this, but those fillies seemed to have an ability to find their way into any trouble they wanted to. At least Rarity seemed to be keeping a close eye on Sweetie Belle, but Rainbow hadn’t come to get Scootaloo. Applejack decided to have a word with her friend about burdening her with that responsibility later, but given the circumstances, she supposed she could make an exception.

She looked around. The great hall of Canterlot’s Royal castle was packed with ponies; mostly the capital cities’ elite, but there were also some residents of Ponyville in attendance besides her and her friends. She spotted Mayor Mare chatting with several city Unicorns, her face cheerful despite the grim events of the past few days. A little further on, Mr and Mrs Cake were doing their best to aid the servant ponies frantically rushing around attending to the needs of the hall’s guests. AJ was momentarily surprised that Pinkie Pie wasn’t there helping them, before reasoning that she was probably still comforting Fluttershy. The yellow Pegasus was still despondent after the destruction of her house and the murder of Angel bunny; it had taken the combined friendship of all the Element bearers to stop her sliding into Depression proper. Applejack felt her blood boiling, grinding her teeth together involuntarily. Were it down to her, she’d have bucked the offender’s heads clean of, and damn all the decrees of non-violence.

But, it wasn’t down to her. It was down to the Princess, and in her benevolence she had agreed to subject the strange creatures to a trial. In all honesty, the farm pony suspected that Celestia was as intrigued to learn exactly what they were as much as anyone else in the chamber; herself included. Originally, the trial was supposed to be a secluded and private affair, dealt with only by the high end of the Government-perhaps the element bearers also. However, once word had got out of the location the invaders were being held, as well as the extent of their crimes, there had been very little chance of keeping it quiet.

The offenders were stood in a disorganised rabble at the centre of the hall, still encased in one of Shining Armour’s magical shields. There were a fair few of them now-around twenty two of the ones wearing armour, and three of the big fellas-but here, in this helpless and disarmed state, they seemed a lot less scary than when three of them had been coming to kill AJ and her friends. A wide berth had been given to them, the Ponies encircling them yet not getting too close. Admittedly, the wall of Royal Guards keeping the crowd pressed into the sides of the rooms might have had something to do with that, but that was beside the point.

As if the seriousness of this event wasn’t apparent enough, Applejack noted with a sense of awe that they were blessed with the presence of not one but two Royal Sisters. Celestia sat upon the principle throne, the sun’s radiance glaring behind her as it rose over the hills. Her face was impassive, betraying nothing of her emotions, and what was going through her mind AJ could only guess at. Beside her, the second sister made much less effort to hide her feelings on the matter. Luna’s face was twisted in a vicious scowl. The shadows coiled around her, casting her into a gloom that contrasted heavily with the beacon that was her sister. On the left of the throne, Twilight Sparkle stood, casting her eyes around the room nervously, whilst on the right Shining Armour continued to power the spell. Sweat could faintly been seen trickling down his brow, and Applejack knew he couldn’t hold it much longer. Maybe that’s why Twilight had been called in-the last thing they needed was these monsters having free reign of Canterlot.

Applejack’s thoughts were brought to a halt as an abrupt and expectant silence began to fall on the room. She dipped her hat respectfully as the white-coated princess stood, judgement hanging in the air around her.

“By order of their Imperial highnesses, princess Celestia of Equestria’s bright sun, and princess Luna of Equestria’s deep night, we hereby proclaim the sentencing of the invaders formally begun!” The equine who Lorkhan assumed was functioning as the assemblies’ Clerk concluded his little speech, looking quite pleased with himself as he sat back down. Within his helmet, the Warsmith rolled his eyes; even for an Astartes, used to pomp and ceremony even of the most basic kind, that had sounded ridiculously childish.

“This is ridiculous. They’re bloody horses, warp take them.” He hissed into his helmet’s vox. He had ordered all of his men to set it on the general channel, allowing the Iron Warriors to communicate amongst themselves despite their makeshift trial. It didn’t appear their captors were able to access it, allowing the Marines relatively free communication.

“It’s better than lounging in that dungeon for the past week. Besides, look around you. Their whole society is based on friendship. Somehow, I doubt they’ll be executing us.” Zuko commented. He rubbed his right wrist awkwardly-the xenos had taken his Power fist. From the looks of things, he felt naked without it.

“Remind me why we didn’t just break out of there again?” Lorkhan asked.

“Because Mordecai insisted we ‘stay put’, and ‘see how things pan out’. Because he has no balls.” That was from Aleksos, another Marine from Zuko’s squad. A chuckle came from nearby, presumably Basikor. The two were fairly close.

For his part, the Sorcerer merely sighed, his arms folded over his chest plate. It surprised Lorkhan it had taken him this long to speak up.

“Brothers, please. I went through the same initiation rituals as all of you, I am sure, and am in possession of all my genital organs. And I am merely suggesting that we do not rush into anything we might not be able to get out of, that is all.” He answered, voice as smooth as ever. It put Lorkhan’s teeth on edge.

“Besides,” he went on. “In the interest of politeness, I would advise planning our daring escape later. I do believe our host has just posed us a question.”

Lorkhan turned, slightly embarrassed despite himself as he realised that they were being spoken to. The white horse thing was looking at them expectantly, one eyebrow raised. Behind, its sibling was almost seething.

At least the ambient chatter in the room had faded. That was something.

“Erm…false?” Not the Warsmith’s most intelligent response ever, he reflected, but given the circumstances he didn’t see what else he could really have done. Evidently though, it wasn’t the answer their captors were looking for. The dark blue pony-princess practically leapt from its seat, the dark enveloping her spreading to cover the whole room in a manner that momentarily reminded Lorkhan of his cousins in the VIII Legion. He hated them as well.

“Our Sister hath commanded that thou speaketh thy identity and purpose in this realm, knave!” It shouted. It seemed to be female-then again, most of the xenos here did. Whilst they were incarcerated, Zuko had raised the point of how a breeding population
was managed given the male to female ratio. They had moved swiftly on, deciding that they didn’t really need to know.

“Oh…right.” The Warsmith looked to his left at Zuko, who merely gave a shrug, and then to his right at Mordecai, who made a raised an upward facing hand as if to say “go on sir, you’re the boss, you talk to the magical space pony.” He paused a moment, trying to think of a good answer that would extract them all from the proverbial shitter.

“We are horrible horrible pirates, and brutally methodical killers, my Lady.” Behind him, Mordecai slammed a palm into his armoured forehead with an audible thump, and shook his head slightly.

The room erupted into noise again; the crowds of xenos stood around the room nervously chatting amongst one another, although some lost control completely and fainted with exaggerated gasps. The Guards lowered their spears with such synchronisation that Lorkhan couldn’t help but admire them a little. Admittedly, as far as answers go, that too had been far from his best effort, but he was still a Warsmith of the Iron Warriors Legion and he’d be damned before he started kissing the arse of some Pony queen, or whatever she was.

“I see.” The queen finally spoke, bringing silence once again. She did not look as angry as her sister, but for whatever reason, Lorkhan found himself more intimidated by her. Curious. He was about to offer a rebuttal, when Mordecai cut across him.

“My good lady, forgive my…blunt colleague here. He is a more than competent leader, yet I regret that public speaking had never been his talent.” Lorkhan bit his tongue. Well, that at least was accurate.

“The essence of what he says is true; I am not ashamed to admit it, nor would any of my brothers be. We are warriors from a distant world who were reduced to the status of petty marauders and brigands. However, it was not always so.” Mordecai took a couple of steps, presumably for dramatic effect. It looked ridiculous to the Warsmith, but on the other hand it did appear some elements of the audience were beginning to take an interest in the story.

“Once, long ago, we were the champions of our species, much as I assume you are the champion of yours. We were forged upon a planet named ‘Terra’ to conquer the galaxy in the name of a conceited madman who was concerned for naught more than his own self-aggrandisement. For two hundred years, I regret to say that we followed him, breaking our backs taking the Iron to the stone and tearing down the palaces of his enemies. But then, our eyes were opened to his lies, and we with our righteous brethren rose up against him.” The story seemed to be gathering momentum now. It appeared the Xenos trusted easily, in any case. Perhaps that would come in useful. Here Mordecai stopped his pacing, looking at the ground and clenching his fists. Lorkhan swore quietly when he realised he wasn’t going to continue-memories of the Old War no doubt burning in his skull.

“What happened?” a lilac Pony who sat beside the throne asked, her face a mask of wonder despite her obvious distaste for the Iron Warriors. Lorkhan remembered her from the photograph they’d found at the cottage. Maybe it was her house-then again, he reasoned that someone who was obviously so valued by the Monarchy would not be reduced to living to what equated to a tree, surely.

“We were betrayed.” To Lorkhan’s surprise, it was Rorke who spoke up. The Champion was usually quiet when there wasn’t something glaringly stupid that needed saying.

“We were betrayed,” he repeated, “by our brothers who climbed aboard the crazy train and went straight to the front cabin. We lay siege to the Betrayer’s palace, but…we were defeated. We’ve had to run constantly to survive since then.” A pause. “Hence the whole maiming and killing for plunder thing.”

That was surprisingly intelligent. Lorkhan was almost impressed.

“That wasn’t completely awful, Rorke.” The Warsmith said over the vox. The Champion straightened a little, basking in his praise. Lorkhan heard Zuko growl.

“I still say we just burst out of here blasting!” Barbus’ hissed over the network. “Mord’ could get us out, you’ve defeated sorcery more powerful than this!”

“Even if ve could, I think zat vould not be un gut idea Herr Barbus.” Vortun finally spoke up, his voice a deep rumble. “Zere are more of them than us, zis is their land, und ve don’t know vere ve are.”

Barbus growled more in frustration than anger, but fell silent. A word from the Obliterator was usually enough to close a matter.

“That’s all well and good.” The white Xenos queen spoke up again, shushing the Astartes. “But you are, by your own admission, creatures designed for violence that stand wholly against the principles this land was founded upon.” Lokhan heard Zuko swear quietly as the pronouncement hung heavily in the air.

“Well...yes.”

“Very well.” She did not look happy. A few beats of awkward silence passed. “You still have not answered our second question. What brought you here in the first place, and what exactly possessed you to tear one of my loyal subject’s houses to the ground?”

“And kill my poor, defenceless bunny!” A shrill squeal emerged from the crowd, drawing the attention of Pony and Post-Human alike. A yellow Xenos, with pink hair and wings, had tears streaming down her face and was sobbing weakly. She turned and bolted from the room, still crying her eyes out. Around three others ran after her, calling out “Fluttershy, wait!”. One of them, a white creature with purple hair, turned to look back at the Marines and glared at them fiercely, before turning and following what Lorkhan assumed were her friends.

“What’s her problem?” Rorke muttered.

“I believe she was the owner of the property that Zuko, ‘Kor and Barbus reduced to rubble when we first arrived. If we get out of this with all our faculties intact, we really should make it up to her.” Mordecai observed. Rorke grunted with irritation.

“Go fuck yourself, witch.”

Lorkhan wasn’t listening. He turned back to the Pony staring at him.

“To answer your question, we were ambushed by a band of our magical dustbins, and our ship was…well, you saw what was left; it’s pretty much fucked. We had to escape into the Warp-which is always a calculated risk-and, well, here we are.”

He kept staring at the Queen-thing. She was staring at him with incomprehension.

“The Warp?...ringing any bells?” Still silence.

“You can’t be fucking serious.” Lorkhan shook his head. They didn’t even know about the Warp, by the Power’s. No wonder everything was so sickeningly sweet and friendly here.

“And the reason for the defilement of our vassal’s dwelling?” the dark blue Pony asked. She still looked enraged.

“Oh, that.” The Warsmith shrugged. “Force of habit. We got our reputation as Siege warfare specialists for a reason…sorry, if it helps.”

The atmosphere in the chamber was becoming more and more hostile to the Iron Warriors as every moment passed-and it hadn’t been particularly friendly to begin with. Zuko flexed his right hand reflexively; Mordecai let out a disappointed sigh; Vortun tensed slightly, the tell-tale signs of the beginnings of weapon formation showing through. The Ponies gritted their teeth and muttered under their breath, a couple stamping their hooves. A couple of the Guards moved to try and suppress the crowd, but for the most part their spears were still lowered at the Iron Warriors. Lorkhan didn’t honestly believe they’d hurt, but without his weapons and with no knowledge of what the Xenos were really capable of, he wasn’t overly eagerly to find out.

“Enough.” Even the Legionnaires turned at the authority carried in that voice. It was not shouted, yet still hung heavily with the weight of command. The Queen-or whatever she was, Lorkhan remembered she’d been referred to as a Princess, not that he really cared-cast light around the chamber, causing both Pony and Marine to shield their eyes. As the light faded, she spoke up again, voice still enthused with command.

“I think we have gathered all we need to from this debate. I must take a short while to deliberate upon this matter with my Sister. We shall reconvene this council and pass sentencing within the hour.” She walked from the throne, the blue princess and some of the most ornately armoured guards following behind. The rest began to escort the Iron Warriors to temporary holding cells, the Captain accompanying them so as to keep their prisoners still contained within the shield of purple force. For their part, the Marine acquiesced with little resistance, although there was the usual amount of grumbling. Lorkhan said nothing, eyes facing downwards as he considered his options. As far as he could see, they weren’t exactly looking good.

“Well, I think that went well.”

“Shut up Zuko.”

“There there Darling, don’t fret. I’m sure the Princess will deal justly with those horrendous brutes for…executing poor little Angel.” Rarity cursed herself for not being able to express that fact more tactfully. She ran a hoof across Fluttershy’s back, caressing her shoulder gently as she tried to calm her friend down. The yellow Pegasus had buried her head in the carpet and was still sobbing ferociously, staining the rug with her tears. Applejack, Pinkie, and Rainbow had followed her out; Rarity didn’t know where Twilight was, but assumed she’d be joining them shortly. From the increased number of Ponies milling around the foyer, she could assume the initial stages of the trial had been concluded.

“I…I…I just…why did they do it?” Fluttershy sobbed. She looked up, wiping her eyes slightly. Pinkie moved in, giving a sad smile and taking her into a gentle embrace. For once, the Party pony wasn’t bouncing around like a maniac.

“Cheer up Flutters, everything’ll be okay. Right guys?” Pinkie asked looking around. Rarity and AJ smiled.

“Absolutely, Sugacube.”
“Of course, Darling.” Rarity looked at Rainbow. The Pegasus was hovering in the air, her hooves folded over her chest and a pugnacious expression plastered across her face. “Don’t you agree, Rainbow?”

Rainbow as quiet for a moment. “Celestia should just kill them.” She didn’t make eye contact with any of her friends. “I’m serious.”

“Rainbow…surely you’re not serious? I mean, what they’ve done is deplorable. But…outright killing them...a lady has standards to maintain, after all.” Rarity stuttered. AJ kept quiet, as Pinkie maintained her hug with Fluttershy. Rainbow still didn’t look at them.

“So?” She finally spat, rounding on the other Element bearers with a furious expression. “Look at what they did to Fluttershy! What have they done since they got here that isn’t destroy! That’s all they can do, destroy things. I don’t care about the whole peaceful thing, they broke the rules, and they should pay the price.”
Rarity was about to reply, when Twilight appeared through the archway. She looked exhausted, but that was probably to be expected. The Princess was a kind soul, but she had a tendency towards working to her hard-and that went for her aides too.

“Oh, hi girls.” She said wearily, moving over to help Pinkie with Fluttershy. The Pegasus had begun to calm down now, although she still looked distraught.

“Howdy Twi.” AJ said, happy for the distraction. “How’s it going?”

“Not good, from our guest’s point of view anyway.” The Unicorn replied. “The Princess is not exactly pleased with them blundering in here and wrecking things. I don’t know exactly what she’s going to do, but…well, I’ve only ever seen her this angry when talking about Discord.”

They shivered. None of them needed to be reminded of that incident.

“Well…I say good.” Rainbow said, still defiant. “We ought to kick their arse and send them packing.”

“I don’t know, Rainbow…” Twilight said, looking at the ground. “I don’t disagree that they need to be punished…but, we still don’t really know what they ARE. I think if we just throw away this chance to study about them, we won’t know what to do if this ever happens again.”

“You can’t be serious.” Rainbow spat, through gritted teeth. Twilight shrugged jadedly.

“Knowledge is power.”

Tension crackled for a moment, and for a moment Rarity felt like they were going to kick off. Before they could, however, one of the Guards emerged at the edge of the rooms.

“Ladies, the Princesses have requested your presence in the chamber. The sentencing is about to begin.”

Rainbow cast one more, angry look at Twilight, before making her way back toward the room.

“Just relax. We’re getting out of this.” Lorkhan said, as they were led back before their accusers. The Iron Warriors couldn’t entirely hide the tension they were feeling-the result of 10’000 years of paranoia, one could suppose.

“I’m serious; we’re getting out of this. They’re magical friendship ponies. What are they really going to do?”

They stood before the throne, trying to maintain an imposing presence. True, they’d never been particularly imposing in the first place, but there was no harm in trying.

“Yes, my lady?” Lorkhan asked, giving a theatrical bow. Several of his brothers chuckled. To their surprise, it was the Clerk who spoke.

“For their crimes against the sovereign nation of Equestria, and its inhabitants, their royal highnesses Princess Celestia, and Princess Luna, do hereby sentence those identifying themselves as the ‘Iron Warriors’ to execution. May Harmony have mercy upon your souls.”

Lorkhan didn’t rise from his bow. He just stared at the floor. None of the Iron Warriors spoke either; none of them could.

“Well…” Mordecai finally managed. “That was unexpected.”

Author's Note

This chapter was hard. Making it sound convincing, so the Iron Warriors could actually get out of it was difficult. In the end, they haven't I guess (or have they...knowing them, probably not). Hopefully though it's passable.

There'll be more action next chapter, I promise.

Bug Spray

Captain Shining Armour, of the Equestrian Royal Guard, didn’t have many regrets.

He had a stable career doing what he personally considered one of the most worthy and important jobs in the realm. His wife, whom he loved dearly and more than anything in the world, was the successful and benevolent ruler of a kingdom that until recently had laboured under the shadow of tyranny, and his amazing little sister (best friends forever, he added subconsciously) was the chosen apprentice of yet another benevolent Princess. He was held in awe by his men and those he protected, and through all his efforts the Ponies of Canterlot-and indeed all of Equestria-were able to sleep soundly in their beds at night. Yes, Shining Armour wanted for little, and his was a content life of courage and honour.

But there was one regret that Shining Armour did have. A single failing that haunted him every night of his life, festering unspoken within. No matter what he did to try and stop it, or how he attempted to convince himself it wasn’t his fault, the hateful memory would not let him rest.

He’d spoken about it with Cadence sometimes, on the nights where she woke to find him sitting at the window with an anxious look darkening across his face. She was always willing to lend a sympathetic ear; of course she was, she had arguably just as much if not more than Shining. The difference, he supposed lay in the way they dealt with it. Secretly he’d always known that Cadence was the mentally stronger of the pair, although she’d never let him say it. She’d been able to reconcile herself with what had happened, to face her fears and move on from it. Shining Armour never had-not entirely, anyway. He could push it to the side and pretend it never happened effectively. He could still do his duty to the realm unburdened by fear. But sometimes, when he was alone in the dark, the nightmares and the remorse and the pure horror welled up in his gut again.

He hurt. He hurt all over, hurt in ways he didn’t know a body could hurt. Whatever they were doing here, and no matter how stupid they seemed, those bastard…what had they called themselves? ‘Iron Warriors’? The Iron Warriors knew how to throw a punch, particularly the horned devil that had duelled with him. If it hadn’t been for Twily and her complete disregard for the traditional rules of Equestrian single combat, he may well not have been able to consider these thoughts that now bounced through his head like enraged parasprites. Shining tried to right himself-he couldn’t, and a stream of pain shot up his foreleg like neural fire. He was fairly sure it was broken. Looking up through a pained squint, he saw Twilight cradling his head. There were tears in her eyes, their steady dripping wetting some of his white fur that was already stained with blood.

“Hey…Twily…” Shining managed weakly, smiling up at her. She smiled back, although it was forced, and her eyes were still pools of shimmering wetness.

“Don’t…don’t EVER do that again, Shining…I thought I lost you…” she sobbed, pulling him closer into an embrace. He gently patted her hoof with his. It hurt, but it was worth it.

He looked away, back out over the great hall and the scene of carnage it now was. The windows were blasted completely away, letting the cool air and bright morning sun waft through. There were bodies littering the ground-mainly Pony, but one or two Iron Warriors. The rest of the Iron Warriors had been cast to the ground along with the debris, some of them lying unmoving whilst others attempted to get back on their feet. Shining couldn’t see the enemy he’d fought through the dust kicked up by the blast, but most of the enemy had been near the windows when they were blown in. It made sense they were the most effected by the turn of events. He looked around again, eyes now focusing despite the pain, and saw what exactly had had the audacity to attack the palace of Canterlot.

Shining Armour hurt all over. He knew he would probably die whether they won this battle or not. But that was nothing compared to the horror that filled him now-the horror that woke him in the dead of night, the horror that haunted his every conscious thought.

“Fucking bastard.” Rorke swore as he regained consciousness. He knew he couldn’t have been out long-not for more than five seconds-but for an Adeptus Astartes, five seconds was bordering on the abominable. He tensed and flexed those limbs he could. Nothing was blown off or seriously broken, which was always a good start. He attempted to connect to the vox, to get back on his feet, to do something; that didn’t go so well. Shit.

Rorke exhaled steadily, and slowly pressed up with his hands. He managed to rise slightly, and he quickly started scrabbling around for his sword. It took him a moment to remember that he didn’t have it; the Xenos had confiscated it when Lorkhan had gone through with the idiotic idea to surrender to them. Not for the first time that day, Rorke snarled. This was quickly proving to be one of the singularly worst experiences of his entire life, and that took some doing. Finally, he managed to raise his body into a kneeling position, the blackness that now stood in place of his vision disorienting him further. Without bothering to run armour diagnostics he knew his helmet was ruined, the front dented and smashed-perhaps beyond repair. He yanked it off his head, hissing in agitation as the broken pressure seals cut into his skin, and turned it over to look at it. He had been right, the flat nosed mark 4 helm was little better than scrap, but despite himself Rorke couldn’t quite bring himself to throw it away. It stared at him with cracked red lenses, as if knowing all the answers and not telling. Mag-locking it to his thigh, Rorke pushed himself to his feet with a grunt of effort, instinctively reaching for his missing bolt pistol.

Around him, other Iron Warriors had also started recovering their wits and were retreating back into a general group from the new arrivals. It seemed that Mordecai had been the first back to his feet, and Rorke didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. No Iron Warrior was nice, but Mordecai…Mordecai was just plain scary. No one with that much power should be that polite. Trying to take his mind of it, Rorke looked around to see if he could spot Lorkhan. He finally identified him lying on his back, cast across a piece of fallen debris, and for a single glorious moment Rorke thought that the old bastard was finally dead. Moments later though, the Warsmith stirred and pushed himself into a sitting position with his Mechatendrils. Rorke growled again-yes, today was definitely an exceptionally bad day.

The Iron Warrior turned to look at the newly arrived party. Lorkhan had been incorrect-they weren’t a drop pod. They weren’t even Imperial. They looked, to Rorke’s eyes, much like the Ponies that they’d only recently been fighting against-but these ponies were corrupted, black and with gaping holes punched through their limbs and bodies. The Aspiring Champion shifted his stance without realising, trans-human muscle memory recalling the best way to grapple with the Tyranid beasts these latest attackers put him in mind of. Around him, the surviving members of Rorke’s squad had fallen in and were preparing for combat in a similar fashion. Kravix, the squad’s Lascannon bearer, breathed heavily and grunted as the blood from wounds that hadn’t yet been clotted by the Larraman cells seeped out from his armour’s joints. Brother Alpus was still strangling his last foe, the Pony’s gasps for breath that wouldn’t come growing ever- weaker. Behind Rorke, the Vortun’s Obliterator’s cycled through their weapons, once again unsure as to how to react. They seemed to settle on Assault Cannons, the multiple barrels hissing with anticipation.

“What do we do?” Zuko whispered over the vox. His voice was still ragged from his duel with the Xenos captain. “What the hell do we do?”

“We should renew the attack. Kill them whilst they’re off guard.” Lorkhan hissed. The Obliterator’s took careful aim. The Iron Warriors braced themselves to charge.

“Lord, be reasonable.” Mordecai. Of course it was. “Superhuman though we may be, even we will struggle against both our prior enemies and this fresh force.” The Warsmith turned his head to look at his advisor. Mordecai stared straight back. Neither spoke for some, agonisingly long moments before the Sorcerer took it upon himself to go on.

“At the very least, there seems to be some underlying tension between our hosts and these insectoid fellows. It would be prudent to at the very least fall back, recover our weapons and allow our enemies to bleed one another before mounting a counter-attack.”

Before Lorkhan could reply, there was another series of loud impacts in the great chamber. More of the insect-horse things, whatever they were, rose from craters carved in the floor, hissing and shaking off the last of impact disorientation. They certainly did hit with some force, and Rorke admitted that many of them travelling in close formation together could look from a distance like a drop pod. Seeing the sense in Mordecai’s words the Iron Warriors began to slowly back off. Their retreat was not even noticed by the Xenos queens that now stood glaring at one another.

“My dear Celestia” the Changeling purred, voice silky and inviting despite the malice of the one who bore it. “How good it is to see you again.”

Princess Celestia did not rise to the bait, furrowing her brow and letting a magical aura envelop her horn. Besides her, Luna did the same-although with more obvious anger, stamping her hoof on the stone floor in warning-whilst for their part Shining Armour and Twilight merely stared with mouths gaping. Celestia couldn’t blame them-the last time the Changeling’s had invaded, it had nearly split the Elements of Harmony forever. She’d hoped to never run that risk again.

“Chrysalis.” Was the sole word she spoke. The Changeling queen laughed; it was a horrid scratching sound that was soon taken up by her minions. Those that hadn’t smashed into the chamber hovered outside, or-from what Celestia could judge from the faint screams emanating from the city streets-had taken to amusing themselves throughout Canterlot.

“Did you miss me, Celestia? I have to confess I didn’t miss you. After our last tango I’d hoped to be rid of you entirely, but as we both know that pink brat had other ideas.” Chrysalis practically spat the last few words, turning to look at Shining Armour. “I see the Guard Captain is here, though? It’s been a long time, has it not? I admit I spoiled myself with you. The love I siphoned whilst impersonating your bitch was the most nourishing I’ve ever experiences. Since then, nothing has quite compared. Where is our dear Cadence anyway? I’d hoped to settle a few scores with her.”

Sensing her brother still in shock, it was Twilight who spoke up.

“She’s not here Chrysalis, but when she finds out that you’re back she’ll come back and banish you all over again!” she shouted. Chrysalis laughed for the second time, shaking twilight’s confidence no matter how much of a brave face the Unicorn put on.

“Oh I very much doubt that little one. You see, last time I was overconfident. I wished to rule Canterlot, but I confess that mistakes were mad. Sparing your pathetic Princesses’ life was one of them-an error I shall not be repeating, I assure you. But now this isn’t about conquest, just revenge. When your precious Princess returns, Twilight Sparkle, here will be NOTHING left to save.” The Changelings laughed again as the few remaining Equestrian Guards tried to form a defensive formation. The Changelings were slowly fanning out, surrounding the Ponies.

“How did you know when we’d be vulnerable?” Celestia attacked, mind still reeling at the implications of this second invasion. Chrysalis smiled in response, fangs bared.

“Come now Celestia, when that craft dropped from the sky above Equestria, all sorts of hungry eyes detected signs of weakness in the Solar Empire. The Changelings merely got there first, and with the help of my sleeper agents amongst the ponies of Canterlot I identified that you had your hands full with…with whatever they are.”

Finally, Chrysalis looked at the creatures that a few moments before had been locked in mortal combat with Celestia’s forces. They had attempted to sneak off as the two rulers argued, a feat rendered nearly impossible by their heavy armour. It was difficult enough for the regular troops; for the bigger ones with the strange projectile weaponry, it was almost depressingly comical. As one they turned on their heels at their inclusion in the conversation, looking at one another in an attempt to project an air of innocence. Some of them whistled slightly, folding their arms behind their backs and kicking nonchalantly at the ground. Celestia stared on incredulously; how could any warrior be so utterly lethal in combat, and yet so…so oblivious.

“Who exactly are you, anyway?” Chrysalis asked, her voice a mix of sarcasm and genuine curiosity. The one referred to as ‘Warsmith’ stepped forward, snake like tendrils affixed to the side of his armour retreating slightly.

“We’re the Iron Warriors, lady. Not that that’ll mean anything to you, obviously.” The Warsmith’s voice sounded almost bitter there, Celestia mused. At least he had some pride in his colours, no matter how fleeting. “We were just engaged in a delightful little sparring match with your fiend here…but I can see that you two have some unresolved tension, so we’ll just be going.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the chamber’s door as the rest of the Iron Warriors turned back to leave. Before they could make any progress, a dozen of the Changelings dropped down before them, spitting in warning. From what she’d seen Celestia reckoned the Iron Warriors could probably have gone through this opposition hardly breaking a sweat, but for what it was worth this resistance stopped them in their tracks.

“Oh, I insist that you stay. From what I can see you’ve been having a ball here, and I’d rather not have to deal with another threat to my authority at a later date.” The Changeling Queen said. The Warsmith’s shoulders dropped as he gave a sigh of frustration. Satisfied with their answer, Chrysalis turned her attention back to the Ponies.

“News travels fast, Celestia. We’d been stationed outside Canterlot ever since we’d heard of the falling star, and once your loyal Captain’s shields went down my armies could stroll right in.” She grinned manically, eyes utterly devoid of mercy. Celestia shivered.

“Sleeper agents? From the last invasion?” Twilight asked, voice tinted with confusion. Chrysalis nodded proudly. “Doesn’t that seem a bit coincidental?” The Unicorn went on. Chrysalis’ expression changed, from one of self-assuredness to confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“All I’m saying is it’s lucky that over the past months we’ve received absolutely no sign of them, despite security being stepped up since the wedding affair.” Twilight said. “Plus, you’ve never seen fit to use them before, but now they just happen to be on call? All I know is that doesn’t add up perfectly.”

Chrysalis was speechless for a moment, before an angry look entered her eyes. “Enough!” she barked. “It doesn’t matter what you think, girl. Canterlot is mine, and you’re all too weak to do anything about it!”

Luna lowered her head, a magical blast charging up along her horn before a shake of Celestia’s head stopped her. The sun Princess looked back at Chrysalis, unable to stop herself smiling slightly. From out of the corner of her eye she saw the Iron Warriors watching with rapt fascination.

“Not quite.”

Chrysalis saw what was happening a moment too late as the white light enveloped Celestia, Luna, Twilight and Shining. With a howl the Changeling queen spurred her minions onward, trying to stop her enemies’ spell, but the Ponies of Equestria had already teleported away.

Lorkhan didn’t even bother swearing. He knew it wouldn’t have helped, in any case. In a flash of radiant light the Princess and all the other brightly coloured horses had disappeared, leaving only their decidedly less attractive cousins behind and surrounding the Iron Warriors. Admittedly, the Warsmith mused, each Astartes was at least twice the height of their foes-more, in Vortun and his Cult’s case-but they were fatigued even for Marines by the sudden battle, and they were heavily outnumbered by the enemy found in this room alone. Factoring in that these ‘Changelings’ looked a lot less friendly than the Xenos they’d become acquainted with prior, and Lorkhan found himself in a rather unfortunate situation rather quickly.

“Mordecai,” he said over the vox, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of these creatures being infused with the touch of the Warp?”

“Alas, that does not appear to be the case my lord. They’re certainly unpleasant, but I cannot feel the taint upon their souls.”

“You sure? They’re certainly ugly enough.”

“True as that may be sir, I must stand by my original conclusion in this case.”

Lorkhan rolled his eyes in frustration as he considered an escape plan. Before he could decide, the Queen turned to face them proper. Despite her prior bark of annoyance, Chrysalis seemed content to menace the IV Legion’s warriors with the sudden disappearance of her preferred enemies.

“Poor, arrogant Celestia. She really thinks she can get away from me that easy? Hah!” The Queen shook her head, almost sympathetically. “Worry not, my friends, I shall avenge your persecution by the Equestrian nation. Unfortunately, you won’t be around to see it.” Chrysalis gave another laugh as she disappeared in a bolt of sickly green-without another word from their leader, the Changelings attacked.

The Iron Warriors had been expecting such a move though, and with no more expression of surprise than an obligatory “oh shit” from the Warsmith they ran towards the door to meet them. The Obliterator’s Assault Cannons spat high velocity death, thudding into the Xenos ranks. They burst open like spring flowers in bloom, their vile green insides spraying the ground. Iron Warriors lashed out with fists, or in Mordecai’s case telekinetic psychic power, crashing into Changeling bodies and snapping their frail bones. They pushed their way towards the door as one, bludgeoning their way over a pile of broken Xenos bodies.

Rorke dodged the snapping jaws of one of the Changelings, knocking the wind out of it with a follow up blow. Behind him one of his brothers wasn’t so fortunate; tackled by five Changelings, he was forced to the ground and had his softly armoured throat ripped out by sharpened incisors. Rorke span and delivered a right hook to one’s face. The skull shattered before his gauntleted fist, and the body dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

Turning, Rorke stared another Changeling in the face. Drawing back his fist to deliver a kick, Rorke could only blink in surprise as a light enveloped it, moving from the Xenos’ head to its feet. Before the Iron Warrior could swing a blow, a perfect copy of Rorke stood before him. There was no blemish, no changes, nothing to distinguish him from the monster that had taken his shape. For a moment, Rorke’s mind flashed to his long-lost cousins in the Alpha Legion. They’d have a field day here.

The transformed Changeling attacked, its blows wild and clumsy. Nevertheless, the surprise of being faced with his doppelganger was enough to throw the Astartes off guard. A fist slammed into his bare head, cracking the nose and causing blood to pour down Rorke’s face. Blinking away the pain, he barely managed to block two follow up punches. A downward kick to the shin incited a yelp of outrage from the Iron Warrior as he tumbled onto his back. The Changeling-Rorke loomed over him, grinning maniacally as it held him down and pulled back its fist again for the killing blow.

The monster smiled for a moment more before the hand erupted from the rear of its skull. Swiftly reverting to its original, equine form, the corpse hung limply on the silver gauntlet that was now stained with its blood. Rorke muttered a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods as Zuko removed the body from his hand contemptuously.

“You’re not wearing your helmet.” The other Aspiring Champion said, grabbing another Changeling out the sky and hurling it into away. Rorke shrugged, the pain in his nose already subsiding.

“Broke.” He replied simply, evading a punch from a second transformed Xenos before grabbing his doppelganger’s head and breaking the neck with a clean snap. Zuko gave a small chuckle.

“As broke as your nose, or more so?”

“Fuck off Zuko.”

“Hey, I reckon it’s an improvement.”

“I’d be insulted if you weren’t such a faggot.” Rorke stamped down on another Changeling’s head, reducing it to paste. The Iron Warriors had carved through a mass of the Xenos Warriors with minimal casualties, the Obliterator’s Assault Cannons reaping a heavy toll. But there were hundreds of them, and more coming all the time. Whilst Changeling’s seemingly favoured method of attack, confusing their foe with transformation, wasn’t working-it was obvious that they were not used to such powerful bipedal bodies, and the Iron Warriors didn’t really care if they hit their brothers or not-they couldn’t hold out forever.

“This is easily the worst idea Lorkhan’s ever had.” Rorke muttered, to no one in particular. Him and Zuko were fighting back to back now, their silver armour caked in blood and yet still reflecting the sun’s brilliant glare. “I mean, he’s had some fucking bad ideas, but letting us be taken to a happy pony tea party where we’re first sentenced to execution through the power of rainbows and sunshine before engaged in a fight to the death with the Tyranid’s decidedly less rational and reasonable stepchildren has to take the cake as the Warsmith’s most inspired cock-up yet.” A piece of stone torn from the floor, most likely by Mordecai’s psychic powers, sailed overhead. It struck three more Changelings, coating the wall with their ichor.

“We went along with it.” Zuko reminded him, punching another clone in the throat. Rorke scoffed.

“Mordecai and you went along with it. I never did.”

“You didn’t try and stop it, dumbass. Now shut up and help me think of a way out of this mess.”

“For once Zuko’s not talking out his arse.” Lorkhan pushed his way through the throng, strangling two Changelings in his Mechatendrils. He tightened his grip with the whip-like appendages, cracking both necks. The Warsmith looked at his two Champions, the half of his helmet that was a skull’s grin seeming strangely appropriate in this scene of wanton destruction.

“For once we’re not losing.” He pointed out. Zuko tilted his head slightly as if conceding the point. Rorke just spat.

“We still need to get out of here, sir. Do you actually have a plan this time?” Lorkhan now turned to look at Rorke as the Champion asked the question, the Warsmith folding his arms as his subordinates dropped two enemies.

“Not quite yet, Rorke. How the hell are there so many of these bastards anyway? Surely this room can’t hold them all?”

“I think it’s safe to assume that they’re coming from outside as well, lord.” Zuko sounded distracted. Lorkhan’s idle musings were hardly his greatest concern at the moment. The Warsmith shrugged, as if that satisfied his passing curiosity. Completely ignoring the combat that was raging around him, he rubbed his armoured forehead in aggravation, the heads of his Mechatendrils hovering around his ears as if whispering their secrets to him.

Another Changeling flew at Lorkhan, screeching and with fangs bared. Leaning his weight backwards, the Warsmith caught it under the chin with a brutal uppercut. It sailed away gurgling as it tried to draw in breath through its shattered throat. Shaking off the Xenos residue from his fist, Lorkhan looked along the path from which his adversary had come. The hole in the wall caused by the Changeling’s arrival was still open and raw, the wind picking up through the gaping wound. Sunlight reflected off the Warsmith’s helmet as inspiration dawned.

“Outside.” He whispered. Zuko and Rorke heard him, and followed his gaze out the hole. Zuko stared for a moment, before giving a tired sigh and cupping his faceplate in both hands, shaking his head slightly. The blood had completely drained from Rorke’s face.

“Lorkhan, please tell me this is a joke.” The Warsmith looked at Rorke, his amusement at the Champion’s annoyance clear. “Lorkhan, no, you cannot be serious.”

“Mordecai.” Lorkhan spoke over the vox. Moments later the sorcerer emerged from the crowd. He sounded breathless, the strain of constant psychic channelling taking its toll.

“Lord…” he gasped. Behind the four, another Iron Warrior was tackled to the ground, his throat smashed by the boot heels of his duplicate.

“I need an honest answer, Mord. Can you do that for once in your life?”

“I’m offended, I’ve never been anything but honest with you in my life Lorkhan.”

The Warsmith didn’t speak, merely pointing at the opening. Mordecai followed his finger for a moment, not comprehending before something clicked. He laughed despite himself.

“Yes, Lorkhan. Almost certainly.”

“Almost certainly?”

“I’d wager 95% likelihood.”

“But there’s still a 5% chance.”

“Well…yes, quite.”

“Alrighty then.” The Warsmith looked back at the hole, red optics seeming to narrow in concentration despite the impossibility of such a feat. “Allons y.” There wasn’t a hint of irony in his voice.

He started to run. Mordecai was hot on his heels, trinkets and sorcerous baubles clinking against his armour. Zuko and Rorke for their part tried to run, back into the mass of Changelings where at least their deaths would mean something. The Mechatendrils tied round their legs and sent them crashing into the ground. Lorkhan didn’t break stride as he continued to run, his Champions dragged behind him on their bellies as they desperately tried to break free.

They reached the edge quickly. The Obliterators covered their retreat, still pouring out masses of Cannon fire. The tower of the Castle stretched up high into the sky, raising hundreds of metres above the city. Even from here though, the sounds of battle and screams could be heard emanating from the streets below, and smoke rose from those houses savaged by vengeful Changeling marauders.

Another Legion might have considered another way. Another company could have to fight their way through. Another Captain could have stopped them getting into this situation in the first place.

Without even slowing down, or listening to the still trapped Zuko and Rorke’s howls of protest, the Iron Warriors Thirteenth grand company jumped out the window.

Author's Note

Implying Changelings weren't going to be in this at some point.

I know it's been longer than a week, but an update is an update I guess. I admit that this whole sequence is taking longer than i'd intended-ideally, I wanted the Iron Warriors battle in Canterlot to have concluded by now. But I don't have the patience or the attention span to write a particularly massive part, and I'm sure YOU my dear readers would get bored of it after a while too. So I'll spread it over two parts, and we'll see where we go from here.

I admit that I'm not overly happy with this chapter-as I think I mentioned last time, I dislike writing battle scenes at the best of times, and the characters don't 'sound' right. I know the Marines are massively OOC, but even here there's something off with them. I'd like to think that it's just due to a week of inactivity, but whatever.

Hopefully it's not completely awful anyway.

Come the Apocalypse

Twilight blinked away the last effects of the teleportation, breathing heavily in an attempt to quiet her racing heart. No matter how powerful you became in the arts of sorcery, mass teleportation like the Princess had used always caught one off guard.

As the scene around them came into focus, the Unicorn suppressed a gasp of horror. It was a sight of utter devastation. Even from the Princesses’ tower-where Twilight and her brother had taken refuge alongside her mentor, Princess Luna and the few Royal Guards that had survived the brawl in the chamber-she had seen the smoke rising and heard the screams and clash of battle echoing up from Canterlot’s streets. Down here it was even worse; buildings were little more than rubble, having been dragged down under the weight of Changeling numbers. Streets were fire-blackened, the blazes having started as candles were knocked over or magic used irresponsibly. Twilight grimaced as she realised that her hooves were sticky. Raising her foreleg and looking down at it, she worked to force back her rising vomit as her fear was confirmed; the hoof was matted with dark green blood, just like the street they stood on. She was glad that Spike wasn’t here to see this.

The worst was the bodies. They lay strewn about the road, tangled, crumpled and rent apart. Many were missing limbs, or had bones crushed and pulped. The vast majority were Changeling, corpses still bleeding out in great piles where they’d been slain en masse. Those of the Royal Guard were only slightly less numerous, teeth marks alluding to where the Changelings had ripped into them. Less regular were ‘Iron Warrior’ bodies. It looked like they had been brought down by sheer attrition, clashing with the other invaders. From what Twilight could tell they had not been fighting Ponies; at least, not here. That, if nothing else, was a mark in their favour.

Not that, she guessed, it would help them much. They were standing in a loose circle, the big freaky-looking ones forming a triangle within. Classic defensive tactics, she thought idly. She’d read a book about it once. The Guards that remained had come down all around them, trying to block off their escape. Privately, having seen them in battle in the castle Twilight wasn’t certain that they could be stopped. Nervous twinges in her stomach started up, the butterflies dancing back and forth. Looking up, Twilight saw Rainbow hovering with the Guards. It shocked the Unicorn to see her friend’s face so twisted with fury and hatred-even at her brashest and most arrogant, this was not the Rainbow Dash she knew. In truth all her friends, as well as the Princesses, seemed to be giving way to hatred. Only Pinkie and Fluttershy acted like themselves.

It’s them, Twilight realised, looking at the Iron Warriors. They stared back and all around, fingers twitching in anticipation of violence. Whatever they are, wherever they come from…it’s them. Something lingers on them, driving madness into the minds of others. Where the hell have they been? What have they seen, what have they done, to leave them so tainted? She felt both her disgust, and curiosity rise. They looked…they looked tired. Ready to fight, but weary. For all her dislike, Twilight found herself almost pitying them. They hadn’t looked like friends back in the Castle chamber. She wondered if they even knew what that word meant.

“What hast thou done?” Princess Luna hissed, to no-one in particular. There was no answer, though the Iron Warriors had clearly heard her. They cast glances amongst one another, either in confusion or…amusement? Surely not. Surely they weren’t so stupid as to think this was funny.

“What hast thou done!” Luna screamed, bringing the Canterlot voice back with a fiery vengeance. It echoed around the streets with all the force of pain and loss of a leader who has lost too much too quickly. Celestia was silent, though the white-hot pools of sunlight in her eyes betrayed that she demanded the exact same answers her sibling did. Twilight had never feared Celestia, not honestly feared her. But now…now Twilight shifted uncomfortably, wishing more than anything that today could have just been a normal day.

For a moment there was no response. Then, an infuriatingly polite voice chimed up.

“Pardon me, my Lady…but I do believe we may have inadvertently saved the day.”

If the notion was absurd to Twilight, then it was the last straw for Rainbow Dash.

“Saved the day? SAVED THE DAY?! You…most of the city is pretty much destroyed, Ponies are dead, we’ve had a bucking Changeling INVASION…and you think you ‘saved the day’?!” Twilight could see her friend was barely in control of herself. If it wasn’t for Fluttershy’s presence, and Rainbow’s worry for upsetting her sensitive friend further, Twilight wasn’t sure she would have been able to hold back.

“Well…” The Iron Warrior leader, Lorkhan or whatever his name was, spoke now. With his tentacles and armour caked in blood, the bumbling figure she’d seen earlier was all of a sudden a lot more menacing. “We did slap the shit into Queen Bug-eyes over there.” He pointed over Twilight’s shoulder, causing her and the rest of the assembled Ponies to turn. A tower lay collapsed, covering half the road and surrounded by Changeling bodies. Twilight felt her eyes widen as the released dark magic from what was under there became more and more apparent. She couldn’t believe that they’d actually done it, that anything could kill Chrysalis. At the same time, she’d always believed in trusting hard evidence.

“Dangerous terrain, faggot.” Lorkhan deadpanned, red optics blazing.

“Just one more crime to add to your obituary, daemon.” Luna hissed, blue light beginning to envelop her horn as she turned back to face the Iron Warriors. Celestia’s horn lit up a moment later, though her face had softened slightly.

“Not Daemons, Princess.” The polite one said, bowing his head slightly. “Never that. We were never that worthy.”

“Sons of Iron.” His voice was no more than a whisper now. In spite of everything, Twilight felt a strange feeling of sympathy jab at her heart. “He never asked for us to be any more.”

Lorkhan cast a sideward glance at his subordinate, though Twilight could not discern his expression beneath his helmet. Turning back, he stared at Celestia. Twilight’s mentor returned it evenly.

“Wait!”

This new voice was high pitched, sounding out of place in the tense atmosphere that had descended. From out of a side alley, Twilight saw Applebloom, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle push their way to stand between the Equestrian nobility and Iron Warriors. Applejack and Rarity moved forward a step, but a shake of the head from Celestia stopped them in their tracks. To everyone’s surprise, the Cutie Mark Crusaders moved to stand closer to the Iron Warriors, congregating about one’s legs. The horned warrior’s body language betrayed his embarrassment.

“Ya can’t execute ‘em! This one saved us from one of tha’ Changelin’s!” Applebloom called out. Now the rest of the Iron Warrior’s turned slowly to look at the one the Filly gestured towards. Twilight could hear a couple of them making noise. Were they…was that snickering?

“Yeah, and they took down the Queen! That was AWESOME!” Scootaloo said, pointing at the downed tower as Lorkhan had done a moment before. The Iron Warriors were still staring at the one Applebloom had singled out. They hardly seemed impressed.

“I didn’t mean to.” Twilight heard him mumble.

“Scoots, they’re the bad guys!” Rainbow Dash said, looking down at her young fan with disbelief. “Look at what they’ve done to Canterlot! That is NOT awesome, Scoots.”

“Maybe they’re just scared.” The orange Pegasi countered, obviously shaken by having to argue with her idol but not willing to concede the point. “If anypony turned up in a strange place they knew nothing about, surrounded by creatures they’d never seen and then told that they were going to be executed, they might flip out too…n-not that I’d be scared!” She added that last bit hurriedly.

“The Changelings did most of the damage anyway. It’s not these guys fault they got caught up in the middle.” Sweetie Belle put in. Some of the Iron Warriors were looking at the Cutie Mark Crusaders now, seemingly as bemused as Twilight was as to why the three little Ponies were defending them.

“Sweetie Belle, I cannot believe that you’re siding with these brutes over your own kind!” To her left, Twilight heard Rarity call to her sister. The last few words took on a higher pitch, sounding almost whiny.

“Well they did more than any of us!” Sweetie Belle shouted. “If it wasn’t for them the Changelings might have won! All you guys did was run away….”

“How dare you! We were running for our lives, what could we possibly have done to fight back?”

“Well I dunno, you’re the elements of harmony or something. There must have been something you could have done...”

Applejack’s stern voice carried across the conversation. “Alright, that’s enough now. AB, Scoots, Sweetie, we understand that you think one of these gahs saved yah. Maybe they did, and if so, then yah have mah thanks. But that don’t change the fact that they’re bad…whatever it is they are.”

“We thought that Babs was bad, and we were wrong ‘bout that!” Applebloom said. The other Crusaders began nodding furiously. Twilight saw that the Iron Warriors were looking more confused than ever.

“This ain’t tha’ same thing, sugacube.” Applejack replied, her voice tinged with sorrow.

“Why ain’t it? They could be good gahs, if we just gave ‘em tha’ chance!”

“How can you say that!” To Twilight’s surprise it was Fluttershy who cut in now. The Unicorn had quite forgotten her timid friend was here. It seemed Flutters had finally gotten sick of biting her tongue. “They destroy my home, kill poor little Angel, murder all those innocent Ponies, and they won’t even admit that they’ve done something wrong! How dare you side with them!”

The Cutie Mark Crusaders retreated backwards into a small huddle, moving towards an Iron Warrior’s legs. Twilight frowned; Fluttershy was usually good with kids, after the whole sleepover incident, and it was rare for her to lose her temper with them like this. Twilight made a mental note to get that Pegasus booked for some sessions with the psychiatrist when all this was done.

“Easy there Fluttershy, we don’t wanna condemn tha’ littluns for somethin’ they ain’t done.” Applejack’s steady voice again. The yellow Pegasus was still fuming, but there were tears of sadness rather than anger forming in her eyes now.

“Just…just get this over with…I mean, if that’s okay with you…” She descended to the ground and wiped her face with her hoof, sobbing gently. Luna walked forwards, still glaring at the Iron Warriors with malice burning in her eyes.

“T’would be my pleasure, fair maiden.” Her horn began to spark with eldritch blue light again as the power charged.

Iron Warriors brought their fists upon into ready stances. Guards lowered their spears. The big creatures made a sound again to a crossbow being primed for firing, aiming the devices in their arms that had spat death in the throne room earlier at the Princesses and their entourage. Rainbow Dash snorted. The polite Iron Warrior flexed his fingers by his sides. The Cutie Mark Crusaders covered their eyes. Twilight gulped.

“No.”

The voice was authorative and sagely, carrying a sense of finality with it. Twilight turned to look from where it came, her gesture mimicked by ever other creature present. Celestia stood in the centre of the throng of Ponies unbowed and unmoving. Her eyes were alight with fire, and her horn was surrounded by a rainbow of hues and power. Twilight took a step back in awe.

“I am Equestria’s judgement.”

Something was wrong. Twilight, along with ever other Pony bar Luna and the hovering Pegasi, pressed their muzzles to the ground in deference, but even so the lilac Unicorn could tell that something wasn’t right. This did not feel like the build-up of any offensive spell she had read about or practiced. It felt a lot more powerful than that, but not designed to hurt. Twilight’s mind moved at a thousand miles a second, trying desperately to figure out what Celestia was doing. Luna beat her to it.

“Sister, nay!”

But Celestia would not be stopped. She rose from the ground slightly, eyes still burning and the nimbus of power still forming over her head. The Iron Warriors watched her rise, unsure of what to do or if there even was anything that could be done. With all the grace that would be expected of a Pony of her rank and her years, Celestia inclined her head and let out a narrow bolt of rainbow coloured light straight at the Iron Warriors.

Twilight screwed her eyes closed, the second brilliant flash of light searing her retinas. She did not see what happened, what the bolt of light had done. No-one did.

Well, almost no-one.

“What in Olympia’s name was that?!”

Lorkhan sat up from where he had been laying on his back. That had hurt like a bitch. For all his years of warfare, even after all the thirteenth company had done and seen, Lorkhan hadn’t expected death to be quite that painful; in truth, he was almost impressed. He hadn’t thought the Xenos had it in them.

“You’re not dead, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

In seconds he was on his feet, Mecha-tendrils snapping to attention. Celestia’s voice, that had been Celestia’s voice. It didn’t mean she was telling the truth, but it was something to focus on. He looked all around for the source of the voice, trying to discern where in the hells he was. That wasn’t easy, because he didn’t seem to be anywhere. Everywhere he looked there was stars and blackness, and precious little else. Looking down, Lorkhan saw he was standing on white. Not white anything in particular. Just white. The whole place reminded the Warsmith of the Eye more than a little, and he wished that he still had his Power Axe. Surrendering to those Ponies was the stupidest thing they’d ever done. He couldn’t believe he’d let Rorke and Mordecai talk him into it.

“You should consider yourself blessed. In a reign of a thousand years, only five souls have ever seen this place. It is quite wondrous, isn’t it?” That voice again. It was starting to annoy the Warsmith.

“Did you zap them with rainbow lasers too?” Lorkhan asked, trying again to pinpoint where it originated. Celestia laughed, but it seemed to echo from all around him.

“Alas, no. They were willing, and they didn’t tear apart half the city before they were brought here.”

“And where exactly would that be?”

“My place.” That was definitely from behind him. Lorkhan span on his heels, and sure enough, there stood the Princess. She looked curiously less angry now than she had before. Lorkhan wasted no time; he pushed off his back leg, flinging himself at Celestia and launching a powerful right hook. Before the punch connected however, she dissipated into nothingness, leaving the Warsmith to land staring dumbly at his fist.

“As I said, this is my place. Why exactly did you think that attacking me in blind fury would accomplish anything of value?” To his right, Lorkhan saw a white shape reforming. Immediately he lashed out with a mechanical tendril at the Princess. She dissipated again just as before, her sigh filling the air. It set Lorkhan’s teeth on edge.

“You’re a really slow learner, aren’t you?”

“I prefer the term persistent.”

She appeared a third time, in front of him now and with an expression that implied that he’d be advised to let her finish talking. Lorkhan did not move to attack, instead folding his arms over his chest.

“So…if I’m not dead, which is still the theory I’m going with by the way, what exactly am I doing here?”

“You’re here because this is a place that you and I can talk freely, without being interrupted by my sister and more…shall we say ‘zealous’ members of my kingdom.”

“Talk? You want to talk?” Lorkhan couldn’t help but blink in surprise. “Gods of the Warp, if that’s how you execute people here then just cut my head off and be done with it I implore eyou. I get enough of an earful from Mordecai as it is.”

At this, she smiled, coming closer slightly. It wasn’t a friendly smile, but it wasn’t sadistic either, and that was a start.

“Why do you assume I’m going to execute you?”

“You were before.”

“You hadn’t shown some measure of goodness by saving the little one's lives and saving Canterlot from Chrysalis and the Changelings, even if neither of those things were intentional; that, and you weren’t useful to me before.”

Lorkhan unfolded his arms and tilted his head to the side slightly. Hate her as he did, he felt his respect for the Xenos Princess rise a fraction. He wouldn’t have expected her capable of such guile.

“I am a Princess, Iron Warrior.” She went on, circling him now. “And that means that sometimes, I have to make…difficult decisions. I cannot say that I ever truly wanted to execute you. We’ve never truly executed someone in Equestria, but with you we couldn’t see any other way. Our magic does not work on you as it does on creatures native to Equestria, it seems.”

“Urr…thanks?” Lorkhan watched her as she moved around him, unsure of where this was going.

“I am a Princess, and therefore by necessity a pragmatist, but I take no joy in death." She went on. “I condemned you to death because I saw no other option. But you have proven yourself capable fighters, if not strictly speaking competent, and I have use for creatures such as you.”

Lorkhan bristled at being called incompetent, but his interest was piqued. At the very least it sounded like Celestia was giving him a chance to survive even a little longer. That had to be worth listening too, if nothing else.

When he did not respond, Celestia continued. “There is a place in this realm called the Everfree forest. It is…not as it should be. My mastery of the sun, and my sisters of the moon, is irrelevant there; the heavenly bodies rise and fall of their own accord.” Lorkhan wasn’t sure why this was out of the ordinary, but decided to hold his tongue. “My subjects, with one or two exceptions fear to enter that place. It is the haunt of monsters and dark things from the old times. And recently, something has risen within its shadowed confines.”

“Why don’t you deal with it?” Lorkhan asked.

“My sister and I are kept busy with Royal Duties, Lorkhan. And we have no idea what this new threat is. If we possessed the time, I would go myself and crush it. But I cannot, and I dare not send my subjects, for I fear not even the best and brightest of them could triumph.”

“And that’s where we come in.” Lorkhan finished, all the pieces slotting into place. “We go and do your dirty work for you, whilst you sit back in your castle safe in the knowledge that we’ll probably have the shit kicked out of us by whatever fucked-up thing this bloody planet decides to throw at us next.”

“You are perceptive, Warsmith.”

“One thing.” Lorkhan asked, smiling despite himself. He drew in close to Celestia, so his helmet was no more than inches away from her face. “Why the FUCK would we do that.”

“Two main reasons.” She replied, unperturbed. “The first should be fairly evident; if you survive and complete this mission for me, I shall grant you a royal pardon based on service to the realm.”

Lorkhan was, only temporarily, unmanned. “After the magical mystery tour that we just had out there, that seems awfully generous of you.”

“As I said Iron Warrior, death holds no great joy for me.”

“And the second reason why I should go skipping merrily along to what has a 95% chance of being a suicide mission?”

“The second reason, is that should you survive, I shall allow you to stay here in Equestria under my protection until we find a way of getting you home…provided you don’t turn on us, of course.”

Well, there went that option.

Lorkhan was suspicious. The IV Legion paranoia for which they were so famed was working overtime, yet it was tempered by consideration. Celestia had a point. He hadn’t thought about how they were going to get off this bloody rock.

“Let’s look at the facts.” The Pony continued, pressing her advantage now she saw he was interested. “I admit I have no idea what you are, or about anything you have spoken of since arriving here. I know not of the ‘Warp’, or this war of which you speak, or why you wear painted metal skulls on your shoulders and can snap apart spines like they were twigs. But I have observed enough to know what drives you. You want to get back to wherever it is you come from. You never wanted to be here in the first place. Your Warlock’s magic may perhaps work on a small scale, but not to the degree required to fashion an escape method through it. Your transport is smashed, beyond repair, and we have nothing capable of leaving Equestria’s orbit that you could plunder. What option do you have but working with us? You could betray us, of course you could. But then you would be stuck here perhaps indefinitely, and you’ve been here for two days and hate it. Work with us, and we will find a way to get you off back to the stars. Because believe me when I say that I don’t want you here more than anyone else does.”

Lorkhan gave a small growl of exasperation, staring down at the ground. As much as it pained him to admit it, Celestia was right. The Iron Warriors couldn’t stay there forever, and without the Ponies help they had no way of leaving unless by some miracle a Warp Storm popped up-and even that wasn’t a safe bet. They needed the Xenos’ aid. Then, they could leave, go back to Medrenguard and re-join the rest of the Legion.

And then…and then, the Thirteenth could come back. Re-armed and ready to fight a proper war. Yeah. Yeah, that would show his naysayers in the rest of the Legion. Slaughter the Xenos for Perturabo and the Gods, glass the world and erect a new fortress-planet of the IV. They couldn’t argue with that. Or even better; go deeper into the eye and find the faggot arse Thousand Son that had put them in this position in the first place. Then Lorkhan could tear the Sorcerer’s helmet off, empty the dust out, and take a nice big shit in it. That would at least be personally satisfying.

He twisted his head to look up at Celestia who was watching him intently. “Would we get our weapons back?”

“No.”

“Could we take the Obliterators?”

“Your large friends? Yes.”

“I see.” He turned back to looking at the floor, sighing and closing his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.” He raised an arm straight out to the side, still staring down to the white floor. Celestia mirrored the gesture with her hoof. Lorkhan grasped it firm in his gauntlet, and shook once.

Celestia’s horn began to play with radiant light again, and in a second they were gone.

Nothing had changed. That was what hit Lorkhan first. Everything was precisely as it had been the moment Celestia had cast her spell.

It seemed that wherever they’d gone, it had existed beyond the boundaries imposed by time. The Ponies still stared where their ruler now stood again, and the Iron Warriors still looked up where she’d risen above them. Realising that the situation had changed, they looked back down at Lorkhan, none of them daring to speak. He didn’t face them, standing slightly ahead of the group and looking at the mass of Xenos. Celestia stood in the middle of them, smiling at the Warsmith knowingly. The blue Princess stared at her white sibling, her anger evident. The little purple unicorn didn’t seem to know what to think.

Slowly it became apparent to Lorkhan that everyone was waiting for him to speak. He sighed again-it occurred to him just how much he’d done that over this whole experience-and clapped his hands together in front of him.

“Brothers.”

He span round to face them, feeling their eyes burning into him as he looked them all up and down. Although Lorkhan could not see their faces, he could feel their initial bemusement change to almost expressions of almost pleading; as if they knew what was coming and begged him to have it be anything else. The Obliterators couldn’t hide their expressions, one of them shaking his head slowly in disbelief. Only Mordecai seemed unfazed.

Lorkhan opened his hands in an expansive gesture as he searched for the right words. Behind his helmet, he felt his features crease in his best shit-eating grin. When at last he spoke, his voice was at the very least enthusiastic.

“I’ve got excellent news!”

Author's Note

A slightly shorter chapter this time, mainly because it was needed to advance the plot/give Lorkhan and Celestia some genuine interaction and not much else. I wonder what Ponies and Iron Warriors would be on the Allies Matrix. I'm tempted by 'desperate allies', if only because the Fourth Legion are pragmatic, to say the least.

Why the hell am I still doing these.

Pollos

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“There are no words that accurately describe how much I hate you.”

“You’ve made your point, Rorke.”

Rorke glowered at Lorkhan’s back as he and the rest of the Iron Warriors in their group trudged through the deep forest cover. For all that Celestia had claimed that the ‘Everfree’ was wild and untamed, there certainly seemed to be plenty of these conveniently open pathways beneath the canopy. Rorke didn’t bother complaining. He had more than enough of that to do today.

This was ludicrous. Everything they’d done since they’d crashed on this blasted planet had been flawed, but this latest idea of Lorkhan’s to not only let the Xenos live, but to actually work together with them took the cake. Rorke hadn’t believed it when the Warsmith first told the surviving Astartes of the deal he’d agreed with the Pony princess. He had felt many emotions over his long life-embarrassment, anger, incomprehension, hysterical laughter-yet he had never been treated to the experience of all of them together in one concoction. It was all he could do to not tackle Lorkhan from behind in a vain attempt to usurp control and try and salvage something-anything-from this entire shitty escapade.

He looked down at the helmet still maglocked to his belt. He’d liked that helmet. The fact that it had sustained damage at the hands of these horse things galled him. The fact that he couldn’t take revenge, for fear of upsetting Lorkhan’s perfect little plan, annoyed him even more. The Iron Warrior champion rubbed the stubble on his chin, spitting in disgust. The acidic saliva burned the patch of grass where it landed with an audible hiss, leaving it brown and withered. It was only a small consolation.

Increasing his pace, Rorke moved to walk alongside the Warsmith. Lorkhan had not slowed down or stopped looking directly ahead since they’d entered the forest, seemingly wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. On that at least, Rorke could sympathise with. The Company had divided into two groups of roughly equal size at the beginning of their trek, in order to cover more ground and discover whatever this thing the Ponies wanted them to take down quicker. Lorkhan and Rorke headed one of the parties, whilst Zuko and that slippery bastard Mordecai were in charge of the other. Vortun had gone with the other group two, leaving his two brethren to lumber alongside Rorke and his warriors. The Aspiring Champion had never heard either of them speak since falling prey to the Virus-they preferred to let Vortun do the talking as they whooped and cackled in battle, unleashing their profane pyrotechnics. Rorke wasn’t sure they actually could still talk.

Slowing down his jog, Rorke came to a level pace with the Warsmith. Lorkhan still did not look at him, moving forward at a relentless pace. All the Iron Warriors had more or less been silent since entering the Everfree, instead staying on the lookout for any danger lurking in the undergrowth. Eyes had been watching them since their arrival, yet the Astartes had dismissed them as an irrelevance. They moved from the path, striding through tangled creepers snaking down from the trees and the knotted mass of vegetation being trampled beneath their ceramite boots. Rorke wished for his Power sword, or even a combat knife-anything to make navigating through the bush a little easier.

“I refuse to believe that Celestia would not have given us any sort of weapon had you pressed her for them.” Rorke muttered. Lorkhan still didn’t look at him, but the slight raising of his pauldrons betrayed a shrug.

“She made us a good offer, all things considered. I decided not to push our luck any more than was necessary. This might shock and appal you, Rorke, but I like living.”

“As do I, sir. I just prefer living on my own terms.”

Now Lorkhan did look, turning his head only slightly to give the former sergeant a sidelong glance. Rorke returned his stare, fighting to keep his expression neutral. Internally, he felt himself squirm slightly-for all his occasional blundering, the Warsmith was still in charge for a reason.

“So it’s ‘sir’, now?” Lorkhan asked, the daemon-faced gargoyles that functioned as his armour’s exhaust letting out a steady stream of black smoke. Rorke went back to looking dead ahead.

“I could go back to telling you I hate you. Which I do, by the way.”

Lorkhan chuckled slightly, and returned his attention to the path ahead. They walked in silence for a few minutes, before the Warsmith broke it.

“Horus is dead, Rorke. The crusade we fought to topple the False Emperor is not the same as it once was. Abbadon leads it now, for all the good that’s done. We need to adapt to the times and not cling on to past glories.”

It took Rorke a moment to formulate a response. “Maybe so. But we can choose our battles, and fight the ones that matter. We were at the Cage, Lorkhan. We humbled Dorn and his bastards. I think you can see why being stuck on this planet having to work with Princess Pony and pals annoys to me.” It took him a couple of seconds to continue. “It’s not a crime to want to win this war.”

“Do you think I like this any more than you do? I hate this, really brother, I do. But I accept that right now we haven’t been presented with much of a choice. All we can really do is play along, and see what fate deals us.” The Warsmith was starting to sound more annoyed by the second, but Rorke would not be dissuaded.

“That was strangely poetic. Please tell me you’re not turning into one of Fulgrim’s dandies.”

“I’m not nearly fabulous enough for that.” Lorkhan stopped abruptly, catching Rorke off guard. The Warsmith tilted his head to the side, as if pondering upon a great question. Rorke watched with a rising mixture of expectation and annoyance.

“You realise that this is probably the first time in years that you and I have had a proper discussion.” The Warsmith finally stated. Rorke blinked in surprise, but merely shrugged

“Huh.” The Warsmith turned to look at the treeline, clapping Rorke on the arm with a heavy gauntlet. “I’m starting to remember why you piss me off so much.” Without another word, he walked towards it, disappearing into the gloom. Rorke watched him go with a roll of the eyes, before sighing an exasperated sigh and following him in.

Zuko grumbled unintelligibly as he kicked the rock without thinking. It sailed through the air, whistling as it went, before vanishing from sight. Zuko didn’t bother trying to track its flight. In truth, he didn’t care.

This place sickened him. All he’d seen of this world so far had sickened him, yet he found himself developing a special loathing of the Everfree. The whole place was too…close. Zuko had never been particularly claustrophobic, no Space Marine was. But something about the forest and the way it surrounded you so totally sent small tingles of battle-preparation adrenalin through the Iron Warrior’s body.

Something made a hooting sound above him. Zuko snapped his head back, turning his eyes skyward as he searched for the source of the noise. Whatever it had been was already gone, and he grumbled in annoyance again. The polite laughter from just over his shoulder did not improve his mood.

“I say, dear brother, you are particularly jumpy tonight.” Zuko turned to look at the speaker. Mordecai was already looking at him. “Do try and relax.” The fact that he sounded sincere only aggravated Zuko further.

“That’s easy for you to say. You already know if we’re going to run into anything unpleasant in here.”

“Oh my, surely you don’t still cling to the childish notion that I can divine the future?”

“I had hoped” Zuko snorted. Mordecai shook his head sadly, while from over the vox Vortun grunted.

“I am as puzzled as you are concerning the nature of our quarry, Brother-Sergeant.” Mordecai continued, swaying slightly as he walked. “Though I admit that I am most curious.”

“I still fail to see what ‘great evil’ could lurk on this pastel-coloured hellhole of a world, even if this corner of it in particular isn’t the most…inviting.”

“Well, quite.” Mordecai looked at Zuko expectantly. It took the Iron Warrior a moment to work out what the Psyker was getting at.

“You want to know what I think it is, don’t you?”

“I have always found your opinion to be most valuable.”

“Bullshit.” Zuko spat. Despite this, he couldn’t deny that he’d been thinking about that exact issue as well. There’d be no harm in humouring Mordecai.

“Well…from what Lorkhan said that Celestia had told him, the Ponies think it’s a ‘great evil’ or some-such. But I suppose to them, anything that doesn’t support kindness and other such nauseating concepts would be classed as evil. It’s entirely possible we will have no quarrel with whatever it is. Plus…” Zuko went quiet, trying to think of the right words to articulate his thoughts. “They had never heard of the Warp, or the Gods, or anything to do with us. It’s like this whole planet is cut off from the galaxy at large, which would explain why the Xenos are so accommodating. But here, in this forest, the ‘normal’ rules obeyed by nature such as dominion of the sun and the moon by the Princesses don’t apply. And even I can feel the presence of the Realm here. Personally, I reckon that whatever we encounter, it’ll have been here a long time, and it’ll be familiar to us.”

Zuko did not look at his brother, electing to carry on walking. When no reply was forthcoming, he turned in confusion. Mordecai was staring at him, expression masked by his horned helmet. Zuko felt his eyes narrow.

“You think the same thing, don’t you?”

Mordecai nodded, but for once there was no smart-arse comeback. The group of twelve or so Iron Warriors continued to navigate through the dense forest in silence, the stillness only punctuated by the rustling of leaves, the cries of animal, and occasional angry cursing from an Astartes who had stepped in something unpleasant.

“Why do we swear so much?” Mordecai again. Zuko gritted his teeth to hold back his annoyance.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He asked.

“Right there.” The sorcerer said. “See? It cannot have escaped your notice the…crass dialect of our particular company. We curse more than perhaps we should do as the heirs of Olympia.”

“One, Olympia is dead. We killed it. Two, why does it matter?”

“Back in the Crusade, we were much more eloquent in our responses, if you recall.”

“We used to be a lot of things.” Zuko finally stopped in his tracks, spinning on his heels to face Mordecai. The witch simply looked back at him, head cocked to the side slightly. The champion raised his arms in defeat. “Look, Mordecai, I don’t know. I don’t care. We were in the Warp a long time, maybe it’s just a gift from the Gods. Frankly, you’d know better than me, and I am really not in the mood to be having this discussion with you right now.”

“As you wish.” Mordecai nodded, resuming his march. A couple of Iron Warriors, Basikor and Barbus amongst them, had stopped to watch the exchange. They followed Zuko, seemingly disappointed it hadn’t come to blows. For about twenty minutes, the party walked in silence again.

Finally, after a half-hour of solid walking, they reached a place where the tree canopy was even thicker. A small ridge led down into an area clear of heavy bush cover. At the edge of this clearing stood a large tree. It looked old, and gnarled, twisted and looming over the ground so as to cast its long shadows more completely. Other haggard looking trees rose around it, contributing to the unwholesome air. Fungi and strange species of plants that Zuko couldn’t recognise sprouted under the trees on the clearing’s edge, and even through his helmet grille a strange scent assailed the Iron Warrior’s nose. Something wasn’t right.

“Ze tree.” Vortun was the one that pointed it out. “It is hollow.”

It was. Light shone out from two windows cut into the bark, and a door was affixed to its base. Baubles and charms hung off the tree’s branches, whilst upon the ground outside were large masks that looked almost daemonic in visage. Zuko found, to his dismay, that he actually kind of liked the place.

“Do you think it’s inhabited?” The Champion muttered over the general vox, squatting along with the rest of his brothers-save Vortun-in a vain effort to hide himself.

“Considering there’s a light on inside? Yeah, that’s pretty much a giveaway.” Barbus whispered back. Zuko crawled slightly closer, subconsciously analysing the building’s structural weaknesses and blind spots. He was about to pounce when he felt eyes on him from behind. He span round in a combat stance, as a heavily accented voice spoke up.

“Tell me, what are these creatures that dare roam, away from the city and close to my home?”

“Sister, please calm down.”

“This is an outrage, Celestia, and you are well aware of it!”

“You are overreacting, Luna. Please, calm down.”

“How can you permit this?”

Twilight stared down at her hooves as the two Princesses argued, the feeling of being utterly out of her depth washing over her in waves of nausea. Fidgeting awkwardly, she attempted to get comfortable on her cushioned seat. It didn’t work.

After Celestia’s orders that the Iron Warriors were to be sent into the Everfree forest, a council of what were ostensibly the wisest ponies was called to discuss what to do after. Twilight had protested at her invitation, but apparently being Celestia’s faithful student had its responsibilities as well as perks. None of the other element bearers had been invited, and she wished for the hundredth time that at least one of her friends was here supporting her; specifically, she missed Spike. She hadn’t seen the little Dragon since things had kicked off in the throne room, and worry was starting to set in.

Luna had been apoplectic when she had heard of her sister’s decree, and most of the ‘council’ had consisted of the Princess of the Night demanding justice and explanations in equal measure. Celestia had been more taciturn and defensive, giving little information on what the Iron Warriors were doing, and even less on what she had discussed with Lorkhan. The other Ponies seated round the table-Twilight, Mayor Mare, two members of the Royal Guard (as Shining Armour had been ordered to attend the infirmary), Due Sentence the clerk, and some aristocratic looking residents of Canterlot that Twilight didn’t recognise-had been utterly silent, bar a report from the Guardsponies. Looking at them, the purple Unicorn guessed they all felt as awkward as she did.

“We have said it once, and we shall say it a thousand times.” Luna went on. “It dismays us that you believe these fiends are possessed of but a single redeeming quality, let alone are entitled to such generous mercy.”

“They saved those filly’s lives, Luna.” Celestia retorted. The Lunar princess merely scoffed.

“Tis’ a lie, and you are well aware of it. That was but a chance error upon their part, albeit one that we are extremely grateful for.” Luna’s face softened slightly, and she rose from her seat to trot over to her sister. Resting a midnight blue hoof on Celestia’s shoulder, Luna gave a weak smile.

“It is not weakness to take a stand against evil, Celestia.”

Twilight watched in awe for a moment, the rest of the assembled gathering following suite; seeing the two Princesses act as siblings was rare, to say the least. For a moment, Twilight thought that Celestia would be swayed by her sister’s tenderness. But then, she brushed Luna’s hoof of an shook her head slowly, and the spell was broken.

“They can still serve us, even I they don’t want to. And everyone deserves a second chance.” A moment’s pause. “You should know that better than anyone.”

Luna seemed less than pleased, her face turning stony and cold. She did not say anything, but stalked around the table, circling like an ocean predator that has just caught the scent of blood. Twilight felt sweat begin to bead across her brow, and tapped her hooves on her seat awkwardly. Trying to focus on something else, she idly stared out the debating chamber’s window.

She could more or less make out Ponyville in the valley below. The town seemed to be more or less recovering from this distance, although the ugly wreckage of the ship the Iron Warrior’s had arrived in and the scar it had gouged out of the land were still visible. Beyond that was the Everfree Forest, a dark and unsettling mass of foliage in an otherwise pleasant landscape.

Twilight suppressed a shiver. They were out there, under those branches and boughs. The Iron Warriors. Whether they were dead or alive was another matter, but the fact remained that creatures that had been enemies of the realm not a week before were now working by Princess Celestia’s whim. Twilight couldn’t stop her skin crawling.

“Twilight?”

Twilight’s attention snapped back to the present as she heard her name. Turning, she saw the other members of the chamber all staring at her expectantly. Her cheeks flushed.

“Y-yes Princess?” Celestia smiled not unkindly as Twilight’s voice wavered. For her part, Luna tapped her hoof impatiently on the stone table.

“I asked what you thought of our current situation concerning the…interlopers.”

“Oh.” Twilight cleared her throat, trying to slow her heart and seem as business like as possible. “Of course, Princess.” She paused momentarily, searching for the right words. “Well…on the one hoof, I think it’s pretty obvious that these guys aren’t enjoying their time here anymore than we are, and based on what we know they’re capable of, I’m willing to bet that they have every intention on turning on us if they get the chance.”

“You see, Tia? Even your faithful student supports my view.” Luna put in, proudly. Celestia gave another smile.

“That certainly did seem to be your friend’s viewpoint.” The solar princess said. Twilight nodded.

“Well, I guess so. But…” she felt Luna’s eyes bore into her, but pressed on regardless. “But we’ve never seen anything like them before. I’m not sure even they know the full intricacies of what they are. And I hate to say it, but they did seem to be intent on keeping their promise on investigating the Everfree. I know that nopony really wants it, but I just don’t think we can cast them out when given this opportunity to learn more.”
Luna had apparently heard enough, making for the door. “You will damn us all, Twilight Sparkle.” She murmured, still loud enough for all to hear. “Misplaced kindness and compassion serves nothing.”

“With the greatest respect, Princess, I don’t think it’s about compassion.” Twilight retorted, the urge to defend her point stronger than her fear at back talking a Princess. “It’s about having opportunities presented to us, and…”

She trailed off as she looked out the window again in passing, eyes widening as she took in the scene before her. The other ponies in the room followed her eyes, their own mouths hanging agape as they saw what she did. A buzz of muttering broke out as the Princesses watched in silence; Celestia closed her eyes and shook her head, whilst Luna’s face seemed to be a mix of horror, outrage, and subtle glee at being vindicated.

“Damnit Lorkhan” Twilight heard Celestia whisper. She couldn’t blame her.

Lorkhan snarled as the Timberwolf pitched him onto his back, great wooden jaws snapping at the seal joining his helmet to his chest plate. The creature’s soulless green eyes stared down at him as its jaws edged closer and closer, saliva drooling from its mouth like armour that had been reduced to molten goo by a Meltagun blast. The Warsmith gave another grunt of effort, grasping the wolf’s forelimbs in his ceramite gauntlets and heaving. Despite being almost as long as the Iron Warrior was tall, the Timberwolf was surprisingly light, and Lorkhan had swiftly regained his footing and held the creature in mid-air. It still drooled and snapped at him, until a Mecha-tendril smashed through its head, ending its frenzied assault for good.

The Warsmith dropped the creature’s broken body by his feet and kicked it away contemptuously. Dsting himself down, he was just in time to see the rest of his brothers drive away the remnants of the pack that had attacked them. Rorke raised one over his head, his face a mask of wordless rage, and brought it crashing down onto his knee. The wooden beast’s spine splintered clean in two like an overused toothpick, and the Aspiring Champion hurled the two halves of the wolf away with a howl.

Hardly the company’s greatest victory, true, but at least it was a victory.

“What…were those things” Rorke panted, and Lorkhan knew that the Astartes kill-urge would still be flooding his system as it was with all the warriors. The Xenos had held the element of surprise, but they’d soon found their efforts hampered by Power armour, and in just over three minutes around twenty of the creatures had been slain by the Legionnaires. A couple of the Marines nursed fractured wrists where a lucky tooth had sank into soft armour, and there was hardly a suit of armour that had not had some of the steel paint stripped from it, but all in all injury was light.

“Gods be damned if I know.” Lorkhan said, still surveying the scene. “Some kind of Xenos beast that was able to flourish within the confines of this forest. Our gracious employers probably live in abject fear of them.”

The Warsmith looked down to his left as Kravix grasped onto one’s body. The Marine placed a hand on each side of the Timberwolf’s wooden skull before yanking. It came free with little effort. Kravix held the head out in front of him, seemingly pleased with his effort. Before Lorkhan could ask what the hell he was doing, it collapsed in on itself; the magic keeping these creatures together seemingly fleeing from the corpse, and the wood becoming lifeless chunks of tree again.

“I wanted that as a trophy.” Kravix said. He sounded disappointed.

“You’ll live.” Lorkhan replied, his helmet’s vox-grille rendering his voice a growl even if he hadn’t meant to himself. Over his shoulder, the Obliterators paced back and forth in what Lorkhan could only guess was impatience. They hadn’t got to use their weapons in the fight, and the inactivity was clearly galling to them. Lorkhan had never been a particularly pious man even by the IV Legion’s standards, but he muttered a silent prayer that the warped warriors would keep their tempers in check and not bring the whole bloody forest down on their heads.

“Lord.” One of the other Iron Warriors called. With Rorke a step behind, Lorkhan paced his way to the other side of the clearing they had found themselves in. The Iron Warrior who had called them over was crouched by the treeline, examining something obscured in the shadows. His Power Armour gave an even angrier whine than usual, and sparks fizzled from the backpack in irregular bursts.

“Your backpack is damaged.” Lorkhan said, crouching down with some difficulty. The other warrior merely shrugged.

“One of those bug things caught me off guard, Lord. It looked like Zuko.”

“And you didn’t kill it immediately anyway?”

The Iron Warrior laughed, before nodding at what he and the Warsmith were looking at. Lorkhan’s eyes flicked left and right within his helmet, taking the sight in.

“These plants.” The Iron Warrior said, nodding his head towards the flora. To Lorkhan’s eyes they looked nothing special; completely blue, with a bud on top and several antennae like stalks sprouting from it. There was a cluster of them here that led away into the trees, and now the Warsmith thought about it he’d noticed several bunches of them as they’d been walking.

“What about them?” Rorke asked with a sneer, reaching down to grab one. As his hand moved towards them the other Iron Warrior’s arm shot out, grasping the Champion’s wrist and holding it in place.

“Don’t.” The crouching Astartes said softly. Rorke bristled in barely contained danger, but retracted his arm. The Iron Warrior turned to look at the Warsmith.

“I ran some diagnostics. These plants may look harmless, but the spores…not so much.” Lorkhan looked at him inquisitively as the Iron Warrior breathed slowly, weighing up his next words. “They seem to contain some kind of toxin, but not one that can be countered with a Narthecium and some time spent in the Apothecarion. From what I gather, there’s some kind of psychic charge to it.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Lorkhan snorted.

“Aye. I couldn’t tell you what it does, as I’ve no intention of finding out, nor do I know whether it would affect us. But it’s worth bearing in mind.”

Lorkhan looked at him in silence for a minute. “So, this is just…for my information.”

“That, and the fact that if this plant reacts like plants with its structure in the rest of the galaxy do, it’ll be a powerful narcotic when burned.”

The Warsmith’s head tilted to the side, seemingly in non-comprehension. “So…it’s a drug?”

“Yes, Lord. Although the fact that there’s so much of it here indicates one of three things; it grows incredibly quickly, the Xenos don’t know about that it’s a drug, or this forest is more shit-scary to them than we thought.”

“I see.” The Warsmith rose, servos in his legs giving an angry growl as he did so. “I never had you down as a student of horticulture, brother.” The Iron Warrior gave another chuckle, before turning back to examine the blue flowers.

The rest of the squad seemed preoccupied with disposing with the wooden remnants of their attackers. Lorkhan sighed and paced around aimlessly, replaying the journey over in his head. Zuko and Mordecai’s group had not been in contact yet, and without knowing how they were doing it was becoming harder and harder to think of where else there was to go. Rorke had taken a seat on a rock and had begun kicking at pebbles scattered across the ground.

“So what the fuck do we do now?” The champion asked. He rubbed his armoured wrists impatiently, still twitching with the last vestiges of adrenalin. Lorkhan watched his brother. Rorke had always been the most violent of the Company, but this shuddering was…not ideal.

“Control yourself, damnit. We’ll get there when we get there”

Rorke grunted in amusement, spitting more acidic bile onto the ground. Lorkhan felt his nose curl in revulsion.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re on talking terms with the Xenos it seems, so I guess when they invite you to their next tea party you’ll just have to tell th-“

“Are we really going to have this discussion now, Rorke?” The Warsmith cut in, voice the sound of iron crashing into stone. “Really. We’re stuck in this fucking forest and have bugger all idea where we are or where we’re going, there’s no way of us getting of this shithole of a planet without us having to kiss the backside of bastard pastel-coloured horses, and in addition to all that we’ve come under attack by animal shaped trees, shape changing insects and the fucking sun, and you really think that now is the best time to bitch at me?” Lorkhan gave an exasperated sigh on the last word, before turning and rubbing his red visors with the tips of his armoured fingers. It accomplished nothing practical, but it did make Lorkhan feel better. His nose was still curled; there was a new scent in the air, sharp and irritating. Rorke said nothing, merely sitting back on the rock and crossed his arms. Whether it was in defiance or simple acceptance, Lorkhan couldn’t tell.

“Sir.” The vox crackled to life, snapping Lorkhan out of his reverie. He raised a hand to his ear, as if that would help him hear better.

“Tell me there’s good news.”

“It’s Barbus, sir. We’re at point 99-XC along our route, it should be patching into your optical stream now. I think you need to get here right away.”

Lorkhan was already running as the scent tingled at his nose. No matter their level of intelligence, all Warsmiths were used to the smell of fire.

The creature had introduced herself as Zecora, and in stark contrast to every other damn thing the Iron Warriors had encountered so far-Celestia not included, perhaps-had not wanted to put the Astartes’ heads on spikes at first sight. Although the presence of the armoured giants near her home had come as a surprise to her, she revealed that she had been quite aware of their arrival in ‘Equestria’ and didn’t see any reason to needlessly make an enemy.

This act hadn’t convinced many of the Iron Warriors, who had seen little difference in this Xenos from the ones who’d tried to kill them earlier that very weak. Zuko had to agree with them; the fact that she’d somehow been watching them all this time was enough to cause concern. The constant rhyming the creature insisted on only added to the list of reasons Zuko thought they should just snap her in half and be done with it. But alone of the Space Marines, Mordecai had argued against violence. The Sorcerer had proposed that, seeing as Zecora was a native of this forest, if anyone was going to know where they might find a ‘great evil’ that the Princess would want destroying then she would. This had elicited grumbles from the other Iron Warriors; as far as they were concerned, they had made more than enough allowances for aliens recently. Yet Mordecai had been insistent, and at the very least Zecora had been accommodating and willing to listen.

Her hut was small and cramped, and Zuko reckoned that it couldn’t have held two or three other ponies, let alone anything bigger. In his Power Armour Mordecai took up most of the room, and he sat hunched over like some great steel gargoyle. Despite the impracticality, Zuko had offered to accompany the Sorcerer in anyway; Mordecai had responded with a curt shake of the head.

“That will not be necessary, brother.” The warlock had said, voice all smiles. “I will handle this myself.”

Which meant Zuko, the other ten or so Iron Warriors that had come with him, and Vortun were stuck in the clearing outside the tree-hut for the time being. A couple were examining the baubles hung on trees, or the strange masks scattered around, but for the most part they simply around and waited in bored frustration. Zuko and Vortun had taken to wandering around purposelessly, trying to find something to amuse themselves with.

The smell of what Zuko guessed was incense, or some kind of potion, wafted out from the glowing windows of the hut. It managed to penetrate the grille on Zuko’s helmet, and despite all his genetically altered stature it was an effort to not gag. Strolling closer to the window, the Champion risked a peek inside. It was difficult to see anything due to Mordecai’s bulk, but Zuko spotted a large black cauldron with smoke pouring from the green liquid that sat within. There were more fetishes and charms scattered around, and on the shelves sat bottles and bowls of what were likely ingredients for her witches’ brew.

Zuko could see why Mordecai liked it so much.

The Sorcerer and the Xenos both sat sipping from cups containing the green drink, the Iron Warrior’s helmet resting on his lap. It struck Zuko that this was the first time in a long time that Zuko had seen his brother unmasked. Although he had no way of telling, or an appreciation for such things, Zuko supposed his brother may have been handsome once, had he not been taken at birth and transformed into a god-like warrior. His face was lean and narrow, and his eyes were a piercing shade of violet. There was no facial hair, or any trace of bionics that were the norm for so many Iron Warriors. From what little he knew of Mordecai’s past, he was from one of the Olympian street gangs that were widespread at the time Father had claimed dominion the planet and it was reunited with the false Emperor. It was funny, sometimes, to imagine how he must have been; a scrawny and foul mouthed child who could move things without touching them. Truly the Legion, not to mention the Warp, changed all things.

The pair seemed to be discussing mainly irrelevant things, such as magical theory and the correct use of charms in spell craft. It was all Zuko could do not to bark a plea for his brother to hurry up, but he knew that Mordecai would not be rushed. The champion turned so his back was to the wall and began to slide down it slowly, letting out a sigh as he touched the ground and hung his head between his legs.

Vortun lumbered over to him, expression unreadable even when the mutating touch of the warp was ignored. The Obliterator wasn’t capable of sitting, but he rested his back on the tree-hut and gave a sigh of his own.

“Ve really should be moving.” The Obliterator rumbled in his gruff baritone. Zuko raised his hands, an expression of both agreement and questioning what the hell Vortun wanted him to do about it.

“Mordecai will do it all in his own time.” The Champion complained, still staring at the ground. “From what I can hear he’s convinced this…thing, whatever it is, has knowledge of ritual magic, and when was the last time he got to talk to someone like him who wasn’t trying to kill him.”

“Zere vas Khalophis, during ze Crusade.” The Obliterator replied. Zuko turned to look at him, the unspoken reprimand clear. Vortun looked down at him, before his rippling features cracked in an ugly smile.

“I never said it vent vell.”

Zuko slowly stood back to his feet, searching for any source of entertainment. Finally, his eye came to rest on a boulder situated towards the treeline. Sauntering over to it, he lifted it effortlessly; it would have required both hands and a not inconsiderable amount of muscle for a human to lift, yet it slotted neatly into the Iron Warrior’s palm. He tossed it into the air, watching it span as it fell back into his waiting palm. He tossed it again, then a third time. Finally, the fleeting interest it had provided faded away, and the Champion tossed it away as thoughtlessly as he had picked it up.

THOOM

The beam of light sliced through the still forest air, sending birds squawking from nearby trees and bringing every Iron Warrior spinning round into a combat stance. The beam struck the rock, both dissipating itself and shattering the stone into thousands of scorched pebbles. Vortun stood, weapon braced and the barrel of his Lascannon still smoking. He began a throaty, phlegm filled chuckling. Soon that chuckling was taken up by every Astartes there; Zuko included.

“Lucky shot.” The Champion said, tone only the slightest bit confrontational. Vortun relaxed slightly, tilting what remained of his head to the side in an almost quizzical expression.

“You’re just pissed because I’m still ze best shot in ze Company.”

“Utter bullshit.”

“Am so, and you know it mein bruder.”

“I know you’re a lying bastard Vortun.”

The Obliterator did not respond immediately, instead looking at the ground around Zuko’s feet.
The milky-white orbs of his eyes scanned back and forth, narrowing in what appeared\ to be frustration. Finally, he indicated another rock about the same size as the first, Power Talons crackling with barely contained energy as he did so.

“Zat von. I vill prove it.”

Zuko looked at him for a moment, before shaking his head in defeat and stooping down to pick up the rock. Grasping it tightly, he moved to stand beside the Obliterator, aware that every Iron Warrior outside the hut had stopped whatever it was they were doing and were watching with poorly disguised interest. Rocking back on his heels, Zuko let go of the rock with a mighty throw.

THOOM
Another beam hurtled through the air and struck the stone as it soared, reducing it to rubble as the first shot had. Vortun lowered the Lascannon, evidently pleased with himself. Zuko just scowled.

“My friends, if you would, I would think it fine,
If you would cease your horseplay near this home of mine.”

The voice was singsong and melodic, coming from over the Iron Warrior’s shoulders. Zuko turned to find Zecora staring at him from her window. The Xenos did not look angry per se, but her displeasure was clear enough to give Zuko pause.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, galled at having to apologise to aliens. It seemed to satisfy their host at least, and she ducked her head back inside, taking another sip from her cup. Zuko caught Mordecai’s eye as the Sorcerer leaned forward. The Psyker said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow. It was enough to cause Zuko to turn back around and fold his arms in annoyance.

“ ’Horseplay’? That’s just fucking insulting, coming from these…things.” The Astartes warrior muttered. Vortun grunted in response, but offered nothing more. The pair fell silent, the Iron Warriors gathered around them seemingly losing interest.

“Von more.” Vortun whispered eventually, leaning in slightly closer. Zuko unfolded his arms, but didn’t look at his larger brother.

“You heard her, apparently fun’s banned here as well. Besides, Mordecai would kill us.” He whispered back. The Obliterator gave a sound that Zuko realised must be a laugh.

“Come on, von more. Zhey’ll never know.”

“Vortun, we can’t.”

“Only because you know you are wrong, da?”

That was too much. Zuko sighed, clenching his hands into fists in annoyance at letting Vortun goad him so easily.

“Fine. One more. But only because it’s you.”

Casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being observed, Zuko walked forwards, looking for another target. After a minute or so of searching he chanced upon a third rock; this one was only about half the size of its two predecessors, but the Iron Warrior reckoned it would suffice. Moving to stand back beside his brother, Zuko prepared to throw.

“One more thing,” he added, only now sparing Vortun a quick glance. “Use a weapon that’s not so loud this time, hmm?” The Obliterator nodded, and Zuko heard the distinctive squelching sound of an arm reforming. The Lascannon was replaced by a vicious looking Multi-melta, barrel scorched a shade of brown. The Obliterator could have made it look brand new if he wanted; it was probably just vanity in showing off how much it’d been used. Pushing the thought from his mind, Zuko tossed through the stone through the sir. It took considerably less effort than the other two, turning end over end as it flew. With a gruff snarl, Vortun fired a single beam from his weapon.

Zuko could already see it was going to miss. The timing was off, the trajectory miscalculated. The beam sailed over the rock harmlessly, more than a small gap existing between the two. The stone dropped back to the ground with a muffled thump, yet the Melta beam kept going. It gave a quiet roar as it travelled, though not as loud as a Lascannon’s, and cut through the treeline disappearing into the distance to dissipate harmlessly. Vortun lowered the weapon seemingly disappointedly, and Zuko was just about to join in the jeering of his brothers when he noticed something that was slightly out of place.

The light from the beam hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Except it wasn’t the beam at all. The leaves crackled as the flame took root, already scorched black where the Melta shot had glanced over them. The licks and tongues of fire spread, creeping onto the branches with the slow tenderness of a lover. That creeping pace was soon replaced by what seemed to be an almost frenzied push; the fire devoured the bark without pause, spreading higher and higher into the canopy. It wasn’t long before it had begun to set the other trees ablaze, heat washing off them in great waves. Within a minute of the fire starting it was quicker to count those trees that were not burning as opposed to counting those that were.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Zuko turned his head towards the Obliterator. The rest of the Astartes watched in seemingly dumbfounded silence, yet the Aspiring Champion was content to simply swivel his neck until his eyes rested on Vortun. His horned helmet gave away nothing of his expression, rigid armour not conveying body language. It wouldn’t have needed to. Zuko’s absolute stillness and silence said more than enough. Vortun looked back at him, cracking his best apologetic smile. This shoulders rose in what must have been an approximation of a shrug.

“Oops?” He ventured.

The fire was spreading even more rapidly now. Thick clouds of smoke produced by the burning vegetation wafted through the clearing. They would have been choking to any who were not Astartes. The flames had spread to behind the huddle now, tentatively pawing at the top of the tree in which Zecora had built he hut. They spread back as far as the Iron Warriors could see, burning branch and twig, encircling the Marines totally.

Zuko said nothing. He noticed briefly, out the corner of his eye, Barbus nodding his head as if he were talking on the helmet vox. It was probably to Lorkhan. Wonderful. The rest of the Iron Warriors, Vortun included, watched with an almost detached fascination, not moving to escape the blaze or try to put it out.

“We should really do something about that.” Zuko pointed out after a moment or two, voice utterly emotionless. A few of his brothers nodded or murmured agreement, as nonchalantly as if they were discussing the pros and cons of different ammunition calibres.

Inevitably, the door hut-miraculously still intact-swung open within seconds. Zecora stormed out from within, ace a mix of panic and anger. Mordecai followed a step behind, snapping his helmet into place and looking around with the same dispassionate interest as his brethren.

“I do say brother, this really has been a less than stellar week for you hasn’t it?” The Sorcerer asked. He sounded disappointed, yet not surprised. Zuko kicked at the ground, his embarrassment clear.

“It was Vortun’s idea.” He managed, weakly. The Obliterator gave him a rough elbow, nearly knocking Zuko onto his side. Zecora ran back and forward in a general panic, wide-eyed and fearful.

“You brutish fools, just look around.
They should have buried you beneath the ground!”

Mordecai raised a placating hand, seemingly trying to calm the Xenos down. Zuko watched on, shifting uncomfortably as the heat became more and more of an irritant.

“My dear lady, pray forgive my brothers here. They are rather set in their ways when it comes to heavy firepower.” Mordecai said, voice silky and smooth. Zecora batted away his hand with some effort, face contorting more and more in rage.

“Celestia was right, it would seem.
Daemons like you cannot be redeemed.” She hissed, spitting onto Mordecai’s armour/ Turning back to her burning home, which by now had flames coming from within as well; she galloped around desperately as if seeking some way to reverse the damage done. It was that distress that meant she didn’t see the branch.

Perhaps it had been loosened by the flames, or maybe it just fell of its own accord. The flaming bough tumbled end over end downwards, not deviating from its path in the slightest. Zuko saw it, but remained rooted to the spot, following it to its inevitable conclusion. Beside him Mordecai drew breath, as if to state a warning. He never got chance. The burning chunk of tree slammed down onto the Xenos’ neck, driving her to the floor instantly without even giving her chance to cry out. Zuko flinched involuntarily, letting out an impressed whistle. The body twitched momentarily, legs spasming in a way that was almost hilarious. Zuko, Mordecai and Vortun stared at it for a moment, the Psyker folding his arms as they watched the flames singe the black and white fur.

“I must say gentlemen, this was a poor performance.” Mordecai eventually said. Zuko and Vortun simply looked at their feet with mumbles of “sorry”, like Hive city juves that have just been caught doing wrong by their mother.

Their gawping was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots thudding into the ground. Lorkhan, Rorke and the rest of the Iron Warrior barrelled out of the smouldering bushes, the other two Obliterators lumbering a step behind. Their ceramite armour protected them from the flames, but they still ran as if their lives depended on it.

“What…did…you…DO?!” Lorkhan barked, running up to his three subordinates. Rorke said nothing, mouth held agape. The Warsmith seemed about to say more, when something caught his eye.

“Do I even want to know what that is?” he asked in a low unimpressed voice, pointing at what remained of Zecora. Mordecai and Zuko turned back briefly to look at the corpse, before facing the Warsmith again.

“Not really.” The Champion admitted. The Warsmith stared at him for a moment, before dragging a gauntlet down the front of his helmet in despair.

“Right then.” He began, voice oddly composed and calm. “How exactly are we going to solve this?” The flames were reaching up higher now, and Zuko guessed they were probably past the treeline and visible from the castle now. Well, that was shitting wonderful.

“Maybe we should deal with that first.” Rorke offered dryly, gesturing towards what remained of Zecora. Lorkhan turned to look at it again, before giving a single nod. Two Iron Warriors jogged up to the body, heaving away the still-flaming fallen branch and grabbing the Xenos by the fore and hind legs. Her head flopped back and forth limply as they moved her, betraying where the branch had snapped the neck. Strictly speaking one Astartes would have been more than sufficient to move Zecora, but nevertheless they heaved her back and forth in a strange leg-and-a-wing manoeuvre before eventually tossing it into the still flaming undergrowth. It rolled unceremoniously down a hill, before disappearing into the smoke. Despite everything, it was almost amusing to Zuko.

Lorkhan watched it go before turning back to his inner circle. By now the ceramite plates of the Marines’ Power Armour were beginning to be stained black by the soot in the air. Rorke spluttered as some of it forced its way down his throat, rubbing his eyes as he did so. Zuko rubbed the back of his helmet awkwardly feeling the vox-grille of the impaled Imperial Fist helmet impaled on his power pack brush the back of his gauntlet. The Warsmith met their eyes one by one, lingering on Mordecai’s a moment longer than the others.

“You all know what I’m going to say, right?” he finally said, speaking into the general vox. All the Iron Warriors nodded. They knew. Turning on their heels so the Xenos’ hut-which by now had been almost completely burned to ashes-they began to run.

The Astartes sprinted through the flames, keeping only the loosest formation as they leapt over rocks and ducked beneath blazing tree boughs. The Obliterators lumbered a few steps behind, not able to keep up with their smaller brothers yet seemingly unbothered by the danger they were in. Zuko and Rorke ran side by side, unsure of where exactly they were going but reasoning that anywhere was better than where they were. The rest of the Iron Warriors moved to follow Lorkhan, pushing themselves harder as the fire raced to catch up with them. Their eyes shone red through the smog. Mordecai was navigating his own way through the pack of Astartes, esoteric items clinking on their chains as he ran whilst the small skirt he wore smouldered with a tiny fire of its own.

The smoke was blocking out the sky now, black against the black clouds that had been gathering above the Everfree that afternoon. The Iron Warriors forced themselves to keep on going, heedless of their complete ignorance concerning their location. Finally, they came skidding to a halt in another open clearing. All was burning, tree, branch and grass, and it wasn’t hard for the assembled Marines to see that they were surrounded.

“Shit.” To Zuko’s surprise, it was Mordecai that swore. His voice quiet, and still quaintly polite. The Aspiring Champion could not fault his brother’s frustration; for all the genetic wizardry poured into their, they could still be vulnerable to fire, and this seemed to be a singularly ignoble way to die.

Lorkhan strolled ahead of the milling group, that strange air of calm seeming to depend upon him again. He turned his head skyward, his intricately-wrought helmet even more unsettling in its new shade of ash black. Looking down at the ground again, the Warsmith shook his head with more than a trace of grim humour.

“You all agree that this is entirely Mordecai’s fault, right?” He muttered. Some of the Iron Warriors, the Sorcerer included, laughed. Under his helmet Zuko allowed himself a smile. Just as it seemed that Mordecai was about to retort, Rorke flinched, nose wrinkling in surprise. Zuko turned to his brother, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“What?” he asked. Rorke looked at him and opened his mouth to reply, when he flinched again. The helmetless warrior raised a gauntlet to his cheek and rubbed downwards, before removing his hand and looking at his palm. Zuko tapped his foot in frustration.

“What?” he asked again, voice sharper now. Rorke did not reply immediately, instead turning his head to look up into the cloud of smoke. His brow furrowed in confusion.

“Something hit my face.” He answered, still looking up. Zuko felt an eyebrow rise. Following Rorke’s gaze, his optics still couldn’t penetrate the dark, and he was about to call his brother out on being delusional when a droplet of something moist hit his right lens.

It was a raindrop. It couldn’t be anything else. Zuko blinked in surprise, wiping the spot of water away as if it were a phantom. Before his mind could catch up with the questions racing through it, a he felt a second drop soak into some soft armour. Before long there was a third, and a fourth, and then a fifth. Soon the drizzle was consistent, against all the odds breaching the cloud of ash that circulated above the Iron Warrior’s heads.

The rest of the Astartes felt it to. They looked at one another in stark bemusement at the sudden presence of rainfall, chattering excitedly as the torrent intensified. Soon, what had started as a drizzle became a shower, and soon the rain came on in a veritable storm. The smoke was already dissipating, great winds that seemed to spring from nowhere buffeting and diffusing the ash and letting some grey light back through the canopy. The rain never slowed but seemed to come on with greater force, as if being forcibly vomited from the clouds above. From the corner of his eye, Zuko saw Lorkhan still staring upwards in shock.

The fires were already beginning to recede. Although not petering out fully, the sudden downpour quelled the more unruly flames, controlling the blaze and extinguishing those infernos that had climbed too high or too fast. The layer of black that had formed a fine sheen across the Iron Warrior’s armour began to wash away in dark, ugly streaks. It still stank, but at the very least, they looked like warriors of the IV Legion again. Rorke spat out some water that had gone down his throat, before returning to staring open mouthed.

Eventually, the rains stopped, leaving only the stench of what a Terran may once have called spring hanging in the air. The conflagration of mere moments ago had been reduced to a few pockets of still burning timbers, almost laughably pathetic now. The Iron Warriors said nothing, still whispering grateful prayers and supplications to the Gods and whatever Neverborn had pulled them out of the shitter once again. Their prayers were about to be answered.

From behind the mass of clouds, now a fluffy white as opposed to stony grey, came a small horde of Xenos. There were Ponies of every colour; red, white, blue, black, some even yellow or sickly greens. They flapped on small feathered wings, watching the Iron Warriors below with a mixture of apprehension and disgust. A couple were more focused on the damage the fires had wrought, looking around with stunned expressions at the blackened remains of most of the Everfree. The Iron Warriors stared back up at them, unsure of exactly how to respond.

“Deus Ex Machina.” Mordecai whispered, voice sounding awed. Lorkhan did not divert his eyes from the Pegasi above, but sniffed derisively.

“You almost sound impressed.”

“I almost am, brother.”

One of the Ponies was recognisable to the Astartes. She flew slightly away from the rest of her kin, closer to the ground than they dared. With the exception of Rorke, who merely squinted, the Iron Warriors zoomed in on her face-scrunched up tightly with wrath and antipathy as it was. It was the rainbow-haired alien from earlier, the brash one that had accused them of destroying the city after killing the shape shifter queen. Zuko remembered her. He remembered he didn’t like her.

No one spoke. For a minute or two it seemed like the cyan Pegasus was going to scream at them again, but she seemed content to glare at the Iron Warriors. Zuko saw Lorkhan raise a hand to his brow, flicking it outward in a thankful salute that could almost have been genuine. It served no apparent purpose besides enraging the Pony further, and gritting her teeth she accelerated away in a burst of rainbow light. The rest of the Pegasi followed suit, heading back to where Zuko supposed the castle must be. The Iron Warriors for their part still stared gormlessly at the sky, unsure of whether the past few hours had just happened.

Just as Zuko began to turn away, something in the sky caught his eye. One of the Pegasi had returned, seemingly ignorant of the intentions of its fellows. The Xenos was a dark grey colour with blonde hair, and magnifying again the Marines could see that her eyes were not centred, instead rolling around at lazy angles. To Zuko’s surprise, a goofy smile broke out across the Ponies’ face as it-or she, he supposed-stared down at the Iron Warriors. Irritatingly, the Champion found it strangely infectious. The Pony began to wave furiously at the Astartes, still grinning innocently. Zuko’s arm moved without his conscious consent, awkwardly returning the wave. His brothers were doing the same; even the Obliterators raised their Power Talons to the little alien. Seconds later, the blue angry pony jetted back, grabbed her waving friend, and with another angry glance at the Iron Warriors zoomed off with her charge in tow. The Iron Warriors lowered their hands, some letting out breaths they didn’t realise they had been holding.

“So,” Lorkhan started, seeking to break the tension. Zuko walked closer, his brain still reeling. “They can control the weather.” The Warsmith looked at Mordecai, tapping a finger to his chin. When he spoke, his voice sounded almost petulant.

“Why can’t WE do that?”

Author's Note

OH BOY HERE WE GO

I really wish there was an excuse for this being so late and taking so long. There isn't, besides my laziness. So sorry about that, I guess.

The ending of this is hardly convincing I know, but I kind of liked. At the very least it was funny to me, and the plot actually moved on. I think that to some extent the Iron Warriors sound more 'Mariney' here, at some bits at least. Obviously not all, but that's part of their 'thing'. Yes, liberal amounts of headcanon (such as Poison Joke being a drug) were applied to this part, and will be to the next as well.

/*cough cough* notatitlespoiler *cough cough*

Hermanos

”No”.

He stumbled backwards, not wanting to believe what he saw was real. His brothers-or, more accurately, his warriors-shuffled uneasily towards him; they did not know whether to catch and support their lord, or to give him distance. Either way they would have helped little. What they all saw had shocked them almost beyond reason too.

He looked around desperately, seeking anything to betray this as a terrible ruse. The shattered chamber loomed over him like a great stone beast, cracked walls and shattered glass only serving to contribute to the inherent wrongness of what lay before him. Moonlight streamed into the room, playing off his steel-tinted armour and illuminating darkened stairwell and hidden crevices.

By his side, the bare-headed warrior roared, gauntleted fist crashing into the dark stonework. It left a scar, like the aftermath of an artillery blast or the impact of a drop pod crashing to the earth. To his right the horned warrior fumed and shook with rage and disbelief in equal measure, the contours of his ancient and battle-worn helm concealing the widened eyes and pale face that must surely lie within. The sorcerer paced back and forth, fingers steepled in front of him as he shook his head in a vain attempt to reconcile with what he saw. For once, there was no disgustingly optimistic outlook, or caustically smug remark. Of the five who led this host only the largest was unmoved; the stillness born of inhuman control over his body. No power talons flexed in anticipation or snarling gun barrel morphed into being, for what use would it have been? The daemon-man stood and watched, and for the first time in a long time, the lord of Obliteration sighed.

”NO.

He would not believe it. He had been expecting many things, but never this. It was wrong on every level. Mechatendrils snapped and hissed with their own depraved sentience, coiling around the extremities of his finely wrought war plate in a vain attempt to console their maker. He shook them off with barely contained disgust, sinking to his knees. No Astartes recognised despair, or would ever give in to depression. Yet in that moment, he knew what the mortal vermin must have felt when they saw the craft baring the iron skull descend upon their lines and begin the cull. He knew what it was to feel hopeless.

“No, no, no.”

The words were a mantra, yet they offered naught but cold comfort. It was a disgrace to let his warriors see him like this, he knew full well, and no doubt one of them would make a lunge for power later due to this apparent show of weakness. But try as he might it would have been wrong to deny himself this anger. He cursed everything; Celestia, for sending him on this fool’s errand. The warrior of the fifteenth legion, for consigning him to Equestria and not having the decency to just die like the rest of his bastard kin. Horus, for failing to cast down the False Emperor and suggesting this wretched existence to them. His own father, for going along with it.

On his knees in the throne room of a dead keep, Warsmith Lorkhan gave in to the hate that only a Chaos Space Marine could feel. Not once did he ever stop staring at what he saw before him.

The dragon stared back, blank eye sockets promising vengeance and fire for betrayal on black sands.

It had taken them almost two hours of solid walking to reach the castle. It hadn’t been designated as the destination, and by the time they did finally approach it the sun had long since set, but it was as good a lead as any. Warp knows Lorkhan had needed one right about then.

Even were they to approach during the day, Lorkhan doubted it would have been much more inviting. Although the little accident with the fire that the Iron Warriors had caused had reduced a considerable proportion of the forest’s tree quota to blackened and twisted husks, they had at least been a constant presence that were reassuring in their mediocrity, even if they did make navigation somewhat difficult.

Here though, the treeline had thinned considerably. Foliage still peeled off to either side, yet the path seemed to open up, drawing the Iron Warriors along to whatever lay at its end. The Astartes had been suspicious, yet at the same time secretly satisfied; this had all the feeling of a trap, and that meant they were probably getting somewhere. The grass underneath was a darker shade than that which they’d seen before, although without their genetically enhanced senses and advanced helmet optics, the mist that had descended almost without warning and now clung to the warband and everything around them like a deranged lover would have made it impossible to see any such detail. Rorke had taken every opportunity to bemoan the “fucking horse bastards” that had cost him his helm, Forced into advancing slower and more methodically than his brothers. In a shocking development, it turned out none of them cared.

It was not just what they saw that had put the Iron Warriors more and more on edge. The animal noises, that before had been shrill but not directly threatening, had subsided almost entirely. Only the occasional skittering of claws on stone from the shadows reminded them that they were not the only living things in the forest. Lorkhan almost wished for a second round with the wooden wolf-beasts he had fought earlier; anything to break the feeling of discomfort that had nestled stubbornly within his consciousness.

When they finally reached the castle, it took them universally by surprise. Even Mordecai seemed taken off guard by the appearance of what, to the IV Legion’s expert eyes, seemed to be a place of defence. Oh it was no Iron Cage, not even close, but it was at the very least more serviceable than the castle they had been incarcerated in was. Or, at the very least, it would have been had it still been in one piece. It stood alone on a spur of rock located on the other bank of a vast crevice, the moon shining unobstructed over it. There were some trees, their leaves a peculiar shade of lilac, standing to one flank, which seemed odd considering the state the castle itself was in. The entire roof was missing, and pillars stuck out at jaunty angles that offended the craftsmen in Lorkhan. Much of the stonework was dilapidated, though whether it had been carved out by honest iron, the simple passing of age or other, more sinister means the Warsmith couldn’t tell.

Spanning the gap across the drop was a rickety-looking wooden bridge. It was a futile exercise to try and identify its age, and if there was any sort of underlying weakness within it: Lorkhan had never been good with wood. From what he could tell through the gloom, it was almost certainly past its prime, but not yet unusable. A calculated risk, as it were. Because there just hadn’t been enough of those today.

“So how are we going to do this?” Zuko asked. His voice was cold and weary, but not hostile.

“More to the point, how do we even know that’s where we need to be?” Rorke added through gritted teeth.

“I know. It has to be.” Lorkhan answered, not bothering to dignify Rorke with a more detailed answer.

From the nods, it seems his brothers agreed.

Turning back to his problem, Lorkhan cocked his head to one side and drummed his fingers on the side of his helmet. Tentatively, he stepped forward and placed a ceramite boot on the bridge, conscious of his warrior’s eyes upon him. The creaking and swaying of the structure was all the encouragement he need to speedily retract his foot as if he’d just stepped in a particularly odious shit. Disappointed groans echoed from behind, causing his Mechatendrils to snap round and hiss defensively. Taking a deep breath, he fought to curb his spikes of frustration. They were right to be annoyed.

“Zere must be something zat ve can do.” Vortun mused, lumbering closer to the edge.

“If you see it, feel free to share.” Lorkhan replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes wandered to the side as Mordecai crouched, running a finger over a patch of bare ground.

“I say, do you chaps remember the Stonewrought?” He said. His voice was distant, chirpy almost. It was nauseating.

“’Stonewrought?’” Lorkhan asked in a monotone voice, humouring his brother. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of incomprehension, palms turned upwards.

“Vull Bron.” Mordecai went on, not looking up. “Soltarn Vull Bron. 45th Company. They used to say he knew every intricacy of any kind of stone he came upon, with but a single touch. I must say that I never took him to be a true Psyker per se, but his knowledge of the geological spectrum was truly awe-inspiring.” The sorcerer stood, folding his arms over his breastplate. Lorkhan gave him a glare that was only slightly less withering than a dust storm.

“Did that…have a point?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice moderated. Mordecai gave a bass chuckle, shaking his head.

“Do not think on it, lord. I was merely curious.” He looked at the bridge with what appeared to be a mix of contemplation and amusement. “I trust that I do not need to impose that we cannot turn back now?”

In any other warband, Mordecai would probably have been killed a long time ago for impudence. It was only Lorkhan’s familiarity with him, a brotherhood stretching back to the Great Crusade, that allowed him to speak as such to the company’s ruler.

“No, you don’t.” Lorkhan spat. A moment’s silence passed as he wracked his brain for a solution. “What about your magic? Could you make a bridge or something?”

“Alas, whilst the strategy has merit my lord I fear I could not support our combined weight upon a cushion of air, sorcery and hope alone.” Mordecai said, sounding slightly apologetic. Lorkhan gave an exasperated grunt, kicking a small rock over the cliff edge as his idea similarly fell away. Finding the castle was worthless if they could not reach it. It felt like the Gods had given him a bolter with one hand, and punched him in the throat with the other.

And then taken away the bolter.

Before he could complain any more, another idea struck him. He walked to the mouth of the bridge again, tilting his head to the other side and widening his arms as if measuring something. He could feel his Champions’ gazes burn into his back. Rorke had probably raised an eyebrow.

When he was satisfied, he turned back to the Iron Warriors. They all watched him expectantly, though some with considerably more reverence than others. It was hard to supress a guffaw at his own expense; the answer was so obvious, it was criminal he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He turned to look at Vortun and his brothers, the Obliterators straightening as best they could under his scrutiny. Jerking a thumb over his right shoulder, Lorkhan nodded. Vortun creased what was left of his ever-mutating brow in what he must have interpreted as confusion, before returning a dip of the torso as comprehension struck him.

The two silent Obliterators lumbered forwards, pushing their way with no semblance of tact or grace through the crowd of Iron Warriors. They each take one side of the bridge, looking down at it in what appears to be a dull stupor. Still, they comply. Each one grips one of the ropes attaching the bridge to secure stone posts with a surprisingly gentle touch, and heaves. The posts were torn from the ground, leaving the bridge suspended very slightly in mid-air.

Zuko approached tentatively, looking at the bridge, then down at the thousands of kilometre drop below, before slowly returning his gaze to the bridge. Finally, he turns to look at the Warsmith. When he speaks his voice is tinged with the vaguest hint of panic.

“You’re not…I mean, you aren’t seriously suggesting we walk across this, are you?”

Lorkhan shrugged. “Yes, Zuko, as a matter of fact I am. It’s wide enough for one of us.”

“But how do you even know that it can support our weight?”

“I don’t.” Lorkhan took a moment of satisfaction as he felt Zuko tense beside him. With a dark chuckle he looked back at the castle, raising his voice as he did.

“Off you go then, Rorke.”

From the swearing, it was clear the other champion was audibly put out. Yet the Warsmith knew he wouldn’t say no, either; the sound of power armoured elbows crashing against ceramite, and gauntleted hands slapping pauldrons in a display of almost sincere comradeship meant that to back down would be to lose any shred of respectability he might have. The Champion moved forward slowly before, with a murderous glance at Lorkhan (who merely gave an innocent wave) Rorke stepped up on to the bridge.

It wobbled precariously, and the Iron Warrior swore again in every tongue he knew as he shot his arms out to steady himself. Yet it did not break, and that was a victory in itself. The Obliterators pulled back slightly to tighten their grip on the rope, but otherwise gave no sign of any discomfort. Steadying his breathing, and wary of Lorkhan and the rest having watchful eyes on him, Rorke took a slow step forward. Again the bridge creaked, but held fast. The other Iron Warriors watched in silence; despite any personal animosity, they were not a Legion inclined towards either celebrating their brother’s endeavours or mocking their failures if they had nothing to gain from it. His confidence building, Rorke began to speed up, although he was always careful not to put too much stress on the old wooden beams.

Eventually, after around ten minutes Rorke made it across, punching the air as he set foot back on terra firma. There were some half-hearted grunts and nods of approval, and many Astartes let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding. With the exception of a single plank that came loose hallway across, tumbling into the raging waters deep below, the bridge had managed to stay more or less intact. Any celebrations were short lived as another Marine, Kayn, stepped up to the plate. After him went Basikor, who had perpetually miserable since his beloved icon was taken from him and grumbled the whole way across.

In around an hour and a half, all the power-armoured marines had made it across, Lorkhan bringing up the rear. Some had gone considerably faster than others, bounding across and shattering planks with wild abandon. Yet, even Zuko (who had attempted to sprint the whole way, nearly losing his footing at the end and only being saved by a quickly outstretched hand from brother Aleksos) managed to traverse the gap in one bridge. If Lorkhan was honest there had come a moment where he feared that, his additional armour coupled with the already weakened wood, the bridge would not have been able to support him and he would have the dubious honour of being the only one to hurtle into the rocks below, the hysterical laughter of his brothers ringing in his ears the last thing he ever heard. Fortunately though it seemed the Great Schemer had smiled upon him for once. He didn’t plan on questioning it.

On the far side the Obliterators that had been supporting the bridge placed the stumps back into the ground, affixing it there as best they could. It was clear that there was no way the bridge would take them, even had they been able to fit on it comfortably. For once, though, the Warsmith had actually made a plan to deal with just this eventuality.

“Mordecai, if you please.” He said. The sorcerer sighed, and when he spoke there was an uncharacteristic trace of trepidation.

“Lord, I do not wish to disappoint you once again, but as I said prior I am not sure my power is sufficient to hold our blessed brothers aloft.”

“You did it before. When we broke out the castle, you did it then.”

“I merely slowed their descent then, if you recall. To actually defy gravity itself is considerably more challenging.”

“Try.” The Warsmith’s voice was cold, brooking no argument, Mordecai looked at him for a moment longer, seeking any purchase he could find. When it was apparent that none was forthcoming, he gave a sad sigh, flexed his fingers, and began to marshal his sorcery.

A platform of roiling purple light materialised over the gap just in front of the Obliterators, causing them to look down upon it with some disdain. Warily, Vortun placed a giant foot upon it. Mordecai let out a pained breath as he did so, fingers curling into claws under the foot. Two Iron Warriors moved behind him, arms extended to hold the warlock up if needs be. Recognising the need for haste, the Obliterators stepped wholeheartedly on to the glowing pedestal. Contracting his arms, Mordecai beckoned them closer. Reality began to shift and flow ever so slightly wrong around him as he poured more power into the spell. Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils recoiled in what must have been their approximation of alarm.

For the second time that day it appeared the Gods smiled upon the IV Legion. The Obliterators were transported across the gap more or less efficiently, although Vortun still impatiently tapped his power talon on his shin the whole way. As they stepped off on to solid ground, this time eliciting a real coarse cheer from their lesser brethren, the platform upon which they had travelled twisted and then popped out of existence. Mordecai gasped and sagged to his knees as the spell broke, coughing and retching painfully. Lorkhan looked down at his brother with an irritating spike of concern worming its way into his mind-he had seen Mordecai perform greater feats than this. It must be this place; the touch of the warp was strong, yet it was also held back and cut off by something intangible. Part of him had the worrying suspicion that it was friendship, as a physical concept. He couldn’t tell where this feeling came from, but he didn’t like it.

The two Astartes that had been attending Mordecai moved to haul him back to his feet, with exactly zero evidence of any fraternal affection. The sorcerer shrugged them off with one arm, unsteadily rising back to his feet. With another wheezing cough, enhanced biology rushing out to combat any damage done, Mordecai gave Lorkhan a nod. His helmet lenses blazed with an eerie internal light-no doubt the last few witch fires generated by his spell dispelling-and it suddenly struck Lorkhan that his brother was as much a champion of the dark gods as he was. He nodded back.

“Never make me do zat again.” Vortun sulked, striding forward towards the castle. Their ordeal over most of the Iron Warriors followed suite, and Lorkhan had to push his way back to the front of the pack. Before them lay a huge set of wooden doors, rising even above their heads. They must have dwarfed the ponies. A rough semi-circle was formed around them, the Warsmith taking place at its centre. For a moment he considered merely heaving the doors open with his own strength, or even knocking, but the notion was swiftly dismissed. Whatever they had to kill was most likely in there, and the Iron Warriors had never been a subtle breed. As if reading his thoughts, Vortun primed an ancient and corrupted Plasma Cannon, the same he’d used in the throne room. His kin spawned similar weapons, and for their part the rest of the Marines dropped into fighting crouches.

“You realise that anything in there is going to hear this racket we’re making, and will almost certainly try to murder us within seconds?” Zuko hissed, sounding only half-joking. But he didn’t seem opposed to the idea.

“You remember what Father used to say.” Lorkhan answered, flexing his fists. “’Tell them ruin has come to their world. Tell them the Angels of Death have come. Tell them nothing can save them now.’”

With that, the plasma coils on Vortun’s cannon began to glow and thrum with power. He screwed up one eye in a mock-aim, and when he spoke his voice was as close to a whisper as an Obliterator could get.

“Knock knock.”

The doors flew off their hinges as the ball of white-hot plasma seared through them, the energy transfer far too much for them to handle. The steaming and charred remains skidded to a halt upon the flagstones within with an almighty crash, and was soon followed by a pack of roaring Iron Warriors. Screaming their battle cries they charged in heedless of the danger, thankful to finally be getting to grips with a foe.

In that, they were to be disappointed.

The room was devoid of life. Worse than that, there seemed to be a physical absence of it. Not just being uninhabited, the castle could not have been described with any word other than ‘deserted’. A gust of cold wind ran over the Astartes’ armour as their charge lost momentum, and they stopped awkwardly as they took in the scene around them. The roof was completely gone here, leaving them open to the air. Pillars circled the room, many of them overgrown with ivy or other plant life. Varvillon, the Iron Warrior who had identified the strange blue plant earlier, moved cautiously over to them, running the flora through his fingers. There were great, black arched windows, yet where stained glass had clearly once resided now there were only the metal frames left. It was even more of a ruin from the inside than it had been from the out. No, worse than that; it was a dump.

Something hooted overhead, causing Zuko to jump back a pace. Lorkhan ignored the angered growls of the other Iron Warriors, working hard enough to hold back his own fury. It couldn’t be abandoned, it just couldn’t. That was beyond a joke. Mordecai had moved to the side of the room, taking a seat on a window ledge and giving a disappointed sigh. Any sympathy the Warsmith had had for him quickly dissipated.

“So that’s it.” That snarling voice could only belong to one if their number, and Lorkhan found he couldn’t be angry with him; he knew Rorke was just voicing what the rest of the felt. He didn’t turn to look at the Champion.

“Of course. Of course it is.” Rorke went on. “So we come all this way, nearly get ourselves killed on three separate occasions, at the order of a bloody Xenos, and now-after all this-we have precisely shit all to show for it. She’s probably sat up there in her deluxe castle playset laughing down at us right now.”

“I’m sure he’s doing his best.” Varvillon called from across the room, still engrossed with his plants. The scoff came from Zuko this time.

“Oh, that’s all right then. Thanks for clearing that up Var.” The Champion’s voice was laden with sarcasm and anger in equal measure. “We’re hopelessly lost and have been barking up the wrong tree for the past two hours, and the one lead we get turns out to be another useless heap of ruined junk in what is starting to feel like a cunning metaphor for our whole lives-but it’s okay, because he’s doing his best. Right. Okay then. Good on you, sir.”

Lorkhan seriously considered executing Zuko right now, if only to restore some order, but he had never seen himself as being particularly petty-an in all honesty, his brother had a point.

“There will be something. There has to be. Somewhere in this castle.” He said, trying to placate them. He still did not turn to look at them, refusing to get angry. It wasn’t enough for Rorke.

“’Somewhere’? You are joking, right? So it’s ‘somewhere’. Maybe. Possibly. Face it, Lorkhan. We’re lost, and we have nothing to go on. It’s highly likely this ‘Great Evil’ we’ve been sent to destroy doesn’t even exist, and they’re just using this as an excuse to get us out the way whilst they plan a particularly inventive death for us upon our return. Once again we’re doing other people’s bidding, and once again we’re expected not to question orders as we stumble in to a drop. We need to face facts here; your ‘brilliant’ scheme has failed in every respect, except perhaps getti-“

Now he could get angry.

The blow came out of nowhere, fast even by Astartes standards. Rorke did not even have time to finish his sentence as the back of the ceramite gauntlet slammed into his cheek, hurling him to the ground. The Iron Warrior went down hard, grunting as he thudded into the stone. The others reflexively flinched back, bringing their fists up without thinking. Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils snapped into a similarly defensive position, though the arm that had delivered the backhand slap was still extended. The Warsmith glared down at the prone Astartes, practically spitting his words.

”Shut up.”

A few moments later, Rorke pulled himself back to his feet, muttering and rubbing his shattered cheek. He grinned unrepentantly at Lorkhan, teeth covered in rich coppery blood; the Primarch’s blood. Lorkhan still did not take his eyes off him, but said not a single word. Mordecai and Zuko just watched, seeming equally as tired of such infighting. Finally, the tension defused, and Lorkhan lowered his arm as Rorke stepped back into the ranks of his fellows.

Maintaining his silence, Lorkhan turned back towards the castle’s chamber, his eyes suddenly registering the altar that stood before him. He wondered how he had not seen it earlier, such was its size and dominating presence. It was a squat thing, imposing in its stature, and Lorkhan found himself doubting how the ponies could have sculpted such a thing with only their mouths to manipulate tools. The altar took the form of a smaller pillar rising from the floor, the top curiously devoid of any sort of crowning sculpture or dome as he would expect. Five more pedestals extended outwards from the pillar, each one also vacant. The Warsmith looked it up and down, trying to deduce the significance of it.

Whilst intriguing, it didn’t look to have any answers relevant to why they were here. Great. The Warsmith pushed past it, temper building once more. The rest of the ruined castle seemed to be standard fair; stairs leading up, gargoyles carved into the pillars, not unlike the castles supposed to have existed upon ancient Terra. Yet with every echoing step, the silence began to play more and more on Lorkhan’s mind. Besides the Iron Warriors, only the wind moved. It was too quiet, too disconcerting. Something had happened here-of that, he was convinced.

His eyes were drawn back to the plinth as he slowly wandered towards the very end of the opening chamber. Now it was there, it was all he could see. His brothers had begun to examine it too, some giving experimental prods with the tips of their fingers. Lorkhan found himself growing more and more agitated with every passing moment, the silence and stillness unnatural and disturbing. Cursing himself for such weakness, he breathed deeply and leant back on the wall at the hallway’s end.

The bricks shifted and tumbled, spinning end over end as they fell. The Warsmith would have fallen himself, had his armour’s snake like tendrils not shot out to clamp him firmly to the wall. The bricks fell further and further, bouncing off the wall as they fell into the dark. Lorkhan cursed under his breath, before turning to examine the hole.

The rest of his brothers, the noise catching their attention, had come to join him. They too peered over his shoulder into the inky depths, Rorke giving a grudging whistle of awe. After two minute shad passed since Lorkhan had made the opening, a thud resounded from the pit, signalling the bricks had hit the bottom.

Not even the advanced optics of his helmet could penetrate the dark, only revealing more and more shadow. As he looked, a thought struck Lorkhan. Ensuring he was secured firmly to the wall, he leaned out over the gap, breath catching in his throat involuntarily as he did so. Turning to look up, the Warsmith found the moon staring back down at him. The roofless castle had had its very body punched through by…the Iron Warrior had no idea. Surely a meteor of some kind, what else could cause that much damage?

Then, something curious happened. A horned helmet poked out over the lip of the hole above Lorkhan, its plate the colour of iron. The Iron Warrior tilted his head to the side in what seemed to be an amused gesture, before slamming a clenched fist over his primar heart in salute and beckoning some of his brothers over. Under his helmet Lorkhan scowled, opening a vox link to the Marine.

“What in the hells are you doing up there Kayn?” he growled, still staring up at the three Astartes. Kayn shrugged, whilst beside him one of his brothers waved.

“Zuko got bored of waiting around and decided to take a look upstairs.”

With a pained sigh, Lorkhan retracted himself from over the gap to the stares of his brothers. He was about to open another channel to Zuko when his helmet vox crackled into life. The Champion had beat him to it, but the voice that reverberated down from the other end sounded…out of character, to say the least.

“Sir…you need to get up here. As in, right now.”

It would have been wrong to say that Zuko sounded scared. No Astartes ever did. But there was definitely an audible tremor of disquiet in his voice, the sound of a mind racing to keep up with what it was seeing. It was enough to tip Lorkhan over into paranoia.

“Brother…are you alright?”

“I mean it Lorkhan. You…you need to see this.”

The trademark snarkiness was gone completely. Coupled with the none-mocking use of his real name, Lorkhan had all the encouragement he needed. He pushed past his brothers, unconsciously breaking into a small run as he bounded up the staircase towards the top of the castle. He heard his men behind him, trying to keep up yet not able to pass on the single file stairwell.

In short order he reached the top of the stairs, coming into another large chamber. It was much like the one below in terms of ornamentation, however there was no statue in the middle of the room. Instead, at the end of the room lay a small raised platform that must once have been a dais of some kind. However, any throne that once stood there was long gone, as whatever had struck the castle had born down directly upon this platform. The crater had gouged straight through the dark skies and plummeted down, down into the castle’s deeper darkness, its secrets held in the depths.

None of that was of interest to Lorkhan. He focused on the group of four Iron Warriors huddled together in a corner, standing as still as statues. They huddled around something, staring down gormlessly, faces unreadable behind their iron masks. The fact that there hadn’t reacted to their brother’s arrival at all said enough.

“What?” Lorkhan asked, any snideness or fraternal joviality dropped from his voice. The Iron Warriors still did not turn to look at him. Agitated, the Warsmith began to walk towards them. “What?” He repeated.

As he approached, the four turned to look at him, still in silence. He saw that one of them held what looked like a sheet of metal, the unpainted side facing towards him. No…not metal. The closer Lorkhan looked, the more it started to remind him of ceramite.

But it couldn’t be. That was impossible.

Zuko came to stand besides Lorkhan. He seemed to be shaking ever so slightly, but the Warsmith had had about as much suspense as he could take for one night.

“Would someone tell me what the FUCK is going on?” he roared, sending some of the Marines stood behind him that had followed him up jumping back. Zuko did not respond or even move for a moment. Then, with agonising and deliberate slowness, he pointed at the sheet of ceramite as his brother flipped it over to reveal what was on the other side.

What was left of Lorkhan’s blood ran cold. He reached for a weapon that didn’t exist. For once, he heard Mordecai swear, short and soft and shocked. It was a sentiment he echoed entirely.

“No.”

The Dragon glared back at him, seeming to grin all the while.

Fire. It remembered fire.

Sensors flashed into life as it dragged itself into wakefulness. A leg creaked and whined, protesting under the stress. He ignored it, willed it forward. It did not hurt. Only the fire burned.

It wasn’t real fire. The last time it had felt real fire was…was a long time ago. But the memory of the fire, and why it had burned him so; that never faded.

10%...20%...30%...more. The world burned back into focus, all the lights and sounds that came with it burning bright to. Except they didn’t. There was no light. There was no sound. Nothing but the dark.

How had it got itself into such dark? Had it come here itself? Probably. It remembered falling, tumbling down and down into the dark. Something hissed and steamed. It ignored it, pushing against its confinement, searching for a way out of a prison that didn’t exist.

Noise.

The sound of something striking the ground. Small, far off, but its hearing could always pick it up. Even when it had breathed it would have heard. It could not escape now.

The tomb closed in even more. It ignored that sensation, ignored the claustrophobia, as it focused on the noise. Could it be…brothers?

After all this time? Had they come back? An arm swung, the hand that was not a hand scraping on the rocks. No hands. No art to forge, metal to bend.

It reached out with its eye that was no an eye, its invisible third eye as it took a ponderous step forward. The footfall echoed, ringing off the stone walls. The sensor travelled far, giving nothing, receiving nothing. Only silence and dark.

It stepped again and again and again. Silence and dark, silence and dark, silence and dark.

On the fifth step forward, the sensor came back with something else.

It looked, turning over the reading, hoping and praying for some respite. The feeling was not this. It was not relief, not disappointment. It burned. Burned like the fire. Had burned for years and years and years now. It took more steps, quicker steps, the need to burn eclipsing all others.

Not brothers. The signatures from their armour was wrong. Their vox network was wrong. Still not keyed, still the same. Even after all this time they had never changed.

Not brothers.

Cousins.

“Okay.”

Lorkhan rose back to his feet, quelling the panic that had briefly flared up within him. “Okay.”

Rorke, Mordecai, Vortun and Zuko were still plainly put out. The discovery had affected them all. It was still affecting Lorkhan, but he did his best to hide it. “So…so it’s them?”

It took a second for any of them to be able to respond. Then, finally, Mordecai piped up. “It…it certainly looks that way, lord. The XVIII.”

The XVIII Legion. The Salamanders. Even back in the Crusade, when Perturabo’s sons had fought for the same cause as the Nocturneans, they had always had a strained relationship. The IV was too callous, too focused on arithmetic and uncaring of who got in their way of their brutal martial calculations for the weak-bellied sons of Vulkan. Likewise, the Salamanders’ need to nurture and coddle mortals had tested the Lord of Iron’s patience considerably. At Istvaan this enmity had boiled over, released into a killing rage on the battlefield. The mutual dislike was neither the age old rivalry with the Imperial Fists, nor Lorkhan’s personal hate for the Dark Angels. But it still burned hot, and Lorkhan had killed many Fireborn that day. They’d killed many Iron Warriors too.

“How…I mean…how is this possible?” He spluttered, trying to maintain a cool head. Now he looked, there were more sundered strips of green armour scattered around the room. They looked to have been taken from the side of a drop pod, broken as it slammed into the floor.

“I honestly have no idea, Lord.”Mordecai replied, his composure returning slowly too. “By all rights they should not be here. WE should not be here.”

“But they are. I mean…this looks like a drop pod. Surely the bastard Xenos would have seen this and already investigated? And more to the point, where’s the rest of the Pod?”

“I...” The sorcerer crouched again, examining the drop pod plating. “To answer your second question, perhaps it broke up as it fell. Even at those speeds a fall would not necessarily kill the Salamanders. Furthermore, this damage seems fairly new. Under a year old, at least. The Ponies they still do not know what we are; perhaps they merely mistook it for a meteor?”

That made an annoying amount of sense, and Lorkhan chose to disregard the details until they had more evidence So, the Salamanders were here. It was almost poetic.

“And you think they’re the ‘great evil’ we’re meant to destroy?” Lorkhan asked, turning towards the hole in the floor. Mordecai took his time before answering.

“Well…it is clear they have not left this keep, and I can’t see the XVIII having the stomach to do anything outwardly aggressive. But I struggle to see what else it could be.”

“Right then.” Lorkhan answered. Apprehension had given way to excitement. He may have had no weapons, but there were Salamanders to kill. That was the one thing in this whole fucked-up adventure that had made sense so far. “What’s that thing they say?”

“Sir?” Mordecai sounded bemused.

“Never mind, I remember.” He was already running. “’Into the Fires of Battle. Unto the Anvil of War.’”

Before his brothers could stop him, Lorkhan had crossed the distance, and leapt down into the dark.

He landed in a kneeling crouch, leg folded beneath him and head angled pointing towards the ground. The drop was not as large as he’d anticipated. Good. The murky blackness was all around him, swallowing and engulfing the Warsmith. He rose back to his full height, flicking on a torch-light built into helmet as he did so. The shadows were pealed back by the beam’s harsh glare, illuminating the rocky passageway that Lorkhan realised must stretch far beneath the castle.

He had landed with a heavy thud; not rock, but the sound of metal striking ceramite. Looking around more thoroughly, Lorkhan could see that where he stood was actually the inside of a drop pod. The top had been blown off and the doors seemingly melted clean away, what was left cast in a sorry heap at the Warsmith’s side. The rear doors hadn’t opened, probably still pressed up against the walls of rock. Well, at least some of his questions were answered; the pod had crashed through the castle’s floor with a clean impact, finally coming to rest as its energy had dissipated. Now that he thought about it, though, he couldn’t see any of the restraint harnesses that were typical of Imperial drop pods. Curious.

He was no great student of geology, but two things struck him instantly. Firstly, the cave passageway was artificially made. Something had hollowed it out; likely the Salamanders themselves, judging by the solidified lumps of what would have been molten slag found at the base of the walls. Melta-weaponry, probably. Typical. The second thing he noticed was the sheer size; it was colossal, even to him. The cave was easily twice Lorkhan’s height, and numerous times as wide. Lorkhan still agreed that, based on the evidence, the Throne-loyal Astartes could not have been here for too long-probably a year, at most-but the passageway they’d carved out here must have been a mammoth undertaking. The Warsmith couldn’t help but wonder how they’d done it, even if they did have access to meltaguns.

Mordecai’s words about Vull Bron floated back to him. He’d scoffed at the time, dismissing it as irrelevant. Now it seemed almost precognisant.

The Warsmith’s reverie was broken by the arrival of his brothers. Zuko and Mordecai had dropped down into the hole as he had, landing in a crouch as well. Rorke, Barbus and the rest of the power armoured Marines were not long after, the sounds of their impact booming and echoing down the cavern. They hurriedly cleared a landing zone as the Obliterators brought up the rear, each one of their descents reverberating like a miniature explosion as it hit. The Iron Warriors turned to look at the sorry remnants of the green drop pod, many with a derisive snort on their lips.

“Well, if they have chosen to hide in this hole, at least they know we’re here.” Zuko remarked, some of the deadpan humour returning to his voice. Lorkhan mumbled something that might have been an agreement, before setting off along the passageway at a brisk pace.

“Whilst your enthusiasm is heartening, my lord, I feel we should perhaps proceed with a tad more surreptitiousness.” Mordecai voxed, jogging to keep up with the Warsmith. Lorkhan ignored him as he walked on, the promise of killing Salamanders almost overwhelming. It was catharsis, a release from the helplessness the Iron Warriors had been subjected to ever since they’d arrived on this planet.

Every Marine was on alert, even without their weapons. The Obliterators had spawned fearsome Heavy Flamers into their arm mounts; ostensibly to deny the enemy the benefit of any cover in these cramped confines, but perhaps more so for the delicious irony of killing sons of Vulkan with fire. As they walked they remained prepared for any ambush that might come out of the dark confines of the cave; any Salamanders pressed up against the rock ready to strike.

But none did. After around fifteen minutes of walking, following the cave system round and round, the Iron Warriors emerged into a large, more open cavern, with several other passageways leading off it. This one seemed more natural than where they had just come from; water dripped ominously down from stalactites, and from what they could tell the walls were composed of a wide array of different rocks. Still there was silence. Lorkhan strode to the front of the group, hatred blazing inside of him. In the centre of the wide room, he threw his arms out to the side in challenge, tuning his helm’s vox-projector so his voice was amplified to a ferocious roar.

“SALAMANDERS.” It echoed down every cave, the voice repeating over and over again. “GUESS WHO?” There was still no reply. Lorkhan began to pace in circles, chuckling as he shouted. “COME NOW, MY DEAR BROTHERS, DID YOU MISS US? WE MISSED YOU.” He stopped, laughing properly now. “Well…missed killing you.” There was still no response. Lorkhan tilted his head to one side, quashing an irritated growl. “How is Vulkan, anyway?”

This time, something answered.

The sound of a heavy footfall rang around him, coming from one the caverns leading off into the dark. The Iron Warriors flinched nervously, looking around in vain for the source. The smile that had worked its way across Lorkhan’s face dropped as his mind ran the maths. That was too loud to be any normal Marine. That was too loud to even be a Terminator. Only one thing made the world shake when it walked, and could still fit down here.

Another step, then another, then another. A tinny and static-leaden howl hit Lorkhan, full of betrayal and anger. Slowly, the thing pulled itself out of the dark, emerging into the artificial light the Iron Warriors had cast into the large chamber. As one the Iron Warriors took a hurried step back, trying desperately to push the Obliterators to the front. Only Lorkhan was unmoved, and so only he saw the thing in its entirety.

Green armour plating covered its armoured form head to toe, wrapping around the sarcophagus and chipped with wear and age. Two mighty piston driven legs carried it forward into the light. Either one of them could have crushed an unarmoured man to paste without breaking stride; even with his armour, Lorkhan didn’t rate his chances highly. One arm was shaped as a human hand, but far bigger, the pilot light of a mounted flamer just visible underneath the crushing talons of the power fist. On the other arm hung a worn Multi-melta, the metal barrels scorched an unhealthy brown from use. The fuel canister stuck out awkwardly, one seemingly almost knocked completely out of place. Even under the scratched paint, masterfully wrought designs of anvils and coiling dragons could be made out, the sculpted flames forming a fiery crown around the helmet built onto the Sarcophagus. Two red eyes stared out, regarding the Warsmith with barely-contained loathing.

It was a Salamanders Contemptor Dreadnought, an immortal champion of the XVIII Legion come to slay the Iron Warriors for their sins. Worse, judging by the name elegantly scrawled across the parchment that lined the front of the sarcophagus, it was a Salamander that Lorkhan knew.

“Hello, Nu’val.” Lorkhan said wearily, as the great beast roared once again.

Author's Note

I really don't like this Chapter.

I know I say that about most of them, but it's doubly true here. It feels wrong. The fact that there's no Ponies whatsoever making an appearance might well contribute (don't worry, I swear on my IV Legion honour that they'll be in part 10-yes, IV Legion honour is still a thing...sort of) but overall it feels to clunky and long for what is in essence Iron Warriors crossing a bridge and walking in to a castle.

I told you I'd be destroying the fluff, in all fairness. The many plot holes concerning the Drop Pod only popped in to my sleep-deprived brain as I had finished the whole thing, but besides fixing them as best I could I don't really have the time, patience or inclination to go through and rewrite the whole thing. On a similar note, those of you were were paying close attention to the show's pilot episodes will likely have deduced that the bridge the Warriors cross is a lot shorter on the show than it is here, and a lot less dangerous; that was actually intentional, both to show the effects of age and impact of the pod landing, but also to showcase how out of place the Iron Warriors are in Equestria.

Still, at leats there'll be more action in the next part! With a Dreadnaught too, where hopefully some plot points are cleared up. I have to be honest here, and admit that part of the reason I'm being so self-critical is I just finished reading our very own Verbose Soubriquet's 'Courage and Honour and Friendship'...it's really rather good, and if you haven't read it yet-why are you still here?!

(Linky-http://www.fimfiction.net/story/15550/warhammer-40k-courage-and-honour-and-friendship)

The Anvil

He turned the helmet over in his hands, the glowing visors of his own battle-gear meeting its dead ones. Even now, held tightly by the Iron Warrior in the belly of the Storm Eagle, the vox-grille seemed to snarl at him; fitting, the Astartes mused, when its original owner was considered.

“You shouldn’t have taken that.” The voice hadn’t come through the vox, the Marine in question not bothering to keep the discussion private. Lorkhan looked up from the helmet and turned towards the warrior that had addressed him; they were strapped into adjacent harnesses, two of the twenty located in the craft’s main bay. The bulky engines of their jump packs were still affixed to their backs, causing the Iron Warriors to have to stoop over uncomfortably. The other 4 Marines, all that remained of the Assault squad after the bitter fighting below, didn’t turn at the sound of the voice. They probably didn’t care.

“And you shouldn’t presume to question your sergeant.” Lorkhan reprimanded, looking back down at the helmet. “Besides, do you really think Angron would care what we do with his dead?”

It was a rhetorical question, but his brother-Sartak-didn’t seem to get the message. “I don’t much care what the Red Angel thinks, sergeant. But leave it to the Night Lords, or maybe Lorgar’s zealots, to scavenge what they can get. Such action is beneath the Fourth Legion’s standards. No half measures.” He paused. “With all due respect, sir…we’re not pirates.”

With due respect or not, Sartak’s words made him eligible for more serious censure. The Primarch undoubtedly would have taken a dim view of being compared to either the Night Haunter or the Urizen. But Sartak was one of Lorkhan’s oldest brothers, and the already few in number Assault corps of the IV Legion had taken a battering in the battle they had just been fighting. On that basis, Lorkhan decided to overlook it. He kept his gaze focused on the helm’s empty eye sockets.

“Sarum pattern.” He said, idly. “A World Eater design. They’re no Iron Warriors but occasionally they do make something of value. Look, you can tell from the mouth grille. It looks a lot less efficient than our Mk2, but their Primarch must have a reason for doing it.” Beside him, Sartak scoffed.

“When does Angron ever provide a reason for doing anything?” Beneath his own helmet, Lorkhan scowled.

“Careful, brother.” He’d only overlook so much. Sartak grunted an insincere apology, turning to stare back round the hold as it rattled and the engines roared with the strain of flying through Istvaan’s ash-choked atmosphere. Lorkhan turned the helmet over and over again without paying attention, spotting something on its front.

“Look here.” He pointed out, tracing a finger down one of the four red lines that ran across the top of the helmet. “They’re a Twelfth Legion honour marking. Denotes that warrior has had those…well, whatever they are, implanted.” The sergeant tapped his own forehead for emphasis. Sartak folded is arms across his chest, and leaned back as far as he could in what seemed like a gesture of contempt.

“Know many World Eaters personally do you sir?”

“They’re not all barbarians, Sartak.” Lorkhan answered, a hint of pettiness creeping into his voice. His brother gave chukled and shook his head, but said nothing. Lorkhan sighed, before hitting the release control on the wall next to his harness with an elbow and rising to his feet. Only one or two of the other Iron Warriors adjusted to look at him as he moved. Turning to place the chipped white helmet on his seat, Lorkhan gave Sartak another look.

“I’m going to talk to the pilot. I want to get off this rock.” Sartak merely shrugged as way of response. Lorkhan sighed again, starting to walk towards the cockpit. His jump pack made moving a slight challenge, but the Storm Eagle’s bay was wide enough to accommodate. He moved into the small corridor which led to the pilot’s throne. Here Lorkhan could just about see out the front window, where what looked like black rain lashed furiously all around. Even within the metal craft, the sound of explosions and Astartes dying could be heard echoing from below. It had been at least two weeks since the drop-site massacre, but the Loyalists clung on tenaciously. As an Iron Warrior, Lorkhan could almost grudging admire that.

“Good day?” He asked the pilot, having to raise his voice to be heard above the winds that whistled all around.

“Acceptable.” His brother answered, a degree of annoyance tinging his voice. It wasn’t surprising; there were few in the Legion who appreciated Lorkhan’s chattiness. Like Lorkhan the pilot’s armour was a mix of silver and deep bronze, with the exception of a single red pauldron denoting his dual allegiance to Mars.

“What’s our ETA for docking with the ship?” Lorkhan asked, affecting a more business-like tone. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something hurtled up the side of the windscreen.
“Approximately four hours.” Said the pilot. “The Warsmith contacted us. He wishes to debrief you at the soonest convenience.”

“Wonderful.” Lorkhan answered, and not even the Mechanicum adept could have missed the sarcasm. “I’m sick of Istvaan anyway.”

“Most of the Legion wouldn’t agree.” The pilot replied, still utterly focused on flying. “They want to stay, kill more loyalists.”

“One, most likely two Primarchs are dead, with a third missing. The Raven Guard and Salamanders are not going to be getting back up from this anytime soon, whilst the Iron Tenth’s veteran cadre is gone. We’ve lost too many valuable resources, ones we can’t easily get back, and frankly I’ve seen enough ash to last me a bloody lifeti-“

He was cut off by the thudding sound on the roof. The Storm Eagle dipped slightly under the extra weight, and only now did the pilot look behind in a vain attempt to see what had caused it as he fought to climb back up. Lorkhan shot out a hand to steady himself on the wall, the other subconsciously moving to the hilt of his power sword. Curiously, force of habit had led to him locking his bolt pistol into the space provided in his harness, but he had kept his power sword. That was beginning to feel like a bad idea.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of that being Father dropping onto the roof to say a big well done and take us back home for some downtime?” Lorkhan deadpanned.

“No, there is not.” The pilot answered. For the third time in ten minutes, Lorkhan gave a deep sigh.

“Get us climbing into orbit again. I’ll go and deal with our guests.” He turned, drawing his power sword and moving back towards the main hold. When he arrived he found the rest of his brothers had already formed the beginnings of a defensive line with bolt pistols raised, cramped though it was. On the roof a few feet metres in front of them, a large square was being cut by what looked like melta-beams. That they originated from the outside was clear.

“Isn’t this thing supposed to have some kind of armoured ceramite?” Lorkhan hissed, pushing his way to the centre of the group.

“I don’t think anyone’s told them that.” Sartak replied grimly, keeping his pistol level. Before Lorkhan could ask another question, the square that had been cut in the roof gave way and fell to the floor with a clang. The Iron Warriors readied their pistols, but for a moment nothing happened.

Lorkhan only just heard the clink of something deceptively small rattle on the floor.

“Grenade!” He screamed, but in the confined space it was not enough. Two of his squad were hurled backwards with the detonation, armour cracking and shrapnel piercing the comparatively soft flesh within. Sartak and the two assault marines that had kept their footing opened fire, bolts flying through the hatch. Amazingly one of them did score a hit, if the gargle of pain that sounded like a torn throat was anything to go by. Return fire from the outside stared; most of it was bolt shells that pinged off the Iron Warrior’s armour, but a lance of melta-energy also joined the fusillade. It struck the Iron Warrior next to Lorkhan square in the chest. The sergeant swore as his brother fell to the face, a gaping and steaming hole punched clean through is armour.

They dropped down through the hole moments later, sensing the need to take the initiative. Four Salamander assault marines; apparently, they weren’t willing to just lie down and die. They were clad in heavily artificed Mk4 armour, yet even with the more compact jump packs getting through the hole they had created was a squeeze. One fell prey to the obvious danger of entering such a cramped area, blown apart by accurate pistol fire from the Iron Warriors within. The remaining three spread out the best they could, disdaining the use of their pistols for brutal chains-weaponry. The last one through was armed differently. His armour was the most fantastically wrought of all, dragons and fiery symbols playing all over it with even his helmet shaped to resemble a snarling lizard. Across a shoulder guard was draped a green scaled hide, whilst the other bore his Legion’s symbol. One hand clutched an infernus pistol, its barrel also shaped like a dragon’s head, whilst the right held onto a obsidian-headed and crackling Thunder Hammer.

The two assault marines moved to engage Sartak, who for his part bellowed his Legion’s creed as way of a battle cry and rushed to meet them. Snatching a pistol from his dead brethren, Lorkhan brought his power sword to life and charged the Salamander sergeant, a challenge of his own on his lips.

Bringing it down in an overhand sweep, the Salamander swung the Thunder Hammer straight at Lorkhan’s head. The Iron Warrior only just had time to holster his pistol and grasp the sword handle with two hands to parry it. Even then, he was forced to one knee by the blow, muscles straining as he struggled against the hammer’s descent. Lorkhan may have been a swordsman of some skill, but the Salamander had the advantage of raw strength, and in such an environment that counted for more.

“And who do I have the honour of sparring with?” Lorkhan asked through gritted teeth, lactic acid now coming on in force. By contrast, the Salamander didn’t seem to be exerting any effort at all.

“Nu’val.” The hulking green giant replied. “Assault Sergeant, 32nd Company, Eighteenth Legion.” He applied more pressure, causing Lorkhan to grunt in pain. “A Legion you and your bastard kin have all but annihilated.” A green armoured knee crashed up into Lorkhan’s chest, drawing a splutter from the sergeant and sending him onto his front. The hammer fell with grim certainty, but the Iron Warrior’s Astartes reflexes kicked in just in time and he rolled onto his side, barely missing the blow. Lashing out with a foot he connected with Nu’val’s face, sending him stumbling back. Hitting the release button on his jump pack to afford himself greater mobility, Lorkhan shed the bulky contraption and stood, swinging his sword again.

The Salamander was forced on the defensive, using the hammer’s shaft to block the sword blows. The energy fields sparked off each other, neither cutting through. Finally they attacked simultaneously, catching weapon arms in opposing hands and grappling until their faces were but a scant few centimetres apart.

“Why?” Nu’val growled. Lorkhan found it took him a moment to answer.

“The Emperor has betrayed us. Betrayed the whole Crusade.”

“You lie.”

“And you’re ugly.” Provoking him wasn’t a good idea, but Lorkhan didn’t care. The Salamander bellowed with anger as he pushed with renewed strength, almost overpowering the Iron Warrior. Lorkhan moved with the force, being carried towards the Storm Eagle’s front hatch.

Behind him, Sartak slashed his chainsword across the last Salamander’s throat and threw the choking Marine to the ground. He turned, blade at the ready. Before he could intervene Nu’val had all but thrown Lorkhan against the hatch, spinning and drawing his infernus pistol. The beam sliced through the air, striking Sartak in the head. The Iron Warrior crumpled to the ground, remnants of his skull and helmet dripping onto the floor.

Seeing his old comrade die brought another howl to Lorkhan’s lips-one that was at odds with his Legion’s cold, detached nature. He flung himself at the Salamander’s back, swinging the sword in a decapitating arc. Nu’val only just turned in time to raise a forearm gauntlet to deflect the blow, sword sliding harmlessly down his artificer armour. A fist cannoned into Lorkhan’s face, sending his head snapping backwards. He stumbled as it did so, the back of his skull cracking against the hatch’s release mechanism. Slowly, the doors opened, revealing a scarred and tattered landscape before them. Lorkhan stood before the opening, dazed but still fighting.

Nu’val came on with another great swing of his hammer. There it was, the opening Lorkhan had been waiting for. He sidestepped the blow and sliced downwards. The power sword chewed through the jump-pack, causing it to spark slightly. In his desire to kill the enemy the Salamander had over-extended, moving with too much momentum and nearly falling straight out the front. He recovered his footing and pirouetted, bringing the Thunder Hammer around again as he stood on the hatch’s cusp. Lorkhan raised an arm to block it, and was rewarded with the agonising sting of crushed bone.

But that had been what he wanted.

With his sword arm he thrust forward, placing all his strength behind it. Artificer armour was strong, but not invulnerable. The energised blade passed through, exploding from Nu’val’s back dripping with gore. The Salamander coughed, numb hands dropping the weapon to the deck. Lorkhan breathed heavily, keeping eye contact with the foe.

“We will kill you for this…” Nu’val said, voice wracked with pain. “If it takes us ten thousand years, traitor…we will kill you for what you’ve done.”

“Death to the False Emperor.” Lorkhan snarled as a reply, placing a boot on the Salamander’s torso. He kicked, retracting his sword as he did. Nu’val fell from the front of the craft, tumbling end over end as he plummeted towards the black ground. His jet pack finally exploded, dousing the falling Salamander in burning promethium. Lorkhan watched the flaming comet for as long as possible, until the ash clouds swallowed it. Sheathing his blade, he pressed the hatch control again, the doors closing behind him.

For a moment his eyes rested on the corpses of his brothers lying in a heap. Then, the pain in his left arm that his Astartes physiology had suppressed until now flared up, causing a gasp to leave the Iron Warrior’s lips and driving him to his knees cradling it. It was more than just shattered; he’d have to get a bionic replacement, there was no doubt of that.

“Sir?” The pilot’s voice crackled over the helmet vox. “Are we secure?” Blinking away the pain, Lorkhan looked up at the hole the Salamanders had cut in the roof, before turning his gaze to where he had sat not ten minutes prior. The World Eater helmet was still there, despite everything. It still snarled.

“Get us out of here.” Lorkhan finally replied, unable to drag his eyes away from the empty helmet’s glare.

Twilight groaned as her head slammed into the book open on the desk before her. It was not in her nature to be defeatist, but this was getting too much. Holding back a sob she looked up and rubbed her eyes with her hooves, staring at the flickering candle before her.

“You okay, Twi?” Spike’s voice was laden with concern as he pushed open the door to the study. He was used to Twilight shutting herself away to work, sometimes for days on end, but this whole affair seemed to have been particularly stressful for her. The baby dragon had been rushed off his feet just making sure she was eating something.

The purple unicorn turned to look at him, and what he saw only made Spike’s worry grow. He was used to Twilight becoming obsessive when she was faced with a taxing problem, sometimes to the point of creepiness; Spike didn’t need reminding of the whole ‘missed friendship report’ fiasco. But the utter despair on Twilight’s face-the drooping ears, unkempt hair, eyes bloodshot with both sleep deprivation and frustrated tears-broke the little dragon’s heart. As Twilight turned back to her book Spike walked over, gently placing a reassuring claw on her back. The Unicorn smiled at the touch, dragging her assistant into a hug. There had been a lot of hugs recently, ever since Twilight and Spike had been reunited unharmed in Canterlot after they’d left.

“It’s no use, Spike.” Twilight said dejectedly. Spike’s eyes fell on the huge stack of books piled up on the desk; it must have been at least twice his height. He wondered how its weight was supported. “I’ve read every book I can think of that might give us even the slightest clue about the…the ‘Iron Warriors’. I’ve looked in every one of the Canterlot archives, raided our collection at least three times, Princess Celestia’s even given me access to restricted books from the Crystal Empire and Griffon Kingdoms. None of them mentions these things, or the Warp, or some ‘war’, or anything they were talking about. According to every scrap of knowledge we have, the Iron Warriors simply don’t exist.”

Spike’s chewed his bottom lip, wishing he could think of something to say that would cheer his best friend up. He finally decided to fall back to familiar ground.

“Do you want a coffee?”

For a moment, Twilight looked like she was going to buck Spike through a window. Then a weary smile broke out across her face, and she nodded, following him out of the darkened study. She squinted as she re-entered the main library, eyes stinging with the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. She walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table and trying her hardest not to fall asleep. Spike was already making the coffee, humming to himself as he heated the water.

“Anything from Princess Celestia?” Twilight eventually asked, hopefully. Spike shook his head, placing the two cups down on the table. Twilight felt her shoulders sag as she scooped the mug up.

“Aww, cheer up Twi! You’ll figure this out, you’re the smartest Unicorn I know!” Spike said with a smile, his optimism touching. Twilight smiled back, but it wasn’t genuine.

“I don’t know, Spike. Give me a mathematical quandary and I’ll have a method in five minutes, but how do I even begin trying to understand something like this when we have no records of anything even remotely similar?”

Before Spike could think of an answer, Twilight spoke again. Her voice was quieter, laced with fear.

“This is more than just some study problem. These ‘Iron Warriors’, whatever they are, they…change things. Rainbow Dash and Princess Luna may be brash, but I’ve never seen them like they were at the castle. Wherever they’ve been has messed with their very essence. If they’re in constant contact with Equestria…” She trailed off, staring down at her drink with a haunted expression on her face. Spike scratched the back of his head nervously, the implication clear to him.

“Fluttershy called earlier.” He said suddenly, trying to change the subject. “She, uhh, wanted to know if you wanted to go for dinner at hers later today.” Twilight looked up, seemingly mulling it over. Could she really allow herself to have a frivolous evening at a time like this? She had a lot of studying today, reading and re-reading the books she’d skimmed through. Fluttershy might be her friend, but-

Her friend. And there it was. If Twilight was going to stop the Iron Warriors corrupting Equestria-whether they intended to or not-she’d need her friends more than ever.

“Dinner sounds great, Spike.” She smiled, and this time she meant it. “Thanks.”

Zuko moved back hurriedly as the Dreadnaught emerged from the darkness. Iron Warriors were big, but the Contemptor towered even over them. The Multi-melta affixed to its right arm would probably have been at least the Champion’s height.

Threat runes flashed angrily across his helmet optics. He blink-clicked them away; whilst he didn’t make a habit of getting cornered underneath a castle by fifteen-foot tall walking death machines that spewed out fire like it was going out of fashion, Zuko was fairly confident that it was a bad thing.

Alone among his brothers, who either shuffled uncomfortably or in the Obliterator’s case raised their own weapons, Lorkhan stood stock still before the behemoth. His voice was calm, almost relaxed; Zuko had served as his right hand to know that it was typically Lorkhan, both natural and enforced to throw supplicants off when they came before the Warsmith. But his seeming familiarity with the Salamander was…disconcerting.

The Dreadnaught stopped as Lorkhan addressed it, swaying slightly. Two red eyes stared at the Warsmith, the need to smash him apart evident-it was seemingly held back only by its curiosity.

“You know me, traitor?” The voice that emanated from the grille was laced with static, as if it hadn’t been used in an age.

“I killed you.” Lorkhan replied simply. Zuko’s head shot towards his master at this latest revelation. It’s okay, sir, I didn’t like having a life expectancy longer than the next few minutes anyway. The Dreadnaught looked away for a moment, as if wracking its still-waking brain for a memory. It seemed to find one, and turned back to the Warsmith, power fist clenching.

“Istvaan.” The voice was dangerously low and measured. “You were the sergeant...I told you I would kill you.”

“You can try, Nu’val.” Lorkhan answered. He beckoned Zuko to his side. Warily, the Champion complied, never taking his eyes of the Dreadnaught. The Salamander didn’t even seem to notice him. “How in the name of the God’s did you get here?”

The Dreadnaught was quiet for a moment, and Zuko fully expected to be crushed to a paste in seconds. Yet eventually the Dreadnaught did reply, the prospect of having an ancient enemy at his mercy seemingly granting the Iron Warriors a moment’s amnesty.

“My body was broken after you threw me from the Storm Eagle, but my will to fight was not. My brothers found me, remade me. I served the Legion until the end of the Heresy, and the Chapter after the Primarch’s disappearance. We were called to a world under the thrall of the Despoiler's lackeys. It should have been a simple drop pod assault, yet they were ready for us. Foul Warp-spawned magicks tore the heavens open, and we hurtled head-on into the rift. Half a company of Salamanders, gone in seconds. I do not know where my brothers were scattered too, yet I emerged on this world. I was forced to use my Multi-melta to carve out a passageway to reach this cavern, and entered a state of dormancy…that is, until you showed up.”

Lorkhan seemed to turn the information over in his mind for a moment. “So…you don’t actually know where you are, do you?”

“It is irrelevant.” The Dreadnaught tilted slightly, as if focusing in one something. “You have come unarmed. That was unwise, traitor scum.”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you why.” The Warsmith replied. The Dreadnaught looked at him for a moment, before raising his power fist. The underslung Heavy Flamer’s pilot light burned brighter. Zuko cursed.

“So be it. Burn heretic.”

The gout of flame leapt towards the two Iron Warriors the moment the Obliterator’s started firing. Any mortal warrior would have been incinerated, yet Zuko and Lorkhan were Astartes. Even with the Warsmith’s extensive bionics, they sprang out the way, landing in a crouch before breaking into a sprint. One of the Melta-beams fired by the Obliterators went wide; the other two hit their target, but dissipated harmlessly off the Contemptor’s atomantic shielding.

The power armoured Iron Warriors began to run in a general circle, seeking to outmaneuver and entangle their foe. Quite what the purpose of this was no one was quite sure, yet it seemed a damn sight better than standing around and waiting to be stepped on. Whilst they had the advantage of numbers and speed, the Salamander had armour and firepower, tipping the scales decidedly in his favour.

Zuko slid to a halt behind the Dreadnaught, not surprised to find Rorke by his side and breathing heavily. Zuko had lost track of Lorkhan and Mordecai early on, although the Sorcerer had been letting lose ineffectual bursts of telekinetic power. Rorke’s face was twisted in an even uglier grimace than usual, and when he spoke it was through gritted teeth.

“And how exactly does Celestia expect us to kill this bastard thing?”

“She doesn’t.” Zuko reminded him. “She expects us to be killed by this bastard thing.” This didn’t seem to satisfy his brother, who looked like he was about to tackle Zuko into the dirt. The helmeted champion looked back at the rampaging Dreadnaught, which had just preceded to backhand an Iron Warrior (or rather, one’s crumpled remains) into a nearby wall, tilting his head in thought.

“It hasn’t used its Multi-melta.” Zuko observed, mind racing. “It said it had to use it to break out the drop pod. Perhaps it’s run out of ammunition.” No sooner had he spoke, Zuko noticed three Iron Warriors falling back down a nearby cavern. The Dreadnaught noticed too, raising the baroque weapon in their direction. In such a confined space a Multi-melta would always be deadly, but its wielder was a Salamander and the aim was true. A beam of superheated energy roared forth from the gun, travelling with pinpoint accuracy down the tunnel and engulfing the three Chaos Marines. Their screams transmitted for a moment over the vox, before cutting out with a wet gargle. Zuko did his best to ignore Rorke’s glare.

Nu’val turned, noticing that the two Aspiring Champions had come to a halt. It raised its arm to unleash the Heavy Flamer once more, when finally one of the Obliterator’s shots penetrated its shielding. Whilst no lasting damage seemed to be caused, the beam did scorch some of the Dreadnaught’s motor servos, driving it to one knee. Zuko and Rorke took their chance, springing forward and running as fast as they could. Another burst of promethium issued forth from the flamer, dousing Zuko’s armour and blackening its edges, yet the ceramite held firm and he did not break stride.

“You realise we can’t actually hurt that thing?” Rorke hissed.

“We can distract it.” Zuko countered, shaking off the last of the fire. “And with any luck, it’ll fall on you.” They were right in front of the Salamander war-engine now, which stepped backwards unsurely; it had not expected such a move from its tiny enemies. With a snarl, Zuko and Rorke pushed off their back feet and hurled themselves onto the Sarcophagus.

Lightning coursed over Zuko’s armour as he came into contact with the Dreadnaught’s shielding. He scrambled for a grip, forcing the pain down through force of will, but he could note establish a firm hold. The shield threw him off, and he skidded across the ground on his back a few yards before finally coming to a stop, hacking and coughing. The armour smoked from contact with the atomantic device, and overall he felt only slightly better than when that purple Unicorn had shot him in the chest. Rorke had managed to hold on better, bracing himself and clinging onto a loose cable with one hand. The other rocketed back and forth, striking the Dreadnaught’s ‘helmet’. Amazingly, his punches did begin to have an effect, punching out the right eye visor. Nu’val bellowed in anger, thrashing wildly as he was reduced to half-blindness and stumbling hither and thither. Rorke was finally dislodged, thrown through the air in much the same way Zuko was, rolling head over heel before coming to rest and rising to his hands and knees with a cough.

Zuko prepared to get back to his feet, when another, shaper pain overcame him. It lanced through his nervous system like a flaming arrow, for a moment threatening to overcome his enhanced physiology. Nu’val applied more pressure to the colossal foot it had placed on the Aspiring Champion’s legs, drawing another gasp from Zuko. His power armour provided little respite, its integrity swiftly collapsing and Zuko’s leg bones with it. The Dreadnaught looked down at him, one eye blood-red, the other black and sparking from where Rorke had savaged it. The flamer came in line with Zuko’s eye level; even through his blurred vision, Astartes body racing to heal the damage done to it at the expense of other functions, he could see the nozzle clearly.

“For the Emperor.” Nu’val rumbled. In response, Zuko weakly raised a hand; only one finger was extended.

He was saved by a brother. With an incoherent howl, and carrying a rock he had picked up from somewhere in the cavern, Kravix leapt at the Dreadnaught much as his sergeant had. In all honesty, the rock would have been ineffectual at best, but it was the thought the counted. Nu’val turned to meet this new threat, diverting his attention from Zuko yet not stepping off him. The Dreadnaught extended his power fist to the side, catching the Iron Warrior in mid-air. Kravix had only a moment to struggle and slam the rock into Nu’val’s robotic hand before a compression of the power fist’s fingers reduced him to a mangled, unrecognisable mess. What had once been Kravix was released, dropping to the floor with an unceremonial squelch.

Zuko watched his brother die, hatred bubbling inside him. Yet Kravix’s sacrifice-whether he had intended such a thing or not-gave the other Iron Warriors time to fight back. A Lascannon shot from the Obliterators smashed into Nu’val’s flank, sending him stumbling backwards and finally freeing Zuko’s legs. A boulder hurled by Mordecai’s power followed suite, smashing against the sarcophagus and annihilating some of the finery carved on their. In response, the Dreadnaught raised its Multi-melta, this time turning it on Vortun and his kin. Unlike their smaller brothers the Obliterators did not have the advantage of haste, and so Vortun could only turn away reflexively as the beam reduced the Obliterator on his left to a steaming puddle of warp-tainted goo on the floor.

Zuko’s hands bunched into fists; that Obliterator was a revered member of the Thirteenth company, blessed by the Gods and part of the Warhost since its genesis. To see him destroyed so completely, on a planet populated by peace loving, pastel coloured horse-xenos, was beyond insulting. Vortun did not take it any better. With a deep, baritone growl he and his surviving brother began to fire shot after shot from many different weapons, peppering the sarcophagus with an unrelenting hail of firepower. It was beginning to count, the Dreadnaught’s armour plating running in a molten dribble here and there.

Zuko tried to move his legs, but found that he could not. Although his body worked to heal them, for now they were completely shattered. He turned onto his front, trying to drag himself along the ground by his hands, when a strong grip stopped him and did the dragging itself. Zuko couldn’t see who it was, but it was probably Barbus. Through hazy vision he watched Nu’val continue his onslaught. A great sweep of the power fist pulped another three Iron Warriors, two of them part of Zuko’s squad. He vaguely noticed their life signs flickering red on his optical stream. Another, slower Marine was merely stepped on by the Dreadnaught. He was not as lucky as Zuko, and was killed instantly by the weight.

Zuko gave a pained curse under his breath as he was dragged away. So many were dying. Why did they not just find cover? He knew the answer, of course-they were trying to distract the Dreadnaught so the Obliterators could keep firing at it, and that invariably led to casualties. As much as they hated and mistrusted each other off personally, in battle the Iron Warriors worked as a team. They had been Legio Astartes once, and they remembered pack tactics as well as any Night Lord or Space Wolf in a pinch.

“Is this all?” Nu’val shouted through his speakers, although the voice was crackly. “Is this all the vaunted Iron Warriors can bring to bear?” The flamer came to life once more, incinerating two more Astartes. “You have fallen far indeed, traitor filth.” The Multi-melta fired another burst at Vortun, but this time his daemonic heritage saved him and the shot dissipated harmlessly.

Lorkhan finally reappeared, standing as still as he had been when talking to the Dreadnaught. He had positioned himself in front of the Obliterators, providing an irresistible target. “I killed you millennia ago, Nu’val. It seems you weren’t paying attention. But I will kill you again here, and this time I will make it last. You will never re-join what passes for your thin blooded chapter. You will not fight for a dead master on a golden chair any longer. And like you fall, the Imperium will fall soon after. We will take the iron to the stone Nu’val, tear down the false Emperor’s kingdom of lies. We will end every single one of you, Salamander dog. We might not be what we once were, but we’re more than enough to deal with you.”

The Dreadanught didn’t stop coming, lashing out with a foot. It impacted an iron Warrior, sending him flying into a wall. The body crumpled lifelessly. “You are delusional and mad, every ne of you. I will never understand what drove you to listen to the Warmaster’s lies, besides your own inherent weakness, but it matters not. You will not topple the Imperium, iron Warrior. It endures, even in spite of your petty tantrums and piratical raids. It survives on the blood of Martyrs and the steel of the faithful in the face of scum like you. One Dreadnought-one old, battered Dreadnaught, isolated from his brothers and stuck in a cave-and even now I have killed over a quarter of your sorry company. How do you intend to tear down anything? You brought your whole Legion to Terra, every traitorous cur you could muster, and even then you could not do it. You will not stop us, Iron Warrior, you will not stop the Imperium’s manifest destiny.” The Dreadnought locked its remaining eye with the Warsmith’s. “You are not even a threat.”

The Obliterators ceased their firing. Iron Warriors stopped running, skidding to a halt and staring at Nu’val. Barbus dropped Zuko, and the Champion understood why. Lorkhan was as calm as ever, not a muscle moving. His voice was scarcely above a whisper.

“What did you say?”

Space Marines knew no fear, and Dreadnoughts even more-they literally dread nought-yet in that moment Nu’val stopped his advance, as if realising he had made a rather large mistake.

They were on him in seconds. The Obliterators fired for as long as they could, burning away at the flagging atomantic shielding with an unrelenting stream of hate and ammunition. They only stopped as every Iron Warrior that could walk leapt on the Dreadnought like a pack of wild dogs, swarming over and beating at the great metal beast. They were rabid, clawing and tearing, sheer weight of numbers of stopping Nu’val from dealing with them. Kayn and Aleksos had clambered onto his back, striking at the weaker rear armour and ripping out cables and important-looking moving parts whenever they could find them. Nu’val staggered, such a massed attack completely unorthodox and thus, unexpected. Zuko had never liked his brothers, not for the most part, but in this moment he considered them nothing short of magnificent. Lorkhan grappled onto the Dreadnought’s front, his Mechatendrils having stabbed through the armour plating to hold him aloft like a great iron spider. Much like Rorke, he was smashing a fist into what passed for Nu’val’s face.

“I.”

The other eye began to spark, flickering from red to black and back again.

“AM.”

It finally cut out completely, and the Dreadnought flailed even more wildly in the now total blindness.

“A.”

Another brutal punch cracked the Sarcophagus itself, shattering an intricately dragon in a way that seemed almost symbolic.

“THREAT.”

Not even a Dreadnought could withstand such a mass swarming all over it/ Cracked, blind, sparking and bleeding a thick black fuel, Nu’val began to sink slowly downwards. The Iron Warriors leapt off him back to the ground, seemingly wanting to finish this in a more dignified manner. In a last gasp act of spite, the Dreadnought grabbed hold of an Astartes’ leg as he jumped, smashing him onto the ground repeatedly with what little strength it had remaining, but it was not enough. Mordecai turned almost graceful as he landed to face the dreadnought, extending his arm and balling it into a fist. Nu’val’s Multi-melta groaned and creaked, before slowly crumpling inwards as the aetheric winds finally blew in force and let the warlock marshal his full telekinetic strength. One weapon gone, all Nu’val had was his Heavy Flamer and power fist, yet even the fire spurted forth seemed weaker and more pathetic now the Dreadnought was running out of power fast.

The Iron Warriors stood to the side, allowing the Obliterators access as they advanced, twisted guns blazing. Of all the Chaos Marines, they seemed most affected by the death of their brother; it would have been wrong to deny them such vengeance. Lascannon, plasma, and melta beams smashed into the sarcophagus repeatedly, the shielding struggling to keep up. Finally it could take no more and fizzled out completely, leaving Nu’val utterly undefended. A concentrated two Lascannon beams finally finished the job; the sarcophagus cracked open, an engine exploded as the Dreadnought’s rear armour began leaking flames, and the mighty construct toppled slowly onto its back. A tremor roared around the Iron Warriors as it hit the ground, echoing down the corridors. They did not flinch, instead watching their enemy; making sure it was dead. He had committed the cardinal sin amongst the Thirteenth Company; perhaps they were virtual outcasts from their own Legion and down on their luck, but you never ever insinuated they were not a threat. Do that, and the error of your words will quickly become apparent.

Zuko watched all of this, taking an ice cold satisfaction in watching the great Salamander twitch its last. Then, and only then, did the Iron Warrior grant himself the luxury of passing out.

Lorkhan stood atop the sarcophagus, staring down at the Dreadnought’s blank and dead eyes. Smoke still filtered from the grates on its back, although most of it had already been vomited forth, and now the once mighty dreadnought was little more than hulk of metal cast to the ground.

Mordecai also stood atop the defeated Salamander, slightly behind the Warsmith. Rorke and Varvillon had gone to clean up the remains of the Iron Warriors who had perished; most of them were beyond recognition and their armour unsalvageable, but the Champion had managed to find a corrupted mk4 helmet to replace the one he lost. Zuko’s unconscious form had been dragged to the corner of the room, and with little reverence dumped there. His wounds weren’t serious enough to force him to enter a sus-as membrane coma, but Lorkhan knew his legs were utterly shattered. Even with such enhanced healing capabilities, it was highly unlikely Zuko would walk again without bionics. The rest of what remained from the company, Obliterators included, formed a circle around the Dreadnought. He didn’t know what they were thinking, but one thing was for sure; they had won a victory here today. They’d killed an old enemy. If nothing else, that would get their spirits up, even if it did little for Lorkhan. Nu’val had been right in one thing-over a quarter of Lorkhan’s brothers had died. He might have been a follower of Chaos, but any victory still felt pyrrhic, especially when one considered that they’d come here at a Ponies’ bidding.

The Dreadnought looked so helpless in death, a far cry from the beast it had been in life. Mordecai had crushed the Multi-melta with his mind, yet the power fist was still intact, and the flamer stank of burned fuel. As he stared, a though occurred to Lorkhan. He stepped back and motioned for the Obliterators to come forth. They did so, immediately catching on and digging their energised talons into the sarcophagus. Before long, they had ripped the covering off, revealing what lay within. Lorkhan stepped back up over the hole, crouching down and resting his arms on his knees.

Within lay the shrivelled hulk of what had once been a sergeant of the 32nd Company, Eighteenth Astartes Legion. Coal black skin had paled slightly in the years of entombment to a lighter brown, whilst the eyes had decayed completely. Muscles too had atrophied, and it lay curled in a foetal position surrounded by burst vials of amniotic fluid. The pathetic sight almost brought a laugh to Lorkhan’s lips. Amazingly, it was not dead; the head turned slowly and weakly towards the Warsmith. The sightless stare was unnerving, but Lorkhan was angry enough that it did not matter.

“This time…” he growled softly, finally fighting to keep his voice composed after such an extended period of calm when faced with the Salamander. “This time, you stay dead, you shit.” The husk of a Salamander said nothing, foam bubbling in the corner of his mouth. “I swear to you, Nu’val.” Lorkhan went on, now grabbing the decrepit creature by the throat and yanking it free from the Dreadnought’s confines. “I swear to you here, on the honour of my Legion. You will all die like your Primarch did. Every last, bastard one of you. I will kill the last Salamander myself and offer his soul to the darkness. Your bloodline will burn, Nu’val. Your whole bastard genetic line will be nothing but a bad memory.”

The Salamander still stared at him, tenuously clinging to life. Then, for the first time in ten thousand years, he spoke through lungs that were rapidly turning to dust.

“…Vulkan…lives…”

Lorkhan maintained his grip for a moment, as if considering the old warrior’s words. Then, he lashed out with his other fist, punching straight through the paper-think skull. He tossed the body away with a snarl as he stood back up to his full height.

“Vortun.” The Warsmith growled, still staring at Nu’val’s remains. “Destroy the body. Plasma, not fire; he would consider that an honour. Then help Mordecai tear this thing apart piece by piece.” Only now did he turn to dismount the Dreadnought and walk away, when something caught his eye. Affixed to a huge shoulder, fluttering slightly as he passed, was a small patch of green scaled hide. It would have fit snugly over the pauldron of a suit of power armour. Sartak’s face flashed before his eyes, for the first time in ten millennia.

“No half measures.”

Author's Note

Whilst in theory Nu'val is an idiot for not focusing on the Obliterators, I can and will use the fact the he just woke up in a poor effort to justify his tactical blunder. If you found yourself surrounded by unarmed people that you hate and can crush easily, I'd wager you'd get caught up in killing them too, no matter how much you frickin' love the Emperor. Besides, the Salamanders were against Robby G's little blue book of Marines; perhaps Nu'val only skim-read it, and missed something vital on page 52, subsection A.

In the times it's taken to shit this out its been confirmed what's in the next Horus Heresy book from Forge World. The lack of Iron Warriors makes me sad, but the appearance of my two other favorite Legions-Word Bearers and Night Lords (oh lawd, the Night Lords)-will tide me over. I too await the day we get official Perturabo rules so Dorn can be put in his place.

I have to admit I like this chapter. I like the action. Whether it's any good is up to you, but it was fun putting together. Until next time, Iron Within...

You know the rest, I'm sure.

Party Mafia

In the end they resorted to climbing out hand over hand, like great iron apes. Rorke and a few of the others were tasked with dragging their brother’s pulped remains into one pile-after scavenging all usable armour, of course-whilst a combination of Mordecai’s telekinesis and the two remaining Obliterator’s raw strength tore the lifeless Dreadnought shell asunder. They worked quickly and silently, Lorkhan adamant they were not leaving until it was done.

It was apparent to any who cared to look that Zuko wasn’t walking out of here. Having a Contemptor’s full weight pressed down on your legs tended to ruin anyone’s day, even for an Astartes. Rorke, ever the loyal and supportive brother, suggested they leave him there. Surprisingly Zuko himself agreed, arguing that it would slow them down to unacceptable levels. The idea was dismissed immediately by the Warsmith; they were already understrength. Instead Zuko was forced to cling on to the back of the silent Obliterator like a child, and the indignity of it clearly burned at him.

They retreated down the passageway they had come from, towards the drop pod’s remains. None of them had any sort of inclination to explore the other catacombs. There were enough hand-holds in the rock to make pulling their way free of the pit relatively simple, although for the Obliterators (particularly the one lugging Zuko) it was a squeeze. Eventually they had all emerged into the crisp morning light streaming into the castle’s foyer. Here, they could see it was just as decrepit as it had appeared at night, although the strange empty plinth in the centre of the room was made of a particularly pure white stone. Most made for the exit, with only Lorkhan staying behind momentarily. He ascended the stairs to where Zuko had found the first evidence of the loyalists, stooping to pick up the green ceramite plating. Before, the Salamander icon had seemed to glare mockingly at him. Now, it was nothing more than chipped paint.

He re-joined his brothers as they stepped over the great wooden doors that had been blown of their hinges, exiting the castle with all due haste. Bird song met them, although Lorkhan couldn’t determine the species. Xenos, most likely. A soft breeze lapped against his armour, cooling him through the battered war-plate as if it were a second skin. Mordecai unfastened his helmet, a genuinely pleasured smile crossing his face as the wind brushed it. The forest seemed slightly more inviting than it had in the dark, although it still bore the scars of the Chaos Marine’s presence in the form of wisps of smoke rising in the distance.

Lorkhan looked down at the rickety bridge, cocking his head sidewards.

“One Obliterator down.” He observed. “We’re going to have trouble getting back across.”

“Ve could jump for it.” Vortun grunted. Mordecai shook his head, still holding his helmet in the crook of his arm.

“I would scarcely advocate it, Vortun.” The sorcerer remarked. “One does not like to consider the price of failure, especially if your…additional bulk is factored into consideration.” Lorkhan turned the options over in his head, weighing up the possibility of just not returning. It wasn’t an option, of course. Celestia had promised to get them off this rock and back to Medrengard, and Lorkhan intended to make her keep it.

“Lord?” Zuko called out, still perched atop an Obliterator. The Warsmith ignored him, still deliberating internally.

“Lord?” Zuko’s repeated, more forcefully. Lorkhan gave him an over-the-shoulder glare, still not replying.

“Lorkhan, will you just…”

“WHAT?!” Lorkhan screamed, spinning on his heels to face his subordinate. A couple of the less attentive Iron Warriors flinched as if struck, but Zuko merely locked stares with the Warsmith. Lorkhan stayed tensed for a moment, before finally calming himself. Zuko wasn’t at fault here-the encounter with Nu’val bothered Lorkhan more than he cared to admit. “What is it, brother?”

Zuko didn’t say anything, but pointed to Lorkhan’s right. The Iron Warrior turned in confusion, unsure what the Champion was getting at. Just as he was about to demand Zuko be dumped into the canyon, he spotted it.

The castle stood, for the most part, on its own-connected to the majority of the forest by the rope-bridge they’d crossed earlier. However, Lorkhan now realised that more trees stood on firm bedrock to the left of the castle, forming a wide arc. They joined on to the rear of the fortification without the use of a bridge, and that rocky bedding continued round…

…Connecting back up with the remainder of the Everfree.

“Are you quite alright, sir?” Mordecai asked, concern creeping into his voice. Lorkhan had gone very quiet and still, staring at the pathway they could have taken instead of arsing about with the rope-bridge. Before the sorcerer could inquire again, the ancient Warsmith fell to his knees with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil. He was still silent. Two Marines stepped forward to help him back up, but Lorkhan brushed them off. He lifted his arms above his head, still lost in reverie, clenching the hands into fists.

“OH, COME ON!”

The rest of the journey was taken in near complete silence, Lorkhan still smouldering at having missed the alternative pathway. The one exception was Varvillon, who was seemingly on the lookout for more of the strange blue plant he had spotted earlier. Finally locating a small cluster, the rest of the group were gracious enough to wait as his eccentricities came to the fore.

Varvillon removed his helmet-it was an object of envy for many within the company, being of the newer mark 7 design, ripped from the corpse of one of Dorn’s sons. Curiously the Marine had not adorned it with horns, or any of the fetishes common amongst the followers of the Dark Gods; when asked, he simply replied that it had never occurred to him to do so. Varvillon’s face was another oddity. For the most part it was organic, however his jaw was a surprisingly sophisticated bionic shaped like a wolf’s muzzle. The lower half of the Iron Warrior’s face had been torn away by a Space Wolf, some barbarian king with lightning claws. Varvillon had somehow survived the encounter, and-ever the poet-had requested the bionics to match. The feral, snarling motions they made when he spoke belied his nature as one of the softer-spoken of the warband.

He turned the helmet over in his hands, removing what seemed to be a miniature auspex from within. Lorkhan groaned inwardly at the thought that he constantly carried it around in there, yet wasn’t surprised. Fiddling with some buttons-the delicate task made difficult by his Power Armour-Varvillon placed the device in the middle of the plants. He snapped his helmet back on with a hiss of pressure, ignoring the looks of his brothers.

“I don’t suppose you intend to explain what that was all about?” Lorkhan asked, not hopeful. Varvillon had already pushed past him.

“Testing a hunch.”

The trip took most of the day-Space Marines moved fast, but the Everfree was large, and it seemed to…change of its own accord, seeking to keep the Iron Warriors trapped. By the time they managed to break free the moon had returned, and now he wasn’t surrounded by trees Lorkhan could get a good look at the surroundings. Acres of countryside stretched before him, with a small town and windmill visible not far off. Mountains ringed the area, and built into the side of one was a white city that Lorkhan could just about make off in the distance; although it was obscured by cloud, he recognised Canterlot, the Xenos’ capital. Credit where credit was due, the positioning of it meant that it would be difficult to assault with any typical army.

Fortunately, the Legio Astartes were not a typical army.

To the east stood the remnants of the Olympian Sun, still lying in the crash-site where all this had started. What was left of the cottage Zuko had destroyed also could be seen. It had not been rebuilt yet, most likely due to the intimidating presence of the Strike Cruiser. It was hard, to see the ship that had survived the Heresy and so much more humbled like this, and on such a world to boot; the fact that it still struck fear into Xenos hearts was some comfort.

Unsure how to contact Celestia directly, the Iron Warriors made for the village. It wasn’t a long walk-about twenty minutes-yet when they arrived it was effectively a ghost town. Nearly every window was without light, the streets empty. Whether they had spotted the Astartes approaching, or just didn’t have much of a night life, the Iron Warriors couldn’t say. They wandered through town aimlessly, trying to pick out any major landmarks. There were few-a needle-shaped structure that presumably formed the centre of local government, an opulent and multi-tiered carousel shaped structure with mannequins of the Xenos hung on the outside, and most curiously of all, a tree that had seemingly been hollowed out with a balcony constructed in its upper branches. All of them seemed dead.

Only one building showed signs of life. It was mostly pink, but the roof was a dark brown edged with fluffy white. Three large candles glowed atop it, perched on what seemed to be a large pink cake. Outside a sign hung down, that same cake printed on with “Sugarcube corner” scrawled below it. Lorkhan could have hurled. Unlike everywhere else though, here the lights were on, and the door left slightly ajar.

The group stopped outside it, some muttering entirely justified curses, as Lorkhan walked towards it. Rorke and Mordecai moved to follow him, but a look from the Warsmith stopped them.

“Stay here with the cripple.” He said, jerking a thumb towards Zuko, who climbed a little further up the Obliterator and spat ineffectually towards Lorkhan. “If this is a trap, I want you two ready to respond.” Both gave a nod, once not arguing. Motioning to the two closest Iron Warriors, Lorkhan lowered his head and squeezed into Sugarcube corner.

“Pinkie, I really don’t think this is a good idea…” Twilight said, casting another nervous glance around her. The bakery had been cleared of nearly all furniture, only the essential remaining. Behind Twilight stood a couple of tables, laden with cake, a punch bowl and other assorted snacks. A banner hung on the wall above them, the words “Welcome back Iron Warriors!” daubed on hastily. At both ends of the sentence was Pinkie’s representation of the helmeted skull logo they seemed fond of; she hadn’t got a good look at it, and so despite her best efforts it was almost a parody of itself. Anyone else may have taken it in jest, but when the Iron Warriors were concerned, Twilight though such levity was dangerous.

Beside her Pinkie giggled, flashing Twilight a smile. The Element of Laughter wore a yellow and blue party hat, and was clutching something tightly to her chest-confetti, it seemed. She smiled again, this one much warmer.

“Oh Twiley, I know they were pretty scary when they first got here, but maybe Scootaloo was right! It can’t have been easy for them to find themselves stranded here, and if they’re gonna be stuck here I just wanna try and help everything cool off a bit. I know I can be their friends, if they just try!”

“That’s very admirable Pinkie, but I-“ Twilight was cut off by her friend’s face materialising centimetres from her own, shining blue eyes widened in a pleading expression.

“Please, Twilight! Oh, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease Pinkie-promise you’ll give them a chance?” For a moment, Twilight was unsure what to say. Finally she sighed, running a hoof down her face.

“Alright, I Pinkie-promise. But for you, not for them.”

She was rewarded with the party pony’s hooves thrown around her in a warm embrace, somehow still keeping hold of the confetti. The smile had returned to Pinkie’s face immediately, and using her mouth she offered Twilight another party hat. The Unicorn reached out with her magic to take it, faking a smile of her own.

To Pinkie’s left, Derpy was sat with the same vapid grin on her face as usual, sporting a hat and kazoo. She had been the only other resident of Ponyville to attend; Spike was asleep, and the rest of the Ponies had been very clear where the Iron Warriors could shove it. Fluttershy-who was staying at Carousel Boutique whilst her home was in ruins, at Rarity’s insistence-had reacted harshest of all, practically slamming the door in Twilight and Pinkie’s face when they’d gone to invite her. Twilight herself remained convinced this was a bad idea, but she wasn’t going to leave Pinkie and Derpy alone with marauding aliens. So the three of them sat in the bakery, waiting for the invaders to return.

Finally, spiked silhouettes darkened the windows. Pinkie nudged Twilight excitedly. The door opened with surprising gentleness as Lorkhan entered. It was an effort for him to get through, but once he was inside Twilight was intrigued to notice he didn’t need to stoop as low to avoid the ceiling as she’d expected. Two other Iron Warriors entered, ones she didn’t recognise. No sooner were they inside then Pinkie let fly the confetti, Derpy blowing wildly on the Kazoo as the pink pony screamed “SURPRISE!”

The Iron Warriors didn’t react, and Twilight felt a tense feeling settle in her gut. Eventually, they began walking forward with deceptive slowness, refusing eye contact with any of the ponies. Each footfall reverberated heavily on the wooden floor. They pushed past Twilight and Pinkie to stare down at the food placed out for them, then up at the banner, then down at the food again.

“What is this?” Lorkhan finally said, voice surprisingly quiet and calm. The tension inside Twilight constricted more and more, and she found her eyes falling on every possible exit. Pinkie would not be defeated so easily, though.

“It’s a party…for you…to celebrate you coming back and stuff!”

She was still beaming as Derpy blew the kazoo again. The Iron Warriors still did not look at the three ponies, but Lorkhan gave each of his subordinates an almost imperceptible nod. Twilight began to edge back, tapping Pinkie’s hoof in an effort to get her to do the same as what was about to happen became apparent.

The blows crashed down onto the plates of food and the tables moments later. One of the Iron Warriors grabbed the cake and raised it over his head, roaring as he threw it on the ground. The plate shattered as it hit the floorboards, the cracking sound mixing with the splattered cake’s squelch. The horrible metal snake things attached to Lorkhan’s armour had ripped the banner from the wall, tearing it to shreds and dropping it at the Iron Warrior’s feet for him to stamp on. The third Iron Warrior grabbed either side of the punch bowl, Twilight rushing to hold Pinkie down as he hurled it right past her. It span through the air like a discus, covering the floor in slippery purple liquid and crashing through one of the bakery’s windows. The magic using Iron Warrior Twilight had seen earlier peered in from outside, waving at the Unicorn as if this was normal.

Confectionary was tossed aside and crushed into paste by the Iron Warrior’s relentless assault, driven by a cold fury. Twilight grabbed Pinkie, who was sobbing heavily and only managing weak protests, and began to pull her towards the door. It meant going through more Iron Warriors, but she had her magic. Squeezing her eyes shut, Twilight prayed for strength and a true aim.

Her eyes snapped open as the noise of violent release came to an abrupt halt. Turning round to look back at the scene of destruction, Twilight supressed a gasp as she saw Derpy sat in front of the three giants. They stared down at her, this unexpected development seemingly overpowering their baser urges. Slowly, Derpy brought a hoof up towards one of the unknown Iron Warriors, still smiling. On it rested a single, perfect, still steaming muffin. Twilight wasn’t sure where she’d got it, but that wasn’t important right now.

The Iron Warrior looked down at it, seemingly a complete loss of what to do. Tentatively he reached out to take it, gauntleted hand causing some to flake off as it wrapped around the muffin. Withdrawing it, the Iron Warrior held his gift gingerly with a mumble of “thanks”.

Twilight’s incomprehension distracted her, softening her grip and allowing Pinkie to break loose. Tears streaming down her face, the Element Bearer rushed towards Lorkhan, laying into the lower shins of his armour with ineffectual punches in an entirely unPinkie-like manner. The Iron Warrior looked at her contemptuously for a moment, before fastening a heavy iron gauntlet around her neck and lifting her from the ground. Pinkie’s legs kicked at air as she pawed weakly at the vice-like grip on her throat, coughing and spluttering.

Seeing her friend in danger was the last straw for Twilight. The fact that she knew Lorkhan could have crushed Pinkie instantly, and merely extended her suffering on a sadistic whim, only fuelled her anger further. Purple energy shot forth from her horn, striking the alien warlord. He stumbled slightly as one impacted his chest squarely, yet he did not relinquish his grip or take his eyes off Pinkie. By now the trapped pony’s struggles had grown weaker, and her eyes began to roll back. Twilight shot more and more bursts of magic, desperate panic setting in. The other two Iron Warriors advanced towards Twilight, although one still clutched the muffin awkwardly.

“ENOUGH.”

The voice was sufficiently authoritarian to stop even the Iron Warriors. Twilight instantly froze, turning towards the door with some trepidation. It was flung open as the sun’s avatar herself walked in.

“Drop her.” Celestia commanded sternly, gaze locked on Lorkhan. He didn’t comply immediately, but eventually relinquished his grip on Pinkie. She dropped to the ground with a thud, whimpering in pain and rubbing her throat. Twilight and Derpy galloped over, noticing her mane was completely straight now. Lorkhan and Celestia still glared at one another.

“What is the meaning of this?” She hissed, stamping a hoof on the ground. The Iron Warriors outside looked in expectantly, whilst Lorkhan folded his arms.

“That’s what I was asking.” He growled.

“She threw you a party,” Celestia said, motioning towards Pinkie. “to make you feel accepted. You responded with attempted murder.”

“You really don’t know us at all, do you?” Lorkhan replied, with a hint of smugness. A dark look settled in Celestia’s eyes, and once again Twilight found herself scared of her mentor. Then, with a deep breath, Celestia seemed to recover some composure. “I trust you have done as I asked?”

“We killed the biggest thing there was.”

“…Are you going to tell me what it was?”

“No.” Lorkhan practically spat the word, and the rational part of Twilight wondered what could have elicited such an emotive response. Celestia blinked in surprise at his tone, her face softening a little.

“We’ve done our part, now you do yours.” The Warsmith continued. Celestia’s face mellowed even further, becoming almost apologetic.

“I can’t-“

He was on her in seconds. Twilight squealed in fear as Lorkhan crossed the floor with astonishing speed and let a fist fly. It crashed into a shield of white energy, the same colour as the light that surrounded Celestia’s horn. Lorkhan pressed his helmet right up to the barrier, his words a venomous hiss.

“You lying bitch.”

“I am not.” The Princess replied evenly, showing no sign of strain. Twilight’s heart was pounding in her chest as she watched the exchange. “If you recall, my promise was to work with you to find a way home, not to get you there immediately. I still intend to do that.” Lorkhan glared at her a moment longer, before nodding and stepping back.

“This incident isn’t a mark in your favour, Lorkhan.” The Princess warned, dropping the magical shield. “But you have done a service for the realm, and as promised are granted a pardon. Equestria’s finest minds are already searching for ways to help you. You may come and go as you please-but you WILL make yourself useful to my subjects, and you will not threaten them. Am I clear, Iron Warrior?”

The three aliens scoffed derisively. “You can’t order Space Marines, Xenos.” The Warsmith said.

“No.” Celestia agreed. “But you can.” Lorkhan was quiet for a moment, no sarcastic remark forthcoming.

“I want our weapons back.” He grunted at length. “We won’t use them, if you insist. But I’m getting withdrawal symptoms.”

Celestia nodded. “They have already been delivered to your ship.” Lorkhan fell silent, seemingly searching Celestia’s face for answers. She didn’t respond, instead focusing on Twilight.

“Twilight, child, would you accompany our guests back to their craft and ensure they do nothing rash?” She asked, with a smile. For the first time the Iron Warriors looked at Twilight, red eyes glowing. She gulped.

“P-princess…I just…Pinkie…”

“She will be fine, Twilight. I will attend her.” Celestia’s tone was gentle, but final. Gulping again, Twilight nodded limply. With one last look back at Pinkie she trudged out of Sugarcube corner, three murderous aliens in tow. The other Iron Warriors stood outside, also watching the Unicorn. Their stance was almost universally hostile, but Lorkhan’s reappearance and rumbling command kept them at bay. They moved out towards the edge of Ponyville, surrounding Twilight. She kept her head down and moved quickly, stomach churning.

They stomped towards the crashed…thing in a short amount of time, though Twilight practically had to run to keep up. The one that had waved seemed the least aggressive, and so she stuck closest to him. Their size was the most shocking thing; he was easily twice her height. As they approached the crash, Twilight noticed that great trenches had been carved in the earth before it; the Iron Warriors strode across them easily, yet she had to jump. In the corner of her eye she spotted what remained of Fluttershy’s cottage. Sadness mixed with fear, and Twilight hoped that Fluttershy found residence away from these brutes.

Outside the colossal metal skeleton that had struck the ground was a mass of dishevelled looking creatures. Their skin was a grimy greyish-pink, and on the whole they reminded Twilight of lanky apes. They were taller than her, but smaller than the Iron Warriors, and all of them were dressed in rags and had an unkempt mass of hair on their heads. As the Iron Warriors approached they prostrated themselves, shaking fearfully. A couple of the smaller ones, presumable juveniles, stared at Twilight.

“Forgot we had these.” She heard Lorkhan chuckle. The Warsmith stepped up to one in particular, bidding it rise. As he did, Twilight saw he had the skull logo of the aliens cut into his chest. It looked painful.

“The weapons have been returned to us?” Lorkhan asked, dismissively. The shaking creature nodded, and Twilight observed he was making sure not to look at the Space Marine directly.

“Y-yes, my Lord.”

“And you at no point considered a heroic rescue of your gracious masters?” The Warsmith asked. The thin grotty creature paled further, and Twilight couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy.

“N-no, Lord…”

Lorkhan chuckled, turning to look at his brothers as if sharing a jest. Before Twilight could inquire, the Warsmith had spun and clamped his hands on the side of the unfortunate alien’s head. With a twist and a yank, he tore it clean away. Twilight couldn’t stop a squeal of fear leaving her lips as the body spasmed as jerked from side to side. Lorkhan tossed the head aside as if it were nothing as the front of his iron armour was coated in sickly red gore and spinal fluid. Neither Iron Warrior nor menial slave reacted, but Twilight wasn’t able to control herself. She vomited, hurling the contents of her stomach onto the ground. She gulped in fresh air, eyes watering as she tried to quell the sickened feeling spreading through her. Without warning, she threw up again, tears falling from her eyes and mixing with the bile. The Iron Warriors regarded her with what could only be amusement.

“What the HELL?!” She screamed at Lorkhan through gritted teeth, recovering some of her strength. The Warsmith shrugged. “He was useless to us. There’s no room for useless things.”

“But…but you can’t just KILL it…him…whatever!” She yelped, feeling an involuntary surge of magical energy run through her. It took conscious willpower to stop herself using it.

“Why not?” Lorkhan asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “We own them.” He turned, stepping towards the ship’s torn-open belly, the Iron Warriors falling in behind him. Twilight followed a moment later, violent thoughts raging through her skull.

The inside of the craft was gloomier than she’d even imagined, yet the Marines moved through it with practiced ease. They knew every turn and room, some slapping the walls almost affectionately. Twilight began to feel sick again, pressure building inside her head. The corruption she had detected around the aliens was magnified here, the air choked with menace. She wanted to turn and run back home, curling up into bed and pretending this wasn’t happening. But the Princess had given her a task, and she’d see it done…even if it was utterly terrifying.

Finally, the mass reached a large chamber where the walls were rife with stands bearing devilish weapons of every stripe.The word ‘Armorium’ was carved above the door. A great cheer went up from the Iron Warriors, even the larger ones who Twilight had observed were weapons. They spread out in a disorganised rabble, each dashing to recover their lost property. Lorkhan took up stubby gun and huge double-handed axe, running an armoured finger down the green-tinted blade. The sorcerer caressed a long black sword as if it were a child; orange runes were carved on its blade, glowing with a sinister light as he drew near. The wizard turned as if to pick up a gun like Lorkhan’s, but stopped. Reaching onto a desk he grasped the handle of an axe that was at least as long as Twilight, although shorter than the Warsmith’s, and gave it a few test swings. Seemingly pleased with his acquisition, he sheathed it alongside the sword.

Most of the Iron Warriors selected enlarged versions of Lorkhan’s gun, pulling the safety back and slotting fresh magazines into place, although a few chose more esoteric weapons that glowed with red light. One of the leaders had gone for a bronze-hilted sword; on the crosspiece was carved a staring eye, the pupil slitted and unblinking. Another, forced to cling onto one of the larger creature’s backs, made a grab for a comically oversized fist with black and yellow talons. Twilight recognised him as the one who had nearly killed Shining Armour. Her temper rose with another magical surge; she didn’t know what they’d fought, but if it’d stopped him walking Twilight was okay with it. The Iron Warriors were to a man elated, seemingly forgetting Twilight was there. Spotting her chance, she slowly began to back out of the room. It would have worked had one of the menial slaves not blocked the entrance.

“M-my Lords?” it ventured, ignoring the Pony that had just walked into it. The Marines stopped their celebrations, glaring at him. “T-there’s something else…” With that, he disappeared down a corridor. The Iron Warriors followed him at haste, nearly trampling Twilight underfoot. She dived out the way and followed them, having to gallop to keep up. She found them huddled round the door at another open chamber, seemingly in a state of shock. She had to push through the forest of armoured legs to get a good look. No sooner had she done so a great cheer went up, this one even more ferocious than the first.

In the centre of the room stood what Twilight could only describe as a metal box with tracks. It was the same colour as their armour, save some black indents and yellow and black stripes on what she presumed were the exhaust pipe coverings. Spikes and chains were hung all around it, many of them with lien skulls attached. On one side of the beast, at what she presumed was the front, ‘IV’ had been scrawled in what Twilight hoped was red paint. Walking onwards, and avoiding the rushing Iron Warriors who moved to run their hands down the construct, she found ‘XIII’ painted in the same place on the opposite side. On the rear ‘Rorke was here’ was written, the ‘paint’ running down in sickly rivers. She backed away from the stocky thing, not wanting to risk its wrath.

“It’s a Rhino.” A polite voice said. The sorcerer came to stand beside Twilight, before kneeling down so as to be only slightly taller than her. Baubles and censors clattered on his armour. “The numerals on the side correspond to company designation. Fourth Legion, Thirteenth Company, you see?”

Twilight didn’t see. Furthermore, it didn’t look like any of the Rhinos she’d ever read about. She said as much.

“I’m…afraid I don’t follow, my dear.” The sorcerer said quizzically. “The Rhino is the premier troop transport of the Legio Astartes, a tank responsible for ferrying our troops across the battlefield to their objectives. We thought all our fighting vehicles destroyed in the crash and subsequent conflagrations.”

“Wait,” twilight said, mind reeling. “So…it’s a tank?” That was even harder to believe. Equestria’s military was limited at best, and whilst they did possess a few tanks they were ugly, steam powered contraptions prone to blowing up. The only other Tank she knew of was Rainbow’s pet tortoise.

“If you don’t mind my saying, I would wager that she is a lot more advanced than anything your people have yet constructed.” The Iron Warrior said, sounding genuine enough. He chuckled. “To think, the old girl survived. We should have expected no less.”

“’She’?” Twilight asked, angry at not understanding anything of what he was saying. “Are you saying this thing’s…alive?”

“Not in a manner you would be familiar with.” The sorcerer explained, his voice that of a patient teacher dealing with a slow pupil. “All vehicles and artefacts of technology are imbued with a Machine Spirit, which the Mechanicum claim is a portion of their Machine God. More advanced technology possesses a more prominent Machine Spirit, yet all have some degree of awareness.” He paused, allowing Twilight to take in what he had just said. She didn’t want to admit she’d understood nothing. “They are not sentient as you or I would see it, at least not in the humble Rhino. Traditionally the Iron Warriors Legion does not name its vehicles, as some of our brothers are wont to do. After all they are to be expended in the war, and ultimately are nothing more hardware and metal bound together. Yet, this particular Rhino has served us resolutely since the inception of our brotherhood at the dawn of the Crusade. Despite the efforts of many uncivilised individuals to take her out of commission, every time it returns ready and eager to fight. It has been pivotal to many our missions and wars, yet more than that she is a survivor, like us. And thus we have given her the ultimate reward for any Iron Warrior war engine; an identity.”

“So…so this thing has a name?” Twilight ventured, wondering whether she wanted to know it.

“Oh yes.” The sorcerer replied, standing back up to his full height. His tone contained no small amount of pride. “We call her The Growler.”

Author's Note

http://derpicdn.net/media/W1siZiIsIjIwMTIvMDcvMTIvMDNfMjBfMDNfMTYyXzQxMTc5X19zYWZlX2FudGhyb19iaWdfbWFjaW50b3NoX3dhcmhhbW1lcl80MGtfd2VhcG9uX2hhbW1lcl9hcnRpc3RfZ21laWRlbl9wb255YXJjaF9wcmltYXJjaF9pcm9uX3dhcnJpb3JzX3BlcnR1cmFib19zcGlrZXMiXV0/41179__safe_anthro_big-macintosh_weapon_warhammer-40k_hammer_artist-gmeiden_primarch_ponyarch_spikes_perturabo_iron-warriors.jpg

You'll have to copy/paste it into the URL bar yourself, but let's all admire this picture.

"Perturabo, did you just betray the Emperor, massacre three Legions on Isstvan and tear down the walls of the Imperial Palace with an unseemly number of Vindicators?!"
"Ee-yup."

Attack the block

Loyalty.
From Iron Cometh Strength.
From Strength cometh Will.
From Will cometh…cometh…
Damnit, what comes after will?
Hmm…iron, strength, will…faith!
From Will cometh Faith…heh, bullshit, what did we ever have faith in?

Rorke’s face creased in concentration beneath his helmet as he tried to finish the mantra. The Unbreakable Litany was a meditative aid taught to all Iron Warriors on their induction to the Legion, to focus their thoughts and remind them of their duty. Rorke had never found in useful at the best of times -and now was hardly the best of times.

The streaking spectrum of light whizzed above him again, loop-de-looping and accelerating more. Deep down, Rorke was impressed by the speeds it could reach, but he’d come up this hill at the edge of town to get away from the others-specifically, Lorkhan. His intended sword-practice was interrupted by another’s training.

“Xenos.” He called out, helmet-vox amplifying it to a threatening dirge. “Xenos-horse.”

At first she didn’t seem to listen, building up momentum for another trick. Just when Rorke thought-hoped-he was going to have to break out the bolt pistol, she slowed and descended, flapping only a yard above ground.

“What?!” Rainbow Dash asked, fixing Rorke with a dark look. The Iron Warrior considered drawing his pistol anyway, but instead leaned back on a tree leisurely, folding his arms.

“Can you really not do this anywhere else?” He asked. Dash’s face scrunched in agitation, but she said nothing beside grinding her teeth together. “You’re in my way.”

“Uh, newsflash Iron Weirdo.” she replied, spitting the last two words. “This, is where I always practice flying. You’re the one butting in.”

“Uh huh.” Rorke replied, raising an eyebrow. Temptation got the better of him. “How bad a flier do you have to be to need practice?”

That got her. Rainbow snorted angrily, baring her teeth and balling her hooves in a fighting stance. She zoomed forward so as to be only scant centimetres away from Rorke’s faceplate, large magenta eyes narrowed and staring into his red optics.

“You wanna say that again, bub?” she hissed, wings flapping angrily. Rorke leaned closer, helmet’s targeting reticules locking onto the Pony. His voice was a mocking, exaggerated whisper.

“You. Are. A. Shit.”

For a moment the Astartes thought Rainbow was going to crack and come at him. He hoped so; then at least he’d have the justification of self-defence when he tore her apart. But eventually she seemed to curb her anger and retreated, giving him a final scowl before skyrocketing back into the clouds with an audible sonic boom. Rorke watched her go for a moment, before growling in frustration and beginning his march down the hill. Maybe they’d leave him alone if he went to the outskirts of that bastard forest. The Iron Warrior barely got ten paces before a familiar, bratty voice called out behind him.

“Hey, tall dark and ugly!”

With some effort Rorke shrugged off the insult, turning to see what the Xenos had to say. Rainbow was hovering where’d she’d been before, fixing him with a hard stare.

“What is your problem?” she called out, flicking her multi-coloured hair up. “I mean, the Princess agrees to get you home and ignores all the things you’ve done-which is completely uncool, by the way-but you’re all still acting like a bunch of jerks!”

Rorke knew he should have ignored Rainbow Dash and carried on walking, but something in her tone agitated his temper. He took step towards her, hand unconsciously moving onto the hilt of his Power Sword. Rainbow gulped, but kept up a brave face.

“Would you like to know my problem, little Xenos?” Rorke asked, struggling to keep his voice level. Her silence was invitation to continue. “Before the Thousand Sons ambushed us there were around 70 of us on the ship. 70 Battle-brothers, and all of them were of the Legion. After we crashed, there were about what-35? 40? about 40 of us left. When we sat out on that little errand for your precious Princess, there were 27 Iron Warriors. And now, there’s 15.” The urge to put a bolt in something’s brain was almost overwhelming, and Rorke found himself trembling slightly.” “54 Space Marines. 1 Obliterator. There are star systems that are worth less, alien. So you tell me what you think my problem is with being stuck here and having to play nice with your kind.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Rorke continued his angry stride down the hill, suppressed rage carrying him forwards. A couple of Ponies stopped to look at the stomping giant in their midst as he passed with a mixture of fear and disgust, but they were intelligent enough to manoeuvre out of his path. The Champion lashed out at some form of picnic table as he walked, his boot crashing straight through the feeble wooden planks. Lorkhan would be pissed if he found out, but the Warsmith’s approval was the last shitting thing Rorke cared about right now.

He stopped when most of the Xenos had fled from him, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm down and stop his frame spasming and shaking. Lorkhan had pointed out that affectation when they were in the forest, and although he hadn’t made a big deal about it in truth Rorke found it as disturbing as his brothers did. He tried reciting the words of the Unbreakable Litany, but as ever they proved little comfort.

It took him a minute or two to notice the Xenos by his side. Her coat was mint-green with an off-white mane, whilst the image of some kind of stringed musical instrument was stamped on her side. Wide golden eyes stared at, as far as Rorke could tell, his hands, whilst her mouth had dropped open in a concoction of awe and lust. She was absolutely silent bar heavy breathing, seemingly unperturbed by the demi-god she sat beside.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Rorke growled.

Honesty.
“Now, ah gotta be honest here.” The orange pony with the hat-Applejack-said as she trotted up the hill. “Ah don’t lahk ya. If tha Princess think that y’all should be let loose round Ponyville, then shoot, that ain’t none of mah business. But what’cah boss did tah Pinie was downright despicable-ah don’t trust yah, and ah don’t lahk ya. Are we clear?”

“Whatever.” Zuko replied, only half paying attention as he stumbled awkwardly. He didn’t know where Lorkhan had managed to drag the bionic legs up from-he wasn’t sure he wanted to know-and the Warsmith’s admission that he had no idea what he was doing hadn’t reassured the Champion. But somehow it’d worked, although Zuko’s bionic grafts had yet to take fully, making walking somewhat of a challenge. He’d lost count of how many times he almost stepped on the small yellow pony with a bow in her hair that seemed intent on milling around by his feet. She was one if the group who he’d ‘saved’ in Canterlot, Zuko had realised, and the fact that she’d helped spare the Iron Warriors’ lives earned her some grudging respect from the Champion. But she seemed to have made the mistake of assuming they were now friends, sticking close to Zuko whenever he was near. The buzzing of his beloved power fist-now returned to its proper place on his arm-summed up his feelings on the matter personally.

Applejack gave him a suspicious sidelong glance, but seemed content for the meanwhile. They continued walking, stopping when they reached a point overlooking much of the orchard. Apple trees stretched as far as even his Astartes eyes could see, standing sentinel over neatly ploughed fields. It certainly seemed efficient enough, although the focus on apples and apple-related goods above all else was a little…creepy.

Applejack trotted up to the nearest apple tree, placing the basket slung over her back beneath it as she did so. She turned so her rear was facing the tree, before casting another look at Zuko.

“Before ah start, are yah sure yah wanna help us with tha’ harvest?”

The Iron Warrior nodded. He was; not because he actually wanted to help, but because he realised this was the easiest way to get food coming in to the Warband and its serfs. That, and Lorkhan had said they were to make themselves useful – at least for the time being.

“Well…that’s maghty decent of yah.” Applejack admitted. She kicked out with her back legs, striking the tree with considerable force. It vibrated, apples dropping neatly from the branches into the baskets. The Xenos farmer retrieved her hoard and piled it into the wheelbarrow they’d brought, moving the now-empty basket to the next tree.

“That’s pretty much all there is to it.” She said. “AB’ll help ya if yah need it.” Zuko assumed ‘AB’ was the smaller horse, grunting in acknowledgement. He started work on the closest tree, the yellow Pony sticking close to him as promised. She needn’t have-Zuko’s strength made shaking the fruit loose an easy task. Applejack’s strength was commendable, but the Astartes moved at least as fast. The group worked in silence, Zuko constantly aware of AB’s stare when his back was turned and Applejack’s searching glances. After half an hour they’d cleared at least fifty trees collectively, when an ear pitching screech broke the farm’s stillness.

“What in tarnation…” AJ muttered, glaring at Zuko as she and AB ran back to the crest of the hill. Zuko followed, already having an inkling. Near the barn Zuko could just make out a small greenish pony running as fast as its legs could carry it as the source of the screech. Behind it came Rorke, bellowing expletives and swinging his power sword in a liberal manner. Zuko was impressed that the Pony was outpacing his brother, but utterly unsurprised by the turn of events.

“Oh, for Pony’s sake!” Applejack cried, stamping a hoof in frustration. She eyed Zuko angrily. “Ah don’t suppose y’all have an explanation for this?”

“Besides Rorke’s rampant stupidity, no.”

AJ didn’t seem wholly satisfied with the answer, trotting towards Zuko.

“Ahm gonna go help Lyra. You trah anything-“ she said, prodding Zuko with a hoof “-or hurt mah sister, and ah swear…” She trailed off, before turning and running down the hill towards Rorke, snatching her lasso up as she went. Zuko and AB watched her go, before the Iron Warrior turned away and went back to shaking the tree he’d been working on.

“Ahm Applebloom.” A small but confident voice said behind him. “Pleased to meet’cha, mister…”

Zuko stopped shaking, resting his horned helmet on the bark. Here they came, the questions. He’d been expecting as much. Silently, Zuko called on the Primarch for strength.

“Zuko.” He answered curtly.

“Pleased to meet’cha Mr Zuko.” There was a pause. “So…you’re from space.”

“Yes.” Zuko made a point of not looking at her, continuing to harvest the apples.

“Whut’s it lahk in space?”

“Grim.”

“Grim?”

“Yes. And Dark.”

“Oh.” There was another pause. “Mah big sis says y’all went intah the Everfree forest.”

“Yes.”

“Did’cha meet Zecora?” Applebloom said, excitedly.

“What’s a Zecora?”

“Oh, she’s a zebra who lives in a hut in the forest. Everyone thought she was bad, but ah found out she weren’t, and now she’s mah friend and teaches me to make potions and stuff! She’s almost as cool as Applejack!”

Zuko had stopped shaking the tree now. Images of a falling branch replayed over and over in his mind.

“Erm…nope, can’t say that we did, excuse me, got to get to this tree, busy doing Iron Warrior stuff.” He walked with speed, shaking the tree with increased vigour. He could feel Applebloom’s gaze on the back of his neck.

“Oh…only, no one’s seen her for a few days, and ahm startin’ ta-“

“Who were your companions in the city?” Zuko asked, loudly and desperately.

To Zuko’s relief she approached the subject with aplomb. “Oh, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo? They’re at Pinkie Pah’s right now. I wanted ta go but AJ said I had tah help with the harvest…anyway, we’re the cutie mark crusaders, and we’re a super-secret club tryin tah find our special talents! Only, we don’t know what they are yet, so that means we have to trah everything!” She went on, Zuko tuning her out for the most part. Only the occasional mention of ‘Cockatrice’ or ‘talent show’ confused him enough to get his attention. It wasn’t long until the questions were coming again.

“Whut’s your cutie mark mean?”

“My what?”

“Your cutie mark.” She pointed. “On yah shoulder.”

“It’s not a ‘cutie mark’.” He replied, tapping the helmeted skull affectionately. “It’s the Iron Warriors Legion symbol.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a symbol.”

“So…that means yah don’t have a cutie mark?” Zuko stopped shaking the tree, sighing and dipping his head against the trunk again.

“I guess not.”

“So that means…yah can join the Cutie Mark Crusaders!” Applebloom’s voice picked up excitedly, and she started hopping around his feet squeaking. Zuko looked at her despairingly.

“I’m…alright.”

Applebloom abruptly stopped her bounding, face falling and ears drooping. She kicked a hoof along the ground sadly.

“Oh…mm’kay then.”

Zuko nodded, turning back to his work.

“So…if y’all are soldiers from space…and there was some big war or somethin’…then wah’d yah lose?”

Applebloom yelped in fear as Zuko’s power fist roared into life. The tree he’d been shaking toppled as he punched straight through, energy field crackling on the wood. Slowly the Iron Warrior rounded on the filly, heartblood-red optics blazing. She stumbled back a few steps, squeezing her eyes shut and desperately trying to shield herself from the imminent attack.

“Ahm sorry, ahm sorry, ahm sorry!” she cried, shaking. She fought to control her breathing, voice quietning a little. “It’s just…ah wanted tah say thank ya. I mean…I know y’all must really hate bein’ here. All the grown-ups are bein’ really mean towards yah. But yah saved us from the Changelings, even if ya didn’t really mean tah. If it weren’t for you me and mah friends’d be dead right now! So…thank ya.”

She waited for the fists to fall. They didn’t. Applebloom stopped shaking, opening one eye, then another. Zuko was standing before her, head tilted slightly. Where before he’d been aggressive, now he regarded Applebloom with nothing but mystification.

“…don’t mention it.” He said eventually. His voice was still deep and frightening, but had ever so slightly mellowed. Applebloom smiled, standing to walk over to him.
“EVER.”

Magic.
Vortun groaned internally as another of the fibre-thin wires pierced his mutated flesh. A small electric shock ran through him, but the Obliterator refused to budge. It was still uncomfortable, and Vortun wondered yet again how he’d got himself into this position.

Any sort of attempt to mourn his lost brother was cut short, as Vortun had found himself eagerly hurried into the peculiar hollowed out tree that the Iron Warriors had spotted earlier. It turned out to be the local library – a fairly exhaustive one at that –and also home for one Twilight Sparkle. The purple Unicorn had accompanied the Company onto the wreck of the Olympian Sun, and afterwards had relentlessly pestered Lorkhan into allowing her to study an Obliterator. The Warsmith had eventually relented, sending Vortun. With some effort he had managed to squeeze into the basement, although the bulky transhuman filled pretty much the entirety of the floor-space.

What space did exist was filled with scientific hardware and whirring machines that seemed completely inconsistent with the technology level Vortun had previously observed the Xenos to possess. The Obliterator himself was hooked up to most of these by various cables, streams of data being hastily sketched onto graphs and printed out. He tried his best to remain impassive, but the constant movement, teleportation and chin-scratching of his host only served to distract him.

“Frau Sparkle, I don’t think zat-“

“Hush. Quiet, please.” She cut him off briskly, still engrossed with examining one of the peculiar diagrams the machines had produced. The novelty at being addressed in such a way was enough to stop the Obliterator crushing the Xenos.

“I’m just zaying, vat exactly do you hope to accomplish from zis…examination?” Now Twilight did look up, eyes half closed in either annoyance or exhausting. Her voice was patient, but hostile.

“You and your…friends, are unlike anything ever seen in Equestria before. Therefore, we have literally no idea what we’re dealing with, and frankly I don’t like that mister. So we’re going to run these tests, and check the books, and REcheck the books, until I have an idea what in the hay you are, okay? Especially for a freak like you.” Vortun looked at her, keeping his face neutral.

Twilight simply rolled her eyes at his lack of co-operation, returning to her studies. Levitating a book beside her, she donned a pair of reading glasses and scrawled something in it. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“These readings…they’re completely insane! I’ve never seen anything like them.” A note of professional curiosity had crept into her voice, although she was clearly working to suppress it. The door on the small walkway above them slammed shut angrily; moments later, a small purple dragon toddled down the stairs, glaring at Vortun and waving a rolled-up newspaper in his direction. The Obliterator did the best he could to raise an eyebrow.

“Vat exactly are you intending to do with zat, small saurian?” The dragon looked a little shaken, and his eyes were slightly puffy, but he still waved the makeshift weapon in mock imitation of threat.

“No way I’m leaving Twilight in here with you, monster. You want her? You’re going through me.”

Twilight seemed touched by his defence of her, but also a little concerned. For his part Vortun was just trying not to laugh.

“Spike…are you okay?” She asked, reaching out to place a hoof on his shoulder. The baby dragon shrugged her off, turning away and clenching his fists tightly.

“I’m fine.” Twilight looked at her assistant, then back up at the Obliterator. Vortun gave an innocent shrug. The Unicorn’s horn lit up for a brief moment, before fizzling out. She turned back to her study. Vortun watched Spike for a moment, hoping he’d provide some further drama to alleviate some of the boredom of being here. It was clear he wasn’t rising to it, yet nor was he focusing on the Obliterator any more.

“Little von.” He said, tapping a power talon on what remained of his warped power armour. The sound echoed around the confined room. “You seem upset.”

“Shut up okay!” Spike shouted. Small licks of green flame erupted from his nostrils. Vortun smiled, flexing his claws as subconscious Astartes battle reflexes began to kick in. Before Spike could kick off, Twilight had stepped between the pair, a shield of purple light not unlike the one the Iron Warriors had been trapped within in Canterlot encompassed Vortun.

“That’s enough.” She said, sternly. “Just, please behave until I’ve finished the tests? Please? Then I promise you can go.”

Vortun stared at her in impassive silence. Twilight watched him for a moment, before her shoulders deflated and she shook her head despairingly. The Obliterator turned his attention to one of the date-engiens he was connected to, running a mutated fist down it.

“You do realise zat I could break out of here whenever I velt like it?” He said idly. “Is nacht difficult.” Twilight took a deep breath that the Obliterator assumed was to calm herself.

“You could.” She conceded. “You definitely could. But, I know you won’t.”

“And vhy is zat?”

“Because if you did try, then Princess Celestia would kick your butt!” Spike cut in, a feral grin replacing his previous maudlin demeanor. Vortun did not reply, or even move; but change did begin to overtake the blessed warrior. Machines flashed and whirred, needles scribbling on paper even more rapidly, as one of Vortun’s arms was reformed into a gargoyle-mouthed plasma cannon thrumming with barely contained power. The mutation was echoed by the ugly sneer cracking the Obliterator’s face. Twilight and Spike retreated, stumbling over discarded scrolls of paper. The Unicorn’s ears drooped as she realised just how much Vortun towered over her. Spike had taken refuge behind her, peering out from behind a leg.

“Vill she?” Vortun asked. His voice was deceptively calm, and quiet; completely at odds with his monstrous form. “Really?”

Kindness.
Lorkhan closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of spades breaking earth and metal being bolted into place. The familiar action of construction and fortification brought the Warsmith a measure of contentment; he could almost ignore the trembling yellow and pink bundle by his feet.

‘Fluttershy’ – it turned out that was her name – padded the ground in what the Iron Warrior guessed was nervousness, the expression enhanced by her predilection towards covering her face with her long, flowing mane. She’d said next to nothing, or barely even made looked at Lorkhan, since they’d arrived. That suited the Warsmith fine; he wasn’t in the mood for discussion, especially with this particular alien.

“The trenches should be two metres forward,” he voxed out loud, not bothering to keep it private. “and 57 more degrees counter-clockwise.” The two closest Iron Warriors nodded, moving to comply with their entrenching tools.

“Umm…I don’t think…” Fluttershy mumbled. Lorkhan felt his grip on his axe tightening.

“Every Iron Warrior is, as well as an exceptional soldier, an experienced architectural journeyman. Celestia asked me to repair your hovel, and against my better judgement I’m going along with it, so don’t tell me what you don’t think.”

“Oh, I know you’re trying to help, but…can’t you put it back the way it was?” Lorkhan gave her a look that spelled out his answer, before letting loose an exasperated sigh. The sound of chisels broke the air again, restoring a measure of peace. It was only a measure.

When presented with the reconstruction task, Lorkhan had been surprised to find that the cottage wasn’t some natural, magically-altered creation. It was fashioned from timber, glass and nails like any building, with the grassy roof being artificially planted. Peculiarly there were a lot of allowances made to have room for animals to dwell. Then again, from what Lorkhan had observed, Fluttershy seemed to have taken an entirely fitting government-sponsored ecological job.

He supposed the design was aesthetically pleasing enough, if he’d ever cared for such things. But Lorkhan was an Iron Warrior, and upon seeing the sight the first thing that had struck him was the complete lack of defensive features. The Equestrians had very little need for functional fortresses, he’d observed that much. But the complete lack of kill-boxes, ease of approach by tracked vehicles, substantial deficiencies in anti-aircraft fire…his professional instincts were almost offended. He’d said as much to the small yellow horse.

“Oh, but, I mean I don’t really want it to be impenetrable…” she started. Lorkhan sighed again, before unclipping a tube that had been mag-locked to his belt. Popping the lid off, he removed the parchment from within, before opening it and holding it so Fluttershy could see.

“Your house will still be a functional place of habitation.” The Iron Warrior said, adopting a business-like tone. “We have merely provided additional reinforcement to areas formerly bereft of sufficient…iron. Here, and here.” He pointed at two marked areas on the diagram. As if parroting his motion, the other Iron Warriors began to hammer the sheets of metal into place on the side of the half-rebuilt cottage. Lorkhan had wanted Rorke for this job, to direct the work whilst he inevitably had to placate Fluttershy herself, but the Champion had managed to slip off. “Now, we’ve marked these three areas to mount the battle cannon. Where do you want it?”

“B-Battlecannon?” Fluttershy whimpered. Lorkhan rolled his eyes, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. One of the Obliterators, with the help of its unblessed brethren, was dragging the heavy cannon towards the construction site. The Iron Warriors had managed to tear it from the remains of a battle tank found in their ship’s wrecked hangar bays. It had galled many of them to bequeath it to a Xenos, but Lorkhan had pointed out that they were still craftsmen as well as mass-murderers, and they may as well do the job right; besides, they could always take it back if needs be.

“Oh, m-my…” the Xenos whimpered. She buried herself in her hair even further, now shaking slightly. Lorkhan went back to watching his men work, pleased at the progress they’d made in turning the cottage into a stronghold.

“Why are you so mean?”

The question took him off guard, as well as raising his temper. Lorkhan turned to face the pony, surprised to find she was now looking right at him, even if one eye was hidden. She squeaked pitifully as their eyes met; Lorkhan had fashioned some of the lower part of his helmet into a skull. That probably wasn’t helping.

“We were made to be this way.” He answered in a stony voice. Fluttershy squeaked again, and Lorkhan saw tears forming in her eyes. This stress of all this was seemingly too much for her. The Warsmith forced himself not to stamp the pathetic creature into the ground, instead reviewing the blueprints he had drawn again.

“I could say the same.” He said, curious despite himself. “Why are you such a coward?” He hadn’t been expecting an answer from the alien, instead bracing himself for something along the lines of her running away sobbing. A guttural Olympian curse met his ears, presumably because one of his Iron Warriors had dropped the metal sheet they we reinstalling on his foot.

“Well…m-my dad…he left when I was a little filly…”

It surprised the Warsmith enough to get him to look up from the blueprint. Fluttershy wasn’t crying now, instead staring at the ground as if reliving some trauma. It occurred to him that this pony was far from the most sociable he’d seen; what if he was the first creature Fluttershy had ever told this too? If so that was a hell of a bad decision.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe she just wanted to get it off her chest, and not be judged for it.

“My father left too.” Lorkhan said. He wasn’t sure why he said it, and dragging up the memories certainly didn’t make him feel better. But Fluttershy did look at him now; not smiling, but not as fearfully as she had done. Lorkhan’s iron mask was as emotionless as ever. For a brief moment, a debased form of kinship threatened to blossom between them. It evaporated the moment Lorkhan’s vox chimed.

“I have the special order, lord. Where’s it going?”

“Around the edges, the weak points we identified.” Lorkhan said out loud. On cue, three Iron Warriors clutching a wide array of explosive charges ambled past him and Fluttershy. The pony squeaked again.

“A-are you sure that’s safe?” She asked, voice almost inaudible even to Lorkhan’s enhanced hearing.

“Relax, will you?” He retorted. “We just need to loosen up some of the rock to install the tank traps and so forth. We’re seasoned professionals at this.” He rolled the blueprint up again, slotting it back in its canister and flexing his arms. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Laughter.
“Why are we doing this, this is so stupid.”

Barbus couldn’t see Varvillon’s expression, but from the way his shoulders moved it was fairly obvious he was laughing. The studious Astartes wouldn’t have been Barbus’ first choice of companion, but anyone of Olympian blood was better than no-one when it came to this blasted bakery.

“I thought you’d be asking rather more obvious questions.” Varvillon retorted. “Like, where’s that music coming from?”

“Thank you.” Barbus deadpanned. “I’d been trying not to think about that.”

The two super soldiers were stood at the periphery of Sugercube corner’s kitchen, which is probably the last place in the galaxy Barbus had ever expected to be. If indeed this was the galaxy as they knew it; frankly, the Iron Warrior was still having doubts over that. Frankly he was still surprised that he’d managed to fit inside these buildings at all; then again, this whole place did seem like something out of a child’s holo-pict. Although in the holo-picts that Barbus remembered the aliens were always crushed under the boot heel of mankind ascendant at the end.

He wasn’t doing much crushing of anything at the moment.

On the other side of the room, in the bakery’s kitchen area, were three of the Xenos. Barbus had been learning their names throughout the day by listening in; the pink one, presumably the oldest and the one Lorkhan had engaged in heroic battle, was called Pinkie Pie, which was easy enough to remember. She was the one singing along to the music, apparently espousing the virtue of making baked confectionary to her two assistants. Varvillon had noted, with some degree of interest, the reality-bending powers she seemed to possess; twice during the song she had disappeared, only to reappear from within an oven or behind a lampshade. Much like the music seemingly spawned ex nihilo, Barbus preferred not to think about it. Of the two little ones, the orange one with the shorter hair was called Scootaloo, whilst the white one’s name was Sweetie Belle. All of them seemed to be doing their best to completely ignore the Astartes’ presence, although Sweetie had cast a few fearful glances in their direction.

“Do you think it’d help if we took our helmets off?” Varvillon asked.

“Probably.” Barbus admitted. Varvillon stared at him a moment, just to be certain his brother had no intention of removing said helmet.

One of the ovens beeped, and Pinkie hopped over to it. She always travelled like that; hopping, as well as having a goofy grin plastered across her face. Even though she wasn’t talking to Space Marines, being in her presence was grating in the extreme. The only reason he’d come was it was somewhere to hide out and beat helping Lorkhan in his community service, or being prodded with a stick like Vortun, or…whatever Mordecai was doing.

Pinkie opened the oven, pulling the tray containing the baked goods out with her teeth. Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo’s faces lit up at the sight, whilst Varvillon watched with detached academic interest. Pinkie gently placed the tray on the counter, before giggling to herself slightly.

“Alrighty then, Crusaderinos!” Gods, that voice really is annoying. “Now that they’re baked, it’s time to get caked!” The complete lack of sense the sentence made was almost physically painful to Barbus. Before Pinkie could murder the language any more, there was a knock at the door. The pink horse left the other two with a bowl of leftover mixture, bounding past to answer the knock. Again, she made a point of not looking at the Iron Warriors. For their part the Marines kept staring at the two juveniles, but the conversation could clearly be heard.

“Oh, Applejack, you’re just in time! We were baking some muffins, well when I say we I meant me mainly, but the Crusaders were helping me, and Derpy was meant to be here but she’s not so-“

“No tahm Pinkie, have y’all seen Lahra?”

“Lyra?...no, can’t say I have, sorry AJ! I saw ‘Tavi earlier though, but she didn’t want to come and make muffins, which I think is a shame because-“

“No tahm Pinkie, ah need tah fahnd Lahra…aw horseapples, there those varmints are, gotta run”

Barbus didn’t hear the door close. Instead he remained focused on the two little ponies across the room; for a moment he thought they were actually going to try and talk to him, but fortunately they seemed more scared of the Marines than anything. At least they weren’t stupid, then. Sweetie Belle was spending her time sniffing the steaming muffins, a blissful expression on her face. Scootaloo on the other hand was grinning devilishly, handling the bowl of mixture and dipping a hoof in. She flicked the residue at Sweetie, coating her white fur with blobs of cake mixture. Sweetie looked down in surprise, before up at her friend with a grin. Grabbing some flour from a packet, she threw that a sway of response, staining Scootaloo’s coat white. Before long a fully blown food fight was in progress, Ponies ducking behind the counter for cover. Barbus heard Varvillon laughing; he turned to look at his fellow Iron Warrior.

“I’m starting to think you actually like these things.” Barbus said, sounding as if he was describing liking a fungus. Barbus drew in breath to reply, but was cut off by another shrill screech.

“Girls, no no no!”

Barbus looked back at the chaos. In the confusion it seemed Sweetie Belle had produced a knife from somewhere, and was pretending to assault Scootaloo with it. Pinkie apparently took a dim view, running – not hopping – across the room and snatching the knife away. Sweetie looked at the ground, like a naughty child being sent to the principal’s office.

“Sorry Pinkie…”

The stern look that had crossed he pink Xenos’ face vanished in an instant, and she drew both children into an embrace.

“Aww, that’s okay girls. You just have to be careful with these things, okay?”

“Okay.” They said in chorus. It was all Barbus could do not to stick a grenade down his own throat in despair. Pinkie released her friends, looking at her wrist. It seems she’d…drawn her own watch on. That was another thing Barbus decided not to think about, but by now his head was starting to hurt.

“Great googly moogly, just look at the time!” Pinkie cried, slapping her face with a hoof in exaggerated surprise. “It’s time for you girls to have a nap!”

“Aww, but we’re not even tired…” Sweetie Belle said.

“Yeah, and besides, we’re not babies, we haven’t had a nap in years!” Scootaloo finished. Sweetie Belle’s face reddened, but she nodded in agreement, Barbus felt like he needed a nap.

“I know you don’t want to girls,” Pinkie said apologetically, with a rueful smile. “But we were up all night last night partying! And Rarity and Rainbow Dash said I have to be a responsible sitter, so that’s what I’m gonna do!”

“…okay.” The two little ponies mumbled, eyelids already drooping. Pinkie ushered them up the stairs, before finding them a room and tucking them into bed. Barbus and Varvillon followed, to seeing much else to do. The stairs creaked under their weight, but somehow managed to hold. When the two small Xenos were tucked up beneath the covers, Pinkie patted them each on the head once.

“Just for a few hours, then I promise we’ll have lots of fun later!”

“Oh, maybe we can go crusading!” Sweetie Belle practically screamed, grinning from ear to ear. “We could get our Cutie Marks in…in…”

“In white water rapiding!” Scootaloo concluded, grinning even more. Pinkie clapped her hooves excitedly.

“That sounds super fun! Well, I’ll see you later, mm’kay?”
“Goodnight Pinkie.” Sweetie and Scootaloo chorused. Pinkie drew the blinds, and turned to bound out the room. She stopped for a moment, as if she was going to tell the Iron Warriors to leave, before deciding that giving them the silent treatment was more important. Varvillon moved to allow her to pass, and the sound of her hopping down the stairs was all that broke the silence.

Barbus and Varvillon turned and looked at Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo. Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo looked at Barbus and Varvillon. An awkward tension descended, Barbus flicking the end of one of the horns that curved around from the side of his helmet whilst Sweetie Belle hid under the covers with a squeak.

“Child.” Barbus said eventually.

“Yeah?” Scootaloo answered. Sweetie squeaked again.

“You were chastised for playing with a blade.” It wasn’t a question. Sweetie’s horn poked up from beneath the covers, followed by two large green eyes.

“Y-yeah, but…I guess it was wrong and stuff…”

Barbus didn’t reply for a moment, just staring at the two Xenos. Then, he reached up to place a hand either side of his helmet and yanked upwards. The hiss of pressure being released indicated the broken seal. Taking it off, he held it in the crook of his arm, blinking.

“Have you ever wanted to know what it feels like to have a knife go through your eye?”

Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo screamed. Pinkie rushed back into the room, flinging the door open. Varvillon had slapped a palm into his face and was shaking his head sadly. Barbus just smiled, whilst his red bionic eye glowed and clicked.

“Sleep well, tiny horse.”

Generosity.
“I must say,” Rarity said, taking another sip of her tea. “You’ve been quite a surprise, my dear>”

Across the table her bulky guest demurely supped his own brew. Being forced to take a seat on the floor may have rankled with some of his more prideful brothers; yet, Mordecai had always been an advocate of ‘ladies first’.

“Oh pish posh, think nothing on it.” The sorcerer replied, casting an idle eye to his helmet. It rested on the table in front of him, glaring back at the Warlock. “If one is bound into service as a condition of stay, then one may as well make the best of it.”

She chuckled elegantly, resting the cup on its saucer. Mordecai had found that his power armour made actually fitting a finger through the ring of the cups difficult; it hung in mid-air before him, suspended by his telekinetic power. He didn’t technically need to drink it of course, but it would have been rude not to partake in his host’s offer.

“Well you were an absolute darling in helping me run my errands today.” The white horse continued. She smiled at him, and Mordecai was keenly aware that she was the first pony he’d encountered to do so. “Although I fear we gave poor little Spikey-Wikey a terrible shock.”

“Your small dragon friend?” The Iron Warrior inquired. It had been he who had answered the door when Rarity and the sorcerer had visited the library for a quaint little volume titled historical styles of the Griffon Kingdoms, and was seemingly quite put off when he saw the rapport his two visitors had built. Mordecai wasn’t sure why, but from the way he had looked at Rarity – not to mention the hormonal stench his Astartes senses had detected – he could make his own judgements. “He seemed a stout fellow. I’m sure he recovered post-haste.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right.” Rarity conceded, though her bottom lip stuck out in a small pout. She levitated her own drink now, swilling it with a teaspoon. “I just feel so awful for scaring the poor dear like that. You must admit,” She flashed the Iron Warrior a coy smile. “you all make quite an impression.”

Now it was Mordecai’s turn to chuckle. A genuinely warm smile crossed his features, though he didn’t meet her eyes. He wasn’t like his brothers in terms of temperament, he knew that. Ever since they’d fled to the Eye after the Siege he’d been changing.

No, he wasn’t like them. He probably never would be again.

“You are, of course, correct.” He acknowledged. The weight of his rune inscribed sword and power axe was suddenly very heavy at his side. “It is in our very nature to be violent and cruel. By all rights we should have slaughtered every living thing on this planet by now.” His voice never lost its jovial edge. Rarity was still smiling at him, but now it was noticeably more glassy – more forced. “Yet for all my dear brothers and I may loathe this place, we are not foolish enough to think that to pursue such a course of action would be conducive to our on-going success. I for one, intend to make the best of circumstances.”

Rarity had recovered her poise by now. It occurred to Mordecai that the glamorous creature before him must have become an expert at feigning interest over the years. “Well, pardon me for being so…crass, but your friends certainly seem to be less positive about this than you.”

“Alas, I fear they are the majority rather than the exception. We do not agree on many things, I regret to say. It is the cause of no small amount of…friction between us.”

“Good heavens, you mean they ostracise you?” It surprised Mordecai to hear that she sounded legitimately saddened.

“Not ostracised so much my lady, more that they are…somewhat acutely alive to the existence of etiquette distinctions.”

“Well, I say good riddance to them.” Rarity snapped. Her eyes were steely. “You are quite the charmer Mr Mordecai, it must be said, and so I possibly imagine why you would willingly associate with such deplorable individuals. Especially that foul brute Lorkhan.” Her voice was ice-cold now. “What he did to Pinkie was unforgivable.”

“You must make allowances, my dear.” Mordecai said in a patient voice. “This whole frightfully rummy affair has been a terrible strain on the Warsmith, particularly when our previous, less than prestigious style of living is considered. And I feel he may blame himself for some of our escapades in the forest at the behest of your Princess.” He stared into his drink, as if plumbing it for answers. “My Lord Warsmith, whilst an extremely capable man in his own right, has the unfortunate tendency to not always consider matters with sufficient assiduity before embarking upon a course of action.”

“But you would vouch for him then?” She looked unconvinced.

“I would.” Mordecai affirmed. “Lorkhan may have his faults, I admit, but he is my captain and I am sure he will adjust to life here soon enough.”

Mordecai was no telepath, nor could he see into the future’s twisting paths. Yet even he had a terrible inkling that something was about to happen; an inkling that was answered moments later when the explosion happened. Rarity squealed and jumped about a foot in the air, dropping her cup in fright. It shattered, spilling the liquid all over the floor. Mordecai calmly placed his cup down with a sigh, and went to join her by the window.

Something had slammed into the ground outside Carousel Boutique, leaving a crater only slightly smaller than some artillery shells. Steam was rising from it, but the crowds of ponies gathered around it made identifying the object difficult. He was finally able to tell that it was a letter box, ripped from the ground by a powerful blast and sent careening through the air. The word ‘Fluttershy’ was just visible on the side. As expected, a familiar voice could be heard from the other side of town, unmistakable despite Mordecai’s distance from its source.

“WELL EXCUSE ME PRINCESS.”

Before Mordecai could speak up, a mint-green pony dashed across the impact sight, a wail emanating from her throat. Rorke, of course, was behind her, screaming just as incoherently. A rope was attached to his leg; an orange pony with a hat clutched the other end in her teeth in what looked like an effort to slow the Iron Warrior down, although he dragged her along with little effort. The procession dashed in front of the crowd, before disappearing from sight.

The sorcerer watched all this with a detached and aloof air. He was keenly aware of Rarity’s disapproving gaze burning into his side. Mordecai turned to face her, his face a stoic and emotionless mask.

“Acclimatisation…may take longer than expected.”

Author's Note

Unf. The whole idea for this chapter was so much better in my head. I tried my best to interconnect it, but all the Ponies seems OOC; well, except AJ, but that's because she's the best horse. Pinkie and Fluttershy in particular are a nightmare. The Iron Warriors are acting a little OOC, but then again they're always like that-I liked the bit with Zuko and the Apple family though. To be honest this whole section could use some trimming, but I don't have the patience, energy or inclination for that right now.

When Lorkhan talks about his father, he is of course not referring to his biological dad. Giving a battle-cannon to a Xenos might be a big no no for Space Marines in general, but...well, it's Fluttershy. It's not like they can't get it back later.

Hopefully none of you Dashfags feel short changed. Pinkie and Flutters were more annoying tow rite, but Dash came off the most wooden in my opinion. Still, I'll leave you guys to judge.

OiM Special: Olympia boys

Y’all realise that isn’t a word, right?” Applejack asked Pinkie with a tired glance. The pink pony didn’t seem to care about her friends’ correction, continuing to blather onwards about how ‘nervecited’ she was.

Twilight wasn’t really listening to any of it. The Alicorn princesses’ eyes were firmly locked on the glowing portal before her, its depths glistening and shimmering with an ephemeral light. It seemed almost inviting, drawing Twilight’s gaze deep into the roiling tides. Only the stark truth of her mission gave her pause, and kept her standing well back from the gateway.

“Twilight?” Cadance asked. Twilight looked at the Princess-her equal, now-with an uneasy smile. The Princess of Love returned it. “Are you okay?”

“I…I think so.” Twilight said, forcing her voice to sound a lot more confident than she felt. “It’s just…anything could be on the other side of that portal. We have no idea what we’re dealing with here.”

Cadence flashed another apologetic, supportive smile, but it was cut off by an even higher power. “I know you must be frightened, Princess Sparkle.” It was a warm voice, a maternal voice. Twilight took heart at hearing Celestia’s words of belief. “But I would not send you if I did not think you could do it. The crown must be recovered from whatever is one the other side, and as Princess of Friendship only you have the power to get it back.”

“Yeah, and besides, if you need us you bet we’ll be right through after ya!” Rainbow cried, excitably as ever.
“You mean it?” Twilight asked, confidence swelling even more.

“Well, duh!”

“Absolutely Darling.”

“Darn tootin’.”

Touched by her friends’ faith in her, Twilight turned to look back at the portal. It still ebbed and flowed with white light, beckoning her onwards. She took a deep breath, flexing her wings. She hadn’t had much time to practice with them yet, but learning on the job had never been that difficult for her. Feeling the familiar weight of Spike on her back, she took her first tentative steps forward. The steps became more definite, more deliberate. Before she knew what was happening, Twilight found herself being enveloped by the white aura.

“Good luck, Twilight Sparkle.” She heard Celestia say behind her. “Soon, you’ll know more about that world than even I do.”

Sp…Spike?

The floor was cold. That was the first thing she noticed, after the terrible buzzing in in her head had vanished. It was cold metal pressing onto her skin, chilling right through to the bone. The floor felt strangely sticky too-not sticky as in there was some foul substance spilt there, but almost sticky with corruption. It made her nostrils burn and her eyes water. Gently, Twilight propped herself up. Her vision was still swimming in the aftermath of the transition, but other senses were returning, and in short order she realised Spike was not trying to talk to her. She had not even heard his little voice. She tried to call out, but couldn’t tell whether she’d actually made a sound. Other noises were coming into audible range though. It was a low droning, punctuated by the occasional creaking and what sounded like…mutters.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Something purple began to swim into focus. She squinted, in an attempt to make it clearer. It was…it was something awful. It was like a huge purple stick where her hoof should be, with five smaller sticks sprouting from the end. They wiggled when she tensed. Both her forehooves had been replaced with these…things, and the shock of realising they were part of her drove Twilight to her feet with a gasp.

“Wh-what?” Was all she could manage, even Spike’s plight temporarily forgotten. Before she could calm down and try to reach a rational conclusion, another thought struck Twilight. She was standing on her hind legs.

It was worse than that. Her lower hooves had been replaced with strange fleshy constructs as well, although exactly what they were was difficult to tell due to the clothing she had materialised with. To Twilight’s eyes, she appeared to have shed her Pony form entirely. No magical horn crested her head, nor wings sprouted from her back.

Panic overtook her. Twilight-that is, if she was still Twilight, and that was looking more unlikely by the second-stumbled back and forth, only just making out details around her. Shapes were moving, lights flashed and what looked almost like a skull loomed at her from the wall. She didn’t know where Spike was still, but Twilight feared the worst. Despairing, she dropped to her knees, eyes watering.

“WHAT AM-“

She never got to finish her sentence before the first bolt slammed into her back. Twilight went rigid, not comprehending for a moment what had happened. The pain began to lance through her as the explosive munition detonated, tearing most of her back off in the process. She slammed face-first into the floor, the stickiness now as much due to her own pooling blood as any latent corruption. More bolts slammed as she fell, ripping off arms and the side of her body. Twilight’s thoughts were a well of pain, shock and fear. Her eyes stung with tears as memories of her friends came flashing to the fore. She didn’t suppose she’d ever see them again. The strange creature that had once been Twilight Sparkle only just had time to wonder what form of twisted dimension she had entered before another bolt detonated inside her skull, silencing the Princess of Friendship forever.

“Yeah, but…what is it?” Zuko asked as he gave the purple blob another kick with the tip of his boot. The other Iron Warriors that had been on the bridge had formed a loose circle, also prodding the remains with a mix of cruelty and genuine interest.

From atop the throne of black iron at the other end of the room, two blazing red eyes stared down at what was left at the interloper. Lorkhan shifted in his chair, resting his chin on a fist. To his right, Mordecai folded his arms, cocking his head to the side.

“I would advise that you don’t touch it, old sport.” He called across to Zuko. “This whole thing seems to be a frightfully rummy affair.”

“How the hell did it get on-board.” Lorkhan growled. The distortion provided by his armour, coupled with his naturally threatening voice, sent the nearby mortals scurrying away. Zuko shrugged.

“If I knew I’d tell you. It just…appeared. Shoot first, ask questions later and all that.”

Lorkhan grunted. Hard to disagree with that. He rose from the throne, stepping down from the dais on which it sat and coming to stand over the corpse. He knelt down beside it, the other Iron Warriors parting to let him through. Beneath his helmet the Warsmith squinted. The creature had been pulped, but as he looked over it there was something almost….human about it. Its fear had seemed human enough. And idle thought passed to what it could have been; he dismissed it.

“Teleportation?” He asked. Zuko shrugged. An uneasy feeling ran through the Warsmith as he considered the implications.

“That dog…thing?” Lorkhan asked, still looking down at the body.

“Ask Rorke’s shoe.” Somehow, the complete lack of emotion in Zuko’s voice was almost humorous. Lorkhan rose, turning away from the body and striding towards the blast door of the Olympian Sun’s bridge. He felt his warrior’s eyes on the back of his head as he went.

“The body, Lord?”

“Feed it to the Raptors.”

Author's Note

There was no way I wasn't going to comment on this.

Come on now, you know you're all going to love Olympia Girls.

It's going to be Bradical.

Iron Blood

Shape became light. Light became colour as form and ethereal construct seamlessly melded around itself in a bespoke dance. Stones used to a life of dull neglect and claustrophobic deprivation of light’s rays were illuminated for the first time in years by the kaleidoscopic array of sheer existence that caressed them. The light twisted and cavorted even more, a faint whistling beginning to rise as the spectrum entwined further.

The rainbow continued to warp, expanding so as to lap at every corner of the chamber. It could well have been considered beautiful by those who watched; all bar one, who’d never understood the concept of beauty in his life. The whistling grew louder and more harmonious as bolts of lightning discharged from thrumming Van Graffe devices affixed to hastily erected generators. These electrical surges now began to coalesce themselves at the centre of the multi-hued storm that had expanded to fill nearly the entire room. From behind the magically-warded pane of glass that separated the onlookers from the genesis taking place, gasps emerged. They were unanimously from equine throats.

As the lightning and the rainbow fused, a second birthing took place. At the eye of the storm a tear began to grow, itself warping around its own form. The tear stood in contrast to that which surrounded it; black against light, silent and withdrawn against the radiance. It throbbed as the generators poured more power into the storm, expanding here, withdrawing there. A sizzling soup of colour surrounded it, yet somehow it could not disguise the black; instead making the omission of being all the starker.

Paradigms shifted. Reality jolted. The black within the rainbow began to expand now, enveloping all else. It devoured light and lightning, tore through the polychromatic prison. Yet everything it consumed, it vomited forth as it retracted even swifter now to a fraction of its size. Expansion, contraction, expansion, contraction, like a balloon being inflated and deflated far too rapidly. The black grew ever further, enveloping what the light had once covered, before contracting in one final time. This last recession went further than ever before, the sound of a vacuum sucking all in replacing the pleasant whistling. Then, with a *ping* the black tear blinked out of existence, leaving the rainbows to drift by idly. For a moment, all was still.

“Oh, shi-“

The explosion blasted even those behind the glass backwards, miniature Xenos bodies smashing against the harsh rock. Only two, the Goddess and the Smith, remained standing-yet even they were forced to avert their eyes as sheer waves of energy crashed against the seemingly meagre protection afforded to them. Torrents of reality and unreality repelled one another as they buffeted against the magical barrier, their disharmony serving to make the tide even more treacherous. Fleetingly, it seemed the shield would crack and all behind it would be engulfed in the contrasting true realm and realm beyond, ripped to shreds by the psychic forces at play with their souls the foodstuff for the waiting Neverborn that lay beyond.

Yet suddenly, the storm receded. The black and the rainbow pressed upon one another, each crushing its opposite to naught. The forces unleashed were sucked back into the realm from whence they came, leaving naught behind. As the tear closed shut with a final snap, an eerie silence descended over the room.

The Goddess was unresponsive for a moment, before reaching out with an alabaster hoof. The glass shattered, the magical wards protecting it dispelled now they were no longer needed. Ignorant of the shards cutting into her flesh, she stepped fearlessly into the chamber where moments ago creation itself had run rampant. The Smith followed behind; he had no hooves, yet the impact of ceramite boots on the glass that marked their failure somehow seemed to hurt him more. A gaggle of scientists and other personnel trailed afterwards, whispering excitedly whilst ensuring to remain apart from their displeased Princess and her even less amiable guest.

The chamber was a ruin, even more decrepit now than when they had arrived. One of the generators had been dragged into the non-realm by the tear, whilst the other’s metal ran freely like molten wax. Holes had been blasted in the stone walls, allowing the light of the sun to stream in-real light this time, not the fake light of the rainbow.

It was to one of these gaps that the Goddess’ eyes were drawn, as two brown Pegasi ascended to hover just outside. They clutched their spears tightly, and the normally detached mask they wore upon their face was replaced by a look of deep consternation.

“Princess Celestia!” One called out. “Are you alright?”

“I’m quite alright, Master Sergeant.” Celestia replied with an elegant smile, forcing herself to sound calmer than she felt. “Just a little experiment gone awry, that’s all.” The two Pegasi looked at one another unsurely, but eventually nodded and floated out of sight. With a deep breath, Celestia composed herself.

“Your ‘Warp drive’ didn’t work, it seems.” She called over her shoulder.

“The device was fine.” Lorkhan muttered in response, seemingly to himself. “It must be you. Something in your magic prevents it from bonding with the Warp.” Celestia let him ramble and ponder, instead directing her attention to the group of academics accompanying them.

“Someone get a clear-up team here.” She ordered. “The rest, back to the drawing board.” The ponies filed out with meek supplications, leaving the Princess and the Iron Warrior alone in the shattered tower.

“At least we have windows now.” Celestia ventured, attempting to inject some joviality into the situation.

“Most of the Legion’s ships didn’t have windows.” Lorkhan replied, absent-mindedly. “We believed you could know everything you needed to about a battle through data streams, and windows were an unnecessary weak-point. Our ship, the Sun, was one of the few that did. The Iron Blood certainly didn’t.”

“’Iron Blood’?” Celestia repeated, mystified. “You mean to say you have more of those things you dropped from the sky in? What was the Iron Blood?”

Lorkhan cursed his momentary lapse under his breath. “All the Legions maintained their own war fleets, in order to ferry us across the stars to battle.” He began, hoping to change the subject. She cut him off.

“Yes, but what was the Iron Blood?”

Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils snapped angrily of their own volition as he sighed, looking down at the floor.

“It was our flagship.” He said slowly, voice heavy with remembrance. “It was his ship.”

Two hundred Warsmiths. Two hundred of the greatest warriors ever known to his Legion stood here, packed tightly onto one ship’s bridge. And Lorkhan was one of them.

He stood between two Warsmiths he did not know, of the 27th and 15th Grand Battalions. The fighting on Hydra Cordatus had been costly, with many of the Legion’s senior commanders dying in the gritty and back-breaking war, but the chance to humble Dorn’s sons had been too great for the Iron Warriors to pass up. Now they were assembled on the Iron Blood-the Flagship of the Fourth Legion, and perhaps single most fearsome war engine mankind possessed bar the Vengeful Spirirt or the Phalanx-to receive their next tasking. The order demanding his attendance had surprised Lorkhan-the battle had been his first command, and he’d played relatively little part-but nor could it be refused.

The Iron Blood’s bridge was always dark, and cold. Not dark like a Night Lord vessel, or cold like Russ’ dogs liked it, but there was nothing in the way of comfort or leisure. Lumen strips bathed the warriors below in a shallow light, reflecting off their battered and grimy steel plate. Most hadn’t even had time to wash their equipment. No starlight aided in providing illumination; there were no windows. On the walls hung dusty banners and tattered maps of old Earth, tied together with oath paper naming the Legion’s greatest victories. They were names no-one outside this room would recognise, Lorkhan was sure. He didn’t know why they were here, but he also knew better than to ask.

Before the gathered Warsmiths sat a raised dais. A throne was constructed upon it, fashioned from cold iron and the remains of a tyrant’s treasury melted down. It was still blood-stained; remnants of Phall, where the corpses of Imperial Fists had not long ago littered the floor of the bridge. Lorkhan was a giant to ordinary men, but the throne would have been far too large even for him.

Before the throne, stood a demi-god.

“We are done with this world. Its fortress is dust, and its defenders ash.”

Perturabo stepped forward to the edge of the Dais, his voice deep and rumbling. Lorkhan’s gut began to twist as he tried to focus on anything other than the Primarch in his entirety. It was true the Lord of Iron didn’t have the stature of Horus, Guilliman or the Angel that could drive Astartes to their knees with their mere presence. Yet Perturabo was still one of the Emperor’s sons, even if that Emperor was false, and being in such proximity was potent enough. Lorkhan found it easier to bear by focusing on a single aspect of his Primarch at a time-the massive Warhammer slung almost casually over his shoulder that had been taken from the body of the dead Ferrus Manus, the stone pendant in the shape of their Legion symbol that the Phoenician had gifted unto Perturabo and clasped the cape that was draped across the back of his armour, or his grey, cold and eternally disapproving eyes. No cheers met Perturabo’s words; he did not ask for his son’s affections, only their compliance and understanding.

“We join our forces with that of the Third Legion, our mission to break open a xenos fortress and obtain weapons of such power that we will no longer need to take the metal to the stone. Win this war and our days of breaking earth will be over. We will be warriors again.”

“My lord, do we now take our orders from the Phoenician?”

Lorkhan smirked lopsidedly beneath his helmet, anticipating the moment the outspoken Warsmith’s head-Toramino’s-would be sent sailing through the air in one of the Primarch’s increasingly trademarks displays of terminal violence. Instead, and to Lorkhan’s surprise, the Lord of Iron shook his head.

“No, Toramino, we do not. Brother Fulgrim presented me with an opportunity to wipe away our failure to destroy the Imperial Fists at Phall, and I chose to take it. In the absence of orders from the Warmaster, we will seize the initiative and become stronger than ever before.” The Primarch was quiet for a moment, winteryeyes passing over all his assembled sons. ”That is all. Return to your Grand Battalions.”

There was nothing more to be said on the matter. Lorkhan found himself practically swept off the bridge by a tide of his fellow Warsmiths. He knew they were thinking the same things he was; namely, he didn’t trust the Emperor’s Children. Something had infected them on Isstvan V, something…unwholesome. Zuko, the new sergeant of fourth squad, had been the one that’d said it, and whilst Lorkhan had had to reprimand him for insulting another Legion it was what a mirror of what he himself thought.

Still, Father had not had to ‘discipline’ any of his Warsmiths today, which meant that this fresh campaign had focused him and improved his mood. If such were the case, then Lorkhan reasoned he could handle a few personal misgivings.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later he was in the Dodekatheon.

Before Olympia had burned, before the Dropsite massacre, before any of this had come to pass, the IV Legion had had the unusual pleasure of receiving a visitor. It was rare that any sane man or Astartes chose to spend time with the grim and humourless Iron Warriors, yet this visitor-a warrior of Lorgar’s Chaplains-had come to walk amongst Olympia’s finest. Many honeyed words had escaped the viper’s lips; all of them were seemingly ignored by the Iron Warriors, although looking back Lorkhan wondered just how large a seed of treachery had been planted within them at that meeting. Yet one thing the Word Bearer had said met with particular derision. The holy man had spoken of the quiet orders present in various other Legions-the warrior lodges of the Sons of Horus and Death Guard, or Brotherhood of the Phoenix of the Emperor’s Children for example-and had sought to introduce such a fraternity within the IV. The Iron Warriors had laughed in his face for his troubles. They had always possessed their own brotherhood, and no black armoured fanatic would change that.

The Dodekatheon was no secret, for the Iron Warriors had very little to discuss that required secrecy. Beneath the soft glow of flaming torches were political alliances between companies brokered and plotted, tactics discussed and new designs for fortress or war machine unveiled. Lorkhan had never had the opportunity to attend a meeting before-whilst feasibly open to any warrior in truth only those Iron Warriors of rank were to be found within the Dodekatheon. After attaining said rank, Lorkhan had simply never bothered.

There was little of interest within the walls of the secret place that held interest for Lorkhan. A few Warsmiths had come to try and meld the newly invested commander to their will, but once Lorkhan’s lack of aptitude or inclination of subtlety and intrigue, and predisposition towards idle chatter became apparent, he was more or less ignored by those gathered. He’d shared a mostly amiable conversation with ‘Honourable’ Soulaka-an Apothecary who was the unofficial head of the Dodekatheon-where choice opponents from within the other, Throne-loyal Legions were discussed. But otherwise, the only other feature of note the gathering possessed did not grasp at Lorkhan’s attentions. Using holographics, recorded video data and simple wooden blocks Warsmiths refought battles from the past over various tables, ostensibly to evolve their tactics and contingencies and be better prepared for future battles. A noble endeavour, but with the huddles of other Warsmiths gathered around shouting and hollering like children, the whole affair the appearance more of a bull ring than serious strategic exercise. Coupled with his belief that the only experience worth having was in the field, Lorkhan was less than inclined to join in the activity.

Besides, playing with toy soldiers was a bit weird.

Yet today had witnessed something special, something the Dodekatheon had not witnessed for a long time. Perturabo himself had come, and was promptly challenged by the most upstart member of the Trident-his cadre of three senior Warsmiths that served as advisors. The board recreating the Emperor’s Palace was a permanent fixture within the Dodekatheon, and it was there the Primarch and Legionnaires had done battle. In both attack and defence, even with all three of this Triarchs united against him, Perturabo had won effortlessly. The engagements were over almost before they began. No simulation was perfect of course, Lorkhan knew that, but watching the impetuous and aggressive Kroeger be put in his place was certainly gratifying. More than that, it reaffirmed-had there been any doubt in his mind-that the Primarch knew what he was doing. It reaffirmed that they could win.

Yet now the battle was done, things had grown stale. Perturabo had left and in his wake conversation dropped to a low ebb of Warsmiths seated around several tables. It bored Lorkhan, and before long he turned to leave, slipping out of the Dodekatheon down a side corridor. The walls of the Iron Blood were unpainted and unadorned, and in their frosty confines Lorkhan crossed only the occasional mortal serf. He paid little attention to the maze of corridors he was being led down, instead planning in his head how to return to his own ship. He almost made it to the hangar when he registered the deep, heavy footfalls behind him, and had stopped before his pursuer called out.

“Warsmith Lorkhan.”

The voice was iron and stone and steel distilled into one sound. Lorkhan felt a coldness unlike any he was used to seep into him as he realised that such a powerful tone could only have come from one being. He straightened and turned slowly on his heel, taking care to keep his gaze focused downwards.

The Lord of Iron stood before him, hands resting on the top of Forgebreaker’s head and an unreadable expression plastered on his face. He was flanked by two of the Iron Circle; Perturabo’s colossal robotic bodyguard outfitted with Thunder Hammer, Storm Shield and Assault Cannon. Lorkhan had seen the robots in action and they were fearsome indeed, yet he still had trouble believing the living god before him needed a bodyguard. Without thinking Lorkhan found himself dropping to a knee, a murmur of “my lord” barely audible.

Perturabo watched him for a moment, face unchanging. When he spoke, his voice was as monotonous as ever.

“Is it to your liking?”

Lorkhan blinked in confusion, without thinking turning to look at his Father in puzzlement. Perturabo held his gaze.

“The floor.” The Primarch continued. “Is it to your liking? You seem to be examining it quite thoroughly.”

Lorkhan felt his face flushing as he rose to his feet. The Primarch rarely jested, and being the target of one made the Warsmith feel even smaller than he already did. The fact he didn’t know whether Perturabo was genuinely displeased made it worse.

“I made sure to speak with you before you returned to your ship.” Perturabo said, cutting Lorkhan off before he could speak. “You are not to accompany the rest of the Legion.”

Disappointment and confusion flared within Lorkhan, yet he was still an Iron Warrior and master of his own emotions. Fighting through his awe, the Warsmith forced a smile to his face.

“I realise I may offend Fulgrim’s sense of style now, my Lord, but I’ve heard I clean up nicely.”

An even icier look settled in the Primarch’s eyes, as Lorkhan cursed his poor attempt at a joke. Perturabo removed a hand from the top of Forgebreaker and let it rest at his side, before going on.

“Your predecessor, Kargarra, often acted as an independent agent for me. You shall perform the same tasking. Break off from the fleet before we enter the War; I shall deal with Fulgrim if he asks. Make course for Ultramar, and follow our forces there. My brother Horus would not condone or appreciate my interference there, and I trust him to command us, but I must take precautions to ensure my more…unpredictable brothers remain true to the causes’ ideals as far as they can be. Report back to me whenever is appropriate.”

The matter was decided, and Lorkhan knew it was pointless to argue. Ultramar would be a hard target no doubt, but if the Word Bearers and World Eaters had been let off the chain as much as the Primarch suspected then perhaps it was not impossible.

“It will be done, my Lord.” Lorkhan said finally. Perturabo’s response was a curt nod, before turning and marching down away into the darkness down the corridor. The Iron Circle followed just behind, each of their steps noisy and crushing. Lorkhan watched the three go, working up courage within himself.

“My Lord!” He called out. The three giants before him stopped, but did not turn. Lorkhan felt the courage he had fostered evaporate, and for a moment was unmanned.

“Yes?” The threat in Perturabo’s voice was evident, and Lorkhan blanched as he hurried himself a long.

“I don’t mean to be impertinent Lord, but it’s just…I think…Why me?”

Silence reigned for a moment, as Lorkhan tensed himself to receive what would surely be the inevitable blow. It never came. Instead, Perturabo turned so as to give the Warsmith a sidelong glance.

“Three reasons.” He said, slowly and patiently. “Firstly, I need someone to keep watch on my brothers, and you’re not exactly popular. No one will question where you ae. Secondly, the Olympian Sun is one of the fastest ships in our fleet, and I don’t want all our ships in one place alongside the Emperor’s Children. When…if they betray us, I need Iron Warriors out there who can take word to the Warmaster. And thirdly.” He stopped, now turning to stare Lorkhan fully in the face. “Because you are my son.”

When Lorkhan did not reply, Perturabo turned and left. His footfalls could be heard even when he’d disappeared into the dark, before eventually being snuffed out and leaving the Warsmith alone aboard the Iron Blood’s creaking decks. Lorkhan was glad of the dark in this instance. He was glad he wore his helmet.

This one time, he didn’t want his brothers to see his face.

“And that was the only time you ever met your Father?” Celestia asked, her disbelief evident. Lorkhan still stared at the stone floor.

“No.” He said at length. “I met him twice more after that.” He didn’t elaborate, and Celestia knew better than to pry.

“You said your meeting place was called the Dodekatheon.” She interjected, hastily changing the subject. “Why was that?”

“The Dodekatheon was named after the twelve tyrants who had ruled the cities of our homeworld, Olympia.” Lorkhan explained, relaying the history lessons he’d learned by rote without thinking. “But the order existed even before the Primarch walked amongst us.”

“Tyrants?” Celestia repeated, as confused as before. She seemed to ponder this for a moment, before her face mellowed a fraction. “You were born in tyranny.” Lorkhan’s sidelong glance told her exactly what he thought of her pity. He tapped the ground with the butt of his axe as he turned and stalked out the room.

“If your little menagerie stops shitting rainbows and bleeding candyfloss for long enough to think of another way to get us home, then contact me.” He called over his shoulder, not looking back. “I’m going to be with my brothers.”

Applebloom fought down a groan of boredom as Ms Cheerilee’s voice swam over her. Normally the farm pony made an effort to listen in class, but the sun was particularly fierce today and she doubted that even her favourite teacher could make the life cycle of the common Possum interesting. Squinting groggily in a last ditch effort to keep her eyes open, Applebloom gave a distracted look around the room.

From the looks of things, her fellow Crusaders were about as enthralled as she was. Sweetie Belle rested her chin on a hoof and was scribbling nonsensical patterns on her note-paper, whereas at the back Scootaloo had gone to sleep proper. Even Twist, normally so attentive, seemed to be finding the going difficult.

“Okay class, now I have a special treat for you!”

Applebloom’s ears perked up as the words ‘special treat’ flowed into them, eyes widening as she leaned in as closely as her desk would allow. It seemed to have the same effect on her friends; Sweetie Belle squeaked excitedly and straightened, whilst Scootaloo noisily snorted herself into wakefulness.

“A thurprithe?” Twist asked, with excited trepidation. “What kind oth thurprithe?” Cheerilee beamed at her, before addressing the whole class again.

“I’m glad you asked, Twist. To make our biology lessons a bit more fun, we’re going to be doing a group project!”

An eager buzz of conversation descended over the classroom at those last two words. Applebloom grinned from ear to ear, looking at Sweetie Belle and then back to Scootaloo. Group projects were always a great chance to get the Crusaders together during school hours. If they actually got the project done as well, so much the better.

“However.”

The smile froze on Applebloom’s face.

“Since everyone tends to work with the same partners, I thought it might be interesting this time to mix things up and choose out of a hat.” Cheerilee said, still all smiles. Before Applebloom could respond she had produced just such a hat, crammed full of slips of paper, and placed it on her desk. Reaching in with a hoof the teacher selected the first name, then the second.

“Snips and Snails…okay, then.”

A jubilant cry went up from both colts as they slapped their hooves together. Applebloom’s whole body was rigid, eyes wide.

“Featherweight and Starry Sky.”

“Morning Blossom and Berry Pinch.”

“Twist and Archer.”

“Scootaloo and Dinky Doo.”

“Applebloom and Diamond Tiara.”

“WHAT?!”

Author's Note

Another flashback-heavy chapter, I'm afraid. Admittedly I had some misgivings about it, mainly because you could delete everything except Applebloom's POV bit at the end and have not lost anything majorly plot-important, but I wanted to put it in for three reasons; Flashback Chapters are fairly easy, it was another opportunity to tie the Iron Warriors back to their roots in the Heresy (which as I'm sure you've noticed by now, is an event that forms a huge part of this particular group's character) and most of all it was a good chance to finally put in some Lorkhan/Perturabo interaction.
The Lord of Iron is my favourite Primarch and arguably one of the most wonderfully human, and so I thought it was important to show Lorkhan's views on his father. The Warsmith came across as more of a 'Well done, son' guy than I expected, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing; it's certainly an angle I hadn't considered, and may well run with.

(I'd just like to say thanks to Graham McNeill for writing the awesome 'Angel Exterminatus', although obviously he'll never read this. It was a great study into and fleshing out of the Iron Warriors as a Legion and has provided a lot of inspiration for all of OiM. The Dodekatheon was first mentioned in it, as is Perturabo playing the Trident at what is effectively Warhammer, and all of Pert and Toramino's lines on the bridge are taken directly from it. This wasn't intentional plagiarism, more taking the opportunity to inject my silly Pony fan-fiction characters in 'Real' 40K lore.

That's my story, officer, and I'm running with it.)

Champion Zuko vs home security systems

“Remind me again,” Barbus grumbled as he crouched behind the rock. “Why we’re doing this?”

“To prove a point.” Zuko didn’t grace his brother with a look. The Aspiring Champion was also crouched, trusting the night to conceal him. His eyes were fixed firmly on the house that lay before them, across the moonlit field. In truth calling it a ‘house’ was inaccurate; from what Zuko could see it was almost as opulent as the Castle, and far bigger than any of the other houses in Ponyville, standing just outside of town. ‘Mansion’ was perhaps more appropriate. Applebloom hadn’t mentioned this Diamond Tiara was rich, but the fact she was explained some things.

“Bullshit.” Barbus growled. When Zuko had dragged him out of the training cages and told him to follow him, he’d told Barbus to leave his autocannon behind. It seemed to be pissing him off. “Burning down the town hall? That’d prove a point. Putting their precious princesses’ head on a spike? There’s your message. This seems like a mercy mission for a little girl.” He let the last point hang in the air for a moment. “A little Xenos girl.”

Zuko still didn’t look at him. “Have a care, Barb.” He flexed the talons of his power fist in anticipation. “She’s irrelevant. What matters is we re-educate anyone who does what the other Legions did to us. Now, come on.” He rose slightly, starting to move forward. He stopped as a vice-like grip fastened around his wrist.

Finally Zuko turned to look at his brother. The glowing optics of their helmets held an unbroken stare. “How long have we fought together?” Barbus asked. His voice wasn’t confrontational, but he didn’t relent.

“Ten thousand years real-time, give or take.” Zuko shrugged. It was true; Barbus was the only surviving member of Zuko’s squad from the time of the Crusade, having passed through training and the initiation rites together. Sergeants and other brothers had come and gone, yet in spite of everything they’d managed to hack their way out of whatever mess they were in. After the Heresy Barbus had become the acting sergeant of one of the companies’ Havoc squads, but he was never far from Zuko’s side, and the Champion knew that he relied on the other Astartes more than he cared to admit. He didn’t trust Barbus, no more than he trusted Mordecai, or Lorkhan, or…maybe more than Rorke. But he knew Barbus, and that’s what mattered.

“How many times have I steered you wrong?”

“Very few.” That was true as well.

“So if I tell you you’re acting like a damn Ultramarine running around being all compassionate, and not like an Iron Warrior?” Barbus pressed. Zuko didn’t answer, and for a moment silence reigned. Eventually the Aspiring Champion prised the other Marine’s arm off his own with the power fist.

“I’m not going soft, Barbus.” Zuko said as gently as he could manage. “Suggest I am again and I’ll put out your other eye.” Barbus chortled in spite of himself. “But we need to do this. Not for the Pony, for us.”

Barbus still looked doubtful for a moment, but before long he sighed, shaking his head. “The things I do for this Legion.” He mumbled, patting the combat knife affixed to his belt.

“Iron Within.” Zuko began.

“Iron Without.” Barbus finished. They clasped each other’s wrists again, but this time in a gesture of solidarity and not restraint. Without another word the two super-soldiers took a=off across the open plain towards the giant mansion. They moved fast and low, relying on the shadows to hide the worst of their shining silver armour, although the lack of light in any window gave Zuko the hope that all the Xenos were asleep. In a few short minutes, and never accelerating beyond a crouching jog, the two Iron Warriors had made it to the great railings that surrounded the manner grounds.

Peering through the bars, Zuko took in the scene before him. The grounds were extensive, the area covered the size of multiples of the cottage Zuko, Barbus and Basikor had torn down. Water trickled soothingly from the mouths of stone fishes and Ponies into waiting fountains, whilst endless flowerbeds bloomed in an eclectic variety of colours. Zuko scanned the grounds for any sign of a security force, but there was none to be found; the Ponies probably thought they had no need of such a force, beyond the Royal Guards.

With a thought Zuko brought his power fist to life, electrical energy dancing along the talons. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of one of the iron bars. The weapons power field made short work of the metal, the fist almost passing straight through. As carelessly as one would turn the pages of a book Zuko pulled outwards, tearing the railing before him apart and opening a hole into the garden. Before long, the gap was just big enough for a Space Marine to fit through. Zuko ducked under, taking care to ensure the spike affixed to his power pack that carried the Imperial Fist helm as a trophy didn’t get caught, and took a few cautious steps into the mansion’s grounds. Barbus took a moment longer; two horns curved from the side of his helmet, and he had to turn sideward to fit through the gap. The Iron Warriors moved forward slowly and guardedly, glowing red eyes fixed firmly on one of the back doors.

Zuko spun and drew his plasma pistol without thinking as Barbus hissed a curse behind him. When the Champion saw what had happened however, he holstered the gun and gave a disapproving snarl. Barbus had crushed one of the smaller water features underfoot, the stone fragments grinding against one another as he moved his foot away.

“Well what did you expect?” he snapped back as he realised Zuko was glowering at him. “I’m Olympian by all the Gods, not Raven Guard. I’m used to going through things.” It was true that Iron Warriors weren’t particularly taught much in the way of stealth, and with its size and constant buzzing power armour was difficult to hide, but Zuko was taking no chances.

“Don’t be an arse, Barbus, what if they’d heard us?”

“So what?” the other Marine asked. Zuko didn’t dignify that with an answer; partly because when he thought about it he didn’t have one. He focused back on what he was doing, drawing closer to the back door. As they reached it, taking up traditional breaching [position either side, Barbus drew his combat knife. Crouching down before the door, he inserted the blade-sharp end downwards-into the gap opposite the hinges. With one pull downwards the blade had severed the lock clean in half thanks to the Marine’s prodigious strength. Sheathing the blade, Barbus stepped back and pulled on the door handle. It opened almost without a sound.

It was a squeeze to fit through the doorframe, but the Iron Warriors arrived into a small, black room. With the dark-piercing optics built into their helmets, they could see that it was in fact a small kitchen. One of many, Zuko had no doubt. Cutlery hung from racks affixed to the ceiling, whilst various bubbling pots of soup stood gently heating on the hobs ready for the morning. Without exchanging words they moved on through the door, passing through pantries, drawing rooms and even a room with a swimming pool. The ground floor was a labyrinth, and even with his eidetic memory Zuko was agitated that they could get lost. More than that, he was certain they would be discovered. At any moment he expected to turn around and be confronted with some cook or menial servant. He didn’t actually have a back-up plan for such an occurrence-it wasn’t like they could hurt him, but this whole affair would run a lot smoother if he wasn’t caught. Yet no Xenos came, and after the seventh set of expensive looking chambers both Zuko and Barbus had begun to relax.

Eventually they reached what must have been the foyer. Before them stood a grand, white marble staircase, almost comically oversized when the Ponies’ size was considered. The equally colossal main doors stood opposite the stairs. The decoration the pair of Iron Warriors had observed throughout the house so far was pretty typical of a stately home; red rugs, expensive oak furnishings, photos and old portraits hung from every wall. Barbus approached one now; within the gilded frame was a photo of a brown, tie-wearing stallion, smiling dignifiedly in the centre of a group of other officious-looking Ponies.

“Filthy Rich,” The Iron Warrior read. “And the board of executives of Rich’s Barnyard Bargains.” He looked at Zuko, seemingly amused. “Who the hell names their child ‘Filthy’?”

“Probably the same ones who come up with ‘Sweetie Belle’, ‘Rainbow Dash’ or ‘Shining Armour’.” Zuko deadpanned. He walked forwards, standing alongside Barbus and examining the picture. The brown Xenos was the same as the one he’d seen in numerous photographs in the rooms they’d come through alongside a small pink, crowned girl-child who he assumed was Diamond Tiara. Curiously, Zuko hadn’t spotted a mother in any of the pictures he’d taken a cursory glance at. Curiosity sated, the pair began to walk up the steps. They tried to move as quietly as possible, taking multiple stairs at a time, but the stone mixed with their ceramite meant that every footfall echoed around the near-empty hall.

When they reached the top of the staircase, they were confronted with a long corridor stretching from left to right. Barbus looked at Zuko, the question unsaid. The Champion considered it for a moment.

“Left.” He decided upon. They moved even slower than before now, the creak of every step the sound of an explosion in Zuko’s ears. His power armour had saved him more times than he could possibly count, but right now he cursed its bulk. The corridor extended further and further, and although he knew it was an idiotic suggestion Zuko could have sworn the eyes on the paintings that lined the walls were watching him. Barbus’ own eyes were scanning every door they passed, searching for some sign that one belonged to their quarry.

“I say, what the dickens are you doi-“

Zuko moved the moment he heard the voice, pirouetting and lashing out with the back of his power fist. It caught the Pony across the face, cutting off whatever it had been saying abruptly. He felt the neck snap almost clean in half, the hard bone of the skull dissolving to nothing under the force of his blow. The body dropped limply to the ground, one leg still twitching. Staring at the body for a moment, Zuko made the effort to control his breathing, before swearing continuously as quietly as he could.

Barbus moved over, also staring at the body. Unable to suppress a chuckle, he poked the corpse with the toe of his boot. The Xenos’ head had been practically pulped to nothing by the force of Zuko’s blow, and they were lucky the red carpets hid the blood. The Pony had been some kind of butler, clad in a tuxedo specially designed for quadrupeds.

“You’re developing a bad habit of accidentally killing these things, brother.” Barbus whispered. Zuko was in no mood for jokes, his body taut and prepared for them to be found at any moment. Miraculously, no-one came. Exhaling some of his tension, Zuko groaned internally as he considered the implications of what he’d done.

“Well that’s excellent.” He moaned. “Even if we get out of her without getting caught, the moment the Ponies find the body they’ll think it was us-“

“-Which it was.” Barbus pointed out. The two Marines were quiet for a moment, minds racing in an attempt to solve the problem. Just when Zuko was about to order the retreat, Barbus crouched down and slung the body over his shoulder. “Trust me.” He whispered chirpily, and before Zuko could protest he’d disappeared down the corridor. The sound of his feet hitting the floor echoed all around.

Zuko had infiltrated enemy bases, charged across no-man’s land in thousands of sieges, and fought at the Walls of Terra, but the twenty minutes that Barbus was gone were for some reason some of the tensest of his life. He was as still as a statue, only moving to rub some of the excess blood into the carpet. Eventually Barbus scampered back down the corridor, noticeably sans a corpse.

“What did you bloody do?!” Zuko hissed. Barbus responded by clapping a hand on Zuko’s pauldron, and when he spoke his voice was more genuine than the Champion had heard in a long time.

“Trust me, it’s not going to get found.”

Zuko watched his brother for a moment, wanting to ask more. When it was clear that Barbus wasn’t going to be drawn into elaborating, Zuko relaxed his shoulders in resignation, hoping that Barbus hadn’t finally decided to turn on him. The cigar that was slotted into a pouch on his belt suddenly felt very heavy, and it was only through will that Zuko was able to resist lighting it.

They pressed on, taking care to be even quieter from then on. From where they’d come to a stop it didn’t take the Iron Warriors long to come to a door with a silver crown daintily painted on. Wooden blocks spelling out ‘Diamond Tiara’s room’ were hung off it, and the pink doorframe extinguished any lingering doubt in Zuko’s mind that this was the room they were after. He reached out with his ‘regular’ gauntlet, clutching the handle. It felt so small and fragile in his palm. Sharing a nod with Barbus, Zuko pulled down on the handle, pushed the door open, and crept into the dark room.

***

The taste of metal brought Diamond Tiara rocketing out of her dreams and back to the real world. Something sharp rested at her throat, and its bite was steel and cold.

She squirmed frantically in panic, attempting to move and get free. It was no use; the hand that had clamped over her mouth stifled her screams and prevented her escape. Held on her back in the middle of her four-poster bed, Diamond Tiara desperately looked around the pitch dark room in an attempt to find out what was going on. All she could see was the pair of red eyes glaring down at her.

“Scream, and you’re dead.” A deep gravelly voice whispered. It seemed to come through some kind of speaker, the amplification serving only to make it even more intimidating. Diamond Tiara felt tears stinging the corner of her eyes, but nodded weakly. The monster’s red eyes moved up and down, as if it was nodding, and the hand was removed from her mouth-although the knife was still at her throat. For a moment Tiara considered screaming for her father, the butler, anyone. Raw fear made her comply with the creature’s will.

The thing holding her moved out of view, and for a moment the filly was staring at a black room Then, the sound of a striking match filled the air, joined a moment later by the light from a flame. The flame moved to light something else, before being shaken out. Whatever was now holding the flaming item—it looked like a cigar, like Father sometimes had-raised it high into the air and inhaled. In the flame’s flickering light Diamond Tiara saw the outline of a head, the curve of an armour plate, although she couldn’t make out any details. The creature exhaled, a puff of smoke barely visible. Tapping a few smouldering embers from the end of the cigar out onto her floor, the creature walked forward, and Tiara noticed despite her terror that it seemed to be taking care to move quietly. As it walked it seemed to snap something that been resting atop its head down into place; something hissed, and two more the evil red eyes Diamond Tiara had seen a moment before came into being. The monster moved towards where she was held, getting even closer to her face than the first had. It kneeled, so the burning red eyes were scant centimetres from her own.

“We have…” it said, almost apologetically. “A problem.” He twirled the cigar idly between his fingers, not actually making an effort to smoke it. Diamond Tiara couldn’t help her brow creasing in confusion.

“A…problem? But I don’t even know you!” she insisted. The two creatures shared a glance, before the one who was speaking fixed her with a stare again.

“It’s come to our attention that you’re an individual who thrives on the achievements of others.” It said. The tone of the voice had shifted now, to an icy calm with clear threat running underneath. “That is unfortunate for you.” As he spoke, the one holding the knife twisted it so the tip of the blade just punctured her flesh. Red, coppery liquid began to trickle out, and now the tears flowed in force. The one with the cigar watched her discomfort for a moment, seemingly neither condoning nor enjoying it. Eventually he dropped the tobacco stick, reached to his waist and produced something with coils that glowed a dull red.

“Do you know what a plasma pistol does, little one?” he asked. Tiara shook her head.

“They were developed just before the Dark Age of technology, when mankind had a better grasp of the technology he commanded.” The monster explained. “the coils here react to fire a bolt akin to the centre of a star. Oh very dangerous of course, and the damage they can do to the wielder if the cooling apparatus is not maintained is considerable, but what they leave of what they hit is…well, best your young ears don’t hear it.”

Diamond Tiara didn’t understand anything he’d just said, but slowly understanding was beginning to dawn. “You…you’re the Iron Warriors.” She said breathlessly. “You’re like, those guys who crashed in that spaceship.”

“You learn fast.” The lead Iron Warrior agreed. Before Diamond Tiara could ask any more questions, he rested the muzzle of the gun in the centre of her forehead. She squeaked and cried even more, but still didn’t shout out. When the alien spoke he practically spat the words.

“Listen to me, you little shit. I know you have a presentation at your school tomorrow, and I know you’ve done none of the work for it. If I hear anything about you getting all the glory…even the slightest whisper…I swear to the Gods I will show you exactly why we call Vortun an ‘Obliterator’, do you understand me you miserable piece of Xenos filth?”

She nodded as furiously as her neck would allow, somehow finding herself unable to look away from the staring eyes. After studying her for a moment longer, the Iron Warrior stood, still looking down at her.

“Actually, just take all of tomorrow off.” He suggested in a voice that made it clear it wasn’t a suggestion. “And it goes without saying that this never happened.” The knife was removed rom her throat and she breathed out heavily, rubbing where it’d pierced the skin. The Iron Warrior that had been speaking to her turned around, but instead of leaving he paced over to one of her side tables. Diamond Tiara watched in confusion as he rummaged through her stuff, casting aside expensive and fabulous jewellery or perfumes like they were nothing. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for-a book. From what she could see as her eyes grew used to the dark, it was tiny in his hands. She didn’t know what it was or what he wanted with it, but if it got him out the alien was welcome to it.

Yet the moment the pair’s backs were turned, the filly’s confidence began to grow again, and with it came her doubts. He’d known about the presentation, and had taken a book…could it be Applebloom’s Diary? The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She’d managed to steal that stupid little blank-flanks diary when she’d had to go to to their smelly farm, and it would be just like Applebloom to get someone else to fight her battles. If she’d joined up with the Iron Warriors…oh, was she ever in for it. As soon as the other kids found out no one would talk to her. Maybe even Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle would keep their distance. She’d be the least popular kid in school! Despite what was happening, Diamond Tiara smiled at how clever she was-turning such a terrifying experience to her advantage.

“I won’t call anyone,” she promised as the Iron Warriors moved to leave. Her voice was shaky, but she was determined to overcome it. “But you’re like, an idiot if you think no-one’s gonna’ find you. They’ve probably all heard you in here anyway.”

She immediately regretted her confidence as the two pairs of eyes turned to look at her again. Diamond Tiara curled up in a ball, covering her face with her hooves and whimpering “I’m sorry” in a shallow voice repeatedly. Yet nothing happened. In fact, when she dared look up, the one with the pistol actually seemed to be considering what she’d said. The talons of the massive fist attached to his left hand tapped the chin of his helmet thoughtfully.

“You’re right.” He agreed, to her surprise. With a speed that took the filly completely off guard the one with the knife leaned over and yanked her out of bed. His hand covered her mouth again, silencing Tiara’s hollers. “We’ll need a distraction.”

***

The moment they’d snuck out the heavy front doors of the mansion and closed them as quietly as they could behind, Zuko and Barbus abandoned all pretence of stealth.

The Astartes sprinted down the paving stones that led to the front gate, Zuko’s bionic legs easily eating up the distance and putting him just ahead. The diary hung in the empty spare pistol holster he’d brought, swaying back and forth from his belt. The leapt in unison as they reached the gate, strong hands wrapping around the tops of the railings and pulling them over so as to vault the metal bars in a single jump. They were moving again the moment they landed, seeking to put as much ground between them and the building as possible.

“I was wrong.” Barbus voxed, and Zuko could hear his grin. “That was the most fun I’ve had in ages.” The Champion didn’t reply, nor did he slow when he cast a glance over his shoulder. By now he could just detect a commotion within the mansion at the edge of his hearing, and several windows now had light streaming from them; but no-one was following, and the Iron Warrior chose to capitalise on that.

They were a good fifty metres away from the immediate danger zone and heading back to Ponyville when Barbus voxed again. “I hate to be pedantic brother, but what exactly do you intend to do now you’ve got the book?”

“We need to get to the school before she does her presentation.” Zuko said breathlessly, still focusing on the run. “Keep up, Barbus.” Barbus was silent for a moment, before the vox-link erupted with laughter. Zuko heard his companion’s footfalls cease behind him. He skidded to a halt, turning and reflexively engaging his power fist. Barbus stood quite afraid, arms folded and shaking his head as he chuckled.

“What the hell are you doing? We don’t have time to stop.” Barbus looked at Zuko for a moment, broke out in another fit of chuckles and rubbed his eye lenses with the tip of thumb and forefingers. Looking back at the champion, he pointed east. The first of the sun’s rays were only just beginning to crest the mountain tops of the horizon, painting the previously black sky a bloody shade of red.

“Me and Varvillon did some investigating.” He explained. “School doesn’t start for five hours yet.”

***

Every tick of the second hand rang painfully loud through Applebloom’s head. She sat almost completely rigid on her disk, eyes fixed firmly on the clock that hung on the wall; moving only to fidget nervously. She didn’t even listen to her two classmates droning on at the front.

“Calm down, will ya?” Scootaloo whispered to her left. The orange filly’s eyes shone with both confusion and sympathy. “You can totally do this without Diamond Tiara, no sweat.”

Applebloom spun to face her, grinding her teeth together. Scootaloo recoiled slightly.

“Calm down?” The earth pony hissed. “How can ah calm down? It’s meant tah be a group project, it can’t be a group if it’s just me! Besahds, ah don’t wanna go up there bah mahself!”

“There were more ponies watching when we did the talent show.” Sweetie Belle pointed out. “And besides, you probably did most of the work anyway.”

“But ah didn’t know most of them ponies.” Applebloom said dejectedly, practically slamming her face into the desk. “Ah didn’t have tah see ‘em again, and if I say something stupid now ah’ll be the laughing stock of the school!”

She couldn’t believe it. Diamond Tiara had been there pretty much every day for the past year, teasing the Crusaders about being blank flanks. What were the chances that, the only time Applebloom actually needed her, she’d fallen down the stairs in the middle of the night and broken a hoof? What was she even looking for? She’d almost be willing to give up any hope of getting her diary back if it meant the other half of her team was here.

Applebloom’s despair was so great that she almost didn’t hear Ms. Cheerilee calling her name. “Wh-what?” She stammered, lifting her head. The whole class was looking at her, Cheerilee from behind her desk included.

“Isaid it’s your turn to present, Applebloom dear.”

Applebloom’s heart caught in her throat. She looked around for any succour, but there was none to be found. Desperately, she put on her best concerned smile.

“Oh, u, ah’d love to Ms Cheerilee, but y’see…what ah mean is, ah’m just so worried ‘bout Dahmond Tiara that ah don’t think ah’ll be able to do the presentation without her!” She grinned toothily, sweat beading on her forehead.

Cheerilee smiled, and for a moment Applebloom dared to hope she had her. “Oh that’s touching dear,” her face turned grave. “but I’m afraid we can’t afford to delay your presentation. I have to get these marks in today. I’m sure Diamond Tiara would want you to go on without her.”

There was no way out of it. Sighing in defeat, Applebloom shuffled to the edge of her chair. She looked up at Sweetie Belle, who gave her a reassuring smile, but the filly wasn’t convinced.

Just as her hooves were about to touch the ground, the classroom door was practically flung on its hinges. Sweetie Belle squeaked in fear, Cheerilee practically jumped out of her skin and Twist almost fell of her chair. Applebloom, along with many of the others, just stared as Zuko ducked into the room, padding forwards slowly and awkwardly.

The spike with the helmet on his back almost stabbed into the ceiling, and he had to stoop to fit in. He rubbed the back of his own helmet with that massive oversized claw in the closet thing to nervousness she’d yet seen from him. The kids stared wide eyed and open mouthed in awe, and he stared back, meeting all their eyes in turn and shifting uncomfortably where he stood.

Cheerilee, to her credit, rallied well. “Oh, uh, w-what a surprise mister…”

It took him a moment to look at her. “Zuko.” He answered in a gruff voice.

“Zuko, right, of course.” Cheerilee cleared her throat, affecting her best ‘teacherly’ accent. “Class, I want you to say hello to Mr Zuko, who I’m sure has a very good reason for joining us this morning.”

“Good morning Mr Zuko.” The fillies chorused. To Applebloom’s surprise, they didn’t sound scared for the most part; only as enthralled and fascinated to find out what an alien super-solider was doing in their classroom as she was. Zuko gave a small wave back, although it was clear that he didn’t want to be here.

“Urm…hey. How you doing.” He looked around again, seemingly unsure what to do next. Finally his red eyes settled on Archer’s desk. “What’s that?” He asked, pointing at a loose piece of paper. “Your drawing, what is it? It looks like a volkite culverin. Not seen one of them since Tallarn” he mumbled the last part, as if talking to himself, before twisting slightly to get a better look at the picture. “You’ve got the basic shape down…and the barrel’s fairly accurate…but you’re missing cooling vents in a few places.”

“It’s a boat.” Archer said, still staring at Zuko in wonder.

“Oh.” The Iron Warrior backed off slightly, and lapsed back into silence. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his helmet again. “I like your boat.” He said at last, pointing. “That is a nice boat.”

Archer didn’t respond. It was Cheerille who broke the quiet. Her voice was a bit stronger now, although she was still as far away from Zuko as she could get.

“Well, that’s very nice of you to say, Mr Zuko. But I’m afraid I am going to have to ask again why you’re here.”

He looked at her blankly for a moment, before starting a little and mumbling “Oh, right.” His head swivelled until the two blazing red coals were settled on Applebloom. She gasped, eyes widening even further as she felt Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo’s questioning gazes bore into her. Zuko shuffled forward towards her, having to go slowly to avoid knocking any desks over. As he moved he fiddled with a leather pouch attached to his belt. Eventually, he produced a small book, drumming on the back cover with his fingers. Applebloom’s mouth went dry; could it be…

He stopped right before her desk, placing the volume delicately on the wood. Sure enough, ‘Applebloom’s diary’ was scrawled clumsily across the top. She looked down at it, before looking back up at him. The helmet was as emotionless as always.

“How…how did ya…”
.
“You dropped it.” He said, a little too quickly. “Yeah, uh, you dropped it…outside…somewhere.” He coughed, looking around. Applebloom could hear the lie in his words, and a few things started to add up in her mind, but she chose to keep silent. Zuko was silent too, before coughing again and turning. He moved as quickly as he could, seemingly eager to get out and only stopping when he reached Cheerilee’s desk.

“Oh yeah, that was it.” He said, pointing at Applebloom. “I’m pretty sure she did most of the work for her project, and is just too modest to admit it. You should give her a …well, whatever it is you give things that are good here.” Looking around once more, he turned and moved towards the door. He was almost outside when Applebloom called out, extending a hoof towards him.

“Wait!”

The Iron Warrior stopped, and looked at her. Applebloom stared back, unsure of what to say for a moment.

“Thank yah.” Was what she eventually managed. Zuko didn’t reply, but after a few drawn-out seconds nodded. Without a word he ducked under doorframe. Applebloom watched him go through the window; walking at first, but quickly breaking into a run as soon as he could.

She looked back towards the board, aware of the whole classes’-including Cheerilee’s-eyes on her. The teacher cleared her throat again, shaking her head as if to dispel her confusion and try to restore order. “Well that was…strange.” She admitted. “I’m afraid you’ll still have to present, Applebloom.”

Applebloom had been expecting it, but found that her fear had left her. With a cry of “yes ma’am!” she took the saddlebag containing her presentation props and trotted to the front of the room. As she set up though, the presentation was the last thing on her mind; instead, she thought about just what Zuko had done for her.

Applejack had always taught her the importance of fairness and being gratuitous when somepony helped you out, and Applebloom knew she needed to thank Zuko.

More importantly, she knew how.

Author's Note

In today's exciting adventure, Zuko and Barbus break into a little girl's room in the middle of the night and then throw her down the stairs.

...wow. That sounded a LOT better in my head.

Zuko might be one of the more 'chill' of the group, and he's certainly nice (if a little awkward, as most Space Marines would be) around AB. But he is a Chaos Marine and an Iron Warrior, and is well versed in grimdark-fu by this point. Plus best horse is Sweetie Belle so I have no compunctions about maiming Diamond Tiara.

How did they not get caught? Well it's a big house, because I took some liberties with DT's wealth, so even a big guy could hide. That, and the way they take is by chance (how convenient) not near the servant's quarters. It's just poor butlerponies' fault he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Run CMC

“Come on, spill it Applebloom!” Scootaloo’s voice was harsh and echoed somewhat in the tight confines of the clubhouse, but was filled with as much curiosity as anger.

“Yeah, spill it!” Sweetie Belle heard herself chorus. She knew her voice was cracking, but this was more important right now. The two Crusaders faced Applebloom across the table, but the yellow filly was holding her ground admirably.

“Ah know this looks a maht perculiar.” She reassured them, for what must have been the tenth time today. “And ah’m as surprahsed as y’all are. But don’t this just prove mah point that Zuko ain’t a bad gah?”

They’d dragged Applebloom back to the clubhouse the moment school had ended. After the Iron Warrior had presented her with her diary and taken his leave, the rest of the day had been pretty normal-if incredibly awkward for the Crusaders. Sweetie Belle didn’t feel any remorse about defending her friends from the suspicious glares and incessant questioning of their classmates, but inside she had as many fears and queries as they did. From her actions, it was clear that Scootaloo felt the same. The Pegasus stood from her seat, slamming a frustrated hoof into the table. Taking a breath, she calmed slightly.

“…I guess it was pretty cool of him to go and get it for you.” Scoot admitted. “Even if he had to break into Diamond Tiara’s house to find it.”

“Wait, he broke in? But I thought he said he’d just picked it up?” Sweetie Belle squeaked. She was aware of the weary glances the other two gave her, but couldn’t fathom why.

“Ah don’t think he was being 100% honest there, Sweetie Belle.” Applebloom said as graciously as she could. Sweetie was still perplexed.

“Huh…talk about a coincidence.” The unicorn muttered. “Having your house broken into AND falling down the stairs.”

“I don’t think THAT was an accident, either.” Scootaloo said with a roll of her eyes. Sweetie Belle looked at her blankly for a moment, before understanding kicked in. She gasped, eyes widening and hooves covering her mouth.

“That’s terrible!”

“Oh, y’all know that she’d do it to us.” Applebloom cut in hurridly, seeminglye ager to change the subject. “Tha’ point is, he still did somethin’ real nice, and ah’ve got the perfect way to say thanks.”

“And what’s that?” Scootaloo asked warily. Applebloom smiled, waving her friends over conspiratorially. Sweetie Belle complied. The Earth Pony whispered to Scootaloo first, then Sweetie. The white Unicorn recoiled, stunned, but Scootaloo spoke first.

“You really think he’ll want to?” she asked, her disbelief plain. “I mean, from what you’ve said I get that he wanted to help you stop Diamond Tiara taking all the credit for your project, but that’s still a bit…well, extreme.”

“Of course he’ll want tah.” Applebloom said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He said none of ‘em have their Cutie Marks. It’s tah perfect way tah say thank yah, and they might start bein’ nahcer to everypony if we be nahce to them.”

“Rarity said the wizard told her they don’t have Cutie Marks.” Sweetie Belle whimpered, in a small scared voice. “She said that their super strong and stuff because they were made that way.”

“Well then that’s even better!” Applebloom insisted. “They’re already made tah be good at something, maybe he’ll know how tah make us find our special talents!”

“I don’t think it works that way-“ Sweetie began, but she trailed off as Applebloom gave her a pleading look. The unicorn still wasn’t convinced. She didn’t hate the Iron Warriors as a lot of the grown-ups seemed to, but they did frighten her. She’d only really been in close proximity with the subject of their current debate, the two who’d been at Pinkie Pie’s-she still had the occasional nightmare about the one with the machine instead of an eye-and the wizard who got on with Rarity and sometimes came to visit. He was nice enough, and talked to Sweetie in an easy, friendly manner, but he was still quite scary and she could never manage to look at him or say more than the occasional squeak before galloping off. They weren’t even the worst-the huge one with the freaky face creeped her out, or the angry shaky guy both seemed who seemed to always want to hurt somepony.

Applebloom looked from Scootaloo to Sweetie Belle for some kind of purchase, the smile slowly dropping from her face as she realised there was none to be found. Defeated for the moment, she adopted a new strategy.

“Scootaloo, didn’t you say yourself when we were in Canterlot that maybe the only reason they’re so scary is because they’re scared and alone themselves.” The filly demanded, sticking her bottom lip out. Unprepared for this new scrutiny, Scootaloo backed away slightly.

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And didn’t he save our lives from that mean ole’ Changeling?” That was a general question, and Sweetie felt the guilt settle in her gut as she considered it. That was true…the Iron Warrior had pulled them out of a sticky situation.

Seeing she was gaining momentum, Applebloom pressed on. “Think about it. If we had him on our side, and could prove he weren’t a bad gah, then maybe us Ponyfolk and them can start working together! And besides, think how useful they’d have been whilst we were crusadin’ in the past?”

“Like how?” Scootaloo asked, generally curious.

“Lahk…” Applebloom pondered for a moment, rubbing her chin. “Lahk when Babs first got here and we had that whole misunderstandin’!”
***
“Babs may have run us out of town.” Applebloom groaned, dejectedly, trudging side by side with her fellow crusaders. “But at least we still have the club…house?”

The fillies’ hopes and protests died in their throats as they looked up to see Babs leaning nonchalantly on the railing outside their treehouse. The Manehattanite looked down at them with a cruel smile.

“Hey!” She shouted, pointing an accusing hoof as if they were in the wrong. “Whatare you doing at my Clubhouse?”

It was too much for Scootaloo. “Y-y-YOUR Clubhouse?!” she squealed, hovering a few metres in the air as her tiny wings beat in fury. “This is OUR Clubhouse!” she insisted, landing.

“Well it was yours,” Babs corrected, smiling again and rolling her eyes. “And now, it’s mine.”

“And mine.” Silver Spoon said, appearing seemingly from thin air.

“And mine.” Echoed Diamond Tiara.

Before the Crusaders could respond, a metallic, gravelly voice cut through the woodland. “No. It’s mine.”

Six pairs of eyes rested on the Space Marine as he emerged into the clearing. The optics on Zuko’s helmet burned their familiar red, but he had shed the Power fist and Pistol in place of a huge, gargoyle-mouthed missile launcher. Ammunition was stacked in a chute leading up from the top, and the body was covered in yellow and black stripes.

Ignoring the slack-jawed gapes from the Crusaders, Zuko dropped to a knee, sighting down the crosshairs of the missile launcher. Babs squinted down for a moment, unsure what the alien was doing. When she did realise it was far too late.

The Iron Warrior depressed the trigger, sending a missile rocketing from the daemon mouth and straight at the treehouse. Black smoke bellowed from its rear as it twirled in mid-air, but it didn’t have far to fly. It smashed into the side of the lovingly-restored clubhouse, exploding with an almighty roar. Fire began to spread to nearby trees as the flimsy wooden building was utterly blasted apart, along with any who’d been next to it.

Applebloom, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle could only stand, mouths still hanging open like idiots, as bits of Babs, slivers of Silver Spoon and dollops of Diamond Tiara rained down around them, along with flaming timbers and sprays of blood. Zuko stood back up, lowering his weapon and seeming to ignore the film of red liquid that now covered his silver plate. Turning, he looked down at the three girls, as if only noticing them for the first time.

“What?” he asked.
***
Sweetie Belle stood in silence for a moment as the image faded from her mind, before shuddering slightly. From the similar reactions of her friends, she guessed they were all thinking along the same lines.

“Okay…so maybe that wasn’t the best example.” Applebloom said, slowly.

“I’ll say.” Scoot mumbled.

“But,” The earth pony put in quickly. “Ah still think it’d be a swell think tah do for a gah who’s helped us all out in the past.”

“I still don’t know Applebloom.” Sweetie Belle said apologetically. “Even if the Iron Warriors are o-“

“He has a name.” Applebloom said. Sweetie Belle was taken aback by the choler in her friend’s voice, and it took a moment to collect herself.

“Even if Zuko is on our side, he’s still kind of dangerous.”

“Only if we do somethin’ stupid, which we won’t. And besahds, look at it lahk this-all that stuff we’re not allowed to trah ‘cus it’s ‘too dangerous’? Well with Zuko around, there’s no way ponies like Applejack can say that we ain’t safe!”

It didn’t make sense to Sweetie Belle, but Scootaloo seemed to take to the idea. She hovered in the air excitedly.

“Yeah! We could go into places like the Everfree forest whenever we wanted, and it’d be totally safe with him around.” Applebloom smiled, seeing she had the advantage. Sweetie Belle watched her trot round to their side of the table, standing between the other two crusaders.

“You know Sweetie Belle, we’d need to make a ‘special order’ for him tah do this.” Applebloom said. Again, Sweetie Belle was lost for a moment, until her eyes came to rest on the red fabric hanging from a ‘borrowed’ coatrack. Instantly she brightened, all thoughts of scary aliens gone.

“You’re right! I could design a whole new cape! And when Rarity sees it, it’ll probably be great for business too if the others all want one!”

Applebloom grinned, pleased to have got Sweetie on board. She turned her attention to Scootaloo, who still seemed to waver slightly. “And Scootaloo,” she began, somberly resting a hoof on the Peagsus’ shoulder. “Havent’cha always wanted tah have a big brother?”

Scootaloo eyed her suspiciously for a moment, but it was clear AB had her. She nodded uncharacteristically shyly. Applebloom retracted her hoof, resting them both on the table. “So it’s settled then.” She placed an arm round Sweetie and Scootaloo’s shoulders, dragging them closer.

“Now here’s what we’re gonna do…”

“And then I said, ‘Oatmeal, are you crazy?’”

The story’s conclusion was met with silence, but Pinkie didn’t seem to mind. The truth was they’d all heard it before…several times, but Twilight suspected that it was more Pinkie’s tendency to perhaps talk without thinking first more than any conscious desire that caused her to repeat it. At the very least they smiled back with her; all except Rainbow Dash, who rolled her eyes with a groan and tried to get comfortable.

“Well, I for one am just glad that all you girls were able to make it.” The lilac unicorn said. “With…everything that’s been going on, we’ve hardly been able to see each other.”

“Oh think nothing of it, darling.” Rarity said, sipping delicately at her cocktail. Fluttershy drank something similar beside her; she didn’t say anything, but smiled earnestly and nodded.

“Wha, jus’ because there’s some mighty strange goings-on ‘round these parts don’t mean we need ta’ stop being friends!” Applejack added. She’d already gone through two bottles of Apple Juice, and was now moving onto the cider.

“Although do we have to have these get-togethers inside?” Rainbow complained, still fidgeting on her cushions. “A cloud would be way comfier.”

The sun was shining and they’d considered getting a table outside, but the heat had been heavy and constant the whole week and it was starting to sap a lot of Ponies’ energy. When they’d found out the restaurant was air conditioned, the girls had practically sprinted inside-even Dash. Twilight’s library was stuffy at the best of times, and combined with general stress the rising temperatures meant that sleep had been scarce, fleeting and disturbed.

“Oh you’re all very kind, but I’m serious.” Twilight said mournfully. “here I am writing all these lessons to Princess Celestia about friendship, and I neglect my five best friends!” she chuckled at the end, but the point was there.

“Don’t be ridiculous Twi.” Applejack said reassuringly. “You ain’t abandoned nobody. It’s not lahk you could’ve know that all this was going tah happen.”

But I should have a little voice said inside Twilight’s head. With all my studying and mapping the sky, I should have. By Celestia, I’ll never be caught off guard again. She thought these things, but didn’t say them. Her smile was as warm as any, touched by her friend’s kind words.

“Yeah! I mean, these last few months have been so wacko, that even I’VE been struggling to keep up! I mean, I had three birthdays, two cutecinceras, a wedding, and a ton of other stuff ato organise, plus getting the Cakes’ entry for the Canterlot bakeoff ready, which looks really super-duper scrumptious, almost as scrumptious as the MMM although I hope that it’s not to scrumptious that what happened last time happens again and-hey, that’s a great idea, we should totally have a Ponyville party!” Pinkie Pie certainly sounded as enthusiastic as ever.

“A party sounds wonderful, Pinkie dear.” Rarity said. “Plus, it couldn’t have come at a better time, I have some new designs that I’ve just been DYING to show off. Oh, that reminds me.” She turned to Fluttershy. “Fluttershy, darling, I know it’s your birthday soon, so I’ve been working on a brand new dress that I just know you’re going to love. I’ve just been so excited I can’t wait to show it you, would you like to come to Carousel Boutique after lunch and pick it up?”

The smile slowly died on Fluttershy’s face, and she turned away a little. Twilight, as well as all the others, looked at her quizzically.

“What’s wrong?” Rarity asked, easily the most upset. “Do you not want a new dress?”

“Oh, I do, and I’m sure it’s wonderful Rarity.” The yellow Pegasus said. It was one of the first times she’d spoken since arriving, Twilight considered. “It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“It’s just, I don’t…”

“You don’t what? You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s that, I don’t…” Fluttershy took a deep breath. “I don’t have anywhere to put it.”

Rarity looked at her lopsidedly for a moment. “Come again?”

“I don’t have a wardrobe.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. The ponies looked at one another in confusion, unsure what exactly she meant. It was Twilight that figured it out.

“They didn’t build you one, did they.” It wasn’t a question, but Fluttershy gave a shallow nod anyway. Instantly the mood around table grew more hostile. Pinkie, in particular, affected a worryingly cold expression.

“Good heavens!” Rarity gasped. “You mean you have…nowhere to put your clothes at all?”

“Well, um.” Fluttershy began, reddening even more. “The thing is…I kind of don’t have anything to wear. They destroyed it all.”

To her credit, Rarity didn’t faint, but she didn’t turn an ever paler white. Rainbow slammed her hooves on the table. “Those jerks.” She snarled, nostrils flaring. “Did they leave you with anything?” Fluttershy shook her head. Twilight took It upon herself to be the calm one.

“Fluttershy, I thought you were going to go and talk to them about getting your cottage back.” She said. Fluttershy looked at her, but seemed to draw more in on herself.

“Oh, well, I was, but it was nice of them to build the house for me and I didn’t want to disturb them-“

“Disturb but nothin’.” Applejack said. “It’s your home, and they was the ones who messed it up in tah first place. Yah need furnishings, not cannons-good gravy girl, they’ve built yer a bloomin’ deathtrap!”

More angry discussion broke out, with Pinkie Pie espousing the virtues of various kinds of ostracision. For a moment Twilight felt close to a breakdown, powerless against the rapid deterioration of order, when suddenly she remembered. Reaching into the saddlebag shed slung under the table, the unicorn produced seven slips of glittering gold. An expectant hush fell over the element bearers.

“Are those…what I think they are?” Rarity asked, eyes lighting up now she’d recovered. Twlight nodded, brerathing an internal sigh of relief now crisis had been averted.

“Yep, seven tickets to the Grand Galloping Gala.”

“But ain’t that like, next week?” Applejack asked. “How’d ya get them tickets on such short notice?”

“Well, being Princess Celestia’s personal student does have some advantages.” Twilight answered with a chuckle and a blush. It wasn’t the most modest thing to do, but she knew her friends wouldn’t mind.

“Yeah, that’s great Twi, but…” Rainbow Dash ooked around a little awkwardly. “Are you sure we’ll be allowed back after…last time?”

The others seemed to consider this for a moment-none of them needed to be reminded of that escapade. Twilight shook her head, seeking to dispel their fears.

“Whilst I agree that we maybe weren’t on our best behaviour last time, the Princess saysthat it’ll be a lot less formal this year.” She said. “I just thought it’d be nice to…get away from it all for a night.”

It was hard to argue with that. Twilight dished 5 of the tickets out, keeping one for herself. “and of course, one for you Sp-Spike?”

The little dragon’s seat was empty.

Twilight cursed herself for not keeping a closer eye on him, and his silence had seemed a little odd, but she’d been so caught up in seeing her friends again she’d almost forgot about him. Panic began to sink in as she looked around desperately for any sign of him; there was none. The others joined in as soon as they realised what was wrong. It was Fluttershy who provided answers after a minute of fruitless searching. She screamed, pointing out a window. Twilight ran to look. There, sat on a low wall across the street. And next to him was…was one of…

“Spike!” She yelled, bolting for the door. The others followed hot on her heel, Applejack and Pinkie Pie running-running, not hopping in the latter’s case-alongside Twi. They skidded to a halt in front of the dragon and the alien, Twilight’s horn lighting up with the familiar purple magical aura.

“Oh, hey Twilight!” The baby dragon said cheerily.

Twilight stopped, only now appreciating the full strangeness of the scene before her. Spike sat as he often did, feet dangling slightly off the ground, licking away eagerly at an ice cream. The Iron Warrior next to him was by contrast hunched over and with his sword resting across his lap, somehow looking miserable even through a helmet. He too held the bottom half of an ice cream between a thumb and forefinger, but the actual cream portion had fallen out and was now a messy pink blob by his feet.

“It was hot, so I went out for ice cream.” Spike explained. “This guy flagged it down so I got one for him as well.” Twilight looked at him stunned, and then up at the Space Marine. He said nothing, although it was clear he didn’t want to be here. She was just about to chide Spike for running off when Rainbow Dashspoke up.

“Oh, great.” She scowled. “It’s you.”

The Iron Warrior studied her momentarily, before sheathing his sword with a twirl. Twilight only got a small glimpse of the eye symbol built into the hilt. He sighed, folding his arms.

“This, I assume, is the part where you accuse me of ruining your oh-so-very vital training.”

“And fer chasin’ Lyra.” Applejack added, recognising him as well. The Iron Warrior turned his attention towards the farmer, but she maintained eye contact.

“You lassoed me.” His hands began to twitch and spasm, but at that moment Spike hopped off the wall and moved to stand between the two parties.

“Hey guys, let’s just cool it. I’m sure Rorke didn’t mean anything by all that.”

‘Rorke’, Twilight assumed, was this one’s name. She didn’t really know most of them by name, only their look; this was the one who shook a lot. The unicorn was fairly certain he had meant something, but the Iron Warrior was quicker.

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t go out of my way to annoy you specifically. Being a Chaos Space Marine doesn’t make me a petty bastard.”

Rainbow, of course, rose to his bait. “Oh yeah? Sure didn’t look that way to me.”

“No.” Rorke clarified. “Being a petty bastard makes me a petty bastard.”

“Language.” Rarity mumbled. Twilight only just heard it standing beside her, but Rorke’s head instantly swivelled towards her. It surprised, and more than a little intrigued Twilight.

“Sorry.” He said in a tone that made it clear he was anything but. “I usually leave the sarcasm to Zuko. And spending as much time with the witch as you do would desensitise anyone.” His head tilted to the side as he spotted something. He leaned closer, seeming to focus on the golden ticket that hovered besides rarity. He pointed. “The fuck is that?”

The last thing Twilight needed was for the Iron Warriors to become aware of Equestrian traditions, and she was about to make an excuse to leave when once again Spike took it upon himself to speak up. “Oh that? That’s a ticket to the Grand Galloping Gala. It’s like, the biggest party in all of Equestria, and it’s hosted every year at Canterlot castle. We went last year, but things got a bit out of control. Did we get more tickets Twi? Did I get one?”

“Yes. You did.” She said flatly, wondering how best to discipline her surrogate little brother for this. Rorke sat quietly for a moment. “Grand…galloping…gala.” He said no more, but Twilight was sure she heard him snicker quietly. Spike finished of his ice cream, walking over to stand with the ponies and blissfully unaware of the looks they were giving him.

“Well, I’m sure this has been very nice, but Spike really needs to be going now.” Twilight said, forcing a smile as she pulled the dragon away. Spike looked confused, but accepted it.

“Oh…okay.” He waved. “Bye Rorke! I’ll come and see you for more war stories some time!” The Iron Warrior was silent as Twilight marched Spike away even quicker. The elements began to march back to the restaurant, although all their appetites had been spoiled by now. Rorke didn’t move, but as she walked away Twilight was sure she heard him mumble “Grand Galloping Gala...”

He wanted to run, or fight back, but he knew that he couldn’t. They’d lured him into their trap and now he had to face the consequences.

It was a day after the whole escapade at the school they came for him; Applebloom and the white one, who he now identified as Sweetie Belle. It wasn’t like they’d come for him alone. Barbus had been with him, taking the opportunity to train their swordplay in the open air, but the arrival of the juvenile Ponies had seen the other Iron Warrior off with nothing more than a mocking clap on Zuko’s shoulder. Truth be told being by himself with and having to play nice to them d made Zuko uneasy, but he’d born it with the same bitter tenacity all his Legion would have. They had been pleasant enough, although Sweetie Belle was clearly terrified, and had asked him to come and have a look at ‘making their tree house a cool fort like you did Fluttershy’s”. Zuko, of course, hadn’t actually worked on the cottage-although asking Lorkhan to come along would have been inviting trouble-but they’d been ordered to make themselves useful, and truth be told his professional curiosity had been piqued by the challenge. That’s how they’d lured him in.

Credit to the Ponies; they’d realised even before he arrived that he wouldn’t fit inside their shack, and so had relocated everything they’d need outside. Sweetie Belle, who had disappeared halfway through the walk and now sported a red cape, stood atop a podium clutching a long role of paper. She just about reached his chest. The orange one-Scootaloo-also wore a cape, and solemnly stood to attention astride a set of bongo drums that were almost as big as she was. Applebloom had had the full force of Zuko’s questioning gaze directed upon her, but had borne it stoically, and now donned her own cape as she stood beside the podium. Zuko faced the three small horses, unsure whether to laugh or prepare for battle.

Just as the silence was growing too awkward to bear, Scootaloo began to beat a staccato rhythm on the drums. Her facial expression never changed from stern neutrality, and combined with the steady beat it could almost have been ominous. After a few moments however she let loose, face cracking in a smile as she beat the drums with wild abandon.

When the percussion had ceased, Sweetie belle took a moment to steady herself, cleared her throat, and begun to read from her scroll.

“We, the Cutie Mark Crusaders, elect Iron Warrior Zuko to join us as a sis-“

She caught herself as the words began to escape her throat, Applebloom’s worried expression saying enough. Smiling widely, she wiped the sweat from her brow and continued, trying her best to ignore Zuko’s red glare.

“Brother, friend, confidante, ally, bosom buddy, guy pal, compadre, chum-of-chums…” she took the paper aside for a moment, looking down at the winged pony. “Scootaloo, I thought you were going to revise this?”

“I’ll get round to it.” Scootaloo mumbled, blushing. Sweetie Belle groaned before continuing.

“Homeboy, amigo…well, you get the picture…oh, and fellow Cutie Mark Crusader! You are solemnly sworn in here this day, in witness of your fellow sisters, friends, confidantes, bosom buddies…”

In a desperate attempt to stop her in her track, Applebloom reached into the folds of her cape, producing confetti seemingly from the ether. Sweetie Belle took the hint, striking a pose with the other two as the confetti landed on the ground in front of Zuko. The Iron Warrior’s only response was to watch for several, long minutes.

“This is a joke, right?” he asked eventually. The smiles died on the Crusaders faces, as Applebloom slowly approached him. “Ah thought you’d want ta join?” she said, utterly confused. “And besahds, it’s our way of saying thank yah for helping me with getting’ mah dahry back!”

Thank you. She’s said that to me three times now. Truly we live in an age of wonder.

“I’ve already told you, I didn’t do it for you.” The Astartes grumbled. “I did it for the Legion. Which, even if I did want to join, would have my head if I joined some Xenos cult.”

“It’s not a cult.” Sweetie Belle insisted. “It’s a consortium. “

“Whatever it is, thanks, but no thanks.” Zuko clarified. Deciding to help one of them was a strain-he wouldn’t go joining them. He turned to leave, doing his best to block out their sad eyes.

“But yah can’t go!” Applebloom wailed. “Not after we had this ceremony, and made ya a cape an’ everything!”

He should have kept walking, escaped the trap. Yet Zuko stopped, turning to look at them. “You…what?”

Sweetie Belle reached behind the podium and produced a stack of neatly folded red fabric. Rushing over to him, she held it out before her, the ends trailing on the ground. His mind unable to stop his body from moving Zuko reached out and took the corners of the cloth in both hands, taking care that his power fist didn’t rip it.

It was, as they’d said, a cape in the same style of theirs. The deep red fabric was slightly darker than theirs, almost crimson-or the colour of blood, although he doubted they knew that-and had been extended for a being of his size. A lot of the work was quite crudely done; it was clear Sweetie Belle wasn’t used to working with this size, and had resorted to quite haphazardly stitching many smaller pieces of the fabric together with painfully obvious bright yellow thread. In a corner of the crusader’s cape was emblazoned what Zuko assumed was their emblem, a golden pony rearing against a shield of blue. Yet when he examined his, he found Sweetie Belle had attempted to sew his Legion symbol in place of her own. The helmeted skull was actually fairly well done, but small and rough around the edges. All in all it was work the Legion’s artificers, or even any mortal clothier, would have scoffed at.

But it was his. Not something he’d ripped from a slain enemy and claimed as loot. Not something he’d asked Lorkhan to cobble together in exchange for volunteering for an idiotic suicide mission. Not something belched out of the daemonic forges of the Warp. Something that was actually his and belonged to him alone, and was being given for no other reason than to appreciate what he had done.

Zuko looked at the cape, then down at the children. They looked up with tense expressions.

“Why?” The Chaos Marine said at last. Applebloom watched him for a moment as if he’d just asked whether the sky was blue before smiling and resting a tiny hoof on his lower leg.

“Because you’re mah friend.” She said.

The weight of the Imperial Fist helmet spiked on his power pack suddenly became very apparent to Zuko. He found he could recall the face of the warrior he’d taken it from; remember the look of hatred in his eyes, the loathing reserved only for traitors. If any of his brothers had seen this they’d have probably shot him on sight, and it would have been a mercy. And yet despite the protests of his Fourth legion brain, Zuko whipped the cape to lie across his back, tying it tight around his neck. It hung a few scant inches from the ground.

“This once.” He told them, the emotion in his voice unclear. “I wear it this once.” It was enough for the Crusaders. Sweetie Belle squealed din delight, clapping her hooves together, whilst Applebloom wrapped his leg in an embrace that didn’t quite reach around the limb. It was a conscious effort not to shake her off. The other two followed suit, Sweetie Belle hugging his other leg as Scootaloo beat her tiny wings furiously so as to hover and wrap herself around his power talon. Zuko stood there, allowing them their moment and working overdrive to contain ten thousand years of preconditioned clinical hatred and bitter anger.

At the edge of his perception, the champion could have sworn he heard Mordecai’s cultured laughter.

Author's Note

Yes folks, it's finally happened. After ten thousand years of betrayal and war, Zuko's finally gone soft.

The idea of an Iron Warrior joining the CMCs, even if it was against his will, was too good not to include, and unfortunately for him it was Zuko who drew the short straw. This is partly just because of the way events have worked out, partly because he's one of the more mellow and level-headed of the Astartes (for an Iron Warrior at least), and partly because he's arguably the main character-despite being quite content to be the Warsmith's right hand man, which is the role I've always seen him in-and it's a nice way to end this little arc of three chapters concerning him, especially because we probably won't be seeing much of him for a while. Yes, I'm aware how badly I've mangled the fluff here, but I'm already halfway through this thing so we may as well push on. It's what Perturabo would do, after laying down the hurt with his hammer of course.

Although the middle section is the bit that feels most rickety, one thing I did like was the sort of bromance between Spike and Rorke. That wasn't intentional, and it goes against a lot of what we've seen before from the one who is perhaps the most typical Chaos Space Marine of the group, but besides Vortun (poor, poor Vortun ;_;) he's the one of the main 5 I think is the least defined, and it just seemed to come quite naturally. I know I've said before the the events of OiM take place roughly halfway through S3, and the Grand Galloping Gala is never mentioned, but...YOLO (I'm sorry, I'll never do that again).

Your regular service of bolter porn and spine-breaking will return in the not too distant future.

Jägermeister

“Calm down, Twilight. Everything’ll be fine.”

It was easy for Spike to insist she calm down, Twilight reflected. He was still young and foolish; he didn’t really know any better. He wasn’t balancing not only his own fate, but the fate of all his friends and possibly all the realm on a knife-edge in the hope that nothing went drastically wrong. Nor was he entirely cognisant of the dangers of what exactly they were up against-his stunted and unreciprocated attempt at male bonding had displayed that well enough. No, for all the world it felt like Twilight and Twilight alone bore the fears and concerns of her race firmly on her purple shoulders tonight.

The dress Rarity had made for her was beginning to feel choking and sweaty. Twilight forced herself to take a deep breath, and bring a smile she didn’t believe in to her face. For one, Rarity would be distraught were she to ruin her garment; Twilight had told her multiple times that the one she’d made for last year’s gala was more than okay, but the fashionista had insisted, slaving away in her free time to craft a new gown for the Element bearers. Twilight’s was a deep purple to contrast the cosmological blue she’d chosen before. Ribbons in the shapes of stars and planets were sewn in luxurious gold thread, and on the cloak draped over her back constellations twinkled with a magical light. Her tiara was only slightly less impressive than the Element of Magic’s crown, a cord of red gold with another starburst fashioned from a diamond.

“Sorry, Spike.” She lied. She was going to take this seriously, even if no-one else was. “It’s just that, with so many ponies in one place, we do make kind of a tempting target for…them.”

“I don’t see why.” The dragon answered, brushing crumbs off his pint sized tuxedo as he chomped down another hors d’oeuvre. “I mean, the Iron Warriors know they need us to get home, and what would they have to gain from attacking us?” He tossed a small piece of food up, long lizard tongue lashing out to catch it mid-air. “Besides, it was your idea to come in the first place.”

That was true. It had been on Twilight’s suggestion that the group had come to the Gala, as a way of relaxation. They’d stuck together through the early part of the night-memories of last time still fresh-and for a while Twilight had been perfectly happy, talking and laughing the night away with her friends. But slowly they’d drifted away from one another-some carried by the flow of groups of minglers, others to seek out particular ponies of high status. As Twilight was reduced to sharing Spike’s company alone, her doubts had grown and festered until they were a raging, unending torrent in her head. The Unicorn wished she’d thought to bring a book with her. Even with all the friendship lessons she’d learned, what she craved right now-and more than ever recently, she realised-was knowledge, not socialising.

She sighed, accepting that Spike wasn’t going to heed her point. Instead she nuzzled him gently, telling him to have a good time before turning and trotting away. Staying there worrying wouldn’t help, and maybe she could find one of her friends or even the Princess. She bobbed and weaved through the crowd, smiling warmly at any pony that greeted her but otherwise staying silent.

The gala’s atmosphere was certainly more relaxed than it had been in previous years. Much of the dress code had been relaxed, although that seemed to have been entirely lost on Rarity, and the band played a variety of tunes besides the dreary classical sonatas. The ballroom and great chambers were still as grand as Twilight remembered from her fillyhood; the gilded stair cases, glowing chandeliers and fine marble statues never ceased to entrance her, even on a night like tonight. She looked up, examining the main ballroom’s largest chandelier. Every glass crystal was cut so fine as to be perfectly smooth, and were bewitched so they emitted an ever changing spectrum of colours to bathe the room. Twilight couldn’t see what the delicate scrollwork inked across every arm of the furnishing said, but even so it was impressive. Luna’s moon was not long set, and the sky still shimmered with a silvery blade of dying light.

As if the thought summoned her, she appeared across the room. Princess Luna had not bothered to dress up for the event, sporting the same midnight-clue crown, necklace and shoes as ever. Somehow it served only to make the alicorn look more regal, not less. She stood atop a staircase, welcoming late arrivals with a graceful smile. Nor was she alone; Twilight’s heart fluttered with joy as she spied the sparkling multi-hued hair, exquisite golden crown and flawless alabaster-white coat that could only belong to her mentor. Celestia looked up as a dull-looking Pony in top hat and tails passed her, her face broadening in a smile as she saw Twilight approach. Luna followed her gaze, but upon spying the unicorn her only reaction was to scowl. Mumbling something to her sister, she turned and stalked away.

“Is…Princess Luna still mad at me?” Twilight asked reproachfully as she drew nearer. She’d not spoken to the Princess since the battle in Canterlot, when she’d suggested allowing the Iron Warriors to stay until they knew what they were dealing with, much to the Princess of the Night’s displeasure. It had evidently been the cause of unspoken friction, but Celestia’s response was to chuckle delicately.

“Luna will forgive you, my faithful student. Just give her time, she’s always been more…temperamental as I have.” She laughed. Twilight laughed with her, but it was far more nervous. Celestia noticed immediately, and her face changed to an expression of motherly concern. “Is something wrong, Twilight dear? You know you can tell me if there is.”

Despite herself, Twilight shifted slightly when Celestia laid a hoof on her shoulder. Although the unicorn knew the Princess perhaps better than anyone else, with the exception of Luna, it was sometimes difficult to be in her radiance for too long; almost like staring into the sun. Twilight was firmly a creature of science and fact, and she wasn’t afraid to admit she disdained any who believed in snarks and grumpkins hiding in the depths of the forests and the like, but even she had to admit that Celestia and her sister were perhaps the closest things there were to physical gods.

“Oh it’s nothing, really. I mean…it’s just that…I think…”

“Lorkhan?” Celestia interjected. Twilight paled to hear her speak his name so nonchalantly, but nodded. Celestia chuckled again, drawing her protégé in close.

“You really mustn’t worry yourself over him.” She insisted. “Lorkhan’s many things: Bitter, angry, brutal, vindictive…perhaps a little slow on the uptake sometimes. But at heart I’ve seen enough of him as we’ve worked together to know he’s no fool. Besides, have you considered that he and his brothers want to go home as much as we want them to?”

Twilight thought on that. She hadn’t considered it. Even so, words rose unbidden to her mouth. “Has…has he ever said what his home’s like?” All of a sudden, Celestia’s expression changed to a mournful one, but she did not answer. When she did speak, it was to change the subject. “I promise Twilight, everything will be all right. Besides, what possible reason could they have for coming here?”

“Besides, what possible reason do we have for going there?” Rorke growled as he concluded his rant, cursing loudly and colourfully as his head slammed into the wall as they crossed a bump. The Growler was many things, but possessed of a good suspension wasn’t one of them.

Lorkhan didn’t grace his brother with an answer. The cramped and shaky confines of the tank took most of his attention, and furthermore he wasn’t sure there was a real answer. Attending high class functions was something that was better suited to the Ultramarines, or the Phoenician’s get before the War, not the Iron Warriors. Even the eternal gentleman Mordecai had expressed a certain reluctance, without ever actually disagreeing of course, but in the end they’d decided to go for two reasons. Firstly, even the Astartes were starting to grow weary of having naught to do but train and fortify. Secondly, if Lorkhan found evidence that Celestia had no intention of keeping up her side of the bargain, he could kill her.

There were seven Iron Warriors loaded into the Growler’s troop compartment; eight overall, if the driver was taken into account. In another worrying break with Fourth Legion tradition, they’d actually made an attempt to conform to smarten up-Mordecai and Lorkhan’s armour had been scrubbed clean of most accumulated dirt and grime, the sorcerer espousing the virtue of cleanliness. Vortun, to his credit had tried, but the nature of his blessing had left all such efforts futile. In theory he shouldn’t even have fit in the Rhino, but with much grunting and squeezing they’d finally managed to get him in, although the consequence had been crushing his brothers against the tank’s walls. Barbus and his three hand-picked Astartes hadn’t cleaned their war-plate, but instead wore heavy fur cloaks that hung from their shoulders like the hide of a great beast. The warband had skinned them from wolves, although not all had been the quadrapedal variety. In the gruelling siege warfare and trench battles the Iron Warriors favoured a cloak was often an unnecessary hazard, and even out of combat they disdained dressing up, but all had thought it appropriate for the moment. Rorke, of course, had done nothing, and was here solely because Lorkhan had made him come.

It was Barbus who came to his rescue. “Well, clearly we’re not here for our health Rorke. Some of us are competent enough to understand a reconnaissance mission when we see it.”

Rorke shifted angrily in his seat, hands twitching as one of them rested on the hilt of his sword, but Vortun’s bulk held him in place. “Big words, lickspittle. Too bad Zuko isn’t around to help you back them up.” He spat.

“Enough, both of you.” Lorkhan interjected, before it got out of hand. “Focus on the mission.” Barbus cocked his head in mute judgement, but shrugged and leaned back without a word. Rorke however was not so easily dissuaded.

“And if the Xenos do try something?” He was answered by Lorkhan’s steely gaze.

“Then that would be…unfortunate.”

Quiet reigned for a moment, before Rorke nodded, seemingly content. Lorkhan folded his arms and gritted what remained of his teeth as they crested another rock. It wasn’t long before Mordecai broke the silence.

“I struggle to see any stratagem here that is benefocial to the Xenos, sir, although I confess I do suffer from a most perculiar headache. Though, it seems a fine night for such an event.” He was telling the truth-the sky was cloudless, the winds refreshingly cool. Lorkhan had never liked trenches as much as some of his brothers, and if nothing else Equestria’s climate was agreeable. Mordecai’s words made him think of something else, however, and he opened a vox link in his helmet.

“Talk to me, Varvillon.”

The other Iron Warrior had gone on ahead at the Warsmith’s request, taking up a scouting role to observe the party before they arrived. Last time Lorkhan had checked, he’d been perched atop a rock face that looked straight into the main ballroom.

“Judging from the hordes I can see, you’d think this was the highlight of their year. The pink one you nearly killed is here with the purple horned one, as well as butterfly arse-“

“Fluttershy.”

“She’s here too. As is Celestia…you realise I can blow her head off with a slight decompression of my finger, right?”

It was tempting-oh so tempting-but she was still useful to Lorkhan for the time being. Plus, if it came to that, she was his.

“Don’t even think about it, Varvillon. When did you get a sniper rifle anyway?”

“What, this? I took it from Sarkon before the crash. Bastard owed me, stepped on that Prandium rose-tree I was keeping.”

Sarkon had been their best scout, and responsible for the accurate impact of countless artillery barrages. None of this meant Lorkhan had liked him.

“You ‘took’ it? Didn’t he say anything?”

“He said something.”

Lorkhan smirked, cutting the link. It was another ten or so minutes before they reached their destination. Gradually the growling engines reduced to a low snarl, and the few remaining internal lights flickered on as the hiss of pressure heralded the Rhino’s doors opening. Vortun was the first out, with a bit of effort, flanked by Barbus and another Iron Warrior holding their guns at the ready. Rorke, Lorkhan and the rest followed. Mordecai took in a deep breath and stretched, pebbles rising into the air around him and vibrating violently as he gently reached out with his psychic power. Had any of them bother to look behind them they would undoubtedly have seen the castle’s front gardens torn up by the tracks of their vehicle, but the Iron Warriors’ eyes were instead drawn ahead.

From what little they’d seen, Canterlot and the castle looked a lot more inviting when they weren’t being dragged in as prisoners or fighting for their lives through its streets. The stone from which it was made wasn’t clear, but the liberal application of gemstones and flawless glass did lend the castle a certain aesthetic charm. Not that any of the mattered to Lorkhan; as a defensive position it was shoddy, and even factoring the inevitable magic in the Warsmith had already analysed over 27 structural weaknesses and avenues of attack. Storing them away for later review, he pressed on towards the great doors, companions in tow.

The pony serving as a doorman was well dressed, but that didn’t seem to stop him shaking like Rorke on a bad day as the Astartes approached. It was only in the tiniest of voices he called out as they passed “e-excuse me, b-but you can’t go in if you don’t have a t-t-ticket…”

Lorkhan stopped at his words, but didn’t turn. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of Rorke’s power sword flaring to life and the rack on three bolters being pulled that he regarded the Xenos.

“There’s my ticket.”

It wasn’t long before his nerve, inevitably, broke, and the pony was sent squealing down the path in a blind panic. Barbus snatched the top hat from his head as he passed, hanging it from the tip of one of the horns that curved round from the side of his helmet. It was unprofessional, but Lorkhan allowed him the eccentricity. They pushed on, through deserted stairwells and chambers as stealthily as they could. The presence of Vortun and live power armour made such an act near enough impossible, but from the sound of it the ponies were congregating in the main hall where not so long ago the Iron Warriors had been on trial. The return had a certain grim irony to it, Lorkhan acknowledged.

Eventually they reached the door. The excitable and idle blabber of hundreds of voices behind hadn’t abated, and it seemed that the Ponies still didn’t know they were there. That suited Lorkhan just fine. As he was about to push through the door, he felt the gauntlet of what could only be Mordecai rest on his pauldron. Preparing himself for a lecture on civility and poise, he was surprised when the sorcerer’s voice came through a private channel.

“It seems prudent to…exercise caution, sir.”

Despite his dislike of the Psyker, something in Mordecai’s tone gave Lorkhan paused. He looked at the Telekine searchingly. “Why?” Mordecai didn’t answer for a moment, but Lorkhan thought he saw him…wince?

“It’s…you’ll pardon my saying, sir, but for the first time since we arrive I feel…power, sir.”

For a long time Lorkhan stared at him, weighing up what Mordecai was implying. It became clear they couldn’t go back now, and he pushed his doubts to one side. With a grudging nod to the warlock, Lorkhan pushed the door open.

Above all else, Pinkie Pie prided herself on the ability to always have a good time.

Sometimes, when observing this for the first time, other ponies would roll their eyes or scoff at her. They saw it as a sign of a flat personality, a weak and entirely dependent little girl-she knew all this, because some were quite vocal about it. She admitted that she could be a little…pushy, when it came to making new friends, but ultimately Pinkie tried not to take such comments to heart. She was proud of her optimism and the great stock she put in making those she cared bot smile, and after a while most came round to her way of thinking.

She wasn’t certain, but Pinkie reckoned that quality was why she was so good at throwing parties. Ultimately her talent was expressing her happiness, which gave her degrees of skill in music, art and dance, but it was party-throwing that really captured her imagination and brought her satisfaction. The Grand Galloping Gala was a let down on that front last time, but she’d been more than willing to try again, and it’d paid off. She’d been rushed off her hooves trying to dance, catch up with everyone and make time to talk to anyone who looked lonely, but that was her lot and it was enough for her to know that everyone else was enjoying themselves.

So when the arrival of the Iron Warriors caused the music and dancing to stop, and a stone cold silence to fall over the hall, Pinkie’s heart froze more than most.

The chandeliers, bleached castle interior and little remaining moonlight combined to give their shining silver armour an almost too perfect glow, and contrasted heavily with the muted bronze and deep blacks that formed pauldrons and trim. As they walked, their footsteps rang off the floor with an eerie synchronisation, echoing around the noiseless ballroom, although it was drowned out by the coming of one of the huge ugly ones with guns in their arms. Three of the marauders wore long cloaks over their shoulders that seemed to be made of fur. For a moment Pinkie spared a thought for Fluttershy, but such concern was drowned out as her breath caught in her throat and she let out a quiet, frightened squeak.

He was there. The alien king, or whatever he was, advanced at the head of the pack. Four metal snakes sprouted from his armour and coiled around him, hissing and spitting the occasional gout of purple flame into the air, and with every other footfall the metallic smack of the butt of his spiked axe tapped out his pace on the marble floor. For a moment his eyes met hers, and Pinkie felt her throat tightening as it had done when he had wrapped his claws around it. Nearby, Pinkie heard Twilight beginning to hyperventilate; she desperately wanted to go and help, but fear and an unPinkie-like anger kept her rooted to the spot.

They stopped about halfway through the hall, the crowds of Ponies parting to let them through. Lorkhan-she remembered that that was his name-stared at Princess Celestia mutely. She stared back, and although it was hard to tell Pinkie thought she saw a tremor of fear on her face. The Iron Warrior was the one to break the eye contact, turning to examine one of the stained glass windows that decorated the ballroom. The closest was also the most recent-Spike destroying King Sombra with the Crystal Heart, and the red glow from Lorkhan’s eyes mixed with the crimson surrounding the fallen Unicorn.

“We didn’t have much in the way of art on Olympia.” He said at last, still not taking his eyes off the painting. “Unlike Fulgrim’s peacocks, we were never very good at it…unless you count math and artillery bombardments as art, I suppose. The Primarch placed dogged adherence to a policy of war above all else-he thought art was an unnecessary distraction, that it encouraged sentimentality.”

“The irony is, Father was one of the most honourable warriors I ever knew, and had a great love for mathematical learning and architectural pursuits.” Finally, he looked at Celestia. His voice was still a threatening monotone. “Of course, being forced to tear down everything we came across instead of ever building, and never with any thanks or recognition for it, stunted our artistic growth. The rest of mankind seemed to agree, because only one painting of us was ever made…and that was less than flattering.”

Pinkie wasn’t sure why he was telling them all this, and from the looks on their faces neither was anypony else, least of all the Princess. She stammered, for once at a complete loss for words. Lorkhan seemingly took that as permission to continue.

“We didn’t get any tickets. It was actually Rorke that told us this was happening at all, and we were already out tonight.” He nodded at Fluttershy. “We added more to your home, by the way. You have a moat now, and we addressed a weak point at the southern tower.” The Pegasus looked stunned, before edging back into the mass of pony body’s. Pinkie Pie scowled at the aliens.

Finally, Celestia found her voice. “Well, you’re certainly very welcome to stay, provided you behave yourselves. Although, you seem to be missing part of your command structure…” she trailed off, raising a hoof in the air and shaking it to and fro. Lorkhan stared at it for a moment, helmet blank as ever.

“Oh. You mean Zuko. He’s…Barbus, where is Zuko? I told him to be here.” He turned to look at one of his kin behind him, a cloaked warrior with a top hat dangling from the tip of a horn. Barbus shrugged.

“Damned if I know. Wouldn’t tell me, although he didn’t sound happy about it.”

***

“And then Fulgrim cut Ferrus Manus’ head off, and the Salamanders and Corax’s pigeons all died, and we won the war and the Legion certainly never got into the state it is. The end.”

He was met by three disbelieving gaze tucked up together in the bed in front of him. Zuko had told them plainly that bedtime story telling was not one of his talents, but they’d insisted.

“Did…any of that actually happen?” Scootaloo asked.

“Ferrus lost his head.” Zuko confirmed. He rose from the chair that had been barely supporting his weight, pulling his red cloak tighter around him. He was almost out the door when Sweetie’s voice chimed up.

“Wait, what’s the difference between an Iron Hand and an Iron Warrior?”

“Never ask me that again.” Zuko replied flatly, not stopping. She was quiet for a whole second.

“But couldn’t Ferrus have waited for backup or something? Why did he charge in alone?”

This time Zuko did stop. He cast the Crusaders a sidelong glance.

“Because he was an idiot. Go to sleep.”

He slammed the door before they could talk, and went to get a cigar.

***

“Anyway, he’s not here.” Lorkhan said. Any further exposition was lost as something caught his eye. He walked over to a serving pony, examining the plate he held.

“What’s that?” the alien asked, pointing at one of the glasses. The pony was visibly quivering.

“M-m-mulled wine, your Iron Warriorship.” Lorkhan grunted, before lifting a glass with surprising delicacy. Handing it to one of the others to hold, he placed a hand either side of his helmet and pulled. A hiss filled the room.

Pinkie, and everyone else, gasped.

Over half Lorkhan’s face was replaced with metal, one of his eyes glowing as red as his helmet’s. However, it was his flesh that drew the onlookers; what remained of his real face was marked by a huge scar that narrowly missed his eye and bisected his nose and lips. The edges of the cut were red raw, and the wound itself seemed to have an ice blue tinge to it. Lorkhan noticed the attention.

“A wolf bit me.” He explained. “Left a scar, but ended up savaging itself too by accident. It was his own fault really; he was the one that wanted single combat.”

It didn’t look like any Timberwolf wound Pinkie had seen before, but she kept quiet on that. Rainbow Dash didn’t.

“I find it hard to believe that YOU fought with honour.” Lorkhan nodded.

“No, I didn’t.” he agreed, reaching into one of the pouches on his belt. He produced something small, hanging it from his fingers. Pinkie had to squint to see it, but it looked like a necklace threaded with canine teeth carved with strange symbols. Lorkhan jutted his chin at the pendant. “He did.”

For a moment, Pinkie thought he was going to crush the object in his hands, but after a delay he placed it back in the pouch with almost reverential care. Taking the wine glass from his subordinate and downing the drink in a single swig, the Iron Warrior reattached his helmet. It was an improvement. No sooner had he done so he began to walk, his warriors in tow. The table they elected to sit at was the nearest one, and Pinkie’s eyes widened as she realised it was Filthy Rich’s private booth; completely ignoring his protests the Iron Warriors took their seats around him, with the exceptions of the big guy who couldn’t sit, and Barbus-who coughed almost guiltily and elected to lean on a nearby wall.

It soon became clear they had no intention of leaving, although no visible conversation passed between them as they stared at the ponies. Eventually, the party began to kick up again, though the band was more subdued and the dancing less vigorous. And in the midst of it all, only Pinkie seemed to notice the one Iron Warrior clutching at his head.

It was twenty minutes before one of his brothers came to bother Barbus. He’d expected that. What he hadn’t expected was the source.

The crowds parted like a tide as Vortun lumbered his way across the ballroom floor. The Obliterator moved at a steady pace, but didn’t slow-more than once one of the Xenos had to dive away to avoid his footfalls. Recessed deeply in the fleshy folds at the centre of his armour, two dark, mismatched and piggish eyes stared out at Barbus. The Iron Warrior shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t that he disliked Vortun, far from it; like many of the IV Legion he was in awe of the creature’s communion with the Powers that Be, even if he’d never really seen the need for said powers. It was just something in the Obliterator’s overall manner that set him on edge.

His suspicions were confirmed when Vortun reached him. “You vill come vith me.” He growled without preamble. Barbus watched him incredulously, folding his arms.

“I’m not taking you to the toilet.” He said at last. Vortun grunted in what Barbus gathered was the closest he could manage to a laugh, but the ever-mutating face’s underlying expression didn’t change.

“Zat vill not be nessercary. Come.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Zen I vill shoot you, yah?”

“Fair enough.” The Iron Warrior pushed himself off the wall, unfolding his arms only to pull the fur cloak tighter around his shoulders before returning to their contemptuous pose. Vortun took that as a yes and began to retrace his steps, displacing the teeming throngs of Ponies that had only just refilled the gaps he had made. Barbus followed in his wake, relishing how the way the Xenos slunk back under his gaze more than a little.

For a terrible moment, it seemed that Vortun was intent on dragging Barbus onto the dancefloor. The Iron Warrior’s hands instinctively fell to his bolter, wondering whether he could get a convincing headshot in before the Obliterator killed him in any one of numerous unpleasant ways. But the Gods smiled on him for once, and Vortun did not stop, instead continuing to push his way through the crowds until they came across a specific pony. Barbus raised his one remaining eyebrow within his helmet.

The dress was certainly a surprise, as was the radical redesign to the hat, but Barbus instantly recognised her. Applejack’s face paled somewhat as the pair approached her, but the combined gaze of two Chaos Space Marines-one of whom was as much daemon as man-kept her rooted to the spot. They’d managed to catch her when she was pretty much alone, and Vortun wasted no time taking his chance.

“You vill help us.” It seemed to Barbus that Vortun really wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter tonight. She looked even more taken aback, but quickly recovered.

“And just wah would ah do a thing lahk that, do y’all reckon?” she spat, eyes narrowing. “Shoot, ah don’t even which two you purport tah be…or what, in your case.”

Vortun’s sigh was the sound of two mountains crashing together. Barbus kept silent, just as lost as the Xenos as to where Vortun was going with this.

“Mein name ist Vortun.” He explained, slowly. “Ich bin ein Obliterator. Zis is mein bruder, Barbus. He is…ein wahnsinniger.”

Barbus had no idea what Vortun had just said, but accepted it was probably an insult. He stared at her, and she stared back.

“You vill help us,” Vortun went on, “because frau Sparkle told me zat you are an embodiment of honesty.”

“T…Twalaght told y’all that?” For a moment Applejack’s defences cracked, confusion setting in on her face. When she did come back round it was with considerably less gusto. “Well, there’s no shame in admittin’ it, ah trah never tah tell a lah to nopony.”

“Zat is commendable.” Vortun admitted. Barbus finished the rest in his head; commendable, but stupid. “So you vill answer mein question truthfully, yah?”

“Depends what y’all wanna know.” She retorted. Vortun looked down at her for a moment.

“Are you attempting to poisoning us?”

That got her going. Applejack’s face changed from paling to an incandescent red, and when she spoke it was little more than a splutter.

“What the…how…wah, of all the dirty rotten nerve! Y’all barge in here, disturb our party and now you accuse us honest, hard-working ponyfolk of-“

“We weren’t accusing.” Barbus decided it was time to step in. “We were asking.” Again, he reached for his bolter. “Would you like me to accuse, Xenos?”

Applejack understood the implication, but was smart enough not to respond. She took a step back, turning away from the Astartes and taking a deep breath. “Nah, we ain’t poisonin’ yah, not that ah know of anyway.” She seemed to think it over for a moment, eyeing the pair suspiciously. “Wah are y’all askin’, anyhow?”

Vortun didn’t smile, or react in any way before pointing over her shoulder to begin with. Both Applejack and Barbus followed his finger. “Because I vant to know vat is wrong with him.”

Mordecai.

Now that Vortun mentioned it, it occurred to Barbus that the Sorcerer had been acting peculiarly tonight. Lorkhan slinking off to drink by himself in the corner and Rorke practically flipping a table and going into major convulsion half way through the evening had been expected, but all had thought Mordecai would be thoroughly in his element here. And yet, first off he had been complaining of a headache whilst they were arriving, and it seemed to have gotten worse as the night went on. He was as polite and affable as ever, of course, but generally seemed more pained, tired and…irritable?

Barbus had never seen Mordecai irritable before. Unlike many of his brothers, he didn’t hate the Psyker. Trust was a different matter of course, but magical support had saved Barbus’ arse more than once and anyway, Mord had been way back in the Crusade like the rest of them. It was difficult to imagine life without his presence. He’d been spending more than a little time with the Xenos since they’d arrived, and that piqued Barbus’ curiosity. But judging from the way he had been dragged by a white one with purple hair and a completely overdone dress to come and meet some of what Barbus assumed was Equestrian ‘high society’, it seemed to have been played against the sorcerer.

HE was clutching one side of his helmet as the white pony and her fellows prattled on endlessly around him, for once silent unless it was to chuckle politely or respond to a question. None of them seemed to mind, although Barbus noticed that some did still cast nervous glances in his direction. Something akin to pity came over the Iron Warrior; he was a self-serving creature, and proud of it, but Mordecai was clearly suffering here. Before he could go to his brother’s rescue, however, he was interrupted by another.

“Well well, if it isn’t miss Rarity.”

Rarity-for that, it seemed, was the white ponies’ name, and now Barbus recognised her-turned a similar angry shade of red as Applejack as she heard the voice. She seemed to be having trouble staying composed, and turning was a slow, deliberate action. When she spoke Barbus realised why Mordecai liked her so much; they both believed in manners above all.

“Prince Blueblood, what a …surprise.” She said through clenched teeth. The stallion-a creature with a white coat, black tuxedo, golden hair and a visible aura of arrogance-smiled smugly as he approached. The other Xenos elites began to chatter excitably, but Rarity and Mord simply watched him.

“So I see you came back.” The ‘Prince’ went on. “Understandable, not many mares can stay away for long. Well, I suppose I forgive you for your outrageous behaviour last year, if I must, but don’t expect me to be as courteous again.” His gaze shifted to Mordecai, but the smile didn’t drop. Barbus focused, Astartes hearing picking up every word. “Ah, and you here must be one of the infamous Iron Warriors.”

Quite correct, good sir.” Mordecai said, though his voice was strained. Blueblood appeared not to notice.

“Well, you are quite formidable, aren’t you? Although I must say-bad show on just barging in like that, terribly uncouth.”

“I humbly apologise, my good sir, though I confess it was difficult to conceive any other method of gaining entry.” Something subtle had changed in Mordecai’s voice, although Barbus couldn’t tell what it was. The wince was obvious enough that.

“Yes yes, well, I guess dull brutes such as yourselves may have difficulty adjusting to such basic common courtesies.” Blueblood yammered on. Rarity took an affronted gasp, and Barbus bristled. He didn’t give a shit whether the Ponies thought he was a brute or not, but an insult to the face of one Iron Warrior like that was an insult to them all.

Mordecai, all smiles, pretended to pay no mind. “Oh, I must disagree there. You see, our methods are merely unlike yours-“

“Well of course you would think that, wouldn’t you? From what I gather you and your alien friends have been cooped up together for so long, you know little more than how to thump each other with sticks. Still, it’s hardly surprising I suppose. It seems all your Legion is as mindless as your merry band. Still,” Blueblood levitated a wine glass from a nearby tray, sipping it thoughtfully. “Perhaps interaction with civilised folk will help you amend your barbarous ways.”

Barbus was halfway through pulling his gun when it happened. Mordecai’s hand-which before had been held perfectly still-shot out like an iron viper, striking the pony’s glass from the air. It shattered on the floor with a considerable crash, and finally Blueblood recoiled, as if what he had said was finally sinking in.

Until his last moment, one of the wonders of Barbus’ life was how Mordecai’s voice kept its refined tone even as he was exploding.

“I SAY, WHAT THE DEVIL DID YOU JUST AUDACIOUSLY PRCLAIM ABOUT OUR WELL-BEING? I SHALL INFORM YOU THAT I HAVE GRADUATED TOP OF MY CLASS AT NUMEROUS OLYMPIAN MILITARY COLLEGES AS WELL AS POSSESSING AN EXEMPLORARY RECORD IN THE ASTARTES TRAINING PROGRAM, AND HAVE BEEN ENGAGED IN NUMEROUS ALTERCATIONS WITH THOSE RUFFIANS NATIVE TO OTHER LEGIONS. MIGHT I ALSO ADD THAT ABOARD OUR SHIP I HAVE ACCUMULATED THREE HUNDRED PIECES OF ANTIQUE, EARLY IMPERIUM FURNITURE? I AM SELF-EDUCATED IN FINE DINING AND HIGH CLASS CATERING, AND AM THE TOP AUTHORITY UPON DIPLOMATIC CONVENTION IN THE ENTIRE FOURTH LEGION. YOU ARE NAUGHT TO ME BUT A SIMPLE, UNCOUTH BRUTE, AND I SHALL EMBARRASS THE DICKENS OUT OF YOU WITH CLASS THE LIKES OF WHICH HAS NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFORE UPON THIS HUMBLE PLANET, I DO SOLEMNLY PROMISE. YOU ASSUME YOU CAN DISRESPECT MINE AND MY BROTHER’S IMAGE SO WILLY-NILLY? THINK AGAIN, SAVAGE. AS WE SPEAK I AM ALREADY PLANNING TO ARRANGE A BRUNCH TOGETHER AT THE FINEST ESTABLISHMENT IN TOWN, SO YOU HAD BETTER PRPARE A FETCHING ENOUGH OUTFIT TO MATCH MY IMMACULATE ATTIRE. THIS SHALL BE THE BRUNCH THAT SENDS YOU PACKING BACK TO THE SLUMS; YOU ARE INEVITABLY DEFEATED, XENOS. I CAN BE BOOKED FOR ANY APPOINTMENT AT ANY HOUR, AND CAN EDUCATE YOU IN OVER SEVEN HUNDRED GALACTIC CULTURES, AND THAT IS ONLY WITH THE LITERARY SELECTION I KEEP IN MY CHAMBERS. NOT ONLY AM I EXTENSIVELY PROFFICIENT IN THE PSYCHIC ARTS, I HAVE ACCESS TO SEVERAL SUITS OF ENHANCED POWER ARMOUR AND SHALL FLAUNT THEIR FINELY ARTIFICED MASTERY TO OUTSHINE YOUR DRAB, COMMON APPEARANCE OFF THE FACE OF EQUESTRIA YOU SLOB. IF ONLY YOU HAD FORSEEN THE COMEUPPANCE YOUR ‘INSIGNIFICANT’ COMMENTS WERE BOUND TO EARN YOU, PERHAPS YOU WOULD HAVE TEMPERED YOUR WORDS. BUT YOU INSISTED, AND NOW I SHALL TEACH YOU MANNERS AND GRACE AND YOU WILL LEARN DIGNITY AND POISE YET.

CONSIDER YOURSELF IN ETTIQUETTE SCHOOL…PEASANT.”

For the second time that night silence descended on the hall. Rarity’s mouth hung upon limply, and it took Mordecai several minutes to stop breathing harshly, clear his throat and return to his usual demeanour. Blueblood had retreated entirely inward; of the arrogant lordling, nothing could be seen in the quivering wreck that trembled before the sorcerer. Barbus broke out in furious applause, but quickly trailed off when not even his brothers joined in. The Iron Warriors, like the ponies, stared at the Psyker in abject shock.

Mordecai seemed to know when he was beaten. With another awkward cough, he nodded apologetically to Lorkhan, then the Princess, before turning to storm out through the door they’d entered from. Rarity was after him moments later, calling his name seemingly in vain.

When they had left, and the sound of their steps had faded from earshot, all eyes turned to look at Lorkhan. The Warsmith hadn’t taken his helmet off again, and instead chose to recline lazily in the booth the Astartes had ‘borrowed’. Nonetheless, he seemed to meet everyone’s gaze as they stared at him.

“I’m not even angry.” He admitted, finally. “I’m impressed.”

He made it as far as the sculpture garden before she caught up with him.

“Mordecai, darling, please wait.”

It was pointless trying to run any further. And anyway, Space Marines did not run, even the corrupted and utterly self-serving ones. Mordecai halted, practically ripping his helmet from his head and casting it to the ground. As he did, all the branches on the nearest tree snapped clean in half as a wild burst of telekinetic force lashed out. Rarity drew back nervously, but regained her nerve.

She looked at him with concern evident in her eyes, and he looked down at her whilst forcing the pain down. The mental rotes he dimly recalled from his induction into the Legion’s libraries helped where pacts with the Dark Gods had not, but the rush of pain to his head was still nearly blinding.

“I…apologise.” He managed to stammer. “I should not have snapped. That was not…that was not cordial of me.”

“Oh pish posh, I shall not hear it. Blueblood is an absolute ogre and it was high time someone gave him a stern talking to.” Rarity comforted. She rested a hoof on his leg. “But that was not like you at all.”

“It may well be.” There was almost anger in his voice. “How would you know what we are? Are why did you follow me? Are you not scared of us?”

“Everyone is scared of you, darling.” She said with a sympathetic smile. “But you are certainly nowhere near as bad as the rest of your compatriots. Now then, are you alright?”

No, he wanted to say, No I am not. Ever since they had arrived on this world manifesting his powers had been difficult. It was almost as if the ‘Magic of Friendship’ that had been vaguely described was a tangible force; insulating this world from the worst of the other Realm’s effects. Yet here, in the castle, the…the Warp seemed to rage more freely. He knew he had felt something when they had been brought here in custody, but the demands of the situation at hand had meant he’d been able to ignore the headache. Now the sudden contact with the Realm of Chaos, and flooding of the Warp’s tides back into him, felt like they were burning out his insides. As a followed of Chaos Mordecai had expected such a reunion to be almost blissful, but it was far from it. He swallowed.

“It is nothing, my dear. Merely-“

“It is not nothing.” Rarity put in, sharply. Mordecai had nearly no memory of his mother, but something in the pony’s tone told him she must have been like Rarity. Nevertheless, this wasn’t a line of discussion he wanted to pursue with the one creature he could perhaps call his friend.

“These sculptures are certainly most impressive.” He said, changing the subject. That actually wasn’t a lie; Mordecai was impressed with many of the art pieces here. Tiny winged Pegasi and studious looking Unicorns were all around the garden, some secreted in fountains or at the centre of elegantly fashioned mazes. Rarity sighed, maybe realising she wasn’t going to draw an answer from him tonight, and gestured an invitation to walk with her.

They walked gently and in silence, and it felt for a moment that Mordecai was indeed feeling better. When they reached the fifth statue, however, their walk came to an abrupt halt. Here it felt like the Warp had practically sliced the mortal world in twain, opening a rift into the realms beyond, and that Mordecai would explode from either daemonic intervention or simple psychic overload. Though his vision swam and doubled, he forced himself to look at the statue. And it was marvellous, though much more…confused than many he’d seen so far. Even the pose was odd, and where many of the other sculptures were crafted from flawless marble this one was cracked and almost warm to the touch.

Rarity looked halfway between anger and confusion. “I…I though the Princess had moved it out of the public eye.” Mordecai watched her, the perplexed shoe now firmly on the other foot. “Oh come now, surely it can’t be that bad. It’s just a little weatherworn, is all.” He said through gritted teeth as he knelt down to read the name plaque. It was dusty, and he had to wipe some of it away to get a good look.

“Discord; Draconequus, deposed tyrant of Equestria, God of…”

“Oh my.”

Author's Note

I'd just like to take a moment to thank the 1027 people who took time out of their day to check this out. A thousand views may not be much in the grand scheme of things, but considering this basically started as a joke, it's pretty darn humbling.

Anyway, Blueblood was...a problem. Getting uppity with a Chaos Space Marine feels quite OOC for such an obvious coward,but somebody had to push Mordecai over the edge and, well, he's easy to hate.

(As an aside there's about 3 Game of Thrones' references in here. I'll be impressed if anyone spots them all.)

And Up She Rises

It wasn’t a trench, but it felt like one. In fact, Zuko wished it were; he liked trenches. He’d spent half his bloody life down them. Trenches were…easy.

Every footfall on the snow sent his boot deep into the ice sheets, the crunch eerily reminiscent of splintering bone. It wasn’t long before all of his lower legs had their silver plate covered in white, and the constant snowfall gave much of his top half the same effect. In the dull light, and with the stained white coating, he looked more like the Death Guard once had than an Iron Warrior. Only his eyes gaze him the appearance of being anything other than a twisted snowman come to life; glowing raw and red, their optical beams piercing the gloom.

His old and battered suit of Power Armour was heated enough to make Zuko feel no discomfort from the punishing elements, but even so, he pulled the red cloak the Xenos had made him a little closer, taking care not to rip the edges. He may not have wanted it, but it did help warm him a little and keep his mind sufficiently focused. That, and if he took it with him there was no chance of his brothers finding it.

As he trudged through the deep snow banks, Zuko took a moment to consider the seemingly insane physics and climate of the world they’d now spent the last two or so months on. Less than half a day’s march past, he’d been in the idyllic and temperate surroundings of Ponyville. They’d had a bloody forest on the outskirts, for damn’s sake. When he’d set off north he’d prepared a travel plan that would take him several weeks, not expecting to reach any serious impeding weather until he was on the far side of the mountains. That had been the plan, but of course, Equestria hadn’t been paying attention.

Despite making sure to follow the train line that headed north, or at least keep it in view, no sooner had he set foot in the mountainous regions had everything taken a turn for the worst. The vegetation had died almost instantly, and had he not thought to bring some branches he’d found earlier along-just in case-there was a very real chance of being stranded without supplies of any kind. Even with his power armour senses and Marine physiology, it was hard to see more than a few feet in front of him, and he’d lost count of the amount of times his plasma pistol had almost become frozen in its holster. It was for that reason he’d chosen to keep his power fist on, and the crackling electrical field surrounding the talons turned any snow that hit it into fine droplets of steaming water.

In a world where the Pegasi seemingly had virtually unlimited control over the weather, bar the Everfree, Zuko wondered why they bothered taking the time to produce these snowstorms at all. Scientifically speaking, he knew it had to be deposited somewhere. Just…not here, would be useful. It was colder than a Space Wolf’s smile here.

He stopped, crouching and hoping the steadily increasing wind didn’t rip the cloak from his shoulders. The snow hat had already begun to coalesce on him made him almost invisible in the bleak wilderness. Slowly, he reached down and drew the serrated combat knife from his belt with his free hand, flipping it to hold it ready. Other than unsheathing his blade, he didn’t move.

Something pattered on the snow. The sound of tiny little feet padded through the snow, the skittering of some multi-legged beast. The Iron Warrior didn’t turn, not wanting to make the first move, but silently he weighed up his options. Mordecai’s…revelation a few nights ago had changed the game, and forced Zuko to consider that maybe they weren’t as far from the Warp as he’d of liked. But from wolves made of wood to shape-shifting bug daemons, he wouldn’t put it past this insane planet to harbour a few eldritch abominations of its own. The Plasma Pistol might have been a better bet, but it was slow to fire and he didn’t want to attract any more of whatever it was that could be hidden in the snow. He closed his eyes, relaxing his muscles and letting his hypno-conditioned battle routines take over. An idea took hold. He tilted the knife gripped in his hand, angling it towards any light he could find. If he could reflect the sun off it he might be able to provoke it and launch a counter-attack, or at least get a better view of what it was from the blade’s polished steel. The knife glinted. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and steeled himself to face down a monster vomited from the hells.

“Ohmigosh, you have a sword too? That’s so awesome!”

For the first time since walking into the snowstorm, Zuko really froze. It wasn’t a monster. It was worse.

“Oh no.” He muttered, and for a moment his stony demeanour cracked. “Not you.”

Spike nearly fell over his own clawed feet as he sprinted towards the door, the frenetic knocking spurring him to quicken his pace. Blood gushing to his head with the exercise, he reached the door and flung it open, pausing only to catch his breath.

Three Ponies stood in the doorway, each with an equally concerned expression. Apropos of nothing they dashed in, the closest to Spike stopping to look at him with large green eyes. They were determined and strong, bt the baby dragon thought he also saw an undercurrent of fear nestled deep within them.

“Rainbow came an’ found me an’ Pinkie right away.” Applejack said, adjusting her trademark hat slightly. “She still here?” Spike nodded, forcing down the tears that were slowly welling up at the corner of his eyes and pointed at the green door just down the stairs that marked the entrance to Twilight’s study and laboratory. Applejack nodded grimly in thanks, before galloping to join her two friends. Rainbow was hammering on the door with a hoof, whilst Pinkie was desperately and fruitlessly trying the lock. Spike followed behind AJ, but he knew from experience it was locked.

“Open up Twilight!” Rainbow shouted in, ceasing her knocking only a moment. It was voiced as a threat, but even though Spike didn’t know many of Twilight’s friends as well as he would like-especially Rarity-he knew when Rainbow was worried. The voice that called back seemingly didn’t.

“No! Go away, leave me alone!”

It was muffled by the door, but it didn’t sound at all like the Twilight Spike knew and loved. It was scratchy and discordant, halfway between hysteria and sobbing. It’d been much the same since he’d had brought Twily home from the Grand Galloping gala two days ago; or rather dragged her, as the unicorn seemed to be trapped in some state of shock. Almost as soon as they’d got back she’d locked herself away and refused to see anyone, even him. Twilight’s lone vigils were unsettling enough, but the near-total break down the Iron Warriors had unwittingly induced by their arrival had made Spike even more frightened for his surrogate sister’s mental health. Events over the next few days had forced his hand and made him call in her friends.

“Oh please please please let us in Twilight!” Pinkie practically wailed, resting her forehead on the wooden door. “I promise I won’t be hyperactive or anything! I just want my bestest friend back!” Surprisingly, Spike found he believed her; her mane had certainly deflated somewhat. The last time he’d seen her like that it’d been scary. Now it was sad.

No answer was immediately forthcoming, so the mares seemingly took matters into their own hands. Pinkie and Rainbow drew back, coming in line with AJ who’d positioned herself ready to buck the door. Her hind leg muscles were taught, as were those in Dashie’s wings as she tensed them in readiness. Spike couldn’t watch, trying his hardest to stop the tears.

“You asked for it, Twi.” He heard Rainbow grumble.

They moved as one, AJ lashing out with her toned back legs as Rainbow and Pinkie sprung forward. Locked as it was, the door never stood a chance, the combined weight of three adult ponies too much for it to bear. It was practically flung off its hinges, and they travelled with it, landing in a heap on…something. From the way it squirmed and screamed, Twilight had a pretty good idea what-or who-it was.

He was about to rush to Twilight’s side when something unconscious made him stop. He looked around the room, taking a deep breath as his reptilian eyes widened. Despite the fact that it was for all intents and purposes a cellar, he’d always known Twilight’s lab to be well lit and almost inviting. Now it seemed all the light had been sucked out, save the dim glow of a few shimmering candles strewn hither and tither. The masses of industrial scientific equipment that had been crammed in when they’d been experimenting on the ‘Obliterator’ were gone, replaced by old, half rotten tables. A coat-stand that Twilight had somehow managed to drag in leaning on a far wall, as well as other more ‘arcane’ pieces of apparatus. Books of every shape and size were scattered all over the tables and the floor, some closed, some open and in the midst of study. Spike knew pretty much every book in the library and where to file it, but he’d never seen these before; they made him uncomfortable, some seeming to radiate a malicious intent from words that almost flowed over the pages. He wondered where she’d got them from. Nevertheless, what drew the young dragon’s attention the most was the symbols drew over the wall. Some were mathematical or standard magical procedure, yet there was one repeated sign that gave Spike pause. It was a flowing, almost fishlike shape, and despite the fact that they were drew with nothing more than black chalk the edges almost looked like they flickered and writhed with half-glimpsed flame. A circle that looked worryingly like an eye stared out, watching his every move and privy to his innermost secrets and desires. Spike suddenly felt very vulnerable.

Applejack, Pinkie and Rainbow Dash didn’t seem to notice their unsettling confines. They focused on keeping their weight on the door, keeping the purple shape underneath pinned. Twilight stared angrily at him as he shuffled over to them, and the fury in her eyes broke the infant’s heart.

“Twahlahgt, Sugacube, please calm down.” Applejack said in a measured, serious tone. “We’re here ta help.”

“You can’t help.” The Unicorn spat back. The intrusion had seemingly left her manic. “You can’t help, no one can help. Just leave me alone.”

“Tw-twily, do you even know what you’re saying?” Pinkie screamed, glistening tears streaming down her face. “We’re your friends, of course we can help!” She smiled, but it was clearly forced.

“Friends won’t stop them. They don’t share them. Friends can’t stop them, we didn’t stop them, only I can stop them, but I have to know how!” Twilight’s voice rose from a mutter to a shout, spittle flying into AJ’s face. The Unicorn thrashed, but bizarrely hadn’t let off any magic yet. Perhaps she was simply too distraught.

“Oh come on Egghead.” Rainbow Dash said, voice strained with the effort of holding her friend down. “Don’t make me agree with Pinkie here, are you listening to yourself?” She lowered her face, her stony glare scant centimetres from Twilight’s frenzied expression. “This doesn’t sound like the Pony the Princess trusted to write friendship reports.”

The words seemed to penetrate her fevered mind, because the anger instantly drained from her eyes and she became Twilight again. The Unicorn’s body went limp as she rested her head back, eyes closed in an attempt to mask the sobbing that now came freely from her throat. Her friends responded in kind, relaxing and dragging the door off her. No sooner had they done it then Twilight sprang up, flinging both hooves around Applejack’s neck and drawing her in to a tight hug as she sobbed. AJ flinched warily, but soon loosened, returning the embrace. They all did, flinging forelegs and claws around the wounded Unicorn.

“The…t-the Princess…” Twilight managed between sniffles. “She said they wouldn’t come…said…said she could deal with them. But she can’t, no one can…they just marched right into the bucking Gala, and nopony did anything!” she wailed, her sobs increasing in vigour. AJ patted her back tenderly.

“It’s okay sugacube.” She said in an uncharacteristically gentle, almost maternal voice. “T’tell the truth, ah was scared too. As scared as ah I was when they first showed up, y’all remember?” Spike gripped Twilight tighter; he remembered. “But shoot, they didn’t really do nothin’. They might not be very nahce, but they have been well behaved.”

“Yeah!” Rainbow Dash said optimistically. “Plus, that wizard guy going mad at Blueblood was pretty funny.” Pinkie nodded enthusiastically, with a real smile this time.

“But what if they hadn’t?” Twilight asked through her tears, fixing her friends with puffy red eyes. “What if someone needed to stop them? They’ve got all the advantages. I thought…I just needed the knowledge. I need to know, I just really need to know girls. Because what…” her voice dropped to barely a frightened whisper. “…what if the Princess’ made the wrong decision?”

The implications of Twilight thinking this were concerning, and AJ cuddled her tighter.

“Now y’all know that’s rotten talk, hun.” The farm pony said soothingly. “Princess Celestia knows what she’s doin’. And even if she didn’t, ah promise we’ll all be hear ta help yah defend Ponyville.”

Twilight’s eyes were practically pleading. “Pr-promise?”

“Promise!” The Mares answered in unison. Twilight sighed, hugging her friends again and finally smiling. Finally she turned to look at Spike, smiling wearily.

“Spike, could you fetch me something from the library?” she asked. “Something light, I’ve had enough excitement for one week.”

His grin froze on his face, and suddenly Spike felt very pale. He turned to look at the floor, shifting slightly as he planned his words, well aware of four pairs of eyes on him.

“But that’s the thing Twilight.” He began, looking up at them and pointing back into the library. They looked past him, squinting in confusion before finally seeing. “Half the books are gone.”

“Okay, what about Curze versus Lorgar?”

Barbus rolled his eyes as the Iron Warrior’s voice came over the vox, and chose to focus more on his footwork. Blackened leaves and fallen twigs crunched underfoot as he and his two brothers picked his way along; remnants of the warband’s previous excursion here.

It was certainly quieter in the Everfree than before. Perhaps the fire had killed most of the fauna, or they’d come to fear them. Barbus hoped for the latter. The trees had grown back at an astonishing rate, still cramped close around them, but there was evidence of flame everywhere they went. That made him happy; it felt like they’d actually made a mark on something.

“First,” he voxed back grudgingly. “Don’t say those names out loud. Best not tempt fate. Second, discussing who would win in an X versus Y fight is idiotic if you’re only considering power levels in a vacuum.”

“Fine.” His brother grunted. “Open arena, say approximately 150 metres diameter. No help, fight on foot, they can bring their armour and one weapon.”

“Middle of the day?”

“Yes.”

“Then the Urizen.”

“Okay,” the other marine grunted. “How about…Manus versus Mortarion.”

“Manus. Father aside, he’s the only one as stubborn as the Death Lord was.”

“Probably…Vulkan versus Alpharius?”

Barbus actually considered this for a moment, taking care to maintain his footing as he picked his way over rocks and streams. Eventually, his silence seemed to unnerve the other Astartes.

“Vulkan, right? It’s got to be.”

Barbus shook his head. “Alpharius. You said they could bring one weapon. He’d bring a vortex grenade.” He moved swiftly to cut off any further discussion, put didn’t turn back or slow down. “I’m not waiting for you, Varvillon.”

He heard the other Iron Warrior rise from his crouch. Varvillon had been bringing up the year, seeming to stop every minute to look at some new species of plant he’d found. Barbus wouldn’t have cared had the importance of speed not been stressed to him.

“It’s interesting.” Varvillon said, his voice distorted by his bionic jaw. From the sound of it he was completely oblivious to the reprimand, or at least choosing to be. “We are for all intents and purposes cut off from our galaxy, yet many of these plants are reminiscent of those that once grew at home-except here they thrive in the forest, and not the mountains.”

“Yeah, fascinating.” Barbus replied caustically. He was about to ask just why Varvillon had such a bizarre fascination with horticulture when they emerged into a clearing. Barbus blinked with his one good eye. He hadn’t even been paying attention. Here the fire damage was most evident, masses of black husks that were once trees expanding out from the centre. Barbus strolled over to a nearby branch that had fallen, crouching beside it. He considered taking one of the equine bones crushed underneath it, but thought it a bit too macabre.

“What in the hells is that?” Varvillon asked, crouching besides Barbus. He shook his head.

“You don’t want to know.” He muttered. No sooner had he finished his sentence than howls sliced through the air, aggressive and piercing. The Iron Warriors reacted instantly, moving to fight back to back at the centre of the clearing whilst drawing bolters. Barbus shook his head.

“Blades.” He ordered. “He wants them intact…more or less.” With a grumble the other two put away their guns and drew their knives, holding them at the ready. Barbus grinned as the Timberwolves slunk out from the trees with glowing green eyes and slavering jaws, surrounding the three Astartes.

“Showtime.”

Had Pipsqueak been old enough to really comprehend it, he might have reasoned that the innocence of childhood was truly a wonderful thing. He had not had to fret or worry about the coming of the aliens, nor had the events of the gala or burning of the Everfree caused him any distress. Oh, he knew OF them of course-who didn’t-but they weren’t an immediate problem for him.

He wasn’t old enough to comprehend this of course, so instead he focused on catching the butterfly he’d been chasing for the last ten minutes. The creature almost shimmered before him, pink wings catching the sun light and refracting it in a way that made him want to giggle. It fluttered away from him, darting through a crowd of grown-up Ponies and round a building. Pip followed eagerly.

Soon, the butterfly led him further from town then he’d ever been before alone. It worried Pip subconsciously that he was here alone, but the need to catch this creature was overpowering to his infant mind. He stumbled onwards heedless, leaving the buildings behind him until he reached it.

The borders of the Everfree forest.

Fear finally overpowered wonder as the butterfly disappeared into the forests’ depths, and Pip realised it was time to go home. He turned and began to trot, before long breaking into a gallop. Even as he ran, a curious sound reached his ears from behind a cluster of rocks just out of view of the town; the sound of something heaving and grunting, and of fire. Now curiosity replaced fear, and in spite of all sense Pip crept over to have a look.

His tiny lungs emitted a gasp as it came into view. Behind the rock was the largest pile of books he’d ever seen, even more than there were at the orphanage. They were thrown together uncaringly in a great heap, spines bent open and some pages torn. In front of the heap stood three giants, all with their backs to him. The bones hung from chains on their armour scared Pip, as did the yellow and black stripes, but they didn’t seem to have noticed. One of them was flipping through the books at an astonishing rate, whilst the other stood in front of a smaller pile with a strange gun. The last, with a long sword strapped at its belt, was crouched down like an animal. It was this one that was responsible for the heavy breathing, and he jittered and shook with nervous spams every few seconds.

“Nothing.” The one with the book growled. “Again.” He tossed it roughly aside, landing it in the smaller heap. He snatched another from the largest pile, flicking through it rapidly. Pip wasn’t sure how he was actually reading it, but evidently he was. “What exactly are we looking for anyway?”

“Maybe nothing.” The one with the gun grunted. “I think the Champion just wanted to come and let off some steam, right Rorke?” he jerked a finger over his shoulder, indicating at something behind him. Pip squinted to see what it was. The pale, decapitated corpses of several animals that had no doubt wandered out from the Everfree formed a third heap, blood pooling on the ground around them. It made Pip want to be sick.

The one who crouched didn’t get up, but shook a little harder. His helmet rose from where it had been tucked into his chest, and seemed to stare at the armed giant.

“Just get on with it.”

The one with the gun shrugged, stepping back and aiming it at the pile on the ground. A huge gout of flame erupted from the gargoyle-mouthed nozzle, jetting out to envelop the pile of literature. In one fell swoop it was consumed, the other Iron Warrior moving to waft away the emergent smoke. Even at this distance the heat was intense, and Pip squealed in fear. He clamped a hoof over his mouth, but it was too late.

The crouching one spun like lightning, two red eyes focusing on Pip. The colt gasped and tried to run, but the alien was fast, lurching to his feet and crossing the gap in seconds. Pip tried to run but it was fruitless, as the giants’ heavy boot slammed down onto his tail. Pip made to cry out, but a hand clamped over his mouth, stifling the scream.

A hand clamped round his neck and lifted Pip into the air, hooves kicking a she spluttered for air. What he saw made him feel even more ill. The giant with the sword’s helmet was drenched in blood; it was dry, but red enough to assure some part of Pip’s brain it was relatively fresh. His gauntlets were similarly stained, and all in all he looked more red and brass than iron.

Rorke studied the child for a moment. “He said we’re not to get any of you involved.” He said at last, almost regretfully. It didn’t calm the struggling Pip down, and nor did Rorke leaning in even closer. All Pipsqueak could see were blood red eyes.

“Then again, Lorkhan isn’t here.”

The IV Legion, Mordecai mused, were a funny old lot. During his time as an Astartes he’d fought with most, if not quite all, of the other original Legions, and therefore was pretty qualified to say that-with the possible exceptions of Angron’s World Eaters, or the Iron Hands, they were perhaps the most tactically inflexible of all the Legions. Father had complained that they had never been given the glories of other Legions, but when you went for raw strength above speed, stealth or anything else, it wasn’t difficult to see why they’d been assigned to siege and garrison duty.

As it was, he abandoned all pretence of stealth as he made his way through the grounds of Canterlot castle. Night had long since fallen, shafts of moonlight rippling off his gleaming silver armour. He’d judged night to be the best time for this mission, but in truth is companion meant it probably wouldn’t have mattered.

The Obliterator lumbered behind him, staring blankly and mutely forward. He was not much for conversation-Vortun always did the talking-but for once Mordecai was not dispensing with the pleasantries. He respected his brother’s strength, but muscle was what he needed above companionship right now.

The sorcerer knew his run of luck wouldn’t last, and sure enough, no sooner had they reached the gates marking the public entrance to the castle’s sculpture gardens two brown, armoured Unicorns stepped out to block their progress. Last time he’d come this way, two days ago, there’d been no such guard, but he supposed the Gala meant security was more discreet. He kept his sword and axe at his side even as they lowered their spears, clasping his hands together in a gesture of civility.

“Good evening, sirs.” He said chirpily. “Just popping out for a stroll in the gardens, what? Jolly nice night for it.”

“No visitors at night.” One of them said bluntly, impressively not wavering in the hold on his spear. “Especially not your kind.” Mordecai made a pained expression that was utterly lost within the confines of his helmet, looking at the ground with a sigh. The Obliterator, predictably, said nothing.

“Most unfortunate, old sport.” He said, almost apologetically. Before the guards even had time to raise their eyebrows he had flung both arms out to the side, fingers curling. The telekinetic force wrenched the two ponies off their hooves, their screams cut off by crushed necks and throats. They crumpled where they fell, and did not rise.

Mordecai rubbed his wrists sympathetically, cricking his neck and forcing the smile from his face. The headaches had long since abated, and it felt good to be in communion with the Ruinous Powers and able to marshal his full strength again. He turned his neck to look at the Obliterator, fingertips still tingling.

“If you please, dear brother.”

With a grunt the blessed warrior lumbered forward, stooping down to easily grab both corpses and hold one in each hand. He plodded over to a nearby bush, stuffing both in without grace so they would just be invisible to a casual glance. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, and was sloppier than Mordecai would have liked, but speed not style was the name of the game here. By the time the Princess or any of the others realised what was happening, he should almost be done.

Once he was satisfied with their placement, Mordecai pressed on, the Obliterator following behind. Whether through luck or divine intervention they encountered no more guards, and before long had made it to the object of the sorcerer’s desire. ‘Discord’ was much like Mordecai remembered him, and the Psyker took a moment to appreciate his discovery. He had convinced Rarity to tell him the story behind the statue-a deception he almost regretted, but was ultimately necessary-and it had only reaffirmed what he had to do. He stepped forth, resting a gauntleted palm on the cracked marble. A strange resonance flowed within, pushing back out, and Mordecai found himself curiously invigorated by the energies. Clearing his throat he took a step back, looking up to meet the statue’s eyes. He had not noted the almost amused twinkle in them, combined with a malign intelligence.

“Quickly, now.” He whispered as the Obliterator wrenched it from its plinth, resting it on a mutating shoulder. “Events move so very quickly, do they not?”

Rarity was, above all, a socialite. She adored high class events and fancy soirees were simply divine, but at the end of the day there was nothing she enjoyed more than relaxing with her five best friends. Studious Twilight, brash Rainbow Dash, eternally cheerful Pinkie Pie and yes, even stubborn old Applejack. Yet of all of them it was sweet little Fluttershy she loved the most; the demure creature was Rarity’s most treasured companion, and it was with total honesty she admitted that the Pegasus was naturally more beautiful than she would ever be. It was small wonder she’d been chosen as a model.

Still, visiting her home made the Unicorn gulp.

Gone was the quaint cottage Fluttershy had lived in since Rarity had first met her. In its place stood a monstrous effigy of steel, all spiked battlements and demon-mouthed guns. Jagged things that were apparently called ‘Tank traps’ were aligned with deep trenches cut into the earth, and around the fortress was dug a deep moat. The great door was open, but the Unicorn had heard tales-of the giant helmeted skull carved onto it, leaving no doubt as to who had made it.

Beside her, Fluttershy trembled slightly. She’d been living in the fortress for a while now, but ever since the Iron Warriors had announced more ‘renovations’ she’d been living at Carousel Boutique. It had been…difficult sometimes for Rarity to accommodate her, but she wasn’t about to leave her closest friend scared and alone, especially when the normally supportive Twilight had all but vanished. Rarity had tried to get some information out of Mordecai about what they’d done, but ever since the gala he’d been…preoccupied, almost. It made her uneasy, but at that moment she chose not to show it, instead choosing to be brave for Fluttershy.

“Well it doesn’t look…too bad.” She ventured, smiling weakly. The yellow Pegasus didn’t buy it, trembling even harder. Placing a hoof on her back, Rarity took a deep breath, forcing down her own fear. Taking the initiative she stepped forward, trusting Fluttershy to follow. At first it was tentative, but the sound of hoofs padding behind her reassured rarity. Before long they’d negotiated the defences outside and made it onto the drawbridge. Ignoring the two colossal cannons that loomed from Fluttershy’s battlements, the two Ponies walked into the dark.

Rarity was about to step inside proper when, to her surprise, an outstretched hoof stopped her. Fluttershy fixed her with a wide eyed gaze, slowly shaking her head. Tiptoeing over to a strange panel that extended from a metal wall, she placed a hoof squarely on the screen. Lights flashed, and before long a green glow had started bathed the two of them, mixed with an irritating beeping.

It didn’t take long for Fluttershy to notice Rarity’s confused expression. “They’ve got some kind of system that controls the weapons.” She explained, quietly. “Only I or they can shut it off. If we’d gone inside we’d have been…well…shot…”

Rarity blinked. “And they....they expect you to live here?”

“Umm…they say it’s for my own protection.” came the shy response.

“How does it work? Magic?” she asked.

“No.” Fluttershy answered from another room. “I think they took bits of their ship to make. That’s what they’ve done with most of this.”

Rarity grimaced, but knew that complaining wouldn’t help. Instead she proceeded inside, mouth dropping open as she looked around. Fluttershy hadn’t been lying-there really was no furniture, or at least very little. Besides guns and cold iron, there didn’t seem to be much of anything. “This is just awful!” she exclaimed. “How can they expect you to live like this? It’s so…so…drab!” No sooner had she said it, a thought struck her. “Although, I must admit it doesn’t sound too different to what you described before.”

“It is a bit different.” Came the reply. Something in it made Rarity pause-the trepidation she was so used to from Fluttershy was gone, and replaced with…awe? Hurrying, she followed it to its source, to find Fluttershy staring in wonder at a part of the wall. Following her gaze, Rarity looked at what the Pegasus did, squinting slightly in bemusement.

A flash of wood broke up the constant grey of the metal. The corners were jagged and angular, and the roof had been clad in steel, but it was very definitely a bird house. The more Rarity looked at it, the more she got the impression of a child’s drawing-it was as if whoever had made it knew what they were trying to achieve, but hadn’t quite understood why and had instinctively fallen back to what they knew; in this case, fortification apparently. But that made no sense, because the only one who could have built it in that case must have been…

“What?” she tried. “I don’t…how did?...” She looked over at Fluttershy for answers. Her friend didn’t look back, eyes still fixed on the birdhouse. To Rarity’s surprise, she was smiling; in fact, the vaguest hint of a tear formed in the corner of her eye.

“It’s…nice.”

A thought struck him.

“We had Titans once.”

The only other occupant of what had once been the Command Bridge looked up at him with a singular lack of interest. Ever since arriving on this world, Vortun had not had much to do, and it was beginning to show. They’d already moved all flammable items out of range, but even so the Astartes were on high alert.

“Ve did.” He confirmed, with the closest to a shrug he could manage.

Lorkhan leaned back in his throne, resting his chin on a fist. The Mechatendrils snaking from his back hovered in front of him, snapping idly at the air. Ever since the attack by the Raven Guard so long ago he’d hated this place-it had been the place where Warsmith Kargarra had died and selfishly thrust him into this job, for once-and ever since the crash it was even worse. Most of the consoles and the hololithic table in the centre didn’t work, the lights were flickering at best, and in the crash his throne had been bent to a forty-five degree angle that forced him to sit in a lopsided manner. But it was secluded, and that’s what he needed right now.

“Yes, we did.” The Warsmith said redundantly. “Legio Mortis, right?”

“Dah.”

“I remember. Dominus Ignis, the Reaver, and the Warhounds-“

“Lupus Rex, Lupus Ira and Lupus Nox. I know. Vat’s ze point of zis?”

“Nothing really.” He admitted. “Just…what happened to them?”

The Obliterator did what Lorkhan could only describe as an eye roll. “How should I know? Ze children of Magnus split ze ship in half when zay attacked, ze Titans are probably floating around in space with the rest of it.”

“I guess you’re right.” Lorkhan admitted. He looked around with a sigh, tapping his fingers on his temple. His scar was hurting again, but he didn’t like taking his helmet off at the best of time. “Are any of them back yet, and just haven’t bothered to tell me.” Vortun shook his head as best they could.

“Nein. Zuko’s still headed north, and getting ze vulves intact vill prove a challenge to a dummkopf like Barbus. Rorke is as Rorke does, but Mordecai does have the statue.” Lorkhan tensed at those last words, but only a fraction. The Obliterator still noticed. Vortun plodded over, eyeing him suspiciously. “You don’t like ze plan, do you?”

“Of course I like the plan.” Lorkhan snapped. “It’s a good plan. I just don’t like not having a backup.” There was silent in the dark chamber for a moment as both super-humans considered this.

“Ve could always vait.” Vortun said at last. Lorkhan shook his head.

“No. We’re too far gone now…and isn’t that just the story of our lives?” he grumbled. Vortun took a step forward, somehow managing to fold his arms.

“Ze game changed ven ve found out vat zey ver hiding, my lord.” He said sternly. Now it was Lorkhan’s turn to fix him with a look.

“I know, I know.” There was a hint of melancholy in his voice now as Lorkhan made to get up. “I just don’t like Chaos out of nowhere.” He hopped down from the throne, grabbing his axe and making his way to one of the doors. “I’m going to the armoury.” He said bluntly, not looking at Vortun as he passed. “When any of the others get back, contact me immediately.”

“Of course.” Vortun said. The Obliterator elected to hold his tongue until Lorkhan was nearly out the room. “It vas nice vat you did for Fluttershy, by ze vay.”

Lorkhan’s gaze was dark as the doors closed between them, but the Warsmith too was silent.

Author's Note

Otherwise known as "Spike does something".

So yeah. We're just setting up the endgame here. Oh come on, they're still Chaos Space Marines, even if a few have beggun to 'thaw'.

I admit to my shame, I had to rewrite some of the AJ sections because I made her too sexy in Spike's eyes. This was completely unconscious and was removed because I'm not a shipper, and certainly not a ApplejackxSpike shipper.

She's mine, dammit.

OiM Special-Our Spiritual Liege

“Oh, and then Mr Lorkhan helped me to feed the baby bunnies and tuck them all in their snuggwy-wuggwy wittle beds. He was so helpful, I really don’t know what I’d have done without him.”

The Iron Warriors were many things to Twilight; cold, hard, mysterious, brutal, a little creepy. One thing they had never been, however, was easy to faze, and so it surprised her to see just how much Lorkhan could squirm in one place uncomfortably. Of course, she’d never had a real conversation with any of them - it was usually best to keep them at hooves’ length, and it wasn’t like they spoke much sense anyway – but even she could see that Fluttershy’s glowing report was disturbing him more than any of the wars he’d told them about ever had.

Not that it was affecting anyone’s judgement, though. The seven of them were cramped around a table in Sugarcube corner, and of them only Fluttershy’s expression was truly benign. Lorkhan’s, as it almost always was, remained locked behind his warped helmet, whilst Pinkie, Rainbow, Applejack, Rarity and Twilight’s own were a mix of disbelief and scornful mistrust. Pinkie had sat as far away from the alien as possible, and point blank refused to make eye contact with any of them.

“Well, that’s…wonderful darling.” Rarity said with a brittle smile, ever the diplomat. “And I suppose it was generous of the Warsmith to agree to help you.”

“Yes…” Twilight agreed, hoping to diffuse the situation slightly. “Thank you, Lorkhan.”

The Iron Warrior didn’t reply immediately, although he did turn to stare at Twilight. The corner of his helmet he’d fashioned into a skull grinned stupidly, like always.

“Kill me.” He said at last.

Any further response was forestalled by the sound of the bakery’s doors being practically ripped from their hinges, as seven huge shapes barged in. Ponies dropped their tea cups and backed away slowly, shaking, whilst Twilight and her friends drew up into a semi-circular ring. The intruders seemed not to notice.

“It’s here!” a voice Twilight recognised as Rorke snarled. His words were directed at Lorkhan, who by this point had shot to his feet like a rocket and practically bludgeoned his way through the table.

“What’s here?” he asked, and Twilight could tell he was grateful for the distraction.

“The new Space Marine codex.” The one with the huge fist, Zuko, explained. “Mordecai pre-ordered it, it got here today.” At the mention of his name Mordecai pushed his way through the throng and, with a courteous nod to Rarity, placed a book carefully on the table. Intrigued in spite of her better instincts, Twilight went in for a better look.

It was unlike any book she’d ever seen before. The pages were the size of the scrolls she wrote to Princess Celestia on, and the outer pages were bound in a much harder material than any in her library. On the cover was emblazoned, as Zuko had claimed, “Space Marines”, and at the top was the word “codex” under an eagle with “Warhammer 40’000” written underneath it. Twilight new what a codex was – in essence, a reference book – but this one didn’t look particularly scientific. The art on the cover was the most baffling thing. It was a blue, pointing figure who looked remarkably like the Iron Warriors, although with considerably less spikes and with a more, overall ‘regal’ bearing. Behind him on a banner with a…horseshoe on it? Rainbow’s perplexed expression summed up Twilight’s views on it to a tee.

“What is that?” she asked, standing on her hind hooves to get a better look.

“A poor copy-paste.” Lorkhan grunted in return, not taking his eyes off it. “Who wrote it?”

“Cruddace.” Zuko answered.

“So it’ll have one build then.” He sighed, before snatching it from the table and taking a seat. His seven brothers crowded around behind him, leaving the ponies on the periphery and utterly confused. Applejack leant in surreptitiously. “What the hay are they talkin’ about, Twah? What’re they building?” she hissed.

“I certainly hope they’re not thinking of brutalising poor dear Fluttershy’s home any further with any of this ‘Crud-dace’ substance.” Rarity added haughtily. Twilight nodded, but said nothing.

“Well, let’s have a look at the damage then.” Lorkhan said, flipping the tome open on the table before him. The others leaned in closer. For what seemed close to ten minutes, Twilight and her friends could only watch as the Iron Warriors picked their way through the book in utter silence. They did not make a sound, and barely seemed to move.

Just before Twilight was about to inquire what whether they were alright, the Warsmith exploded into action. He rose in one swift motion, the other Chaos Marines stepping back as he flipped the table over whilst one of the snaking tendrils coiled around the book and hurled it across the shop floor. Twilight and the other elements dived for cover, all except Rainbow Dash who darted out of the way and balled her hooves angrily in response.

“THIS IS HORSESHIT.”

Lorkhan’s voice had gone worryingly high as he slammed his fists back into the wall. After a moment or two he seemed to calm his breathing, and looked over at Twilight. “No offence.” He muttered, “But seriously.” He stalked his way towards them, stooping down to grasp it from the ground and held it up to Rainbow. “In fact, would you mind actually going and shitting on this for me please?” Without waiting for an answer he paced back over to his brothers and sank into the seat with folded arms and a huff. “Utter horseshit.” He repeated, mumbling it now.

“Oh come now old sport, surely it’s not that bad?” Mordecai ventured, daring to edge forward.

“Not that bad?” Lorkhan practically spluttered, fixing him with the closest he could manage to an aghast stare. “It’s downright appalling.”

“Well, you have to admit it’s better than Ward’s wank-pile.” Zuko ventured.

“Yeah, but at least Ward’s fluff was comically bad.” Lorkhan countered, wagging a finger. “This one isn’t bad, it’s just strange. Like Centurions, what the hell was going on there?”

“I assume because it’s fluffy for that Chapter to have a siege specialist unit.” Barbus put in. The other Iron Warriors seemed to twitch slightly (except Rorke, who as always twitched a lot) at the mention of this ‘Chapter’, although Twilight couldn’t fathom why part of a book would cause them such distress.

“Yes, but we didn’t get anything like that.” Lorkhan grumbled. “Except the bloody dinobots. And even so, what the hell’s going on with their models?”

“The artwork looks decent.” Zuko admitted.

“And then you realise they have three toes, the legs are longer than the body and they look like children’s toys. “ The Warsmith growled, tapping his forehead irritably. “But of course, who cares about that when they have access to one of the most retarded weapons yet innovated in the form of grav-weapons. Seriously, Marines have just managed to push themselves out of the meta, except we don’t have anything similar and thus will be slaughtered every damn time. Warp damn it, I may hate their guts but you’ve got to bad for the poor Dark Angels who didn’t get any of these toys to play with. “

By this point Twilight had begun slowly retreating towards the door, crawling along at a snail’s pace despite the alien’s seeming obliviousness. Looking over she saw Pinkie doing the same thing; the earth pony looked at her with a worried expression, and mouthed ‘meta?’ as if it were a foreign curse. Twilight grimaced but didn’t answer.

“And the fluff!” he cried, seemingly finding a second wind. “What’s going on there? Most of its just a copy-paste job but of course we get the usual flagship army stupidity, case in point being Vulkan supposedly leading the Salamanders for millennia after the Heresy.”

“Well he is a Primarch, I guess it’s possible…” Varvillon attempted.

“NO IT BLOODY WELL ISN’T. HE DIED. I SHOULD KNOW, I WAS BLOODY THERE. WHY, IS HE SOME KIND OF IMMORTAL? NO, HE’S NOT, BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE STUPID.” Lorkhan took a few breaths, calming slightly. “Another bit, the Iron Hands and their ‘Iron Council’. The fact that I remember it always being the ‘Great Clan Council’ notwithstanding, something called the ‘Iron Council’ should totally be our thing!”

“Why?” Zuko asked. “It’s not like we’d ever get anything done.”

“I’d say it brings me some satisfaction that the Templars got moved in to the main book.” Lorkhan went on, having righted the table and resting an elbow on it. “But I feel bad for them losing what made them unique. Although they’re now better and get access to the bullshit Chapter Tactics so why do they need my sympathy?”

“I feel obliged to mention that Chapter Tactics were present in the previous edition.” Mordecai stated calmly.

“Yes, but they were linked to a Special Character. Now they’re just handing them out willy-nilly, they don’t even need a bloody supplement! Although they would probably still be better than ours.” Lorkhan grumbled. “Seriously, Abbadon? We’re way more popular than that armless loser! Why didn’t we get a supplem-what are you doing Rorke?”

Twilight followed his eyeline. Somehow, Rorke had managed to retrieve the book from the floor and was staring at its open pages intently.

“Planning my Salamanders army.” He grunted, not looking up. It seemed to catch Lorkhan off guard.

“…why?”

“You said it yourself, it’s way better than our book, and it might help break up our gaming patterns considering every single one of us plays Iron Warriors.”

Lorkhan seemed to consider this for a moment, rubbing his metallic chin in thought. From the corner of her eye Twilight noticed one of the tentacles on his armour snaking towards Zuko and plucking what looked like a sword from his belt. Passing the blade over in his hands, he tossed it to Rorke. “Look at this for me, would you.”

Rorke twisted it from side to side, seemingly puzzled. “Look at wh-“

Twilight’s breath caught in her throat as the tentacle that had stealthily clasped onto the back of Rorke’s helmet forced his head downwards. The blade stabbed straight through the eye-lens, blood fountaining all over the table as Rorke toppled backwards and crashed into the floor. Rarity squealed, Rainbow nearly vomited, Fluttershy began to cry. None of the Iron Warriors even flinched.

“Vulkan lives my arse.” The Warsmith growled. It was scant moments before the wizard politely cleared his throat.

“Our late colleague does raise a valid point though, it must be said.” Mordecai attempted. “It seems to me that part of the reason you’re so zealously opposed to this book is…well, forgive me but, jealousy lord.”

Twilight tensed, awaiting the inevitable retribution from the Warsmith. To her surprise, his response was not violence; rather, a defeated sigh.

“Well, don’t tell me you’re not, watching the loyalists get all the cool toys whilst we’re stuck with Codex: Plagues Marines and Helldrakes.” He grumbled. “I just want to be able to compete with the units that are fluffy for my Legion to take, even if that means a half-assed Supplement, but Warp knows that won’t be for a while…” he perked up, sitting up higher in the cushioned seat. “Barbus, go and get me a datapad.” The other Iron Warrior fidgeted slightly, but complied. Whilst he was gone, Mordecai leaned in surreptitiously.

“Lorkhan, old bean, my commendations for being pro-active here, but are you really sure this is wise…” The Warsmith raised a forestalling hand.

“I said what we needed was a half-assed supplement.” He stated calmly. “And I am the master of half-assed.”

After ten minutes or so Barbus returned, carrying a strange mechanical device in his hands. Placing it on the table before Lorkhan, Twilight watched the Iron Warrior back away as the Warsmith flipped the lid open. Within was a keypad connected to a screen; using only the tips of two fingers, the Warsmith began to tap away furiously, although given his size in comparison to the machine’s the effect was almost comical.

The other Chaos Marines crowded around him, peering at the screen with a mix of eagerness and hesitation. Something primal drove Twilight on, and warily she approached the table. Rainbow wasn’t far behind her, and to her surprise Fluttershy came too. Lorkhan was working himself into a frenzy now, half-skull helmet focused intently on the screen before him.

“I never realised how hard writing a GW codex was before now.” He admitted, not looking away. “When you consider the target audience they’re going for, you have to work your way into the mind-set of a pre-pubescent twelve year old boy.”

“Yeah, that must be a real challenge for you.” Zuko said without a hint of irony. Twilight couldn’t stop herself giggling ever so slightly, but for his part Lorkhan seemed completely oblivious to the insult.

“What were the others doing whilst we were in Ultramar?” The Warsmith asked no-one in particular. “Well, it’s not like any of them are ever going to read this anyway. Hey, how many Vindicators should we have do you think?” he suddenly asked Fluttershy. Before the panicking Pegasus could reply, he waved a hand dismissively. “Ah who am I kidding, we’re Iron Warriors, we can take as many as we want.”

He worked in silence for ten minutes, pushing on with a focus that Twilight found almost admirable. The occasional worried glances shared by his brothers behind him seemed to have no effect on him, and eventually he finally stopped, leaning back as he tapped a final key triumphantly and folded his arms.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked, turning the screen to afford the other Astartes a better view. Twilight could just about catch a glance, not that it made much sense.

Lorkhan, at least seemed pleased with it. “I told you, fluffy AND effective.”

It was Zuko who broke the silence. “Your writing is appalling, the rules are something that twelve year old we were mocking could have come up with, and none of the things you’re claiming in the ‘background’ section actually happened.”

Lorkhan looked at him dejectedly, and for once it seemed to Twilight that he didn’t look like a marauding alien warlord; more like a kicked puppy.

“So…you don’t like it?”

The other Iron Warriors cast nervous glances around, mumbling quietly without ever actually answering the question. To her surprise Twilight found she pitied him ever so slightly, but she needn’t have. One of his brothers seemed to be about to speak up.

“I didn’t know your first name was Usirien.” Mordecai said.

Author's Note

Aren't you glad none of this is Canonical.

N.B. I actually do like the Marine book, and think it's a hundred times better than the one we had before. Lorkhan is just an excellent vehicle for airing the complaints I do have. His 'codex' (for want of a better term) is both a). Deliberately disjointed and cut off in places, to represent Twily only being able to see snippets, and b). Deliberately crude. Because he's an idiot.

IV

“I worship nothing. I believe in nothing.”
-Perturabo, Primarch of the Iron Warriors.

“You do totally have a crush on Spike!”

“I do not!”

“Yeah you do!”

“I-I don’t…”

“Then why are you blushing?”

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but to Zuko it felt like these squeals of righteous indignation had been going on for hours. He tried his best to shut himself off from it, but somehow they found a way to penetrate even his finely-honed mental blocks. It was all he could do to trudge forward and pretend they weren’t here.

“A-anyway,” Sweetie Belle’s voice cracked slightly, “He’s a Dragon.”

“Yeah.” Applebloom countered, “but not lahk, one of tha’ scary ones!”

“Besides, you know he’s already into girls like you.” Scootaloo said, and Zuko assumed it was with a cheeky wink.

“R-really?” She tried to play it down, but it was clear to Zuko that Sweetie had become distinctly more excitable. Or at least, it would have been were he really listening. Which he wasn’t.

“Yeah.” Applebloom agreed, latching onto whatever joke apparently was there. “Yah know how Spahk is around ‘classy girls’.” That one was definitely with a wink.

“What are you girls talking about?” Sweetie Belle asked, confusion evident in the young girl’s voice. The barely-perceptible sound of Scootaloo and Applebloom’s hooves in the deep snow came to a complete halt. When they spoke it was in unison, and seemingly incredulous.

“Seriously?”

Before she could respond Sweetie Belle stumbled into something cold and hard. She moaned in pain as he head collided with the Power Armour, and she rubbed her sore horn gently. The other two stopped before repeating her mistake, looking up with some trepidation as Zuko stood dead still. The snow fell lightly now, but the wind still whipped across the arctic tundra. The fluttering motions of the cape were the only thing that proved Zuko wasn’t a statue.

“Shut up.” He growled, deep voice bludgeoning through the roar of the elements. “Just…shut up. Please.” He finally acknowledged the presence of the three fillies with a red glare. They stared back up at him in incomprehension. “You’re not even meant to be here, for damn’s sake.” He muttered the last bit, but somehow they still heard.

“Ah told you, everypony else has gone tah summer camp!” Applebloom explained with a smile. “We were gonna go, but then we Scootaloo here found out that you were goin’ somewhere an’ that sounded much more excitin’, so we told Ms Cheerilee that we were stayin’ home instead and followed you!”

The Space Marine processed this information. “Your families do not know you’re here, do they.”

Applebloom’s smile faltered as the winged one, Scootaloo, took it upon herself to answer. “Well…not exactly.”

Before this whole affair, the Iron Warrior may have been tempted to bring his Power Fist to life and take his chances. Now, he merely sighed, and tried his best to resist reaching for a cigar. Desperately searching for a way to kill his rising headache, his eyes fell upon the saddlebags the three wore over their burgundy capes. “And I suppose this is the part you make me feel much better by telling me you packed a full survival kit in there.”

For a moment they stared at him dumbly, before a spark of comprehension seemed to flicker into Sweetie Belle’s eyes. “Oh, they’re just the bags we’d packed for camp. We’ve got extra capes, stuff to keep us entertained on the journey-“

“-but no food.” He finished. Their silence told him everything. He sighed again, slamming the palm of his oversized gauntlet into his face and shaking his head sadly. “Lorkhan is going to kill me…fine. If you’re going to stay, at least have the grace to be quiet and not bother me. If anything happens to you don’t expect me to care.” He turned and began to walk deeper into the storm, and to be fair to them they did listen to him for two whole minutes.

“I know Spike’s not one of the scary Dragons now, but what if he turns into one?” Sweetie asked.

“But he wouldn’t if you just admitted you liked him.” Scootaloo insisted. They seemed to consider this for a moment, before the inevitable happened. “Hey Mr Zuko, have you ever seen a real Dragon?”

Flashes of a green Dreadnaught played before Zuko’s eyes briefly. He didn’t sigh for a third time, seeing the pointlessness of it, and instead forced himself to roll his eyes and let them ask their questions. “Yes.” He admitted. “Of a kind. We used to own two.”

“You gahs owned Dragons?!” Applebloom said, her voice full of awe. “How’d ya catch ‘em? Ah bet y’all need a really big net?”

“We didn’t catch them.” The Astartes explained. The snow drifts were getting deeper. “We made them, or the Warsmith did I guess. Took…bad things from the Warp and bound them inside Dragon-shaped bodies of iron.”

This time the three ponies were more prepared for him to stop suddenly, but there was no admonishment forthcoming. Instead, Zuko merely stared off into the grey darkness as if locking eyes with something only he could see.

“Bodies of iron…” he muttered. The words pricked something inside of him, but for once in his life the Iron Warrior realised he didn’t quite know what. Then he was gone, striding forth into the storm and speaking no more.

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the shaft of his waraxe, but it didn’t make the unease go away.

“This will not work.” Lorkhan growled, eyes locked on the stone statue sat in the middle of one of the Olympian Suns’ arming bays. The Iron Warriors had formed a loose ring around ‘Discord’, even Vortun and his warped brother coming to stand watch (whilst giving the masonry a wide berth, of course), but even their distrust of what they were planning was evident.

“I say, your pessimism does you no credit my friend.” Mordecai chided, not looking at the Warsmith. Alone of the group he stood slightly within the ring, similarly focused on the mismatched creature before him. He’d left both his axe and pistol in his chambers, but hadn’t gone quite as far as to neglect his black and glowing rune blade.

“Don’t smother me with false concern, witch.” Lorkhan hissed, tightening the grip on his weapon slightly. “This will not work.”

“Indeed?” The Sorcerer asked, favouring his commander with a sidelong glance. “Why ever not?”

“Because I say it won’t.” Lorkhan said simply. “Besides, you know I hate things like this. Even we don’t grovel to…them.” This last line drew a few murmurs of assent, and surprising as they were the Warsmith took a moment to revel in the unusual feeling of his brothers agreeing with him.

“Chaos, you mean?” Mordecai asked, brining an icy hush to the room. “Oh come now, do not be childish. We are all grown men here, and besides, surely it is no different to the creation of Daemon Engines?”

“No. Creating a Daemon Engine is as much about science and well…engineering as binding the thing, and even then it relies on the Neverborn being in our power.” Lorkhan explained through gritted teeth. “It’s a skill I’ve had to learn through my own efforts, not ritual dictated by insane ‘Gods’.”

Mordecai’s response was to chuckle and shake his head, although the Warsmith wasn’t sure if it was in despair, mockery or something else. “I shall endeavour to provide satisfaction to your exacting standards, sir.” Before Lorkhan could respond the Psyker had unhooked the large brown book that was chained to his belt and opened it, ignoring the dust that fell from the pages. Lorkhan recoiled slightly as he glanced some of the runes etched onto the pages as they writhed and flickered before him.

Deep down, Lorkhan knew he was not popular; he’d never been popular throughout the Legions, nor the IV, or even his own company. He also knew that no matter what else he might have been-a pirate, a marauder, a murderer, and maybe a bit slow on the uptake sometimes-he was still an Iron Warrior. Vortun didn’t have much choice but to pay the Ruinous Powers homage, but the devotion shown by Mordecai and to a lesser extent, Rorke towards them was always a sore point for him. It was not that the Warsmith suffered from any religious crisis per se-he knew the Gods existed-but he never paid them any more than the most grudging homage, and saw their servants as tools to be exploited and nothing more.

They’d never been inclined to speak about it, but he didn’t think Zuko saw them even as that.

Mordecai began to speak in an awful, piercing-yet still strangely cultured-snake tongue, extending his free hand towards the statue. Immediately change began to warp it, lines of black light coursing all across the cracked marble. As he began the other Iron Warriors as one dropped back into firing stances; Rorke twirled the power sword in his hand almost hungrily whilst Barbus yanked the catch on his autocannon back and braced. Lorkhan took his axe in a two-handed grip and crouched slightly, Mechantendrils snapping at air, as Mordecai concluded his incantations. Light began to stream from ever growing cracks in the stone, and before any of the Space Marines could react something that sounded like an explosion ripped through them. To a man, the Obliterators included, they moved to shield their eyes from the radiance.

When Lorkhan looked back, what remained of his one organic eyebrow raised as his jaw dropped open.

The thing that hovered before them was…not what he had expected at all. Far from some maniacal chaotic demi-god, complete with mindless hunger and apoplectic rage mixing in its eyes, the creature seemed almost amused by them. Sure enough, in full view of the bemused Iron Warriors it locked its mismatched fingers together and stretched away from its chest with a yawn, before chuckling whilst scratching its arse.

“I have to admit,” he said, and even its voice sounded wrong for what was supposed to be a fragment of pure madness, “I was expecting old Celly to roll out the welcome wagon once again, but you gents seem far more interesting than that old fuddy-duddy.” He waved his hands downwards in a dismissive gesture on the last words, eyes literally rolling out of his head. Lorkhan had to blink a few times to make sure this was actually happening, but decided not to comment. Barbus apparently did not share his restraint.

“…this is a joke, right?”

Lorkhan shot him a look, but the strange creature-Discord-just giggled childishly. “Oh, if you look hard enough I think you’ll find most things can be construed as a joke on this or that if one looks at things from the right…angle.” On the last word, Discord’s head began to twist on his neck, still speaking. In seconds it had rotated 180 degrees to what must surely have been a neck-breaking angle, although it didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. Several of the Iron Warriors recoiled in disgust, but Discord wasn’t done. With a snap of his fingers a light began to glow around Barbus. When it dissipated, the fearsome and murderous Traitor Astartes of the Iron Warriors legion stood with…with a bright red nose somehow attached to the front of his helmet, a rainbow-coloured afro wig, and a pointed party head to top it all off.

The Iron Warrior came as close as he ever had in his life to yelping, tearing the clownish apparel from his head and taking aim with the autocannon. A staccato burst of heavy calibre fire erupted from the tip, the bullets streaking towards Discord. And yet, not one connected; the Draconequus had disappeared, and the autocannon rounds struck wildly into the wall and over the heads of ducking Space Marines. Lorkhan was the one to put a stop to Barbus’ rampage with a forceful backhand slap.

“Oh, I was right, you boys are fun.” Came the mocking voice, disturbingly close to the Warsmith. Lorkhan almost stumbled back as Discord appeared on his shoulder, elbows resting petulantly on his shoulder. The Iron Warrior made a grab for the creature, but again there was nothing to grab. “I don’t even need to deharmonise you, you’re all doing such a fine job of that yourselves.” There was that voice again. It seemed to Lorkhan that they’d finally managed the impossible and found something as irritating as Mordecai.

“Now see here, old fellow.” As if on cue the Sorcerer spoke up, although Lorkhan found some solace in the fact that for once he sounded as nonplussed as the rest of them. “I’d argue that we’ve done you a jolly good turn by releasing you from stone imprisonment, and I dare say that something of a compromise is in order between our two parties.”

Discord looked at him for a moment, stroking his chin sagely as if considering the proposal. “Well I suppose some thanks are in order. It did get horribly dingy in there, something I wouldn’t mind repaying those bothersome six ponies and their ‘Elements of Harmony’.” He admitted at length, and although it was framed at a joke the Warsmith thought he detected an element of bitterness in those last words. “Except the Pink one.” Discord mused. “I think she had potential, you know?”

Lorkhan’s hands curled reflexively, as if the fingers were tightening around a neck. Before he could reply, enough brain cells fired simultaneously in Rorke’s head to elicit a response. “Elements of Harmony? For fuck’s sake, is everything on this planet disgusting?”

Discord laughed, at once both mirthful and cruel. “Well I think I like you most of all. Just anarchic enough to be entertaining, but stupid enough to present no bother.” Lorkhan groaned internally as Rorke roared and swung his power sword down in a right-handed sweep. The energised blade sliced through the creature’s talon, slicing it off at the wrist. Part of Lorkhan was hoping that this would elicit some kind of response, and sure enough Discord did give a wail so melodramatic it would have put Fulgrim to shame. Equally predictably, the wail swiftly subsided into a manic chuckling as another, identical talon burst from the stump. Discord smiled and twiddled the claws, waving at Rorke as the furiously thrashing Champion was dragged back by his two of his brothers.

“Where have you gentlemen been all my life?” he asked, cranking up the melodrama again. “Had I known you were around I’d have ditched Celestia a thousand years ago! Although if I might suggest something,” he added, seemingly deep in thought again. “You could do with a bit of…oh, I don’t know, let’s say sprucing up.”

It was unfortunate for Basikor that he was the closest when Discord snapped his fingers, the now familiar light enveloping him. When it dissipated it took all Lorkhan’s restraint to hold back. Gone were the familiar horns and steel plate, replaced by immaculate golden yellow. A black, clenched fist took the place of the Iron Skull.

“G-get it off!” Basikor squealed in a most un-marine like fashion, dropping the Icon as he stared down at his yellow gauntlets. It was too much for some of the other Astartes.

“GET HIM!” one screamed, sprinting towards ‘Kor. Two more joined him, and the last Lorkhan saw of Basikor was the now-yellow Marine fleeing from his companions down the darkened halls of the ship. It elicited another internal groan; when Zuko was back, Lorkhan resolved to acquire a cigar from him.

Discord, for his part, was literally rolling on the floor laughing, clutching at his sides as tears trickled down his face. “Oh good heavens, this is just TOO good! Y’know part of me thinks you’re actually doing this on purpose, except-“

The grating voice was abruptly cut off by the crunch of an immense Power Talon. Lorkhan flinched back as Discord was hauled from the ground by his neck by Vortun. With contemptuous ease, the Draconequus’ struggling meeting with no success. Lorkhan wondered in the back of his mind why he didn’t just teleport away, but the answer came moments later.

“Your abilities are commendable.” The Obliterator rumbled. “And I can see vhy ordinary creatures think you so wild. But ve are not ordinary creatures, are ve Herr Diskord?”

Even with the odds against him, Discord was seemingly still in the wise-cracking mood. “Well…when a..gentleman of such…attractiveness meets a mind…such as mind, things are bound…to get Chaotic.”

“Chaos?” Vortun growled, and something in his gut told Lorkhan that the Obliterator’s usually aloof demeanour was cracking. “You think vat you are Chaos?” He tightened the grip of his claws, drawing Discord closer to his face as the creature spluttered and pawed weakly. “You are not Chaos, mein comrade. Look at me.” Something akin to fear began to creep into Discord’s eyes. Vortun would not be dissuaded. “LOOK AT ME.” Slowly, Discord complied. The Obliterators’ face was, for once, utterly without change.

“You speak of Chaos as if you know it. As if you are ve Arbiter and…and god. But you are none of zese things you freak, nothing but a pathetic vurm who somehow borrows our power.”

“T…The Ponies…I…” Discord managed to stammer.

“You vat?” Vortun cut him off. “You made zem angry? You hurt zere feelings? Tricks. Jokes. Not Chaos, which is vhy you cannot escape us-cannot escape me. Ve are Chaos. I am Chaos. Look around you, mutant. Vhen vis is done, zey vill be so very more than angry. Do you have any idea vhere you really are?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you have any idea who ve really are?”

And at last, Discord finally seemed to notice the skulls, chains and eight-pointed stars that were hung around the room and its owners. When Vortun released his hold and dropped Discord to the ground, something changed within him-the extinguishment of some mischief, the realisation of what exactly was going on. He cowered-actually cowered as Mordecai approached.

“I regret to inform you that there may have been a mistake, my Lord.” The Sorcerer said at length. He sounded almost disappointed. “Our friend here is no Daemon, certainly not one of any substantial relevance.”

“Then what is it?” Varvillon asked.

“If it were up to me, dear brother, then I still believe that the Ruinous Powers are at work here; the Warp is weak here, as we know, yet it is possible that these mutants act as a funnel of sorts. In essence, a reservoir of Warp Energy, even if he is not aware that is what he is.”

Lorkhan absorbed this information in silence. “You know more or less what we’ve got left on this ship, right?” Mordecai stared at him for a moment, cocking his head to the side in mute questioning.

“Indeed sir.” Lorkhan took a deep breath.

“Is the Burdened still bound?”

An even greater hush fell over the remaining Iron Warriors. Even Mordecai seemed momentarily taken aback.

“Yes, Lorkhan. He is.” The Psyker finally said. Lorkhan was still for a moment, before casting a look around-to Barbus still aiming his autocannon at the Draconequus, the other Obliterator and his wildly mutating flesh, a furious Rorke still being held by two other Astartes. He looked back to Discord, and nodded once.

“Introduce him.”

Discord’s eyes widened, but before he could make any attempts to escape Vortun’s claw held him again. The Obliterator plodded away slowly, flanked by the other Iron Warriors. Lorkhan stayed behind for a moment, hearing the creature’s muffled screams as he was dragged away and staring down at his silver gauntlets dumbly. Then he turned and moved as well, following his brothers into the darkness that always stank of blood.

It took some luck, not to mention the expenditure of carefully hoarded resources and creative application of a plasma pistol, but eventually Zuko found he was able to get a fire going. He sat motionless for a moment, red optics staring into the flames as he let the heat seep through his armour. Not for the first time he found himself bemoaning Lorkhan’s rushed job with the bionic legs-they were Astartes grade and so amongst the best of their kind, but the slap-dash nature meant they had a habit of threatening to freeze up in the harsh weather.

By now the moon had firmly entrenched itself in the sky, and the snow had at least stopped coming down as furiously. Zuko of course had been ready to keep going, but the Crusaders weren’t holding up so well, complaining of tiredness and cold. Part of the Iron Warrior considered pressing on anyway, but eventually the logical half reasserted itself and he relented-having to bury them out here would have caused far more problems down the line.

Behind him, he heard one of them fidget slightly. They had long since fallen asleep, and turning the Marine saw Applebloom and Scootaloo curled up next to one another by the fire, capes draped over themselves. The one that had moved-Scootaloo, he guessed-mumbled softly and smiled as the warmth played over her, but did not wake. Zuko watched them for a moment, before shaking his head despairingly and turning to stare back into the flames, pulling his own cape tighter around his colossal frame.

Without warning, his enhanced Astartes hearing picked up the faintest sound. It was a sound Zuko knew well from years spent with the likes of Mordecai and Varvillon-the sound of pencil scratching on paper. Curiosity overtook him, and he turned around to spot a small white shape at the edge of their makeshift encampment. It was hunched over, cape blowing in the gentle wind, and the bag it had packed lay open beside it. Zuko stood and padded over to it, apparently unobserved.

He was watching Sweetie Belle’s progress for about a minute before she spotted him, squealing and dropping the paper she held. Zuko was on her in a second, gauntlet clamped over the pony’s mouth.

“Do you want everyone to know we’re here?” he growled. She shook her head rapidly, and with a sigh the Iron Warrior removed his grip. His gaze turned down to the paper as he sat down beside the filly, arms resting on his knees.

There were some crudely drawn shapes on it; a small white horse with pink and purple mane that Zuko guessed was Sweetie herself, a larger white pony that looked like Rarity, Mordecai’s friend-and who, Zuko suddenly realised, was Sweetie Belles sister-and beside the small horse a small green and purple lizard thing. He decided not to think on that too much.

“You didn’t bring any food, but you did remember colouring supplies?” he asked incredulously. Sweetie Belle clutched her drawing to her chest protectively, face a mask of shame as she looked down.

“I-I’m sorry…” she mumbled sadly. Zuko shook his head, although even he wasn’t sure what it meant. A moment’s silence reigned before she spoke again. “Are you…are you mad at us?”

Zuko didn’t reply immediately, staring out into the blackness with glowing red eyes again. “I’m a ten thousand year old, genetically engineered super soldier who lives purely to kill, whose only remaining home is literally Hell and who is locked in a war with a corrupt Empire that I truly believe is wrong and needs to be destroyed, and yet can never win or even strike a meaningful blow against as long as I’m forced to live like a common pirate.” He said without emotion. “I’m mad at everything.”

She looked at him for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words. It was only when a tiny white hoof extended and rested on his thigh did Zuko look back down at her. Sweetie’s face scrunched up as something seemed to occur to her.

“Wait…ten thousand? But that can’t be right, there’s no way anyone can be that old! That’s even older than Princess Celestia!”

“I’m not actually Ten Thousand.” Zuko answered, mildly grateful for the change of subject. “Time doesn’t flow normally in the Warp, and that’s where the Company has to spend most of its time. Ten Thousand years have passed in the real world, but it can’t be any more than a few centuries for me since…since Terra’s walls came down.” He wasn’t sure why he told her that last bit, but it was accompanied by a strange sensation; almost the lifting of weight from his shoulders. She didn’t pick up on it in any case.

“You guys keep talking about that ‘Warp’ thing.” Sweetie said. “What the hay is it?”

He hesitated, unsure of how to explain it to a child, or even if he wanted to. “The Realm of Chaos. The font of our power. The mirror. The Empyrean. The Great Ocean. Or like I said, just plain ‘Hell’. It’s an alternate realm that coincides with the real one, and according to Mordecai it’s made from the emotions of sentient creatures. Ships can travel through it to reach real places quicker.”

“It sounds scary.” Sweetie whimpered, ducking behind her cape a little.

“It is.” The Iron Warrior confirmed. “Bad things live in there.”

“B-bad things?” she whimpered again. “Do you fight them?”

“Sometimes.” Zuko said awkwardly, unable to ignore the spikes bolted to his armour. And most of the time, we are those bad things sailors tell stories about.

“Oh…” the Pony said contemplatively. She seemed to think for a moment. “So…how old are you?”

He was about to answer when something stopped him; the dropping of a penny, the flicking of a switch in his brain bringing revelation. “i…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How can you not know how old you are?” she asked with a trace of indignation. Zuko didn’t answer immediately, and for some reason the unnerved feeling he’d got when he made the discovery didn’t leave. “I know I was in one of the last batches of Marines to leave Olympia during the Crusade, maybe fifty years before it ended, but I guess I just…lost track along the way.”

“So do you not know when your birthday is?” Sweetie Belle inquired. Her face had changed, a distinct expression of sadness crossing it. Zuko gave his best attempt at a shrug.

“I never have. We’re not supposed to remember things like that.”

“Everyone should have a birthday.” She said quietly, seemingly to herself. “Your Daddy must have given you SOMETHING. And you’ve got so many brothers, they can’t all have forgotten.” That seemed to perk her up slightly, little white ears snapping back to attention. “You’re so lucky to have so many brothers! I mean, you’ve got loads here, but Rarity says the wizard guy told her there’s even more up in space! Do you have sisters, too? That must be quite scary-Rarity’s like, the coolest pony ever, but I’m not sure I could handle thousands of her.”

Hearing the Lord of Iron referred to as ‘Daddy’ was enough to bring a shiver to Zuko, but he shrugged it off. “It doesn’t work that way.” He explained. “We’re not actually brothers in a genetic sense, we’re…it’s complicated.” Another thought struck him, and once again he found he couldn’t stop his mouth moving. “I did have a sister once. Before all of this, back ho…back on Olympia.” He stared out blindly into the storm again, unaware of Sweetie’s concerned eyes burrowing into the side of his helmet. “I don’t remember much of my early life, but I remember that she was older than me. She had golden hair, blue eyes. She had a nice smile, but she never used it on me.” He chuckled little, though there was little humour in it. “Hated me, always said that I was the worst little brother in the Imperium. But when the Legion came, she cried with my parents, and hugged me and told me that Father would look after me now.” Her words had been ‘him’, he remembered, but few normal Olympians had ever called the Lord of Iron by his name, even in private.

“What was her name?” Sweetie asked, entranced. A shadow seemed to darken Zuko’s helmet, making the already grim metal seem black.

“I don’t remember that, either.”

Silence reigned for a moment, eight foot tall killing machine and tiny Unicorn sat side by side as the wind began to howl again. When she spoke again Sweetie’s voice had lost its usual chirpy, almost squeaky edge, but somehow it penetrated through the gale. “Why are you up here, Mr Zuko?”

He too was still for a moment, and when he did speak Zuko sounded even more tired than usual. “Because I was told too. Because I’m an Iron Warrior. That’s what we do; we follow orders, no matter how much we might not want too. It’s the reason we said nothing when the Angels and the Ultramarines and the Fists were given the glory, whilst our sole depiction was being literally ground into the mud and the shit-by our own side. It’s the reason we fought the Great Crusade, and the Long War after that. The Thousand Sons did it because they had no choice, the World Eaters because they wanted to, us because our betters told us, and me because…because I really thought we could make the galaxy a better place.” He snapped, not bothering to hide his bitterness. “Because I wanted to be a hero.”

It was a few moments before he felt the press of tiny hooves on his leg again, but this time they were much keener. Zuko looked down at her, and found Sweetie Belle smiling innocently back up at her with large green eyes.

“I think you’re a hero.” She said simply.

Zuko met her eyes for a moment, his iron mask as unreadable and emotionless as it always was, and had been for ten millennia. Eventually he stood up, turning to stalk back towards the fire where Applebloom and Scootaloo still slumbered. Sweetie Belle watched him go as she worked up her courage. “Since we’re both Cutie Mark Crusaders…can I please ask you a question?”

He stopped, cloak whipping in the wind. “You can ask.”

She looked at the snow all around them, trying to choose the right words. “Well…it’s just, all your friends take your helmets of sometimes, and Rarity said that she saw even your leader’s face at the Grand Galloping Gala. So…why do you never take your helmet off?”

He gave her a long, sidelong glance. The light of the flames flickered off his silver armour, making the ceramite plates almost shine.

“I told you.” He said at last. “I’m an Iron Warrior. This is the only face anyone ever cared about.”

Author's Note

In a way, I think it's a shame that Discord was in this chapter; without many completely over-the-top antics I wasn't sure how to make him sound right, but the result is some comedic interlude in a part that-considering it constitutes a segment of a fic that stops just short of outright parody-wasn't meant to be funny.

In an unashamedly Iron Warrior-centric story, where the Ponies are often put on the back foot (hoof?), this is an unashamedly Iron Warrior-centric part. There's a very good reason they tie with the Night Lords for my favourite Legion, and it's because they're interesting and complex when they could so very easily be straight out brutal. That's not to say they're not, but the thing that's always attracted me to them-and what I've tried to convey before in OiM-is that they're not just evil. An Iron Warrior is a mix of bitterness, pride and diabolic evil, but also measures of obedience, loyalty and a strange streak of honour that the other Traitors just don't have. They're undoubtedly bad guys, but that just makes them even more fascinating and tragic when you consider just how easily they could have been one of the most loyal Legions, had they been treated with some basic respect.

But at the end of the day, and in spite of all their silly shenanigans in Equestria so far, the IV Legion are villains. The only question is how far they've gone down the path. What I've tried to do, and hopefully been even slightly successful in, is show how different Iron Warriors reacted to losing the Horus Heresy and becoming villains. They might all see their lot in life differently, but what matters is-who's right? Out of all of them, who's the real Iron Warrior? Do you know?

Do you think they know any more?

The Iron Price

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The hunched shape twisted, dark eyes casting a sidelong glance at the source of the distraction. A silver mk7 helmet sat on the hard bed across the room; the eye lenses were dimmed, the usual red glow absent in its state of deactivation, but the irritating beeping persisted.

Varvillon growled and turned back to his desk, and once again a second sound filled the air-that of a stylus scratching onto parchment. Bar the helmet he was a giant fully clad in iron, and the stool he was precariously perched upon groaned and creaked under his weight. It would have looked almost comical had anyone - Astartes or Xenos - had been there to witness it. But they were not; this was his place, where none of his brothers ever came, and that suited the Iron Warrior just fine.

He gently placed the stylus at the side of his paper with a sigh as the noise grew too wearisome to bear. Guilliman used a stylus he thought idly. As did the Lord of Iron when he wrote his treatises. And then there’s me, stuck…here. How the mighty are fallen. He cast a glance around the small chamber, groaning quietly and rubbing the canine bionic that constituted his lower jaw. Like all cells aboard a Space Marine Strike Cruiser it was spartan in the extreme, all grey austere walls and metal-clad flooring. The rusting desk before him was one of Varvillon’s few concessions to grandeur; that, and the hastily constructed bookshelf leaned against the wall. It was crammed full of tomes, most of which had had the titles worn away by simple age, but Varvillon liked to have them. It made him feel better about both his and the Companies’ lot in life…or at least, a little bit better than Rorke.

Overhead, a flickering lumen strip shorted for a few seconds, taking some of the sheen from his armour. The beeping had now rescinded into a background throbbing, but Varvillon still felt a compulsion to answer it. He cast another, almost dejected look down to the work before him, recovering the first page from the bottom of the pile. An illustrated guide to trends in flora found through the Civilised, Feudal and Death Worlds of our Galaxy vol. 3. As the name suggested, the third he had penned - the first two were some of the more well-preserved items in his bookcase. He knew that Lorkhan looked on this hobby of his as ‘weird and idiotic, as well as a distraction from your duties to the Legion’, and some of his brothers were even less kind, but it rarely bothered the Iron Warrior. He had snuck copies into libraries throughout the Imperium where he could, and it was something to do besides train and hate.

He looked at the manuscript one last time, before savagely tearing the papers in half and casting the remains to the floor. Focus. Rising slowly from his seat, the Astartes crossed the short gap between his desk and cot-bed and picked up the helmet, organic eyes staring into the empty optics. He continued to stare for a moment, almost wistfully, before turning the ceramite construct upside down and peering into the depths. A small red light flashed inside, clearly the source of the beeping.

He’d had a hunch that the miniature auspex transponder would come in useful.

Reaching in with an armoured finger, Varvillon switched the bleeping off after some fumbling seconds, before turning the helmet the right way and snapping it into position over his head. The optics lit up and began to glow their familiar heartblood-red, and when Varvillon spoke into the private vox the mk 7 grille returned his voice to a baritone rumble.

“Brother-sergeant Rorke….can I borrow you?”

To the casual onlooker, the Iron Warriors may have seemed almost lucky in some respects; despite being reduced to literally the front fifth of their once mighty cruiser, they had managed to save an awful lot, although Varvillon suspected that that was more through chance than design. The main armoury was pretty much intact, as was the command bridge (well, as intact as it ever was) and many of the cell’s-most importantly, Varvillon’s. The Growler had made it, the only vehicle the Marines really cared about – if cared was the right word – and from the Warsmith’s words he could infer that some of the more…unsavoury things that scurried about in their wake had survived down in the depths too.

Something that had not made it, however, was the practice cages. Whilst many of the weapons were stored in the armoury or in the hands of the Iron Warriors themselves, the actual training areas themselves were long gone. Given that the alternatives to training were to maintain their wargear (tolerable) or go out and breath the same air as the Xenos (intolerable), it had not taken much to convince Varvillon and his brothers to spring into action. In a display of true IV Legion craftsmanship they’d cobbled together a single replacement fighting cage in less than a day, complete with weapon racks and big enough for two Astartes to easily square off. It lacked many of the more sophisticated features found in such devices, but even so had proved immensely popular over the two to three months they’d been stranded.

Because of all that, finding the sergeant here by himself was a little surprising to Varvillon. Rorke’s back was to his brother, and his power pack raised up and down slowly in a panting motion. In his right hand he held his stolen power sword, blade pointed to the ground and hissing slightly as some unknown fluid was fried upon it.

Another thing the Space Marines now had a deficiency of was servants. Over 70% of their indentured crew and Servitors had died in the crash, and they’d never had that many to begin with. The remainders had been forbidden to leave the ship, but if that kept them loyal it also brought other risks. Approaching the cage, Varvillon could see one clearly; just in front of Rorke was a pile of three to four mangled servitors, limbs hacked off and some still twitching feebly. Had he still had a jaw, Varvillon would have grimaced.

“The Warsmith won’t like you breaking his-“

“Up.”

The word was a growled command, and had he been mortal it would have easily stopped Varvillon in his tracks. As it was, he blinked once in confusion.

“Brother, we’ve got-“

“Up.”

It was clear he wasn’t going to get through to Rorke any other way. With another internal groan, Varvillon stepped closer to the cage, Rorke’s back still to him. On his way to the training room Varvillon had recovered his bolter and sniper, but now laid them to the side in favour of his trusty chainsword. Entering the ring, the Space Marine closed the door behind him and assumed a combat-ready crouch.

It was over in twenty seconds. Rorke turned on him with a roar, too fast for even an Astartes to follow. Varvillon barely had time to think before the weight of his sergeant sent him crashing into the wall, a ceramite gauntlet crashing into his stolen helmet. He beat the deactivated chainsword ineffectually on Rorke’s shoulder, trying to force his way out of the grapple, but the Champion’s strength was considerable and he was stuck fast. A knee crashed into Varvillon’s midsection, causing him to grunt in repressed pain, before a power sword swipe jerked his head roughly to the side. Fortunately, Rorke still had the good sense to keep the blade deactivated.

There was no artistry in this form of conflict. Varvillon fought as he’d always been taught, a mixture of mechanical efficiency and repressed bitterness being allowed to seep through into every blow. It made him more than a match for most enemies, and was a large part of why he was still alive. But Rorke was barely-contained savagery given form, and any weakness his rage might have burdened him with was offset by his superhuman physiology. It was a disgraceful display from an Iron Warrior, a Legion that demanded a higher standard of emotional control from its sons, but it was undoubtedly effective nevertheless.

Somehow Varvillon found himself on his back, staring up at a horned, red-eyed steel monster, dripping with synthetic blood from his earlier victims. Briefly, the Iron Warrior wondered if that was how he himself appeared to those he slew, but the time for introspection was cut short as Rorke pinned his brother down again and continued his relentless battering with the blade of his sword. The blows fell like lightning, an unrelenting rain on Varvillon’s war plate, and when he grew tired of the sword Rorke merely tossed it to the side – near where Varvillon had dropped his own chainsword – and began to beat his downed opponent with his fists.

The pinned marine pressed back against his aggressor, desperately clawing one hand towards his lost blade. Accepting he wouldn’t reach it, he changed tactics and delivered two powerful punches straight into his sergeant’s face. Rorke’s head snapped back, eliciting another roar from the half-crazed Marine. Standing, he stamped a foot down onto the soft armour between Varvillon’s chestplate and helmet, nearly threatening to crush his windpipe. As his brother choked Rorke hooked his hands under the ‘stalks’ connecting the vents to Varvillon’s power pack, and hauled him to his feet to hurl him into another wall.

Taking struggling breaths, Varvillon fought through the blackness encroaching on his vision as another powerful kick drove him to his knees. His armour began to pump pain-reducing combat stimms into his system as there was a moment’s relent in the beating, Rorke staring down at him hungrily. The Champion turned as he recovered the two swords that lay on the ground, taking one in each hand. He stood before his brother once more, holding each blade out to the side – presumably to swing them in and slice Varvillon’s skull clean from his shoulders.

“Are…you…done?” the battered Iron Warrior grunted. Rorke’s frenzied assault halted, red optics glaring at Varvillon’s own. They too, were crimson. With a growl, Rorke slammed one more punch into Varvillon’s face, before dropping his brother and stumbling to the side of the cage. Varvillon looked up, spitting rich blood from his mouth and looking up towards the convulsing Marine. Rorke had dropped to his knees, leaning onto the side of the cage for support.

“What…do…you want?” Rorke growled, fixing him with a near-maddened glare. Varvillon returned it coolly as he rose back to his feet, recovering his chainsword and kicking the Champion’s power blade to him.

“I’m taking the Growler.” He said simply, breath returning to normal as the pain subsided to a dull ache. “There’s a loose end that needs tying up.”

Rorke shrugged as he slowly got back to his own feet. “And why are you telling me this plant-fancier?”

Inventive. “I was wondering if you want to come.”

Rorke laughed, a sound as ugly as its source. “Go with you out into pretty pony land? Fuck off.”

“Technically, you do owe me for patching you up after that debacle with the Blood Angels.” Varvillon countered, pointing at the Champion. “You’re going to need me, Rorke.”

The twitching stopped for a moment as Rorke stiffened, and for a moment Varvillon wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. Rorke was hardly popular, but he was still technically a commanding officer, and the IV Legion demanded obedience and fidelity. But the spasms soon came back, and Varvillon released a breath he hadn’t realised he was keeping.

“Didn’t…need…you…” Rorke managed to stammer through gritted teeth. It occurred to Varvillon just how hard Rorke was trying to hold himself back from launching into another mindless assault. He almost found himself respecting the butcher. “Besides…” the horned marine said, finally exerting some control over his faculties. “You’re not our Apothecary.”

“I’m the closest we’ve got now that Vortun’s…Vortun.” Varvillon countered. “But that’s not the point; I am asking you to come because you are my brother, I have been an obedient member of your squad for ten millennia, and if nothing else I respect the fact that you can curb-stomp almost any of us in a matter of moments in a fight.” There was a moment’s awkward pause between the two. “I’ll let you drive.”

That seemed to get his attention. Rorke stood, readjusting his helmet and sheathing the power blade. Wiping the blood from his helmet, he became a little more recognisable as the warrior he’d perhaps once been; though his fingers still twitched with the need to shatter bone and spill blood. “What exactly is your plan, anyway?”

“The Apple farmer seems to control much of the agriculture and food supply in town.” Varvillon answered, his bionic and helmet vox helping to keep his deep voice monotone. “A Xenos it may be, but a creature of business. That suggests she is capable of acting in perceived mutual interest, of listening to reason.”

“We do not reason with Xenos.” Rorke pointed out venomously. “Before this fucking shameful escapade, we destroyed them on sight. You act like you’ll be taking her to dinner soon.” Varvillon didn’t grace it with a response immediately.

Rorke glared at him from beneath his helmet. “How did I get stuck with you?” He mumbled, shaking his head in mock despair. “Fine.” He grunted. “It’s not like it can get any worse. But when she annoys me I’m going to kill her.”

“Just let me do what I need to do first.” Varvillon replied, choosing to take that last line in jest. He walked over to the slightly hunched sergeant, clapping a hand on his pauldron. “You’ll enjoy it. You get to shout at people.”

“Well, that’s the last of ‘em ah reckon.” Applejack said with a smile, closing the sheep-pen door with a flick of a hoof. “Darn critters, it’s a pain tah trah and round ‘em up up on mah own ah tell yah. Thanks for all yah help Rainbow.”

“Eh, no problem AJ.” The cyan Pegasus replied, flicking her multi-coloured mane to the side as she reclined lazily on a cloud with a sigh and a contented sigh. “After all, we can’t all be world-class athletes like me.” She teased.

Applejack rolled her eyes, adjusting her hat. “Now don’t go startin’ that again y’hear? Ahm just glad we got it done.”

“Well, duh I said I would.” Rainbow went on. “In ten seconds flat, just like I promised.”

“Ah’d say it was more lahk fifteen seconds.” Applejack said with a sly smile. It had the desired effect, Rainbow sitting up from her reclining position with a glare on her face. “It was ten and you know it, Applejack.”

“Hmmm…fifteen.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Ten!” Rainbow shouted, flying down to hover a few centimetres from Applejack’s face. The farm pony chuckled, pushing her away playfully. “Alraght then, if y’all say so…still, it was nahce to have some help, with Applebloom being gone and all.”

“Yeah, where are AB and the others? I’ve not seen Scoots in days.” Rainbow asked, crossing her forehooves as she followed AJ back towards the farm house.

“Eh, they’re at some camp or somethin’ with all their little school friends.” The earth pony said. “Weren’t very specific on where though. Speakin’ o’ which…ah don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Twahlaght?” she asked reproachfully. Rainbow’s expression saddened slightly.

“No…although when I asked Spike earlier he said she was alright. Poor little guy looked exhausted though…” for a moment she was lost for words, staring at the ground. “I miss her, AJ.”

“We all do.” Applejack responded gently, knowing how her friend help. “Trust me sugarcube, ah know what’cha mean. We’ll have tah go and see her sometahm, ah’m sur-“

She was cut off by the twitching of her ears, a sound gradually rising and getting louder and closer. It was an awful growling noise, like a caged animal let loose on the hunt. The two mares turned, screwing up their faces in confusion as the noise grew to ring through the whole air. “What in tarnation?” Applejack hissed.

The silver beast came crashing through into Sweet Apple Acres, swaying from side to side as it sped on at an insane speed. Dirt was kicked up in a constant stream behind it as the tracks gouged great pathways in the mud, and something that looked almost like a speaker-although it was shaped like some hideous daemonic mouth-blared out a discordant wail that was a true assault on the senses. The pair of ponies covered their ears as the construct barrelled into the clearing. It gave another almighty squeal as it turned almost sideward, switching into a power slide in a blur of steel plate and black and yellow stripes. Smoke barrelled from the exhausts that poked out the top, whilst chains that were hung from its side clattered together. Something within must have hit the brakes, because all of a sudden the screeching of brakes filled the air, and the beast began to slow down. It’s back end span out as momentum still carried it. It stopped just in time, one back corner lightly tapping the trunk of an apple tree.

Feelings of shock, horror and pure anger warred within AJ as one of the Rhino’s doors opened. Something huge stumbled out of it, grabbing onto the hatch above the doorway to slow himself. For a moment, Applejack thought he was going to vomit, but he seemed to shake it off and walk out, turning to look back inside.

“I’d forgotten about your compulsive need for speed.” The Iron Warrior said to the unseen figure. No response seemed to pass between them as he began to walk towards AJ and RD, who both looked at him with expressions of puzzlement and exasperation. He walked swiftly, carrying something in his right hand, but no sooner had he crossed half the distance the second figure emerged from the depths of the tank. AJ could practically hear RD grinding her teeth together.

“Oh great…” she hissed. The second Space Marine, a horned beast with a sword gripped in one hand, seemed to share her sentiments and stopped midway. His brother stopped too, and after what seemed to be a small discussion between the pair they both resumed their march.

“My name is Varvillon.” The first Iron Warrior said as he reached the two ponies. The other stayed back, red eyes locked on Rainbow Dash. She glared back. “And as out of character as it may seem, I’ve come to…negotiate a deal”.

For a moment Applejack looked as though she’d been struck dumb. “A…a deal?!” She shouted angrily. “You think you gahs can just come in an ahm gonna make a deal with y’all? That’s outrageous! Just look at what you’ve done to mah farm!” She made an expansive gesture with her hoof. Varvillon looked round, as if noticing the torn up ground and smashed fences for the first time.

“Sorry.” He said in a tone that made it clear he was anything but. “Sergeant Rorke wouldn’t come with me unless I let him drive. If there’s one aspect that does commend him to the Legion it’s his utter lack of subtlety.”

“You’ve still not answered her question, metal head.” Rainbow snorted, folding her forehooves as she hovered. “Why would we give a flying feather about what you want?”

Varvillon looked at the Pegasus for a moment, expression typically blank. Without ceremony he dropped the large bag in front of Applejack. Something shiny glinted within; both ponies gasped.

There were literally hundreds of bits in there, easily the equal made during the whole of Cider Season. They shined seductively at Applejack, the afternoon sun reflecting off them causing her to squint. The earth pony looked at them stupefied, then back at the Iron Warrior. “Wh…how did ya got all of this?”

“Not through theft or violence, before you ask.” He said. “We’ve observed how you Xenos feel about that. There’s more than enough here to repair your land, and spend some besides. My brothers and I will be willing to remake it more defensible if that smoothens our…diplomacy.”

Applejack stared at the money again. It was a lot…and Granny Smith needed a second hip replacement that the family just couldn’t pay for otherwise. She took one coin out the bag, and gave it a bite. It felt real…

“No.” she said at last, pushing it away. “Ah couldn’t, ahm the Element of Honesty. If you varmints did get this bah foul play…”

Varvillon seemed to consider this for a moment, before reaching down to his waist. He carried a wide array of weaponry-a long rifle slung over his back, another shorter gun strapped to a leg, and one of the distinctive toothed swords-yet he selected a single, simple combat knife that was still as long as Applejacks leg. She backed off as he drew it, Rainbow dashing between them to defend her friend. Yet, the Iron Warrior simply threw it to the ground at Applejack’s feet, pushing past RD and kneeling low so as to be on the earth pony’s level. His helmet was mere centimetres from her face.

“If you think I lie, then by all means kill me with my own blade.” He said simply. “Cast us from your home. None of my brothers will harm you-“

“I might.” Rorke cut in, finally deciding to say something.

“How touching.” Varvillon answered, not looking at him. This close, Applejack could hear something…buzzing? Was that his armour? She pushed the thought aside, looking down at the knife, then at the money, then back at the Space Marine.

“Come on AJ, don’t tell me you’re actually considering this?” RD asked disbelievingly. Applejack grimaced.

“And…and you gahs promise that y’all didn’t do anythin’ untoward to get your paws on this here loot?” The Space Marine placed a hand over where she assumed his heart was, and nodded. Applejack stared at him for a moment, before nodding and sliding the bag of money behind her. She heard Rainbow groan and slam a hoof into her forehead.

“First, tell me what this here proposal of yours is?” she said, trying to remain as business-like as possible. The Space Marine was already walking away.

“Get in the Rhino.” He said. “Provided Rorke doesn't kill us, I’ll explain on the way.”

Something Mordecai had said a while back occurred to him.

“Vull Bron would have a fit if he saw this.” Zuko said, casting wary eyes around the shining city and trying to ignore the angry looks of the populace that lined the street; not because it offended him, but because he just didn’t care. Their strange, reflective and shimmering bodies made such ignorance difficult to maintain however.

“Who?” Scootaloo asked from way down by his feet. The three tiny ponies walked to the side of the Iron Warrior, ever mindful of his huge, heavy steps. He’d thought that being escorted by armed guard into the city would have put a dampener on their enthusiasm, but if anything it had had the opposite effect. To be fair, Zuko considered, actually laughing for a change when those Guards had attempted to take his weapons probably hadn’t helped.

“One of my brothers.” He admitted, still looking around. “45th Grand Company.” He paused for a moment. “He’s probably dead by now.”

The trio seemed not to be listening to him, instead entranced by the city of Crystals around them. It was certainly impressive, even a mind as blunted by war as the Aspiring Champions could see that.

“You didn’t tell us you were coming to the Crystal Empire!” Sweetie Belle squealed, for about the fifth time that day. The pair of them had spoken little since their moment in the snowstorm, and whilst she looked hungry-they all did-her sense of wonderment seemed to be keeping her going. There was little breeze (in fact, there was little anything-Zuko had noticed with some suspicion that this ‘Empire’ seemed to have its own self-contained climate), and all four of their cloaks hung loosely and still on their shoulders. “It’s even more beautiful than Rarity said!”

He was not concerned with its beauty. As they were escorted down the seemingly endless main road, Zuko subconsciously did what any Iron Warrior did; he observed. He calculated. He looked for weak points-the IV Legion always found the weak points. As far as he could tell, the city was laid out in pretty orderly blocs, forming concentric rings that slowly crept towards the centre of the city. Everything, from the buildings to the roads to the Ponies themselves, seemed to be hewn from rock, in this case a strange and impossibly pure Crystal substance. Zuko had fought in many a siege, but this was unlike anything he’d ever seen. He could almost have predicted both Lorkhan’s immediate reaction and the expletives he’d use.

Dominating everything, situated at the heart of the city was a fortress that-had he still been mortal-would likely have stopped his heart. It was easily as big as the castle from which they’d escaped upon first arriving in Equestria, and was fashioned from the most vibrant white crystals yet. Its base consisted of four mammoth ‘legs’ that came together to fall the central structure. Four towers reached high into the sky from the castle’s side, yet the middle tower was the highest of all, literally piercing the clouds and sending a spear of light up into the heavens. It reminded Zuko in no small part of descriptions he’d heard of the Astronomicon-the false Emperor’s corpse-light-and an uncomfortable thought settled in his gut that here was a fortress the Iron Warriors could have struggled to take, if they’d ever come here in force.

The light disturbed him also, but there was a different reason for that.

Eventually, the unlikely party and their chaperones arrived at the castle, disappearing into its confines and being led up innumerable flights of stairs. For a moment Iron Warrior paranoia whispered to Zuko that they were being led into a trap, but cold hard logic soon reasserted itself and reasoned that they wouldn’t do anything with the children here, not for pure virtue of being associated with him. And besides…he hadn’t actually done anything wrong for a change.

Sure enough, the Guards led them to a spacious enough chamber, and the Cutie Mark Crusaders wasted no time in resting their tired hooves. Two Guards remained, spears held upright as they blocked the door, and looking at them Zuko could not help but admire their dedication; he’d posed them the question when they’d tried to apprehend him on what exactly they intended to do had he meant them harm. They’d been singularly unable to provide an answer.

The Ponies asked for food, and a veritable banquet was brought to them in short order. Sure enough, everything on the plates was made from the same crystalline substance as everything else, except whatever this was seemed perfectly edible. The Crusaders tucked in ravenously, even dainty Sweetie Belle scooping up what could only be described as a feast. Zuko’s gene-wrought physique kept him going, and he declined eating, instead wandering to the edge of the room and lit a cigar on one of the wall mounted torches. Although it was childish, he took some pleasure from the Guards’ panicked squirms as reached into his belt. He didn’t smoke it, but holding it brought him a measure of calm.

“So, yah still haven’t told us exactly wah you’re here?” Applebloom asked, between mouthfuls of food. She stuffed a fruit he couldn’t identify down her throat. Varvillon probably could have done.

“Lorkhan asked me to meet the Princess of this Empire.” Zuko said, not seeing any point in lying to them. “Can-dance or something. I think the idea of an Empire made entirely of Crystal was too fabulous for him to resist, or something.”

They practically spat their mouthfuls out. “W-We’re gonna meet the Princess?!” Sweetie Belle stammered, eyes wide. “Ohmigosh, do you think she can help us get our Cutie Marks? I bet being a Princess means you get to try loads of things! What about the Castle, do you think we’ll get to stay here? I’ve never stayed in a castle before, Rarity has though. When I tell her she’s gonna be so jealous!”

He chose to ignore most of her monologue. “We’re not going anywhere.” He told them. “I am going to parlay with the monarch. You are going to remain here.” Applebloom and Sweetie Belle gave dejected ‘Awwwwwwwwww….’s, but Scootaloo’s response was simply a wry, lopsided smile.

“You really think that’s gonna stop us?” she grinned. Zuko sighed, shaking his head.

“I’m giving you and order.” He told them. “Technically, I’m a sergeant. I’m used to having my orders obeyed.” Scootaloo just kept on smiling at him, before giving him a small, companionable punch on a leg and sitting beside the Iron Warrior.

“I heard that they might hold the Equestria Games here someday!” she said enthusiastically, tiny wings flapping furiously. “Don’t’cha think that’d be awesome!”

“What’re the Equestria games?” the Iron Warrior asked. Scootaloo looked at him stunned for a moment, before something seemed to click.

“Oh yeah, I forget you’re not from round here sometimes Zuko, heh heh…” she chuckled nervously. “The Equestria Games are like, the biggest sporting competition in the whole world! Thousands of ponies turn up to watch the athletes compete, and there’s all kind of events; flying, running, javelin, stuff like that!”

“The Legions held intercine contests sometimes.” Zuko said. “Some still do in the Eye, but they’re decidedly less friendly. But we never got invited to the ones in the Crusade.”

“That sucks.” She said, apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He replied. “We wouldn’t have gone anyway.” She looked at him again for a moment, before continuing with her story.

“A-Anyway, I think Rainbow Dash should totally compete in the next Games! Don’t you think she’d be awesome!”

“You idolise her, don’t you? Scootaloo nodded eagerly.

“Well, who wouldn’t! She’s the fastest, coolest, bravest, most awesome pony in all of Equestria! Plus…” her face fell a little, and she looked down at the floor. “She’s a really good flyer. And I’m…not.”

The Iron Warrior looked down at the tiny Pony beside him, trying to think of what he could say now that a suspicion he’d maintained for a while was confirmed. With surprising gentleness, he reached out towards one of her wings. Scootaloo shied away at first, but eventually relaxed, edging closer to him. Zuko examined her wing carefully, taking care with the delicate structure.

“Perhaps the only one of my brothers that is truly tolerable is Barbus.” He told her. “His eye was taken in a fight against Russ’ pups, so we created a machine replacement grafted onto his body that would allow himself to see more or less normally.” She didn’t seem to understand for a moment, before it ‘clicked’ again.

“You guys can do that?” She asked, amazed. “You can fix body bits that don’t work properly?”

“Well, replace them with bionics.” The Astartes corrected. “But yes, we have the tools, and we have the…’talent’, I suppose. At the very least there’s Lorkhan.”

She looked at him for a moment, normally brash and confident expression replaced with a timid smile. The orange filly was about to say something more when the Guards stood aside, a further two walking into the room with grim expressions. Zuko’s head snapped round to meet them, whilst the Crusaders swiftly dropped their food.

“The Princess will see you now.” One of the Guards said, with barely disguised hostility, before spinning on a heel and marching out. Zuko followed without hesitation, the three little Ponies and other Guards following behind. They passed through a long gallery lined with gemstones, until they eventually reached a huge set of doors. Not wasting time on preamble, the Guard opened the door, ushering the Iron Warrior and his entourage in.

The room was about as far away from a IV Legion command centre as it was possible to get, so much so that for a moment Zuko was almost blindsided. It was light and airy, large windows letting streams of light pour in through stained glass. The carpet, one of the few things so far that wasn’t crystal, was a regal purple, lead to an almost imposing throne on the far side of the chamber. Armed guards flanked each side of the procession; the formation spoke a group that was used to blowing trumpets in celebration to accompany a procession.

There were no trumpets today.

Seated upon the throne was what, to even the most casual of observers, was clearly the mistress of this realm. Unlike all the other, crystalline ponies here, her coat was more ‘normal’; a vivid pink that gave Zuko uncomfortable flashes of a brother Legion he’d rather forget. Much like Celestia and Luna, this one’s royal status was confirmed by the presence of both hooves and wings; although the golden shoes, necklace and tri-pointed crown were unmistakable. Her ‘cutie mark’ was a turquoise heart that, predictably, was made of crystal. He focused on it without thinking, committing the shape to memory for later review.

“Her Royal highness, the Princess Cadence, sovereign ruler of the Crystal Kingdom.” A nervous looking pony with glasses and a scroll stood beside the throne called out. “And announcing ssir…urm…”

“Zuko.” The Iron Warrior said bluntly, stopping in the centre of the room. “Acting sergeant, third squad, thirteenth company, fourth Legiones Astartes.”

She smiled at him. It was obviously fake, the well-practiced smile of nobility, but she did smile. “I welcome you to the Crystal Empire in good faith, acting sergeant Zuko. I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting any of the Iron Warriors, although my husband informs me that you fought valiantly against the Changelings at the battle of Canterlot.”

She didn’t mention the wholesale slaughter of her own kind they’d been doing moments before the bug creatures had arrived. Zuko reckoned that she didn’t consider that ‘valiant’. “Your partner was in the city at the time?”

She smiled again, the implication clear in her voice. “My husband is captain of the city guard, Space Marine.”

The Captain of the Guard. “Oh.” Zuko said, trying his best not to fidget.

She ignored him, eyes falling instead to his tagalongs. “And I see you brought guests.” Cadence said, genuinely smiling now. “Hello, little ones.” The Crusaders, who had stayed three metres or so behind Zuko, blushed and stepped back giggling.

“It’s good to see you.” The Princess went on, her voice a carefully composed mixture of authoritiveness and affection. “Although I must say, from what I’ve been told it’d have been easier to just take the train.” She chuckled.

“Oh, we weren’t scared Princess Cadence.” Scootaloo put in confidently. “We were with Zuko! He’d never let anything bad happen to us, he can beat up anything!” The Princess looked back at Zuko, who returned her gaze with only a hint of awkwardness.

“Well, they certainly seem fond of you.” She said, mirthfully.

Zuko nodded. “No matter how hard I try.” He deadpanned. A couple of the Guards adjusted the hold on their spears, but for her part the Princess gave another demure giggle.

“Well, thank you for keeping them safe.” She conceded. “I give you my word, as royalty, that you will be given the best hospitality we can provide during your stay, my lord Iron Warrior. But you understand, I must ask…what exactly is it that brings you here?”

The Space Marine stared, for the longest time. Light streamed in from the windows, the stained glass distorting and refracting the mid-day sun, causing Zuko’s battered silver plate to sparkle in ways it had not for years. One of his bionic legs threatened to jerk uncontrollably. He turned, looking down at the three children. They looked back. Sweetie Belle smiled. Hesitating with his eyes on them for longer than he expected, Zuko finally looked back at the Princess. She smiled patiently.

“Diplomacy.” The Iron Warrior answered.

In one fluid movement Zuko reached into his belt, drew the Plasma Pistol and shot Princess Cadence in the face.

Author's Note

Oh, the tribulations in trying to finish this chapter. Between my computer deleting the draft (numerous times), to not being happy with the first POV segments from my unashamedly favourite Iron Warrior, Varvillon, it seemed that everything was conspiring against getting it done. In fact, in the end I had to cut out another bit of AJ, RD, Varvillon and Rorke just to get it done. It's not a huge loss, because it reduces this one's word count and perhaps ties in better, but it' irritating because your perceptions on the characters have most likely been altered.

But eh.

Hisarna

Cadence’s body dropped, face burned clean away by the force of a small sun. The Guards charged forth heedlessly in anger. Sweetie Belle screamed.

Zuko was already moving. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to have gone, but the Crusaders’ presence had eliminated any chance of slipping off by himself. He let loose another shot from the Plasma pistol, this time striking a guard and burning him to the bone. He ducked under a clumsy spear thrust and retaliated with a brutal uppercut, shattering another foe. The shards rained down around him, scraping down the ceramite plate.

Think. Think. Three seconds to cross the room, three guards to match. Locked door brought him some time, ten seconds at most, but he had counted at least 12 guards outside. Structural weakness in the windows gave another port of access…

Or exit.

He moved like lightning, shoulder barging another out the way and practically stomping Cadence’s clerk-pony into the dirt. A Guard crashed into him from the side, the momentum for a moment catching Zuko off balance. He stumbled back, stopped only by the wall, and with some effort hurled the equine back. As he did so, the inevitable happened; the Guard crashed into a torch stand, knocing it to the ground unceremoniously. The flames spread wildly, devouring carpet and curtain. Some of the Ponies backed away from the blaze; those not lost to wrath, that is.

The fire spread through the throne chamber quickly, its extremities caressing Zuko’s war plate. He did not sweat, but he did back off, conscious of the sensation of cooking inside his plate. He supposed that under his helmet, he was the palest of his brothers anyway. His back was to the wall as he worked out a plan, staring down the encroaching Crystal Ponies.

“Push! Come on, you gotta push!”

The sound drew his attention, despite his best efforts to ignore it; the sound of tiny hooves pounding on a heavy wooden door. Scootaloo strained frantically at the opening, but even with Applebloom and Sweetie Belle’s weight added to the mix, they could not push it open. Despite the blood that trickled down from some areas of soft armour-the result of lucky spear thrusts-and the oncoming enemies, Zuko watched their plight for a moment. Then, in another deft movement he fired another burst from the Plasma Pistol.

The bolt of super-heated energy slammed into the ceremonial doors, blowing them clean off their hinges. True, the fire would have eaten through them soon enough, but the Crusader’s panicked dash through the newly opened entrance allowed Zuko to refocus his efforts. With only a moment’s sigh, Zuko lowered his horned helmet and responded to his aggressors with a bull charge straight into their midst. The sight of a charging, battle-ready Space Marine had the desired effect, and despite their anger the Guards began to disperse out of his way. It was all the opening the Iron Warrior needed. Leaping, he crashed a boot down onto a Guard-probably crushing its crystal skull-and threw himself in a somewhat awkward swan dive out the opposite window.

He was saved by luck. Although Zuko was fairly confident that most of the populace couldn’t possibly know about their leader’s murder yet, many of the Guards had already been mobilised and were flying around the tower; no doubt alerted by the sound of fighting. Falling face down, the Astartes somehow managed to crash into one of them, the two engaging in a rough and tumble fall through the heavens. Zuko’s weight had probably broken most of…whatever passed for bones in his body, but the Guard was still able to exhibit a surprising amount of strength, and they did not drop from the air immediately. Locked in violent embrace, it was all Zuko could do to aim them head-first towards an oncoming window. He braced.

They erupted back into the castle in a shower of glass, reflective shards scattered over the equally luminous floor. The Pony was dead on arrival, neck clearly snapped as his body lay limp. It took Zuko a moment to rise, coughing and hacking painfully as he slowly made his way to his hands and knees. Some of the glass had punched through the soft armour at his joints, stabbing new wounds in his legs, his elbow…his neck. That one was problematic.

Three more guards burst into the room, these ones brandishing horns that pulsed with purple light. The Space Marine practically scrambled to his feet, sending another field of crackling energy around his chevroned Power Fist and raising the Plasma Pistol again. A gauntleted figure decompressed the trigger.

“Oh, you have got to be kid-“

He didn’t even have time to chuck the overheating pistol away before it exploded in a flare of light, ripping apart both itself and the first half of Zuko’s left arm. He staggered, blood dripping from where the wound had not fully cauterised in the heat and spraying all over the floor. His ears rang with the sound of the explosion, and had he still been mortal the sight of half one of his bones sticking out from the mangled limb may have rendered him unconscious. As it was, combat-stimms flooded his system, his mind straining against the haze of painkillers. For a moment, a thought of the cigar he’d never finished earlier flashed into his head.

It was a shame; that pistol had served him well for years. Though it was just another weapon in the Long War, the sense of its loss was palpable. Zuko bit back his rising anger, instead choosing to direct it at the ponies opposing him. Their shock at the loss of his arm, and the arterial fluid it sprayed when he moved, was their downfall-with one punishing right hook the Iron Warrior crumpled their heads. Vision swimming, he leapt over the corpses before they had hit the ground, running deeper into the crystal castle.

The place was a veritable maze, and one not designed for a warrior of Zuko’s stature. His blood left a crimson trail behind him, and he elected to rely on speed more than anything to carry him through safely.

This is wrong. Blood of the Primarch, this is no way for an Iron Warrior to fight.

He skidded round a corner, using his momentum to knock a crystal unicorn flailing from a window, and tried to focus on the mental map he’d begun to draw up before everything went to hell. The mission dictated he had to keep going down towards the centre, if his navigational instincts were correct, and so Zuko aimed for descending flights of stairs; even in his wounded state he was able to leap down, landing in a kneeling position and often grinding any unlucky Pony beneath his boot.

A spear, hurled in desperation, splintered off the front of his horned helmet-missing an eye slit by the narrowest of margins. The Iron Warrior grasped the offending guard by the throat as he charged past, slamming him into a wall and breaking whatever constituted his spine. He kept running, down and down, paying less and less heed as to his exact direction. Eventually, Zuko actually had to squint reflexively as well as in pain as he emerged into the sunlight-having, purely by luck, managed to navigate his way down to the base of the castle. He supposed he was due some of that today. The clamour of betrayal and pursuit could still be heard above him, and even down here the Crystal Ponies that constituted the citizenry of the Empire seemed perturbed by his presence; perhaps more so due to the severed limb. He gave them only the most cursory of glances before disregarding them, turning and sprinting back beneath the towering Crystal castle in search of his true objective.

It was clear even to him that the fantastic, burning light he had witnessed earlier was born at this point. Specifically, whatever it was lay between the two spikes of stone-one erupting from the ground, one hanging down from the underside of the castle. As he got closer, the shape of his target became more apparent. It was shorn from what looked to be a peculiar strain of sapphire…crystal. Of course it was crystal. To one of the Ponies, perhaps the Heart would have been of considerable size, but to the Space Marine it seemed little more than a trinket. He cocked his head to the side, wounded body forgotten for a moment, and reached out to take it-ignorant of the attention and gasps his act drew. Surprisingly, for a moment it burned him even through his fist, and he had to shake it to numb the pain as if scalded. Gritting his teeth, the Iron Warrior clamped his talon around it, yanking it from its hold. It fit neatly into his palm.

We sacrifice so much, for things so small.

He now had no weapons other than his own body, but the effect was still near-instantaneous. The light and shine seemed to be sucked from his surroundings as he ran, a pallor descending over the Empire. Panic came with it, the cry reaching a crescendo as the Ponies seemed to realise what had happened. It would have been curious, had he bothered to stop and look.; the theft of the heart seemed to rip whatever peculiar magic powered the Empire away, subjecting it to the whims of winter. As the snow piled in like a gale, the crystal shine that enchanted the ponies retracted, their bodies devolving to weak flesh all around him. But he saw none of this; Zuko ran for the gate bleeding and fuming, magical blasts from the guards biting at his heels, dragging another kingdom into darkness.

“Hey, Varviloser, are we there yet?”

If there was any tensing in the shoulders of the Iron Warrior at Rainbow’s snide remark, Applejack couldn’t detect it. He did not even slow to acknowledge it, red eyes penetrating the gloom as he took each heavy crashing step into the undergrowth. His brother had already gone ahead, and despite his size Rorke was little more than a shadowy outline hacking his way forward with brutal sweeps of his sword.

“Urm, hello, earth to tinhead. I said-“

“I heard you.” The towering warrior replied, the stoniness of his voice enough to coerce even the brash cyan Pegasus into silence. He offered no more exposition, if anything increasing his pace. Hanging behind for a second, rainbow shot a glare at Applejack. The Earth Pony grimaced back, mindful that she’d be getting a berating for agreeing to this later.

They’d left that construct of theirs at the outskirts of the Everfree, instead travelling under their own steam through its sinister confines. Even in the middle of the day, the forest was not a place that Applejack relished being. Where once it had been threatening, now it was outright oppressive-ever since the mysterious fire a couple of months ago, of which very little had been officially disclosed to anypony, it’s the once verdant areas were tinged with the grey, ashen reminders of conflagration, and the ground littered with dead sticks. It made every hoof-fall into the litter give a sickening crunch, and not for the first time Applejack considered whether the proffered bits were really worth performing this favour for the Iron Warriors. They were still being downright sketchy on the details-she was used to them being stubborn, could even partially understand it, but this was beyond a joke.

She trotted closer to him anyway, grateful for the protection offered if not its source. His armour gave a strange buzz and hum as he walked. The quiet whine was irritating, but it did help offset the unnatural quiet brought about by the lack of birdsong or even wind.

“She’s got a point, yah know.” The orange pony said quietly, adjusting her hat as they walked. He did not look down at her, and for a moment she wondered if he maybe hadn’t heard, but she should have known better.

“If I wanted you dead, then you would be dead.” He said, apropos of nothing. She flushed, feeling herself tense, but it was not a threat as much as a statement of fact. She sighed, casting another glance around and doing her best to stay out of the shadows thrown by the gnarled, blackened trees.

“Now lookee here, ah know y’all are used tah callin’ the shots an’ all, but ‘round here it just ain’t the done thing tah lead honest ponyfolk bobbin’ fer apples lahk this.” She said, trying her best to sound unafraid, and probably failing. “Ah said ah’d help y’all, ah didn’t expect-“

“It would have been a lot easier, as well as probably more forgiving to the sergeant’s blood sugar levels, for us to simply drag some slaves out here to do this for us.” He butt in, speaking slowly. “I heard of your subspecies’ connection with the natural environment, however, and reasoned that there was no harm bringing in more skilled labour. And labour should always be rewarded.”

The reply died in her throat at his words, and for a moment she was quiet as they walked. “Y’know, pardner, yah don’t act lahk them other Iron Warriors.” She said at last, softly. Varvillon scoffed, finally looking down at her, although not slowing.

“Coming from one of you, I’ll take that as a comple-“

“You’re more lahk a mob boss.”

The Space Marine kept his red glare on her for a moment, before returning to following their path. They walked in silence for a while, Rainbow hovering a step behind.

It was the butcher that broke the quiet. Rorke came trampling back out from the bushes he had been hacking down, armour returning to its silver sheen rather than a shadowy murk as he stepped into the limited light in the Everfree. His sword was held lazily in his right hand, tip pointed to the ground, and Applejack took a reflexive step back as lightning danced across the blade. Though his face was hidden by the snout-nosed helmet, the Earth Pony could practically see his look of irritation.

“It’s there?” Varvillon asked. Rorke’s response was to grunt in what she assumed was the affirmative. They sped up the pace, taking bigger strides into the shadows. Applejack started to join them, when a blue hoof on the shoulder stopped her. Rainbow fixed the farmer with a hard glare.

“We can still go back, you know?” She whispered. “We don’t have to let thee guys boss us around.”

Applejack looked at her for a moment, grimacing, before shaking her head and gently removing the hoof.

“Ah’m sorry, Rainbow. But ah said ah’d do it, so ah’ll do it. Before her friend could argue, she turned and ran to catch up with the two giants. “Oh, and bah the way, ah still wanna know how y’all managed tah get all that money.” She said, pouting a little. Varvillon sighed and made to reply, but surprisingly it was his brother that cut him off.

“Colour me fucking curious as well, Varvillon.” He growled, twirling the sword in his hand. “You are a lot of things, but not a legitimate businessman.”

Varvillon actually laughed, though it was more akin to the sound of steel being sharpened. “Brother sergeant, Xenos, have a little faith. I acquired the funds in a perfectly reasonable manner.”

***

Being the head of Ponyville hospital had its downsides, Doctor Wellwhinny mused. It meant long hours, stressful days, and sometimes having to be the bearer of bad news. But it also meant a sterile working environment, a stable paycheck, and a rare sense of job satisfaction. Luna’s moon was high in the sky as he returned to his office, a contended smile crossing his face as he finally let the tension unwind.

It hadn’t been the worst day he’d ever had, all things considered. Golden Harvest had been stung by some insect in her garden and was going full hypochondriac, two colts had come in for foal-flu jabs, one of the Pegasi who worked the market had sprained a wing, and lastly had been local farmer Applejack coming in for a standard check-up.

Ah…Applejack. Now there was a mare. Sweet Apple Acres was not too far from the hospital, and on a good day Wellwhinny could see her toiling in the fields from his office. She worked so hard…and so well. From what he observed of her working with hay, the Doctor imagined she was pretty good in it…

His thoughts were distracted as the low humming finally reached his ears. It should have been the first indication that something was wrong, but before he could react the door had slammed shut behind him. He turned, seeing two red eyes glaring at him from out of the gloom. He couldn’t even scream as the lights were flicked on.

How the two towering aliens had managed to both sneak in and conceal themselves in his office, standing either side of the door, was lost on Wellwhinny. How they even fit was a mystery, but it was a conundrum for another time as they stared down at him. Surprisingly, there were two; the first, with the glowing eyes, wore fairly unadorned armour. The second had no helmet, although his armour was swrathed in dark grey robes. A teacup levitated in front of him-he brought it up to his mouth, tilting it and taking a sip.

“Good evening.” He said, in a cheery and peculiarly upper-class voice. “Sorry to burst in on you like this and what, but expediency is I’m afraid an issue here.”

“We’re not robbing you.” Said the other, helmeted one, bluntly.

“Certainly not.” His brother agreed, frowning.

“Not even threatening.”

“Damn rummy business, robbery.”

“Although…” the helmeted one said, tilting his head to the side. “If, Gods forbid, we did want to rob him, what could we do Mordecai?”

“Well brother, if I really had too, I suppose it would not be an impossibility for me to consider reaching out with a portion of my psychic power and crushing our friend here’s skeleton.” Mordecai said, sounding managing to sound genuinely regretful. They lapsed into hush, looking down at the Doctor. Up to the point, Wellwhinny had done little but stammer silently in dumb confusion and fear, eyes wide. It took him a moment to find his voice.

“N-now, I’m sure we can reach some form of…arrangement.” He said, chuckling slightly in panic. The helmeted Iron Warrior nodded, whilst Mordecai clapped his hands together in seeming delight.

“Indeed we can. Isn’t it nice when everyone co-operates?” Helmet asked, fumbling with his belt. His efforts met with the producing of a brown sack, which he held out in front of him. “Now then, as a licenced professional, we were hoping you’d consider making a small donation-“

“-not robbery.” His brother stressed again.

“To the Fourth Legion Charity fund.” He finished, nodding his head. “It’s all going to a good cause, I swear on our Legion’s honour.”

It took him a moment to catch on. “Y…You’re robbing a hospital?” the Doctor asked, incredulously. The Iron Warriors sighed in unison.

“We’ve just been over this.”

“Do try and keep up, old sport.”

“We’re not robbing you, we’re asking for a donation.” He insisted, shaking the proffered bag. “Think of it as a celebration of newfound solidarity and co-operation.”

His mind was racing whilst he tried to find a loophole. “But I don’t have any money on me?” he tried.

“Oh, not to worry.” Mordecai said. “Why, I’m sure you wouldn’t be averse to dipping a little into this marvellous establishment’s rainy day coffers.”

Clearly, they were not leaving, nor were they in much mood to negotiate. Gulping, the Doctor turned and padded towards his desk on shaking hooves. He reached down and began to fumble with the locks on the safe stashed into one of the built-in cupboards.

“You keep the money in your desk?” the armoured one asked behind him. Wellwhinny froze, but did not turn.

“It makes for…ease of access.” He said, in a small voice. When they didn’t reply, he judged it was to allow him to continue. He managed to flip it open, revealing a caseload of hundreds of bits. In hindsight, keeping it all in his office was a tad foolish, but until now he’d never considered the prospect of being effectively mugged by two alien super-soldiers. Without having to even touch them, the bits were telekinetically pulled from the safe and dropped into the bag. The Doctor turned back to them as Mordecai stretched a wrist out. The other one nodded, tying the bag closed and swinging it over his shoulder.

“Thanks.” He said, turning to leave. He stopped in the doorframe after flipping the lights off, turning back to look at the Pony. His eyes were two pits of fire. “Oh, and best keep this our little secret for the time being. We’ll get your commemorative plaque sorted soon enough. We’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

Then they left, leaving the Doctor alone with only his rapidly beating heart for company.

***

The party reached its destination in short order, just as Rorke had promised. The two Ponies stopped dead, whilst the Iron Warriors looked out with either approval or contempt. This area of the forest was not as blackened as the others, and from the green clinging to the grove’s outskirts it was clear the fire had perhaps not reached here. That green was contrasted with the wave of blue that stretched out along the ground; a blue the two Equestrians recognised instantly.

“Poison Joke!” Rainbow cried, gritting her teeth. “It’s a set up, I told you! Come on AJ, the evidence is pretty bucking clear!”

“Y’all know that this stuff puts a curse on yah, right?” the orange pony asked, casting a sidewards glance at the Iron Warrior.

“By my sensors reckoning, the narcotic element of this plant is ready for harvest.” Varvillon explained flatly. “You Earth Ponies have a connection with the natural world, we’ve been informed. Collect it all for us, and the money is yours.”

“Earth Pony?” Rainbow asked, practically spitting her words at them. “Then what am I, huh?”

The Space Marine looked at her. “Two for the price of one.” She looked like she was about to explode, and Applejack took it upon herself to intervene.

“An’ may ah ask what y’all will be doin’ while we slave away for ya?” she asked, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. Varvillon just looked at her, whilst Rorke laughed, drumming his fingers on the handle of the sword.

“Do we look like fucking farmers?”

That seemed to be the last word on the matter. Applejack stared at them for a moment longer anyway, searching for some reprieve or leeway; as usual, the blank stare of their helmets gave her none. Unable to stop herself pouting a little as she reaffixed her hat, Applejack turned her back to them and, with a heavy sigh, began to pad towards the fields of blue. Rainbow, apparently, was having none of it.

“Uh uh, no way.” The Pegasus said firmly, floating to hover in front of her friend. “Not gonna happen, AJ. I am NOT going through being called ‘Rainbow Crash’ again. Besides, I still say that working for these guy isn’t cool…”

“If ah get cursed again, then ahm sure Twahlaght or Zecora can just whip us up some of that there potion.” Applejack replied, neutrally. Behind her one of the Iron Warriors coughed, but she gave it no thought. You don’t have tah help me, Rainbow, but even if these guys ain’t bein’ honest with us then shoot, ah won’t have the same said about me.” Before the Pegasus could reply she pushed back, heading into the field of flowers. Rainbow lingered for a moment, seemingly on the precipice between despair and anger. Finally though, her status as the element of Loyalty seemed to win through, and she followed the Earth Pony-though it was not free from disgruntled muttering.

Even for such a relatively compacted area, it was hard work. The Poison Joke was a delicate little flower, and it took all of the pair’s skill to avoid being hexed once again. Predictably, Rainbow displayed considerably less care towards the task than Applejack did, seemingly rushing in an attempt to get it done. The orange pony was more methodical; in lieu of anywhere to store the collected plants, and with the Space Marines being as uncommunicative as ever, she elected to pile them up in a heap. The result looked more akin to the beginnings of a bonfire than a resource, but it was good enough. After about an hour and a half of solid work the pair were done-the collection of flowers at least half as tall as one of the Iron Warriors.

“Well, that’s the last of ‘em.” Applejack said, breathing heavily as she trotted over towards Varvillon. He looked down at her, then at the pile.

“Good.” He said, as if that settled the matter. “Now go and stand over there, and don’t say anything stupid.”

Getting dragged into the middle of the Everfree Forest and forced to perform tedious, gruelling work just to be called stupid was more than Applejack could take. She frowned, before gritting her teeth and reddening deeply, but any angry outburst was forestalled by a rustling in the bushes. The pair of Ponies fell back a little, casting furtive glances at one another as the three shapes emerged into the clearing to stand before the Iron Warriors. They were hunched and canine, knuckles dragging on the ground and a foul cloud misting before beady eyes. The gems on their collars somehow still managed to sparkle.

“Diamond Dogs.” Rainbow hissed, looking again at her friend. “How the buck did the Iron Warriors find them?”

“Ah’m not sure we want tah know.”- Applejack said, forestalling any attempt at an explanation. The tallest Dog, a grey furred creature with a red jacket that Applejack remembered from the whole fiasco with Rarity stepped forwards, looking up at Varvillon with green eyes. The red-eyed Astartes stared back down at the creature, who seemed curiously unafraid of the giant before him.

“Not usual to meet in middle of forest.” He grumbled, eyeing the silver warrior suspiciously.

“We were hardly going to meet you on anything other than our terms.” Varvillon explained, voice without emotion. “And besides, this makes the whole dealing process easier.” There was some more grumbling and awkward shuffling from the two Dogs behind him, but Red-Jacket just scowled.

“Fine. Show me, show me.” He said in his scratchy voice. The Iron Warriors parted, letting the trio take a look at miniature mountain of blue that lay before them. The Diamond Dog’s pupils visibly dilated as their mouths dropped open, hungry drools leaving their lips. Applejack and Rainbow slowly backed off, trying not to get caught up in this. They were not quick enough-Red-Jacket spotted them, eyes narrowing. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to recognise them, but he still kicked up a fuss.

“Why you bring Pony?” he growled, casting a viperous look at the Iron Warriors. “Ponies was not part of the deal.”

“They had value to me.” Varvillon grunted. The Dog seemed to take that at face value, and returned his attention to the pile of Poison Joke. He licked his lips eagerly.

“Not much to smoke in the mines, heh heh.” The Dog cackled idiotically. “Very good to have all these spares. And it goes for at least as much as gems, oh yes, maybe more.”

“Don’t need a life story, Xenos.” Rorke drawled. Varvillon let him finish before taking a step towards the canines.

“We have fulfilled our end of the bargain.” He told them, hand resting on the grip of his large gun. “Now, what have you got for us?” Red-Jacket looked at him for a moment, eyes wide. His ears drooped up and down against the top of his head. Then, with a click of his fingers, he summoned the largest of his two companions. The Dog produced a roll of paper, warily offering it to Varvillon. The Iron Warrior ripped it from his grip, beginning to unravel it.

“They write Gothic?” Rorke snorted derisively.

“Apparently so.” Varvillon replied. Another statement seemed to be coming, but it died as he unravelled the paper and stared down at it. Applejack couldn’t see what was written, but for once the Space Marine went utterly still. Even his brother was motionless.

“Bloody fuck.” Rorke muttered. Varvillon stared at the paper for a moment more, then looked back at the Dogs.

“This was in the mountains?” he asked, and despite the distortion from his helmet the Iron Warriors’ voice was unusually quiet. The Dogs nodded in their usual, hyperactive manner. “And you’re certain this is what it said?” he continued. Again, they nodded. Varvillon took a deep sigh. He folded the paper and slot it into a pouch on his belt. “Thank you for your contribution. The Fourth Legion is not unappreciative.” It was subtle, but Applejack just managed to catch the tiny inclination of his head.

Diamond Dogs were deceptively nimble, but Rorke was lightning. The Iron Warrior struck out with a roar, the sword that had moments before been held lazily now drawn in a sweeping curve. It sliced clean through Red-Jacket’s neck before his face even had a chance to contort in confusion, sending the head sailing away. The spray of jetting blood daubed the front of his armour an arterial crimson, some of it fizzling from the blade of his energised sword. He stepped forwards and brought his knee up, crashing it into the largest Dog’s chin. The sound of a neck snapping was audible as his head jolted back, and the body dropped limply to the floor. The last of the Dogs, the smallest, wisely chose to turn and flee. Rorke stopped for a moment, eyes locked on his target, before unsheathing and raising his pistol. The sound of a gun’s report echoed through the forest air, and the Dog just had time to scream before the bullet exploded within him and reduced his body to a shower of fleshy chunks.

Applejack’s mind was gone, mind temporarily whitewashed by the scene of slaughter before her. It took a lot to unman the Pony, and she’d seen the Iron Warriors in action before, but what had just happened was not a battle. It was an execution. Even Rainbow Dash was cowed, the only words leaving her lips “Mother of Celestia…” in an unnerved whisper.

“You shouldn’t have used the gun.” Varvillon sighed, standing over the bodies. “It was not needed, and we may have been heard.” Rorke’s response was to turn to him and growl unintelligibly. Varvillon returned the glare, before nudging the headless corpse with a foot. “Collect the skulls then, I know you’re into things like that. Then load them on the pile.” He pivoted back, and seemed to look at AJ as if only just remembering her and Rainbow were here. He was silent for a moment.

“The money is still at your farm.” Was his justification. “Run home.”

Applejack was not a cowardly mare. Far from it; she’d faced Gods and demons, plus a corrupted Princess of Equestria herself, had climbed to a Dragon’s lair, baited Timberwolves, and more besides. But when he spoke, she complied, turning tail and galloping off as fast as her hooves could carry her. Rainbow was not far behind, even her brash attitude failing her as her wings strained to fly faster.

The Iron Warriors did not follow, but the sound of smoke and fire from behind them minutes later was all they needed to know.

LORKHAN.

The word streamed across the retina screen within his helmet, shaking the Warsmith from his reverie. Lorkhan cast a glance around the blackened command deck, before remembering it was pointless; even if the source of those words was actually in here, it was unlikely to reveal itself.

LORKHAN.

What remained of the deck was much as it always was, a lightless place filled with cracked computer terminals and sparking holomaps. It was unusual to find more than 3 or 4 Iron Warriors here at a time, but now it was just Lorkhan that sat there in the shadows. Even Vortun had gone, though he didn’t know where.

For a moment, he was unsure how to reply. He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his sunken throne, shifting slightly where he lounged. He considered speaking, but even Lorkhan knew that talking to himself would send the wrong message.

Shut up. Go away. A headache started to tingle behind his eyes as he thought the words, and for a moment it seemed to be for nothing as no reply was forthcoming. The Warsmith fidgeted again, not sure how to proceed.

YOU SUMMONED ME.

The words were merely that; words. Yet, something in them almost seemed to slither across his brain. Had he kept more of his flesh down the millennia, Lorkhan may well have shuddered.

No. I gave you a plaything, and I intend to put you to use. At no point does that require conversing with you.

No words appeared on his screen, but Lorkhan got the distinct impression he was being laughed at.

USE ME.

AM I YOUR TOY.

AM I STILL BURDENED.

Yes. I keep you locked up down there for a reason. How is our guest?

HIS SCREAMS SUSTAIN ME.

Lorkhan drummed his fingers again. For the ten minutes he had known him, Discord had been nothing more than an infuriating ass, but even he didn’t deserve to be left at the mercy of the Burdened. Sympathy had long since been ground for the Warsmith, along with pity, but a sliver of bad feeling for the Draconequus flared up for the briefest second.

Don’t damage him too much. You think his soul will work?

USIRIEN LORKHAN.

SO QUICK TO QUESTION.

SO SLOW TO PROVIDE.

The lord of the Iron Warriors gritted what remained of the teeth underneath his half-skull helmet. Do not question me. We are not equal partners, Ch’zar’ako. The screen flickered with static for a moment, and the tendrils slowly gripping his mind writhed slightly as the Daemon recoiled at its true name. It pained Lorkhan too, to think it-though perhaps not as much as it should.

HE WILL SUFFICE.

Good. You’re going in, too.

ONE SLIP UP IN THE PROCESS AND YOU ARE MINE.

YOUR SOUL IS TAINTED ENOUGH.

The Daemon had a point.

“Would you like to be whole again, Ch’zar’ako?” Lorkhan whispered to the dark, words almost lost within his helmet. Once again, it took a few minutes for a reply to formulate.

YES.

The painkillers had worn off a while ago. Every trudging step was carried by bloody minded determination, as well as the desire to see his arm whole once more. The blood from the burnt stump was somehow still dripping out, leaving a trail in the snow behind.

Once more, the wind lashed against Zuko’s armour as he tried to make his way through the fields of ice. Retracing his steps back towards town was not the problem; even with the disorienting pain that threatened to make him stumble and veer off course despite all his training to suppress it, he still possessed an Astartes’ eidetic memory. It was the sheer melting pot of events that made Zuko’s pace depressingly slow. He had long since stopped thinking about it, filtering all memories out as he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, but he couldn’t stop himself fuming on the inside.

The Crystal Heart he held clamped between the talons of his power fist was the most poignant reminder. It no longer glowed, seeming to be nothing more than a chunk of dumb rock in his hand. He didn’t even look at it any more, refusing to bring it to eye level and shelter himself from the elements.

Something hit him on the leg. It was only a light touch, barely a glance, and for a moment he thought it was just his arm wound playing up. It took a second, slightly harder impact to stop him. When he turned, the Iron Warrior groaned internally-but he wasn’t surprised.

The three little ponies-yellow, white and orange-stood in the blizzard, glaring up at him as they shivered. It was the white one that stood at the front, eyes almost burning as she stared at Zuko whilst assembling another snowball.

“Why are you still wearing that?” Sweetie Belle said, hostility dripping from her voice. Zuko may have been IV Legion, but even he was surprised by the bitterness. He adjusted the tattered red cape on his shoulders. Great tears had opened in it where shards of glass had stabbed through. He considered telling them he had forgotten he was wearing it…but there had been enough deception today. He was enough of an Iron Warrior to appreciate that.

“It’s cold.” He said, voice perfectly moderate. “I’m resistant to weather, but it never hurts to make sure.”

“Ah thought you were mah friend!” Applebloom snapped, seemingly having to physically restrain herself. “Ah thought ah could trust you, that you weren’t lahk the others!”

“My loyalty is to the Legion.” He said simply. “I told you that well enough. Strangely, we’re not the most diplomatic of fellows.”

“You were better than them!” Sweetie screamed, flinging the snowball at him. This one managed to strike his chest plate. “You said your Legion had changed, that you wanted to be a hero! You WERE a hero…you were a hero to me.” Her voice grew quieter, cracking with emotion and tears. The wind around them was fierce, yet Zuko still heard her sniffles. “All those things you told me…all that about wanting to be a good guy…was any of it true?” She looked up at him, biting her lip in anger. “Did you mean a single thing you said?”

He was motionless for a time. “Yes.” He said at last. “I meant every word.”

“So now what?” Scootaloo spat, taking her eyes off the stump of his arm. “Are you gonna kill us too, like you killed Cadence?”

He sighed, realising the question had been inevitable. “No.”

“What then?” The Pegasus said, stamping a hoof. “Are you just gonna leave us?”

“If I take you back, you will reveal what I have done. If I kill you, too many questions will be raised. Yes, Scootaloo. I am going to leave you here.”

“And that doesn’t bother you in the slightest, does it?” she asked, scornfully.

“No.” The Iron Warrior lied. Sweetie Belle stared at him for a moment, green eyes trembling as tears rolled down her cheek and froze.

“I thought you were better than them.” She said again, looking to the ground and shaking her head in despair. “You were my friend, Zuko. I don’t care what species or…or Legion you are. I loved you as much as any other friend.” She squinted harder, sniffling to try and stop herself crying more. “But you’re not any better. You’re all the same, you’re all monsters. And…and I hope you all die!” She squealed, furious eyes burrowing into him as she looked up. “I hope every last one of you dies!”

For a moment, even Zuko seemed taken aback by the violence in her words. His response was to nod. “So do I.” he replied, and despite the steel in his tone the melancholy that lurked behind it was unmistakeable. He turned and began to walk before they could question what he meant, moving at a more hurried pace than he’d like to admit.

His footsteps left deep impressions in the snow, and the blood stained every one red.

Author's Note

asdkjgflk I know it's sub-par, really I do. The first Zuko bit in particular I loathe, but I've refined it as much as I can, and if I don't put it out now I never will. My advice is just to skim-read it, because quite a lot of plot stuff happens...although Iguess you know that by this point.

Anyway, 'Hisarna'='The Iron One' in the language of the Scythian Urugundi tribe...I think. Don't ask me, I read it in a book.

OiM Halloween Special-The Twilight Zone

“And then, the Lord of Iron contacted First Captain Forrix to demand why he had not reduced the trajectory of the Earthshaker batteries by 1.17 degrees downwards like Magnus had requested. But Forrix told him that the Thousand Sons had already left the system. So...who was the Primarch talking to on the Vox?”

Silence dominated the hold of the Olympian Sun. It was never light-the lumen strips had been almost universally knocked out in the crash, and nobody had bothered to repair them-but tonight they’d construed to make the chamber particularly dim. Supposedly, it was for atmospheric reasons, but all it really did was make the sources of light more noticeable; namely the pairs of glowing red eyes, and the bonfire burning in the middle of the roughly circular huddle and reflected off silver armour.

Lorkhan looked from brother to brother, seeking some sort of reprieve or even an acknowledgement. There was none. Sighing, he turned off the comically-undersized torch that was illuminating his helmet from beneath, and leant forward, tossing it into the circle.

“Not scary?” The Warsmith mumbled dejectedly, staring into the fire.

“Not even slightly.” Zuko confirmed, placing a hand on his chin as slowly twisted the marshmallow on a stick held delicately between his fingers.

“It would have been scarier if the Thousand Sons had actually still been there.” Barbus added, folding his arms. “Horror beyond imagining.” There was a general mumble of assent from his brothers, most of whom had only been half paying attention anyway.

“Well, you think of a better scary story then.” Lorkhan said caustically, looking over to Rorke on his left. The Champion’s response was to merely shrug. Mordecai seemed little better. The Sorcerer had substituted his usual supply of tea for a strange substance that would have looked more at home in a cauldron than a flask, but Lorkhan had no doubt that it was anything other than perfectly civilised.

“Fine.” Varvillon finally interjected , reaching for the torch and flipping it on. “If we’re going to be stuck here all night, then allow me to regale you with a tale of terror.”

“Rorke should be ze one to tell un story.” Vortun grunted, shifting slightly. “He vas ze von zat forgot to put up ze decorations.”

“Don’t blame me, Obliterator.’ Rorke growled, pointing a finger at the once-Astartes. “Any of you could have done it, and besides, the Xenos get all antsy if you start carting buckets of blood around.”

“You could just use the fake stuff, you know.” Zuko told him flatly. “Real blood isn’t actually needed.” Rorke stared at him like he’d just spoke Nostraman.

“I don’t mean to be crass, gentlemen, but would you be so kind as to quiet down a tad? I would like to hear Varvillon’s spine-chilling offering to this little soiree.” Mordecai chimed in. Varvillon nodded in gratitude, then returned to staring at the fire, torch bathing his helmet in an unnatural light from the bottom up.

“This is the story that happened to a group of Iron Warriors, just like this one. It was a dark and stormy night, just like this one-“

“It’s not stormy.” Barbus pointed out. “It’s actually pretty clear and still out.” He was silenced by a smack round the back of the head from Lorkhan.

“Let him tell the bloody story.” Lorkhan insisted, mecha-tendrils hissing as he spoke. Varvillon waited for quiet before starting again.

“Anyway it began on a dark and stormy night. The Warsmith had just finished calculating the logistical pathways needed for his Medusa tank squadron to deploy at the correct angle against the Fortress’ curtain wall, when-“

This time, it was a quiet cough that broke the flow. Varvillon swore angrily, tossing the torch over his shoulder with a huff. The Astartes’ eyes were drawn to the source of the noise. In the doorway stood a human serf, the man’s frail body shaking slightly. He gulped as he looked down at the floor.

“This better be damn good.” Lorkhan muttered menacingly. The wretch shook harder.

“S-sorry my lords…but she just…b-burst in.” No sooner had he finished then a smaller shape, coming up to about his waist, pushed past. It was Xenos in origin, standing on all fours and clad in a simple brown hood with a short length of rope around the neck. Flecks of purple could just be made out in the dark.

“Nice costume.” The Warsmith ventured at last. Twilight nodded and smiled awkwardly, though it was clear the belly of the Chaos Marine strike cruiser was the last place in Equestria she wanted to be right now.

“Thanks.” She said, half sincerely. “I’m Clover the Clever…not that anypony knows who that is.” Her small face scrunched up in a pout that would have been adorable, had the Iron Warriors had any understanding of the concept.

“You’re right, no clue.” Zuko agreed.

“If we’d known we were having guests, we’d have cleaned up.” Lorkhan told her, a little awkwardness creeping into his own voice. She smiled more genuinely this time, casting a glance at the fire.

“Oh it’s alright, I don’t plan on staying long. IU was just…making sure you kept out of trouble.” She tried, grinning and sweating slightly as her eyes darted from side to side. “Wait a minute…” she cast another look around, frowning again. “You…you guys celebrate Nightmare Night?”

There was a chorus of generally dismissive scoffing. “We don’t participate in Xenos rituals.” Rorke grunted, hand straying to the hilt of his sword.

“Manners, dear brother.” Mordecai chided, taking another sip of his brew. Lorkhan rubbed the temple of his helmet despairingly before responding.

“We had a similar celebration on Olympia.” He explained to the Unicorn. “The Legion never celebrated it, obviously. That was far too fun. But when we heard you had a festival of a similar kind, we figured we’d give it a try.”

“It’s not easy when you’re engineered to be physically incapable of feeling fear.” Barbus put in. Twilight stared at them all for a moment, blinking in incomprehension, before giving another uneasy smile.

“Well…at least you’re entertaining yourselves…I like the Pumpkin.” She tried, eyes moving to where it sat nearby. The Iron Skull emblem of the Legion was carved on it, glowing with an inner light.

“That was mine.” Varvillon said, seemingly quite pleased with her praise. She chuckled in spite of herself, kicking a hoof nervously.

“Oh yeah!” she said at last, turning her attention to the Psyker of the group. “Urm…thanks for lending us those books. All the little ones loved them, they’ve had great fun looking for costume ideas.”

As one, the Iron Warriors turned to look at Mordecai, who continued to sip his tea diplomatically. “Books?” Lorkhan inquired in a quiet, innocent voice. “Which books were those, brother?”

“Not to worry, sir.” The sorcerer replied, putting on a reassuring smile. “I would never reveal the non-existent secrets of our jolly old band. I merely loaned our friends here a work from my personal collection detailing the various heraldry of our cousins. It seemed to my mind a harmless bit of fun.” He turned to smile at Twilight. “You are very welcome, Ms Sparkle.”

She smiled back. “Well, all the foals and fillies have had fun making the armour….and it was a fascinating read.” She admitted, blushing. “In fact, they’ve all gone for the same colour scheme-“

“They have?” Lorkhan asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “They’re all the same Legion?” She nodded. “Hmm…Night Lords, I guess. It would be appropriate.”

“…come again?” Twilight said, bemused.

“Blue armour, lightning details.” Zuko clarified.

“Fucking stupid helmets.” Rorke added. Twilight tapped a hoof to her chin thoughtfully for a moment.

“No…it wasn’t them. These guys were-“

“Death Guard, then.” The Warsmith guessed. “Big fat sick looking green guys. Bit disgusting.”

“No, it wasn’t them, I think it was-“

“World Eaters?” Zuko asked, sounding more incredulous. “They’re good in a fight, but red and bronze isn’t particularly scary.” Barbus put his hands on either side of his helmet, sticking an index finger on each skyward.

“Bunny ears.” He clarified. Twilight shook her head.

“No, it wasn’t any of them. These guys were…they looked pretty normal, actually.”

Silence for a second. “Well, I guess the only thing to do is go and have a look.” Lrokhan said at last, standing up and retrieving his axe. Twilight’s eyes widened, a panicked expression crossing her face.

“What, no! You can’t go into Ponyville tonight!” She cried. Lorkhan cocked his head to the side as around him the other Marines started to rise.

“Why not?” he queried. She looked away, searching for an excuse.

“Because…because you don’t have a costume!” she settled on. “It’s tradition, can’t go to the Nightmare Night celebrations without one!” Lorkhan looked away, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully.

“You’re right.” He agreed, to her visible surprise and despair. “You, you, and you.” He said, pointing to three line Astartes. “Retrieve paper and green pens. Rorke…get the car.”

***

“Do you ever wonder if the Olympian Sun is haunted?” Barbus asked, bathed in the red light of the Growler’s inner bay. He and the other eight or so Astartes cramped inside swayed slightly as the tank’s back kicked out, speed getting the better of it. Twilight, who was currently sandwiched between Zuko and Varvillon, gave another quiet groan and turned a bit greener, but managed to keep the contents of her stomach down.

“We don’t have time for that.” Lorkhan reminded him, leaning forwards and resting his hands on his knees. “Otherwise the holiday special would be too long.”

“If you’ll permit me to recall sir, I do believe the original plan was for us to engage in fisticuffs with the…dying impaired, shall we say.” Mordecai pointed out. Lorkhan shrugged as best he could in the closed confines.

“Zombies were cliché.”

“The scariest thing is Rorke’s driving, anyway.” Zuko remarked as they swerved sharply to the left. The chuckle’s told him the others agreed.

“He got us here.” The Warsmith said, checking one of the monitors that showed the outside. “And all in one piece….except her.” He jerked a thumb at Twilight, who groaned again. “Stop us here, Rorke.” No sooner had he said it the brakes were applied, and somehow Rorke managed to flip even a tracked vehicle end-over-nose. When it had finally come to a full stop, the doors opened with a hiss of pressure. Twilight was the first out, practically sprinting and taking the opportunity to throw up. The Marines followed her out at a more leisurely place. The moon was high and unobstructed, reflecting brilliantly off their gleaming silver armour. Contrary to Barbus’ assertions, there was a degree of wind, and a couple of the sheets of paper affixed to the Space Marine’s armour were ripped off and carried away.

“Nor costume.” Lorkhan said. “Guess you can’t come in.”

“I’m not sure drawing crude pictures of snakes on paper and sticking it to our armour counts as an Alpha Legion costume.” Zuko deadpanned.

“It…kind of does.” Varvillon pointed out. There was another general mumble of assent. With that they set off, the small band making their way closer to the centre of town. A couple of the Ponies-similarly dressed up, although with slightly more effort involved-had stopped to look at the Dirge Caster’s blaring as the Rhino pulled in, but now merely shook their heads, rolled their eyes and continued with the festivities. They passed punch bowls and a wide variety of games, and were only slowed when Rorke was hit in the face by a toy spider thrown at him with some force. When questioned, Zuko insisted ‘an older boy told me to do it’.

Finally, they reached a familiar face. She stood at a stand selling all kind of ‘spooky’ foodstuffs, though her own costume was anything but.

“You actually came as an apple.” Barbus stated emotionlessly as they walked towards her. Applejack scowled at them, but gave a slow nod. Sighing audibly, Barbus reached into a pouch on his belt and handed a small sack of bits across to Zuko, who took it seemingly with satisfaction.

“What are y’all doin’ here?” She asked, seemingly genuinely annoyed. “This here’s a party for honest pony folks only, not…whatever you gahs are.”

“Relax.” Lorkhan said, holding up a forestalling hand. The paper with the snake on it that he had stuck over his face flapped in the wind. “We’re not going to do anything too violent. We just wanted to see what design the infants had picked out from Mordecai’s stupid little book.” Applejack looked at him suspiciously, before gesturing over his shoulders.

“They’re just comin’ back now, ah reckon. They’ve been with Mayor Mare at the Naghtmare Moon statue.” She glared angrily. “For some reason, Zecora didn’t show up this year.” The Space Marines ignored her, instead turning to look at the herd of Fillies and Foals.

Twilight was right, they certainly had all made the effort. Much of the armour was shocking, or at best a poor imitation, but every one of them wore some form of replica. The curves were defined, the chest stocky, the fist on the shoulder black, the colour a vivid yellow…

Wait.

“Hold me back.” Lorkhan said, flatly. None of his brothers looked at him, instead focusing on the ponies and keeping absolutely still. It was only when he exploded with a frenzied battlecry and started charging towards the group, swinging the axe like a maniac, that they followed-most of them doing the same. The little ponies screamed at his coming, children running this way and that in an attempt to avoid the oncoming fury of the Chaos Marines. Zuko tried to resist, attempting to lock himself in place, but found himself carried along by the tide unless he wanted to be trampled underfoot. As the ponies darted down every corridor to escape, the group of Iron Warriors too dispersed to catch them, eventually disappearing from sight altogether. The only account of their presence was the squeal of Xenos and the boom of wild and inaccurate gun fire.

Mordecai remained motionless, giving a sigh and shaking his head with a fraternal half-smile plastering his features. He took a sip of his drink, savouring it for a moment, before turning his head and gazing blankly. To Applejack, he seemed to be staring gormlessly into space-as if he was trying to see through a wall, where beyond some people were reading about him on the internet. The sorcerer smiled again, taking another sip.

“On behalf of the Iron Warriors Thirteenth Grand Company, do have a smashing Halloween!”

I see Fire

A Space Marine Strike Cruiser was an impressive construct. Though nowhere near as monstrously vast as their larger kin, the infamous Battle Barges, the vast majority were still larger and more cavernous than many cities of man, as well as considerably sturdier. Even shorn in twain by the warships of the XV Legion, and laid cracked and low in the Equestrian countryside, the Olympian Sun remained a fearsome vision of iron, black and yellow-a rough and unavoidable scar torn clean in the otherwise idyllic landscape.

For all that, the once-proud vessel of the Legiones Astartes remained quiet and desolate. Few even of the mortal wretches that slaved within it remained, and those that did were not enough to populate the array of quarters and lower decks afforded to them that now lay silent. Of the ship’s dread masters, there were even fewer-of the companies’ worth that had once called the vessel home, perhaps 15 still remained. Even the dourest of the infamously grim Iron Warriors could almost see the funny side of their situation.

After they had been allowed entranced back into their craft, and inventory of their armoury was meticulously taken, the first thing the Chaos Marines had done was scavenge what they could from the few of their brother’s bodies that remained more or less intact. There was scant love lost between the warriors, either living or dead, but they still buried the fallen as best they could. An Iron Warrior deserved no less. Few of the now-abandoned quarters had been moved into-or even entered-and so the Astartes spent most of their time either in their own meagre cells, grudgingly lurking around the Xenos settlement in the hope of scoring some amusement, or congregating with their remaining brothers in a limited selection of chambers and halls.

It was one of these halls that played host to a brotherhood now. Rain, heavy and constant, lashed the land and pattered off the roof from the Cruiser, matched only by the howling winds. The Ponies had for the most part chosen to remain inside, and the Iron Warriors had done much the same, six of them congregating within what had once been an eating chamber. In other Legions such a gathering could be fraternal and boisterous affair, but even at the height of their strength the Iron Warriors had disdained such joviality. The assembly now was a subdued one; many sat fastidiously stooped over armour or weaponry, leaning and checking he only things in the galaxy they trusted. Others were engaged in murmured and uncharacteristically idle discussion, recounting both victories past and countless, bitter setbacks. Sequested at a table alone was Mordecai; the sorcerer, for once, did not try to force pleasantries upon his kin, but sat engrossed in some old tome looted from the wreckage of an Imperial world. Besides the hum of power packs, and the occasional low chatter of voices, the room was near silent.

That silence was shattered by the arrival of a seventh.

The doors’ pistons and gears wrenched open as Zuko thundered his way in, tramp of his armoured boots reminiscent of a hammer striking stone. He had made his way to Mordecai’s table almost before the other Astartes had even registered his presence, slamming down the Crystal Heart that he had still kept clutched in his power fist unceremoniously onto the metal surface. His left arm had long since stopped bleeding, but the stump still hung their uselessly. The few sources of light that remained glinted off his ceramite armour. Red eyes set within his horned helmet glared unblinkingly at Mordecai, wilfully ignorant of the attention his wound garnered from his other brothers. The Psyker placed his book carefully beside his helmet, eyes locked with the sergeant’s. Zuko saw them flicker down to the Crystal construct, then to his arm, and eventually back to meet his own.

It was Zuko that broke eye contact, turning to leave the room without word or grace. He heard the sorcerer behind him push back his chair and rise, moving to catch up with the retreating Astartes. A hand brushed his pauldron.

“Brother, what the dickens happened to your ar-“

The manoeuvre was swift and efficient, a counter-clockwise pirouette that delivered the swinging right hook straight into the psyker’s face. Zuko managed to remain composed enough to leave the weapon’s power field de-energised, but the punch was still barely pulled. Mordecai was knocked clean onto his face, head snapping to the side at an almost sickening angle as he landed at Zuko’s feet. The Iron Warrior lunged to strike the downed Astartes again, but before he could land a blow hands grasped his shoulders, cape and arm, restraining the murderous sergeant. He was dragged back, head forced down as a knee was catapulted into his midsection.

“It’s quite alright, gentlemen.” Mordecai’s voice was only slightly shaken as he rose to one knee, head bowed as he rubbed his chin. “I rather think I deserved that one.” Regaining his full height, he made a gesture. Telekinetic force wrapped around his helmet, levitating it towards him. He took it from the air and clasped it back over his head with a hiss of pressure. As he looked back to Zuko, some of the grip on the Iron Warrior was loosened-though they did not let him go.

“Lorkhan may have the skills to use that blasted heart.” Zuko began, the eyes of his helmet seeming to burn from more than their red tint. “But he would never have got the idea himself. He would never have known anything of how to use it, that’s far too esoteric for him. This whole plan, this whole bastarding plan was your idea, Mordecai.” He strained again, edging forward in his brothers’ hold. His helmet was centimetres away from Mordecai’s. “It was you all along.”

The sorcerer sighed, seeming to be genuinely remorseful as he shook his head. “A severe assessment, dear brother.” He admitted. “I have done nothing the Warsmith has not requested, nor anything our Legion would not expect from its sons.”

“You knew all along.” Zuko went on, panting hard. “It was you that convinced us to stay here in the first place, it was your idea to fraternise with the ponies…and all along, you knew what we were going to have to do. Why? What’s the angle here, you bastard?”

Mordecai did not reply for a moment. “We are already Traitors, Sergeant Zuko.” He said at last, softly for a Space Marine whilst also ignoring the question. “What harm could one more broken oath do?”

“And the Crusaders?” Zuko hissed. The Iron Warriors that held him looked to one another and broke out in mutters at his use of the term, but he was unrepentant. “Did you plan for them to be there too?”

At that, Mordecai looked away. “That was…regrettable.” He said mournfully. “I had not anticipated there prescience when I suggested you for the mission. If I had any inkling at the time, brother, I would not have encouraged you to grow closer to them.” He nodded, the gesture indicating the other Marines to relinquish their grip on Zuko. The Iron Warrior straightened, and though the hate was still clear in his posture, he did not attack. “I can only apologise for having besmirched your honour, my brother.” The sorcerer went on, looking at him again. “But for us all, the Legion is above all.”

“The Legion…” Zuko almost scoffed, turning to push past his brothers. “The Legion is dead, brother.” He began to walk, his steps as loud as when he entered.

“When the Warsmith returns I will petition him to tend to your arm, brother.” Mordecai called. Zuko stopped as he left the room, although he did not look round.

“You all have your prize.” He said sullenly, as the doors began to close behind him. “I hope you choke on it.”

Somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong.

Twilight knew the Princesses must feel it too. There was no way they couldn’t have-it had practically ripped her into wakefulness, the sounds of voices crying out before being lost. She’d never experienced any sort of sympathetic magic before, but recognised that that was indeed what it must be. Where once the new experience would have excited her, now it just tightened the knot in the purple unicorn’s gut more.

She knew she’d been retreating in on herself more, even though she’d promised her friends she would not. It pained her to break that promise, but Twilight didn’t see any choice if Equestria was to have any hope of surviving the Iron Warriors. Hope was her motivation now, hope her god-even if she’d never believed in any sort of deity. It had meant isolating herself once more, despite what she’d promised Spike and the other Element Bearers, but Twilight knew they would understand. They had to understand; couldn’t they see how vital it was? Well, maybe they couldn’t…she’d seen the way some of them, Rarity and Fluttershy chiefly, had begun to act around the Iron Warriors. It smacked too much of softening and loss of control for Twilight, and at one point it had even occurred to her that the others might be starting to side with the Space Marines over their own kind. She’d dismissed it as preposterous, but the thought would not quite die, lodged up there amongst all the other paranoid delusions that now made residence within her head.

She had noticed something else, as the hours warped into days in a never-ending cycle; the quiet chattering from within her own mind. At first the sensation scared her, and she worried she really was going mad, but over time she’d come to realise that the whispers were hardly demonic. The voices, if she really concentrated, did naught more than guide and inspire the unicorn in her quest to understand what was going on. New magical theories and possibilities, and infinite vista of ploy and counter ploy, had begun to blossom within the unicorns brain. The deeper she went into her studies, and the more she paid heed to the murmuring within her head, the more Twilight began to feel like hope was more than an abstract concept. It was real, tangible, and she could be both arbitrator and deliverer. If her friends did not understand that, then…she would just have to do this without them.

More of the strange, serpentine eye runes had been marked onto the walls of her study by the unicorn. It was once more at the behest of the whispers, and though Twilight had at first been nervous about them, their presence had led to a palpable increase in both the magical energy in the air, and her own aethyric attunement. They covered most of one wall and parts of the others, staring out at her unblinkingly from all angles.

It was their aid she needed now. The table had been overturned at the far side of the room, Twilight facing it as if they were two stallions about to engage in an honourable, gentlemanly duel. She knew the blasts of purple energy from her horn were strong, and had even managed to make one of the Space Marines stumble, but if the worst came to the worst-and for Twilight, that was always a possibility to consider-it wouldn’t be enough. She needed something stronger, something with bite, and to that end she had delved into parts of magic few had visited before. Through her efforts, she thought she had come up with just the spell.

Twilight screwed her eyes closed as the pressure within her head started to build. The muscles in her body began to at first ache, but soon heightened to a wild burning sensation as she tried to channel more energy into the spell, and staying upright soon became a herculean task within itself. She refused to relent, gritting her teeth and trying to ignore the pained tear rolling down her cheek as her horn began to flicker with power. The voices within her head were an indecipherable roar now, tying tight knots around her brain and eliciting moans that would have ashamed Twilight in any other circumstance.

Eventually, the bolt of coruscating energy blasted from the tip of her horn with fearsome force, pitching the young unicorn over onto her back. Twilight stared blankly at the ceiling, her vision distorted by flashing lights every colour of the spectrum; her panting was heavy and pronounced, limbs spasming whilst her tortured brain felt like some sharp, invisible tendril probed it.

Eventually, she was able to reassert some sense of self, and Twilight managed to roll onto her front and prop herself up with her forehooves. She stared wide-eyed at the ground for several agonising minutes, letting the last of the tingling sensation from her spell fade from her extremities. Slowly, she turned to look at what she had done.

The table was utterly consumed, lost under a roiling tide of burning magic. She trotted over to it slowly, a little in awe of what she had accomplished. It was clear that this was no ordinary fire-much of the table remained, occasionally giving a worrying pulse, but somehow Twilight knew that it was burned right to the core. The flames did not seem to be in the process of burning themselves out, in any case, continuing to spread and almost multiply. Though it was her first exposure, Twilight was pretty confident that they could burn through anything; wood, metal…

…Power Armour.

She frowned, head still ringing and screaming as she looked up. The hundreds of eyes she had marked on the wall still stared at her, yet almost seemed to…writhe in place, burning with their own light and flame in response to her magical outburst. From every angle they watched, yet as she turned in place to look at them all with a rapidly hammering heart, Twilight’s concern was replaced with the descent of what almost felt like a fugue state across her mind. She cast a quick glance back to the flickering fire, frown melting away into an understated but satisfied grin. As she stared back at the eyes, she even managed a demure, feminine giggle.

Let the Iron Warriors have their hatred and their steel. If and when they tried anything, Twilight Sparkle would be ready for them.

“Now now, just hold still darling, I’m almost done.”

It was not in Mordecai’s nature to be a difficult, or even worse, ungracious guest. Yet, even as the holder of the less than prestigious title of most agreeable Iron Warrior in the galaxy, there were limits to what the sorcerer would reasonably tolerate. Being tended to by Rarity, like a child whose mother had to clean him up after he’d thrown food down himself, fell just outside those limits.

“I do not mean to be confrontational, my lady, but I scarcely think this necessary.” He implored, fortunately unable to flinch as she levitated the cool, wet cloth to dab against his chin again. The bruise left by Zuko’s punch was already near-invisible, testament to the rapid healing his Astartes’ form was capable of, but even so it had not escaped the eye for detail a stringent seamstress such as Rarity possessed. No sooner had he entered the boutique and removed his helmet, as had become customary, she had spotted it and immediately proceeded to fuss over him inordinately.

“Oh come along dear,” the Unicorn said, sticking her tongue out to concentrate as she leaned a little closer. “Just because those ruffians you choose to surround yourself with are so frightfully uncivilised does not mean we right-thinking Equestrians have to be the same.” She leaned back, smiling as she adjusted the pointed red glasses seated snugly above her muzzle. Mordecai nodded as courteously as he could muster as she dropped the frilled cloth, leaning over to reaffix his horned helmet. His own crimson eye lenses flickered into life, targeting reticules and streams of information ticking their way across his retina.

“I would entreat you not to blame my brother for his…lack of tact in the heat of the moment.” Mordecai remarked, though there was no malice in his words. “I am inclined to believe he was…rather justified in his emotional outburst. Though, I must confess that privately, I do worry that the Champion is becoming rather increasingly divorced from the ideology of the Legion he was created to serve.”

She frowned slightly, and Mordecai reflected that after all this time the Space Marines were still an enigma for the vast majority of Ponies. Rarity was polite enough to not comment on the strangeness of his words, instead merely smiling and beginning to trot through to her boutique’s living quarters. Mordecai followed, hands clasped behind his back as he wandered after her. Leaving her glasses on a kitchen counter, Rarity propped herself onto her hind legs and began to stir up a pot of tea. The Iron Warrior remained a few steps behind, casting an idle eye out the window. The onset of the planet’s autumn had begun to become apparent; golden and orange leaves slowly flaked down from the dead branches of trees to settle on the ground, carried by the crisp air.

“Well, I for one am glad you agreed to my offer of tea, darling.” The pony said, not looking up from her efforts. “It’s been so dreadfully quiet around town recently, what with Twilight keeping to herself and even Rainbow and Applejack gallivanting off on that day-trip with some of your friends last week. Why, sometimes I even find myself missing Sweetie Belle and her little friends.” She sighed, closing her eyes as she paused momentarily. The two mugs sat before her, steaming. “I may have my…differences with her sometimes, but I’ve not heard a peep since she and the other Crusaders went off to that camp with school.” Her brow furrowed, looking up through the window. “Come to think of it, she wouldn’t even tell me where exactly it was…”

Over the course of his life as an Iron Warrior, some 10’000 years or so in ‘real time’, Mordecai had only occasionally felt the tiniest tremors of what he assumed must be fear. Yet now, safely within the confines of his helmet, he allowed himself to grimace, swallowing hard at her words.

“I am confident that the reason for the comparative silence of the little one’s is naught more than them being simply rushed off their feet…hooves.” He corrected, trying his best to sound innocent through the vox-growl provided by his helmet. Rarity smiled again, nodding, and levitated his cup over to the Psyker.

“I am sure you are right, of course.” She conceded, leaning back on her chair and giving another contented sigh as she breathed in the vapours emanating from her drink. She took a delicate sip, though Mordecai merely held his own cup. “And besides, it has allowed me to catch up on my own backlog of orders. With all the new autumn styles coming in, I am simply rushed off my hooves these days.”

“I am sure you will rise to the task admirably, madam.” Mordecai replied diplomatically. Rarity took another sip, cocking her head to the side.

“Oh forgive me Mordecai dear, I hate to be rude, but I confess there has been some…talk.” She said, choosing her words carefully. “You and your kin have been…how can I put this…scarce as of late. To tell you the truth, we’d all been getting quite used to seeing you around as of late.” She chewed her bottom lip apprehensively, clearly still worried about provoking the Astartes – even one as seemingly tame as Mordecai.

He was indeed silent for a few agonising minutes, red eyes glaring at her emotionlessly. Then he chuckled, setting his own cup down on the table.

“I suppose we have become a bit of a fixture, haven’t we?” he said, inclining his head towards her. “Hard to imagine that but a few months past, we were jolly well ready to knock the seven hells out of one another.” It was his turn to sigh, turning to look back outside as he folded his arms. “It is true that much of the company has been rather more…reclusive lately. My Lord Warsmith has become increasingly reliant upon a sense of kinship…with whomever is willing to provide it, I fear.”

She could not help scowling as he mentioned the Warsmith. “Why?” she asked. “That Lorkhan of yours seems to be perfectly in control of you all.” She practically spat the words, unable – or not bothering – to keep the spite from her tone.

“My lord…does not like to be alone.” The Psyker explained. “Except when he is working. It gives him too much opportunity to think on things…things he would rather forget, I presume.”

“But why?” she asked, sounding more intrigued than angry now. “You are all so…well, forgive me, but so imposing. I struggle to believe that any of you could suffer from such mental trauma as you imply.”

Mordecai took another deep breath, still looking out the window. “Do you recall me telling you of the Horus Heresy?” She grimaced, nodding dourly.

“That terrible war? Yes, it sounds dreadful, but you say it is that which bothers your master? I still find that…difficult to believe. ”

“During the war itself, we committed based on the solid assumption that we would be victorious.” He explained. “I do not believe there was a single Astartes that wore the Iron armour of Olympia that seriously considered any scenario that would occur were we to lose.” He steepled his fingers resting them on his chin. “When we were indeed defeated, and forced to flee, it sent a shockwave through the Legion. Every Iron Warrior, from the most favoured Warsmith to the lowliest neophyte, was forced to respond to our new situation in their own manner. I elected to dedicate my life in service to both the Primarch as I ever had, but also the new powers that shaped our brotherhood’s destiny, even if the majority of the fourth refused to even admit their existence. Others, such as Zuko, chose to live in denial; pretending to fight as if we had never lost the war and were still at the height of our former glory.”

“And…Lorkhan?” She asked tentatively. “How did he react?” Mordecai grimaced again, leaning back slightly as he considered his next words.

“To be coarse…my lord Warsmith reacted by going utterly mad.”

“Hush now quiet now, it’s time to lay your sleepy head. Hush now quiet now it’s time to go to bed…”

Fluttershy’s gentle voice carried through the still night air as she rocked the small animal back and forth in her hooves. Her wings flapped with equal placidness as she hovered slightly above the grass, and Lorkhan couldn’t quite see how she was able to move laterally with them in their current position. Yet, somehow she was, and Fluttershy was able to lower the tiny rabbit down into the hutch with the briefest kiss on the forehead. It joined the six or so previously placed ub there, already beginning to doze softly. That left just one loose.

The Warsmith looked back down to the animal in question. Most small creatures fled at the side of the lord of the Iron Warriors, with his gargoyle-shaped backpack, skull helmet and snapping mecha-tendrils, yet this one merely stared up at him with large, idiot eyes. It put Lorkhan in mind of Rorke, though he couldn’t quite work out what it was.

“Right then.” He began, still staring at the animal. It stared back. “Okay. Let’s be reasonable. I don’t like you, and I’m fairly confident you aren’t that keen on me. But we both want to be removed from this awkwardness, so in the spirit of mutual co-operation, can we try and put aside our differences for just a few minutes?”

It galled him to be reduced to this, a once-proud Iron Warrior asking a juvenile rabbit to put aside their differences. What made it worse was that the rabbit seemed to ignore him. It was fast; fortunately he was faster. His gauntleted hand shot out and grabbed it by the scruff of the neck as it tried to escape, lifting the kicking and squealing little rick into the air. With a supreme force of willpower, Lorkhan was able to stop himself from crushing its skull, and dropped it in the box with its compatriots. As one the animals backed away from him, little bodies shivering in fright.

“Oh my, umm…I don’t want to offend you, but…c-could you maybe try not to scare the little ones please?” Fluttershy asked him, bottom lip trembling slightly. She sounded flustered as always, but there was also noticeably more backbone in her voice – more than there had been the first time she talked to Lorkhan, anyway. It grudgingly impressed him enough to allow her to pass the comment without reprisal, though he still didn’t look at her.

“Warsmiths of the IV Legion do not help put baby rabbits to sleep.” He reminded her. He ignored the murmur of apparently they do as it passed through his head, trying to ignore the reddening of nervous Fluttershy’s cheeks.

They stood (or hovered) side by side for a few moments, Fluttershy with a quietly concerned expression on her face, Lorkhan emotionless as he leaned on his axe. It was the pony, surprisingly enough, that eventually broke the silence. “T-thank you for building the hutch, Lorkhan.” She said, voice barely above a whisper. The Warsmith did not reply immediately, looking down at his creation. Much like the birdhouse that had come before it, it looked more like a military installation than a dwelling for animals, but despite that it was still fit for purpose.

“I was bored.” The Iron Warrior snapped defensively. That wasn’t entirely true; he had indeed had something to do. He just hadn’t wanted to do it.

“Well, um…i-it was…nice, anyway. Y-you didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t.” he agreed, without emotion. Calling upon the mental exercises drilled into him to help him forget, the Iron Warrior was able to ignore the disheartened look from Fluttershy burning into his side…more or less. They relapsed back into a grudgingly companionable silence, only the occasional whistle from the wind breaking it. “You have something to say.” Lorkhan said at last, still not looking at the pony. He heard Fluttershy gulp, and nod her head.

“Are we friends?”

The question was so sudden, so shyly spoken yet out of the blue, that it actually attracted his attention. Lorkhan turned, Fluttershy’s eyes widening as they met his. Her ears folded against the top of her head, and she floated back slightly as he continued to stare mutely at her. Then, a harsh gurgling sound began to emanate from the back of his throat, making the Warsmith’s body shudder slightly. It took her a moment to realise Lorkhan was sniggering.

“Okay, maybe not friends.” She giggled, relaxing slightly. “But…you’re not that mean to me. In fact, I’d say you actually treat me pretty nicely, compared to your…um…friends.” She paused, awkwardness making her blush. “A-and you’ve come to see me a few times, to make me things…that was nice as well.” She smiled at him, brushing a strand of pink hair behind her ear. “Sometimes I…I think you guys are awful, just awful…but others, you’re actually not that bad…” She shied away slightly, as if suddenly worrying whether she had offended the towering Warsmith.

He watched her for a few moments more, Mechantendrils hanging back and staying close to his silver plate. When he spoke, it was his turn to pull something out of the air.

“Would it surprise you to know that the Iron Warriors have a concept of beauty?”

Only the briefest hint of melancholy touched his voice, but it was enough to attract her full attention. From the soft intake of breath, and the way she tilted her head told him it did. “Maybe not in the way Guilliman, or Sanguinius’ Legions enjoyed fine art or polishing their armour. But aye, in an artillery barrage delivered in perfect crescendo, or an enemy buried in their own trenches by precise bombardment and displacement of earth, there was beauty in that.”

She edged closer to him, clearly intrigued by even this slight opening up. “All I mean is, we take pride in seeing a job through to the end. We built your house back up from where we had torn it down; I wanted to see it done right.” He said, quicker than he expected.

“And…it feels good to create again.” He added, in little more than a murmur.

Space Marines were trained to know no fear, but Lorkhan could not stop himself from flinching as she wrapped her hooves around his neck. It was the swiftest of embraces, over in seconds, but Fluttershy had still noticeably reddened as he turned to look at her with as much bewilderment as his helmet could convey.

“Well…u-um…I just…I…” she stammered, her old fearful disposition reasserting itself in force. Lorkhan bristled, turning away again and resting his axe on his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me.” He growled, helm-vox masking any subtler emotion his voice may have held. She rubbed her arm nervously, turning to watch the Warsmith start to walk away.

“I just…o-oh my…I know this must be really hard for you, Mr Lorkhan.” She said meekly. “Being here, I mean. But I thought that…if I was kind to you…you might start being friendly back.”

He did not turn to her, still as a statue for a long time. Eventually though, the metallic sniggering noise started again. In moments the tranquil night was pierced by an unusual sound; the Warsmith of the Thirteenth Grand Company throwing back his head, and actually laughing.

“In ten thousand years of war…you are the first creature to ask for my friendship.” He said, still chuckling as he shook his head. He favoured the butter-coloured Pegasus with a sidelong glance.

“If you were to burn, Xen…Fluttershy…then I think we would all burn together.”

Author's Note

I know it's a little shorter than others, and not much really happens (bar Mordecai getting a well deserved and probably overdue slap...), but it was a necessary chapter I'm afraid. The fleeting moments of serenity before the tide breaks, if you like.

As for the title, it's based on the song below. I know, I know, so mainstream. But I heard it on the radio, had a sad, and thought about just how appropriate to this story it actually is.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DzD12qo1knM

The Hammer and the Storm

“We are definitely on the wrong side…because both sides are wrong.”
-Argel Tal, First of the Gal Vorbak, XVII Legion

“Zis is insane.”

Vortun’s pronouncement framed what Lorkhan was thinking well enough, and so he kept silent. The occasional clatters and creaks from the ship’s superstructure that reverberated around the hold filled the quiet well enough as it was; even more so, when the pained moaning that danced on the edge of perception was factored in.

“It is certainly regrettable, sir,” Mordecai agreed, eyes focused on the same point as the Obliterator’s and the Warsmith’s. “But, I fear, a grim necessity. Your brothers will thank you for it.”

“Spare me the rhetoric.” Lorkhan growled, clutching the glowing object in his hand. Bisecting the Crystal heart had been a simple task – one clean swing of his axe had split it into two halves. That had been the easy part of the process. “You know as well as I do that we cannot turn back now. We’ve committed.”

“How do you know zis vill even vork?” Vortun queried, ever-mutating face looking down at the Warsmith. Lorkhan sighed, pulling as good a shrug as he could manage.

“One must not feel too despondent, sir.” Mordecai said cheerily. “And I must say, using the remains of the wolves’ bodies for the Engine was astute. Top show, indeed.”

“I’m not much more of a fan of empty praise.” Lorkhan muttered, eyes still focused on the wooden construct before him. “I have built better. Far better. And this…thing barely qualifies when compared to what we used to be able to get our hands on.”

“That is…true, sir. But given the circumstances of its construction, a superlative effort if nothing else has been enacted on your part.” Mordecai said reassuringly. The Warsmith’s response was naught more than an angry sidelong glance.

“To answer your question, Vortun, I don’t.” Lorkhan conceded after a few moments. “The trinket that Zuko lost an arm for doesn’t behave like any sort of power source I’ve tried to use before.” Dying lights flickered overhead, bathing both the three Olympians and the construct before them in flashes of gloomy blackness. “On a scientific front, it seems to be powered by positive emotional energy and ‘charge’, for want of a better term…which sounds bloody inefficient to me, but also no longer surprises me considering what else we’ve seen, which is almost depressing.” He paused, casting another look down at the stone fragment in his hand. Where once it had emitted a cool blue aura, now the glow was an angry red. “Binding any sort of Warp energy to it proved to be less than straightforward.”

“Again, sir, I feel we are looking through rather a negative lens at this state of affairs.” The Psyker put in. “One must remember that, in the end, you were able to successfully enact the required amalgamation. Our theoretical has thus far been sound in every calculation that we have run, and I cannot foresee any reason why things would begin to go belly up now.”

“And you are certain that the soul we used is adequate?” The Warsmith inquired, almost hissing. He raised the half of the Crystal Heart he held to where his ear would be, tilting his helmet as if that would help. The agonised groaning could be heard a lot clearer now; no sound left the stone, but still Lorkhan could feel it rattle through his mind. Even after all the millennia, it still threatened to unsettle the veteran Astartes.

Mordecai nodded. “I agree that our friend Mr Discord was…less than co-operative to begin with, but I rather think that the time he has spent with the Burdened has made him a great deal more malleable, sir.” He allowed himself a slight chuckle. “At the very least, I suspect the Neverborn have taught him a valuable lesson indeed concerning the dangers of rummy advertisement.”

“God of Chaos mein arse.” Vortun rumbled, by way of contribution. Lorkhan felt his remaining eye roll. He cast a look to the second half of the Crystal Heart, wrapped in cloth and set aside upon a nearby workbench, a wide exclusion zone of any other item formed around it. Unlike the half in which the Draconequus was bound, this one was silent; its occupant used to the constraint, and content to wait and watch like some coiled viper.

“Why’s he so…groany, anyway?” Lorkhan asked. “He was trapped in stone, surely he should be used to it by now?”

“With respect sir, I daresay that the methods we have used, and intend to use, are rather more discomforting to the unfortunate chap than those forced upon him by the Princess and her supporters.” Mordecai responded. “Particularly, the process of actually stripping the soul away with enough Warp energy remaining upon it required-“

“Oh save it, the last thing I want are specifics.” Lorkhan said, holding up his free hand in a gesture of disgust. The three Iron Warriors were quiet for a moment, content to let the creaking noises fill the air as they were lost to their own introspections. “What about you, Vortun?” The Warsmith asked, not looking around at him. “The last time I asked you what you thought of this plan, you managed to dance around it with commendable agility considering what the hell’s happened to you. Do you think this will work?”

Behind him, he heard the Obliterator’s hulking body move in its interpretation of a shrug, whilst one of the arms morphed into some new death-device. “Vatever happens, mein Kapitan, it vill undoubtedly be on ze wrong side of hilarious.” Lorkhan cast him a sidelong glance now, the ‘skull’ portion of his helmet grinning towards his mutated brother.

“You might be blessed, Vortun, but you’re still more than a little creepy.” Vortun’s pulsing features cracked into an ugly, leering smile. Lorkhan looked back to his creation, taking another sigh. “This whole bloody thing is shit.” He muttered with a shake of the head. Mordecai’s vox made the tutting click of his tongue unmissable.

“Oh come now sir, I would expect such language from perhaps Rorke.” Lorkhan laughed, a sound utterly devoid of humour.

“Where is he, anyway?” the Warsmith asked. Vortun shrugged again. Mordecai just looked away. Lorkhan did not pry, still standing motionless for a few moments more. Eventually he seemed to reach some sort of decision, taking slow steps forward to kneel beside one of the wooden monstrosities in the room with him. With gentleness uncharacteristic for an Iron Warrior, he traced an armoured finger around an open crevasse in its chest. The gap was just the right size for a small handful of stone.

“Iron Within.” The two voices from behind surprised him; one deep and rumbling, the other polite and reserved. To hear such dissonant companions utter the Legion’s words simultaneously stuck in the Warsmith’s mind more than he would have liked to admit. Even so, he nodded in his crouch, placing a fist over his chest.

“Iron Without.” He concluded. Any time for ceremony passed, and Lorkhan thrust the hand holding half the Crystal heart into the chest, twisting it and not removing the gauntlet until he was certain the possessed stone had been enveloped.

In the darkness of the Olympian Suns hold, something opened two burning eyes, and growled.

He found his brother alone.

Rorke paused as Zuko came into view. The other Iron Warrior leant over the nearby railing, the ship below them dropping away into a darkened pit. One of his hands was, as ever, gloved in a chevroned power fist, whilst the other emitted the tell-tale hiss and clicks of a fresh bionic. The tattered red cloak still hung from his shoulders, though all Rorke could see of the Marine’s helmet was due to the illumination provided by the burning cigar held loosely between his fingers. Zuko turned to look at Rorke as he approached, eventually offering him a grim nod. Rorke’s response was merely to stare.

“You never take that off.” He said at last, coming to stand beside Zuko and stare into the depths of their home. Neither looked at the other.

“Truly, brother, you and your observational talents are an asset to us all.” Zuko replied, without a hint of sarcasm. “Although I admit I’ve no idea whether you’re referring to the helmet or the cape.”

“Both.” His brother said. “Although the cape makes you look like more of a fucking idiot than the helmet.”

To his veiled surprise, Zuko nodded. “Aye, perhaps it does.” Rorke didn’t get a chance to inquire further before his counterpart went on. “I like them. Isn’t that enough reason to keep them, brother?” Rorke’s response was an unintelligible grunt.

Zuko took another deep breath, looking down into the pit again. “I suppose you’ve heard about what Lorkhan’s doing, then?” he asked.

“Heard you punched the witch.” Rorke replied. Zuko’s bionic arm twitched slightly as if in response. “Heard it was a damn good punch. I almost envy you.”

Zuko was unable to stop himself chuckling at that, though it was mirthless. “Don’t tell me we actually have something in common besides our gene-seed, brother?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I certainly hope not.” Came Rorke’s drawled response. Zuko shrugged, pauldrons rising awkwardly.

“Yes, I did punch him.” The sergeant confirmed. “And I suspect you’re not the only one who finds it funny, Rorke. In any case, after the Warsmith bolted this arm onto me, it feels like I’ve been put on the naughty step. The others don’t speak to me; I’ve not even seen Varvillon since I got back.”

“He’s not here.” Rorke said simply. That did make his brother look round, his helmet tilting to the side slightly in questioning.

“He’s off hiking in those mountains to the north.” Rorke told him, sounding annoyed at being pulled into a conversation. “Something came up.”

“And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is, are you.” Zuko concluded, looking away again. Rorke’s silence was answer enough. The two Iron Warriors observed their own silence for several long, drawn out moments, each one casting crimson glares into the blackness.

“This is wrong.” Zuko said at last, not meeting his brother’s gaze. Rorke did his best to quiet the sigh, his own hand twitching and spasming slightly.

“Shut the fuck up, Zuko.” He said in a tired voice. The other Marine chuckled again.

“Why? Because you know I’m right? Apologies, brother, I know what a sensitive soul you are.”

“We’re finally doing exactly what we should have done a long time ago.” Rorke told him. “I’m not the one getting squeamish over a little bloodshed. Besides, the Gods-“

“-Your Gods.” Zuko said harshly, rounding on him and fixing the Champion with as angry a glare as his helmet would allow. “They’re your shitting Gods. Not mine, brother.”

Now it was Rorke’s turn to snigger. “You’ve never had a problem using their gifts before.”

“That’s what you think.” Zuko corrected, with a shake of the head. “I’ve never thought this was a good idea. I haven’t thought a single thing we’ve done since the Siege was a good idea.”

“What has gotten into you lately?” Rorke snapped. “You’re going soft. You used to be aggravating enough, but at least you could fight worth a damn. Now you’re shying away from killing a few – deserving – Xenos.”

“ ’Xenos’.” Zuko parroted, genuine amusement creeping into his voice. “Xenos, Xenos, Xenos. You all keep using that word, and I’m not sure any of you know what it means. Riddle me this, Rorke, if they’re the ‘Xenos’…then why are they more human than we ever were?” His voice had dropped to a whisper as the tip of a power talon poked the other Champion in the chest.

“I-“ Rorke began, but Zuko wasn’t done.

“I meant what I said to Mordecai, brother. I hate this Legion. I hate this Legion, I hate everyone in it, I hate what we’ve come to represent. This is not what I signed up for when we joined Horus, Rorke, and I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’t what the Primarch wanted either. Is it so wrong to remember the original mission? Get to Terra, break the haughty, kill the False Emperor – that’s what I believed in, why I fought. Our brothers bled and died to make a better, fairer Imperium. And how do we repay them? We spend what’s left of the Legion’s strength attacking people and species that can’t fight back – not because it has any strategic value, but just because it makes us feel better and takes our minds off how utterly worthless our lives are.” He paused for a moment in his tirade, sighing heavily as he looked down. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, and as close to mournful as a Space Marine could ever get. “We started off as well-intentioned rebels, knowing we’d have to do bad things, but fighting for freedom against an institution that was corrupt and genuinely deserved to be extinguished. Then, we were forced to become pirates, trying to complete the original mission whilst also fighting for our lives.” He looked back up at Rorke, and though his gaze seemed to have lost some of its vitriol, it was still far from joyous. “We were all those things, brother…when did we become evil?”

The question hung in the air between them, like an electric crackle that would have jolted any skin were it exposed. Rorke stepped back a little, snout nosed helmet looking his brother up and down. “I’ll be fucking honest here, Zuko…I didn’t come to debate Legion philosophy with you.” The other Iron Warrior nodded, almost glumly.

“I’ve known why you’re here since the moment you arrived.” Zuko admitted.

It was all he could do to stumble back as Rorke leapt at him, the power sword drawn with remarkable fluidity and already raining blows at Zuko’s head. The Astartes kept trying to retreat as Rorke pushed him back, leaving the railings where they had been stood and being forced down one of the Olympian Suns’ labyrinthine side-corridors, the energy fields of the two weapons sparking off one another where they collided.

By all rights, in such cramped confines the power fist should have granted Zuko the advantage, its bludgeoning power better suited to the environment than the sweeping arcs favoured by swords. Yet Rorke was a blur of furious steel, devoid of any finesse or even skill as he chopped down towards his brother in rapid, frenzied succession. He gripped the pommel two handed, both lending weight to his blows and making it near impossible for Zuko to grapple and disarm him. Whenever he did manage to establish a grip, the force of Rorke’s body shunting into him as enough to make him let go.

He could not block forever, and there was no room to dodge. Rorke’s advance was frentic, yet utterly focused, burning red eyes never once leaving Zukos’. He took step after step after step, each one placing his brother more and more on the defensive. The sound of clashing power fields and metal on metal rang through the venerable Strike Cruisers’ halls.

Their brawl eventually carried them through into a wider room, door sliding open to allow them access. Perhaps ironically, the pair of clashing Astartes found themselves within the ships’ Armorium; had either of them been in any position to look, they may have noticed the vast majority of weapons had been removed, leaving only the choicest items. The human detritus that toiled within gave the warring demi-gods a fearful expression, rushing to evacuate. One was not quick enough, and had his chest accidentally crushed by Zuko’s backswing for his troubles.

Capitalising on the open space, Zuko tried to retake the initiative, clenching his fist and swinging at Rorke’s head in a wide right hook. The maddened Astartes only just managed to duck beneath the blow, but it gave him the opening needed as he brought his sword in an uppercut motion. The blade moved seamlessly, leaving a deep vertical slice on Zuko’s chest plate. The stricken Marine did not have time to respond before Rorke went on the attack again, cutting another line across the width of Zuko’s helmet. Sparks flew from the damage the powered blade left, seeming to almost blind Zuko temporarily. A couple of brutal kicks reduced him to one knee – it took Rorke grabbing one of the horns sprouting upwards from Zuko’s helm, and using it as a handle to bring his brother’s face slamming into his rising knee to force him onto the other. A couple of artless backhands and punches were enough to seemingly stun Zuko, the sergeant driven to kneel and pant hard and painfully. The murderous onslaught of the sword-wielding Marine stopped, and Rorke stepped back; a hunter, taking the measure of his wounded prey.

“Good afternoon, brothers.” Rorke’s helmet-vox crackled into uneasy life, though in his current state he only half heard it. He was just about able to recognise Barbus’ voice. “Everyone’s favourite bastard Sorcerer has kindly requested our presence on deck. Don’t ask me where the Warsmith is, you won’t like the answer…oh, and Rorke. What’s taking you so long?”

The feed went dead. Rorke’s face twitched as much as the rest of his body in mild irritation, but his attention was soon captured by the other Iron Warrior. He could not be certain, but something from Zuko’s slump told him he had heard that too. Hearing that Barbus – perhaps the only brother Zuko had still trusted, after all this time – was aware of whole thing had seemingly done more damage than any sword blow.

“Ah, Zuko…” Rorke’s voice was shaky and erratic, but he was able to exercise just about enough will to maintain some semblance of sanity through the red mist. Something at the back of his mind told him it would be the last time he would be able to do so. The knowledge did not bother him. “So fucking righteous. So noble, honourable even. So quick to blame others for your own faults. You had every chance to walk away…every chance to say no…and instead you went along with the whole thing, whining and crying and complaining about us every step whilst committing all the same sins. We…we can’t have anyone threatening to stand against us. Not now we’ve come so far.” He slowly managed to shamble forward, tip of the blade trailing on the ground. “Maybe it wasn’t us that was the problem. Maybe it was you, and your inability to accept that times changed. You speak about the Gods like they’re some evil force to be denied, whilst leeching off those who don’t give a shit about imaginary notions of honour that we supposedly possessed.” He drew level with his brother, stamping down on the power fist. Zuko looked up the other Champion; the hatred in his red lenses mixed with a thousand other emotions. “You’ve fought in their armies and alongside their boons, but you’ve never once believed.” Rorke went on, voice a demented whisper now. “So let me enlighten you.” He raised his sword, placing the crackling tip in part of the groove on the chest his earlier strike had left.

“Blood,” The Champion slurred, “for the Blood God.”

He thrust the sword forward, power field once more cutting through armour like paper and erupting from Zuko’s back and through his cape in a miniature spray of gore. The Iron Warrior’s body tensed, vaguely aware of his heart exploding in his chest as it was pierced by the crackling blade. Rorke stayed for a few moments more, slowly twisting the sword within his brother’s cracked sternum. Finally, he yanked the blade back out with no hint of gentleness, taking a step back. Zuko stayed kneeling as he was for a moment, staring blankly forward and emitting strange gargling noises as the blood rushed into his throat and out his mouth. Then he keeled forward with a crash, a river of red running out from under him and spreading across the armoury’s floor. The rich liquid pooled at Rorke’s feet.

The remaining Astartes stayed motionless, sword in hand, for a few moments more as he watched Zuko’s body. Yet it did not rise, or even stir. Were he a World Eater perhaps, he would still have fallen upon it in frothing rage to tear it limb from limb. Maybe if the IV were sentimental, he would have instead stayed to pay it a moment of ever-respectful silence.

When he was certain, Rorke turned with a grunt and marched from the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. The doors slammed closed behind him as he left, locking what remained of his Legion’s last loyal son in darkness.

“Sweetie Belle!”

Rarity’s shrill voice echoed throughout the boutique, meeting with nothing but empty air. The Unicorn pouted for a moment, irritated by her sister’s silence, when realisation crept back to her. Her pout morphed into a downcast frown, and she could not stop herself from sighing wistfully as she closed the door behind her. It was quiet without Sweetie and the other Crusaders around…more so than she’d like to admit. Rarity consoled herself with the knowledge that they should indeed be back from whatever camp they were on soon, but even so her home felt decidedly empty.

She placed the groceries that had been levitating beside her down on the kitchen counter, the blue magical glow around them dissipating. She sighed again, standing up on her hind legs and resting her forehooves on the counter in a moment of reflection. She willed it to pass, turning her gaze skyward and flicking her wavy purple mane elegantly. An afternoon of work in her imagination room would help remedy these blues, Rarity decided, as she felt the hint of a smile pull at her lips.

She froze, eyes wide, as something clattered to the floor in the next room. Those noise had been unmistakeable, and in the unicorn’s mind a thousand thoughts raged, each one more worrying than the last. Ignoring, for once, the sweat that now dirtied her brow, and her trembling lower lip, Rarity steeled herself and slowly began to pace towards the door. She reached out with her magic to envelop the nearest object that could be weaponised - in this case, a long wooden spoon. From behind the door, the noise could still be heard. She breathed out heavily, trying in vain to calm her racing heart.

The door swung open as the crouching giant within raised back up to his full height, the grey robe that hung around his legs blowing gently in the draft. He seemed to have been setting something, though Rarity could not see what. It took a considerable amount of self-control not to spring at him or yelp in fear, and Rarity took another deep breath, burying her confusion and annoyance under a broader grin now.

“Mordecai, darling.” She began, swallowing. “How…pleasant to see you. Though I must say, such an entrance is not the traditional method of paying one a visit here in Ponyville.”

The sorcerer did not reply immediately as he looked at her, and though his body language was as controlled and tight as always Rarity thought she detected some slight change in his manner; almost a sharpening of the Iron Warrior’s posture.

“Have I ever told you of our kin in the XVII Legion, my lady?” He asked at last, red eyes focused on her. Rarity blinked in surprise at his words, letting go of the spoon without thinking. Her eyes flickered away for a moment as the uncomfortable feeling began to rise in her gut.

“Um, I…that is to say…n-no, I don’t believe so.” She replied, feeling the smile that she didn’t believe in crack her face further. Mordecai nodded, ambling from the room and into the kitchen at a leisurely place. Rarity gulped again as he passed, running a marshmallow-esque hoof through her air.

“No, I cannot imagine I would have done.” He said. Much like the last time he had visited her, the sorcerer began to stare out the window, and Rarity realised that there had been something different in his tone. The cheerful edge had gone, and though it was still nothing but polite it was now almost…mournful. “They are not anything we of Olympia like to discuss. The Word Bearers, they name themselves – far too esoteric and fanatical for the liking of an Iron Warrior.” He paused, seemingly lost in reverie. “I must admit though, I have always found them more tolerable than many of my brothers do. Perhaps it is due to our shared fascination for the Warp, but in any case, I have had ample opportunity to study with the most darkly accomplished of their Apostles.”

Rarity nodded dumbly, padding at the ground nervously. The suspicion that something was wrong here had become an absolute certainty, and though she didn’t know what was wrong she knew she had to get out. The Unicorn began to make her way back towards the door with painstaking slowness, clear blue eyes still locked on the occupied Astartes.

“It was the Word Bearers who first discovered that the sentience found within the Warp is not subject to random, indecipherable chance.” He went on, hand clasped behind his back. “Though with a name such as ‘Chaos’, one would be forgiven for thinking so. The Gods are very much watching, and with sufficient rites –with supplication, with ritual – we may invoke some portion of their favour to aid us.”

“I…see.” Rarity said, trying to hide her rising panic.

“One in particular has always stuck out to me, though I confess the reasons why have never been apparent. It was learned from a warrior of the XVII named Sorot Tchure, a man who was at one time a close correspondent of mine.” Mordecai explained. “It spoke of betrayal, of the nature of it. The Warp is sensitive to emotional change, you see. Every action that we sentient species commit ripples on its tides, stirring the realm beyond. And in betrayal, we find the most potent of shifts, the most poignant of sacrifices. It anoints and taints us, investing us with some measure of divine blessing. The spark that ignites the conflagration, as it were.”

His words were the final straw, and Rarity made to turn and run, but the Space Marine was faster. Mordecai pirouetted, extending a hand towards her. Invisible telekinetic force smashed into Rarity, and she was thrown backwards with a squeal, and defying all odds managed to land seated on one of her dainty wooden chairs. The unicorn attempted to squirm, but the Psyker’s power held her bound in place. She could not even move her hooves.

“For an ally to turn upon an ally is one level of betrayal.” He went on, slowly walking towards her. Rarity’s struggles stopped as she turned to stare at him open mouthed, heart hammering in her ears. His voice had changed, now seeming to be outright apologising. “But greater sacrifice could always be made. For a friend to turn upon another friend, to sin against someone who had actually come to trust them? That is the most powerful of betrayals. A pact signed in actions that can never be forgiven.”

He crouched beside her, the helmet’s red eyes meeting hers that were now glistening with frightened tears. “Can I…get you anything?” he asked, and for once Mordecai sounded almost unsure. “Would you like some tea?” Rarity could only pant in response, trying to stop herself crying as her mouth moved wordlessly.

“Please…” she managed at last, in an emotion-cracked whisper. “Mordecai, darling…why…please, w-why are you doing this?”

He sighed, looking down at the floor, before standing back up. Rarity saw his hand move to rest at the holster by his side. “My brothers, for the majority, have never had the inclination to beseech the Warp for aid.” He told her. “They do not see it as the Iron Warrior’s way. Yet, I have always been of the belief that without the Gods, our Legion cannot evolve to deal with those who would do us harm…and it never hurts to hedge one’s bets with the winning side.”

The sorcerer drew the small pistol from its holster, casting a look at it. Rarity’s breath caught in her throat and she saw it, and she gave one last thrash against the psychic bonds. It was to no avail. Mordecai hesitated a moment longer before flipping the safety off, aiming the barrel straight at Rarity’s temple. The unicorn struggled to breath as she stared into the metal-rimmed hole.

“I truly am sorry.” The sorcerer told her. The worst part was, she knew it was sincere. “And it really is nothing personal.”

“W-what was that?” Fluttershy squeaked, wings flapping involuntarily as she nestled closer to Lorkhan’s legs. The Warsmith did not reply, staring forward as the wind ripped around him. He knew the sound of a bolt pistol firing well enough by now. Overhead, thunder rumbled; the Pegasi seemed to have scheduled a grim black pall for this autumn day. It seemed to be coincidence, but if Mordecai’s babbling had been accurate, the weather was strangely fitting.

She had come to call on him shortly after his project had been completed. There had been snickering from his brothers, and embarrassment on Lorkhan’s part, but he had found himself compelled to go. It couldn’t hurt for a moment of relative peace. Not now. They stood on one of the grassy hills overlooking her fortress-house and the remains of the Sun, Ponyville not far off in the distance. It looked quiet from here, and for the first time in his life Lorkhan found he could use the word ‘idyllic’ completely un-ironically.

“I-it came from the town!” the flustered yellow Pegasus stammered, hair draping over one of her eyes. “Oh my, I hope the others are okay! Twilight gets so flustered when things like this happen, and she’s been so stressed lately, what wi-“

“She’ll get over it.” The Warsmith said bluntly. Fluttershy gave another frightened squeak, nodding.

“I-I guess…I mean, she has got Spike and everything…” Fluttershy said, nodding. A frown crossed her face. “Although…I-I haven’t seen him for an awfully long time now…”

“The lizard and you are close?” Lorkhan asked, looking down at her. She nodded, shying away a little.

“Oh, Spike’s a wonderful friend…most dragons are really scary, but he’s not scary at all!” she told him, speaking almost at normal volume. The Warsmith was quiet for a moment longer, leaning on his axe as he considered her words.

“I know what that sound was.” He said at last, looking away. Fluttershy tilted her head, big green eyes watching him. “My brother just shot one of your friends.”

The wind picked up around them, running off the Iron Warriors’ armour and ruffling the ponies’ fur.

“What?” She asked, though even he struggled to hear her. “I…I don’t understand.” The look of hurt in her eyes was palpable, the pleading expression reminding Lorkhan of someone from long ago. He pushed the memory to the side, looking down at the pony. Her ears and wings had flattened against her body, and she was now visibly shaking, almost on the verge of hyperventilation. For once his Mechatendrils did not snap at nothing, the snake-like tendrils hanging back warily.

“My brother has murdered your friend in order to invoke some form of ritualistic significance, and as a signal for the Iron Warriors to begin madness that we are about to undertake.” He told her, keeping his voice as level and emotionless as he could. Comprehension seemed to dawn in Fluttershy’s eyes, and with t a superb grasp of the obvious.

“You’re…you’re going to kill us.” She said, looking up t him. Lorkhan made no swift move to respond.

“It gets worse.” He told her. She didn’t have time to react before a second noise drew her attention, drawing the pony to look for its source with a gasp.

With an ominous rumble, one of the few gun hatches that remained on the corpse of their flagship ratcheted open. The sound of claw on steel could be heard, even from this distance, as could the near-animalistic whines coming from within. Fluttershy was rooted to the spot as the dark shape pulled itself out. It was huge and wooden and horrible, eyes glowing with an inner light as it gave an almighty flap of enchanted timber wings that should never work. Emerald fire spewed from between its jagged teeth, and yet the creature did not set alight. Lorkhan was distinctly aware of Fluttershy’s whimper as the Heldrake threw back its head and unleashed an ear-piercing shriek that rocked the world.

“A-a dragon?” She stammered, looking she was about to faint. “You…you built one?”

“No.” Lorkhan replied. He carried on, even though she was already running by the time the second draconic daemon engine pulled its way free from its iron cocoon. “I built two.”

Author's Note

....yeah.

I know, I know. Zuko's death deserved more prominence. I'm annoyed too, but so much was happening this chapter, and it felt wrong to leave it on anything other than Lorkhan unleashing the Dragons. By the way, fuck 'realism' (as much as it can be applied to a 40k/Pony crossover) in this case. Wooden Heldrakes seemed like a cool idea in my head, so I'm running with it.

In the Grim Darkness of the 41st Millenium...you know the rest.

Mortmain

Mordecai made it about two steps from Rarity’s house before the little blue comet crashed into him.

Even as a Space Marine, an 8ft tall mountain of engineered muscle and ceramite, the sheer momentum of Rainbow Dash’s dive was able to knock him off his feet; impressive within itself. The sorcerer found himself knocked onto his back, the Pegasus’s forehooves slamming into his helmet at a meteoric pace. They weren’t actually hurting him, more just staggering the warlock momentarily, but it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly to say as such.

“WHAT! DID! YOU! DO! TO! RARITY?!” Rainbow’s words were snarled through gritted teeth as she maintained her assault, angry magenta eyes only a few scant centimeters from Mordecai’s crimson eye lenses. He did not reply, instead letting loose a small amount of telekinetic force. It wasn’t enough to injure the pony, but did prise her off him, and the Space Marine took the opportunity to stand and dust himself down. He drew his sword as he looked at Rainbow, tutting and shaking his head in seeming disappointment.

“Squabbling in the dirt? Really, such things are below us, my girl.”

The impact of their collision hadn’t been consequence-free for her either. Her hair was more a tattered, unkempt mess than usual, and she was quite clearly panting hard. A red gash had opened on her forehead, lines of blood trickling down and threatening to drip into her eyes. She didn’t seem to notice.

“What…did…you…do?” Rainbow repeated, voice now an angry hiss. Mordecai’s head tilted sideward as he regarded her, the runes on the side of his blade flaring into glowing, unholy life. His free hand made a flourishing gesture – he held it beside his head, as if clutching an imaginary glass.

“Your curiosity does you credit, I must say. Permit me to demonstrate.”

He clutched with his hand. Rainbow bristled, as if expecting an assault. In that she was wrong; the psychic energy Mordecai marshaled was not intended for her. That was saved for the mechanisms of the grenades he had set up in the building behind him.

Carousel Boutique exploded from within, the explosives giving an almighty roar as they detonated. The blast of air rustled the robe he wore around his lower body, and though he possessed no precognitive powers Mordecai was quaintly proud that he did not flinch as shards of burning building came crashing down around him.

“Most apologetic, if it is any consolation.” He said, contritely. Rainbow stared at him open-mouthed, the anger seemingly drained from her momentarily and replaced by the pain of loss. It quickly returned, and she snorted, nostrils flaring.

“I knew it…” she said, glare intensifying. “I knew you guys were up to no good, no matter what Fluttershy or Rarity said. I didn’t think you’d ever go this far, though…Twilight was right.”

Mordecai nodded. “It is rather one of those things that makes far more sense in hindsight.” He agreed. Rainbow shook her head, clearly having to restrain herself. A small group of onlooking Ponies had formed around the two combatants by now, looking on nervously and edging away.

“I’m going to bucking kill you, you freak.” She said, and Mordecai could not help but be impressed that she sounded like she actually believed it. He straightened slightly, stabbing the point of the sword into the ground and resting both hands on its pommel.

“You will certainly try, my dear, of that there is no doubt…though, I rather think you have greater concerns at present.” He said, nodding skyward. As if on cue, the twin roars once again shook the planet, and dark shadows passed over Ponyville. The two Heldrakes swooped low, witchfire-bright eyes scanning the ground and groups of panicking Xenos hungrily. One pulled up sharply, before coming to rest atop the Town Hall. It stared down imperiously from its perch, crouched like some great wooden Gargoyle or nesting raptor. Its brother sailed over Mordecai and Rainbows’ heads, a blast of jade flame from its jaws setting more of the town’s thatched buildings ablaze. Even having handled the more esoteric elements of the Daemon Engines’ construction, Mordecai was still unsure how they were able to produce their breath weaponry – no baleflamers had survived the crash to be installed. Lorkhan seemed to subscribe to the policy of just not thinking about it, or declaring it another ‘pathetic joke’ by the Gods when he was feeling particularly vindictive.

Mordecai watched it go, shaking his head disapprovingly. “So very crude.” He murmured, almost wistfully. “Yet one cannot deny their effectiveness in our chosen strategy.” He paused as the HUD within his helmet brought him updates. “Ah, wonderful, it would appear the cavalry have arrived.”

The sound of barking bolters heralded the arrival of more IV Legionaries, advancing into the clearing where Mordecai stood with cold, murderous intent. Bolt shells slammed into the mass of fleeing Xenos, ripping them apart from the inside, whilst yet more destructive tools of war spoke. The Iron Warriors had taken the opportunity to break out the best weapons for this mission, and Mordecai grimaced sympathetically as a dark blue creature was all but annihilated by a direct Lascannon hit. One of the Ponies, a grey mare with a musical note on her flank, dropped what looked like a pile of music sheets as she ran. Her attempts to recover them proved her undoing; one of the Iron Warriors, a brother Mordecai did not know well, stepped forwards and brought the Power Maul he gripped in one hand down in a sweeping arc. The cudgel slammed into her side, splintering bone and sending her careening into a wall.

Rainbow watched the devastation wrought upon her kin around her, and for a moment Mordecai thought she was going to fly into a maddened rage and attack him or his brothers again. But she did not, though maintaining her composure was clearly requiring the utmost effort. It occurred to Mordecai that before him was the element of Loyalty; small wonder then that she’d thrown herself into the fight with such little hesitation.

“If you would permit me to say, I would wager that you are needed elsewhere, my dear Rainbow.” He called across to her. She looked at him, teeth visibly grinding together as she glared at him once more. Then in a flash she was gone, a trail of rainbow-coloured light left behind her as she dashed away in pursuit of the closest Heldrake. Mordecai watched her go this time, pulling his sword from the ground and resting it on his pauldron. The introspection lasted for only a few moments, before the Psyker refocused, and ambled his way over to join the slaughter.

“And you’re certain?”

A buzz hung in the chamber, high in one of Canterlot Castle’s elegant towers, but still the question hung in the air. Celestia’s voice cut through the commotion and babbling of the other Ponies’ clustered in the room. It was as ever regal and firm, yet there was an inflection in it that Shining Armour had seldom heard before. The Captain of the Guard knew the Princess better than most, perhaps anyone save Luna and his sister, but it was one of the first times he had heard her sound…unsure.

“You know that it is.” Luna’s voice was different too. The repressed fury in it was obvious, even to the most casual observer. “Foul sorcery abounds throughout our fair land. The Iron Warriors stand against us.”

The Princess of the Sun looked at her sister for a moment, face steady as she sought to process the information she had been oh-so-bluntly given. Without warning, her head drooped, and the white Princess gave a mournful sigh. It made Shining uncomfortable; morale was balancing on a knife edge as it was. Even with all things considered, the speed and suddenness of the Iron Warrior’s attack had sent most of the denizens of Canterlot reeling and into a state of floundering panic. To see Celestia succumbing to the same distress, even for a moment, could have catastrophic effects when it came to maintaining some semblance of order in the Capital.

Mercifully, she seemed to recover her resolve quickly. “Who have we lost?” She asked, the tone maternal, yet steeled and grim. There was another rise in the general buzz throughout the chamber.

“Half of Ponyville’s already gone, my Princess.” A brown bare called out, eyes scanning the piece of paper before her. “They’ve deployed some kind of…of dragon-machines. I-I don’t what they are, but they’re already hitting us far too hard.” She gulped, scanning over the report more. “They’re…o-oh my…they’re slaughtering everypony.” She took a breath, clearly struggling to maintain composed. “We’ve lost so many, including the Element of Generosity. Iron Warrior casualties at…at zero, Princess Celestia.”

“They've murdered Rarity?” Celestia asked, shock evident in her voice. “That’s low, even for them.” She mumbled, shaking her head.

“One has to inquire how thoust is receiving this information, dearest sister. “ Luna piped in, voice fiery. Celestia turned to her, once again seemingly ignorant of the onlooking Ponies.

“I've been making sure to keep an eye on them ever since they arrived, Luna.” She replied, eerily calm by comparison. “You didn't think I’d just give them the run of the place, did you? The moment they got back from the Everfree forest, I've made sure a team of trained Unicorns has been watching them and keeping a weather eye. It seems that that is now paying dividends.”

“Such words are all well and good, Celestia.” Luna retorted. “Yet thou must consider whom it was that allowed such a travesty as this to occur?”

It was only the tiniest of motions, but Shining caught Celestia’s bristle. “Now is not the time to be placing blame, Luna-“ she began, almost defensively.

“Nay!” The Princess of the Night’s rebuttal was punctuated by a stamp of her hoof on the stone floor. “I consider it the perfect time, dear sister! All that has happened, all we now face, it is on thy head!” She screamed, pointing at her sister. “Thou had your chance to do what was right, to excise this evil from the face of Equestria, yet thy chose to hold thy tongue and let murderers and madman cavort freely with our fair subjects. Now, it is they that pay the price. All that transpires here is your fault, Celestia!”

The silence was deafening. Even those ponies busily collecting reports and data froze, eyes locked on the bickering goddesses. Shining could hear his heart pounding in his head. At last, it was Celestia who broke eye contact with a heavy sigh and nod. It lessened the tension, but only slightly.

“You’re right, Luna.” She said in a sad, quiet voice. It was still heard by all present. “This is all my fault. And now, I am going to fix it.” She straightened, once again affecting a regal air. “Commander Riptide, Commander Silver Spear.” Two of the other Guard Ponies in the room rose, clicking their hooves together. “How many divisions of those prototype tanks you’re so keen on do we have in reserve?” She asked.

“Five, my lady.” Riptide replied. The Princess nodded.

“Deploy all of them.” She said simply. The two Guards blanched for a minute, casting a wary look at one another.

“A-all of them, my lady?” Silver Spear asked, momentarily forgetting himself. Celestia’s voice never rose.

“Did I stutter, Captain?” They took the hint, bowing and galloping from the room. Celestia looked around, a glance enough to send the rest back to work.

“Luna?” She asked, surprised, as she saw her counterpart follow them. “Where are you going?” The princess stopped, but didn't turn.

“To see to our soldiers on the walls.” She answered. “To fight this war, Celestia. Like you should have.” She left before any more argument could take place. Shining waited for a minute, unsure what to do, before moving after her.

“Stay, captain.” Celestia said, not unkindly. He complied immediately, turning to look at his monarch. Celestia’s expression was mournful, at best.

“They will come here, Shining.” She said, with a weary resignation. “I know Lorkhan, even after this short time. He will need to finish this himself, to come here. We will need to be ready for that.” He nodded, an uneasy silence falling between the two. “I am sorry for your loss, Captain.” Celestia said, even gentler this time.

He paused before nodding. He hadn't liked to think about what had happened to the Crystal Empire. All he knew was that they had lost contact-but he could guess the rest. For a time, his anger and grief had threatened to overwhelm his dedication to duty, the need to kill every Iron Warrior almost proving too strong; thankfully, he had resisted.

Just.

“You have something to say, Captain.” Celestia observed when he didn't reply. “You know you have permission to speak freely, always.” Shining’s expression grew uneasy, and he cast an awkward look around to make sure he wasn't being overheard.

“I can keep the shield up, Princess.” He started, warily. “But, if they really are going to come here…do you think we can stop them?” Her smile froze, and Shining realised he already knew the answer.

“No.” Celestia said. “Not even for a second.”

“Ah, brother, just the chap I was looking for.”

Barbus didn't look at Mordecai as the sorcerer approached. His eyes remained focused on the sky, ignorant of the barking bolters and screaming ponies around him. The crimson eyes lenses were slowly covered in a thin film of rain.

“The Pegasi control the weather.” He began, as Mordecai drew near. “And we’re keeping them tied down. So what’s with the storm, brother?”

Mordecai’s answer was to turn his gaze heavenward also, staring into the black pall above them. Rolling storm-clouds rumbled almost in anger, the occasional flash of lightning splitting the sky. The rain had started off as a gentle sprinkle, but grew more and more intense as they went on - now pattering down all around them.

“What the hell have you done, brother?” Barbus hissed, finally making eye contact with Mordecai. The Psyker folded his arms, sending a fleeing pony crashing into a building with a casual glance.

“I appreciate your concern, brother.” He admitted. “But I can assure you, my power does not extend to such meteorological miracles. Whatever this is is the spawn of outside influence.”

“Like what?” The Iron Warrior growled. Mordecai was quite for a moment.

“I really couldn't say, brother.”

Their attention was drawn away by the rushing wind of a swooping Heldrake passing overhead, followed by a large crash from behind. They turned just in time to see the Growler smash its way through one of the Pony dwellings without stopping, the dark shape atop it a veritable beacon of burning hellfire. Lorkhan had taken the tank for himself, planting his feet firmly down and riding it as one would a chariot. The Mechatendrils lashed around him in an almost frenzied buzz, spewing out the occasional lick of green flame. Any ponies that tried to flee past him fared little better, decapitated by low scything blows from the Warsmith’s glowing axe.

“How very ostentatious.” Mordecai muttered, seemingly more amused than anything. “Anyway, about that little favor.” He went on, turning back to Barbus and clasping a hand to his pauldron. The other marine drew away, eyeing the sorcerer warily.

“Don’t touch me.” He hissed. Mordecai titled his head quizzically, but did not speak. Barbus looked away, racking the slide of his bolter.

“Zuko deserved better than that.” He said, in a low, quiet voice. “He was my brother. He deserved better.” He looked up again, anger returning. “And Lorkhan deserves to know.”

“You know he would not approve.” Mordecai said, seemingly regretful. “And in any case, I am afraid I must now ask you to undertake another questionable task.” Barbus’ silence seemed to mean ‘go ahead’ in Psyker-speak. “You recall that fortress we built?” Mordecai said, gesturing towards the hill in its general direction. “I’m afraid it has to be…removed. For the good of the Legion.”

This time, Barbus out and out laughed. “He will kill us.” He said, simply. “He will actually kill us.”

“And perhaps he would be justified.” Mordecai agreed. “Yet I must ask it of you anyway. Fluttershy, whilst an amicable young woman, commands the last true bastion against us. We have no choice.”

“We always have a choice.” Barbus pointed out. “One Marine for a whole fortress? Sounds risky. Why don’t you do it?” Mordecai indicated to the passing Rhino.

“I fear my place is with him, brother. And with the best will in the world, I doubt Ms Fluttershy will be giving you all that much trouble.”

Barbus was silent for a moment, the sound of explosions and gunfire rattling round the pair. “Fine.” He grumbled at last, turning away. He slung the bolter over his shoulder, moving at an utterly leisurely pace. “But next time, do your own dirty work.”

Author's Note

I have no idea what to say here.

Yes, I know Heldrakes should burst into flames the moment they shoot fire if they're made of wood.

Yes, I know Ponies having tanks isn't exactly in keeping with the lore; but I'm a Fantasy fan, and Iron Warriors vs Steam Tanks was too tempting to not throw in.

besides, if you think that stretches your suspension of disbelief, just wait for the next one where I nail one end of it to the ground, tie the other to a rocket and fire it into space.

Deum Ferrum

“Pinch me.”

The tone in the voice of the Iron Warrior was one of derision, even outright amusement. Rorke barely heard it. The Champion’s head pounded like some infernal drum dragged from the Immaterium, the pressure building inside feeling like it would burst free and consume him at any moment. As the blood roared in his ears, Rorke’s vision swam with a haze of red; warping tendrils played in the corner of his eyes, whilst guttural whispers danced on the edge of hearing. Something deep inside told him that what was happening was probably bad, to recite the Unbreakable Litany and remember his duty as an Iron Warrior. He ignored that voice, too.

They had formed a makeshift barricade at the edge of town from the remains of shattered carts, houses, and masonry. It was a shoddy effort, one that would have been universally frowned upon by the Legion, but considering the situation at hand it had been judged more than adequate for task. Four of them were behind it now; Rorke’s three brothers stood with weapons held at rest over their chests, watching the oncoming tide with typical cold dispassion. Rorke was hunched in a feral stoop, tip of the sword trailing on the ground – the energy field crackled as it blackened blades of grass. It was the first time it had truly been still since the attack began. All four seemed to be oblivious to the sounds of chattering bolters, revving chainblades and screaming Xenos emanating from behind them.

“Tanks? Blood of the Gods, they’re actually going to deploy tanks against us?” the second Olympian asked.

“Of a sort.” The third one said. This one sounded the least impressed of all, possibly owing something to the bronze gargoyle-mouthed Lascannon he held at his shoulder. What was left of the rational part of Rorke’s brain tried to remember his brother’s name. He couldn’t. “Though to call them ‘tanks’ may be a compliment. They make the Eldars’ vehicles look ironclad.”

Considering what they had seen of the Xenos’ military capability so far – besides a few guards, nothing – it wasn’t an unimpressive armada arrayed against them. Had he bothered to count, Rorke would have noted at least fifty of the ramshackle wooden vehicles converging on their positions. They made an unmistakeable grating, clanking noise as they drew nearer, great belching torrents of steam coming from the hodgepodge array of chimney’s protruding from the tops of the vehicles. There seemed to be little standardisation in their design. Some, mostly those lagging behind at the back, were outfitted with plates of steel armour, whilst others were not. Some had comically oversized cannons that could not hope to be used efficiently by such a low-tech species bolted to the top, whereas some were devoid of a turret altogether. Many bore names scrawled on the side – Clown Face, Mighty Mare, Fightin’ Filly – yet the results of such primitive construction became apparent when one came to a spluttering halt more than ten metres from the outskirts of Ponyville. Two or three others also slowed down, to help their malfunctioning comrade.

Even after all this time, the Xenos’ predilection towards helping one another was still bemusingly quaint.

“So, which of us gets to be the lucky man that relays this information to Lorkhan?” One asked. His voice sounded distant to Rorke, ringing in his ears. The Champion twitched.

“You think he needs us to tell him?” The Lascannon wielder again.

“Still, I suppose we should call the others.” The last Astartes insisted. “If they’re done engaging unarmed civilians in heroic battle, they might want to turn their attention to the planet’s fearsome military.”

“I lost track of them a while ago.” One of them said. “Where the hell did Varvillon go?”

“Out.”

“Barbus?”

“Not sure.”

“Mordecai?”

“Don’t care.”

Their discussion was interrupted by an almighty roar from the heavens. As one, all four Iron Warriors, Rorke included, turned their blank gazes skyward. A streak of blue, a spectrum of light trailing in its wake, hurtled over their heads. Rainbow Dash paused in mid-air, wings flapping and straining to keep her aloft as she panted hard. She took off again in a burst of noise as the titanic Heldrake barrelled after him, licks of green fire snapping at the Ponies’ tail. A beat of the Engine’s wooden wings sent a gust of wind throughout the town.

They watched her fly, helmet-optics and enhanced senses allowing the Marines to keep her in their site. The Lascannon-toting warrior took a step forward and hefted the weapon skyward, bringing the targeting reticule up to a glowing red eye. The crosshairs lined up over her perfectly, keeping Rainbow firmly in their sites no matter the evasive manoeuvres she tried to escape the Dragon. He exhaled finger tensing on the trigger.

“Leave it.” One of his brothers said, placing a hand on the barrel and lowering the fun. “It’s not worth the effort. Besides, let the Burdened have its fun.”

“Besides,” The last Iron Warrior chuckled. “Isn’t she Rorke’s girlfrie-“

From his deceptively still position, Rorke rounded on him with lightning speed, spittle flying from his helmet grille as he brought a knee crashing into the Iron Warrior’s midsection. The other two managed to hook their arms round his and drag him back before he could plunge his blade into his brother’s face.

“Later.” One hissed. Rorke slavered like an animal in their hold, but began to calm, though the sound of drums and baying hounds still echoed through his mind. Something occurred to him even in his fevered state. From the way they tensed, it seemed to occur to his brothers too.

“Has anybody noticed,” One of them began. “That that clanking noise has stopped?”

The fusillade started a moment later. Cannonballs, smaller proto-bullets and bursts of magic of every colour hurtled towards the Iron Warriors; individually, they could not hope to even momentarily bother an armoured Space Marine, but a concentrated barrage of magical energy seemed more potent than any would have thought. The Iron Warrior that Rorke had assaulted barely got back to his feet before being slammed into to floor once more, the variety of shots buffeting him and leaving dents in his ceramite plate.

“Friendship should be nerfed.” The heavy-weapon baring Iron Warrior growled, stepping out from his makeshift cover into the street and lining up another shot. This time he fired without hesitation. The lance of crimson light blasted from the mouth of the gun, spearing through the air and slamming straight into the prow of an approaching vehicle. One of the ponies managed to jump free before the craft was engulfed in an explosive fireball. It did him no good, a cartwheeling splinter of burning wood impaling him through the neck seconds later.

Rorke was already moving, judgement and reason lost to a miasma of red rage. He pulled himself up the side of one of the nearby houses that remained more or less intact, gauntleted hands easily penetrating the wooden walls. He reached the roof, screaming and howling like a World Eater as he sprinted towards the edge. Every step left a hole in the tiles. He reached the lip in little time, and with another frenzied cry hurled himself off towards the field of tanks below.

It was luck rather than planning that saved him. Several of the Equestrian vehicles joined their companion as flaming wrecks as the second Heldrake unleashed a torrent of baleflame, swooping low over the battlefield. Rorke grabbed onto one of its talons as he fell, left hand cracking the wood as it tightened. It was a precarious hold at best, and more than once even the Space Marine was threatened to be dislodged as the Daemon Engine banked and swooped. He used his sword as a scythe, decapitating any unlucky Pony who deigned to pop their head out a turret’s cupola.

Eventually, something told him to let go, and he dropped through the roof of a lightly-armoured vehicle feet first. One of the Xenos was crushed instantly by his weight. Another fell to a slicing chop from the power sword. The last, a grey-maned creature, seemed to succumb to whimpering terror as the red eyed monster that set about him reached slowly towards his neck with an outstretched hand. A quick grip on the bone snapped it, soon silencing that problem.

Rorke stayed just long enough to plant the grenade before bursting from the side of the construct, not even slowing as it detonated behind him. One of the others was turning, cannon on top bringing the Space Marine into its sights. It fired a weighty ball of metal that clipped off his pauldron, staggering him for a fraction of a second. Rorke let loose a blood-curdling cry, throwing his sword end over end without slowing his pace. He vaulted atop the tank, then back off it as the blade sliced straight through and came to rest on the ground. He knelt to retrieve it, turning this time to admire his handiwork. The wooden beast ground to a halt, and was promptly wrenched from the ground and tossed away like some child’s toy by a pass from the Heldrake.

More were coming. Some tanks kept on with their tasking, to be met by and destroyed upon the guns of his Iron Warrior brothers. Others pivoted to face the threat in their midst. Good. Let them come. Rorke slew indiscriminately, without thought or care. He was only vaguely aware of the blood that ran like a river at his feet and stained the ground red, genetically-engineered mind teetering on the edge of a precipice. The sword rose and fell, rose and fell, again and again. On the killing fields of Equestria, the tribute Rorke had offered –willingly or not – was realised in a furious roar erupting from his lips.

“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!”

“I say, would you care to join me for a sport of tea?”

“Be silent.” Lorkhan growled, eyes still firmly fixed on the Rhino’s tactical display. Mordecai shrugged off the Warsmith’s abrasive tone with a typically stiff upper lip, taking another sip from his enamel-white cup. He tried his best to keep the noise to a minimum, in order to resist inflaming his Lord’s temper further. It didn’t seem to work.

“Can you truly not do that anywhere else?” The Warsmith snapped, finally rounding on his brother. They were both now safely seated inside the Growler’s confines, armour appearing almost crimson in the red-tinted light. The Mechatendrils coming from Lorkhan’s armour were huddled close around him, snapping and hissing like impatient children. The sorcerer did not seem to take offence from his chastisement, though as he levitated his helmet back over his head, his face was nonetheless a picture of concern.

“Let us be reasonable, old friend.” He began in a level tone. Lorkhan growled at the word ‘friend’, but didn’t interrupt. “I know you well by now. It is apparent that something is bothering you. Come, I would not have you suffer in silence.”

Lorkhan was silent, eventually returning his attention to the glowing lights of the screens before him. Mordecai’s response was an exaggerated, theatrical sigh. “I would wager it would be an improvement on just sitting here and doing nothing, sir.”

It was true. After its initial rampage through the hordes of Ponyfolk, the Growler had been pulled into a secluded location and now just…waited. The engines still hummed their usual throaty noise, but they did not move even with the onset of Equestria’s tanks. From what could be readily ascertained, Lorkhan was watching Canterlot; Mordecai hadn’t questioned this, trusting his lord to know what he was doing. Even his patience was proving to have its limits, however.

“We just need to wait for the shield to fall.” The Warsmith said. He sounded distracted, like he wasn’t really talking to Mordecai. “Something will drop it, eventually. Then we can make our move.”

“And all these explosive chemicals you have stashed back here?” The Psyker went on. That was something else they hadn’t discussed; most of the Growler’s troop compartment was filled with barrels of promethium, gunpowder, and whatever other volatile substance Lorkhan seemed able to have got his hands on.

“It’s part of the plan.” Lorkhan assured him. He made an indecipherable noise, though the first impression was one of irritation. “Where the bloody hell is Zuko? His helmet rune’s blank, and every attempt to raise him on the vox has ended with less than sterling success.” Perhaps it was his own imagination being over-active, but Mordecai could swear the eyes of Lorkhan’s helmet grew more suspicious as they narrowed on him.

“A technological malfunction would seem the most likely cause of the calamity, sir.” He lied. “No doubt he will join us for the final attack. One must consider that the final purge will take a considerable amount of ti-“

“’Final Purge’?” Lorkhan asked, sounding somewhere between disinterested and derisive. “What in the Primarch’s name is that meant to mean?”

It actually took Mordecai a moment to respond. “Forgive me, my lord, but it stands to reason that the Warp will not be able to fully envelop this world if we do not provide it with a sufficient amount of sacrifice-“

“The Warp isn’t going to envelop this world, Mordecai.” Now Lorkhan’s voice could be described as a growl. “I have no intention of turning this place into some Daemonspawn’s playground, or feeding the souls of virgin innocents or whatever to your Gods. We are not staying to witness more of our blasphemy. What we are going to do is this; we are going to storm that castle, I am going to cut Celestia’s head from her shoulders, and then we are going to find a way home and go back to the fights that matter. Do I make myself clear?”

“You are lucidity itself, my Lord.” Mordecai’s helmet was scant centimetres from Lorkhan’s as he replied, and for once there was the faintest touch of frost in his voice. Several items that were not strapped down inside the tank quivered, as telekinetic energy leaked forth from the Sorcerer’s frame. Lorkhan appeared – or pretended – not to notice, instead focusing back on the view before him. Canterlot still stood tall and proud on the side of a nearby mountain, the glowing purple shield surrounding it on all sides. It reminded Mordecai of when they had first come here, imprisoned and at Celestia’s mercy – and then how they had accidentally defended the city and won a chance at life. It was only a few short months past, yet even to Mordecai the world seemed a very different place.

Any further reply was forestalled by a new, curious sensation. The ground reverberated audibly, each shockwave sending shivers up his armoured spine. The brown liquid in his mug shook and rippled with each rumble. He looked up, usually calm and placid features creased in a perplexed frown. Lorkhan wrenched the top hatch open, allowing the two Space Marines to pop their heads out and get a better look.

“You asked what we were waiting for,” The Warsmith said with more than a hint of smugness. Mordecai could only stare as he pointed. “That ought to do it.”

“The rain is falling up.”

Varvillon’s observation drew the attention of his brothers as he approached. The group of four Iron Warriors stood in a small town square, flanked on all sides by burning buildings and the crushed remains of fountains and market stalls. They carried an eclectic mix of weapons – meltaguns, power mauls, a missile launcher – yet Varvillon approached armed with a classic bolter and chainsword combination, a sniper rifle slung leisurely over his back. His undefiled Mk 7 helmet scanned them in turn as he joined them, red eyes unblinking. They stared back.

He was not incorrect. The rain was falling upwards. What had begun as an impromptu, curious storm had now evolved into something far more sinister; the sky was stained red and rumbled with something they all chose to believe was thunder, whilst the rain had begun to emerge from the ground and flow upwards back into the heavens from where it should have come. Shadows danced and twisted at the edge of perception, whilst sounds that should not be there echoed if one did not block his mind against them. There was a general understanding of why this was, not that any dared speak it. In his heart, each Iron Warrior knew he carried with him the taint of the Warp. To introduce that to a land that had never before been exposed to such malevolence was like a virus from another planet – no immunity, no resistance…

No chance.

“I see your powers of observation have not diminished.” One of them growled as Varvillon reached the squad. “Where in Perturabo’s name have you been?”

“Tying up a loose end.” He replied, bionic jaw making his chuckle distinctly mechanical. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

“I don’t care what kind of rare orchid or whatever you’ve found.” One of them muttered. “You missed most of this…I won’t even call it a battle, that’s far too generous.” A general chorus of laughter emerged from their vox grilles. Varvillon remained stoic until they were done.

“Are one of you injured, brothers?” he asked. They looked at one another, not understanding. It took a gesture with his chainsword to make realisation dawn. “I only ask because you appear to be congregating outside the hospital. I thought one of you may have scraped his knee or something.”

Ponyville hospital looked more like some mansion than a medical station, but the red cross on the board outside betrayed its function. Curiously, it had so far been untouched by the fighting, though the Iron Warriors had maintained a keen vigil to stop any refugees from seeking sanctuary within. “It’s their last stronghold.” One of them explained. “We’ve been sent to eliminate it.”

“Then our thoughts are aligned.” Varvillon retorted, this time devoid of humour. “I have a commemorative plaque to deliver.” Again, they seemed bemused but he was in no mood to educate them. “Where’s Vortun?” He asked, looking around. “We could use him.”

The answer came when the charred remains of one of the Xenos exploded through a nearby wall, crumpling to the ground without grace. Vortun stalked through in his traditional stoop, the Lascannon sprouting from his arm still smoking. A maddened look twisted the Obliterator’s fluid features. It was no surprise; the Heldrakes notwithstanding, the two remaining blessed warriors had easily racked up the highest kill count in the slaughter so far.

“Vat do you vant, you tardy shithead?” He asked, after he had calmed slightly. Varvillon didn’t rise to the bait, already walking.

“We’re going to the hospital.” He informed him. “You used to be an Apothecary, you’ll enjoy that.” Vortun bristled at the mention of his past life, but did not argue as he fell into step with the other fourth legionnaires. As they approached, they launched a salvo of grenades – or in Vortun’s case, a plasma cannon blast – through the windows. It had the desired effect, shrieks of fear cut prematurely short by the muffled sounds of explosions and glass being blown out. The Iron Warriors wasted no time in making entrance, kicking down the door with an utter lack of subtlety.

Unlike his brothers, who stayed to slaughter the various doctors and patients trying to flee down the corridors, or Vortun, who began to tear down support beams and set the building ablaze, Varvillon’s path was straight and direct. His boot smashed through the wooden door of the doctor’s office with little grace, the Space Marine forcing entry moments later. Doctor Wellwhinny was halfway through the window, in some desperate bid to escape, as Varvillon caught up to him. He yanked him back roughly, the pony hollering and struggling weakly as he grasped onto the white coat.

“Hello again.” Varvillon said, keeping his tone level. “The donation proved most useful, the Legion thanks you.”

“W-what are you doing?” Wellwhinny stammered as they left, other Iron Warriors and Obliterator falling in behind Varvillon once the slaughter was done and the building collapsing. “Where are you taking me?”

“I promised something to commemorate you.” was Varvillon’s reply. “I intend to keep it.” Wellwhinny did not reply, but groaned in fear as they emerged back into the streets of Ponyville. Behind them, the hospital gave another groan as it fell in on itself.

“There’s something that bothers me.” One of the Astartes said, seemingly to break the quiet as they walked. He took the lack of response as a cue to go on. “In all the stories you here of battles like this, the peace-loving indigenous creatures always seem to have nature on their side.” He inclined his head towards the Everfree forest, looming on the horizon. “Why isn’t the world fighting back against us?”

They had to double back as Varvillon came to an abrupt stop, Vortun giving an irritated rumble. It took them a moment to realise he was chuckling again.

“You’re going to love this.” He promised, a curious intensity filling his voice. Their questions were forestalled by a new sensation – the ground rumbling and shaking beneath their feet at slow, ominous intervals. They turned to the source of the noise, not one able to formulate a response. Even Wellwhinny stopped thrashing and just stared.

The Hydra’s heads erupted from the top of the Everfree’s tree line, hissing and snapping with teeth that even from a distance, looked ferocious. Yet, the monster was dwarfed by its sparring partner. It was a wolf that walked, the midnight black of his armour melted away by the burning pressures of re-entry. Teeth that could never bite glistened in its canine mouth, whilst its body was pock-marked by the scars of a thousand worlds. A single burning spark of red flickered in the centre of its dark eyes.

“That…that’s a Warhound Titan…” One of the Iron Warriors said, completely unnecessarily.

“Ze Lupus Nox, to be precise.” Vortun corrected, sounding only slightly more composed. “Vhere in ze name of ze Gods did you find a Varhound Titan?”

“Apparently, our friend in the Legio Mortis over there managed to survive the fall as the ship broke up when we arrived.” Varvillon explained, eyes not moving from the Titan as it brought a clawed foot smashing down onto the Hydra. The beast roared in pain, heads thrashing wildly as it fell back. “Its crew perished, predictably, but when has that ever stopped us before? Mordecai’s dalliances with the Immaterium seem to have given it the kick it needs.” They took an involuntary step back as the Titan turned its eyes towards the mountains; and Canterlot high upon them. Throwing its head back, the God-Machine’s warhorns let out a deafening blare.

“It’s going to take a while for its guns to make ready, of course.” Varvillon admitted. “But in essence,” He sketched a mocking bow, a feat made more difficult by his power armour and the hostage he carried. “We win.”

“You’re an ugly beast.” Barbus observed, tilting his head sidewards. The Iron Skull fixed him with its typical penetrating glare, not replying. Then again, it never did.

Putting their own Legion symbol on the front of the Pony’s house was almost comically arrogant, Barbus reflected – but then again, who was he to deny his brothers their little points of pride. Fluttershy had never complained about it in any case, or if she had Lorkhan had never bothered to mention it. It wasn’t like the Warsmith ever talked much about what he did with her, but Barbus wasn’t one to pry. He would never understand what Lorkhan saw in her, but right now he wasn’t here, and there was an unpleasant job to do.

He hadn’t wanted to break into a pony’s house the last time he’d been coerced into it, either. That one wasn’t even a IV Legion-built fortress, and Barbus was surprised as he realised that he couldn’t convince himself that this was for a better cause. It wasn’t that he had a particular affection for the yellow Xenos, but it was clear she wasn’t going to fight back, and praying on the weak for the sake of it had never sat well with Barbus. A familiar face, eternally wrapped in iron, flashed through Barbus’ mind. He suppressed it, trying to ignore his own darkening expression.

The most curious thing was that the battle cannon hadn’t fired. He’d actually forgotten about it as he’d approached, swearing and cursing as he dived behind a rock in an effort to not get blown apart. Even when no shot was forthcoming, it had taken him a few moments for him to poke his head over the top. The fortress was outfitted with a fearsome array of Legion weaponry. Not one of them stirred.

What’s up with you, then? The Marine thought as he stood, arms folded across his chest, staring at the dwelling. The skull sigil still glared back. It took a few moments for the answer to form.

You’ve turned it off. He found himself grinning, though he didn’t feel particularly cheerful. You’ve actually turned the system off…well, talk about a Red Herring. Still, it paid to make sure. He set off towards the building at a leisurely place, stepping over the various tank traps and trenches they had dug in Fluttershy’s grounds. He fumbled with his belt as he drew nearer; before the fighting had started, he’d made sure to stock up on a good supply of Melta Bombs. Leaving his precious Autocannon behind had been a challenge, but ammunition for it was painfully low, and he couldn’t bear to see it mistreated. He primed one of the bombs now, hurling it over-arm towards the impressive cannon that sat atop the roof. It detonated with perfect timing, consuming the gun in a fireball and blasting it off its hinges with little effort. He waited for the satisfying crunch of steel hitting the ground before he moved again.

The second bomb had the magnetic clamps enabled, easily latching onto the front of the steel door. Barbus flashed the skull icon a sloppy salute before the thermic charge detonated, blasting a considerable hole in the doors in the small storm of fire. Another Space Marine might have felt some guilt at defiling his Legion’s symbol so, but Barbus felt only the briefest pang of remorse. After all these years, it was hard for it to be soiled any more.

The life signs inside became readily apparent. He cycled through all the different views his helmet could provide –thermal, infrared, targeting – before deciding it did not matter. Sliding the rack on his bolter back with grim intent, Barbus ran straight towards the moat surrounding Fluttershy’s house.

He was inside less than three seconds later.

“O-okay, I’ll try and deal with that…I know it’s cold little one, please, I’m trying my best…I-I’m sorry, I’ll come and try and help in a second I promise….”

By all rights, Fluttershy should have had a stroke by now. It was hard enough for her being in a social situation with one pony she didn’t know too well; a whole host of them, crowding around her in the confined space, was almost too much. She stepped gingerly through the crowds, wings and ears flattened against her body as the Pegasus tried her best to allay the fears of everypony. So far, she hadn’t met with much success.

There were about thirty of them, all crushed into the steel confines of her dwelling. It wasn’t long after the awful noises had started to ring through the town that they had started to arrive; Fluttershy almost felt a pang of annoyance at how they now expected sanctuary after shunning her for her new home, but it was nowhere near enough to override her protective instincts, and she had let them in without delay. She had been keeping a lookout, but – worryingly – not one of her friends had so far arrived. She chose to believe that they were trying their best to defend the town, or were otherwise safe, but the implications were still frightening to the timid girl.

She didn’t know which one Lorkhan had meant when he had told her they were…were…

“Umm…Ms Fluttershy?” A small voice spoke up from her legs, bringing her from her reverie. Silver Spoon looked up, purple eyes trembling. “A…Are we gonna, like…die?” the filly asked with a shaking voice. The words were like a lance to the Pegasus’ heart, but she forced herself to bottle it up in front of the child. Instead, Fluttershy wrapped a forehoof around her, pulling Silver Spoon into a light embrace.

“We will be fine.” She lied. “The Princess won’t let anything bad to happen to us, I promise.” Fluttershy attempted a smile, to exude a confidence she didn’t feel. It seemed to be only marginally effective, and not for the first time today she wished Rainbow Dash was here, if nothing else, she would have kept their spirits up.

The chatter came to an abrupt halt as the ground shook, as if some primeval god had decided to descend to the mortal plain and join the fray…she just managed to stop herself thinking ‘bloodbath’. Fluttershy couldn’t stop herself whimpering quietly as a second quake rocked the earth. The effect was widespread, it appeared – even many of the bigger stallions had begun to tremble, whilst the only voice that pierced the silence was the wailing of a tiny infant. It took Fluttershy a moment to realise everypony was staring at her.

“I…I’ll go and have a look…” She promised, voice was barely above a whisper, before she turned tail and almost ran up the stairs. Fluttershy was the antithesis of violence, she considered it one of her best qualities, but she couldn’t stop herself almost cursing the fact that she’d had to disable her weapon systems. It wasn’t like she’d been presented with much of a choice; the guns were indiscriminate, and would have torn the sheltering ponies apart the moment they entered. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she realised that Lorkhan might have engineered that intentionally.

It had taken her a while, but she had finally managed to convince Lorkhan only days ago to increase the size of the ‘windows’ built into her home. The tiny slits were now more practical, though still a shoddy excuse for home comfort. Now, though, she wished they were back the way before – if only to spare herself from the sight before her. Fluttershy’s mouth hung open as the canine-headed monstrosity loomed out of the Everfree. Its body was covered in scarred, black metal, but she could not deny that it was very much alive. For a moment, she seemed to catch one of its hungry eyes. The Pegasus retreated, trying her best not to succumb to hyperventilation.

Her breath caught as she heard the first clang, on the roof. The noise of a muffled explosion followed swiftly after. Fluttershy couldn’t move, every muscle locked rigidly in place as she stared forwards. Her throat was dry, and it was getting harder and harder to breath. Blackness crept at the edge of her sight, threatening to overcome her.

The second clang hammered into the door.

She couldn’t even scream as the detonation rocked the house, already galloping under the cot-bed she had been given and pulling the covers down to conceal herself. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, almost threatening to go into some kind of arrest. She willed it to stop, willed herself to stop shaking. From the vague impressions she could get of the now-dark world around her, the ponies downstairs had no such restraint. They screamed, crying frantically, desperately trying to get out and save themselves. Something else left heavy footfalls as it walked, reverberating through the fortress; they weren’t as heavy as the devil-machine outside, but somehow they were far more frightening.

A year ago, Fluttershy’s innocence would have been preserved. But now she knew enough to know what gunfire sounded like. She knew the noise of bullets bursting bodies open, of bone shattering, of chainsaws slicing through flesh. The gruesome symphony raged seemingly all around her for ten long, awful seconds. It stopped as quickly as it had come, the last few hungry revs of the chainsaw lingering in the air. There was not a single voice from below, now.

She didn’t even have time to consider poking her head out before the steps started again. It was on the stairs. It…it was coming up the stairs. It was coming to find her.

“I know you’re here.” The deep, gravelly voice said. It sounded almost…bored. “I can see your tiny little heart beating…it’s threatening to shut down.” It was getting closer now, just outside the room. “You are threatening to throw yourself into cardiac arrest…I’ve never realised how useful these helmets are, before.”

Fluttershy bit her bottom lip hard, actually drawing blood as she tried desperately not to break down and cry. If there was any chance of the beast lying, of it not knowing where she was…

It was in her room. Fluttershy stifled a gasp, unable to stop a few tears leaking out as she squeezed her eyes closed and mouthed a silent prayer. She’d thought that in a situation at this, she’d want to see Angel Bunny or one of her friends, but almost to her shame she found she didn’t…right now, Fluttershy would have given anything to see her mum again. The footsteps echoed around her, the small confines of her room making the sound of steel on steel ring in her ears. She heard every minute chatter of her teeth, every sharp breath she inhaled.

It…stopped. A low buzz filled the air, setting the girl’s teeth on edge, but the sound of boots methodically pacing the room halted. Fluttershy couldn’t even breath as her eyes snapped open. It…had it…had she…

The bedclothes were ripped from over her, Fluttershy’s eyes immediately locking with the two burning red orbs of the kneeling Iron Warrior.

“Boo.”

She squealed. Forgetting every hurtful playground chant for a moment, the yellow Pegasus flapped her wings harder than she ever had before, hurtling down the stairs in a blur of yellow motion. The dark iron walls of the building around her seemed to close in as she flew, feathered limbs straining to propel her. She only took in the briefest glimpses of the charnel house her home had become, the mangled and indistinguishable bodies lying broken on the floor. The noise of the Space Marine following her down the stairs was only a distant ringing in her ears as she sped, aiming straight for the hole in her door. The sky looked corrupted and bloodshot from what she could see, but it was light and the possibility of freedom, and that was enough.

She was close. So very close, it almost wasn’t fair. The wind tickled Fluttershy’s face as it happened, almost beckoning her arm. The gauntlet clamping around her leg brought her to such an abrupt stop that it practically pulled it clean out the socket; that was to say nothing of the crushing pressure the hand exerted, breaking the bone within in more than one place. She screamed as the agony shot up her spine and lit up the nerves in her head with pain, hooves trailing limply down to the side of one of the interface’s control panels. The Marine exercised only a marginal degree of gentleness as he lifted her, holding the pony at arm’s length like some limp marionette dangling from a string. Through the haze of pain clouding her eyes, Fluttershy tried to focus on him. The horns that curved from the side of his helmet gave him the appearance of some cast-iron bull, but what drew her attention the most was the glinting, wickedly serrated knife – that looked more like a sword – he held in his other hand.

“It’s a shame, Xenos.” He said as he raised the knife to her eye line. “The Warsmith grew fonder of you than any of us should, and he’s enough of an emotional cripple as is…but if you don’t tell him, then I won’t.”

All her life, Fluttershy’s timid urges had made her lean towards flight. For once, something within her mind seemed to decide on fight. With a cry of effort, she stretched out, using the pain as a catalyst. She almost missed, almost threw away her chance, but with one final push her hoof slammed straight into the control panel.

Authorisation granted.

Fluttershy knew the rumours as well as anypony else; that the Iron Warriors knew no fear. But it seems that they did know surprise. Against all odds the Marine relinquished his grip on her leg, spinning and drawing the Boltgun clamped to his leg. She wasted no time capitalising on the opportunity, forcing her wings to give one last push and jettison her through the broken doors and into the outside.

She did not hear Barbus manage to mutter “Oh, sh-“, before the Autocannon shells ripped him apart.

Author's Note

I am truly, truly sorry. Yes, I do have a livestream open to rationality and fluff rolling in their graves.

One of my friends is a Mechanicus fanatic you see.

And Titans are bloody cool.

TPK

She swerved and ducked, forcing her head down as her hooves stretched out in front of her toned body. Rainbow Dash felt tears prick at the corners of her magenta eyes; they weren't tears of sadness, though given her current situation the Pegasus couldn't have been faulted for wanting to break down and sob. Rather, it was her body straining to cope with the g-pressures exerted upon it by the speed and velocity of her flight. The lean, defined muscles of her wings beat furiously as they struggled to keep her propelling forward, and she could almost hear the pound of blood pumping to them roar in her head.

The roar became real. She dived, spreading her wings in an impromptu parachute to slow herself as she rapidly changed direction. The Heldrake didn't have the luxury of such a swift turning circle and kept hurtling forward, more licks of green fire escaping from its jaws. It swooped down as it passed, unleashing another torrent over the shouldering ruins of what she had one called Ponyville. Rainbow bit her bottom lip hard, if only to stop it from trembling in a momentary slip of character. When - if - all this was done she would allow herself the luxury of breaking down, but until that moment there was still work to be done and battles to be fought.

She couldn't see the dragon's twisted twin, but knew it had to be around there somewhere. She almost felt like kicking herself in the gut in frustration. Come on Dash, how can you lose something like that, ya knucklehead? Her question was answered in a matter of moments; the town hall exploded in a shower of loose timber and debris as the second wooden machine burst through it, casting a long shadow over the few Ponies that still remained huddling in the town's wreckage.

Her friends were down there, she realised with a pang of guilt. If she really, really wanted to, she could fly too fast for anything to have a hope of catching her...but none of her friends had that luxury. Not even Fluttershy; that is, if she wasn't...wasn't...

Casting off the grim image, Rainbow once again resumed her flight to evade the Daemon Engine. Not for the first time that day, she muttered a curse on all Iron Warriors, though it came out as little more than a random series of splutters. The seconds-long break hadn't given her much chance to drag air back into her starved lungs, and even with her athletic prowess Rainbow knew she could only keep going for so long. The dragons were seemingly tireless, utterly devoid of the need for rest or pause. Her new pursuer snapped at her blue heels, and it was only a honed sense of fear and self-preservation that allowed Dash to keep those all-important centimetres ahead.

The first Iron Warrior death machine had turned now, the sport to be had on the battlefield below or in Ponyville seeming to lack in comparison. Had Rainbow looked, she would have born witness to a sorry sight. The ranks of Equestria's fighting machines, the Steam Tanks that had underwent so much development and been such a source of pride for the Guard's generals lay shattered and broken, smoke billowing from their cracked engines. Some still blazed from where gun or dragon fire had caught them. All around the mangled craft lay corpses, hideously rent, torn open or near-atomised. By and large, they were nearly exclusively Ponies, many with hideous wounds gouged into them or seemingly having exploded from within. There were, at best, two Space Marines; not enough. Not nearly enough.

Her best chance to eke out vital extra minutes of survival seemed to lie upward, and so Rainbow Dash climbed as she flew, outstretched hooves pointed straight to the red-stained sky. The feel of rain, or what she hoped was rain, pattering off her face and running off her body almost burned, and were it not for the altitude she would have cried out. The only advantage was it blurred some of the girl's vision; she couldn't see the eldritch shapes that twisted and cavorted in the skies. A familiar plume of multi-spectrum light trailed behind the mare as she rose higher and higher. The sight could almost have been considered poetic, had anypony been able to safely observe it - a tiny beacon of light ascending straight and true, surrounded and engulfed by the two monstrous and dark shapes that assailed her.

Even with the whistle of winds in her ears, and the almost sentient roars of frustration from the dragons following her, Rainbow could still hear the thud of each tread taken by the wolf-headed monstrosity that stalked the world below. She hadn’t even the slightest idea of where they’d found that thing, or even what it was, but she was intelligent enough to realise the threat it posed. The machine stood a good 14 metres high, even in its hunched form, and considering the size it moved with surprising swiftness; like a wolf let off the leash, running down its prey. In this case, it seemed to be Canterlot, the thing still crashing its way clear of Canterlot in an attempt to make straight for the city. In some ways, that could almost be a good thing; if anyone had the power to take this thing down, it was the Princess. On the other hoof, neither of them had been particularly committal so far.

She arrested her ascent as her vision started to swim. The air was thin up here, even with what she was used to, and Rainbow took the opportunity to cast a glance downwards as her heart beat furiously against her ribs. She’s been going faster than she’d thought; the two Heldrakes were left almost in the dust, blazing eyes almost pinpricks against the blacks. As she observed, a thought struck her, gnawing away at her mind like a worm. Perhaps it was only the lack of oxygen that brought a moment of supposed clarity, but all of a sudden, rainbow dash realised what she had to do.

She looked down, unable to prevent herself gulping. Were one of her friends up here, they would almost certainly try to stop her. Pinkie and Fluttershy would cry and plead, Applejack would speak sternly with a hint of affectionate worry, Rarity would no doubt have thrown a dramatic fit, and Twilight…Twilight would have momentarily abandoned logic in favour of rising, desperate panic. It was one of her regrets; that she had always had trouble listening to her friends. As she watched the dragons climb, she found she also thought of Spike. Sadness crept over her; a feeling of shame, like she should have got to know him better. He might already be dead down there…had he died believing she just thought of him as twilight’s lackey? The thought affected her more than she liked to admit. Bizarrely, the briefest image of Rorke flashed through Rainbow’s head. For once there was no hatred there; only a strange pity at his shakes and madness, and loss of self. With a calmness she’d never before known in her life, Rainbow set her jaw and closed her eyes. No-one would ever have understood why she was so accepting of what was about to happen. But loyalty didn’t need to be understood, she’d also found. It just…was.

She dropped.

Her wings were like two overclocking engines, beating furiously as they propelled her downwards in a head-first dive. Wind tore at her short hair, blowing it back and running along the contours of her body as the pace increased. Rainbow kept accelerating more and more, straining wildly against the laws of physics as she pushed herself far beyond mortal limits. The tears came back, but this time they were easy to ignore. If the beasts rising to meet her had any inclination of her plan, they made no effort to stop it, almost entwined around one another in some grotesque dance. Faster and faster she went, the sound barrier wailing and protesting around her. She had gone beyond pain a while back, an almost zen-like state descending upon her mind as the world shot past. In spite of what was rushing towards her, for the first time that day, Rainbow Dash smiled.

Their collision was like an atom bomb going off. Something gave, one final push sending her over the edge. Rainbow’s world exploded in a haze of light as the Sonic Rainboom blossomed into existence behind her, illuminating all of Equestria’s sky with all its myriad hues for one final moment. At the last moment, the monsters seemed to realise what was happening, feral eyes shrinking in what almost seemed like fear. They tried to disengage, to pull themselves out of her flight path, but it was too late. They smashed together like two angry stars, chaotic hatred given form meeting the spear of blinding light. The force sent a shockwave throughout the land, rustling the few trees that still stood and sending ruins tumbling further into dilapidation. A supernova of rainbow-tinged energy grew in the sky, expanding to consume all as the daemonic forces confined within the wooden bodies of the Heldrakes were unleashed. It persisted for several, beautiful moments, before receding and imploding with a ‘pop’.

Blackened timber fell to the ground, like leaves from a tree at the changing of seasons.

It wasn't, Applejack had found, the screaming that was the worst bit. As awful as it sounded, you got used to that after a while. You could forget it, push it to the back of your mind, let it meld with the rest of the music of the Apocalypse that played around her. She didn't like the screaming, but at least you expected it.

No, the worst thing was the silence.

Their guns chattered and growled like angry beasts, whilst the swords revved and whirred as they hacked their way through soft pony hide. And yet, every time she'd seen them since the attack had started, the Iron Warriors had not said a word. She knew they must be speaking, of course; how else could they have co-ordinated this without? Yet whilst they fought and murdered, and the ponies died, the only acknowledgement they got from the aliens was the occasional gruff, baritone chuckle.

It was like they didn't even care. Of course, they probably didn't. From what the farm girl understood, all of this must have come very naturally to them by now. But somehow the almost bored silence they maintained, the cold, clinical professionalism with which they eliminated objectives and targets, contributed to the sinking feeling in her stomach more than anything else.

Well, nearly. There was that one RD knew; the one who screamed all the time. But they seemed to have lost track of him a while ago, which at least in the short-term was nothing but a benefit.

Applejack's attention snapped back to the present as the ground shook again; another step from the titanic monstrosity outside. Granny Smith had nearly had a heart-attack when she'd seen it. In all honesty, so had Applejack, but she'd been trying her best to remain calm and collected throughout the whole thing. Her mind kept straying onto Applebloom; the Crusaders hadn't been seen in weeks by now. She hoped against hope that they were okay and safely out of harm's way, but the Earth Pony found she was forced to expect the worst. It seemed to be the way with Iron Warriors; they wouldn't stop, no matter how low they had to sink. Rarity's murder had proved that...she bit her lip, as she realised she was crying. Her and her fashionista friend had hardly agreed on anything in their life, but she'd have sacrificed herself in a moment to bring the unicorn back now.

Another rumble. The wooden walls of the farmhouse shook, the noise of pans and pictures hung there clanging against the timber. She took a deep breath, dipping down behind the table they'd erected as cover and trying to calm down even a fraction. They'd boarded up the windows and managed to form some form of barricade in front of the doors, but it wouldn't be enough. They all knew that as well, but the shelter still provided a measure of comfort in the face of the oncoming madness. For that, if nothing else, it was worth it.

"Y'alraght, Big Mac?" She asked softly, trying her best to form a reassuring smile. her brother sat with his back to the table, seeming to stare blankly forward into nothingness.

"Eeyup." He replied. Something in his tone made her grimace.

"Yah sure?" There was a pause.

"Ee-nope."

"Hey, now." She said, patting him on the foreleg. It wasn't always easy being the middle sibling, but she tried. "Dont'cha fret now. Everythin's gonna be fahn and dandy, you'll see."

He looked at her for a moment, face clearly doubtful. "Do ya really believe that?" She only held his gaze for a moment before looking down, fighting the urge to bury her own face in her hooves.

"No...shoot, Big Mac, no ah don't."

"It'a alraght, lil sis..." He comforted, edging closer and resting a hoof on her shoulder. She fiddled with the edge of her hat, allowing the stallion to pull her into a hug.

“No.” She said, unable to keep the weariness from her voice. It occurred to Applejack just how tired she was; the past few weeks had been especially rough, but ever since the coming of the Iron Warriors she’d been sleeping less. “It ain’t.” Her knowing, green eyes looked at him. “We ain’t getting’ outa this, ah don’t think…ah just hope the girls are okay.” It was a longshot, she knew, but the thought that anything had happened to them was…unbearable. “Ah hate them.” She sniffed, unable to keep some child-like petulance from her voice. “All of ‘em, every last dog-gone Iron Warrior…it ain’t fair. We didn’t do anything to them…”

Big Mac had been about to respond when another scream broke the moment they shared. They were all terrible, each one unforgettable, but this one stood out as something especially agonised. In spite of what would have been her better judgement, Applejack took a peek over the barricade and out the window.

Doctor Wellwhinny cried out in pain once again as the flames that now coated him burned with greater intensity. They had tied him to a pole, erecting him in the Apple family yard like some grim parody of a scarecrow. It sickened her, how objectively and almost detachedly she considered it – how all the sights she’d seen had begun to desensitise her to the worst of the Space Marines’ atrocities – but the choice of coating him in tar and setting it alight seemed an odd choice to Applejack. Throughout it all, the Iron Warriors had been methodical and pragmatic; merciless certainly, but never given to outright displays of torture. The only possible option she could conceive was that it was meant as a psychological weapon; she could see it, and they knew she could.

Alternatively, maybe the Iron Warrior in question just enjoyed it.

He turned, red eyes like two pinpricks of hate even at the distance they were. Applejack gasped, her own pupils shrinking as she took cover behind the table once again, pulling her hat tightly to her head. The ground rumbled again as the daemon-machine took a step.

He was coming. She knew it even without looking, breath coming short and sharp and shallow. The ironclad monster had bored of its depravity, and now had decided to end the game they were playing. She squeezed her eyes shut, muttering a half-remembered prayer to Celestia under her breath. Big Mac gave a heavy sigh, taking up a rake in his mouth. It wouldn’t stop the Chaos Marine, probably not even slow him, but the sight of it did comfort the Earth pony a little.

“Hop to it, young’uns.”

She looked up sharply as Granny Smith spoke. The old pony had hobbled into the hallway with surprising quietness, making her way over to sit back in her favourite rocking chair. She sighed, contentedly, as she dropped, snuggling back into the cushion slightly.

“Nuh uh, no way Granny.” Applejack said firmly, trying to assert some measure of authority. “What the hay are y’all still doin’ here? Ya should be hidin’!”

“Ee-yup.” Big Mac attempted to contribute, but it was muffled by the tool in his mouth. Granny’s response was to scoff derisively.

“Oh fiddlesticks Applejack, you know mah bum hip. What am ah gonna do, hobble away from them?” She actually chuckled, leaning back on the chair.

“But…Granny.” Applejack’s voice was pleading now, threatening once again to crack with emotion. “Those varmints don’t give a horseapple ‘bout how old y’all are…t-they’ll kill ya…”

“Well…ah’ve had a good run, haven’t ah?” She asked, actually smiling at her granddaughter. “And besahds, something tells Granny they’ll be more than a might eager to get at you yerself, kiddo.” She laned forward in the chair as Applejack approached, gently wiping away one of the tears rolling down the orange pony’s cheeks. “We’re family.” She said, softly. “And family sticks together, no matter what.” The last of Applejack’s walls broke down, and with a sob she leaned forward into another, full-body hug. Granny rubbed her back soothingly, still smiling.

“Besahds.” She said cheerily, still comforting Applejack. “Maybe he’s reasonable.”

The door was smashed in by a ceramite-armoured foot a moment later.

Big Mac leapt forwards, powerful hind legs carrying him forward at an impressive pace. The Iron Warrior swung his chainsword in a whirring arc as the red stallion approached. It passed through heavy, dense layers of muscle and bone like they were nothing. The two bisected halves of Big Mac fell neatly to the floor, blood polling around the intruder’s boots. Applejack screamed, momentarily lost to grief and anguish at the sight of her brother’s murder. She charged forwards incoherently, uncaring of what happened or whether she even survived the next few moments. The boot crashing into her chest brought her crashing back to sanity; it was a comparatively light blow, hardly any force put behind it, but Applejack still coughed and hacked as she slid backwards across the rough floor and into the table. Something was definitely shattered…a rib…maybe more.

“Now then sonny, we’ll have less of that.” Granny Smith’s voice betrayed the shock and fear in her voice even to Applejack’s stunned hearing, but she tried to keep a firm tone nonetheless. “We all see that yer big, there’s no need tah be a bully dearie.”

He was silent for a moment. Slowly, painfully, Applejack rolled onto her side, looking up at the towering monstrosity. Another painful groan rattled out her injured form. It wasn’t just an Iron Warrior; it was an Iron Warrior she knew.

Varvillon’s helmet – so smooth, so untainted and undefaced like his brothers’ – tilted as he looked at Granny Smith. “Is she with child?” He asked abruptly, motioning to the prone Applejack. In any other situation, she may have blushed.

“None that ah know of.” Granny replied. She was quiet for a moment, face growing mournful. “Well, ah suppose a smart boy lahk you knows that’cha just killed mah grandson.”

“He stood against us.” The Iron Warrior answered, barely missing a beat. To Applejack’s surprise, Granny Smith actually chuckled.

“Now then dearie, yah know that’s not true.” She said, with an almost motherly smile. “Nopony stood against any of yah. The only things that’ve been doing that are you.” She sighed. He didn’t reply. “Yah know, ah’m not just some silly old bird.” She said suddenly, voice oddly chipper. “Ah asked that nahce Twilight girl, Applejack’s friend, about where y’all came from.” She looked back up at him, and the expression in her eyes was the one Applejack had never expected to see.

It was pity.

“And ah forgive you.” She said, quietly but emphatically. “Shoot, maybe ah’m just getting’ sentimental in mah old age, but ah think that…deep down, yah know yah not these big evil villains. Deep down, yah just the same scared, hurt little’uns they took from yah planet and made into monsters…and ah’m sorry for that.”

He still didn’t speak, regarding the old pony with the same unblinking red eyes they always did. Applejack stared up at him from where she lay on her side; her hat was gone, the bobble in her hair had come loose and let it spread wildly, and it was a fight just to control her breathing.

In one motion Varvillon raised his pistol and fired. This time Applejack didn’t scream, though she did make a quiet gasp; fear and shock had rendered him numb. Muzzle of the gun still smoking, Varvillon lowered it, finally looking down at her. She stared back, eyes dead to every emotion except exhausted hatred.

“Go tah hell.” Applejack told him, refusing to look away. She’d expected a chuckle from the Space Marine, but he continued to just stare.

“Where do you think we come from?” Varvillon asked, before he slammed a foot down on her skull.

He stayed for a while, looking at the bloody and tattered messes that littered the farmhouse’s floor. After a few moments, a boom shook the sky and rocked the building’s foundations. He looked up, just noticing a flash of rainbow light spreading across the sky out the window. It meant the Heldrakes were probably destroyed, but by this point, that hardly mattered.

Something caught his eye as he turned to leave. He stopped, running a gore-flecked gauntlet over the protruding leaves of the plant sitting on the hallway table. It was common, but no less impressive for that. He made a mental note to finish his annotated diagram of one later.

“Moving onto next tasking.” He spoke into the vox as he left, exchanging pistol and sword for bolter. The slide ratcheting back and his footsteps were the only sounds that filled the now-quiet farmhouse. “Let’s see if we can make it two-for-two.”

She wasn’t a fool. Maybe she seemed that way to some, but she wasn’t. Even in her frantic, panicked state, Pinkie knew what the explosion of light burning the sky up meant. She’d seen it two or three times before, by now; each of those had been an experience of joy, a herald of new things to come. Now it seemed more like an ending. The sight of the two wooden beasts shattering apart had brought her a moment of hope, but then reality set in. Even so, she hadn’t cried when she saw only wood fall to the ground; her pride was too great. Pride in Rainbow Dash, who right to the end had stayed true to her Element of Harmony.

She was finding it hard to laugh right now.

She ran now, not hopped. She’d ran through the streets of Canterlot, when ponies, changeling and Space Marines had clashed, and she ran again as the world seemed to end around her. It was an indication of how serious things were. A memory floated back to her, one that she’d almost lost. The first adventure she’d gone on with the girls, how they’d nearly let their fears overcome them – she’d laughed them, taught them her Granny Pie’s song about laughing to make her fears go away. It seemed foolish, now. She loved her Granny, but she’d never been clear about what Pinkie should do if her fears wouldn’t just ‘disappear’, and were very capable of hurting her.

She ran into the old market place, casting an occasional fearful glance behind her. The sounds of bullets and swords had begun to rescind by now, becoming only fitful and sporadic. What was more prevalent was the crackling of flames; the houses, stores, stalls, everything was cracked and burnt around her, little better than husks. The billowing smoke rising obscured her vision of anything outside the square, though it did help shield the pink pony’s eyes from the crimson tide of madness that now substituted for Equestria’s sky.

She dived behind the remains of one of the market stalls, cowering for a moment, before galloping behind the stone well. It was wide and deep, and even with some of the stones rendered little more than debris, Pinkie found she could lie prone and hide easily. She tried to calm her breathing, formulating a plan. If she could just make it to the Library-

A noise snapped her attention back. She raised her head, squinting to look round the clearing. It came again, unmistakeable now. It was high pitched and frightened, the noise of a child. Thoughts of self-preservation gone for the moment, Pinkie ran from her shelter, tracking the noise to its source. She found it in a wooden heap that used to be a vegetable stall; the small, blue colt cried out again, trying desperately to move his trapped leg. His eyes went wide as he saw Pinkie approach.

“It’s okay!” She called out, already starting to heave the refuse off him with surprising strength. “Don’t you worry, little guy. Pinkie’s here, I pinkie-promise everything’s going to be fine!” She worked quickly, for once entirely focused on what she was doing as she worked to free him. It didn’t take long until the little foal’s trapped leg was free; he bounded out the wreckage, quickly running to wrap his hooves around Pinkie’s neck in a hug. “M-my name’s Archer.” He stammered, pressing his face into her shoulder. She rubbed his back, and for the first time today, Pinkie Pie smiled for real.

He leaned back, little blue face smiling back, seconds before the bullet took his head off.

She shrieked as his body flopped, spraying blood all over her face and hair. Some splashed into her eye, but Pinkie didn’t notice as her shrieks devolved into an almost child-like sob. She cradled it close, pulling it back into her chest and rocking it gently as tears rolled out her closed eyes and down her cheeks. It was a few moments before she relaxed her grip even a little, and she turned to look in the direction from which the bullet had come with furious, glistening blue eyes.

Eight dark shapes slowly and methodically made their way from the enveloping haze. In the gloom and the flickering light source provided by the flames, their silhouettes looked more like horned daemons than ever before. They hefted a wide array of guns and deadly-looking weaponry, from the standard gun most seemed to carry to long-barrelled cannons or sparking claws extending from the knuckles. Behind them, one of their larger kin – the walking weapons – followed. Pinkie’s mouth went dry as she saw them, heart freezing. She couldn’t fight eight Iron Warriors. She couldn’t fight one.

The one at the front, a Space Marine who bore no horns, reached her in short order. The others hung back, pacing almost leisurely through the shattered town square. The big one grunted, lashing out in a backward swipe with his massive fist. The last remaining market stall shattered under the blow. The one that had reached Pinkie turned back to look at it, placing a foot on her tail to stop her escaping.

“Mature.” He muttered, a hint of irritation plain in his voice. Pinkie struggled, trying to pull herself free, but every motion felt like she would just end up ripping her tail off. Usually, she could have…she wasn’t sure, done whatever it was she did and got out of this situation. This time, however, no amount of Pinkie sense was going to save her. He looked back down at her, eyes impassive.

“This is the second time in fifteen minutes I’ve been in this situation.” He told her, sounding almost bored. She didn’t answer, but her blue eyes did flick down to the boot pinning her in place; specifically, the crimson gore that was beginning to dry on it. He pulled the long chainblade from his belt, giving it a few revs. Seemingly satisfied, the Iron Warrior knelt, bringing his helmet only a few centimetres from her face. Pinkie almost gagged as she felt the hot breath emanating from the grille on the front blow into her eyes. “You all have your own special, unique talents…but you die just the same.”

“Brother…”

He paused as he brought the blade back, turning his head as another Iron Warrior spoke. Pinkie froze, panting hard as she kept her eyes squeezed shut. The sound of her heart hammering overpowered nearly everything, but she could just about hear…something. It was a motorised noise, like tracks pulling along the ground. Daring to open her eyes, she lifted her heard ever so slightly. The Iron Warrior kept his weight on her, but he and his kin seemed all to be focusing on the thing that rolled into the square.

It was…like them…but not. Smaller, thinner, weedier. The pipes sticking out of it, and the tracks in place of feet, only further confirmed its strangeness. Oddly, Pinkie found she could guess what it was – more than once, she’d heard them in passing refer to ‘Servitors’, half-mechanical things that helped the Iron Warriors in their tasks. This must be one of them. The Space Marines cast each other wary glances, each of them seemingly as perplexed as the others. The one keeping her in place did not move, but two more advanced slowly towards it, guns held at the ready.

It let them get close, almost within touching distance, before detonating.

The explosives strapped to it were powerful, enough to send the two Space Marine flying from their feet. All of them, even the big one, turned away and raised a hand to protect their face from the blast. Shards of shrapnel rained down from the sky, a few cutting slices from Pinkie’s face, but the pain was hard to feel – she was almost detached to it by now. Marshalling her courage, and blinking rapidly to try and restore her vision, she looked back around as her enemies did with wide eyes.

The steps rang through the square easily, each one drawn out and ominous. A new silhouette took form at the edge of the flames, but Pinkie couldn’t tell what it was. At a glance, she could see the two black pinions rising from its back – like some angelic wings ready to take flight. As it approached, she realised they were far from it, but no less welcome. Spikes and blades sprouted from the creature, slung and sheathed across it like it was some great porcupine. A chain rattled at its side, two horns seeming to sprout there in the gloom. She could see little more – a different kind of smoke enveloped it, this one heady and strong even at a glance. The only reference was a single prick of light, burning like a watchful eye. They stared as it entered the square, for once possessing no snide comeback. Pinkie stared to.

Around the creature’s chest, almost like a bandage, was tied a red sash.

“Morning.” Said Zuko, Aspiring Champion of the Iron Warriors.

Author's Note

Implying Zuko was going to get killed off like that. I know, I know, it breaks the grimdark. But he's (arguably) the main character, he's one of the few with a hint of conscience - and who says 'good' guys never get a break? - and he's IV Legion. No Iron Warrior should ever die in silence.

Anyway, happy first birthday OiM. Technically, it was yesterday, but eh. You were supposed to have been forgotten about, like so many of my other projects, after the first few weeks, but here we are now. We've started, so we'll finish. I mean, when it comes down to it, only one side is going to walk away from this - and with two parts to go, I don't even see them walking very far.

Iron Within, Iron Without

”History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle, but forgets the blood. Whatever history remembers of me, if it remembers anything at all, it shall only remember a fraction of the truth.”

-Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

“Move it you bastard!”

Lorkhan’s barked command was all it took for the Growler’s driver to gun the acceleration and go for it. It pulled away with surprising haste, darting round the legs of the Nox with considerable agility and making straight for the bridge into the now-vulnerable city. For Mordecai at least, his ears still rang with the aftermath of the Plasma Blaster’s discharge, but the Sorcerer was accustomed enough to the rumble of artillery fire by now to shrug it off, though he still grabbed the inner wall of the tank to steady himself as it burst into angry life. Lorkhan’s Mechatendrils provided a similar function, latching onto the walls like the legs of a grossly oversized spider as he stared intently at the view screen from behind his helm.

It felt impolite to point it out, but the Psyker couldn’t help but notice that the frontal gates were still largely intact. No magical firepower rained down from the walls onto them, a testament to the havoc wrought by the Titan’s shot, but the fact remained that at the rate they were going, the Iron Warriors were on course to smash head-on into the gates. The tendrils of the warp slowly and perversely wrapped themselves around this world, not to mention worming their way into the depths of Mordecai’s brain, but even with this redux of power he wasn’t sure he would have possessed the capability to psychically wrench the doors open before they were smashed into an ignoble wreckage.

It was when a sudden swerve caused him to drop his tea-set, the ancient enamel-white crockery shattering into a million pieces, that Mordecai found he could hold his tongue no longer. “Far be it from me to question what I am certain is a roguishly brilliant stratagem, my lord.” He said, having to shout to be heard over the rumble of the Rhino’s engines. “But I fail to see the tactical expediency of squandering our lives in a head on collision.” Lorkhan did not answer, seemingly still lost in his own private thoughts. Mordecai tutted to himself, reiterating his concern whilst casting a wary glance back to the stash of high explosives sequestered in the rear of the Rhino. If they went off whilst the Astartes remained within the vehicle, then all this planning and preparation would have amounted only to the most frightful waste.

Again, the Warsmith didn’t answer. In most circumstances, as his loyal and dutiful sorcerer, Mordecai was a bastion of patience and willingness to compromise, but given the impending calamity about to befall them – not to mention how tightly his nerves had already been wound over the last few hours – it seemed that even that patience was about to reach its limits.

“We are going to die, Lorkhan!” He snapped, the usual air of courtesy in his tone finally cracking for a moment. It was enough to attract the attention of the Warsmith, the half-skull faced helmet swinging round to face his brother. Mordecai looked dangerously close to losing his temper for a moment, before returning to his usual small, amicable smile. “I just thought it would be prudent to mention.”

Lorkhan was quiet for a moment before emitting a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, the Warsmith’s own frustrations evident. Nevertheless, he finally consented to detaching slightly from the wall, explaining the plan to Mordecai in a quiet tone. The Psyker kept dutifully quiet throughout, doing his best to give the idea presented to him its fair due. When Lorkhan was done, he leaned back, with a general body language that said ‘I don’t give a Nurgling’s arse about what you think’. Nevertheless, it was his duty to advise.

“That is…not the strategy I would have advocated, my lord.”

Sure enough; “I don’t care. Get it done.” With that the Warsmith turned away again, leaning up to force open the large top hatch of the Rhino. Wind rushed in and past them as they sped forwards, the cool breeze nipping at Mordecai’s face. He sighed, casting a look back to the explosives. Lorkhan was already pulling himself onto the roof of the moving tank, ceramite boots mag-locked to its hull. Mordecai took a moment to reaffix his helmet before kneeling down and priming the detonator on the weapons. Standing, he took one last glance around the cramped interior, resting a gauntlet almost tenderly on the wall.

“It’s been an honour, old girl.” He whispered sincerely, patting the structure before joining the Warsmith on the roof. The gate was getting closer and closer now, time rapidly ticking out.

“You’re ready?” Lorkhan asked in a grunt. Mordecai nodded, for once not speaking as he concentrated. Lorkhan moved away, slamming a foot onto the roof above the driver’s compartment.

“Up you get.” He growled through the local vox. There was a general noise of movement as the driver unbuckled himself from the Rhino’s seat, clambering up to join the two other Iron Warriors.

“Getting me out was an inefficient use of time.” He informed the Warsmith in a flat, gravelly voice as he slid back the rack on his Boltgun.

“Iron Within, Iron Without.” Was Lorkhan’s reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. He didn’t waste any more time, looking back to Mordecai with a nod. The tank was moving of its own accord now, but Mordecai still only had a few moments to marshal his power before the explosives stocked inside finally blew.

They could have waited for the Titan to recharge and fire again, but that would have lost them the element of…whatever it was they were going for here. They couldn’t go through the gate. But there was another way. Mordecai’s telekinetic force crackled to life just in time to cushion them from the blast that tore the Growler apart from the inside out. The ancient vehicle added its own explosion to the force, shrapnel flying away from the now-charred chassis as the pressure built up against Mordecai’s erected shield. Eventually, something gave; the force of the blast pushed them back, though remained unable to crack the psychic wall separating it and the three Space Marines it propelled. In essence, they managed a ‘rocket jump’, the thrust provided by the combined force of the blast carrying them high into the air in an arcing fall. They slammed down onto the ramparts of Canterlot with impressive synchronisation, rising as one to deal with the oncoming Guards that by now had managed to recover some degree of wits about them. It was an insultingly one-sided affair, Lorkhan and the line Astartes producing firearms and sending mass-reactive shells thudding through armour and into brittle pony bodies whilst Mordecai crushed their bones with but a gesture. Soon, the Space Marines were all the remained living on the walls, surrounded by clumps of fallen Xenos.

“I confess…I am pleasantly surprised.” Mordecai said, brushing himself down. Lorkhan spared him an angry glance before returning his attention back up to the Castle. Silhouetted by a now-utterly crimson sky, it loomed over the three, the weight of fate hanging over both it and their own shoulders.

The bolt slammed through their brother’s chest, tearing apart the power armour as if it were paper. The Iron Warrior’s head snapped back, dark blue flames sprouting from his eyes as he stumbled backwards and fell from the walls, tumbling end over end into the chasm below. Lorkhan swore vehemently as he watched his brother plummet, returning his attention along with Mordecai to the source of the shot.

The Princess of the Night, the one who had called for their deaths from the very beginning, hovered above them, wings flapping and face contorted in an expression of pure outrage. It all seemed, by Mordecai’s reckoning, bizarrely poetic. The sense of mutual loathing was tangible, neither side wanting to move and give away its intent to the other.

The deep, booming retort of the Titan’s war horn broke the stand-off. Both the Princess and the Space Marines looked to it, and its canine face stared back – part hungrily, part in challenge. Though it had not moved, the predatory air remained thick around it. The Pony seemed to fall prey to it, shifting her glare from the two below her to the titanic construct. Lorkhan sought to capitalise, aiming his bolt pistol straight for her. It was only an outstretched arm from Mordecai that held him at bay.

“Far be it from me to question, my lord, but I must point it out that it is still the day.” He nodded towards the castle. “Our plan takes us up there.”

“But we can kill her.” The Warsmith growled. Mordecai had to fight to hold back an eye roll.

“Of course we could.” He agreed. “Yet, haste demands we keep moving.” Lorkhan still took a moment to lower his arm, his anger at the sorcerer barely hidden.

“Who made you Warsmith?” He growled, finally turning away and setting off. “Just be ready to get us all out of this shit-hole when we’re done, I’ve already put out the recall order to all the other idiots.” Mordecai offered no verbal acknowledgement, but he knew it wasn’t needed; instead, as Luna hurtled towards the waiting Titan, he took one final glance at their objective and the flaming city before it.

It had been fun, certainly, but now it was time to finish this.

For saying he was an Iron Warrior, trenches remained one of the most miserable locales impossible for Zuko to imagine. Nevertheless, for all the shit he had to traipse through and the endless hours of bored waiting for a brief gap in an artillery barrage, there was one distinct advantage that cramped earthworks gave him. He didn’t have to run.

The sergeant was fairly certain that whatever was left of his lungs were by now reduced to shrivelled and burnt husks within his already-abused chest cavity. He’d been maintaining an almost-constant sprint since taking his leave of Rorke, passing through what remained of Ponyville and hurdling the splintered remains of the ‘battle’ between Equestria’s tank corps and the IV Legion. The Titan loomed on the horizon, still a considerable distance away as it waited outside the city. Zuko followed the train line as closely as he could, seeming to push himself past the limits of even Astartes endurance as he ran.

He had a sneaking feeling that he knew where the strength came from. It didn’t fill him with confidence.

Against all rational odds, he made it without expiring on the spot. Zuko was even more surprised when he didn’t even collapse to his knees from exhaustion. It seemed he hadn’t been lying to his brother; he really was pissed off.

The Space Marine’s face grew as close to sorrowful as his eyes came to rest on the wreckage that had once been the Growler, lying a distance away at the other end of the bridge. It was unheard of for the Iron Warriors to even name their vehicles, but here Zuko could not help but feel a wave of remorse sweep him. Besides one another, the Growler and the Olympian Sun had been the two things that had stuck with the Thirteenth Company through all the years of warfare. To see them reduced to such a state was, in truth, painfully poignant.

The sound of gunfire echoing from the walls brought his attention snapping back to the present. It faded as quickly as it had arrived, his brothers finishing their work with trademark efficiency. Zuko considered tapping into the vox again, trying a more direct attempt to reach them, when something caught him by surprise. A shape fell from the wall, spinning end over end as it clattered down. Even at this distance, the profile of tumbling Power Armour was unmistakeable. Zuko watched it fall, unable to tear himself away until it had passed out of sight. Who had that been, he wondered? Which one of his brothers? One he’d almost liked?

Any such thoughts were cut short as the Iron Warrior’s head nearly exploded from the roar of the Warhound’s war horn. His proximity to the god-machine left him almost deafened in its aftermath, stumbling around in a daze as he willed his ears to hear again. In any case, he didn’t have long to do so. A shadowy figure appeared atop the ramparts, wings spread and a corona of magic enveloping her horn visible even from this distance. Zuko squinted through his disorientation, gritting his teeth as he made out the figure of Luna staring down the Titan. Props to her, she wasn’t backing down, but she was also making his life infinitely harder.

With painstaking slowness, the Titan began to raise its other weapon – a corrupted Inferno Cannon – and take aim at the pony. The daemon locked inside the thing’s head was growing impatient and ravenous, Zuko knew, a situation only likely to get worse as more of it kin spilled into Equestria. He took another look at the Warhound as Luna leapt from the wall, sailing through the air towards it and sending bolts of blue magic scorching into its armour. Now that the time came to actually put his plan into action, he could fully appreciate what an utterly idiotic scheme it was, but the Iron Warrior had come too far now to walk away. Taking a deep breath, and cursing himself for what must have been the twentieth time that day, Zuko ran to the Titan’s leg, grabbed some of the exposed cabling that hung from the back, and began to climb.

It was a long, difficult process, and more than once Zuko hung loose and supported by the tight grip of only one hand, legs dangling in the empty air below him. The Titan kept moving, which didn’t help matters, as it tried to pivot and keep up with the belligerent Princess. It did not fire as it took shuddering steps onto the bridge, unable to bring her into line for long enough to manage a convincing kill shot. Conversely, Luna’s shots – powered seemingly as much by rage as they were by magic – did seem to be bothering the metallic beast. One managed to strike an eye, punching out one of the red glows in a fizzle of purple light. The blasts did not stagger the Warhound, but even so Zuko twitched slightly as a magical beam sailed centimetres in front of his face.

Eventually, and with some difficulty, he made it onto the arm of the Titan – the Inferno Cannon side, to be precise. Even though the gun had not fired, it was still warm through the soles of Zuko’s boots, and he held his arms out to stabilise himself on the unsteady platform. He looked up, trying not to think of the drop or vengeful princess below him. His eyes came to rest on the walls, still some way away – if he could just get the Titan to walk a little closer…

Had he not been a hardened warrior of lost Olympia, Zuko would have yelped as he danced from foot to foot like some deranged steel monkey to avoid the blasts landing at his feet. He managed to draw a bolt pistol, hastily aiming it and sending a few worthless rounds into the sky. Predictably, they missed, Luna evading his wild shots with consummate ease. A beam landed a glancing blow on his bionic hand, knocking the pistol clear; he grunted, rubbing it as he looked at her. The pony hovered a few feet away, furious eyes locked on the Iron Warrior. No words needed to be spoken; there were none that would have mattered, anyway. She dipped her head, horn charging to power another blast that would finish him for good.

Whether by luck or judgement, it was the Titan that saved him. It jerked round to one side, Inferno Cannon swinging through the air with such speed that Zuko lost his balance. She couldn’t adjust her aim in time to account for the slide that sent him tumbling towards the side of the gun. Instinctively, he stuck out an arm, wincing as he managed to grasp one of the weapon’s exhaust ports and hold on whilst his shoulder was practically yanked straight from its socket. Luna had already taken off again, returning to engage the Titan in mid-air. Storm clouds and winds buffeted the side of it along with the magic, but the two were locked at a deadly impasse; neither was able to land a convincing, telling blow on the other. As he hung over the side, trying with all his might not to let go and tumble to his death, Zuko dispassionately wondered why Luna didn’t just use the near-divine power he suspected her kind possessed….then again, whilst moving the moon was impressive, the Princesses had only rarely demonstrated any real power – and he knew that they could die. It probably didn’t, the Iron Warrior considered, take much to rule over the ponies. It was a simplicity he found, even now, he envied.

Eventually, and though it did his arm no good, he managed to pull himself up. Forcing his shoulder back into place for the time being, and letting his body cope with the pain, Zuko took a glance over the edge. The fight had been going for almost twenty minutes without pause now, and she was clearly tiring. Folding her wings in, the Princess came to land on the ground before the Titan. Beneath a mass of ruffled hair and a wonky crown, she stared up defiantly.

The Nox was little more than a beast, a hungry and slavering thing that cared for little more than its next kill. But Zuko was a man, albeit a mutilated and corrupted husk of one, and he was able to view things with a more cautious eye. Therefore, it didn’t take him more than a few seconds to realise the trap.

“No, no, you silly bitch…” He hissed, though even he wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to the Titan or the Pony. The Warhound didn’t heed his words, aiming its Plasma Blastgun square at her. Still, she did not falter. Once again blue coils of energy lit up along the gun, the air beginning to crackle with the charge of plasma running through the Titan’s veins. Zuko barely felt it. He was already running.

At the last moment after it fired, Luna sprang into action, forcing her wings to carry her straight upwards. The torrent of fire missed her by a hair’s breath, but it did something. The parts of the bridge that weren’t atomised began to crumble; only slowly at first, but then with greater and greater chunks falling away. The damage compromised the entire structure, the walkway evaporating under the force of the blast – with the Titan still on it.

It seemed to finally realise it had been played, making a last-ditch sprint for the great gatehouse. Zuko ran with it, the tip of the Inferno Cannon the only point of the universe he cared about for that moment. The walker was not fast enough; like some bloated ballerina, it pitched, finding no purchase for its feet to stand on. An almost sentient shriek leaving its horns, the Titan began to fall.

But it had crossed the distance. Reaching the edge of the gun just in time, Zuko jumped, squeezing every last bit of strength out of his bionic legs as he could. Without them, he would not have made it, and as he sailed through the air the Iron Warrior paid a quiet moment of thanks to the fallen Nu’val. Even so, it was a close thing. His gauntlets just about managed to land atop the ramparts, scrabbling desperately for any kind of handhold. He eventually found one in the form of a chipped lump of stone, hands wrapping around it for all he was worth. The Iron Warrior hung limp for a moment facing the white wall before heaving with all he was worth, managing to get himself to relative safety on his final attempt. Every muscle in his body screaming, and the bones feeling like they were about to turn to dust, Zuko finally allowed himself to collapse to his knees, panting like a dog. He screamed a growling, incoherent shout, if only to work off some of the adrenaline. When he had just about calmed down, he turned back – though did not yet stand – to see what had befallen the Titan.

It didn’t take much deduction to figure it out. Luna had tricked it into blowing the bridge, but she was tired, and hadn’t reckoned on its size. She’d been unable to fly fast enough to evade it, ending up caught by the Warhound’s raw bulk. Denied the ability to free herself, Luna was bound to her fate as much as the beast she’d slain was. The last sight Zuko had of her and the Lupus Nox were of the pair plunging into the abyss below.

He forced the image from his mind, rising to his full on shaking knees. Part of him wanted to simply lie back down and expire on the spot. It was only his Legion’s creed that kept him going; Iron Within, Iron Without. Kill Mordecai. Kill the one responsible for all of this. Then, and only then, would Zuko allow himself permission to die.

Taking only a few moments for rest, Zuko set off towards the castle.

The staccato, punching bark of his assault cannon slowly cycled down to nothing as the barrels smoked and steamed. Vortun’s constantly fluid face twisted in an ugly sneer as he admired his handiwork, cannon morphing back into a grossly oversized power fist. The few pony bodies that he’d torn apart with his weapon lay in broken heaps before him, the remains almost indistinguishable with the damage wrought upon them.

There was, in truth, not much more to kill. They had been exceedingly thorough thus far, the Iron Warriors making a point to scour every centimetre of the township for Xenos life. He wasn’t sure exactly where his brothers had gone, but the Obliterator had found himself so caught up in the orgy of violence that he no longer cared. Without thinking, his right hand convulsed and reshaped itself into the form of a baroque heavy flamer. Polluted flame shot from the nozzle of the gun and doused the ground in thick streams of burning promethium, soon spreading to lick up the side of the few timber buildings that remained. He swung the gun around with wild abandon, shivering in ecstatic delight at the feel of burning oil course through what had once been his veins. Losing himself to the moment, Vortun threw back his head, cackling manically.

He stomped forward, taking little time to observe the damage his array of weaponry caused as he discharged it without thought or heed. The process of destruction itself was enough to satisfy and sustain him, driving the corpulent warrior on to his next atrocity. He passed by the wreckage of the town hall, the rotund structure knocked almost flat by its collision with one of the Heldrakes. It was only a little further on before he reached another graveyard. Here, however, the situation was sufficiently odd to cause the Obliterator to pause, his brow furrowing.

The bodies of the seven or so Iron Warriors lay strewn out before him, crumpled where they had been slain. It didn’t take more than a passing glance for Vortun to reach his conclusion; these Marines had not been killed by magic or spears, but instead with weaponry that only they themselves would use. He knew the distinct mark of plasma weapon wounds by now well enough. Coming closer, another stark factor made itself apparent. Though their bolters remained, most of his brothers’ side-arms and grenades were missing. Even considering his daemonically-powered form, the scene still sent a wave of unease rippling through the Obliterator. From the corner of his eye, Vortun was just about able to make out the mashed remains of his kin. When the first Obliterator had been slain, the sense of loss was palpable. The fact that he could probably guess exactly what had laid this one low only further increased his paranoia.

Amazingly, he managed to set it aside, reasoning that the vengeful spectre of his dead brother – for what else could have been the cause? – was not here right now. It was not long before Vortun returned to his rampage, murderous intent now laced with slight amusement at Rorke’s failure. He found himself drawn to the remnants of the bakery before too long, though most of the top had already been torn away. He shouldered his way through the rubble with little effort or thought, colossal boots shattering the wooden beams that had fallen to the floor beneath him. Taking only a moment to inspect the place, Vortun let rip with the multi-melta now sprouting from his arm. Streams of super-heated microwave energy burst from his arms, punching holes clean through the thin walls.

Let it burn. Let it all burn. Months of waiting and preparation and playing nice had led to this, and Vortun’s demented fury had nowhere else to go. The violence was far-reaching and total. Let the pony-things try to run; the IV Legion was unleashed, and there was nowhere in this galaxy that they could now hide.

He tried to get a grip on her horn, seeking any purchase he could to rip and tear at Twilight’s flesh. She was determined, even in her state, not to give him one. Twilight pulled herself back, sending a beam of coruscating energy into Rorke’s chest. The magic struck him hard, flames licking across the front of his blood-drenched chest plate, but the crazed Space Marine barely seemed to notice it as he tried to rip her limb from limb.

In truth, the unicorn had very little control of her actions remaining. Like a marionette on a string, her body was pulled back and forth, and in the back of her mind – what rational parts of it remained – the girl could feel the pull of some insane puppeteer on her limbs as she performed spins and strikes that were no longer her own.

She lashed out with the staff, striking a convincing blow across Rorke’s face that sent his head snapping to the side. It was okay, she thought to herself as she levitated above the ground. She could handle it. She was having to use a lot of power, true, but nothing Twilight couldn’t control. She…she could stop any time she wanted. This was for her friends. She could kill this guy, and go and help her friends…and…and everything would be back the way it was.

Rorke came at her again, the Iron Warrior howling like a rabid animal as something that was half a punch, and half a frenzied attempt to claw Twilight’s face sailed through the air. He moved with lightning speed, already-formidable muscles forced even further over their natural limits by whatever was empowering him. Even so, Twilight found she could move out the way with ease, sending another blast of magic into his face. Through the storm of voices, most of them unpleasant, that ran rampant through her head, it was almost as if something was whispering secrets directly into her head; allowing her to see where the blows would fall moments before they did so and react accordingly. The prognostication, however limited, was intoxicating to Twilight. She darted around him, letting the magic almost overtake her as she struck out with waves of pure sorcery.

It took her a while to realise it herself, but even with her eyes glowing an incandescent white, Twilight realised that she was crying. The tears trickled down her cheeks, glistening as they sparkled in the light generated by her spells. They did not drive her to sob, or break down, but still Twilight found she was painfully aware of every one. Why was she crying? She was winning! That’s what her friends would want…she was gonna save them…she had the power to do it, she could save every pony…

The world’s eyes were on her. Again, Twilight didn’t know how she knew that, but the roiling skies above her flashed with eager lightning as something peered down at the two duelling creatures. Despite her single-minded focus, she was unable to ignore the feeling of what she could only describe as talons tracing gently down her spine, sending a shiver through the unicorn’s body. Every nerve ending felt like it was ablaze, sending fire coursing through Twilight’s system. It wasn’t like an ordinary fire that merely scorched and burnt. This felt dirty, a filthy rock settling in her gut and slowly pushing its way to all her extremities. It tightened around her heart and brain, almost causing her vision to disappear before her as it began to constrict her brain. Twilight bit her lower lip so hard it drew blood, stumbling back as Rorke used her momentary weakness to press the attack and bear down on top of her. A couple of magical blasts were enough to free herself, but the pressure closing in on her brain remained. What sounded scarily like the cackle and cawing of ravens circling around her, each and every sound only making the feeling welling up inside her even more intense. Magic was leaking freely from her horn now, and Twilight found that she had no hope of even trying to control it, her breaths short, sharp and ragged.

They broke apart, sliding backwards to face one another; Twilight still hovering, Rorke hunched over on all fours in a bestial stoop. She gasped, the hoof carrying the heavy staff trembling in exhaustion. The noises and the flame inside her were deafening now, but Twilight gritted her teeth and fought to marshal it. Raising her head slowly, she was able to muster enough self-control to look Rorke straight in the eye.

Twilight had expected many things; directionless hatred, animalistic atavistic fury, the soulless glare of a broken madman. What she hadn’t expected was what she got. What remained of the Iron Warrior crouched utterly still, for once devoid of any twitches and convulsions. It was the eyes, however, that were the worst thing. Of the berserk, unpredictable creature she knew Rorke to be, nothing remained there. Instead, something else – an ancient, hungry intelligence – stared back out. It was at that moment, seconds before she herself was overwhelmed, that the glow from Twilight’s eyes dissipated and she realised she had never once been in control of the power she’d borrowed.

Hope, girl. That’s the most potent drug of all.

She screamed as the light slammed down from the heavens and enveloped her, finally crying in earnest; partly in agony, and part as she realised how far she’d sank. The full knowledge of what had befallen her friends sank its mocking claws into her mind, but the lilac unicorn barely had the capacity to process this information as the fires of change raged around her. Her shoulders burned, something pulsating and growing beneath the skin; without warning two colossal, feathered pinions tore their way out of her back in a shower of blood and torn flesh. She screamed again, almost blacking out from the pain brought on by the invasive growth, but worse was yet to come. Her body roiled and churned as she dropped the staff, doubling over and clutching at her stomach. Across from her, Rorke was similarly affected. He had dropped to his knees, shaking more violently than ever before; almost as if bolt after bolt of lightning was being shot into his nervous system. He held his arms out to either side, palms up and head back, as if he was beseeching the skies for something. Even more horrifically, he was answered. His armour was already covered in blood, but now it poured in rivers from his mouth, his ears, his nostrils, even his eyes. Two protruding bone horns sprouted out from his temples, and between them, a burning, skull-like mark began to emblazon itself. Twilight had only moments to take this in, the pain of the loss of her friends and what was happening to her almost too much to bear.

“I…I-I’m sorry…” the whispered words were not directed to anypony in particular. Somehow, it made them hurt all the more.

The transformation hit them simultaneously, bodies managing to both crumple and expand as the stuff of raw Chaos poured into them. Claws, talons, red scales, and beaks to name but a few features warped and formed as the mortal frames of pony and Space Marine were consumed. The masses of flesh continued to grow and expand, changing from coherent outline to eldritch blob and back again in seconds. The price on their souls turned out to be just as high.

Before they were dragged into the dark places of the warp to feed the hunger of thirsting Gods, the last thing the spirits of Twilight and Rorke saw were the Daemons of Khorne and Tzeentch leap out of what had once been their bodies and begin to clash.

The city was a maze, a fact not helped by the devastation wrought upon it. Everywhere Zuko turned he was met with collapsing, burning buildings and screaming Ponyfolk. The sheer level of their panic had at first been both confusing and irritating, until he had taken a moment to really observe the surroundings. Though, as far as he could tell, the planet still remained more or less within its own reality for now, the scale of violence unleashed by the Chaos Marines had not gone unnoticed. Like moths to a bright flame, or perhaps more appropriately sharks upon catching the scent of blood, the Daemons had started to tear their way into real space. They materialised in small, roving packs, as opposed to a mass incursion, but even those numbers were more than sufficient. He slew any that tried to impede his path, though with the Neverborn such a feat was easier said than done. For their part, however, the Daemons seemed to more-or-less ignore the Iron Warrior; a short distance to his left, a giggling mob of Daemonettes whooped and flipped their way into a frightened mass of ponies. Sharp, crab-like talons slashed out, snipping to sever limbs and heads whilst the Daemons tossed them to one another like they were toy balls.

He didn’t have the time, the strength, or – truth be told – the inclination to stop and try to offer some assistance. His brothers and the absolution he hoped they would provide waited within the castle, he guessed, and so that’s where Zuko headed. Eventually, with more than a degree of trial and error, Zuko managed to find his way to an entrance that he could readily access, the door already pulled near off its hinges by what he assumed was the witch’s psychic power. The Daemonic intruders kept snapping at his heels, scavengers staying just out of sight, if not out of mind, as they pursued a predator in search of a bigger meal. The interior was little better than the city itself, though no-where near as confusing as the Crystal castle had been, and he passed through quite a few hallways, grand chambers, pantries and other stately rooms at breakneck speed before the sergeant felt like he knew where he was going. The Daemons had dispersed swiftly after following him in, rabid instincts focusing more on their own hunting than tormenting the Astartes anymore. That was, Zuko guessed, what accounted for the lack of Guards. Brave and loyal though they may have been, a fight against any of the Neverborn could only go one way for them.

Tapestries were aflame and burning, as were many of the carpets; the aftermath of the plasma blast that had been used to penetrate the cities’ shield. It made the already tricky process of navigation even more of a challenge, the Iron Warrior racing against time to find his way. He didn’t know how far ahead his brothers had got, or even if they were still here, but one way or another the general sense of the world ending around him was enough to spur the Space Marine on. His foot smashed through doors, bearded face twisting in a frustrated snarl at dead end after dead end. Glass and stone was shattering and tumbling as tainted winds buffeted the towering castle, drying to drag it down. If nothing else, he had to keep climbing.

Eventually, he began making noticeable progress. Gritting his teeth and with his Legion’s creed hammering through his mind, Zuko kept running as he emerged from a side-door, aiming for the grand staircase to his left. The room rumbled, what remained of the gilded chandelier above his head shaking and jangling with each reverberation. The Space Marine took the steps two at a time, bounding up as if he had springs in his heels. His impressive pace lasted until he got to the top of the stairs.

Ice-blue magic struck his pauldron, spinning the Iron Warrior round and driving him to his knees. With a pained cough, Zuko managed to stand and face his aggressor. The ponies’ white fur was matted with blood, his shield-emblazoned chest plate chipped and cracked. Not all the blood was his own, Zuko realised; impressively, the pony had actually managed to take down at least one of the Daemonic creatures. Any latent admiration that may have generated was swiftly snuffed out by the look of exhausted fury in the creature’s eyes.

“Oh, blood of the Primarch.” The Iron Warrior snapped, rolling his eyes. “I do NOT have time for this right now!” Shining Armour glared back, snarling wordlessly as he launched another volley of magical blasts. Zuko managed to avoid or, at worst, shrug them off, drawing a bolt pistol - his last one that still had ammo – and returning fire in due course. Shining managed to leap aside from the bullets with surprising athleticism, or deflecting those that didn’t explode on empty stone wall with what remained of his magical shield.

“This is your fault!” He shouted, landing on his feet and panting. Zuko’s gun chose that moment to run dry, eliciting another growl from the Iron Warrior. “Are you happy now?” Shining went on. “Do you all feel like tough guys?”

“Listen, part of me wishes I’d just let you kill me when we duelled the first time we got here,” Zuko began, seeing no harm in lying. “And…no.” He looked down, shaking his head. “No…I don’t…that’s the point of all this. I have to…I’m not even sure what this is all about any more, but I have to get up there!” His head rose, pointing upwards. The honesty of his statement seemed to catch Shining off guard. The Guard Captain raised a bemused eyebrow, mouth hanging loose. Eventually, recognition did seem to kick in, his eyes narrowing.

“It…it is you…” He nodded, baring his teeth. “When you all broke out and got us into this mess…t-then let’s finish this. You, me, one on o-“

“Not a Champion of Chaos anymore.” Zuko said, holding up a hand to stop him. “At least that’s one advantage to this whole thing.” Again, Shining was stumped, but his expression once again became hostile.

“And my sister?” he snapped, clearly close to breaking point. “What about Twily? What have you done to her?” Normally, the Iron Warrior would have felt nothing at such an accusation, but the concern for a sibling couldn’t help but stir the little fragments of humanity that still remained at the back of Zuko’s mind.

“She was already gone…though if nothing else, I expect she’s going to take one of the biggest monsters I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing down with her.” He explained. For a moment, the grief seemed to overwhelm Shining, tears leaking out as his face cracked. The expression was soon quashed, anger taking his place.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Zuko asked, confusion of his own setting in. “You’re her praetorian, shouldn’t you be with your Princess?” Again, he question seemed to surprise Shining. Where grief had existed moments before, now there was a flash of unease.

“She…told me to man the defences…” He confessed. “While she stayed in the main chamber.”

“Playing the hero.” Zuko muttered. He looked at Shining, trying his best to project some form of solidarity. “Listen…you have no reason to trust me, but this fight won’t serve either of us. Our deaths don’t matter; all that matters is I go, and I kill the bastard responsible for all of this. That is what I care about, and that is what I am going to do…but haven’t we already proven our points to one another by now?”

Shining’s response was cut short by the sound of claws raking and scratching at the door across the room, at the bottom of the stairs. They both turned to face it, instinctively dropping into a battle stance.

“Go.” The pony said, not looking away. His words were unforeseen enough to cause Zuko to look down at him. “I said go!” Shining snapped, putting on his most authoritative voice. “If you’re really gonna go and make this right, then you’d best hurry…they must be nearly there by now.” He sighed, tensing as the scratching became more frenzied. “And…avenge my sister…she didn’t deserve any of this. None of us did.” His voice grew stony, but Zuko took him at his word, nodding and turning to leave. “Oh, and one more thing.” The Guard Captain said, stopping the Iron Warrior in his tracks. He paused a moment. “I hope you all rot in Tartarus.”

Zuko too took his time to reply. “If we’re lucky.”

He left quickly, the sound of his boots on the stone floor eventually drifting away to be out of earshot. Shining almost felt a pang of regret as he left; Zuko had sounded sincere enough, but this entire day was testament to how easily they had been fooled. But…but if he was…then maybe Twilight, Cadence, and all the rest that had died pointlessly could find some peace.

As the door finally burst open and the marauding pack of Flesh Hounds charged towards him, Captain Shining Armour prepared to sell his life dearly.

She had not been looking at anything in particular when they arrived. Even if there was something out there that Celestia was searching for, it would have been gone by now. As far as she could see was ruination. Smoke rose from what must have been the wreckage of Ponyville by now, a sad ominous blot on the horizon. In truth, it was hard to make out where the burning of the surrounding land ended and that from Canterlot began. The sound of shattering buildings, not to mention the screams of her subjects rose into the air. Every one of them tugged on her heartstrings and brought her to the edge of melancholy. At least when the Changeling’s had attacked, she could use her genuine surprise as a reason for not intervening. Now, the Princess had no such excuse, bar the simple knowledge that she couldn’t help.

She’d felt Twilight be overtaken by whatever foul things the Space Marines had called forth. She didn’t know what was worse; the fact that her faithful student was gone and there was nothing she could have done, or the terrible suspicion that Twilight had brought this fate upon herself. She’d felt the loss of Luna, too. That one was even harder to take, after being reunited after so long comparatively recently, and it was taking all of Celestia’s self-control not to hurl herself from the windows. The fact that her sister had managed to fell the monstrous war machine that had annihilated Shining Armour’s shield only made her feel even prouder, and the sense of loss that much more acute.

Celestia’s reverie was broken by the sound of the throne room’s great doors being slammed open. She turned her neck, though didn’t actually move, to look towards the intrusion. The two figures stood stock-still in the doorway, one leaning on his axe, the other with a hand on the pommel of his sword and looking around imperiously. She kept her face impassive, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of her fury, and did not speak. That seemed to suite the Iron Warriors just fine; after a few moments of silent holding one another’s glares, they began to walk towards her. The rhythmic tap of the axe-shaft on the ground reminded her of the Grand Galloping Gala, the last time she’d seen the Warsmith; despite the awkwardness, at least that had been a happy night.

“I should have executed you as I intended when you arrived.” She said, keeping her voice monotone and firm. “Perhaps then we would have avoided all this last-minute stuff.”

“We are last minute stuff.” Mordecai said politely, keeping a few steps behind his captain as they advanced. Lorkhan said nothing, red eyes locked with Celestia’s purple orbs. In short order, he had reached her, staring down at the Princess. She tried her best to remain defiant, knees refusing to quiver. Surprisingly, he did not kill her. Instead, the Warsmith turned, looking out the window she had a few moments ago. She joined him, pony and Space Marine standing together in silence as they watched the world tear itself apart.

“Well?” He asked. Something in his tone, beneath the growling and the bluntness, that Celestia could not pinpoint spoke out to her, enough to convince her to turn to him with brow furrowed. “You’re their God.” Lorkhan said, voice unchanged as he continued to stare out the window. “Aren’t you going to…drop the sun on us or something? Run us through with solar rays?”

In spite of everything, Celestia actually laughed, though it was without mirth. “And what would be the point?” She countered. “I’ll give you this much, it was a brutally efficient plan…and my hesitation only helped you.” She sighed. “You’ve already won…congratulations, Lorkhan.” Again, he was silent.

“You know…you remind me of a man called Rogal Dorn…an Imperial Fist.” He admitted, looking down at her at last. “And I hate Imperial Fists.” The truth of his words were self-evident, but still there was a hint of something Celestia could not place in his words. At his shoulder, Mordecai waited, doing his best to pretend to look around innocently

“Stop it.” It was him that spoke again. She was still looking at him, as he folded his arms, looking away as she raised an eyebrow. “I said stop.” He repeated. “Stop judging me. We all knew this would happen, and it was only ever a matter of time.” If she didn’t know better, she would have said there was almost a hint of desperation in his words, a desire to prove it as much to himself as to her. Lorkhan had always been a figure of mystery and yes, fear, to the Princess. Yet, not even when he spoke of his father had he seemed quite so maudlin.

“You want me not to judge you?” She said, shaking her head. “Please, you’re slow, but you’re not stupid Lorkhan – and neither am I.” She grimaced, something in his almost child-like indignation threatening to awake her maternal instincts. “We both know exactly what we think of the other.” It wasn’t the answer he’d wanted to hear, although she couldn’t think of what that could possibly be.

“By what right does Gold judge Silver?” His voice was a growl again, hand tightening on the hilt of his axe. “I did what I did for my Legion, and my brothers. Everything you would have done if you were in my place.”

“No.” She said, quietly. “Not everything.” The two leaders lapsed once more into an awkward silence, the usual dry and piercing remarks of the Space Marines absent. Even the sorcerer stood behind them remained quiet. Eventually, Lorkhan spoke. As he did so, Celestia finally realised what the emotion in his voice was. It was weariness.

“Then we are at an impasse.” He pronounced. They were the words she’d been waiting for him to say the moment he’d entered. She sighed, running her tongue through her cheek and forcing her beating heart to still.

“No, Lorkhan.” The Princess argued. “We are at an end.” Her words lay heavy in the room’s air, even Mordecai tensing slightly. She finally turned to face him proper, eyes still focused and resolute. He grunted, any further words rendered obsolete. The Warsmith rotated to stand square before her, both hands on the axe as he raised it up. It hovered there, for a moment; she thought he would say something, but the Iron Warrior remained quiet, all emotion locked behind his helmet. She felt that, at the last, perhaps she should say something, but the words would not come. She could not even guarantee that the Warsmith was listening.

“Wherever he is, Lorkhan,” Celestia said at last, closing her eyes. “I hope your Father is proud.”

He hesitated a moment longer, before the axe fell.

The decapitated body remained standing for a moment longer before slumping at his feet, red coppery lifeblood flowing freely from the neck. It flowed across the floor like a trickling stream, pooling at the lord of the Iron Warrior’s feet. He remained still, axe held level. The drip, drip, drip of the blood on its blade dropping onto the floor was like a hammer to the silence.

“An excellent stroke, my Lord.” Mordecai said, sounding nothing but genuine. Lorkhan didn’t look at him – he didn’t seem to be looking at anything.

“Shut up.” He snapped, casting his brother a sidelong glance with burning red eyes. The anger seemed to leave him in a sigh, shoulders falling slightly. When he next spoke, the words that followed were devoid of much of the wrath. “That…did not feel as good as I expected it to.”

Their attention was swiftly drawn back to the body as light began to envelop it. The glow was soft, disguising the chalk-white fur and bloody mess as it spread across the corpse. They both stepped back, watching intently. Neither could place exactly what it was, but given what they had observed and hypothesised of Celestia’s powers, it was hardly surprising.

“Can you work with it?” Lorkhan asked. Mordecai nodded, his body language betraying the concealed smile.

“I can certainly give it a jolly good go, my lord.” He agreed, rubbing his hands together as he stepped forward. Lorkhan left him to it, knowing better than to try and interrupt when Mordecai was muttering his incantations and playing with fire. In any case, he didn’t feel much like talking. He was walking to the window as the sorcerer worked his magic, reforming the light into the shape of some kind of doorway. Lorkhan didn’t like to admit it, but right now he was operating on guesswork and Mordecai’s assurances alone – it was he that had claimed that utilising the full extent of magical power Celestia had inside her, in conjunction with the rapidly-spreading Warp breach, might be enough to open a portal and get them ‘home’...or at least, out of Equestria. It sounded almost too good to be true, but sure enough, the whiteness began to coalesce into a portal-like shape. It didn’t stop at the height of a man, or even a Space Marine; Mordecai kept going, expanding it with whispered invocations to his Gods. Soon enough, it was getting big enough for several Astartes to walk through abreast. What was he trying to get through there? An army?

The sun had gone dark, even behind the tortured sky. It didn’t help Lorkhan’s mood as he stared out the window, though rationally he convinced himself he was glad. Celestia was right. They had won. He had won…never mind that it felt so hollow. It was for those reasons, and more besides, that he almost missed the noise of power armoured boots striking the stones.

“You made it, then.”

Zuko had to fight to stop himself skidding as he came to a halt in the doorway. The abrupt end to the clattering of his feet on stone that had rang in his ears since he’d entered the castle was deafening, though the fatigued buzzing in his head brought on by exhaustion did help take some of the edge off it. For all the Iron Warrior knew, his lungs were no more than shrivelled husks within the cavity of his chest, and even with all his gene-wrought strength Zuko’s vision swam before him. He could barely make out Lorkhan as the Warsmith issued his statement, and so elected to say nothing, wheezing heavily, and hardening his expression in an attempt just to stay on his feet.

“You’ve lost the helmet.” Lorkhan nodded, folding his arms across his chest. The statement was painful in its obviousness, but even in his addled state Zuko could detect a hint of distraction in the other Iron Warrior’s voice. “Not surprised, it was probably getting stuffy in there.” It wasn’t framed as a joke, but even if it had been the humour was swiftly lost as the Warsmith finally noticed the wound punched through his brother’s chest. “Bloody hell…what happened to you?”

“Yes, I would quite like to know the answer to that as well.” The voice caused Zuko’s ears to prick up, gritted teeth contorting into a snarl as the Psyker stepped forth. Mordecai’s voice, usually so measured and friendly, had taken on a distinctly sharp edge. Ignoring the look Lorkhan cast him, he stepped forward, helmeted head cocked to the side. “For saying the request I relayed to our favourite little attack dog was remarkably straight-forward, one does have to wonder how you maintain such resilience?”

The sergeant did not respond immediately, the smouldering fury in his eyes that was directed straight for the Psyker being words enough. When he did speak, it was in his standard, deadpan tone.

“Friendship is magic.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on any of them, though Mordecai was the only one who let his head roll back and laughed. “Well said.” He chuckled, nodding. “Still, that does leave you and I in a rather…awkward…position.”

“Oh, what did I say!” Lorkhan snapped, throwing a hand up in frustration before pointing at the sorcerer. “I knew it! I knew you were up to som-“

“Yes yes, an Iron Warrior was up to something.” Zuko knew Mordecai must have been rolling his eyes as he held up a hand to quiet Lorkhan. “I was the true villain, the scheming vizier was the man behind the man, etcetera etcetera. What an unexpected plot twist. How very truly droll.” He looked at Zuko again, head tilting the other way as if he were examining some choice cut of meat. “Don’t get me wrong, your tenacity is a credit to us all, but you really have picked an appalling time to rediscover your moral compass.”

He had known Mordecai since first being assigned to the Thirteenth Company, and the temptation to throw himself at the sorcerer and rip his head off had never been stronger for Zuko. He managed to resist it, though that in itself was a challenge. He exhaled, shackling his temper, glaring at the wizard.

“It’s amazing what you can pick up on the vox, Mordecai.” Was what he did say, choosing not to rise to the bait. “What did she look like? Rarity, the one creature here who actually liked you.” His eyes narrowed even further. “Before you ritually murdered her for no discernable reason.”

“Probably the same as her sister when you brought her world crashing down around her.” He retorted. Zuko flinched as if struck. “Apologies.” Mordecai said, the sincerity in his voice making the sergeant’s skin crawl. “That was childish of me, brother. I had no intention of burdening you with that particular betrayal.”

“Forgive me for breaking up this little meeting.” Lorkhan hissed, stepping forward. “But the point remains, you’ve still crossed a line, witch.” Despite his dislike for Mordecai, it was rare for Lorkhan to call him ‘witch’, and it suggested only one thing. Zuko’s brow furrowed in confusion as he shifted his gaze to the Warsmith.

“You…didn’t know…” He said, slowly. The Warsmith looked at him, the grin of the skull half of his helmet utterly at odds with the tension in the room.

“Of course I didn’t bloody know.” His voice was low and threatening. Mordecai was unfazed, stepping back as he reached into the pouches at his belt.

“You wound me, my brothers. I have done nothing to deserve this antagonism, bar acting in the manner befitting our status as rightful inheritors of the Galaxy. Really, you should be thanking me. By my efforts, the Gods themselves know of our deeds here.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” Zuko growled, still rooted to the spot. Mordecai chuckled again, although his irritation remained just under the surface, as he produced a small flat device from his belt.

“It was not so very long ago you both were content to serve in much the same capacity, willingly or not.” He pointed out. “I must say, the lack of stomach you both seem to have developed is rather jarring. You need only look at what we have accomplished here!” He clicked his thumb on the side of the machine, light spluttering up from it. Zuko wasn’t sure where the holographic projector was drawing its feed from – servo skulls the Psyker had released, perhaps - but sure enough the blue image crackled into 3-D life. The dilapidated, broken ruins of Ponyville appeared, drawing all their eyes with unerring focus. He clicked again, the image this time shifting to the remnants of Sweet Apple Acres. Although he couldn’t see it, Zuko knew the Crusader’s clubhouse lay in the trees not far off. The angry knife twisted further in his gut as he realised that it too was probably little more than burnt timber. The Psyker clicked again, this time the picture actually shifting to something living. If Lorkhan had before been hunched and brooding, now he stood straight as an arrow.

“She wasn’t part of the deal.” In all the years Zuko had known him. He’d never heard more emotion in the Warsmith’s voice, which came dangerously close to cracking. Mordecai nodded, still keeping the image of Fluttershy trying desperately to hide with what looked like a mangled leg on the projector.

“No.” He agreed. “She was not, and I truly am sorry. The poor little wretch has done nothing to deserve this, bar inhabit the home we built for her. Yet, needs must.” There was an unmistakeable sense that he was enjoying this a little. “Although I must say, Lorkhan, many of our brothers in the fourth legion would disapprove to see the regard you hold for this…Xenos.” Lorkhan was silent, still staring at the trembling pony projected before them. Zuko watched him, but had no idea what thoughts were going through his head.

“You must have known…” He said at last, clearly struggling to keep his emotions in check. “That I would not permit you to do this.” The grip on his axe tightened, yet still Mordecai showed no sign of distress.

“Alas, we appear to have reached rather the same conclusion, my lord.” His voice was heavy in regret. “Though in sight of all we have accomplished together, this all feels so decidedly…uncouth.”

He moved like lightning, free hand drawing the sword at his side and whipping it round, before stabbing forth like a rapier. The Warsmith was an experienced warrior and clad in thick plate, but none of that stopped the glowing, runic blade punching straight through his chest. The sound of Lorkhan gagging as blood welled up in his throat rang in Zuko’s ears as he stepped forward, raising an arm out as if that could stop anything. Withdrawing the blade, Mordecai inclined his head slightly, a blast of telekinetic energy pushing the limp Warsmith across the floor and slamming into the wall. He crumpled, Mechatendrils slack and lifeless. Mordecai regarded the body almost piteously for a moment, before chucking over the projection of Fluttershy to skid and rest by his side.

“An unfortunately necessary sacrifice.” He sighed, returning his attention to Zuko. “You mustn’t feel guilty, brother. I confess, such an eventuality did seem to be likely whether you arrived or not. Our lord, despite all his virtues, would never have understood the purpose of this.” He gestured behind him to the glowing white portal. “If I am disgruntled at anything, it is the fact that your presence has distracted me. This still requires the finishing touches.”

Zuko looked at it, though the image of Lorkhan’s murder was still burnt into his mind. He’d always imagined Lorkhan would fall in stupid single combat with something they couldn’t run away from fast enough. To see him struck down like that felt…dirty in its wrongness. “I’m guessing…” he said, face level. “That that isn’t designed to get us back to Medrengard safe and sound.”

“Very astute.” Mordecai complimented. “Though as of now, I suspect it fulfils that function, or near enough. When it is done, however, a fully stable Warp portal shall be opened within the walls of this very castle. The Legions of the Powers shall enter this world proper, and the Iron Warriors shall add more lands to our domain. We shall spread at the head of our Daemonic hosts, subjugating the other worlds sure to be found in this galaxy. Once again, the IV Legion shall be strong, taking its proper station at the feet of the Pantheon.”

All of that sounded decidedly unappealing. “You are insane.” Zuko said, conviction carried effortlessly in his words. There was no chuckle this time, but Mordecai was clearly amused.

“Look around you, brother. Look at the armour we wear.” He spread his arms wide, as if trying to take all of Equestria in their grasp. “We’re all mad here.”

There was little more to be said, and more to the point, Zuko didn’t doubt that Mordecai was fully capable of carrying out his plan. They were brothers of blood, but any common cause was irrevocably sundered. It was time to do what he’d come here for.

“You.” Zuko’s words were stone cold. “Me. Let’s finish this. No weapons. No magic. No bullshit.” Mordecai watched him for a moment, as if trying to discern whether the other Olympian was serious, before removing his helmet and sword, setting them on the ground with a brisk “Very well.” Zuko followed suite, unclipping his bandoliers of guns and knives and dropping them from his shoulders. They faced one another, Mordecai’s fists raised like a formal boxer, Zuko more akin to a brawler. Neither wanted to make the first move.

It was Zuko who cracked. He pushed off on his back foot, hoping to use the momentum to deliver a punishing right hook to the now-exposed face of his enemy. With little more than a contemptuous raise of the eyebrow, Mordecai blocked the blow with ease. He followed the motion into a spin – surprisingly elegant, despite his power armour – that culminated in a stinging backhand across Zuko’s face. The struck Marine stumbled, trying to regain his footing. Mordecai didn’t give him the chance, following him back and launching repeated jabs into the face. Eventually, Zuko managed to duck below one, countering with a solid uppercut beneath the chin that sent Mordecai’s head snapping back. The sergeant rose with the punch, intending to bring his other fist slamming onto the Psyker’s windpipe. He caught the blow at the last moment, giving Zuko’s arm a vicious twist. It forced the trapped Iron Warrior to his knees, then to his back as Mordecai’s foot struck up into his chest and booted him across the floor. He just managed to pull his head out the way to avoid a curb-stomp, scrambling back to his feet and launching off another barrage of punches. Their blows and parries slammed into each other’s armour, sending shockwaves of energy and the sound of ceramite on ceramite around the room. Zuko managed to launch a successful feint, ducking under a right punch and managing to come up behind the sorcerer. He moved fast, hooking his arms around Mordecai’s neck in an attempt to choke him. It was only briefly successful; as far as Zuko could tell, Mordecai was keeping to the rules and not using his powers, but he had the advantage of being in far better physical condition right now than Zuko. He reached back, flipping the sergeant over his shoulders and bringing him slamming onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. It knocked the wind clear from Zuko, bones jarring at the impact. Mordecai kept staring down at him with his hawk-like face, placing an armoured boot on his brother’s chest. The wound had long since stopped bleeding, but it was still painful to the touch.

“You drive me to agitation, brother.” Mordecai sighed, shaking his head, as if all this was somehow Zuko’s fault. He made a beckoning gesture with a finger, mentally dragging his helmet and weapon to his side. Reaching down, though still pinning Zuko in place, he replaced the vestments. “You’re all so…old fashioned. Behind the times, unwilling to move into this modern age. We all have fond memories of the Crusade; I respect that, I truly do. Yet it is an age long since passed, these ideals that you and the Warsmith clung too. The Legion needs Chaos if it is to survive, to thrive. It needs to accept the way of the universe, and our new place in its order.”

Even now, with Death reaching its cold fingers around Zuko’s one remaining heart, he found he could not pass up the opportunity to spite the posh bastard that kept him on the ground one final time. “The Legion…needs a soul…” Zuko breathed, wincing at the effort. “It needs…a purpose…to remember why we fought and died…to make things better. Because…if we let ourselves be slaves, Mordecai, whether it’s to the Emperor or your Gods…then we have to face the harshest truth of all.” He closed his eyes, and despite his situation, Zuko found he was finally at peace with the idea. “That everything the Iron Warriors have done…has been for nothing.”

The sentiment clearly wasn’t one Mordecai shared. “Though, in lighter times, I would have relished the chance to debate the issue with you, I am afraid that given the circumstances I must disavow you it far quicker brother. Perhaps it escaped your attention, but it was the Ruinous Powers that won us this victory. This is not the work of the mere subsistence pirates we had been reduced to. I respected the Warsmith as much as you, but under Lorkhan’s command, we were not a threat. And yet now, in our triumph, you-“

He stopped, frowning slightly in puzzlement. As Mordecai turned his head to the side, his expression froze. Zuko squinted as he followed his gaze, looking straight up at the dark shape that towered next to him. Blood poured down the front of Lorkhan’s armour, and his bionic arm hung loose at his side, but despite all that the burning wrath in the red eyes could not be mistaken.

”I am a threat.”

With more strength and haste than Zuko would have thought possible, Lorkhan sprinted, roaring as he grabbed Mordecai in a bear-like embrace and pulled him along. Mordecai’s movements were borderline panicked as he punched at the Warsmith, trying desperately to prise him off, but Lorkhan’s grip was vice-like and his momentum unstoppable. Pushing well through the pain barrier, Zuko forced himself to his feet, sprinting after them in one last gasp. As they just about disappeared through one of the smashed windows, Mordecai screaming as Lorkhan hurled them both over the edge, Zuko leapt with them. He slid forward on his front, arm outstretched and hand ready to grasp. Amazingly, it tightened around something.

The grip of Zuko and Lorkhan on each other’s arms was tenuous at best, the sheer weight of the Warsmith threatening to pull Zuko over the edge despite his prone posture. The fact that it was the arm that had so recently been dislocated didn’t help matters. The Warsmith hung there, dangling helplessly as he looked down.

“Don’t be a bloody idiot.” He said at last, the agony in his voice forced down under layers of iron-hard grit. “Neither of us can hold this, and we both know it.”

“This isn’t a debate, Lorkhan.” Zuko said, trying desperately to pull him up. The Warsmith hardly rose.

“Look at us, by all rights even we should be dead, and we’re bloody Astartes. Let’s assume you do somehow get me up, tearing both our insides to pieces in the process. Then what?” He looked down to the sheer slope of the castle below them. “All that’ll mean is it’ll take him a little longer to climb back up and finish us.”

Zuko followed his gaze. It was true; Mordecai had managed to smash his fingers, probably helped by his wizardry, into the stone walls – tearing out little hand holds. It was difficult to make out through the gloom and the smoke, but he was climbing slowly back up; red eyes like two small foglights focused firmly on them. “That’s just not logical.” The Warsmith concluded. “And you know how we all feel about that.”

“Lorkhan, don’t you dare.” Zuko instructed firmly. It garnered a laugh that quickly devolved into coughing.

“Don’t tell me that, as well as all your other foolishness since we arrived, you’ve actually started to develop a liking for me?”

“No.” Zuko clarified, unable to stop his grip loosening slightly. “But I really don’t want your job…and you are my brother.” They stared at one another a moment, something almost like fraternal warmth threatening to pass between them.

“I can take him.” Lorkhan growled, dispersing the feeling. “I can drop…catch him…drag him down with me. Most of the others would have jumped at the chance.” Without warning, Zuko’s grip gave way. Now the only thing that kept the Warsmith hanging there was his own hand round Zuko’s metallic arm. “Okay, that was a poor choice of metaphor.”

“Why now?” Zuko grunted, teeth bared from the effort of holding him up. “After all this…why are you choosing now to be the noble one? It doesn’t exactly fit the IV’s ethos.” Lorkhan chuckled, sighing deeply.

“Because I really fucking hate Mordecai.” He answered, simply. “And because…because damnit, you were right. We have fallen. We are scum. This, all this, everything we’ve done here…it’s nothing more than a testament to our petty, fragile egos.” A strange intensity took over his words. “I want the filth cleaned from our ranks. I want the name ‘Iron Warrior’ to mean something again. I want to go back to the way things were…when all this had a point, when we were relevant.” He looked up, eye’s locked with Zuko’s. “I’m not the man to do that. I never have been, I only got this job because you dragged me out of the wreckage of that command bridge millennia ago…which I still haven’t forgiven you for by the way. But maybe you are that man, brother. Make our Legion great again.”

He had no words. Lorkhan could not be dissuaded, and something told Zuko it would be wrong to try. His shoulder burned as it was pulled. Beneath them, Mordecai was still scaling the wall.

“Iron Within, Warsmith Lorkhan.” The sergeant was quietly pleased as he realised there was no trace of sarcasm in the words.

“Iron Without, Brother-Sergeant Zuko.” He paused a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “It’s okay…because it turns out…I don’t need a Legion, or an Emperor, or even my Primarch to tell me I’m good…” He pulled up as high as he could, casting his eyes over the lip of the window. Across the room, the hologram projector still lay there; Fluttershy’s face covered by her hooves as she trembled and whimpered. He watched it for a moment, utterly focused. “Because if that little pony liked me…then how bad can I be?”

He let go.

Zuko watched them fall, instinctively reaching his arm out after the dropping shape of the Warsmith. He was on the edge of passing out, but he felt it would be wrong not to watch this to its conclusion. Lorkhan fell, arms out to his side, like a silver leaf dropping from a tree. Mordecai’s cry of indignation could be heard as they collided and he was pulled harshly from the wall, the two falling down end-over-end until eventually they were hidden by the smoke.

Zuko remained watching a moment, replaying the image over and over. Eventually, he stood on shaking knees. Were he one of the Imperial Fists he so despised, it occurred to him, maybe he would have offered something like a respectful nod of the head. As it happens he merely watched. It would not do for an Iron Warrior to show such weakness.

Finally turning away, he limped over to where Lorkhan had been thrown into the wall and left for dead. The holographic projector was there, still focused on Fluttershy. He entertained the notion of taking it, even kneeling down beside the device. In the end, he decided against it. As he stood, however, he did recover the Warsmith’s axe. Its weight was unfamiliar and unwelcome as he rested it on a pauldron, and part of Zuko knew that he would never truly get used to it. But that was okay. It did not matter what he felt. It only mattered what others thought he felt.

The white, glowing portal still remained. He had no reason to doubt Mordecai – that, in its current state, it did function as a doorway – but Zuko remembered other things he’d been told over the years of carnage. They were unstable, unpredictable devices, and his utilising it before it was fully prepared by the sorcerer would most likely cause it to collapse – possibly with him in it. But maybe that would be no bad thing. In any case, the sound of daemonic howling that was slowly rising through the lower floors of the castle didn’t give him much of a choice.

Axe over his shoulder, knees threatening to buckle, Sergeant Zuko of the Iron Warriors left the war-wracked remnants of Equestria behind him, and stepped into the light.

Author's Note

(Yes, the IV Legion has a bad habit of stabbing people and not checking they're dead.)

I'll save the emotional speech for the epilogue, which is coming up...right now, actually. In the meantime, I've got a treat. Sorry for the bad pictures but, below you can take a look at the actual Iron Warrior's themselves. Lucky you.

http://i.imgur.com/F5L7Zrj.jpg
^Lorkhan. The big bad. The evil overlord, who in the last moments of his life, developed a spine. I still remember the first game he played (albeit with a different model) - using his AP3 weapon, the man managed to take all 4 wounds of a Terminator-armoured Wolf Lord in one turn. So began to legend of Warsmith Lorkhan, a legend that ends on the killing fields of Equestria. It's all rather fitting, really.

http://i.imgur.com/p9Szt2K.jpg
^Zuko. The straight man. The second-in-command. Ultimately, this was his story - about how a Chaos Space Marine realised he'd fucked up, with the help of little ponies. He's not good, he's hardly even nice. But he's his own man now, and that matters. Cape not included.

http://i.imgur.com/e8lmlIe.jpg
^Mordecai. The evil genius. He'll burn your house to your ground, but he'll never insult your mother. He turned out a lot more evil than I expected, but eh, he was still unfailingly polite, and he'd consider that a triumph. Sorry about the sword, Finecast strikes again.

http://i.imgur.com/UkBL0ii.jpg
^Castlemayn Rorke. The wild-card, in the armour he was wearing right at the start. Fun fact, he was actually meant to be killed off and replaced halfway through to justify my buying a sergeant that didn't suck as much in game. In the end though, the twitching bastard felt like such a part of the gang I couldn't do it, and he remained a fixture right to the end.

http://i.imgur.com/hhyUCBX.jpg
^Vortun. The big guy. The brute. He seems to have been one of the most popular characters, which is weird because he has some of the least lines. Still, who am I to deny an ensemble dark-horse. I am fond of him, and he's regularly an MVP in games, so it's hardly a bad thing.

http://i.imgur.com/JEnoASr.jpg
^Barbus. The henchman, in both his incarnation. The one on the left is when he runs with Zuko's squad, whilst the one on the right is his normal job as Aspiring Champion of my autocannon havocs. Yes, that's why he obsesses over his autocannon. No, he didn't eat Diamond Tiara's butler that time.

http://i.imgur.com/BGifXhN.jpg
^Varvillon. The horticulturist. Another breakout character, in that he was originally meant to be a one time joke about an Iron Warrior liking plants. i liked the idea enough that he recurred and got a name, eventually becoming one of the most important characters. Ironically, though fluff-wise he's in Rorke's squad, in game he tends to hang with Zuko.

http://i.imgur.com/L7KTltA.jpg
^Kravix. The...actually, who is this guy? Nothing important is what he is, although he does save Zuko from being killed by a dreadnaught at the cost of his own life, and so is arguably the most influential character. He was also the first Iron Warrior who I came up with a name for, so I can't not show him.

http://i.imgur.com/dwE1IWp.jpg
^And finally, the Growler. I didn't find out until after this had started that that was also a euphemism for a ladies' secret garden. Somehow, that only makes the fact the Iron Warriors named it funnier.

http://i.imgur.com/f3Tmi7i.jpg
Oh yes he was.

Epilogue-The universe of rust

They had left him behind.

Strangely, the notion wasn’t as bothersome to Vortun as he’d always imagined. The Obliterator stood surrounded by the wreckage of Ponyville, atop a small pile of charred timber. The fires had long since burnt out to little more than smoke on the gentle winds. Every house had been torn down and smashed, leaving the Obliterator the only living thing remaining – a true king of the shit pile. His beady, cold eyes focused intently on the city in the distance.

Canterlot looked just as bad, even to his naked gaze. Vortun could make out the smoke there as well, not to mention the damage wrought to the walls and roof of the main fortress. He still didn’t understand exactly how Varvillon had recovered that Titan, but it had paid for itself. Yet even the God-Machine was silent now. Vortun could not imagine how; surely the Xenos could not have felled the Nox? That was preposterous. And yet, there was no sign of it.

He cycled through the vox built into what remained of his armour, eyes unblinking. If anything had come over during his frenzied rampage, he hadn’t heard it, and now all that answered him for every one of his brothers was static or quiet. He went through the list once, twice, three times. Nothing. Even Mordecai was quiet, usually a blessing, and yet now Vortun found he would rather have had some form of response even if it royally pissed him off.

He was as much a creature of the warp as he was a man now, and Vortun knew he had felt something. It was impossible to tell what exactly, but the Obliterator reckoned he could make a fair guess. Part of him wanted to be angry with his brothers for their abandonment, but he found he was not. With the possible exception of their Warsmith, a strict policy of ‘anyone who falls behind is left behind’ had existed in the ranks of the Thirteenth Company when it came to particularly important extractions. If the order had come through, and he’d missed it, then that was his own damn fault.

Vortun sighed, clicking off the vox and finally averting his straight stare. He looked down at the mass he stood upon with disinterest. The more he looked, the more apparent it became that wood was far from the only thing in this heap. The damage from his weapon left them almost indistinguishable, but the mangled bodies of ponies too contributed their mass. It was a fine tally, by anyone’s standard. If he really focused, a few details could be made out; purple glasses, a red bowtie, the tattered remains of an apron.

It was neither truly day, nor truly night. Even if the sky had not been an arterial red, or filled with the half-glimpsed shapes of daemonic creatures, Vortun could not make out any trace of the sun or moon. That suggested one thing – that both of the Princesses had fallen. At least his brothers had done something right, then. He flexed a talon, power field crackling along it involuntarily. The few daemons that remained prowled around through what had once been bustling streets, knowing when to keep a respectful distance from their kinsman.

Ponyville was not the extent of this planet, it occurred to Vortun. Zuko’s little trip north had seen to that – there were other cultures and perhaps other creatures that would named this world their home. He didn’t known what the death of the sun would mean for them, nor did their chances at surviving in a world touched by Chaos look particularly high anyway, but to simply ignore them would undermine all their efforts here. More than that, he was an Obliterator; he had no need for food, or rest, or warmth. Destruction was all Vortun needed to sustain him. Let his brothers run and hide in the shadows of the Imperium; he was taking orders from them. Besides, there was a whole world still full of life to crush.

Stepping down off the mountain of broken homes, the last Iron Warrior in Equestria set off with slow, ponderous steps.

“F-Fluttershy?!”

Despite the haze of pain and emotional fatigue that had descended across her vision, Fluttershy’s eyes still snapped open at the voice. Forcing herself to ignore the agony for a moment in an impressive display of willpower, Fluttershy’s head rose from beneath the bush she had chosen to hide beneath, looking around frantically. Normally, the Everfree would have been the last place she’d choose to go, but her injury had made travelling a long distance impossible. Besides, anywhere was better than in the path of the Space Marines.

His scales were rough and stained with blood in places, not to mention the black eye that looked like it was threatening to develop, but despite all that Spike’s expression still lit up as her saw his yellow friend. He broke out in a sprint, hurtling towards her like a little purple rocket. Her joy at seeing him was such that Fluttershy tried to reciprocate and gallop out. She cried out as her broken leg took the weight, tumbling and skidding to a halt. He gasped, putting on a burst of speed to reach.

“Fluttershy, a-are you okay?” He asked, looking her up and down. “O-okay…stupid question…” He breaths were squeaking and pained as tears streamed from her eyes, and it felt for all of Equestria like Fluttershy’s head would explode from the pounding that raged through it. She lay there for a moment, willing herself not to throw up. Eventually, once an ounce of strength return to her, Fluttershy leaned up, pulling Spike into a hug. He didn’t flinch, wrapping his claws round her bruised back and patting the Pegasus gently as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

“I-it’s okay…” The baby dragon consoled, though they both knew it was a lie. “It’s okay, Fluttershy…t-they’re gone.” Her whimpering stopped for a moment as she drew back, looking at him with confused, puffy eyes. He nodded, though looked similarly distraught. “The Iron Warriors…they’re…they’re all gone.” Spike nodded, desperately trying to smile. “They all just…w-went away…” The news flooded her with relief, and she hugged him tighter, almost wanting to laugh regardless of the situation they had been forced into. The sensation quickly died away as another question wormed its way into her mind.

“W…what about our friends…” Fluttershy asked in a tiny voice. The way the dragon’s face dropped confirmed all her worst fears, and she could feel herself tear up again.

“They…it’s just us…” He stammered, looking down, though he did not release his grip on her. “The girls…everypony else…they…there’s nopony else left…” he gulped, the realisation seeming to hit him at the same time. “Rarity…I…I’ll never see her again…” he looked almost shell-shocked, claws suddenly going very clammy. She tried her best to comfort him, though in truth the fact had almost broken Fluttershy too. Spike was unresponsive for a moment, hanging in her embrace like a puppet with cut strings.

“I…I hid…” He confessed, clearly ashamed by the fact. “It wasn’t like they were l-looking for me…I got a bit battered when they pulled the library down but…well, you know me, I’ve taken worse…” It sounded like he should have laughed, but Spike’s words were hollow. “But Twi…I saw her…it was like she didn’t recognise me.” His voice cracked at the admission, the child’s psyche almost threatening to collapse entirely. Fluttershy didn’t know what to say; her entire world felt it’d crumbled around her. They spent the next few moments in awkward, pained silence, not even a bird’s call or whisper of wind through the trees to break it.

“Y-your leg!” He stammered, coming back to the present as he looked down. She’d almost forgotten about it. “I-I’m so sorry, Fluttershy!” She didn’t know what to say, and so Fluttershy merely squeaked, letting her tangled hair fall in front of an eye.

“Come on.” Spike said after a few minutes, wiping his nose and trying to inject some steel into his voice – with only some success. “We need to get out of here…find help…c-can you fly?” It was a good question, and the answer presented itself as soon as she tried to flap her wings. Maybe it had been the sheer exertion she’d put into her escape from her house, but they felt sprained and torn. She shook her head.

“G-go on without me, Spike…I’ll just slow you down…” No sooner had she finished speaking than he was getting under her left side, doing his best to keep it off the ground and support her weight. It was clearly challenge even despite her lightness, but Spike did it without complaint, knees only shaking slightly.

“Nuh-uh. No way I’m leaving you, Fluttershy.” He tried to take a shuddering step forward. She hobbled along as best she could, both embarrassed and touched by the sacrifices he made for her.

“S-Spike…”

“Come on…” He gasped, grinding his teeth together. “We’re gonna…get out of this…I-I promise…”

She didn’t argue this time, instead focusing on trying to help him along as much as she could. Spike heaving to support both of them below, Fluttershy cast a look around them, and wondered how long it would take them both to die.

“So it’s true. Celestia has fallen.”

The second Crystal Pony nodded, expression grim. It had been hard enough trying to manage the recovery of the Empire in the wake of the Princesses’ death as it was. The sudden tidal wave of slaughter the aliens had unleashed had only further complicated matters, though in light of what they had endured, it was hardly surprising.

“Yes.” He said, keeping his voice measured. “The Canterlot aristocracy is seemingly wiped to a mare, to say nothing of their Guard Force. We’re on our own.” The first one who had spoken muttered a curse, looking down and shaking his head.

“Damn them all…and damn us…we should have known better.”

“Now is not the time to be assigning blame.” The second said. “We have bigger problems to be concerned with, in any case.”

The room within the Crystal castle they were locked within was cold, and dark. Very rarely was it ever visited. It wasn’t something the ponies liked to talk about, or if they did, it was only in the most hushed tones. They both stared at the occupant of the room now, unwilling to voice their thoughts.

“There’s something I don’t get.” The second said, when it became clear his companion would not be drawn to talk. “By all accounts, they referred to themselves as ‘Fourth’. Don’t tell me there are more of them?” The other pony was still for a moment, not averting his eyes. Eventually, he reached into the folds of the cloak across his back. The item he produced was so tiny the other pony had to squint to see it. Although he was hardly the expert on such things, it looked very much like some form of ammunition casing. The other pony tossed it across. He caught it in his hoof, raising it up to examine the etching on it more closely.

“Who are the ‘First Legion’?” he asked, brow furrowing as he looked up.

“Undoubtedly bad news, if their compatriots are anything to go by.” The first remarked. “They must have gotten in and out briefly, whilst we were all trying to clean up this mess.”

“What were they looking for?”

“Who knows?” The first shrugged. “But the fact we didn’t see them suggest it was probably in this room…and they probably found it.” The sentiment was an uncomfortable one; with the sky ripping itself apart, all sorts of madness had been unleashed on the Crystal Empire. It had begun to die down, but a gunshot could be hidden just as easily as a scream.

Slowly, his gaze returned to the sole structure in the room. “You think they could have –“

“Yes.” The other one cut him off.

“And the Iron Warriors…they say there’s something on the other side…you think…”

“Without question.”

It was another unpleasant thought. They stayed in silence, each weighing up the gravity of what they had just decided. Without a word being shared, the two crystal ponies turned, unlocking the door and closing it behind them.

The light bled away as the crack was closed, leaving the elegant mirror shrouded in darkness.

“Come on, Applebloom, we’ve been out here for days now…”

Scootaloo was right. Everywhere they went was white, the snowfall never seeming to stop. Ever y rock, every dead tree, looked the same to Sweetie Belle. Even so, she pretended they weren’t going round in circles. That would mean giving up entirely.

“Ah know, ah know!” Applebloom snapped. Her patience had finally worn thin, and Sweetie couldn’t blame her. They’d been out here for what felt like nearly a week now, constantly moving to find any kind of shelter or drink the melted snow they could find. Food had consisted of scraps of grass or other plants. All three Crusaders were chilled to the bone, and Sweetie almost wished they’d followed Zuko back despite the horrific act he’d committed. Yet, search as they’d tried, they couldn’t find him. It was like following ghosts out here. She fought the metaphor away; ever since the sky had cracked and begun to bleed, she wasn’t sure there weren’t ghosts out here with them, watching their every move for any sign of exhaustion. It wasn’t a comforting thought, and the little unicorn filly sped up to meet her friends.

“Scootaloo’s right…it’s hopeless…” She said, despair threatening to take over. “We’re never gonna make it home…I-I want my sister…” She said, tears pricking at her eyes.

Applebloom’s anger evaporated in an instant, both she and Scootaloo putting a hoof round her. “It’s okay, Sweetie…ah want mah family too…ah promise, we’re gonna be alraght…” The words felt hollow, but Sweetie nodded, forcing herself to keep going.

It felt like the world itself was mocking them. The filly’s pulled their capes around them tighter, trying desperately to keep out the cold, but it was to little avail. Everywhere they went, they just seemed to end up in the same place. She couldn’t explain how – it seemed impossible to Sweetie they hadn’t reached something by now – but whatever it was the Iron Warriors had brought with them, it was clearly having its fun. Eventually, the inevitable happened. She collapsed into the snow, face first, trying hard even to breath.

“I…I can’t go on…” She said. The other two dashed to help her, but a similar weariness seemed to take hold. They both crumpled as she did, all three Crusaders lying in a heap together.

“I don’t…I don’t get it…” Scootaloo stammered, voice sounding like it was in a daze. “The…good guys…always win…” Sweetie couldn’t answer; even had she the energy, there was nothing to say.

It could have been a minute or a day before the shadow loomed over them. She didn’t notice it at first, the filly reckoning it was just another hallucination heaped upon them. When it became clear it was real, she slowly opened her eyes, peering up at whatever monster had come to aid them.

The Crystal Pony guard looked down at the three, face drawn with concern. She didn’t know the odds of their having accidentally evaded any patrols until now, but at that moment Sweetie couldn’t have cared less. His armour was chipped and cracked, as was that of his fellows, but she had never been happier to see anypony in her short life.

“Come on.” He said in a caring tone, he and some of his companions helping the girls to their hooves. “Let’s get you out of the cold.” They supported the Crusaders as they walked, forming an escort around them that no monster could pierce.

Sweetie wanted to cry, but the tears would just have frozen.

“Did we get a name?”

Brother Kage of the Imperial Fists 5th company kept his question short as he ran to meet his squad, boots hammering on the deck of the strike cruiser. He knew the way by heart after three centuries of warfare and service, and before long the Astartes had reached the line. Outside, the ship rumbled and whined, the sound of its shields being struck and lance battery fire being exchanged ringing alla round.

“There’s no name.” His sergeant told him, raising the boarding shield further in front of him and gunning his chainsword. “Looks like its been scavenged. Traitor, though, that’s without a doubt.”

“Which one?” Kage asked, mirroring the gesture with his own shield – the clenched fist icon of his chapter proudly emblazoned on the front – and slotting his Boltgun into the small opening carefully. To his left and right, his eight brothers did the same.

“Which ones do you think?” The sergeant snarled. Kage nodded, his own expression darkening. It was true, there was only one it could ever possibly be.

Iron Warriors. Even the name was hateful.

He didn’t have time to consider the mutual loathing any deeper before the talons of the Kharybidis claw sank into the side of the ship. The Fists went rigid, shields bunched together as to deny their enemies access to the corridor and ship beyond. Slowly, a red circle began to form on the wall, the melta of the assault claw doing its work.

It was blasted open with a roar, drowning the corridor in smoke. Kage braced himself, infrared vision peering through the gloom. The ten shapes that disembarked from the claw’s open hatch were firing almost immediately, taking cover where they could or else advancing with bitter determination. The Fists returned in kind moments later, bolters and specialist weapons spitting death. One of the Iron Warriors was struck in the eye-lens, head exploding from within. Another was struck full-force by a grav gun. He dropped to his knees, body going rigid as the armour around him crumpled inwards and reduced his organs to pulp.

Had Kage had time to look, he would have noticed certain things. Most curious of them was the attire of the Iron Warriors. They did not bear horns, or spikes, or eight pointed stars. No bizarre daemonic helmets sat atop their head. They looked remarkably standard – almost like they must once have done during the Great Crusade of yore. Maximus and Crusade pattern helmets stared back at the Fists. Besides Kage, one of his brothers fell backward with a cry as a bolt round struck him in the soft armour of his throat. He kept firing, but neither side was willing to budge.

Kage almost didn’t notice as the second Assault claw docked. It blew its hatch moments later, 5 colossal shapes stomping out and adding their muscle to the fight. Much like their smaller brethren, the Terminators were archaically armoured, their Cataphracti plate almost filling the room. Their contribution was enough to swing the balance, the Fists unable to do anything but give ground under the co-ordinated assault. Kage wasn’t sure where the bullet that struck him in the arms came from, but he was aware of his limb being blown off and the blood gushing out as he twisted from the impact. A second hit him in the knee, shattering even reinforced bone. He fell face-first, lying amid a pile of his dead brothers.

He tried to pull himself away, but the weight of a terminator’s boot pressing down on his back held him in place. He could not physically turn onto his back as he heard the sound of a power weapon energising, but gritted his teeth, unwilling to give them any satisfaction.

“Wait.”

The voice was commanding, bringing the room to a stop. Kage held his breath as he realised this must be their leader – or ‘Warsmith’, as they were known. The iron lord was quiet for a moment, seeming to think.

“We need one of them intact.” He said at last, already setting off with his Terminator escort in tow. “Looks like you’re it, you lucky man.”

Kage could not offer any resistance as he was roughly grabbed and hauled to his knees. Two of them dragged him along roughly and without ceremony, heedless of his broken bones. The Iron Warrior on his left arm chuckled, though still didn’t look at him. When he did speak, his voice was an amused growl.

“Welcome to the suck.”

Kage couldn’t reply, or even spit. As he was hauled away, though, he did manage to lift his head. The Fist’s vision was blurred, but even so he could just about make out the Warsmith at the head of the procession. It wasn’t hard – he walked with a limp, like his legs were not his own, and the axe on his shoulder – the weapon that had so recently cleaved the brother-sergeant’s head from his neck – had a blade that was well-worn by age. Even so, they were not the most stand-out pieces of his uniform.

Hanging across the Iron Warrior’s back was a tattered, red cape.

Author's Note

This was never meant to be finished. I know I've said it before, but it's worth mentioning again. I never finish anything, let alone novel-length projects. We shouldn't be here.

But we are. What started out as a silly story about Iron Warriors meeting ponies became something a lot, lot more to me. It was something I could always go back to, something that was a constant. Hell, it practically got me through the hardest year of my life so far. It ended up being about loyalty, betrayal, winning and, most of all, losing. Not every villain has to be a loser. But then again, not every loser is a villain.

These characters changed a lot. Rorke's twitching started without me even realising it, and Varvillon should never have existed. But they're solid now,a s real as any other people, all fighting in my head for dominance. Lorkhan complains it too cold and Mordecai wonders whether they can have the grampohone on. They may have fallen, but they live on - in game, and for everything they represent, even if in most cases that's nothing more than concentrated faggotry.

I wanna take a moment to thank everyone who took time out of their life to read my shitty ramblings about Chaos Marines. We're a niche fandom within a niche fandom, and to have acquired even one fan was a surprise. I remember chuckling for five minutes at it. To have over 100 people favourite it is both mind-blowing and humbling; 100 people on the planet wanted to know what was going to happen next. You spurred me to keep going even when I maybe didn't want to, and your dedication and commitment is appreciated more than you know.

Who am I kidding? This isn't the end of the Fourth legion - they'll be back. There's a whole universe, multiple in fact, for us to rampage over. The Iron Warriors will ride again, have no fear. But, until that time; from Lorkhan, Zuko, Mordecai, Vortun, Rorke, and the rest...

Iron Within. Iron Without.
~Perturabro

Crash Landing

My Little Pony, My Little Pony…
“What…what the fuck is that…”
I used to wonder what friendship could be…
“Is that…do you hear singing?”
A Beautiful heart, faithful and strong…
“That’s definitely singing. Why the fuck is there singing?”
And Magic makes it all complete…
“I’m going to be legitimately sick.”
Don’t you know you are my very best frieeeeends!
“Fuck this, I’m out. Hand me the Melta.”

Three seconds of silence passed before the side of the Olympian Sun was torn open. Gouts of hissing steam simmered off the molten edge of the crater. From within, a looming black shape slowly emerged from the gloom, its armour emitting a faint buzz.

Mk VII Power armour was never quiet, especially not when it was damaged.

The Warrior was taller than mortal men, broader too. His footfalls thudded on the downed Strike Cruiser’s decking, before stepping outside, into the undergrowth. His stature was enhanced, not only by the demigod’s blood that flowed through his veins, but also by the heavy and spiked suit of armour he was clad in, its plates the colour of burnished steel. But this suit was old-chipped and cracked with ten thousand years of betrayal and bitter hatred. In his left hand he clutched a faintly glowing pistol, its coils burning to the touch. His other hand was linked to a larger gauntlet. The fingers ended in yellow and black chevroned claws, and a faint energy field crackled around it. He flexed the Power Fist unconsciously, the need to punch it through living fresh still lingering behind his eyes.

He walked a bit further, before turning to look at the ship. Skulls, other trophies clanked on the chains upon which they were attached to his war plate. One particular heavy spike on his back gave a faint rattle, the yellow helmet the mirror of his own but for the lack of vicious horns sprouting from its sides. The remnants of an old enemy, looted from his motionless body as a memento. The Warrior remembered that moment. It had been a good day.

He examined the side of the ship. It was the same colour of his armour, the colour of dark iron trimmed with bronze, and completed with rows of caution stripes. There were further embellishments, not all of which were wholesome; eight pointed stars, more of the same heavy chains upon which were displayed portions of the broken bodies of its enemies’ vessels, and most tellingly the helmeted skull that also served as the symbol of the vessel’s masters.

The damage was extensive, even before the warrior’s master had taken it upon himself to make his own exit. Much of the outer layer of the craft, including its bladed prow, were scorched and blackened by lance weapon damage. Fires had broken out both internally and on what remained of the Gellar field, and though both still-mortal crew and the cybernetic Servitor contingent of the ship rushed to quell them, they were still spreading. Most distressingly, the entire aft section of the cruiser had been neatly severed by their ambushers, and that included the engines. It had only been by the blessings of the Four, and not a little bit of a luck, that had enabled them to make the warp jump to safety. At the moment, even that was starting to look like a damn mess.

The Warrior gave no response, but continued flexing the talons of his Power Fist. It was worse than the Master had calculated-and he was hardly a soul given over to heights of optimism. At the very least, assuming that the Gods would not lend any divine inspiration-which seemed unlikely, considering how little they had chosen to intervene into the wars of the Warrior and his brothers over recent years-it appeared they were stuck in this place for the time being, wherever that was.

It would have been so very in character for one with the allegiances and history of the Warrior to fly into a blood mad rage, firing his plasma weapon indiscriminately and roaring his hatred of a dead Carrion lord sat upon a Golden throne. Instead he merely sighed, allowed his shoulders to slump and stared at the ground, shaking his head slightly.

“I’m getting too old for this shit.” Muttered Zuko, Aspiring Champion of the Iron Warriors.

Rainbow Dash didn’t bother to supress her yawn as she reclined lazily on a cloud. It was, by all accounts, a quiet day in Ponyville-no monster attacks, no mad experiments gone awry from Twilight, and surprisingly, no impromptu parties organised by Pinkie Pie. Rainbow Dash loved her Earth Pony friend dearly, and she made a point of always having a good time at any of her social gatherings, but even the Element of Loyalty had to admit that sometimes just chilling on her own had its own appeal.

She gave a contended sigh, resting her hooves behind her head and nestling lower into the cloud’s fluffy embrace. Yep, nothing to do but just lie here and relax. She opened her eyes slightly, the sunlight making her eyes ache as she gazed into the clear blue skies, but not even that proved able to dampen her mood as warm currents of air caressed her body. She sighed again, smiling and pulling out a pair of sunglasses she had stashed in her makeshift bed. Donning them, she fluffed her cloud up again before turning and settling back down, letting the feeling of doziness fog her mind.

“Hey, hey Rainbow Dash!”

The Pegasus sat up, propped her sunglasses on her forehead and looked over the side of the cloud towards the ground. Below her, Scootaloo was looking back up, an infectious grin plastered across her face. Strangely, she wasn’t accompanied by Applebloom or Sweetie Belle, and although Rainbow was slightly disgruntled at her nap being disturbed, she wasn’t about to get aggressive towards her biggest fan.

“Hey squirt, what’s going on?” she asked, trying her best ‘big sister’ smile. She’d never be Applejack when it came to familial affection, but she had made a promise, and she’d never let anyone say that Rainbow Dash had broken a promise.

In response, the orange filly reached into a saddlebag strapped to her back and extracted a sheet of paper with her mouth, before dropping it on the ground.

“Ms Cheerilee says we have to get this permission slip signed if we want to go on the trip to Appleloosa next month, and I thought that…since you’re my big sister and all now, maybe you could sign it!” she gave an excited stamp on the ground as she finished, her smile widening even further. The offer took Rainbow by surprise, and it was a moment before she could respond.

“Sure, Scoots, I guess I can do that and all, but…why exactly can’t your parents do it?” she asked, blunt as ever. At this, the young Pegasus’ grin turned brittle, although didn’t drop from her face in the presence of her idol. She kicked the ground in a distracted manner, seemingly searching for the right words.
“Oh…well, my mum and dad-“ She looked up, the grin now dropping entirely dropping from her face as she covered her mouth with a hoof and gave a small gasp. Around them, Rainbow Dash noticed other ponies turning their eyes skyward, fear plastering their faces as they let out terrified shrieks and began to run around in a frenzied panic. A noise rose in her ears; it was the sound of air being pierced and displaced by a plunging spear, the roar of a dying leviathan tumbling from its perch. She turned as Scootaloo raised a quivering limb and pointed behind her towards the sky, and even the usually oh-so confident Pegasus could not conceal her fright.

Something huge and dark was hurtling down from the heavens. Flames licked the side of the beast as it tumbled, and as it came closer and closer to the ground the roar was joined by a screech as pieces that Rainbow could see even with the naked eye even from a distance were torn off and thrown to the wind by the force of the descent. It came smashing down into the Everfree forest a distance off, and the noise of its skid could be heard, and several frees were felled as it demolished everything in its path towards coming to rest. The ground shook with the impact, and several of Ponyville’s residents were thrown to the ground. Scootaloo let out a frightened cry as she stumbled but managed to stay upright, blushing slightly afterwards. For a moment Rainbow Dash could only blink in stunned incomprehension, but her faculties swiftly returned as she began to assess what had just happened.

Fluttershy. The timid yellow Pegasus who made her home on the outskirts of the Everfree forest. It felt like she was scared of her own shadow sometimes; Rainbow could only begin to imagine how her filly-hood friend was reacting to all of this. She rose into the air slightly, tossing the glasses to the side. There was no way she was going to leave Flutters all alone when that thing, whatever it was, had just landed.

“Scoots, go and make sure everyone’s okay, and then round up any of the girls you can find and tell ‘em to meet me at Fluttershy’s place.” She said. Rainbow didn’t wait to hear Scootaloo’s reply; she’d already coiled her body, and jetted off as fast as her straining wings could manage, leaving a trail of multi-hued light in her wake.

Twilight put her head down and willed herself to run faster as she sprinted towards the periphery of Everfree. Spike clung to her back, only barely managing to hold on. She was flanked by Pinkie Pie and Applejack, with Rainbow flying a short distance overhead. Casting a slight glance to her side, she saw her southern friend pushing herself too, whilst to her right Pinkie hopped along with the same obliviously cheerful smile as always plastered across her face. They didn’t speak, conserving all their energy for the run. Cresting a slight hill, they could see a small wooded area up ahead; Fluttershy’s cottage was situated within.

It was little effort for Twilight to send a pulse of magical energy slamming into the wooden door, blowing it off its hinges as the four friends leaped inside. Rainbow and Applejack balled their hooves and put on their best war face, whilst Twilight let a purple glow shroud her horn as she readied her sorcery. Pinkie, for her part, just kept on smiling.

“Fluttershy?” Twilight called out, walking into the house slowly once she was sure there were no threats lurking inside. Ornaments and furniture were broken and thrown all over the floor, disrupted by the tremor. There was no sign of their shy friend anywhere, and Twilight couldn’t help but feel more and more concerned.

“Hey Flutterbutter! Where arrrrre you? Oh, are we playing a game? Is it Hide and Seek? This one time, I was playing Hide and Seek with Mrs Cake, and then Pound Cake-“Applejack placed a hoof across the Pink Pony’s mouth with an exasperated glare, muffling her friend’s voice, although the word “mayonnaise” could be faintly heard. The group climbed the stairs, trying their hardest not to disturb any more fallen debris. Reaching her room, they tentatively pushed the door open.

Across the room, a shape was wrapped up in the bedcovers, shaking violently. No part of its bearer could be seen, although it was quite apparent who it was. Twilight rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself that her friend was unharmed. The four walked towards the bed, Spike still riding on Twi’s back. The Unicorn placed a reassuring hoof on where she approximated her friend’s shoulder to be.

“It’s okay, Fluttershy, we’re here.” She said. Two blue eyes framed by a bright pink mane emerged, still shaking, emerged from under the covers. Twilight gave another smile, trying to coax her nervous friend out.

“Yeah! And even if there were bad guys, there’s no way anybody’s getting through me…I mean, us!” Dash boasted, visibly relaxing. Fluttershy didn’t respond, beyond a quiet, frightened squeak. She seemed to be staring at the window, even more fearfully than she stared at seemingly everything else. Of all her friends, only Applejack noticed this, her hoof still firmly clamped over Pinkie’s mouth (the Party Pony was still babbling non sequiturs).

“Y’all right thar, Sugacube?” She asked, adjusting her hat slightly. Fluttershy only gave another anxious squeak, and pointed out the window whilst burying her head in her quilt again. Confused, the others walked over towards the opening.

Outside, in the distance, was the broken remains of the fallen beast. Smoke and fire could still be seen emanating from it, and it had carved out a broad path of devastation as it had slid to a halt. Strange symbols that pained Twilight’s eyes as she looked at them were carved into the side, but even with years of magical research and study she still couldn’t decipher what they meant. But, that wasn’t what drew the intrepid Ponies’ gaze.

Outside the craft, in a clearing, five figures were standing in a rough circle. Even from a distance, it was clear they were huge, and clad in heavy suits of wargear. Every clutched a weapon of some sort, whether it was a colossal firearm or wicked blade. One of the group was bulkier even than the rest, though it was hunched over and what was left of its flesh seemed to run freely over it. Their voices were lowered, but from their body language hold on their weapons, one thing was clear to Twilight.

They were arguing.

Author's Note

My friend told me to do this, although I'd be lying if I said part of me didn't already want to and was just waiting for an excuse.

I don't claim to be a good or even vaguely passable writer, so sorry about that. I'll also apologise for the profuse swearing; I couldn't help it, plus the Iron Warriors are grumpy buggers anyway.

Yeah. Comment/like/dislike, whatever. I'm still going to be churning this crap out regardless, because I'm an idiot like that. -_-

Castle Crashers

The violence usually expected of an Imperial arrival was no-where to be seen. Maybe that’s what caught them off guard.

The ship almost slithered into the void, the hole in reality snapping closed behind it. It prowled closer in absolute silence-black against the infinite black. Rank upon rank of gun port opened along the port and starboard of the vessel, baring the quietly snarling mouths of its weapons to space. Scars, too, decorated its side; monuments to a recent war that should never have been. Slowly, and with murderous intent, it stalked its prey. With the patience of a bird of prey waiting to swoop in for the kill, it hung in space, hungry and vengeful eyes fixed on its sister that could just be seen from the viewing oculus.

Unlike the first ship, this one made no attempt at stealth. It did not advance with wary caution, but rather stormed ahead in a fit of what seemed like barely restrained fury. Like its twin the cruiser’s gun ports were open in a state of permanent battle readiness, and like its twin it too bore scars. But these were not the scars of a heroic defender fighting for their life and their honour; rather, they were the remnants of prey thrashing in its final moments against an overwhelming force, the mark of the betrayer and not the betrayed. The final differences between the two craft were the most telling. Where the first was a rich sable colour, the second was a vessel of dark Iron and bronze. ‘Olympian Sun’ was the name emblazoned upon its prow, and it was a warship of the sons of Perturabo.

The first they knew of the attack was when their shields caught on fire. Warning klaxons rang out in a deafening peal through the strategium, as arms men and Astartes alike rushed to their posts to repel boarders. With precise calculation the Sun returned fire, but the foe was already gone; disengaging and twirling in the void with a precision that could only come from one foe.

“Raven Guard.”

Sergeant Lorkhan folded his arms as he watched the Captain spit those words. Warsmith Kargarra of the thirteenth was many things, but polite had never been one of them.

“I didn’t think there were any of them left, after our little rendezvous.” The sergeant commented. He instantly regretted it as the Warsmith turned an angry glare on him.

“Don’t be an idiot Lorkhan. You know as well as I do that their bastard Primarch got away with some of his bastard warriors. There was always a fair chance that there’d be more lurking around.” Lorkhan merely shrugged. The ship shook again under another barrage of fire. One of the Iron Warriors grunted as his head impacted with a strut that had come loose. Lorkhan gave an exasperated sigh. Istvaan V had been a month ago. They hadn’t made any sort of significant progress since then, the Primarch ordering them to remain in system whilst he conversed with the Warmaster. It was beginning to grate on his nerves.

“Can we fight back?” another sergeant asked. Kargarra gave a harsh laugh.

“I won’t have the thirteenth’s good name ruined by having it said we ran from the Raven Guard, of all Legions. We’ll pin them down, and when we do the-“

Lorkhan wasn’t listening by this point. He’d stopped when he’d noticed something on the radar viewing screen just behind the Warsmith, and the frightened expression crossing the face of several deck crew. He was already running.

The explosion happened two seconds later.

They’d made him Warsmith after that. He was the only member of the thirteenth company who’d been ordered to the planning council to survive; apparently, that counted for something. They were calling it a lucky shot, one in a million. The Raven Guard lance had gone straight through the shield and cut into the command centre. They’d managed to ward off their attackers with sheer belligerence eventually, but the damage had been done. Had brother Zuko of fourth squad not dragged Lorkhan from the debris, the companies’ command structure would have been decimated entirely.

Lorkhan had come close to death many times more in the years of war and piracy after the Heresy, against foes far more dangerous than any son of Corax. Yet, as he was frozen in a bow, the Xenos Princesses’ death sentence still ringing in his ears the memory of that battle came back to him. It wouldn’t leave, no matter how he tried to focus. He wondered what old Kargarra would do in this situation. Most likely throw a tantrum worthy of one of Angron’s butchers. Despite the situation, the memory of his old lord made a guilty smile reach the Warsmith’s lips for the ghost of a moment.

Rorke looked at him, an edge of anger working its way into his voice. “Permission to speak freely?”

Lorkhan rose slowly, eye still locked on the Pony. “You’ve never asked permission before, Rorke. This isn’t a brilliant time to start.”

“Oh, all right then. You’re a fucking idiot for getting us into this situation, and if we die to pastel coloured horses I’m going to kill you.” Lorkhan laughed, levity he knew he shouldn’t feel working its way into his soul. Several of the ponies encircling them broke out into disproving chatter, whilst the dark blue Princess merely stumped a hoof in frustration.

“You realise I could have you executed for insubordination as per Legion tradition, right?”

“If you think you can, feel free.”

Lorkhan conceded the point. Hard to argue with that logic.

“Sir, if I may propose a course of action?” This from Mordecai now. That was exactly what he needed to hear.

“I’m a little busy right now, Sorcerer. Please tell me this is an ingenious escape strategy worthy of the Twentieth legion?”

“I suggest we shoot them, sir.”

Now the Warsmith did turn. His head tilted to the side slightly, and although he wore a helmet it still managed to convey an expression of utter incredulousness.

“Why the hell are you still alive, Mordecai.” It wasn’t a question, but the Sorcerer responded with a polite chuckle.

“Vortun, old chap, would you please begin preparing to break out of this little shield?” The Obliterator didn’t make any obvious sign of assent, but Lorkhan saw his and his compatriots’ arms beginning to twist and morph. He turned back to the Princess, who was still looking at him with unreserved hostility.

“Well, see, that’s going to be a problem.”

“Ein.” Vortun whispered.

“As much as I, and I’m sure I speak for all my brothers here as well, would love to stay here and chat with whatever passes for executioners amongst your misbegotten kind, we have much more important things to be doing…”

“Zwei.”

“Like killing things.”

The Princesses’ eyes widened as she realised what was happening. She stepped back, shielding the blue princess and purple pony with her wings.

“Guards!” she called. The armed Ponies began to move in towards the sphere, spears lowered, but by then it was already too late.

“Drei.”

Despite her vision being impaired by her mentor’s wings, Twilight saw the beams of light well enough. Three of them smashed out from her brother’s protective shield, causing it to shatter into a thousand points of purple light. The release of built up magical energy came as a shockwave; the guards were thrown off their feet and all over the room, some of them bleeding from shrapnel released from the dome. Shining Armour was blasted back too, impacting the throne with an audible crack. He grunted and sat without moving. With a sharp intake of breath, Twilight ran to help her brother.

The throne room was in utter chaos. Over the frightened crowds running this way and that, Twi could see Rarity and AJ trying to usher everypony out in a vaguely ordered fashion, whilst Rainbow darted around distracting the Iron Warriors. She couldn’t see where Fluttershy or Spike had got to, and she hoped against hoped that they’d gone off to hide somewhere.

They were fast. That was the first thing she noted about their attackers. Even withoiu all their armour, they were so fast. The explosion of the bubble had seemingly no impact on them whatsoever; all the warriors had fanned out instantly, seemingly intent on doing as much damage as possible. Most of the Ponies were already at the doors, but the Iron Warriors treated those they caught with no mercy. Twi saw one of them grab a Unicorn by the back of her neck, snap her horn off and smash her back across his knee. The warrior tossed the body away contemptuously. The big ones, the ones who had broken through Shining Armour’s shield seemed a lot slower than the others. Their arms instead spat forth fire and death, although thankfully very few Ponies were hurt as they seemed more preoccupied with the destruction of the throne room. Orbs of green lights shot forth, reducing sections of the walls and roof to molten slag.

As she ran to her brother, Twilight saw one of the Warriors go for Pinkie Pie. Additional fear gripped her heart for a second as she saw the monster lunge at her friend. Before she could react however, Pinkie had leapt in the air and produced what looked like a cannon from…well, Twilight couldn’t actually be sure-it was Pinkie Pie, after all-but she wasn’t about to question it now. Letting rip with the weapon, she caught her aggressor in the face with a burst of confetti; the Iron Warrior staggered backwards, giving the Party Pony time to launch a kick straight into the gut. Even with his armour he seemed taken off guard and keeled over forward slightly. Pinkie took full advantage leaping onto his back and pushing off. She sailed away to safety as the brute went face down into the floor.

Twilight eventually reached her brother. He was just beginning to regain consciousness, rubbing his head feebly and letting out a pained groan. He did not look good. His armour was rent and buckling in places, whilst several cuts had opened up across his body.

“Twi…Twiley…” he mumbled weakly. She supported the back of his head with her hoof, her panic rising despite trying her best to keep a clear head. A bolt of magical light from the Princess sailed overhead; the Iron Warrior it was intended for lunged into a roll, and it sailed into the wall leaving nothing but scorch marks.

“Come on, we need to get out of here, now!” Twilight said, having to raise her voice above the battle’s clamour. She tried to drag her brother off to the side, when a hoof pushed her back.

“Twiley…you need to…get to safety.” Shining gave a grunt of pain as he slowly rose back to his hooves. The effort made him sweat, and he would have fallen back down had Twilight not rushed to his aid.

“Shining, you’re not in any condition to be fighting. Please, you need to come with us. The Princess can get us out of this…” she was almost begging now, tears pricking the corner of her eyes. Shining gave a weak smile by way of response, and placed a hoof on her shoulder.

“Took an oath…little sis. Gotta keep it, y’know…” he coughed “Look after Cadence for me.”

Ignoring his sister’s cries of protest, the Captain of the Equestrian Royal Guard stumbled forwards to defend his Princess and his Kingdom from these invaders. Celestia knows, right now they needed some defending.

Lorkhan gave a slight giggle as one of his Mecha-tendrils crushed the Xenos’ leg. The creature squealed in pain as it was lifted slightly into the air and hurled away, landing with a thumb, it did not rise. Lorkhan wasted no time pressing his advantage, spinning on a boot heel and catapulting a gauntleted fist into the face of an oncoming Royal Guard. The Pony was sent crashing back down to earth, slamming into the ground. Before it could rise, Lorkhan followed his blow up with a kick to the skull, crushing it and slaying the Xenos instantly.

“Most fun we’ve had in years.” He called over his shoulder to Mordecai as a blast of Warp-tainted Plasma sailed overhead and blew another chunk out of the Palace’s masonry. The Sorcerer gave a polite chuckle over the vox.

“You could say that, yes. Although I do wish you’d give diplomacy a try at least once.” Mordecai’s voice betrayed no fatigue or stress. Looking up, Lorkhan saw a Guard attempting to dive bomb the Sorcerer. Mordecai did not flinch. Remaining perfectly casual, he extended his right hand and, with a slight upwards flick, wrenched some debris into the air. With an equally contemptuous motion of the wrist, he sent the rock slamming into the guard. It crushed the Pony into a fine paste of blood and mottled fur on the wall. The Warsmith couldn’t help but grin.

It could never be honestly said that Lorkhan and Mordecai were friends, per se. Whilst the Psyker had-since the flight into the Eye-always been amicable and friendly in a manner that was slightly disturbing coming from an Iron Warrior, Lorkhan couldn’t bring himself to trust someone who he had seen remain polite, cheery and composed as he psychically reduced every bone in a still conscious Astartes of the Angels Vermillion to fine powder. The Warsmith kept him a round for two main reasons; firstly, Mordecai often did provide good advice, although Lorkhan would never admit that to him. The second, and arguably more important reason was that the warlock was a gifted Telekine. The feats of structural devastation he was capable of causing amused Lorkhan almost as much as Mordecai’s displeasure at not being referred to as a ‘Raptora’. Apparently, he’d picked it up from Magnus’ Legion before the First War. Lorkhan didn’t understand it personally.

Looking around, Lorkhan smiled again at the scene of devastation. Pony bodies littered the ground, and the much of the castle had been blasted out under the Obliterator’s fury. The Iron Warriors, however, were not having it entirely their own way; Lorkhan saw one hit square in the chest by a beam of golden light from the Princesses’ horn. He threw back his head and let out an agonised scream, flames erupting from his eyes, helmet grille and every joint in his armour. In a few moments all that was left of the Astartes warrior was a pile of ash on the ground. Elsewhere, another son of Olympia was assailed by numerous Guards. He grabbed two out of the air and smashed them together with crushing force, hurling a body at a third. But there were too many, and eventually one of them managed to stab a spear through the gap between the Iron Warrior’s helmet and chest plate. He dropped to his knees, still managing to disarm his attacker and reverse his grip on the weapon before driving it into the Ponies’ throat. Yet more Ponies kept stabbing down, and he disappeared beneath the tide of Xenos.

That aside, Lorkhan saw that the battle was going well. The white one, ‘Celestia’ he thought it was referred to as, was certainly starting to look more and more worried. The smaller blue one let out a frustrated cry and sent a pulse of dark energy sailing towards Lorkhan. Before it could impact, Mordecai took a step forwards with a palm raised out in front of him. The bolt dissipated harmlessly in mid-air. Lorkhan nodded his thanks as Zuko and Rorke dispatched their own enemies and fell in beside the Warsmith. The four of them looked at Celestia as Lorkhan folded his arms.

“I think our sentence just got revoked, your highness.” Said Rorke. A chorus of harsh, growling laughs came from the other three Iron Warriors as the Princess glared at them.

“I will not let you destroy my kingdom and my subjects whilst I draw breath, you monsters.”

“Neither…will…I…” The Astartes looked down as a battered white Unicorn managed to stagger in front of the throne, breathing heavily and fixing them with a hate-filled glare. Lorkhan recognised him from earlier as the captain of the Guard. He was about to reply when the Unicorn spoke again.

“Come on then…why don’t you have pick on someone your own size…” The Warsmith cast a glance at Mordecai to the effect of is this guy serious? The Sorcerer merely shrugged. He was about to reply again, when the Captain breathed three fateful words.

“Issuing…a….challenge…”

Silence.

“Please tell me he didn’t just say that.” It was Rorke who broke the silence. For once, Lorkhan completely agreed with him. He sighed.

“Right then.” The Warsmith looked at his subordinates. Mordecai was drumming the fingers of one hand on his armoured forehead. Rorke was staring forward blankly as if struck. Zuko had simply walked off to one side and was bashing his head against the wall again and again, slowly and with palpable despair. “Who’s accepting this one?”

“There are four of us and one of him,” Zuko called from the side. “Why can’t we just charge him?”

“Because we’re Champions of Chaos.” Mordecai pointed out. “We have to accept.”

“But there are four of us, Mord.” Zuko said. There was absolutely no emotion in his voice.

“The Gods command we take his head in a challenge.”

“THERE. ARE. FOUR. OF US. MORD.”

“Zuko, the Gods…”

“FOUR YOU WIZARDING BASTARD.”

Mordecai didn’t reply, instead electing to simply stare at the Aspiring Champion. Zuko gave a sigh, before turning back to the wall and slamming his head into it one more time.

“Fuck you, Kelly.” He muttered. “Alright, alright. I’ll do it.” Lorkhan shrugged. Rorke bristled, but didn’t speak out. Zuko moved in front of the group to face the Pony, dropping into a fighting crouch. His fingers flexed. His opponents nostrils flared, and he dragged a hoof along the ground as if preparing to charge. The Princesses looked on with a mix of apprehension and pride. Behind the Captain, Lorkhan saw the purple unicorn from earlier, fear etched across her face.

Iron Warrior and Pony leapt at one another in the same instant. The Xenos was injured and exhausted, but he was fighting for his family, Princess and homeland. Zuko was a marauder, albeit a marauder gifted with insane power. They collided still in mid-air, the Iron Warrior launching a devastating right hook at the Pony. A purple glow enshrouded his horn as a small shield appeared, deflecting most of the blow’s force. They landed on their feet, alternating between launching jabs and dodging the foes’. The Pony, teeth gritted in frustration, weaved around Zuko’s punch. The Aspiring champion let out a stream of swears in old Olympian.

“Just DIE already!”

The Pony leapt into the air and let out a brutal kick. It collided with Zuko’s head, sending it snapping back. The Iron Warrior swore again. Astartes battle instincts kicking in; he lunged in and tackled the Captain to the ground. It was too fast for the injured Xenos to follow, and he fell onto his back with a gasp of pain. Zuko followed his assault up with a punch to the ribs, winding the Pony. Something cracked.

Before the Astartes could finish his foe, a bolt of purple energy struck Zuko square in the chest. He skidded along the floor back towards his brothers, helmet knocking against Lorkhan’s shin. Mordecai knelt and helped Zuko back into a sitting position. The beam had left a slight crater, and was still steaming slightly.

“I say, that was a rather powerful blow there.” The Sorcerer mused, to no-one in particular. Zuko grunted disapprovingly.

“You don’t need to tell me that, witch.” Rising back to his feet unsteadily, he saw his foe doing the same, helped by the purple unicorn. The end of her horn was still smoking too; he assumed that’s where the bolt had come from. He made a mental note to kill her extremely painfully later.

The tension in the air could have been cut with a blade. Both Pony and Astartes were breathing heavily; the bedlam of the breakout had begun to tell on Zuko. Both combatants were poised and glared at one another, ready to pounce. Even the Obliterators had stopped firing, seemingly more interested by the duel. The entire room’s eyes watched the two combatants.

Well, almost the whole room.

Lorkhan squinted as he looked out the window. Whatever it was, it was moving like a bastard, and it was coming straight at them. Perhaps it was the Gods whispering in their champion’s ears, or maybe it was simple common sense screaming RUN YOU FUCKER, but the desire to continue this blood shedding drained from Lorkhan. He edged back slightly. It wasn’t entirely unnoticed.

“Lorkhan, please don’t tell me we’re now running away from the Ponies?” Rorke snarled, voice dripping with aggression. Lorkhan fixed him with a hard stare, albeit one that was utterly lost within his armour.

“We’re moving, now. Something’s coming right at us. I think it’s a drop pod.” He said. Or at least, he intended to. All he managed was “We’re moving, now. Something’s co-“ before it smashed through the window and threw them all to the floor.

It wasn’t a drop pod.

Author's Note

Chapter 4 and 5 were supposed to be just Chapter 4, but considering how long it'd be-and that I'm out of the country at the end of next week, meaning an update would be even longer in coming-I thought it best to post this now.

I dislike writing battle scenes at the best of times, but hopefully this one was sufficiently one-sided so as to be passable. The Ponies had some successes, mainly because I needed to have a decent story, but...well, as incompetent as they may be, they're still Chaos Space Marines.

I noticed from last week's episode (Keep Calm and Flutter On, at time of writing) the importance of pacing the ending well. I want this to have a good conclusion, but that means it'll probably be long. Really long.

I bet you can't wait.

Rock-em Sock-em Renegades

It took all of Rarity’s determination, as well as a little bit of fear, to keep her moving forwards. After recovering Sweetie Belle, she’d been running as fast as her legs could carry her ever since those ghastly brutes had broken out from their incarceration at the Castle and begun fighting back against Celestia’s troops. That had already stressed Rarity out to such a degree that, assuming she got through this, she just KNEW there’d be wrinkles on wrinkles. Coupled with the Changeling’s return, whom for all the unicorn knew could be working with the ‘Iron Warriors’…well, of all the worst possible things, Rarity considered it the worst possible thing.

Beside her, Rarity could see her friends Pinkie and Applejack running alongside her. The athletic farmer Pony showed little obvious signs of physical distress, although looking into her eyes Rarity could see worry, confusion and fear. To the right, Pinkie Pie bounced along as fast as she could. She didn’t seem as obviously concerned as Applejack, but Rarity knew the party pony well enough to know when something was frightening her. No songs to ‘giggle at the ghosties’ this time, like when they’d first met. Rarity doubted that laughing at the Iron Warriors would have any greater effect than making them angrier.

Rainbow Dash had taken to the sky earlier, along with Fluttershy. Rarity wasn’t sure whether her shy friend was still around, but Rainbow had been taking the battle to the Changelings in the sky. Her words earlier about executing the Iron Warriors came back to Rarity-at the time, she’d been shocked by them, but now she couldn’t help but feel that Rainbow Dash had a point. Before she could consider this any further a stray thought wandered into her head, almost bringing her skidding to a halt; where was Spikey-wikey? Rarity had a look around, expecting to see him running close to her in a darling little effort to protect her, but twilight’s assistant was nowhere to be seen. Panic overtook her, and for a second she considered turning back to try and find him. It was only reasoning that she was no good to him dead that stopped her.

Rainbow Dash-or something that looked like Rainbow Dash-came hurtling out of the sky at the three running ponies. Before, at the wedding when they first encountered these foul creatures, the Elements might have been duped by it; but now, they were ready for any sign of deception. Applejack leapt and turned in mid-air, delivering a devastating kick with her strong hind legs to the Changeling. Its head cracked back as the disguise melted away, and the black monster fell to the ground unmoving. The ponies didn’t let themselves slow down, running towards the train station. Swarms of Changelings were buzzing through the air and tearing apart Canterlot’s buildings under their mass, but it was still possible to get everyone out on the trains if the guards could hold out just a little longer.

Three more Changelings, these not bothering to hide their true forms, attempted to block off the end of the street. They span round as the three friends ran towards them, hissing and baring their fangs. Applejack, Rarity and Pinkie sprang towards them, not giving them time to disguise themselves. A serious of-to Rarity’s eyes, exceedingly uncouth-hoof blows left the shape shifters in a heap.

“Come on gals, jus’ a little more!” Applejack called, putting her head down and holding onto her hat to allow her greater speed. Rarity pushed herself even more. Ugh, all this sweating is going to just RUIN my mane she grumbled internally, before chiding herself for such childish moaning. At the very least, the Changelings seemed to be concentrating more and more of their forces on the castle, giving the Element bearers a little more breathing room.

A second thought crossed her mind, another sense of something missing. This time, she couldn’t help herself as the horror seeped into her mind. Her legs went rigid, freezing Rarity in place as the sounds of screams and battle echoed all around. Breathing did not come easily, every inhale short and ragged. She could feel herself shaking slightly as terror rose again. The other two stopped, turning and looking at her with a mix of shock, fear and-at least in Applejack’s case-anger.

“Come on Rarity, this is no tahm for bein’ a drama queen!” she shouted in frustration. Rarity just looked at her, seemingly whiter and paler than usual. When she did speak, it was little more than an emotion-choked whisper.

“Where’s Sweetie Belle?”

“Do you even actually know where we’re going?”

Scootaloo didn’t bother answering as she navigated the scooter through Canterlot’s streets. The Crusaders had managed to acquire it from a store they’d ran past that had had its windows smashed in. Scootaloo vaguely remembered Rainbow Dash once telling her that doing things like that was ‘looting’, or something, but as far as she was concerned she reckoned that her idol would cut her some slack this one time. Applebloom and Sweetie Belle had managed to squeeze on the back, hooves wrapped around Scootaloo’s waist for stability-it was a tight fit, the other two fillies usually being transported in a small cart behind, but although they were almost thrown off at a number of corners fear gave them the strength they needed to hold on.

“Well? Do yah?” It was Applebloom asking the question, Sweetie Belle electing to stay quiet and let Scootaloo concentrate. The Pegasus cast an irritated glance backward, expertly navigating their small transport around a piece of debris that had come to rest in the middle of the road.

“I think ANYWHERE’S better than here right now, AB.”

The Earth Pony didn’t look convinced, grimacing as her head was snapped forward painfully as the scooter jerked over a newly created pothole.

“Shouldn’t we be tryin’ tah find Rainbow Dash, or mah sister, or someone like that?” No sooner had she said it, a bolt of blue sailed overhead, crashing into some hovering Changelings and knocking them down to earth with a crash. Despite herself, Scootaloo let her jaw drop in admiration, the gust of wind Rainbow Dash’s flyby had created cooling some of the sweat that had beaded across her brow.

“They’ve probably got bigger problems right now!” She called back as she accelerated, Sweetie Belle making a noise that sounded like she was about to hurl. Scootaloo decided that her friend’s queasy stomach was a problem for later-right now; she just wanted to escape this battle zone intact.

After those strange metal things, or whatever they were-nobody had told Scootaloo exactly what was going on-had broken free and started fighting the guard, the Cutie Mark Crusaders had along with the other Ponies managed to evacuate the throne room more or less unharmed. Initially they’d stuck close to Applejack and Rarity, trusting their big sisters to keep them safe. If the young Pegasus was honest with herself, the whole thing had been a major adrenaline surge that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. That had changed when the Changeling’s had attacked-Scootaloo remembered the last time they’d encountered the icky bug-things, at the Royal Wedding, and she’d had more than enough of them then. This time though it was far worse; the Changelings didn’t seem particularly bothered about taking over Canterlot, rather electing to tear the city to the ground. In the confusion and panic the Crusaders had wound up separated from any sort of authority figures, and had taken it upon themselves to make their own escape.

Despite their youth, even they could see the city was a disaster zone. Buildings and the very street had had chunks blasted out of them by the force of the Changeling’s impacts, with some houses and ships being dragged into ruin by sheer weight of numbers. Above their heads, Equestrian royal guard clashed with the Changeling invaders, though for the most part Celestia’s warriors were on the back foot. There were already bodies from both sides starting to litter the ground, though Scootaloo tried not to think about them.
Her attention was brought back to the present in a hurry as a Changeling dropped onto the ground in front of them, hissing with sharp teeth bared. Ignoring Applebloom and Sweetie Belle’s screams, Scootaloo threw the scooter into a power slide, kicking up grit into the monster’s eyes and causing it to screech in frustration at its temporary blindness. She beat her little wings faster, struggling to maintain a grip on their transport as it wobbled almost uncontrollably. She finally managed to force it to straighten out, but she had no time to celebrate as two more Changelings started flying behind the Crusaders, pursuing them furiously.

“Hold on!” Scootaloo called out, slightly unnecessarily. She darted through tight back alleys and round sharp bends, but still they were chased. The Crusaders ducked as another Changeling sailed overhead, taking a small measure of satisfaction as it crashed into the side of a building. All the while their pursuers edged closer and closer, until they were literally snapping at the Ponies’ heels. Just when Scootaloo was about to break down from fear, Sweetie Belle finally chose to contribute something.

“Over there!” she cried, gesturing with her hood. Following her friend’s arm, Scootaloo saw a strange piece of debris angled skyward in the middle of the street. For a moment it didn’t click, but before she could say anything Scootaloo realised what Sweetie Belle was getting at. She grinned, and gave a small nod.

The scooter sped up even more as its pilot pumped her little wings even harder, blinking tears from her eyes and gritting her teeth in effort. In response, the pair of Changelings began to fly faster, unwilling to let their prey escape so easily. Finally reaching the rock Sweetie had pointed out, Scootaloo didn’t slow down but just kept going, throwing herself upward as she did so. Applebloom and Sweetie did the same, pushing off the scooter and sailing through the air as they cannoned off the end of their makeshift ramp. But the Changelings couldn’t slow down, and with howls of anger they sailed between the Crusaders and the now empty scooter, turning circles far too wide to make going back practical t such speed.

Whilst they’d avoided the immediate danger, it didn’t take long for the three fillies to realise their own mistake. Scootaloo reached out for the scooter that was now plummeting towards the ground, but it was in vain. They tumbled head over head through the air, before impacting the cobbles with a hefty thump and skidding along the ground, finally coming to rest in a jumbled heap at the foot of a building. For a moment they were too dazed and confused to move, before finally they managed to pick themselves up and shake away the stars dancing before their eyes.

“…yeah, remind me not to follow Sweetie Belle’s advice in future near-death situations.” Scootaloo said sarcastically. Sweetie just pouted.

“Well, at least we got away.” Applebloom interjected, eager to avoid an argument now. “Come on, we can’t be far from the station, maybe we can get a train back tah Ponyville or somethin’”

As the Crusaders turned to run, a shadow loomed over them. They looked round in terror, backing away and closer together as they did so. The Changeling slowly descended to the ground, empty blue eyes showing the three fillies their own frightened reflections. It grinned as it advanced, slowly and menacingly like a predator taking sadistic pleasure in the last moments of an animal it knew couldn’t get away.

Scootaloo quickly glanced at her two friends-they were both shaking, eyes wracked with terror. She tried to put on her best war face, to show this monster that she wasn’t afraid of it, but in truth she knew that she must look just as bad as the other two. She’d never thought it’d end like this. It would always have been something more…awesome. Something amazing, not being murdered by an animal in the streets of Canterlot. And of course, Rainbow Dash would be there. That was what hurt the most-the fact that Rainbow Dash couldn’t save them. Scootaloo would never get to tell her how much she meant to her, how much she inspired and gaze Scootaloo hope.

“Girls...” It was Sweetie Belle. Far be it from the loud screams Scootaloo had expected, her voice was barely above a whisper, and choked with emotion. “Do you think we’ll get our Cutie Marks in being best friends?”

The simple honesty of the words broke the dam Scoots had erected inside. The tears flowed down her cheek slowly, each one of them glistening in the afternoon sun. She wrapped her hooves around those of her friends as the Changeling advanced, the display of togetherness more meaningful than any words. There was a strange, rhythmic banging hammering away at the edge of her consciousness-Scootaloo dismissed it as her heart. Despite herself, she smiled.

“Yeah…you girls are awesome.”

She breathed out slowly and waited for the blow. Memories flooded back to her-flight school, meeting Applebloom and Sweetie Belle at Diamond Tiara’s Cutesinera, forming the Cutie Mark Crusaders, the talent show, the sleepover at Fluttershy’s…it was all going to be gone. It had been good though. She heard the Changeling coiling for an attack, and tried to make a brave face. The banging, whatever it had been, suddenly stopped.

Scootaloo’s eyes snapped open as the second dark shape sailed overhead.

They’d fallen like stars from heaven, angry gods of the firmament bringing their wrath to the mortals below. Lorkhan had released his hold on Zuko and Rorke as soon as they were free falling-complainers by nature though they might be, their sense of self-preservation was far stronger.

For a couple of seconds they’d just dropped, speeding up with every moment and feeling the wind whipping past them. They hugged close to the Castle’s wall, bodies angled feet first. Looking to his right, Lorkhan saw Mordecai, his skirt blowing upwards and revealing his silver coloured greaves. Parchment ripped from his armour, carried away by the force of the updraft. To the Warsmith’s right was Zuko; although the wind made hearing anything difficult, even over the vox, Lorkhan was pretty sure his Champion was swearing.

After falling for about ten seconds, and still a fair way up the castle’s sheer wall, the Iron Warriors deemed it time to slow their descent. They punched one gauntlet into the wall, easily smashing through the stone and digging their armoured fingers in to try and catch on to some handgrip. Pieces of masonry flew back as they grabbed on, dust and rock clanking off power armour. They still fell, but constantly smashing through brickwork with one hand brought more and more resistance force into play. Not all of them made it; Lorkhan saw a piece of jutting rock that brother Vortax had attempted to grab onto come loose. He flailed around in an attempt to restart his slide, but he found no purchased and with a scream fell down and down, disappearing into the streets below. The Warsmith shook his head as he grabbed tighter onto the wall. Idiot.

Eventually, they had slowed enough so as to nearly have stopped, still dangling a considerable way above ground level. They pushed off the wall with their legs, turning round in the air and throwing their arms back, giving the impression of great apes leaping through the treetops of ancient Terra. They sailed through the air, before crashing down onto nearby rooftops of what the Iron Warriors assumed must be the habitation for the Xenos of this city. Thirteen pairs of power armoured boots landed on one, leaving irreparable cracks in the roof tiling, whilst twelve more crashed down on the identical house across the street. Lorkhan rose from his crouched landing position back to his full height, Mechatendrils snapping at the air in excitement.

“Not the most conventional deep strike method, but it’ll do.”

The Obliterators had not followed the rest of the Grand Company to the window, initially staying behind to hold off the mass of bug-like aliens in the throne room. Seeing that their brothers had more or less landed in one piece, Vortun’s warriors decided it was their turn to leave. They stepped backwards and just tumbled through the sky, accelerating rapidly like huge black comets. Their ‘unique’ biology meant they weren’t able to grapple onto the wall, and for a moment Lorkhan wondered whether they were going to end up as warp-tainted paste smearing the ground alongside Vortax.

His concern was dispelled as Mordecai stepped to the edge of the roof, watching the Obliterator’s fall. The Telekine extended a hand, curling his fingers into claws. Immediately the cult’s descent slowed invisible energy acting as a counter to gravity’s press. Mordecai gave a grunt of pain as his fingers twisted uncomfortably, and for once Lorkhan didn’t mock him-it must have taken considerable psychic force to slow down such heavy objects. Finally, the Obliterators touched down on the streets far below the rest of the Iron Warriors. Their impacts made considerable shockwave, blowing both bug and guard pony backwards. Without a moments delay Vortun and his brothers began to blast out great streams of flame from their newly morphed heavy flamers. The stink of burning flesh could be smelt even high above.

“At least someone’s having fun.” Lorkhan muttered. Behind him, Mordecai sagged slightly, breathing heavily as the exertion manifesting such power required took. Zuko moved to support him, earning a nod of thanks from the Sorcerer.

The Iron Warriors didn’t bother debating their next course of action. They’d managed to escape custody, and whilst they still didn’t have their weapons, the unspoken consensus seemed to be that they’d be better served retreating to the wreck of their ship and then launching a counter-attack. The buildings they’d landed on seemed to be some kind of high rise apartment block, with smaller housing below. Fighting between the two Pony races was going on in the air and the streets, but as far as the Iron Warriors were concerned as long as they got through to their objective, everyone was an enemy.

They started to run, armoured footfalls causing more cracks to appear across the roof tiling. They bludgeoned their way through any Pony or Changeling they came across, trusting more to brute strength than battle skill. On the other rooftop, Lorkhan saw Rorke dropkick a dazed Changeling’s head off, snapping the neck clean in half. He couldn’t help a feral grin covering what was left of his organic face.

Lorkhan’s group leapt down another storey or two, splitting off as they crashed onto the smaller house’s roof. Mordecai and about five other Iron Warriors followed Lorkhan; two more peeled to the right, whilst Zuko and two others went left. They dropped into the streets and began carving their way through Xenos soldier and frightened civilian. Blood caked their armour as it spurted from torn flesh, and although such rampant violence was at odds with the typical controlled aggression of the IV Legion, it did give Lorkhan a sense of righteous vindication.

“Zuko.”

“Lord.” The Champion’s reply was curt, the sounds of the dying carried plainly over the vox. Lorkhan shook his head slightly in amusement as he run; they hadn’t died. Zuko was wrong. He was probably never going to live this down-not if Lorkhan could help it, anyway.

“Do you see a way out of the city?” The Warsmith asked. There was no reply for a moment, before a confirmation rune blipped on Lorkhan’s optical display.

“Yes, there’s a single bridge that seems to lead out to surrounding countryside. We could try the mountains I guess, but we would have to navigate the gorge between here and there.”

“Affirmative. I’ll patch co-ordinates to all brothers and we’ll rendezvous there.”

“Rorke’s helmet is broken, sir. He may not get the message”

“And?”

“Lorkhan.”

The Warsmith sighed, stooping down to pick up a rock as he did so. He hurled it through the air with pinpoint accuracy and considerable force, striking one of the armoured Pony xenoforms in the head and causing it to crash into the street as the rock exited the rear of its skull. “Oh, fine then if you’re going to get whingey about it. I’ll get Kravix to babysit Rorke.” Lorkhan didn’t wait for the reply, closing off the vox link.

Behind him, Mordecai sped up his jog, coming to run parallel with Lorkhan. “Lord, far be it from me to question your flawless command, but I do believe you’ve made a rather considerable oversi-one moment, please.”

The Changeling dived at Lorkhan from behind, screaming and howling. Lorkhan heard it and begun to swing round to give it a right hook to the jaw. Mordecai had already seen it; he shot an arm out, palm open, before swiftly contracting his hand into a fist. The Changeling exploded in mid-air, green blood and chunks of black flesh raining down. The sorcerer watched his handiwork fall, seemingly quite satisfied, before turning back to the other Iron Warrior.

“As I was explaining, before we were so rudely interrupted, whilst your plan is deserving of merit I would not feel comfortable within myself if I were not to offer slight critique.”

“You know Mordecai, you have an amazing ability to talk a hell of a lot, and have all of it be utter shit.” Lorkhan grunted. Far from being perturbed, the Psyker seemed to take this as his cue to continue.

“Whilst we were incarcerated in that ghastly castle, I took the liberty of taking a look out the window whilst you and Rorke explained in great detail to our equine friends why we should not have left that room alive. From recollection, I do believe that the exit you described to Zuko was built primarily to serve as a hub for these Xenos’ primitive locomotive service.”

Lorkhan just stared at him for a moment. “So…you’re saying it’s a train station?”

“I believe so.”

“And why is that a bad thing?”

“Well, sir, it stands to reason that if we are strategizing to make our escape via that exit then these panicked Xenos-crude minds though they may possess-will reach the same conclusion.”

“Again, I’m not seeing the problem here.”

“Put simply; there will be a mob, Lorkhan. This will hamper our exit strategy in a way that could prevent it success, and even if we do get out we may well become separated.”

“We can kill our way through.”

“I fear you’re not seeing my point, sir.”

“I fear you’re a fucking idiot, Mordecai, and all these rainbows and sunshine have finally made your brain snapped.”

For a second, the two merely stared at one another. The Iron Warriors who had been running with them, for the most part finishing off their own kills, turned to watch them-this display of tension far more entertaining in this brief moment than the fairly unchallenging slaughter. After a while, Mordecai drew breath to speak again, when they were both distracted by the sound of something large and unpleasant landing a few hundred metres down the road. They turned to look at it. Mordecai swore, his voice still quiet and polite.

Corrupted magic shot from the tip of a black horn. It struck one of the Iron Warriors square in the chest, blasting him back in a dark alleyway. The Queen of the Changelings faced down the few Astartes that stood in her path, blowing the smoke from the end of her horn. Behind her, at least fifty Changelings hovered on their insect like wings, filling the air with a horrible droning. A tower loomed over the street, bedecked in stars and swirls and a golden roof that seemed to contain an observatory. The Xenos swarmed over that too, giving off a chittering that further reminded Lorkhan of the Tyranids.

“I must say, you’re surprisingly effective killing machines my friends, whatever you are.” She said, flashing a fanged smile. “The fact that now the ride has to end for you saddens me a little-you would have been more than satisfactory allies as we grind this pathetic kingdom under our hooves.” She turned her head to the side, feigning an air of disappointment. “Alas…you have no love to drain. You don’t, it would appear, care about anything. You’re no good as food, and I highly doubt we’d last long in a military conjunction without one side betraying the other, so dying really does seem to be the only option left to you.”

“Wait!” The Warsmith raised a hand, causing Mordecai to look at him in mild surprise. “That’s not true! We can be valuable to you. We like lots of things.”

The Changeling Queen raised an eyebrow and smiled, her amusement and incredulousness both written plainly across her face. “Such as?”

“We like…erm…we like…” Lorkhan rubbed his hands together idly as he wracked his brain to think of something-anything-the thirteenth company didn’t hate. Beside him, Mordecai had placed both palms over his faceplate, shaking his head slowly and sadly. “We like…We like the Gods!...no, actually, not really…erm…we like revenge? Well…no, we wouldn’t have chosen this life, if I’m being honest…come on there must be something, what about…no, we hate that….oh, how about….no, we hate that as well…erm…” he looked up finally, seemingly in defeat. “You know what, fuck it, you probably are going to have to kill us.”

The Queen looked at the ground, smiling even wider and chuckling to herself. “Well, if you insist.” Her smile dropped, all trace of levity suddenly gone as she addressed her subjects.

“Get them.”

“Oh, fine then if you’re going to get whingey about it. I’ll get Kravix to babysit Rorke.”

“He may be a dickhead, but I’m sure Rorke can look after himself. I was only saying that-“

The link was dead. Zuko gave a growl of frustration as he ran-classic Lorkhan, right there. Sometimes, Zuko regretted dragging him out of the wreckage the Raven Guard had made back during the War.

Zuko and Barbus ran side by side, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with considerable ease. Basikor had broken off a while back, taking an alternate route down on the streets. In truth Zuko didn’t give a shit about what exactly had happened to him, provided he didn’t do something that got them all killed.

“What do you reckon the plan is?” Barbus asked as they jumped. Zuko grunted.

“Is now the really the best time, brother?”

“Just trying to make conversation.”

He had a point.

“If you want my opinion, first we break out of here. Then we go back to the ship, before launching a counter-attack to get our weapons back.”

“And then?”

“We murder every living thing on this Gods-forsaken planet.”

“Fair enough.” They ran on a brief while before he spoke up again. “So how exactly are we getting of this world.”

Zuko stopped almost in mid-air. He crashed into the next roof, sending tiles flying under his weight. Barbus skidded to a stop, looking at him with a mixture of disgust and concern.

It was…it was a damn good question. How were they going to get off this planet? Their ship was the wrong side of useless, and in all the years Zuko had known him, Mordecai had never displayed any sort of psychic power that allowed teleportation. They could always beseech the Gods, but…well; this place hardly seemed strong in the powers of Chaos. The question stuck in Zuko’s mind and stuck fast. No matter how hard he fought to dislodge it, it hung there like a splinter.

He looked around almost in a daze. A couple of metres away, on ground level, there was one of the Changelings menacing some unseen enemy. Whatever that enemy had been was probably already half-dead, Zuko reflected, but just looking at the Xenos monster made the Iron Warrior’s choler rise. His hands bunched into fists. He began to take steps towards it.

“Zuko?” Barbus placed a gauntlet on the Champion’s pauldron. Zuko shrugged it off, not looking back.

“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up. I just really need to go and kill that thing.”

“Brother…”

“Go, Barbus.”

The other Iron Warrior turned, and kept running, dropping to street level. Zuko glared at the Changeling for a moment more, before starting to run. His boots made heavy footfalls in the roof tiling, a rhythmic banging caused by his movement. It still hadn’t noticed him. Whatever it was after, it was obviously a tempting target. He reached the lip of the building, rage now burning inside him like the Eighteenth Legion’s furnaces. He stopped running. The Changeling coiled to attack. He jumped.

A dark shape sailed at the Changeling from above, causing it to snap out of its attack and look up in fear and surprise. Zuko gave it no time to react, slamming into it feet first. His mass and velocity did all the work, reducing the Xenos to nothing but paste smeared along the ground. Landing in a crouch atop his foe’s remains, Zuko punched straight through what was left of its skull. The monster was already dead, but it sure as hell made him feel better.

He straightened, looking down at the mangled body. Memories flashed back-strangling a warrior in black war plate on the fields of Istvaan. He couldn’t remember if it was a Raven Guard or an Iron Hand. It had been the first time Zuko had spilled another Legionaries’ blood. Back then the war had mattered. It had felt…not right, never right, but like he was accomplishing something. They hadn’t lost yet, Zuko supposed. He’d still hoped they would make the galaxy a better place. He’d still thought that was that bastard Horus had wanted.

Looking down at the body, Zuko tried to feel that pride again. All he felt now was cold burning disgust.

“You…you saved us.”

Zuko turned sharply, dropping into a combat stance. Three small ponies were cowering in the shadow of the house; they must have been what the Changeling was going after, Zuko reasoned. The one in front, the one that had spoken, was orange with tiny wings. From her body language she seemed nervous, but also awed by him. The second was yellow with a red bow. She too seemed more curious than scared. The last one, white with purple hair, stayed at the back. She only tentatively moved, not bothering to hide her fear.

“That was awesome!” The orange one said. “Gross, but, awesome!”

“Yeah, and you gahs don’t look like Changelings. So…ah’ you on our sahd?” The yellow one asked.

“You saw them back at the castle, Applebloom! Did they look like they were on our side?” That was the white one now, her voice cracking and squeaky in fright. For his part, Zuko couldn’t help but stare at them in incredulity. Did they really think that he might be on their side? Oh shit…oh shit, they really did. That was hilarious. For the first time in decades, Zuko nearly laughed.

“’Ah know Sweetie Belle, ah saw it too. But these gahs are pushin’ the Changelings back pretty darn quickly.” The yellow one replied, not a trace of irony in her voice.

“Yeah, plus they look pretty awesome! Their cutie marks are a helmet or something!” The orange one piped, face creasing in a wide grin. Zuko didn’t move or say anything, unsure of how to actually respond to that-the fact that they’d referred to the iron helmet of the IV Legio Astartes, the cold skull feared across the length and breadth of humanities’ galactic empire and the harbinger of inevitable violent death, as a ‘cutie mark’ had sort of left him reeling. “What’s your special talent?” she asked, seemingly genuinely interested.

“It’s probably something to do with scarin’ everypony-ah mean, it is kinda’ frightnin’.” The yellow one said. Her peculiar accent was starting to grate.

“No, it looks more like something from a skull and crossbones. You know, like those pirates that we learned about with Ms Cheerilee used.” The white one said. Her voice still quivered slightly, but now that she had something to distract her it sounded more absent-minded than anything.

“So, they’re like, really overdressed pirates?” the orange one asked. She looked unconvinced.

“Well, they’re hardly privateers.”

“Wuts ah’ priv-ee-tahr?” the yellow one said. Yep, that accent was DEFINITELY more irritating than it was a few moments ago.

“It’s like a licenced pirate. You know, like a police-pony, but for water.”

“I don’t think they’re pirates, Sweetie Belle.” The orange one said. Zuko wasn’t sure whether to agree with her or not, considering her argument was based on his attire.

“They are too!”

“Nuh uh!”

“Yeah haw!”

“Nuh uh!”

“Yeah haw!”

“Nuh uh!”

“Yeah haw!”

This was too much. As the two small Xenos still bickered, Zuko tensed a leg and started bringing it back to drop kick them into orbit. They didn’t seem to notice, and Zuko was about to turn them into mush when Barbus’ voice crackled into life across the vox.

“Zuko, wherever you are, drop what you’re doing and converge on my position. Lorkhan’s gone and got himself in a spot of bother.”

“In a minute, Barbus.”

“Now, Zuko.”

“Please let me kick these little bastards.”

“Boss…”

“ugh…fine…” Zuko practically growled the world, sighing in frustration as he lowered his foot. The Ponies still weren’t paying attention to him, caught up in their infantile argument. For a moment, Zuko considered flattening them anyway, before deciding that the Warsmith needed all the help he could get. He turned and began to sprint back to the main road and towards Barbus’ co-ordinates.

“Hey, where yah going?!” The yellow one called out. Zuko didn’t look back.

Away from you was all he could think.

Lorkhan ducked the bolt of dark energy, punching through the chest of another Changeling. He grabbed the heart in his fist and pulled with all his strength. It ripped clean away, still pulsing slightly. The Changeling coughed up a little blood, seemingly not comprehending what had just happened, before dropping to the ground. Lorkhan chucked the organ away nonchalantly, returning his attention to the battle at hand.

It wasn’t looking good. Even with the Iron Warrior’s considerable advantage in terms of individual skill, the sheer number of their enemies was presenting a problem, not to mention the fact that their Queen had elected to join the fight proper. Their ability to change shape was also starting to have an effect in the swirling melee, some Iron Warriors struck down by Astartes they thought were their brothers. He’d lost sight of Mordecai early on, but didn’t believe luck would smile on him today and let the Sorcerer die.

The smell of smoke and burning flesh through his helmet’s skull-shaped grille brought Lorkhan a moment of satisfaction, heart rising only a fraction as he realised that Vortun must have entered the battle. All the Iron Warriors in the Company had been called to make their stand here, and those that remained were leaping into the brawl from rooftops of side-streets. Lorkhan saw Zuko sprint out of a small alleyway, clothes-lining two hovering Changelings and snapping their necks. As for the Obliterators, they stomped into the field of war screaming chants of corrupted binary and spewing out great balls of plasma. Two of them scattered, yet the final one did hit two of the monstrosities, reducing them to ash.

Another Iron Warrior fell beside Lorkhan, his throat ripped out by a Changeling. Lorkhan grabbed the creature and brought its back down over his knee and snapping the spine clean in half. Tossing the corpse away, he almost yelped involuntarily as he pirouetted out of the way of a laser blast. The Changeling Queen glared down at him, insect-like wings beating furiously. She unleashed another beam, Lorkhan dodging to the side again. For all his agility, Lorkhan knew that eventually he’d slip up, and that would probably lead to him dying in a way that was hilarious to his subordinates but unfortunate for him. Three more Xenos jumped on him. He beat them off with his Mecha-tendrils, breathing heavily. Blood of the Gods, just how many of these things were there?

“Vortun.” He hissed over the vox.

“Ja, mein kapitan?”

“Do something”

“Fein.” The Obliterators lumbered their way to the front of the fight, power fists swatting the enemy away like flies. They formed a rough firing line as they took aim at the Queen, arms morphing to take the form of Multi-Meltas. Lorkhan turned his head to watch in hope, not bothering to look at the Changeling he was strangling.

The first beam fired.

The Queen darted to the side, the buzzing sound getting worse as she flapped harder. The beam of molten energy sailed into the air struck nothing.

The second beam fired.

She darted aside again, in front of the tower that loomed over the street. In response, another beam of dark energy shot forth from her horn. It struck the Obliterator that had fired in the chest, causing him to stagger back and grunt in pain.

Vortun closed one eye, breathed out, and fired. “Hit it, Vortun!” Lorkhan screamed.

For a single moment, it looked like the bolt would hit, atomizing the vile Xenos. Just when the Warsmith dared to believe, she fell into a straight dive, smashing down into the floor and gouging a small crater in the flagstones. The Multi-Melta beam glanced into the tower, reducing the stones that made up part of the wall to nothing but molten slag. It stood like a tree that had had half the trunk cut away, leaning slightly from side to side unsteadily.

The Changeling gave a hideous, mocking laugh. “Really? Is that the best you can do, a couple of bumbling oafs spewing out fire power any which way? My dear sir, if that is the case then I fear my earlier praise may be very much misjudged.” Lorkhan could only sag his shoulders. The Multi-Melta beams would take a while to recharge, and in that time they’d be swarmed again-rendering the Obliterator’s guns worthless. He let out the breath he’d been holding. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, not to some pastel coloured ponies and their fucked-up cousins. He’d wanted to do more. Punch Rorke in the face one last time, for a start.

Behind his helmet, he gave the best steely expression he could. If this was the end, for once he’d do one thing right and die like an Iron Warrior. He took a few steps forward, fists balled, when a heavy claw on his shoulder stopped him. He looked round in confusion. Vortun had placed his power fist on his shoulder, gripping tightly. What was left of the Obliterator’s face, that which hadn’t been corrupted by the virus, was twisted in what could only be described as a knowing grin.

“Vait for it.” Was all he said. Lorkhan turned back to stare at the Queen, not comprehending what the Obliterator meant.

Then he saw it.

The tower that had been struck and had half of its support blasted away by the errant Melta-beam swung slightly in the breeze, groaning slightly as its tortured structural elements struggled to keep it upright. It leaned away from the wide street, threatening to fall onto what looked like some shops for the Xenos, before it tilted back the other way. The wooden beams inside cracked. Stone crashed down onto stone. It began…it began to fall.

It almost seemed to go in slow-motion. The angle was too perfect. It had to be engineered; there was no way in hell that this was happening. Lorkhan didn't move. He didn't even turn away to shield himself. He just stood there, staring open mouthed as the top half of the tower fell towards the ground.

“What have you done, Vortun?” was all he could ask. His voice was barely above a whisper.

Still it fell, further and further towards the ground. The Changelings noticed, heard it coming, heard it croaking and screaming as it fell. Many of them fled, flying away and chittering in fear. But the Queen was too caught up in her victory and gloating to notice. The sky grew darker as the shadow of the falling tower passed over her, but still she didn’t move. The ecstasy of this revenge seemed almost too much. Finally, as the sun was blocked out almost completely for her, she looked up. Her momentary confusion as to where many of her subjects had gone quickly distorted; for a single second, Lorkhan registered a look of absolute horror on her face as he realised she could not run. She started to say something, tried to back away and run.

She never finished.

The tower crashed down with an almighty roar. The shockwave blew Lorkhan back slightly, and this time he did shield his eyes as the dust was blasted against his armour. Only the Obliterators stood firm. When he looked back, the tower lay in a broken heap of masonry, blocking off the other half of the street. Bricks and debris lay everywhere, both from the toppled structure itself and those houses it had crashed into as it hit the ground. Many Changelings still hovered and stood around, gazing at the shattered tower in incomprehension. But of the Queen, there was no sign.

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Xenos or Iron Warrior, they just stared. Lorkhan didn’t know what he even could say, he didn’t believe what he’d just seen was real. Of course, it was Vortun that broke the silence.

“Ka-boom.”

The vox exploded. Laughter, howls of laughter, echoed around the street. Even Mordecai was giggling profusely. Rorke was almost on the ground, clutching his sides. Only Zuko still stared forward in shock. Lorkhan fell onto his back, unable to stop the stream of laughter that came from him. He rolled slightly, trying desperately to get back up and yet breaking down into hysterics every time he did so. In the back of his mind, he was concerned the Changelings might attack in a frenzy, but blinking away the tears he saw that there was little danger of that. The Xenos were still staring at the collapsed building in shock. With the loss of their leader, that was starting to convert to fear.

Lorkhan unsteadily rose to his feet, still chuckling a little and turning to look at the Changeling masses. The other Iron Warriors, as one, fell into a large group behind him, flexing their fists or folding their arms. Despite the situation, Lorkhan felt a brief flicker of pride in his men. They were together as a Company-that was rare to say the least. The Changelings turned to look at the Iron Warriors. Lorkhan could have sworn some of them gulped.

“This is the part,” the Warsmith said, tilting his head to the side slightly and putting on his friendliest voice “where you run away.”

And they did. As one, they turned and fled like they were being paid to do it. None of them even tried to fight back, the hordes taking to the skies in great droning masses. The black clouds flew into the sky, making for the horizon as quickly as possible. The few that hadn’t been in the mass brawl still answered the call to flee, rising into the sky with their brothers. In a few minutes, they were reaching the skyline, far away and no more harmful than a flock of birds. The Iron Warriors watched them go in silence, none seeking to tarnish their victory with idle wounds. Lorkhan thought he saw Barbus wave slightly from the corner of his eye.

“Well…I do believe that was a rather successful jaunt, gentlemen.” Lorkhan could almost hear Mordecai’s breathless grin. For once, the Warsmith didn’t begrudge him it in the slightest.

Finally, the group broke up and turned away, milling about seemingly unsure of what to do. Some of them started to move towards their brother’s corpses. There were no specialist apothecary’s in the thirteenth company, but Lorkhan knew that at least a few were trained to extract gene-seed. They’d done it before in any case.

Before any general plan could be made, a flash of light broke the brief calm that had descended. The Iron Warriors fell back into a circle, already seeing where this was going. The Obliterators primed their weapons.

The Ponies manifested around them cutting off their escape, spears lowered and fire in their eyes. They looked tired and ragged, armour beat and bent and bodies riddled with blood, cuts and scars. But the few that remained still stood, looking ready to unleash their anger in a moment. Lorkhan was almost impressed. A few hovered in the sky, spears still lowered. They were joined by a blue winged pony with rainbow coloured hair, and the yellow one that had run off crying earlier. The blue one had her hooves raised in a fighting stance, and an expression of absolute fury covering her face, whilst the yellow one tried to hide behind one of the Guards. Lorkhan knew where this was going, turning towards where the flash had originated from and being completely un-surprised with what he saw.

The Pony princesses stood there, White and blue, expressions cold and disdainful. They were joined by five others-the purple unicorn that had asked some questions during the ‘trial’, an orange pony with a hat, a pink one that for some reason was smiling, a white one with blue hair that looked nearly as angry as the rainbow dick, and the Guard Captain Zuko had duelled with earlier. They all looked absolutely exhausted, but still ready in a moment to wipe the Iron Warriors off the face of the planet.

“Oh, for the God’s sake.” Lorkhan heard Rorke mumble.

This was starting to turn into a habit of theirs.

Author's Note

HORY SHITE NEARLY 8000 WORDS.

It was actually going to be longer, but i thought that would be pushing it. Consider it repayment for so long without an update. The Canterlot section is pretty much done now; just need the resolution the next part, and we can move on the next exciting adventure. It may or may not involve rampant substance abuse.

If you're interested in timing, it's roughly set early in season 3-I'd say between 'Babs Seed' and 'Magical Duel'. So, no reformed Discord, and no Alicorned Twiley.

Although I, for on, accept our new Alicorn Overlords.

Champion Zuko vs the World

She hid her head under her blanket and squeaked, but it didn’t make it all go away.

The tiniest beam of moonlight shone in through a slit in the metal-clad walls that the Iron Warriors had erected around Fluttershy’s cottage, illuminating some of the folds that had formed in the shoddy rug. Fluttershy pulled it closer over her freezing body and tossed this way and that, trying desperately to get comfortable. It was no use; her original, luxuriously soft bed had been torn to shreds when the aliens had first arrived, and the replacement they’d installed was nothing more than a slab of cold iron. She’d pleaded with Lorkhan numerous times to just put it all back as it was, but after the incident with her mail box the Warsmith had been even more sullen, withdrawn and irritable than usual on the rare occasion she’d approached him. He scared her. Well, Fluttershy admitted that most things scared her, but the Iron Warriors really scared her. She wished that one of her assertive friends like Rarity, or Rainbow Dash had been there. They’d have got those bullies to listen.

The Pegasus sat up, casting her covers to the floor with uncharacteristic sloppiness and pulling herself to the end of the ‘bed’. She rubbed the end of her tired eyes with her hooves, resigned to the fact she wasn’t getting any sleep tonight. With a weary sigh Fluttershy stood up and began to walk through her almost pitch-black cottage towards the stairway. Every impact of her hoof on the hard iron floor sent an ominous clang around the small building. It echoed off the walls and seemed to come from everywhere at once, causing the shy yellow pony to squeak again involuntarily. The echo melded with the other horrible sounds coming from all around: The snapping of automated turrets rotating on their base in patrol arcs, the incessant whirr and stamp of pistons and generators that the Iron Warriors had built into the walls of her house for reasons they wouldn’t explain to her, and the constant grind of the water wheel outside that somehow provided power to the evil thing her home had become.

They’d actually redirected a whole stream just to get that water wheel to work. If Fluttershy hadn’t seen it herself, she wouldn’t believe it possible, even from such giants.

Cloudsdale was easily the most military of all Equestria’s main residences, but it was definitely a city. The only other castle that was actually used that Fluttershy had been in was Canterlot castle, and that was always such a lovely place. The Pegasus had decided however, that she didn’t like fortresses like the Iron Warriors built. They were dark, scary and…well, sort of smelly. On the other hoof, it was nice of them to rebuild a house for her at all…no. Think like Rainbow Dash. If she didn’t like this then she’d go and tell them, and Fluttershy would do the same. Only, maybe a bit less angrily. After all, the Iron Warriors were still living creatures and she didn’t really want to hurt their feelings, especially after they’d put so much effort into this for her.

Fluttershy’s train of thought was abruptly interrupted as she tripped on something solid and square on the floor. She faceplanted, whimpering and covering her now bleeding nose with a hoof. Wiping away some of the red liquid, the Pegasus squinted, trying to spot what she’d tripped over. The dark meant it was in vain, but Fluttershy could guess that it was one of the power transformers that were wired up to the colossal ‘battlecannon’ that had been mounted on her roof. Of everything the Iron Warriors had built, that was still the one that scared Fluttershy the most. The battlecannon loomed over everything, the gargoyle-shaped maw of the gun pointed squarely at Ponyville. She’d begged them to alter its position and not aim it at her friends, but for their part the Space Marines had ignored her. When Lorkhan finally did acknowledge her existence it was only to tell Fluttershy to do it herself. The array of flashing lights and complicated commands had made that easier said than done, and eventually she’d just given up and cried herself to sleep.

With her senses heightened by the dark, Fluttershy thought she heard the squeak of a mouse or even rat. Excitement built inside her as she turned, calling out “hello?” into the darkness. The skittish pony waited for what seemed like hours, hoping against hope that there’d be a response. Her ears drooped and a sad frown pulled at her face when it was clear one was not forthcoming. All her animal friends had quickly vacated her house once it had been rebuilt, and even the birds and larger creatures that lived in the surrounding garden now gave her a wide berth. In order to do her job of tending to them she now had to go to them herself, but whereas before Fluttershy had been able to communicate with them well, now they avoided her and were at best eternally suspicious. It was as if the fortress air clung to her wherever she went, driving off everything natural. The only real memories of her old life that she’d been allowed to keep were a few photographs the Marines had managed to find and not step on, and Angel Bunny’s basket. It sad made and ready in the corner, as if any moment it would be filled by its fluffy white owner. Fluttershy tried not to think about it; no need to upset herself even further.

Eventually, she reached the imposing double door that had been built in place of the old cottage one. Wearily, began to key in the sequence they’d shown her on the glowing control panel by its side. It had taken her a while to memorise, and Lorkhan had warned her to make she got it right-the wrong button could raise the drawbridge, fire the turrets and other hidden weaponry installed on the outside walls, trigger the failsafe self-destruct option or any number of other awful things. Finally finishing the code with a practiced precision, Fluttershy stood back and turned towards the doors as they swung open with an ominous growl. She walked out onto the wooden drawbridge that crossed the flowing river surrounding her fortress. She spared a glance at the doors as they came to a halt; for all that they espoused their practical nature, the Iron Warriors had seemingly been unable to resist a bit of vanity and had cared the metal skull that seemed to be their symbol on the two doors. Fluttershy thought it was a horrible, ugly thing, but there was no way she could remove the doors on her own.

The distant sound of laughter and music made her ears prick up, and the Pegasus looked in the direction from whence it came. Ponyville stood just before the horizon, vibrant and bright. The thought of her fellow Equestrians celebrating and getting on with life even in the face of such adversity brought a smile to Fluttershy’s face, even as the cool wind blew folds of pink hair across one eye. Fluttershy had never been particularly sociable, but all of a sudden the desire to go and join her friends nearly overwhelmed her. Ever since she’d moved back to this, it was only scarcely she received a visitor. Twilight and Spike had come at first quite often, when the Unicorn took a break from her research that is, but slowly their visits had grown less frequent. Pinkie Pie seemed to refuse to go near the fortress at all, although she clearly was concerned for Fluttershy’s wellbeing. She still met with Rarity for their weekly spa date, but it was always…awkward. Even Rainbow Dash had stopped coming…

A cold blast of air bit into the back of her head, and Fluttershy turned to face the source. The night made seeing far difficult, but she knew that perhaps a few hundred metres away sat the hulking remains of the great ship the Iron Warriors had crashed in. It was covered in the dark, the spiked edges and great chains forming menacing silhouettes. Fluttershy shuddered; they were in their right now, she knew, right on her doorstep. The Iron Warriors could be watching her right now, and probably shoot her dead from that distance as well. The rational part of Fluttershy’s mind told her that they would all be sleeping; somehow, though, Fluttershy doubted that they needed to sleep.

She sighed deeply, staring at the ground. The melancholy lasted for but a moment, before-to her surprise-what could almost have been determination settled in her gut. Fluttershy grimaced and tried to put on her best angry face as she willed herself to be brave. Enough was enough. Somebody had to go and tell the Iron Warriors that they couldn’t just go around Equestria being mean to everypony. In the morning she’d gather up some of her friends, march right up the Marines and tell them that herself. The more Fluttershy thought about it, the more quietly confident she became that she could do it, drawing on what she remembered of Iron Will’s assertiveness training. Yeah…after all, they weren’t allowed to hurt anyone, right? What’s the worst they could do? Fluttershy rose to her full height-it still wasn’t much, but a little more imposing than the common nervous slouch-and willed herself to look brave and determined. She would go and give that horrible Lorkhan a piece of her mind, and if he didn’t like it, then that was too bad.

As if on cue a bolt of lightning crashed through the sky, briefly illuminating all around Fluttershy. In the faux light the wreckage of the Iron Warrior ship almost seemed to come alive, the corrupted and spiked metal casting its shadow far and wide. Fluttershy yelped in panic, jumping high into the air and turning to dash back to her ‘house’. She bolted inside still squealing, hitting the quick-close switch on her way in. The great iron doors began to shut behind her as she dived shaking beneath the blanket, eventually closing with a rumble. The carved iron skull stared out as emotionlessly and impassively as ever, the eight pointed star behind it dripping from every spike with the rain that was now beginning to fall.

On the whole, Fluttershy reasoned, the Iron Warriors would probably be busy tomorrow morning. No point in disturbing them.

Best leave it for another day.

Time, Zuko mused as one of his more philosophical moods began to overtake him, was a peculiar thing. It was simultaneously natural and arbitrary; something that was present all around them in the universe yet only defined when you really stopped to think about it. Even in the Warp, where all the regular rules of creation were opt-in policies that no one paid attention to and time could flow up and down as well as backwards and forwards, that strange linear progression had always been there no matter how warped it was along the way. Mankind was as far as he could tell, a species obsessed with time; they planned missions to specific times, feared being here or there at certain times, and religiously stuck to the dictate of two hands on a clock. Yet, time must have existed before humans first crawled from the oceans in order for them to reach the stage they were now, even when no-one was around to monitor it on a clock. Did that time really still exist? And why were such singular measurements of time-the hour, the minute, the second-spread all throughout the Imperium even on worlds which had a very different solar orbit to Terra’s. Even here, the Ponies stuck to a clearly defined set of times, but how did they measure it beside that clock? How did they know their time was the right time?

Orks very seldom built fortresses proper, instead trusting to ramshackle Space Hulks and shanty towns. Thus, the Iron Warriors had had comparatively little contact with that particular Xenos race during the Great Crusade. The aftermath of the heresy and the genesis of the roaming warband meant conflict had become more and more frequent, but not to the same level of many of the other Legions. Zuko knew little of their culture, bar the obvious fact that it was centred entirely around violence, but from what he had observed over the centuries the Greenskins had no definitive measurement of time, nor did they seem to care. It baffled and intrigued the Iron Warrior-there was no sense of timing, no stress from rush, a (albeit primitive) society freed from the constraints of counting hours. It was part of what made them so unpredictable, he reasoned, but Zuko couldn’t deny a small part of him was intrigued as to whether humanity could survive for a week were all the clocks in the galaxy to suddenly stop working.

The chronometers built into his power armour had been scrambled in the crash, as had most of those belonging to his brothers, so bar the clock tower in the Xenos settlement he had no way of accurately knowing the time. But when Mordecai came to see him in his chamber within the Olympian Sun’s wreckage, Zuko estimated it was about half past ten.

The Aspiring Champion heard the automatic door slide open, and didn’t need to look around to know who had entered his room. Zuko remained hunched over his desk, face hidden from his brother. His horned helmet sat beside him on the desk; it faced Mordecai, glaring threateningly at the Sorcerer. The red eye lenses seemed to glow even when the helmet was not powered up.

“Am I in trouble?” The Aspiring Champion said bluntly. Mordecai’s response was to laugh.

“Perish the thought.”

Zuko was motionless for a moment, before taking a long drag on the cigar he held between the fingers of his right hand. Dropping the spent stick of tobacco to the ground, and ensuring his face was hidden in darkness, he lifted his helmet on the table and snapped it back into place. The hiss of joining seals filled the small room. When it was connected and energised he finally turned and looked at Mordecai , who returned the gaze patiently. Without thinking Zuko ground the still-smouldering cigar embers under his boot.

“Then what in the name of the Primarch are you doing here?”

Smoking had been a habit Zuko had picked up not long after the thirteenth company had first arrived on the Daemon world that was to become their home, Medrengard. The Legion’s flight through the Warp and exposure to the full power of Chaos, not to mention the terrible things they’d unleashed at the Iron Cage, had seemingly wrought one change or another on all of them. Mordecai was constantly polite and affable, Vortun had never lost his accent even after becoming an Obliterator, Lorkhan could be a little…slow, and Rorke shook whenever he got angry. Zuko however had begun to order the more skilled slaves to produce Astartes-sized cigars for him. Lho-sticks taken from the body of dead Imperial navy personnel had proven to be too delicate for him to use, and not nearly potent enough; whilst he knew full well that his Marine physiology neutralised the tobacco and nicotine, as well as any other chemicals, from what he smoked he found that his occasional cravings still persisted. It was a habit he’d managed to suppress for a long time, recognising it as the mental corruption that it was, but miraculously a set of cigars had survived the crash. It seemed almost a shame to waste them.

Mordecai let him get settled before started talking.

“It is a pleasant day. The Warsmith is currently amusing himself in some manner within the depths of our ship, although I admit I have no compulsion to discover how. Rorke, too, seems to insist on being dreadfully antisocial. Vortun is…well, I trust I need not explain some of the difficulties the blessed ones face here in terms of not startling the Pony-folk. Therefore, you remain; come, walk with me.”

Now it was Zuko’s turn to laugh. The sound that emanated from his vox grille was harsh and devoid of humour. As it slowly became clear that Mordecai wasn’t joking Zuko fell quiet, staring at the Warlock incredulously.

“You want me to come on a walk with you? Do you have any idea how shit-stupid that sounds? I had more than enough of you in that fucking forest.”

“I rather enjoyed our bonding experiences within the Everfree.”

“Our ‘bonding experience’ was getting a zebra crushed and accidentally burning half the bloody place down, before I lost my legs to a Salamander.” Zuko said, tapping the armour that covered his bionics for emphasis. “We’re brothers, not friends.”

“Why must the two be mutually exclusive?” Mordecai countered. “But in any case I am afraid your friendship, though desirable, is not required. I merely need someone to accompany me.”

Zuko cocked his head sideward, studying the Psyker intently. “Why?”

“I’m afraid I would not be at liberty to say, my dear boy.”

“Don’t call me that.” Zuko grumbled involuntarily, still staring at Mordecai. He stared back. The silence lasted for several long, drawn out moments. When it became clear that Mordecai was not leaving without him, Zuko gave an exasperated sigh.

“Fine, fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Without saying another word, Mordecai turned and marched from Zuko’s tiny chamber. The Aspiring Champion watched him go, before raising from his chair slowly and sighing again. He took off after the sorcerer. The two weaved their way through the Sun’s labyrinthine corridors, their helmet visors allowing them to penetrate the darkness that clouded the wreck’s corridors. Only occasionally did they come across other life-any mortal slaves either prostrated themselves immediately or moved out the way to avoid being crushed underfoot, whilst the sole Iron Warrior merely nodded.

Eventually, they left the hulk and emerged into the bright Equestrian sunlight. It always struck Zuko how colourful everything was here-the grass, for example, was greener than he’d seen anywhere else in the galaxy-whilst bird song and the gentle rustling of the trees echoed around him. The Champion was already regretting his decision to go with Mordecai. Over in the distance, the fortress that Lorkhan had built for that yellow horse whose cottage they’d destroyed could be seen. It was a good piece of engineering, he had to admit that much. He was about to say so when he realised that Mordecai had gone, moving at a brisk pace towards Ponyville. Grumbling again, Zuko set off in pursuit.

They walked in silence, arriving at the town in around five minutes. By now Zuko had grown used to his bionic legs, but they still occasionally glitched, sending him stumbling around like a drunkard. The arrival of the two Astartes seemed to suitably distress most of the Ponies who moments before had been happily shopping. They dashed for cover, either in the closest building or behind the nearest tree. Yet a fair few simply cast either a nervous or angry glare towards the Iron Warriors and continued on with their day, which Zuko supposed was an ‘improvement’ of sorts.

Mordecai seemed entirely more comfortable with the situation, seemingly oblivious to the Xenos’ fear. He ambled through the streets quite leisurely, occasionally pulling a crumpled sheet of parchment tied around his waist and making a mark with his pen. Zuko followed a step behind, watching his brother’s peculiar motions intently.

“What are you doing?” he asked eventually. Mordecai seemed to not hear him for a moment, before looking at the Aspiring Champion, His helmet’s red eye lenses locked with Zuko’s own.

“Oh, I am merely scribing a map of the surrounding locale.” He said pleasantly, returning to his drawing.

“A…map?” Zuko asked nonplussed. Mordecai chuckled, affixing the paper to his belt whilst beckoning Zuko with a wave of the other hand.

“My word, I do believe the sun is beginning to scramble your poor tin-plated head, my dear brother.” The Psyker said jovially. From behind his helmet Zuko glared, but said nothing. Averting his eyes from the Champion, Mordecai gestured all around, the sweep of his hand encompassing all of ‘Ponyville’ before them.

“I should, of course, be disposed to imagine that you are of particularly low spirits in regards to our current situation.” Mordecai went on. “But surely one must concur that we have found ourselves upon a most agreeable world.”

“For you, maybe.” Zuko responded, switching to a closed vox-channel. “I’ve hated every moment here.”

“Oh come now, brother. Surely you are not as frightfully pugnacious as Rorke that you cannot appreciate the charms of this world.”

“We’re Space Marines, Mordecai. We’re Iron Warriors. Tell me how to build a fortress or where there’s an enemy that needs to die and I’ll see it done. All this…downtime, it’s not right.” Zuko’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And more than that, we’re Chaos Space Marines. We should have killed everything here the moment we arrived.”

“Do not presume me to doubt the veracity of your words.” Mordecai said calmly. “And I assure you that, knowing you all as intimately as I do, anxiety would rest entirely for the Xenos. And yet…”

“And yet what?” Zuko asked guardedly, coming to a halt in the middle of the road. Without thinking his hand moved to rest on the handle of his holstered plasma pistol. Mordecai looked at him searchingly.

“And yet, I believe you grow weary of our Long War.”

The silence reigned for a long time. The two Iron Warriors stared at one another, neither one moving a muscle. A bird’s tweet cut the air.

It was Mordecai who broke the eye contact, turning to look down a nearby sidestreet. “Ah, Ms Rarity.” He said. He raised a hand in greeting to the white horse, who smiled back somewhat awkwardly and waved a hoof at him. Zuko took the opportunity to relax, leaving the pistol where it was.

“You’re on first name terms with them now?” He asked with a snort.

“Quite so, brother. The gentlemare who is to be my host during tomorrow’s fine-dining evening is one Ms Rarity, the owner ofCarousel Boutique, which I am informed is responsible for the production and distribution of most items of high fashion within this town.

“’Gentlemare’?” Zuko queried, not quite believing his ears. “And you’re going to a tea party with them?” He knew Mordecai’s hawk-like features would be creased in a smile behind his helmet.

“Civility is not a crime, old sport, not even for miscreants such as us.” The Psyker looked as if he was going to continue when he stopped, straightening slightly and cocking his head to the side.

“I say, do you hear that most peculiar clamour?” he asked, cupping a gauntleted hand around where his ear would be as if that would help. Zuko rolled his eyes despairingly, but just as he was about to tell Mordecai that nothing in the galaxy could make him go on another ‘bonding day’ with him, something began to roll around his ears. There was a noise coming from behind a building. It was high pitched and erratic, a low background murmur ever present behind it. The sound of a snuffling nose and occasional voice crack betrayed it for what it was.

“It sounds like sobbing.” Zuko said, trying his hardest to sound completely uninterested. “One of the horses is crying.”

“A juvenile, by my estimation.” Mordecai retorted. “but I concur.” Zuko shrugged and was about to ask why it mattered, when he realised Mordecai was watching him intently.

“Oh no.” He said, the feeling of dread welling up in his stomach as he put two and two together. “No. No way. Not even for the Primarch himself.” Mordecai didn’t answer, but another series of dry and choked sobs broke the air.

“The child isweeping profusely, my dear brother.” He said at length.

Mordecai had a singular ability, Zuko decided, to be able to be hated by almost everyone who knew him and yet get them to do whatever he wanted. He never had to raise his voice, either; it was something in the way he stared at you. You knew he wouldn’t back down or take no for an answer, and he was so damn friendly with everyone you told yourself ‘just this once, to get him off my arse’. There was never anything sinister or threatening in his manner, but still you complied. Apprehensively, the Champion realised that maybe there was something psychic ggoing on-Mordecai said he was a Telekine above all else, but who really knew what was going on back there. He hastily erected the basic mental defences all Space Marines were taught, but the compulsion didn’t die.

“For the Gods’ sake, fine.” He snarled turning away and beginning to move towards the sound of the noise. “But you owe me.”

“Good show, old sport.” Mordecai called over his shoulder. “Do come and tell me of your findings later, I am sure it will be most enlightening.” Zuko was already walking away, moving around the corner of the building. The crying was growing louder by the second.

Eventually he pinpointed the source of the disturbance, and immediately groaned internally. The small bundle of yellow fur-now bedraggled in some places, from what he assumed was her own tears-had hidden itself well in the shadow of this small courtyard. Her hooves covered her eyes as she shook and sniffled in between bawling, but from what he could tell from her red hair that was now little more than an unkempt mess attached to her head she’d been hiding here for quite some time. The unmistakable pink bow had almost come out.

“Pony.” Zuko called out, voice monotonous. She didn’t respond as another bout of noisy weeping came on.

“Child.” The Iron Warrior repeated, not willing to admit he knew her name. She still wouldn’t look at him. Zuko sighed, wishing he had a cigar on him.

“Appleboom.” He said, with a softness that surprised even him. That seemed to get her attention for a moment, and her head lifted slightly form the ball she curled into. Before Zuko could press her for details, however, she had buried her face in her hooves again and went back to crying. Now he groaned audibly, about to go over and find out what the hell was going on with the help of Mr Power Fist.

“Mah diary.” Applebloom said suddenly in a shaky voice, catching Zuko off guard. She finally looked up at him; her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, ruined by the waterworks. “Ms Cheerilee put us in lahk, a team for a school project, and it’s in two days tahm.” For a moment it looked like she was going to start crying again, but with a squint of her eyes she fought the tears back. Zuko could almost admire that. “She had tah come to mah house tah get it done, but we’ve never lahked each other. After she’d left I had tah clean mah room, and mah diary was gone.” With that the dam burst, and the little filly began to shake with blubbering once more.

For a moment, Zuko was utterly unsure of what to say. The recovery of small children’s diaries didn’t usually fall under IV Legion jurisdiction. “It’s probably still in your room, you haven’t searched thoroughly enough.” He attempted after some consideration.

“No, she took it, ah just know she did!” Applebloom shouted. Her crying had made her nose run, and she wiped the excess mucus away with the back of a hoof. “She’s always bein’ mean tah me and tah Crusaders ‘cause we ain’t got our Cutie Marks yet! Oh, if she tells anyone some of the stuff in thar Ah’ll be ruined, ruined! Ah’ll never be able to show mah face again.” She said dejectedly.

“Why don’t you just ask the other two to help you get it back?” Zuko asked. “There’s three of you and one of her, you could easily beat the shit out of her and get the book back if it’s that important.”

“Applejack says vahlence is never the answer.” Applebloom said quietly. “An’ Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo are too busy with their own projects, ah’ve hardly seen’em all week.” The idea of violence not being the solution mystified Zuko, but he wracked his brain to find some way of calming the Pony down and therefore getting out of here without her raising more of a fuss.

“Reprinting classified material is inherently risky.” he said. “It was not strategically sound to do so if there was a chance it could be leaked.” In hindsight, he mused, it probably wasn’t the best thing he could have said, as Applebloom immediately relapsed into an endless stream of sobbing.

The Astartes watched for a moment, in the hope she’d eventually pull herself together. But eventually, it became more and more apparent she wouldn’t, and the Iron Warrior’s limited patience snapped. With a mutter of “that’s it, we’re done here” he began to walk away, mainly to tell Mordecai to go and fuck himself with a chainsword if he ever tried to get Zuko to do something like this again. She began to cry louder and more intensely, but he didn’t slow down, 10’000 years of warfare having hardened his heart to such things.

“It’s not fayre!” Applebloom wailed, wiping her nose again. “It’s lahk when we were on that stupid school paper. Ah’ve done all tha’ work on our project, and not only ha she stole mah diary ah knows she’s gonna take all tha’ credit. It’s just ‘cause her daddy’s so rich, she always takes all the credit from everypony for stuff she didn’t even do!” She buried her head a third time, running her hooves through her hair in frustration.

Something occurred to Applebloom, the surprise penetrating her grief. The rhythmic sound of heavy, armoured footfalls on the ground had ceased. She looked up and around in confusion, blinking away tears.

Zuko had come to a dead stop at the exit of the small courtyard she’d secluded herself in. His back was still turned to her, and he would have been for all the world no more expressive than a statue were it not for the incessant humming that she assumed came from his armour and the slow flexing of the talons on the giant glove affixed to his left arm. He was giving her a sidelong glance over the shoulder, and although it may have been her aching eyes Applebloom swore his eye lens was a deeper shade of crimson. When he spoke his voice was low and measured, but even she felt the depthless rage coiling behind it.

“The other Legions took the credit from us, too.”

Author's Note

I know what you're thinking, so let me stop you there; why is Zuko smoking, and why has this only cropped up now? The out of universe answer of course is that now is the first time it's seemed appropriate to include it, but if we're talking in terms of actual fluff:

a). Space Marines may be immune to narcotics, but as we know the Space Wolves drink Astartes-grade ale for laughs. If they can do that, it's not beyond the realms of possibility that a Marine (particularly a Chaos Marine, who's mind will most likely be frazzled more than a tad) would smoke.
b). With all that's been going on so far, now is really the first opportunity for Zuko to have a smoke.
C). A giant armored super-soldier flicking away a cigar is an awesome mental image.

Out of interest, and this isn't a product of my vanity, who's your favourite of the Iron Warriors? I'm merely curious because out of the 3 people I know IRL who read this crap, the answer is unanimously the gentleman-sorcerer Mordecai. I'm curious to see how popular he, and the others, are universally.

I just realised; at no point so far in this fanfic has any iron Warrior said 'Iron Within, Iron Without.'

That's criminal.

Iron on Iron

They were fast. He was faster.

Letting the cigar drop from between his clenched teeth, Zuko reached into the bandoliers criss-crossing his chest as the two Iron Warriors blown aside by the booby-trapped Servitors rose back to their feet. His hands clenched round the first weapons he found- a pair of plasma pistols. Pointing his arms out either side, he fired, letting the recoil shake his wrists. The two green bolts of plasma whistled through the air as they sped from the weapons, striking his two standing brothers in the face. They dropped, ceramite helmets and their skulls within burned straight through by the caged fury of the stars.

By the time their bodies had slammed into the ground, Zuko was already running, dropping the pistols behind him. A veritable storm of bolter fire rushed towards him, threatening to stagger the vengeful Space Marine. It was a precarious position to be in; his armour was proof against most of the firepower, but the areas compromised by Rorke’s traitorous blow formed an exploitable point of weakness. Of greater concern was the fact that, for the first time in years, Zuko chose to keep his helmet locked firmly onto his belt. The sensation of the wind on his face, his short beard bristling on his chin, of squinting to protect his storm-grey eyes from the dirt kicked up by his brother’s bullets were unusual and almost unwelcome to him. The extra vulnerability engendered by an exposed head only served to further convince him that it had been a terrible idea, and the Iron Warrior counted himself lucky that he had no long mane of hair to blow behind him. Nonetheless, his charge was stooped over and with an arm attempting to shield his face, like some silver bull charging his aggressor’s lines.

He reached the first one quickly, the other Space Marine unable to manoeuvre out of his path before Zuko was upon him. The Aspiring Champion’s movement was smooth, reaching down to his side and drawing a serrated combat knife from the array he had strapped across his body. Flicking it round in his hand, he stood from his crouch, using the momentum to drive the blade into his brother’s throat. The Marine dropped the gun, pawing weakly at his punctured windpipe as rich, red blood began to flow from the wound down the front of his armour. Releasing his own grip on the knife, a kick to the midsection was enough to put the stabbed Marine on his back and take him out of the fight. Zuko staggered slightly as a bullet ricocheted from his pauldron; he turned, bracing himself against the rapid fire. More shots slammed into the proffered shoulder, each bullet scarring and denting the Iron Skull symbol further.

He couldn’t hide a nervous grimace as he danced onto one foot, narrowly avoiding a spiralling krak missile that shot past him. It sailed away, detonating in the remains of a townhouse and driving it further into rubble. Zuko barely had time to recover before a Lascannon blast from the Obliterator forced him back on the defensive. He pushed off with his right foot, almost sailing into a sidewards roll through the air. He didn’t waste his time off the ground, producing another pair of pistols – bolt, this time – that he had managed to loot from the armoury. He fired as he fell, one after the other.

The missile-launcher totting Iron Warrior staggered as the first bullet struck him, then the second. It was the third getting a lucky hit through an eye socket and blowing out his brains that finally caused him to drop, heavy weapon falling to the ground beside him. Zuko rolled awkwardly as he himself landed, the manoeuvre made difficult by the power pack and guns strapped to his back. He collapsed almost in a heap, staring up at the sky with a dazed expression. It meant he didn’t have time to rise before Varvillon reached him.

The chainsword fell, revving edge aimed straight from the sergeant’s exposed face. Teeth gritted, Zuko was forced to raise his silver gauntlet to block the blow, the whirring sword carving a great gouge from the ceramite. It fell once, then twice, then three times; each one only just blocked by the downed Space Marine. After the third blow, Varvillon’s balance over-shifted slightly. Zuko capitalised, kicking out with his strong, bionic legs and striking his brother in the gut. Varvillon’s stumble backwards gave him time to get back on his feet. He reached over his back, grasping one of the Astartes shotguns that were slung there like some great wings. As Varvillon renewed his assault, Zuko changed tactics; he used his weapon not as a gun, but a club, bringing it round in a wide arcing sweep. It crashed into the side of Varvillon’s mk7 helmet with astounding force, almost knocking his brother to the ground with the strength of the impact. Sparks flew from the side of the damaged armour, one of the red eyes dimmed and without its glow. For all his eloquence, his intelligence, Varvillon made an elementary error; snarling as he sought to restore his vision, he turned away for the briefest moment and ripped off the damaged helmet. It was enough time for Zuko to flip the shotgun round, barrel aimed squarely at Varvillon’s face. His brother’s jaw may have been bionic, but the top of his head was still organic. The bone and brain simply dissolved as Zuko fired at point-blank range, Varvillon’s corpse slumping down at his feet with what was left of the brain pan tumbling out.

He was saved by luck. Zuko took a wheezing cough, the punctured section of his chest threatening to tear open and bleed. It was the slight stumble that saved him, his brother’s chainsword sliding down his pauldron rather than splitting his bare head clean in two. Grunting at the sudden shock, the Sergeant pivoted, discharging his shotgun into his brother’s chest plate with a cry. It had scant effect, doing little more than buying Zuko a moment of time as the struck Marine was pushed back. Any further plan was swiftly disrupted by the whine that filled the air – the noise of the Obliterator’s assault cannon cycling round and ready for fire. Thinking quickly, Zuko once again went on the attack, stowing the shotgun and grasping his brother’s forearms with a heave. The grapple was intense, both parties evenly matched in terms of strength – neither willing to shift. Finally something gave; with a herculean effort, Zuko lifted, pulling the other Astartes off the ground slightly and turning. The other Marine struggled, red eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and confusion as Zuko carried him. The expression soon stuck as the Obliterator opened fire, unable to control himself. The high-velocity shells slammed into his back – Zuko’s makeshift human shield had done its work, even the ceramite of the other Iron Warrior no match for the rending power. His own face cut and scratched by the shrapnel, Zuko slowly edged his way over to the left, carrying his bleeding-out brother as he went. The Obliterator kept up his fire, screaming and howling in psychotic rage as it tried to murder the Champion. Finally discarding the corpse, Zuko spun as he crouched, the shells just whistling overhead. For all its Daemonic-given strength, as he rose to one knee and aimed the reclaimed Missile Launcher square at it, the Obliterator seemed to experience a flicker of fear. It tried to waddle away, ammunition spent for the moment, but the ponderous frame rewarded to it by its Gods had disadvantages. It didn’t even have time to howl as the krak missile struck it, exploding into a rain of torn armour and mutated flesh.

Zuko stood to admire his handiwork momentarily, missile launcher held at ease, gargoyle-mouthed barrel still smoking. It took a moment for him to run the numbers. Casting a look to the right, the Space Marine fell utterly still as the last remaining Iron Warrior aimed his Boltgun. A small stretch of land separated them, but even so the chance of his missing was slim.

Click

Zuko couldn’t stop himself raising an eyebrow at the cliché as the ammunition feed on his brother’s Boltgun clicked empty. The Iron Warrior looked down at the empty gun, frantically searching in his belt for another clip. For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile – a small, repressed smirk of a thing – crossed Zuko’s face. He ambled forward almost leisurely, discarding the heavy weapon and drawing another plasma pistol from his belt, before firing. The shot struck his brother in the hand, gun flying away from the ruined limb. Fighting through the pain with a growl, the Iron Warrior sought for another weapon. Zuko was on him before he could produce one, hand wrapped around his throat and lifted him from the ground. The other Iron Warrior’s legs kicked at the empty air beneath; the dark expanse of the well’s pit falling below him.

“You’re…dead…” The trapped Marine grunted, struggling at his bonds. Zuko shrugged, keeping his grip intact.

“I got better.” He remarked, sarcasm evident. “Rorke never would have made Apothecary; we have two hearts, remember? A couple of hours nap in the Sus-As membrane coma was enough to get me back on my feet.” He stepped closer, bringing his face almost to his brother’s. “That…and I’m really pissed off.”

He let go. The Iron Warrior clawed at the lip of the well with his remaining hand, but a stamp from Zuko prized him free. With a great clatter, he fell down into the dark.

He watched his brother fall, and from where she lay – too paralysed with fear to move – Pinkie watched him. After a moment, Zuko grunted, stumbling forward and steadying himself on the well. He coughed, placing a hand on the sash round his chest. She couldn’t see very well, but when he removed it, Pinkie could have sworn she spotted blood staining his gauntlet. He straightened with another mumble, before turning back to look at the scene of devastation behind him. Leaning his head down, Zuko began to speak into the collar of his armour.

“Attention, all members of the Fourth Legiones Astartes, Iron Warriors. On my authority as Breacher Sergeant of the Thirteenth Grand Battalion, you are hereby under arrest on multiple counts of genocide, daemon trafficking…and attempted murder.” His eyes narrowed. “Not cool, brothers.”

Ever since Lorkhan had nearly taken her life, Pinkie hadn’t spoken a single word to any of the Iron Warriors. Even moments ago, as Varvillon bore down on her, she had kept her silence. Perhaps it was to prove a point, or perhaps it was just to make her feel better, but whatever the case she had broken her promise to try and be friendly to all living things and treated them with nothing but cool, mute civility – a decision that almost seemed precognisant, given the situation around her. Shock and confusion, however, were powerful enough motivators it seemed to get her to break her vow of silence.

“Did…did you just place every Iron Warrior in Equestria under arrest?” She asked, in an unusually quiet and scared voice. Zuko looked at her, as if only just realising she was present. For a moment she thought he intended to finish her off, but eventually he merely shook his head.

“No.” He said. “I just placed ever Iron Warrior in the universe under arrest.” He coughed again, before setting off at a slow pace. He paused by every corpse he had made, scrounging whatever ammunition he could. After recovering any weapons he could easily carry, he stayed with them a moment longer, resting a hand on their helmets where he could, or their chests where he could not. As Pinkie slowly got back to her hooves, it looked almost…tender.

“Urm…t-thank you for saving me…I-I guess…” His head turned to glare at her, and Pinkie paused – her breath catching with a squeaky gasp.

“I didn’t save you.” He clarified. “That wasn’t the objective. Your survival, however temporary, is just a bonus, and aren’t you lucky.” He stood, reaching into a pouch by his side and popping another cigar into his mouth. The lighter he had to use wasn’t quite marine-sized, but he’d become practiced at its operation.

“Then…then why?” She asked, bemused. “Why kill your friends like that? Is…did you mean it when you said they tried to kill you?”

“I did.” He nodded. “Though ‘tried’ might be an understatement.” Pinkie’s brow furrowed, unsure as to his meaning. She followed his eyes up, into the chaotic and swirling shapes of the red sky above them. Its meaning was lost to her. “But also because…damn it, I was right.” He sighed. “I never wanted this. This shouldn’t have had to happen, none of this. But look at us.” He made a sweeping gesture to the ruination around them. “This is what my Legion is reduced to? Targeting those who don’t have even a chance to fight back? Fighting stupid, worthless wars for no other reason than we can? No. I can’t – I won’t – let that be what becomes of the Iron Warriors. Not whilst there is breath in my body.”

She trotted back slightly, quailing a little under this newfound intensity. “So…w-what are you gonna do?” He didn’t reply immediately, face grim and stony. It was the first time she’d ever seen his face, Pinkie realised.

“I will cleanse this Company of its sins, expel the rot that festers in our ranks.” His words were quiet, but filled with determination. “I will get off this planet. I will go to Medrengard, call the lords of iron to account, bind them to me either with allegiance or death.” He nodded. “I will go back to fighting this war, the real war. I will take my men and my brothers back out into the stars and remind the enemy why we are feared. I will strike at targets, not because they are easy or vulnerable, but because they will help us to win – because they will hurt the Imperium. Because they will help us to kill the False Emperor. I will take this Legion from what it is, what it has become, and rebuild it as what it should be.”

“But first,” he added, eyes narrowing. “I will find Rorke. And then, I will murder him.”

The earnesty of the words sent an involuntary shiver through Pinkie. She trotted from one hoof to the other nervously, and again the normally unstoppable party pony found herself at a loss for words. Zuko’s expression darkened as a noise filled the air; the sound of scraping on stone. Pinkie heard it too, ears pricking up and eyes widening. The helmet-less Space Marine turned from his acquiring of weapons, walking towards the well and peering down into it. Body acting of its own accord, she followed, big blue eyes casting a fearful glance over the lip.

The two red pinpricks stared back up at her, rooting the pony to the spot and catching her breath in her throat. Slowly, the Iron Warrior climbed his way up the tight confine – even in his bulky armour, he was able to use his feet and elbows as an effective levering system. She trembled as she watched him approach. Zuko just stared.

“My my.” He said at last, sounding almost impressed. “You can say what you like about us, but we’re stubborn old bastards.” She was so focused on the approaching threat that Pinkie didn’t even hear him pull the strange metal object from his bandolier and drop it into her hooves.

“Hold this.” He said, exhaustion plain in both his tone and grey eyes. She complied without thinking, before confusion hit her. Any attempt by Pinkie to ask what he was doing was forestalled as Zuko brought a hand to her tail and pulled up, pitching Element of Laughter over and down into the depths of the well.

By the time the melta-bomb exploded, the plume of thermic fire erupting like a volcano from the well shaft consuming both pony and Chaos Space Marine, Zuko was already walking away.

“What the bloody hell is he on about?”

Mordecai took his time in answering, replaying the words over and over again. Zuko’s voice crackling across the general vox had been a most unwelcome surprise, and one that had almost – almost – threatened to unman the Sorcerer for a moment. To his credit, he had managed to maintain his composure, though that was as much to do with his helmet-obscured face and Lorkhan’s distracted state than anything else.

After the initial shock, the major emotion was disappointment. It appeared that if one wanted something doing right, one couldn’t trust an…an oaf such as Rorke. It was unfortunate, but then again, that appeared to be the theme for this entire jamboree.

“Did he just…did he just arrest us?” Lorkhan asked, incredulously. “As in, legitimately attempt to bring the crushing weight of the Law down on us?” Lorkhan’s head tilted. “I don’t even think he’s allowed to do that.”

“Perhaps…such an occurrence is not entirely unexpected, my lord.” Mordecai eventually decided on, as ever plumping for the diplomatic option. “Our brother has been at this game a rather long time, and if you’ll recall, he seems to have suffered the most physical maladies during our stay here in regards to his arms and legs.” He elected to leave out the most deliberating wound he was supposed to suffer. “Mayhap it is all…catching up with him, so to speak.”

The Growler hit another bump, engines snarling angrily as it bounced back down. The earth-shattering tread of Lupus Nox seemed to echo all around them; they followed in the Warhound’s wake, keeping a cautious distance back from its taloned feet. The possessed behemoth had made its way to Canterlot in relatively short time, the Warsmith and Mordecai never far behind. For a moment, the warlock thought that he may have gotten away with his lie. The hope was quashed as Lorkhan shook his head.

“No,” he said, thoughtfully. “Zuko might be a pain at times, but he isn’t stupid. He’s the only one here that hates all this as much as I am. A couple of injuries wouldn’t set him off, not –“ He paused, even the Mechatendrils freezing. Mordecai rolled his eyes within the confines of his armour, suppressing a sigh as the Warsmith turned to look at him. The glare was almost predatory.

“What…did…you…do?” he hissed. The implicit threat was enough to give even the Psyker pause, Mordecai backing off in his seat slightly as Lorkhan leaned in.

“Now now, my lord.” He chided, doing his best to remain composed. “Let us not be hasty. It would be incorrect to assign blame based on such circumstantial evidence-“

“I wasn’t born yesterday, you mutant freak.” Was Lorkhan’s growled response. Slowly, one of the tendrils attached to his armour reached up, snaking its way round Mordecai’s neck. It would have been a simple task to send it back, a mere flex of psychic muscle – yet he knew he was already on a precarious standing. Slowly, the mechandrite began to constrict. “I swear to your bastarding Gods, Mordecai –“ He was cut off as the Rhino’s vox crackled to life.

“So sorry to interrupt this lover’s tiff,” Their driver said, his voice flat. “But I believe our bestial companion is about to speak.” His words were punctuated by a new sensation – silence. The ominous, ever present rumble of the Titan’s steps had stopped.

They were not far from Canterlot now. The great white city hung from the mountainside above them, the slowly-descending tiers culminating in a huge gate that stood across from the Titan. Battlements, some old, some more hastily-erected, ringed the walls, whilst the only way across a deep chasm to the gate was a marble bridge. A familiar sight encased the pristine city – a shimmering ball of purple light, the energy shield so far maintaining its form with little effort.

The Titan was still. Lorkhan and Mordecai were still too, locked in the midst of their disagreement s they both stared out the viewing screen within their transport. With painstaking slowness, the canine head of the Lupus Nox slowly ground its way upwards, gears whining as it stared at the shield. The noise was joined by a second clanking moments later – the sound of the colossal Plasma Blastgun being brought level with the target. At such a range, and with such a sizable target, missing was never a possibility. Even within the confines of their vehicle, both Sorcerer and Warsmith could feel the second skin of their armour prickle as the weapon began to charge. It had taken a while for the daemon to come to full wakefulness, but now blue coils of white-hot energy thrummed and crackled down the length of the gun. Dispassionately, Mordecai realised he was holding his breath.

It fired once. Just once.

The shield…disappeared. It did not shatter, nothing so crude; it merely ceased to be. A second sun was born for a moment above the capital of Equestria as the plasma burned through the magical protection like it simply did not exist. The noise of the discharge shook the world, almost as much as the triumphant braying and blaring of the Titan’s warhorn moments later. Even with the shield taking the full force of the hit, the city was not spared. Flaming contrails of plasma fell like tiny stars from the sky, smashing through the roofs of houses and setting the streets ablaze. Smoke could be seen rising, soon joined by licks of flame climbing for the heavens. It did not take long for the screaming to start. Many of the elegant, high towers simply collapsed, stones blown apart by the sheer force of the blast that had hit it. It was the imperious castle, lauding over all, that took the worst however. Even from a distance it was clear many of the windows had been smashed to tiny shards of glass, or simply burned to sand, whilst the roof was nearly torn off. More flames raged, orange tips peeking out into the already burning sky.

Miraculously, either through magic or simple quirk of fate, the gate more-or-less held. Turning back from where he had shielded his eyes, and fighting through his wonder at the Warhound’s unleashed wrath, Mordecai clicked his tongue thoughtfully. He had no doubt that there was elements of sorcerous protection applied to the gates, and trying to open them with his telekinetic powers would most likely leave him drained for the final confrontation with the Princesses; it was not a scenario he favoured. Trying to get both the Titan and Rhino through at the same time again seemed like a recipe for disaster, and if they waited much longer the shock and awe of their attack would lose its clout. To his credit, however, it seemed the Warsmith had already planned for that.

“This isn’t over.” He promised, voice low and dangerous as he grudgingly released Mordecai. “Now help me with these.” He moved to the back of the tank, starting to haul the explosives he had packed earlier to the front. Mordecai complied, though the strategy at play was still lost on him. The driver knew his orders well enough. Gunning the engines, the Growler’s tracks tore at the ground for a moment before the tank shot back to life with a throaty rumble.

Hurtling towards Canterlot, Lorkhan and Mordecai went to meet their destiny.

He found his brother much as he had expected to; in a state of filth. The red-timber schoolhouse that had sat at the outskirts of Ponyville was already smouldering by the time Zuko arrived, bullet holes punched clean through the wooden walls. The ground outside was little better, a veritable carpet of pony bodies and the remains of their primitive tanks. Zuko felt his frown deepen at the sight of it, but he fought through the revulsion welling in his gut, stopping around twenty metres from the crouching form of his brother. Rorke’s back was to him, the other Champion hunched over as if in some form of vile prayer.

“I knew we were scum, brother.” Zuko began, voice clear and calm as he called out. Even so, he found his hand straying to one of the many pistols holstered at his side. Rorke’s bare, shaven head rose a fraction, though he didn’t turn. “But eating the dead?” Zuko’s nose wrinkled. “That’s just charming, even for you.”

Finally, Rorke did turn in a slow, convulsing motion, though he didn’t stand. Zuko’s statement was true enough; streams of blood, mixed with the occasional chunk of raw meat torn from the carcasses, dribbled down his chin. The blood covered his whole armoured, hiding the silver colour of his ceramite under a dribbling curtain of crimson; in truth, he looked more like a World Eater than an Iron Warrior. Small, dark eyes watched Zuko. Perhaps it was just the feral hunch, but Rorke gave off the image more of a rabid predator than a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes.

There was silence for a while, as the pair stared emotionlessly at one another. When Rorke broke it, his voice was growling and scratchy, broken up by his heavy panting.

“You’re…de-“

“I’ve already made that joke.” Zuko butt in, raising a placating hand. For a moment, his eyes flicked down to the body Rorke had been feasting upon. He could not see the face, and doubted there would have been much of it left intact anyway, but the colouring gave it away even if the three smiling flowers on the flank had not. He grimaced again, shaking his head slightly as he looked back to his brother. “Seriously…this? This is what the Fourth legion does now?” Rorke didn’t respond, continuing to watch warily. Zuko took his own time before speaking, trying to claw for any appropriate words. “You do realise I have to kill you now, right?” Rorke twitched slightly, limbs tensing as he licked blood-flecked teeth. Zuko placed his left leg forward, hand tightening around the grip of a bolt pistol. “After all this time…all these years of needling each other, of mutual loathing…” He sounded more regretful than anything else. “And…I don’t know what to say to you, brother.” He was still for a moment. Slowly, in a move that seemed to surprise even him, Zuko extended his left hand towards Rorke. “You won’t listen, because you’re a violent, insane bastard who doesn’t respect me or anything this Legion stands for…but you are my brother.” His head tilted slightly. “Please…Castlemayn…” Rorke flinched at the use of his first, barely spoken name, but gave no more reaction than that. “Come back from the edge.”

For the briefest moment, a flicker of sanity seemed to light in Rorke’s eyes, and Zuko dared to hope that he’d gotten through. Then the red mist seemed to descend again, and he knew his brother was lost forever.

Rorke howled as he charged, bounding forwards towards Zuko like a slavering beast. Zuko acted quickly, shifting his stance and drawing his bolt pistol. This time, the weapon he produced in that swift motion was shot towards an Iron Warrior, the bullet streaming through the air towards Rorke’s bare head. Time seemed to slow, focusing around that single point – the ripple in the air as the munition passed.

It missed. For all Zuko’s accuracy, Rorke’s momentum was astounding. The angle was misjudged, the bolt merely pinging off the manic Space Marine’s armour. It wasn’t enough to stop his charge, or even throw him off balance, as he leapt forward with arms outstretched. They tightened round Zuko’s as the pair went down hard, rolling around in the dirt like a pair of squabbling infants. Zuko grunted and gagged as the armoured, blood-soaked fingers pushed into his windpipe, vision swimming before him. Rorke’s eyes were pits, the depths of madness boiling there having completely smothered any lasting trace of the man the Aspiring Champion had once been.

Eventually, just as he was about to black out completely, Zuko’s struggling bore fruit. Their weight shifted slightly, and the endangered Iron Warrior managed to bunch his knees to his chest. With a cry he kicked out, using the bionic strength in his legs to provide power his mortal frame could not. It was an effort, but Rorke was dislodged. The other Astartes rolled back as he fell, landing in a bestial crouch.

Somehow – even he wasn’t sure – Zuko had managed to retrieve the power sword from Rorke’s side as he was beaten back. The maniac hadn’t even thought to use it. There was barely time to turn it on before Rorke hurled himself forth once more, screaming obscene war cries to his God. He still managed to duck the first blow, moving like lightning as he tried to rip at any part of Zuko’s armour that offered purchase. Zuko swung the blade in wide, sweeping arcs, but he had never been the swordsman – a downward, diagonal strike gave Rorke the chance to reach up and grab his brother by the wrists. They tussled again, Rorke’s greater strength matched by Zuko’s control. Their eyes met, tunnel vision almost overtaking Zuko as they stared at one another. His own face was set and determined, all thoughts of fraternal camaraderie expunged as he struggled for control of the weapon. Rorke’s features were twisted and convulsing in agony, his own body shaking more violently than ever before, though it did not affect his hold on the grapple. Blood fell from more than just his forehead now; it poured down from the nose, the ears, the corners of his mouth, even some from the eyes.

Eventually, co-ordination struck a blow to blind fury. Shifting his footing at the last moment Zuko feinted, before delivering a downward strike with the IV’s trademark methodical precision. Rorke roared as his left forearm dropped to the ground, but the wound did not seem to slow the battering assault on Zuko even for a moment. Blood poured from the stump as well now, ichor dripping from him like a waterfall. A right hook smashed into Zuko’s face, knocking one or two teeth loose. He just about managed to duck beneath the follow-up blow, slashing the tip of the blade across his brother’s sternum. Another gouge opened up on Rorke’s armour. The drop in his guard was momentary, but all Zuko needed. He brought the blade round in another downward chop, energised edge slamming into the other Iron Warrior’s shoulder.

Rorke’s assault finally halted. The other Marine’s face froze, a look of dumb incomprehension passing over it. Depthless anger still blazed in his eyes, but it seems that Rorke’s injuries finally caught up to him as he sank down to one knee. It had been no more than half a day since they were last in this situation – though circumstances there had been very different. Zuko took a slow, shuddering breath, almost stumbling as his one functioning heart tried desperately to keep up with his physiology. The Iron Warrior gave an uncharacteristic wince, bending over slightly as he clutched at the cape bandaging his chest. He took the hand away, looking down at it – he didn’t know whether the gore on it belonged to him, or one of his brothers. The array of weapons still strapped to him made moving difficult to an extent, but not enough to stop him now. He straightened, casting a pitying look at Rorke as he brought the crackling blade to his brother’s neck. The downed Iron Warrior just panted like a dog, fury spent for a temporary moment.

“It…I…” Zuko was at a loss for words. Even despite the fratricide he had already committed, the new mission he had decided upon, this…execution made him feel sick to his good. It was sentiment unworthy of an Iron Warrior, perhaps, but what was one more transgression? Steeling himself, he drew the blade back, angling it for the decapitating strike. Rorke just continued to glare venomously at him.

The bolt of energy to his back was enough to knock Zuko from his feet, the sergeant sprawling and rolling in the dirt. He got some distance before finally stopping, reduced to lying flat on his front with a mouthful of dirt. Slowly and painfully picking himself up, Zuko growled wordlessly, shaking the last wisps of smoke and flame from off his armour as he looked towards the source of the shot.

She levitated a few inches above the ground, the leaves and grass below buffeted by ethereal wind. Twilight’s eyes were blank pits of white light, the glow almost seeming to spill out of her as the blood had from Rorke. The glow suffused her horn, as well as the crackling bolts of lightning that seemed to dance across her purple fur. It didn’t seem to bother her, though the fact that she levitated bipedally as opposed to all fours would have set alarm bells ringing in Zuko’s head anyway. In one hoof, held diagonally, was a long, green staff. It had plainly been carved from something else, the end closest to the ground worked into the shape of a fish-like eye. Internally, the Marine groaned; anyone who had a passing knowledge of the forces of Chaos would recognise that eye. His expression grew almost sympathetic; from the little association he’d had with her, it was clear that Twilight would do anything to protect her friends. It seemed she didn’t realise just what a catastrophically bad idea that was.

From the corner of his eye, movement. Rorke’s convulsion began again, seemingly confined to his upper body for now. The bleeding from his arm should have stopped by now, yet it kept coming. Zuko reckoned there was probably more at work than simple injury. The blood-drenched Space Marine stood on trembling legs, furious eyes locked on Twilight. She didn’t focus on either of them, seemingly locked in a state of pure, logical calm. Zuko scrambled to his own feet as quickly as he could, drawing a knife from his belt.

The sword lay on the ground between the two brothers. Zuko must have dropped it as he landed. They both looked down at it, then up to one another. The hate…the hate remained, the burning and shared dislike that had spurred them on for ten thousand years. But despite Zuko’s newfound resolve, and Rorke’s mindless anger, there was something else there. It was painfully close to closure. Zuko nodded shallowly. Rorke just snarled.

Zuko turned as the injured Marine leapt for the sword. Another blast of purple energy snapped at his heels, burning away at the ground, but despite the hammering in his chest he managed to outpace it. Almost distantly, he heard Rorke’s scream from behind as he charged into the fight. There was no point continuing their fight now; they had both battered one another into submission, their cold enmity given space to vent. Besides, Rorke had been nothing but a butcher for a long time now. Zuko didn’t want the strongman. He wanted the criminally polite ringmaster.

He skidded to a halt as the ground rumbled again. Even from this distance his ears still rang slightly from the last time the Nox had fired, and from the way the towering construct took another step towards Canterlot, it seemed to be gearing up for another shot. As he watched, inspiration hit the Iron Warrior. Something dangerously close to a smile crossed Zuko’s face as he leant forward, forcing his abused body into another run.

He knew exactly how he was going to get that Ringmaster, too.

Author's Note

Somebody watched Hot Fuzz recently.

I dunno, the end was hard. There was no way Rorke and Zuko weren't gonna get their rematch, but it felt too 'neat' to have one kill the other. Symbolic maybe, but I'm chucking enough supposedly 'symbolic' things in as it is. Still, in the end discipline and honour (of a sort) beat blind fury, so there;s something to take away from that at least...as for Twilight, well, I love that horse, but you know what they say about curiosity and the feline murder rate...

Next one's the biggy, gentlemen. Better bring your wellies, because you'll be knee deep in...something unpleasant.