Thorn hurried after him. ‘Are we just going to kick the gate in, then?’
‘Unless you’d prefer to climb.’
‘Hardly.’
‘Then I suggest picking up the pace, brother.’
They charged together. When they reached the gates of the farmstead, two well-timed kicks burst the ancient hinges and shattered the portal. Echoing booms sounded as the gates toppled inwards and splintered on the ground. Telmar rode the momentum, allowing it to carry him into the courtyard.
Shots peppered him. He ground flattened slugs beneath his tread as he stomped towards the nearest concentration of revolutionaries. He could hear Thorn following him, his laughter booming up to quiet the screams and shouts of their opponents.
The gunfire slackened as the revolutionaries began to realise that it wasn’t doing anything to slow the two Space Marines down. Eventually, even the slogan chanting died away, replaced by concerned murmurs.
Telmar snatched a rifle from the unresisting hands of a cowering worker. ‘Give me that before you hurt yourself,’ he growled. He snapped it easily in two and cast the pieces aside. Silence fell across the courtyard.
‘Well?’ Telmar snarled.
Guns thudded to the ground. Telmar nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good. I’m glad that’s settled. Now, someone bring me a vox-unit that works. And then we’ll talk about what this was all about, eh? Like civilised people.’
Flavius Alkenex stared down at the dead man. The body was thin beneath its ragged robes. Malnourished and covered in scars. Wide welts of abused flesh, the marks of a lash or a knout. Whatever the overseers here used. ‘He wasn’t a slave, was he?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Narvo Quin said harshly. ‘Just a common peasant.’ Quin sounded angry. Then, Quin was always angry. It was one of the few things Alkenex liked about him.
‘Still dead, though.’ Alkenex turned, studying the cowering overseer. A bulky, muscular lout. Alkenex knew the type - more muscles than brains, with a liking for violence. Exactly the sort of person you wanted overseeing a restive labour force, if you were more interested in punishment than efficiency. ‘Do they die a lot, then? Or did he get too excited when he heard we were coming?’
When the man shook his head without answering, Quin caught him by the scruff of the neck and shook him, not quite gently. ‘Answer him.’ The crowd of labourers around them was growing, as word of their arrival spread and work stopped. They all had the same half-starved look to them. Many of them were convicts or political prisoners not deemed dangerous enough to be transported to the lunar colonies. Others had just been unlucky enough to be bom in the area.
Something snapped in the overseer’s body and he screamed. Quin dropped him in disgust. A murmur swept through the crowd. There was an ugly light in their eyes, to see one of their tormentors humbled so. Alkenex wondered what would happen if they turned the screaming man over to his former charges. Nothing pretty, he suspected.
‘Worthless,’ Quin growled. He still wore his helmet, and his voice crackled with static. Alkenex had removed his own, reasoning that a human face was more likely to encourage cooperation than the war-mask of a legionary.
‘Well, he is now. Try not to break the next one, Narvo.’ Alkenex gestured to the group hurrying towards them. A phalanx of armoured soldiers surrounded a man in thick robes and furs. This high up in the mountains, it was quite cold for mortals. At the sight of the soldiers, the crowd began to melt away.
‘The next one had best answer more quickly,’ Quin grunted.
As they waited for their host to arrive, Alkenex looked around. The ore-processing facility was a crude affair - a crashing, grinding cacophony of barely functioning machinery, housed in heavy, block-like structures. Heat sinks vented chemical vapour into the cold air. The snow on the surrounding slopes had turned to grey sludge, and a patina of grime covered everyone and everything in sight. The tin shacks that served as dormitories for the workers were clumped on the lower slopes, amongst the slag heaps and runoff.
It reminded him of Chemos, somewhat. Or, rather, what he’d heard of Chemos. He’d never seen the primarch’s home world for himself, and had no real desire to do so. It sounded singularly unlovely. Alkenex preferred more colourful scenery.
He glanced down at the dead man. Something caught his eye, and he sank down. Caught inside the filthy robes was a tarnished medallion. It had turned black with age, but the outline of a clenched fist was still somewhat visible. He ran his thumb over it, wondering what it meant. He looked up, feeling the attentions of the crowd on him. Men and women, even a few children, watched him. They were murmuring something. A single word, over and over again, as if it were a prayer.
‘Sabazius,’ Alkenex murmured, sounding it out. Curious. The wounded overseer began screaming again. Alkenex looked down at him. ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll give you something worse than a broken bone to scream about.’
‘You have no authority here,’ the man in the furs began hesitantly as he reached them. Before he could continue, Alkenex rose and stepped forward.
‘Patrician Clabas, isn’t it? I am Legionary Flavius Alkenex. You were expecting us.’ Glabas’ face was all sharp panes, worn flat by the cold. His eyes were hard, but brittle. You are to give us a tour of your family’s holdings here, and these facilities.’
‘I-I wasn’t expecting-‘ Glabas spluttered. He was frightened. He had expected iterators. Mortals. Not demigods. He shrank back into his furs. His men tightened their grips on their weapons. Alkenex tensed. This could all go wrong, very quickly.
Quin stepped towards them. ‘What you were or were not expecting is of no concern to us. Our authority derives from the hand of the Phoenician, and this world now belongs to him.’
It was said with such certainty that Alkenex almost believed it himself. He winced at his companion’s lack of subtlety. Glabas winced as well, though not for the same reasons. Quin hadn’t bothered to modulate his volume. The legionary flexed his hands. They’d brought only sidearms, reasoning that anything more might provoke a hostile - if short-lived - response. But it would be fairly easy for Quin to shuck Glabas’ guards from their armour with just his bare hands. And from the look on his face, Glabas knew it.
The question was, would he do the sensible thing? Or would he grab hold of the excuse Quin had given him with both hands?
Clabas slumped. ‘Very well,’ the patrician said.
Quin gave a disgruntled sigh. Alkenex smiled, pleased.
‘A sensible decision.’
Fulgrim set aside the reports, a frown on his face. He sat at a table in the gardens, as had become his habit. It was Pyke’s fault, really, but the iterator was right - it was easier to concentrate out here, beneath a sky of glass, surrounded by carefully orchestrated greenery. He took a deep breath, enjoying the carefully layered odours of hundreds of different species of flower. For a moment, he indulged his senses, identifying and memorising the distinct scents for later study.
The moment passed all too quickly, and he soon turned his attentions back to the information his sons had gathered. Kasperos’ account from the high-yield farms revealed little more than what Fulgrim had expected. Brutal working conditions, malnourishment, inadequate shelter. Crimes of negligence, rather than intent, but no less troublesome. It had been much the same on Chemos before his ascension. The workers were deprived of their humanity in order to increase compliance. But a compliance born of fear was doomed to sour into open revolt.
Already there were reports of anarchistic attacks on the infrastructure of the farms, as well as a more general agrarian revolt, such as Telmar and Thorn had encountered, along the outer rim of the wider agri-circle. Industrial farms had been occupied and fortified by desperate workers. The patricians reacted swiftly and brutally. The horizon was lit at night by the glow of burning fields.
It was worse in the ore-processing facilities, according to Alkenex’s report. It was all but forced labour, and the high rate of accidents among the work crew and management both
was concerning. Alkenex and Quin had seen little open violence, but the signs were clear.
‘Sabazius,’ he muttered, lifting the medallion Alkenex had found.
The assassins at the banquet had cried that name. Individuals among the lower classes prayed to it A folk tale, Pandion had called it. Bucepholos hadn’t recognised it as anything other than a myth.
Chemos had its own slew of folk heroes, including Dig-Operator Jak, and Nimble Tolliver. But this didn’t feel the same. There was a different sort of weight to the name. He studied the image on the medallion. It was a stylised hand, its fingers bent as if grasping for something. A swordsman’s hand, or an archer’s. It reminded him somewhat of his brother, Ferrus. He smiled. The fingers split at their tips, becoming something other - eagles, he realised. Not just eagles. He touched the aquila on his chest-plate, and then dropped the medallion onto the table, annoyed.
Fulgrim could smell war on the air. Byzas was breaking down, bit by bit. And there seemed no clear way of halting the slide without assuming total control.
Would he have to conquer the world to save it? Doing so might be more efficient in the long run, but it would prove his brothers right. An unacceptable outcome Fulgrim sat back with a sigh. Byzas was a poisoned chalice and he’d accepted it with a smile. ‘Hubris, thy name is Fulgrim,’ he murmured, considering the data manifests before him. He’d put Pyke’s people to work transcribing the hard copies Corynth had provided, trusting them to note any and all discrepancies. There were always a few. Even transcribed onto data-slates, it was still a confusing sprawl of numbers. But there was a pattern there, somewhere. He could just make it out, like the strands of a spider’s web, shining in the light.
But was it a naturally occurring pattern, or one designed? Was he fighting one enemy, or a hundred? Coincidence accounted for much of what he was seeing. Empires didn’t die all at once. They collapsed in stages - outbreaks of violence accompanied by a breakdown in infrastructure compounded by treason. The same story, repeated ad nauseam across the scope of human history. But this was something else again - asymmetric warfare on a planetary scale. It was all happening more quickly than one might expect. As if some force were driving if all. A guiding hand, leading Byzas down the path of destruction.
‘Sabazius,’ he said again. The answer was there he thought.
A polite cough caused him to look up. He’d heard Corynth approach, but had paid little attention to the chancellor’s arrival.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ Corynth said.
‘Hardly.’ Fulgrim gestured to the bench opposite. ‘Please, sit. I was just reviewing the data you so graciously provided.’
‘I hope it will be of some use.’ He gestured to the medallion. ‘Something new?’
Fulgrim nodded. ‘Do you recognise it?’
Corynth straightened. ‘I believe it’s the hand of Sabazius.’ Fulgrim looked at him. Corynth had spoken in a tone he recognised. One that many used when they referred to the Emperor. ‘And who is Sabazius?’
Corynth smiled and ran a finger across the medallion. ‘Sabazius was a man. He led our ancestors here, or so the stories claim. He broke their shackles and freed them from a great tyrant, who claimed to be the master of all mankind. He slew a great serpent and fashioned ships from its scales, so that they might escape. From out of the darkness, through the forest of stars, he brought them to Byzas.’ He sighed. ‘Or so the stories say. Myths and half-truths.’
‘Half a truth is better than none. Would it be of interest to you to know that this was discovered by my warriors at a scene of unrest?’ He tapped the medallion.
Corynth was silent Then, ‘I had heard rumours.’
Fulgrim looked at him. ‘Share them, Belleros, by all means. You were helpful before, with Bucepholos.’ He hadn’t been, but Fulgrim saw no reason to tell him that.
Corynth seemed hesitant, as if he were breaking a confidence. Then, ‘The Sabazian Brotherhood. A scholarly society, of sorts.’
‘And this society is… What? Inciting revolution?’
‘No. It’s all but extinct, or should be.’ Another hesitation. Longer this time. ‘They were a progressive society, seeking enlightenment.’ A half-smile. ‘They were seeking perfection. The perfect knowledge, the perfect form, the perfect society.’ He mimed raising a sword. ‘Their skills at swordplay were infamous amongst the duelling societies which proliferate even now amongst the patricians.’
Fulgrim listened, intrigued despite himself. There were similar societies on Chemos, and Terra as well. Corynth warmed to his subject. ‘They sought to change society, one duel at a time. Not just with swords, but with debate. With literature and music and ideas, of fairness and equality. As Sabazius had, before the Tyrant of Old Night sought to silence him. As if they could rewrite the world with one perfect thrust.’ He fell silent.
‘You said they were extinct. What happened?’
‘They made a mistake. They attracted the notice of those who held the power, and incurred their wrath. The Brotherhood was outlawed, and any found wearing their insignia or owning their writings was punished.’
‘And yet, here it is.’ Fulgrim gestured to the medallion.
‘It was many years ago. Decades.’ Corynth shrugged. ‘The Gubernatorial Triumvirate were soon satisfied that the Sabazian Brotherhood had ceased to be a threat, and relaxed their strictures. Belief in Sabazius is considered a mildly gauche superstition now, rather than a sign of treachery.’
‘That might change, before long.’
Corynth looked at him sharply. ‘What do you intend, Fulgrim?’
‘On Chemos, I was referred to by some as the Illuminator. So I shall cast my light far and wide, and see what is revealed. If there is a secret society at work here, I shall root it out, and eliminate the threat it poses, by whatever means necessary.’
Corynth frowned. ‘You know, the ideals of the Brotherhood were compatible with those you insist this Imperium of yours espouses.
They want - wanted - the same things. Could you not work with them, rather than stamping on them?’ There was a heat there, simmering around the edges of his words. As if the idealist in him were momentarily coming to the fore.
‘If they still exist, you mean?’
Corynth blinked. ‘Obviously.’
Fulgrim paused, as if considering. More for show than anything else. He smiled benignly. ‘What do you want, Belleros? What do you wish for Byzas?’
Corynth looked at him. After a moment, he said, ‘Something better.’
Fulgrim nodded. ‘A familiar answer. But what is better? Define it for me. Better for you? Better for the Continental Government?’
‘Better for Byzas.’
‘The idealist’s answer. Or a politician’s. Which are you?’
‘Can’t I be both?’ Corynth laughed. There was a harsh edge to the sound. A bitterness, mixed in with the sweet. Fulgrim could hear the echoes of a lifetime of disappointments in that laugh. ‘Poetry, painting, wine… These are nothing. Politics is our true art. We practise it every day, in every way. We watch and calculate. We scheme over breakfast, plot at midday, and pay assassins after the evening meal. Every word, every deed, is scrutinised, dissected and twisted out of sorts, in order to further the goals of the listener.’ He fell silent. ‘It has always been that way. It is tradition.’
‘And you wish to break with tradition?’
‘I wish to cast tradition into the fire.’ Corynth slumped, as if suddenly exhausted. ‘I wish to burn it all to ashes, and raise something beautiful in its place’ He looked at Fulgrim, his expression sad. ‘But that is not what you are planning, is it? There is no stability in that. No order. And it cannot be done according to schedule’
Fulgrim said nothing. Corynth laughed again, more softly this time ‘You can’t know what it’s like, watching everything you know and love degrade before your eyes. Byzas has been dying for centuries. The end is close.’ He pointed. ‘You are the end. Compliance is the end of us. We will become something else
, and Byzas - Byzas as it might have been - will be lost.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps that is for the best.’
Fulgrim shook his head. ‘My world was a toxic cesspit before I took it in hand. Every day, it grew a little worse, a little less habitable. Its rulers squabbled amongst themselves for ever-dwindling profits and influence, ignoring what was going on outside their windows.’ He leaned forward. ‘The workers in the factories - including my parents - died in their thousands. They died from glowlung, from tainted water, from violence The machinery which had kept the factories running for centuries was breaking down, and in every generation there were fewer and fewer who knew how to maintain it.’
He stood abruptly. ‘Wherever I looked, there was nothing but ruin. I did not see the sun until I was a man. I didn’t realise that rain wasn’t supposed to burn the skin, or that the average human lifespan was longer than thirty years.’ He looked down at Corynth. ‘I didn’t know that there was something better, until it was almost too late.’
He turned and gestured to the closest tree ‘I had never even seen a tree outside of the holdfasts of the executive clans. ‘And those were pale, crooked things, with leaves like razors.’ He looked back at Corynth. ‘So yes, I know of what you speak. I know that feeling, Belleros. That sense of hopelessness. Of futility. But it can be conquered. I halted my world’s descent into oblivion, and I will do the same for yours.’
‘But will it still be ours when you are done, Fulgrim?’ Corynth asked. ‘Will Byzas still be Byzas? Or will it simply be Twenty-Eight One?’ He frowned. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time Forgive me’ He turned and strode away.
Fulgrim made no attempt to stop him.
It was only later that he noticed Corynth had taken the medallion with him.
Ten
the education of cyrius
Legionary Cyrius smiled.
The air of the palace gardens was redolent with the smell of fruiting blossoms. Artfully pruned trees clustered in carefully arranged glens. They crowded against miniature recreations of ancient temples, or lined the dark, cobbled pathways that cut through the palatial gardens. Marble statues peeked out from behind curtains of greenery, as if curious to see who might be invading their realm.
Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 12