Builds sword

The smith was engrossed in his work, and only looked up when Perturabo pushed his way within. The smithy was enclosed, a red and black world of secrets. The smith was a powerful man, thickly muscled and wise in his arts. Perturabo was as powerfully built as he. The smith knew not to protest.

Perturabo looked around, knowing the names of the tools and the items as he set eyes on them.

'Give me iron. Give me charcoal. High grade, long burn. Give me tools. Give me them now,' he said. He extrapolated the words he must say from the limited exposure he had had to the shepherds' speech. What left his mouth was tangled, but comprehensible. It was the first time he had ever spoken with another human being.

The blacksmith did as Perturabo asked. Authority cloaked the young primarch. Fear did the rest.

For hours Perturabo laboured in the forge, crafting an artefact he had never beheld, but whose shape was carried in his soul. The knowledge to work the metal, to beat iron into steel, to temper and to hone came to him as instinctively as the shape. In the beginning, the blacksmith held back, though he would not leave his domain. In the end, he came forward to assist. Those were superstitious times. The gods were prayed to and honoured, but never evident.

Here was the proof of their being. Only an emissary of the gods could be so strange, and appear so mysteriously, and work the smith's magic despite being so feral.

Perturabo allowed the smith to help.

The whole day passed before the work was done. At its conclusion Perturabo held up a plain, iron sword to his face and sighted along the edge. It was the first sword he had ever seen. He grunted in satisfaction, and turned to go. He had said nothing since his initial demands.

'Who are you?' asked the blacksmith in wonder.

Perturabo paused at the threshold of the smithy.

'I am Perturabo,' said the boy.

Emperor's Architect