Chapter 47: Wargear Allotment

Chapter 47: Wargear Allotment

Facing his former Warsmith, now a Fleet-Master of the Black Legion, Petros remained impassive. "I only want to know where our wargear is."

Valkar shook his head. "Petros, if you want the Black Legion's wargear, you must first tell me what you bring to the Black Legion."

Petros stared into his old superior's eyes. "Fifty-four Astartes. One frigate, four transports. And over fifty-thousand mortal auxilia."

A cruel smile played on Valkar's lips. "More brothers than I expected. But why so many transports? Has my old Lieutenant become a Charter-Captain, planning to run cargo?"

Petros's reply was cold. "For the spoils of war. We are joining this fight, and we intend to be rewarded."

Valkar let out a short, harsh laugh. "Hmph. You should be grateful it is I you are meeting. Anyone else would have had your legs broken and thrown you from the airlock. The other warband lords at least pretend to be loyal. The battle hasn't even begun, and you're already planning your exit strategy."

He leaned forward. "Have you no ambition? No desire to see the Imperium's rotten corpse fall? To claim the galaxy in our name?"

Petros's face was stone. "You will not succeed. Not this time. This is a disorganized rabble. Outside of the Black Legion's core, you have no unified Legions. And you have no Primarch."

Valkar's face darkened. "The age of the Primarchs is over."

"But they were effective," Petros countered. "And they were a symbol."

The Warmaster's right-hand man sighed, a strange, almost human sound. "Do you know, Petros? Crassus was the finest Captain I had. But I never blamed you for killing him. Your judgment was correct. In a way, you saved my life."

Petros did not react. "I am here to join the Black Crusade, not to reminisce."

Valkar's fist clenched. He was angry again. "Enough! You will be assigned to my fleet. You may draw your wargear. Now, get out."

Petros nodded. "Yes, Warsmith Valkar." He turned and left, Antonius—who had also served under Valkar—following without a word.

After the three Astartes had exited the hall, Valkar rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We are not Iron Warriors anymore, Petros," he muttered to the empty room. "And I am no longer your Warsmith."

He pressed a rune on his throne's arm. "Magos Alberto. Double the wargear allotment for the Forged Steel Brotherhood."

A synthesized, dual-toned voice—one male, one female—replied over the vox. [Acknowledged. Understood.]

A thrall guided Petros, Antonius, and Phelon through the starport's maze-like corridors to the Grand Armory. Waiting for them was a Dark Mechanicum Magos.

The Magos's lower body had been replaced with a heavy, tracked chassis. From the waist up, its torso split in two, like conjoined twins, each with its own head and arms, both shrouded in black robes. The two heads spoke in alternating, perfectly harmonized voices, one male, one female.

A mechadendrite snaked from the creature's chassis, offering Petros a data-slate.

[Lord-Petros. This-is-the-requisition-list. You-may-select-what-you-require.]

Petros took the slate. The list was... extensive. Everything from crates of bolt-rounds to entire battleships. Power armor by the suit, bolters, meltaguns... Thunderhawks, ground vehicles, and heavy weapons.

The battleships, of course, were reserved for the major warbands. This vast store of materiel was provided by the Dark Forge Worlds pledged to Abaddon. Petros wondered if the Despoiler was truly this wealthy, or if this was just a facade.

He scrolled past the corrupted wargear—Daemon-Engines, Hellbrutes, Daemon Weapons, Heldrakes, and Marks of Chaos. He ignored them all.

He handed the slate to Phelon. This was why he had brought his Warpsmith. Together, they made their selections, focusing on pragmatic, reliable, and easily-maintainable wargear.

Finally, the Magos—flanked by a squad of Black Legion terminators and covered by ceiling-mounted Tarantula sentry guns—placed its/their hands on a bio-scanner and unlocked the vault.

[Astartes. You-embark-on-a-new-crusade. Against-the-followers-of-the-Corpse-God. From-our-hand, you-will-receive-the-tools-of-victory.]

The massive adamantium doors ground open, revealing racks upon racks of wargear gleaming in the dim light. Chain-weapons, bolters, and power weapons lay in neat rows. In the cavernous space beyond, they could see Thunderhawks, Drop Pods, Land Raiders, Baneblades, and even Castraferrum Dreadnoughts.

The transport-servitors began their work.

Petros's selections were practical. Their bolter supply was adequate, and Phelon's new production line would suffice.

10 Chainswords

10 Chainaxes

Power weapons were too precious to waste on neophytes, but the mono-edged blades they carried were useless against true armor. They needed chain-weapons.

40 suits of Mark V 'Heresy' Pattern Power Armor

The suits were a brute-force mix of riveted ceramite and plasteel. They were easy to repair and cross-compatible with other Marks, but they were infamous for overheating. It was a minor issue; an Astartes could endure the heat. The armor was clearly second-hand, pockmarked and scarred, the rivets themselves mismatched. They were cast-offs, but they were free.

3 second-hand Thunderhawk Gunships

This war would be won in the void and in the air. Ground vehicles were a low priority.

True to their Iron Warrior roots, they also... scrounged... a pile of loose, damaged armor components from a scrap heap on their way out. If Phelon couldn't forge them into a new suit, they would be invaluable for spares.

As they flew back to The Ironclad, their gunship loaded with wargear, Phelon finally spoke.

"Boss," he said, "you know that Black Legion Warsmith?"

"He was my former Grand-Battalion's commander," Petros replied, his voice flat. He knew Phelon was aware of this.

"Right," Phelon said, picking at his armor. He was clearly curious about the other name that had been mentioned—Crassus.

But he saw the look on his Lord's face, a mask of cold iron that warned him not to ask. The subject was closed.