It was peaceful here, in contrast to the rest of Byzas. The world tottered on its foundations. Riots, panic, starvation. At night, the horizon was lit by distant fires. There was a war-wind blowing from the west, and the reports from the continental army were lacklustre at best. Cyrius gave no thought to any of that. All that mattered was the enemy before him, and the mission at hand.
Young noblemen, from the most influential families of the patricians, stood arrayed in a loose circle around him, hands on their weapons. They reminded him of predatory birds - eager to fly and hunt, but not much else Once, he might have been counted amongst their number. On Chemos, he had been the son of an Executive. One of the elite, chosen to serve by the Illuminator. Cyrius had been bom to rule. His blood was a contract between Chemos and its people, unbreakable. As the blood of these was a contract between their people and their world. Aristocracy was the same, whatever it called itself.
He towered over the tallest of them, but few of the group seemed cowed. Instead, their gazes were calculating. They were hungry for glory - another thing he recognised in himself. He wondered if Fulgrim had chosen Byzas because its culture was so similar to that of Chemos, in some aspects. He knew these people were being tested as much for compatibility with the culture of the Third as they were for compliance. These ones were too old to become his brothers, but their children, and their children’s children, might yet serve beside him in the vanguard of the Great Crusade.
At last, one of them stepped forward. Cyrius was thankful. He’d been growing impatient. This one was thin, but with the look of a swordsman. His clothing was practically iridescent, and his fingers were decorated with rings. Tattooed glyphs, shaped like grasping hands, marked the corners of his eyes and his cheeks. The glyphs were common among the younger members of the elite, though Cyrius had yet to discern just what they signified.
‘We have heard that you are considered a duellist of some note,’ the young man said somewhat nervously, his fingers tapping against the pommel of his blade. ‘Is this true?’
Cyrius laughed. ‘Truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.’
This witticism only resulted in a shared look of confusion. Cyrius sighed and drew his sword. It was a good blade, made for him by the finest artificers on Chemos. Forged from pure ores, drawn from deep veins and shaped according to the traditions of the Sulpha people. Light, but with a solid core that lent it weight and strength. He had carved the hilt himself, from the jawbone of a Chemosian shaft-cat, and wrapped it in gold wire. That too was according to tradition.
To make the perfect weapon required some involvement from its wielder. Some piece of them must go into it, else its soul would be stunted and immature. Or so the artisans had maintained. Cyrius couldn’t say, either way. But he knew a good blade when he held it.
He set the sword point first into the ground and draped his hands over the cross-piece. ‘Are you challenging me? If so, what makes you think you will have any more luck than the other fourteen fools who thought to do the same?’
A hurried consultation followed. He let his attentions wander, while they came to a decision. His skills, already potent, had been further honed by Tesserius Akurduana, a warrior reckoned the finest swordsman in the Legion. While Cyrius was not his tutor’s equal, he fancied that he was the greatest swordsman on this planet, barring the Phoenician himself.
One finally stepped forward. And then another. A third. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth. Cyrius raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, now. Is that the way this is going to be?’
‘It seems only fair,’ the one with the tattoos said.
Cyrius bowed low to his opponents. A calculated insult on Chemos. To ascribe more respect to an opponent than they’d earned was to as good as call them worthless. Evidently it was the same here, for several of the young men reddened and one reciprocated the bow, nearly touching his head to the floor. Cyrius grinned and tapped that one’s ear with the flat of his blade. The young man jerked upright, eyes wide. The others tensed, wary now.
Cyrius spread his arms. ‘Come on then, show me.’
They were quick - quicker than Cyrius had expected, but not so quick as to surprise a blooded warrior of the Emperor’s Children. Speed was their stock in trade. He deflected the first blow with an iota of the force he would normally use, and sent his opponent stumbling. He avoided the second and countered the third, spinning the sword from the hands of its unlucky wielder.
The duel progressed quickly from there. Moments later, he’d disarmed the last of them without drawing blood. As they had so many times before, the shamefaced noblemen retreated in disarray to lick their wounds. He watched them go, wondering if they’d try it with a dozen next time. That might almost prove a challenge. ‘A spirited duel.’
Cyrius turned. ‘My thanks, lord commander.’
‘I shall have to commend Akurduana on his training regimen, as well as the quality of his protégés,’ Abdemon said. He was frowning slightly, and Cyrius suspected he’d been watching. He felt a flare of irritation. Abdemon must know that he’d been acting on the primarch’s orders. Fulgrim had encouraged him to mingle with the younger members of the gentry, to learn where their loyalties lay. To test them and see if they would mesh well with the culture of the Third.
‘He will be most pleased to hear it, I’m certain.’
‘He is one of the Two Hundred, you know. The first of our brotherhood to cross blades with the Phoenician. And the only one to last more than a few minutes against him. A record I suspect he will hold for some time.’
Cyrius peered at him, wondering if that statement were some form of warning. Abdemon was fond of lessons wrapped in anecdotes. It was one of his more infuriating qualities. Cyrius preferred his commanding officers to be plain speakers, and open in their chastisement. ‘I was not aware,’ he said carefully.
Abdemon nodded. ‘Consider yourself enlightened. You were being observed, by the way.’ He flicked a finger towards the high gantries that ran along the inside curve of the great dome above. ‘And each time before that.’ He smiled. They were testing you. Studying you.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Smart.’
Cyrius frowned, annoyed that he hadn’t noticed. ‘Not so smart. I won every duel.’
‘There are duels, and then there are duels, Cyrius. Learn to tell the difference’ Abdemon clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’re surrounded by enemies, and enemies of enemies. And all of them want to know what we are capable of, before they decide on a course of action. These people are neither simple nor stupid, Frazer’s assumptions to the contrary. They’re feeling us out, even as we do the same. Feint and counter-feint.’
Cyrius shook his head. ‘Maybe Frazer is right. Perhaps we should just take this world, the way we have always done.’
‘And waste how many of our brothers’ lives in the doing so? Oh, not many, maybe, but enough to put us back in Horus’ shadow. Enough to show that we’re not ready to play our part in the Great Crusade.’ Abdemon sighed. ‘Duels within duels.’
Cyrius digested this. ‘So how do we win?’
Abdemon looked back towards Fulgrim. ‘Only the primarch knows. Come.’
They joined the others, who sat nearby. Fulgrim reclined on a bench while Pyke and Frazer sat across from him, a table between them. The three were deep in conversation. On the table, a large pictographic map had been unrolled. It was a crude thing, more representative than a hololith. Even so, there was something strangely pleasing about the lack of precision. Quin and the other Legionaries stood around the table, studying it intently. Telmar looked up as Cyrius approached.
‘Finished playing with your little friends?’ he murmured.
Cyrius ignored him. The primarch was speaking.
‘We have a thousand enemies,’ Fulgrim said, tapping the map with a long finger. ‘Each with their own bastions of influence.’
‘A thousand enemies who are not allied against us,’ Pyke said. ‘We are an excuse, not a reason. Not yet.’
Fulgrim nodded. ‘An
apt description. So how does one prosecute a war on a thousand fronts?’ He looked up. ‘Cyrius - how would you go about achieving victory?’
Cyrius hesitated. ‘Isolate them. Manoeuvre warfare - we disrupt travel and communications across the planet. Localised electromagnetic pulses to shut down the electrical grids, and grind everyone’s decision-making capabilities to a halt.’
Fulgrim smiled. ‘Does that include our hosts?’
‘Protective custody,’ Telmar interjected. Cyrius shot him an annoyed glance, but said nothing. These discussions were tests. Duels of words and ideas, rather than blades. It was up to the participants to seize the advantage, and guide the discourse. ‘We remove the governor and his heirs from the board. Chancellor Corynth will act as regent, until such time as we deem the situation under control.’
‘And where will we remove them to?’ Quin demanded. He rounded on Telmar, face like a thundercloud. The entire world is enemy territory.’
‘The answer should be obvious, even to you,’ Telmar said blandly. At Quin’s glare, he pointed upwards. ‘The Byzans have an antiquated fleet. The Pride of the Emperor alone would be enough to conquer this system.’
‘If we go that far, why not simply use the Stormbirds to strafe some sense into them?’ Alkenex interrupted. They have nothing to match our gunships. Or the Legion itself. Following Cyrius’ example, we move outwards, disrupting their ability to organise and communicate in an ever-widening circle, until the whole world is dark. They won’t know what’s happened until we’re knocking at their gates.’
‘That’s part of the problem,’ Cyrius said, seizing the opening. ‘They truly have no understanding of our capabilities. The planet goes dark, they won’t understand that we caused it - just that it’s happened, and they have to adapt.’
Fulgrim looked at Quin. ‘What are the current military capabilities of our host?’
Quin shrugged. ‘Adequate. The continental army is divided into several hundred rough battalions - a third of them are under strength, but drawing pay that says otherwise. Ostensibly led by whoever paid the best bribe.’
‘But in reality, led by whichever subordinate has the initiative to pick up the slack,’ Alkenex cut in. ‘An unhealthy state of affairs. Discipline is maintained unevenly, at best. Several garrisons have effectively - and quietly - conquered their city of residence.’ He indicated half a dozen provinces on the pictograph to emphasise his point. ‘The battalions are disorganised. The worst of them are run by consensus.’
Fulgrim glanced at Frazer. The commander of the Archite Palatines was studying the map intently. ‘You have something to add, Herodotus?’
Frazer twitched, startled to be addressed by his first name. He preened slightly, taking it as a sign of respect. Cyrius hid a smile. Fulgrim knew how to play on his subordinates’ vanity, when necessary. Another lesson. Abdemon and the others made much of working with unaugmented humans, but only Fulgrim seemed able to accomplish it without effort.
‘The army will stay out of it, unless they’re attacked first,’ Frazer said. Their loyalties are divided. Most of the garrisons outside of Nova-Basilos will just fort up, until they see which way the wind is blowing. We can’t count on them.’ He grinned. ‘But neither can anyone else. The patricians will have to rely on those whose loyalties they’ve paid for, rather than trying to co-opt regular army units.’
‘And they’ll fight all the harder for it.’ Abdemon laid his hand flat on the map. ‘Frazer’s right. The entire command structure of the continental army is compromised. Even if they’re not actively disloyal, they won’t react quickly - or at all - to any threat to the governor’s authority.’ He glanced at Frazer. ‘They’ll only move when there’s a winning side to back.’
Frazer nodded. ‘That’s my estimation.’
‘And a fine one it is, if a trifle depressing.’ Fulgrim leaned forward. He looked up at Cyrius. ‘Your answer was adequate. Textbook. If we had the time and the resources, it would be the correct one. In this instance, we must adapt. Not isolation, but consolidation.’
Cyrius frowned, stung by his primarch’s dismissal. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It is time to turn our many enemies into one,’ Fulgrim said. ‘Right now, they are divided. Each seeking their own advantage. We are an unknown, and so they hesitate, uncertain of how best to proceed. Thus, we must illuminate the correct path for them, and encourage them to take it.’
Frazer gave a bark of laughter. You want them to ally against us.’ He seemed pleased. ‘A show of force should do it. I can-‘
‘No,’ Cyrius said. Fulgrim looked at him expectantly. ‘No,’ he continued. ‘A show of force would only disperse them further. We need to draw them in. A feint.’ He glanced at Telmar. We take the governor and his family into protective custody…’ He paused.
‘Go on,’ Fulgrim encouraged.
‘We take control of Nova-Basilos, and the continental army, on the authority of the Hereditary Governor. Lock it down. No access to the governor, save through us. Call the battalions back from the western provinces and the hinterlands - leave the patricians to clean up their own messes. That will annoy them, and the army will be happy to be leaving.’
Fulgrim nodded, smiling. ‘Very good. And then?’
Cyrius hesitated. ‘We disband the patricians. Dissolve the government.’
Pyke applauded. ‘Very good. That will stir them up nicely.’ Cyrius smiled, pleased. ‘It’ll be a symbolic gesture, of course. Nothing more.’
‘Hostages,’ Quin grunted. He looked around. ‘We imprison any members of the patricians, or their families, still in the city. That will make some of them think twice.’
Pyke frowned. ‘Crude, but effective. As good as a formal declaration of war. They’ll have no choice but to react, and swiftly, to such a provocation.’
‘Once galvanised, they’ll move to take the city, and Pandion,’ Fulgrim said. ‘After that, it’s simply a matter of revealing the hidden blade.’ He glanced at Cyrius. ‘Very good, Cyrius. You’ll make a fine officer one day.’ He looked at the others. ‘As will all of you. I am pleased, my sons. You are all worthy bearers of the palatine aquila, and my trust.’ He stood.
‘Now, let us prepare for what is to come.’
Eleven
sons of sabazius
‘I’m pleased to see you in such good spirits, Hereditary Governor,’ Pyke said as the guards showed her and Cyrius into the governor’s presence. ‘Not every man would be cheering the dissolution of his own government.’
‘It’s no more than they deserve, Lady Golconda.’ Pandion clapped his skinny hands in pleasure. ‘And truth be told, I’ve been dreaming of doing something similar for years now. Decades, even.’ He turned. ‘This calls for a drink! Will you join me?’
They had disbanded the patricians that morning. Pandion had absented himself from the assembly, leaving the matter to his new regent. Pyke smiled, remembering the explosion of noise that had greeted Fulgrim’s proclamation. She’d thought the assembled noblemen were going to riot, until the primarch had drawn his sword and seated himself on Pandion’s pneumatic throne, in a signal few could misinterpret.
After that, the Gubernatorial Guard had quickly ushered the stunned members of the assembly out. Discrete warnings had already been passed along the usual channels, ahead of the wave of arrest warrants Pandion had gleefully issued, at Fulgrim’s request. Most, but not all, of the patricians and their families would slip the net. Enough of them would be caught to make the rest feel lucky.
Pandion poured her a glass, still chattering. ‘A splendid strategy. They’ll have no choice but to make common cause. And then you’ll have them.’
‘So Lord Fulgrim assures me’
‘Yes. Where is he by the way? I expected him to bring me the news himself.’ Pandion glanced sidelong at Cyrius. ‘And why is he here?’
‘Protection,’ Cyrius said. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Pandion paled.
‘I see. What now?’
‘Your family will be evacuated today,’ Pyke said. Pandion nodded eagerly.
‘Good, good. I’ll let them know we’re leaving.’
‘They’re leaving. You’re not.’
Pandion froze. ‘What?’
‘You’re staying. In order to provide some little inspiration to your soldiers. Like a governor ought. And to draw the enemy in. Your symbolic value goes both ways.’
Pandion swallowed. He was sweating now. ‘Chancellor Corynth-‘ he began. Pyke cut him off with a gesture.
‘Corynth is an admirable man. But he is not the Hereditary Governor. He is not Pandion IV, the heir to a legacy stretching back to this world’s founding.’ She smiled. ‘If you leave, this whole house of cards comes crashing down. And we can’t have that.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ he protested.
‘You’ll be evacuated, but only after the trap has been sprung.’
‘I’m bait, you mean,’ Pandion snarled. They won’t attack, unless they know I’m within reach. And my throne with me’
Pyke shrugged. ‘If that’s how you wish to see it.’
‘And how else should I see it?’
‘You are a necessary element in a plan to impose a working peace on a world which has been on the cusp of war for far too long.’
Pandion snorted in disgust. ‘This is intolerable. I agreed to compliance in order to save my throne, not gamble it on a throw of the dice.’
‘Life is a gamble. It’s why I drink.’ Pyke went to the table and refilled her glass. ‘Care to join me?’
Pandion rubbed his face. ‘Yes. Why not? I suppose you and Frazer are going as well?’
‘No. Lord Commander Frazer, with your permission, will take over the continental army. He is eager to see if he can instil something approaching martial discipline in your troops. As for myself, I’ll stay here and help you kill this bottle, if you like. As well as any others you might have lying about.’
Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 13