From the lifter-throne’s broad arms and footrest, hololith plates were
mounted on sooty servo-arms, surrounding him on three sides: left, right
and ahead. Eighteen active screens, streaming with data, flashing with
quick-cut pict-cap images from the fields below. The Lord of Iron was lit by
their glow, immersed. He sat hunched, an ogre sheathed in massive, matt-
anthracite metal plate that looked as though it could withstand a siege all on
its own. The cold plate seemed to be perspiring a sheen of gun oil. Servo-
cables and feeder-pipes laced his skull like roped plaits, covering his ears,
sprouting from his neck, cheeks and chin. Precious little of his face
remained visible. The mass of cables gave him the look of Medusa from old
lore, writhing serpent-haired.
His head twitched, darting from screen to screen. His fingers scuttled across
the throne’s haptic surfaces, adjusting, deleting, moving, impelling.
Writing history, touch by touch.
Perturabo, Lord of Iron, twelfth-found son, stepchild of Olympia, primarch
of the IV Legion, devisor of war, master of the art of attack, leveller of
walls, demolisher of fortresses, unmaker of worlds.
Siege-war was his craft, his genius. Il had got them that far, through the
bulwarks of the best defended planetary system in realspace, through the
orbital defences of the most secure world anywhere, and in through these
walls, to his genefather’s doorstep. Perturabo could see the entire micro-
detail of the theatre all at once, but through the screens around him and the
feeds in his head. He was oblivious to the actual world, to the view just a
few meters away from where he sat. It was quite a view, Abaddon reflected.
My Lord Perturabo, the twelfth primarch, is so buried in his work, he’s
really missing something. A fine view on a day like this. But that was
probably why he was so good at what he did: acute focus, utter
concentration, diligence, obsessive attention; processing data, distilling,
making choices step by step to accomplish his goal.
Perhaps, two goals, in truth. The commands of the Warmaster, waiting high
above for the work to be accomplished, of course, that goal first and
formost. Take the Palace. But also Perturabo’s own, private, iron hard
ambition. To best his estranged brother Dorn, to take the ultimate prize, to
finally answer the question that had generated jealousy and rivalry from the
very first days: immovable object, unstoppable force… Which ceases to be
when they meet?