Old Earth by Nick Kyme

Author:Nick Kyme
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Published: 2017-10-26T07:41:11+00:00

SEVENTEEN

The tragedy of iron, doomed to repeat itself

Vulkan regarded the hammer, pensive, crouched, his chin resting upon a clenched fist. Urdrakule sat innocuously enough, its heavier head pitching the haft at a sharp angle where it balanced on the bench.

It had felled a primarch, or the golem of one at least. The scars in the metal hammerhead shone brightly where it had struck the false Gorgon, both shattering the grim effigy and proving the frailty of supposed ‘inviolable’ silver. It had exposed another weakness too, one in the fabric of the Iron Hands.

Zytos watched Vulkan from across the room, but he thought about the Iron Tenth, or rather their hosts in the Iron Tenth. He had served within the Shattered Legions, and knew what it meant to be part of a force alloyed from different tactics, different cultures, different creeds. Some might consider the Iron Hands extreme in their beliefs. The primacy of metal over flesh had a binary aspect to it. Zytos knew things were seldom that straightforward.

He wondered if Shadrak Meduson did too.

Back in the auditorium, in the ruins of another broken world, he saw a Legion riven by belief. And doubt. It had damaged the Iron Hands, the death of the Gorgon. It had hurt them more deeply than they realised, and would ever realise, because of their disposition towards the machine. Scrape out the flesh, strip away emotion, let metal reign.

The tragedy of it saddened Zytos.

‘Whatever it is, this rift,’ he murmured, ‘it isn’t over. This Legion is at war with itself because of its beliefs.’

The ship rumbled in plaintive empathy. They had returned to their quarters aboard the Iron Heart shortly after Meduson’s pronouncement. Vulkan had said little, even by his taciturn standards. With his Iron Fathers stepping back into line, Meduson had done what he needed to, but he had used Vulkan to achieve his victory. Or so it seemed to Zytos.

The gathering had disbanded, scattering again until a plan could be made. Greater victories appeared to be the aim, or greater scalps. Zytos had overhead Nuros and Lumak discussing tactics, and in particular the importance attributed to the renegade Tybalt Marr, and wondered if the two were even divisible as far as their Warleader was concerned.

‘They suffer too much pride, brother. Pride is the warrior’s curse. How much blood has been falsely spilled in the name of pride, I wonder?’ Abidemi sat on a nearby stool, running a sharp stone slowly and methodically across each of Draukoros’ serrated teeth.

‘You treat that sword like a relic,’ Zytos said. ‘I hope you’ll use it as keenly when the time comes.’

Abidemi laughed, then grew solemn.

‘I will honour Numeon with it, Barek.’

Zytos smiled at him. ‘Aye, Atok, I know you will.’

‘They stand at a fork in the road, the Tenth’ said Abidemi. ‘One of those forks is Meduson, the other is not.’

‘They have a tenuous unity,’ said Zytos. ‘Meduson drives them with his dogged refusal to give in and hard-won charisma. I doubt it comes easy to him, but he has risen to it anyway.

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