'Twenty seconds to impact!'

'All stop,' ordered Balhaan. 'Reverse turn, that might throw some of them off.' It was a vain hope, but right now he would take a vain hope over no hope.

His interceptors would be leaping from their launch rails by now, and they would bring a few more torpedoes down before engaging the enemy forces. His vessel heeled hard to the side as the strike cruiser twisted her bulk faster than she was ever designed to and the creaks and groans of the vessel were painful to Balhaan's ears.

'Ironheart reports that it has engaged the enemy cruisers. Heavy damage.'

Balhaan returned his attention to the main view screen, watching the smaller Ironheart wreathed in flickering detonations. Pinpricks of light flickered between the vessel and its attackers, the silence and distance diminishing the ferocity of the conflict.

'We have our own problems,' said Balhaan. 'The Ironheart is on her own.' Then he gripped the lectern as he heard his defence officer shout once more.

'Impact in four, three, two, one…'

The Ferrum rocked hard to port, the deck lurching underfoot as the torpedoes impacted on her rear starboard quarter. Warning bells began chiming, and the display on the view screen faded briefly before vanishing completely. Fire burst from ruptured conduits, and hissing steam vented into the bridge.

'Damage control!' shouted Balhaan, cracking the command lectern with the force of his grip. Servitors and deck ratings straggled to contain the blaze, and Balhaan watched as burnt crewmen were dragged from shattered control stations, their flesh and uniforms blackened by fire. He leaned over to gunnery control and shouted, 'All guns open fire, full defensive spread!'

'Sir!' cried Axarden. 'Some of our own craft will be in the engagement zone.'

'Do it!' ordered Balhaan. 'Or there will be no ship for them to return to and they will die anyway. Open fire!'

Axarden nodded and staggered across the raptured deck to carry out his captain's orders.

The enemy fighters would soon find that the Ferrum still had teeth.

The primarch's chambers aboard the battle-barge, Fist of Iron, were constructed of stone and glass, as cold and austere as the frozen tundra of Medusa, and First Captain Santar could almost feel the chill of his icy home world in the design. Blocks of shimmering obsidian carved from the sides of undersea volcanoes kept the chamber dark, and glass cabinets of war trophies and weapons stood as silent sentinels over the primarch's most private moments.

Santar watched as Ferrus Manus stood nearly naked before him, his servants washing his iron hard flesh and applying oils before scraping him clean with razor edged knives. As each gleaming, oiled limb was finished, his armourers would apply the layers of his battle armour, gleaming black plates of polished ceramite that had been crafted by Master Adept Malevolus of Mars.

'Tell me again, equerry Santar,' began the primarch, his voice gruff and full of the molten fury of a Medusan volcano. 'How is it that an experienced captain like Balhaan was able to lose three vessels and not manage to bring down one of our enemy's?'

'It appears he was lured into an ambush,' said Santar, straightening his back as he spoke. To serve as First Captain of the Iron Hands and equerry to the Primarch of the Iron Hands was the greatest honour of his life, and while he relished every moment spent with his beloved leader, there were moments when the potential of his anger was like the volatile core of their home, unpredictable and terrifying.

'An ambush?' snarled Ferrus Manus. 'Damn it, Santar, we are becoming sloppy! Months of chasing shadows have made us foolhardy and reckless. It will not stand.'

Ferrus Manus towered above his servants, his knotted flesh pale as though carved from the heart of a glacier. Scars crossed his skin from the wounds he had taken in battle, for the Primarch of the Iron Hands was never one to shirk from leading his warriors by example. His close cropped hair was jet black, his eyes like glittering silver coins, and his features were battered by centuries of war. Other primarchs might be considered beautiful creations, handsome men made godlike by their ascension to the ranks of the Astartes, but Ferrus Manus did not count himself amongst them.

Santar's eyes were drawn, as they always were, to the gleaming silver forearms of his primarch. The flesh of his arms and hands shimmered and rippled as though formed from liquid mercury that had flowed into the shape of mighty hands and somehow been trapped in that form forever. Santar had seen wondrous things fashioned by these hands, machines and weapons that never dulled or failed, all beaten into shape or crafted by the primarch's hands without need of forge or hammer.

'Captain Balhaan is already aboard to personally apologise for his failure, and he has offered to resign command of the Ferrum.'

'Apologise?' snapped the primarch. 'I should have his head just to make an example.'

'With respect, my lord,' said Santar, 'Balhaan is an experienced captain and perhaps something less severe might be in order. 'Perhaps you might simply remove his arms?'

'His arms? What use is he to me then?' demanded Ferrus Manus, causing the servant with his breastplate to flinch.

'Very little,' agreed Santar, 'though probably more than if you remove his head.'

Ferrus Manus smiled, his anger vanishing as swiftly as it had arisen. 'You have a rare gift, my dear Santar. The molten heart of Medusa burns in my breast and sometimes it rises in my gullet before I can think.'

'I am your humble servant,' said Santar.

Ferrus Manus waved away his armourers and moved to stand before Santar. Though Santar was tall for an Astartes and was clad in his full armour, the primarch still towered over him, his silver eyes shining and without pupils. Santar suppressed a shiver, for those eyes were like chips of napped flint, hard, unforgiving and sharp. The scent of lapping powder and oil was strong on his flesh, and Santar felt his soul open up beneath that gaze, his every weakness and imperfection laid bare.

Santar was like unto Medusa himself, his craggy features like a cliff face shorn from the flanks of a mountain, his grey eyes like the great storms that tore the skies of his home world. Upon his induction into the Legion, many decades ago, his left hand had been removed and a bionic replacement grafted in its place. Since then, both his legs had been replaced, as had the remainder of his left arm.

'You are much more than that to me, Santar,' said Ferrus Manus, placing his hands on his equerry's shoulder guards. 'You are the ice that quenches my fire when it threatens to overwhelm the good sense the Emperor gave me. Very well, if you won't let me take his head, what punishment would you suggest?'

Santar took a deep breath as Ferrus Manus turned away from him and returned to his armourers, the dreadful respect the primarch instilled leaving his mouth dry.

Angrily, he pushed aside his momentary weakness and said, 'Captain Balhaan will have learned from this debacle, but I agree his weakness must be punished. To remove him as captain of the Ferrum would damage the morale of the crew, and if they are to restore their honour, they will need Balhaan's leadership.'

'So what do you suggest?' asked Ferrus.

'Something to make it clear that he has earned your ire, but which shows that you are merciful and willing to allow him and his crew the chance to earn back your trust.'

Ferrus Manus nodded as the armourers fitted his breastplate to his backplate, his silver arms extended either side of him as they dipped linen cloths into iron bowls of scented oils and applied them to his hands.

'Then I will appoint one of the Iron Fathers to joint command of the Ferrum,' said Ferrus Manus.