Daemon Angron vs Perty [Narration] [Warhammer 40K]

Transcript

Anger unstruck the summit of the hill as the iron warriors scattered. Steam poured into the air as the mud flashed to dust and then to glass. The demon Primarch rose, his movement a blur, the roar from his mouth shuddering through Argonus's flesh.

He had asked Perturabo about this moment, about how he would deal with the creature that his brother had become. As all conquest begins with his weakness, Perturabo had replied and had given no further answer. On the summit of the hill, with the fire wind of Angrod's presence beating against his body and mind, Argonus could see no weakness in what the Primarch had become.

Perturabo stood inside the ring of his iron circle. The hammer forgebreaker hung in his left hand and had alight with cold lightning. The automata had turned so that their shields faced in, forming a circle around the two Primarchs.

Beyond them, down the flanks of the hill, the walls of the iron warriors' formation had driven the world eaters. Volleys of bolt rounds had ripped holes in the tide of the howling legionnaires. Tanks had plowed through them, crushing bodies.

The bears had followed in their wake, forming new lines of blood-streaked plasteel. It was no longer a defense, it was strangulation. Channeled even as they killed, the world eaters were now cut into pockets, contained.

It would not hold, though. This is madness, shouted Argonus. It was always madness, a voice of Horus, said Foryx, the words edged with a cold chuckle.

Now it is just visible madness. On the hilltop, Angron reared to charge at Perturabo. Fire, said Perturabo.

The iron circle obeyed. Fist-sized rounds tore into the demon Primarch, explosions shattered against brass armor. Chunks of flesh and blood tore free, foaming into black ectoplasm as they fell.

More units began to fire. Angron roared, his wings snapping wide as missiles and las-blasts tore them to tatters. The volume of fire was blinding, a lattice of angry light against the storm clouds.

Angron came forward, muscles pushing his form against the fire. War drooled from his gaping wounds, smoke and ash shook from him. His flesh was remaking itself, even as it was torn from him, swelling him so that he loomed above the crest of the hill, shivering with rage, radiating pain.

For an instant, Argonus thought that the creature would fall, then he seemed to shrink. Wounds closed, armor glowed white and flowed into bullet holes. A high ringing noise filled Argonus' head, blotting out the sound of gunfire and the roll of thunder.

He could feel nothing else, just the pain boring into the meat of his soul and burning down his nerves. And he knew that it would go on forever, unless he stood, unless he poured it into the world as rage and let it coat his hands red. The deluge of fire intensified, but Angron had taken a step forward, and the blasts and shots were vanishing into the shadow of his shape.

The demon that had been a primarch charged, space folded as he moved, features dissolved in a blur. His wings were slices of fast-moving shadow, his strides a flicker. The storm dragged after him, lightning arced down, spearing through warriors and war machines.

A tank exploded, its ammunition and fuel cooking off and punching its turret up into the air. A cluster of world-eaters became ash as power arced through them, blood cooked in rows and charring gobbles. Argonus watched, unable to move, unable to turn his mind to action.

This was not simply a creature of destruction. It was a force of annihilation that was not meant to share the same realm as immortals. He saw an axe form in Angron's hand.

Its edge was a slit of sharpened light. Reality itself tore as it cut, smoke bled from the wound left behind its edge. Perturaba was a statue of metal, standing in the shadow of death.

The axe cut, Perturaba moved aside. Even layered in armor and pistons, he was still faster than Argonus could dream. Fast enough to almost avoid the blow.

But nothing that was even half-mortal could have avoided that cut. The axe struck his shoulder. White light blazed.

For a second, he could only see white. Then the neon scar burned onto the back of his eyes. He heard more blows fall, each one screaming louder than gunfire.

In the pit of his soul, he thought of all of the duties he had done Horus in the hope of clawing back the feeling of brotherhood that had been everything, but was now just a memory. This would not just be failure. This would be death.

He would end here, another heap of butchered meat on a world that was a graveyard of bones. In a galaxy they had set ablaze, it all ended here. Redemption, brotherhood, and the lie of a higher purpose.

His sight cleared. Perturaba still stood. Impossibly, the Lord of Iron stood.

Glowing scars marked the plates of his armor. Blood hissed as it ran over orange iron. But he stood, and the Forgebreaker was rising in his grasp, its head a comet as it swung.

Angron did not move to avoid the blow. He was swinging again, roaring, blood-slicked cables lashing around his head. Like all the other blows he had struck in the last second, it was faster than the eye that saw it.

But Perturaba had timed his blow and slid it into the split-second gap as Angron swung back to strike again. The hammer struck. Forged by Fulgrim for his brother he had murdered, then given by Horus to Perturaba, it was a weapon that transcended even the craft put into its making.

The hammer hit Angron's chest. Brass armor shattered. The shockwave ripped outwards.

Ergonus felt it pass through him. Angron staggered. Perturaba stepped forwards, the hammer swinging back in a blurred sheet of lightning.

Angron rammed forward before Perturaba could strike. And now it was Perturaba going back, armor blackening as the furnace flame breathed from Angron's teeth. The axe struck again and again, blows that could end Titan's falling.

Fresh wounds opened in Perturaba's armor. But still he stood. You think I am weak, Perturaba's voice boomed from the grill of his helm.

Angron struck him twice again. Splinters of metal fell from the Lord of Iron as he staggered once more. But you have grown weaker, Angron.

The demon Primarch lashed a kick into Perturaba and struck once, twice, three times the Lord of Iron stumbled back and crashed to his knees. I have learnt. I have remade my strength while you have sold yours out of despair.

Ergonus heard the words, heard the spite in them, the cold bitterness. There is something else there too. Something that made Ergonus think of the knife duels in the dark warrens of Cithonia.

Cuts meant to goad, not kill. Angron roared and in the fraction of the time that gave, Perturaba was on his feet, Forge Breaker moving faster than before. The air shook as its head struck and struck again.

And there was blood on the baked mud of the ground beneath the two. Angron was scattering burning blood and broken armor. He lashed a fist at Perturaba.

Claws tore the front from the Lord of Iron's helm. Ergon's skin was a pale gray, streaked with blood beneath. You are weak, snarled Perturaba.

You are a slave. You were born a slave and a slave you remain. Angron cut Perturaba.

Ergonus did not see it done, just the Lord of Iron suddenly still. A crimson trail running down his chest and the glowing gashes smiling across his torso. Angron was striking again, but somehow he seemed to be shrinking, the edges of his shadow and flame bulk retreating like a wave from its shore.

Perturaba struck back and hammer and axe met. Your strength flees, roared Perturaba. It does not belong to you.

It is your master's and the chain that keeps you throttles you. The threads of blood.