Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I wish us all to be friends.’ He looked around, and then back up at the Sabazian on the parapet. ‘Well, here we are. Now, why did you invite me?’

  ‘Why did you seek us out?’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  The man on the parapet spread his hands. ‘And thus, the answer.’ Fulgrim snorted. ‘Amusing, but perhaps you could elaborate. Is this to be a debate? A surrender?’ He smiled. ‘An assassination attempt?’ Now that he was down here, he could detect the faint vibration of some vast, unseen mechanism, buried somewhere beneath him. Generators, possibly. Or something else.

  ‘We wish only to talk,’ one of those in the crowd said hurriedly. ‘To hear for ourselves your intentions for Byzas. To see whether we might reach an accord.’

  ‘They have not changed since the last time I spoke of them. I’m sure some of you, at least, heard them. I’m more interested in hearing your intentions.’ His smile widened as a nervous ripple ran through their ranks. As he’d thought, there were members of the patricians present here. Secret societies attracted the nobility like flies to dung. Boredom was a potent drug.

  Then, perhaps it wasn’t all boredom. ‘Byzas must change, if it is to survive,’ the Sabazian on the parapet called down. ‘It must shed the old, and welcome the new. It must step into the light, and banish the shadows.’

  Fulgrim nodded. That was straight from the old training manuals he’d found. ‘I completely agree. And the best way to do that is to cease this pointless rebellion. Compliance will see Byzas inducted into a galactic brotherhood the likes of which you cannot conceive. Progress will follow swiftly.’

  ‘Will it?’ another of the hooded figures barked. ‘Or will we trade one set of overseers for another? I have spoken to these iterators of yours. They would make us peasants, grubbing in cosmic soil for the betterment of distant masters. The Sabazian Brotherhood works to set aside all that holds one man in servitude to another. We shall not condemn our people to chains, no matter the quality of their forging.’

  Fulgrim shrugged. ‘It is not a life of ease, it is true. There is much work to be done before Byzas can assume its proper place.’ He looked around. ‘But under my watchful gaze, it can, and will, be accomplished. All men - rich and poor alike - must work together.’

  Someone laughed, a trifle nervously. The sound stuttered away, lonely and soon forgotten. ‘And will you become Hereditary Governor then?’ a Sabazian asked.

  Fulgrim chuckled. ‘You have a governor, I believe.’

  ‘Pandion is corrupt. The patricians are corrupt. They must be swept aside, if we are to achieve anything.’ Mutters of agreement followed this outburst.

  ‘And what will you replace them with?’ Fulgrim asked.

  Silence. He nodded. ‘As I thought. You call yourselves a brotherhood, but how many factions stand before me? One? Or a dozen?’ He turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep across the masked faces. ‘Have you even discussed the future at any length?’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘I do not care who rules Byzas, only that their rule is a stable one. Your internal conflicts are just that - internal. Unimportant, against the wider tapestry of the Great Crusade. But I will not leave this world less stable than I found it.’

  ‘Perhaps you will not leave this world at all,’ someone said. Fulgrim looked at him, and the speaker jerked back with a muffled oath, hand falling to his sword. Fulgrim stared steadily at the Sabazian for long moments. Then, his smile returned.

  ‘Ah. And here I hoped you would prove reasonable.’ He looked up, as if beseeching the heavens. ‘Am I to forever be beset by fools?’

  Silence stretched. Fulgrim could smell their growing nervousness. They did not fully understand his capabilities, but some of them had likely witnessed his actions at the banquet. They knew how fast he could move, and how strong he was. But they did not truly understand. Finally, one of the Sabazians bowed his head.

  ‘Our apologies, Lord Fulgrim. Our colleague spoke out of turn, and will be disciplined.’

  ‘Well, that’s alright then,’ Fulgrim said mockingly. ‘You should be glad that it is I who stands before you, and not one of my brothers. They are all, without exception, extremely short-tempered, and prone to acts of exceptional violence.’ He spread his arms. ‘I, on the other hand, am a reasonable being.’ He pointed at them. ‘But I am fast coming to the limits of my patience. This world is mine, now, and I would make a gift of it to my father.’

  In the end, that was what it came down to. Simple ownership. This world was his, as Chemos was. His to mould, his to shape. And he would suffer no one to challenge that. Only he possessed the clarity of vision necessary to steer this world on its proper course. Recent events had proven that much, at least. This brotherhood was nothing more than a gathering of children, flailing for purpose. They agitated and stoked the fires of resentment, but had no goal beyond some nebulous ideal of equality. They would set Byzas aflame and smother themselves in the ashes, if he allowed them to continue.

  As if reading his mind, one of the Brotherhood said, ‘If you would help us, we could make this world a fitting gift for this Emperor of yours - a paradise.’

  ‘A paradise unearned is but a land of shadows.’ Fulgrim frowned. ‘It is as if you are not listening. I do not wish to make it a paradise I wish to make it compliant. If you would stage a coup, then stage a coup. But make it quick. You will get no help from me’

  ‘You will stand aside then, when we come for Pandion?’

  Fulgrim frowned. He’d expected as much, given the lengths to which they’d gone to kill the old man during the banquet. He shook his head. ‘Pandion and his family are under my protection. For better or worse they represent the only hope of stability this world has. I will not allow you - or any of the others - to throw this planet into chaos. If you wish to form a new government, do so. But it will have Pandion as a figurehead. Order will be maintained.’

  ‘He is corrupt!’ one of the Sabazians shouted.

  ‘Yes. But he is mine. Just as any government you form will be mine. Whatever form you wish it to take, it will be hammered into a shape tolerable to me. That is the nature of compliance.’ Fulgrim slapped Fireblade‘s hilt. ‘Bow your head, or lose it. Those are your options.’ It was a hard line to take, but necessary.

  The Sabazian Brotherhood could not be allowed to flourish, whatever its aims. Like the patricians, they would only create instability. They wished to uplift the common man, without thought as to what that might mean for both him and those he served. The freedom they offered was merely a tyranny of the weak. Twenty-Eight One’s course was set, and nothing could be allowed to deter it. To deter him. He would bring Byzas to heel before the month was out, as he had swom.

  ‘There is a third option - we can resist. We can fight.’ It was said quietly. ‘As we have always fought, so will we continue to fight. Until our world is free of the shackles which bind it.’ He pointed at Fulgrim. ‘You have placed Nova-Basilos under martial law. You have executed members of our brotherhood, and those we fight against. You are the enemy of all those who call Byzas home, whatever you profess.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I do not have to be.’

  ‘That is our hope as well.’ The Sabazian who’d first greeted him descended a set of stone steps to the courtyard. ‘Perhaps you would find the tenets of our brotherhood edifying,’ he continued. ‘They align closely with the values you espouse so vocally.’ A hesitation. ‘We would make fitting allies, Lord Fulgrim. More so than Pandion, at least.’

  ‘I do not require allies.’ Fulgrim tapped the pommel of his sword with a forefinger. ‘And I know the doctrines you follow, likely better than you. I require an orderly society, here and now, not some impossible utopia.’

  ‘And how will you achieve that, when you defend the very cause of this world’s disorder?’ The Sabazian spread his hands. ‘Will you hunt us down? We have been hunted before. Outlaw us? We are outlaws even now.’

  ‘I will dissolve the government. I will purge the ranks of the c
ontinental army and the patricians. I will burn away anyone who seeks to make themselves an obstacle to the progress I bring. That includes your brotherhood - as well as those who follow you - if you get in my way.’ Fulgrim looked around. ‘I will do what I must, to see this thing done. Even if it means I must put down every uprising personally.’

  The Sabazians were silent for a moment. Then, one of them said, ‘As will we, Lord-Phoenician. But we need not be enemies.’

  Fulgrim looked up. He could hear the whine of approaching engines. The Firebird was nearing the designated landing zone, some distance down the mountain. ‘You have a choice to make. I would make it quickly.’

  It was a challenge, and a warning. He’d known before he even set foot in this place that he would find no common ground with these men. But they had been an unknown, and irritating in their ambiguity. He’d needed to know what he was facing. Now, he had their measure. Idealists and demagogues, more dangerous in their way than Bucepholos and his sort, if left to their own devices.

  ‘And if we make the wrong choice?’

  Fulgrim smiled. ‘Don’t. Accept your fate. Bow your heads, and take solace in knowing that I am sympathetic to your aims. For if you do not, you will find your brotherhood well and truly extinct.’

  Thirteen

  the perfect life

  Chancellor Corynth lunged. His form was smooth, displaying no hesitation between thought and action. His blade thunked repeatedly against the slowly rotating practice mannequin. Gouges covered it, crossing over one another, creating an intricate pattern of bloodless wounds. He retreated, blade slashing out, as if to deflect a counter-attack.

  Fulgrim approached, hands behind his back. ‘Splendid form.’ The training room was meant for the use of the Gubernatorial Guard, but Fulgrim had it on good authority that they rarely used it. Corynth, it seemed, was taking advantage of its abandonment.

  Startled, Corynth whirled. Fulgrim’s hand snapped up, easily swatting aside Corynth’s blade. The chancellor leapt back with an oath. Fulgrim grinned. ‘My apologies. I sometimes forget that un-augmented humans aren’t as observant as one of my warriors.’

  Corynth stared at him, blade still half extended. Slowly, he lowered it. ‘No apologies necessary, my lord.’

  ‘Fulgrim, Belleros. Remember? Fulgrim.’

  ‘Given the current situation, I thought it best to err on the side of formality.’

  ‘Belleros, I assure you, it is all for the best.’

  ‘Thus speaks the tyrant.’

  Fulgrim slapped the practice mannequin, causing it to spin creakily. ‘I’m no tyrant. If I were, you would think twice before saying such things.’ He paused. ‘Most men would anyway.’ He circled the practice mannequin, studying the newer marks. ‘Ambidextrous?’

  ‘What?’

  Fulgrim held up a hand and waggled his fingers. ‘Are you ambidextrous? An equal number of right- and left-handed cuts.’ Corynth nodded slowly.‘Yes. By training, rather than inclination.’

  ‘Admirable.’ Fulgrim leaned on the mannequin. ‘Would you care to spar?’

  Corynth’s eyes widened. Fulgrim laughed. ‘I assure you, you won’t come to harm. I am quite careful of my opponents.’ He paused. ‘In practice, at least.’

  The chancellor shook his head. ‘I think I’ll pass on the offer, kind as it is. I’ve had my fill of sword-play today.’ He spoke curtly, with little of the warmth he’d previously displayed. Understandable, perhaps, given that the government he’d so loyally served had just been dissolved by Fulgrim’s order. The city - and by extension, the planet - was under martial law in all but name. The bulk of the continental army was on its way back to Nova-Basilos, and the patricians were in an uproar, as their own careful manoeuvrings were thrown into chaos.

  Fulgrim stopped him. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

  Corynth looked away. ‘I understand. But you are wrong. You are provoking a war for your own ends. The cost in lives alone will be enormous.’

  ‘The ends justify the means.’

  Corynth laughed. ‘I’m sure Pandion’s ancestor said much the same, when he created the Glass Waste. Or when he conquered the western provinces.’ He shook his head. ‘You bring us more of the same. I thought - I hoped you would change things for the better. Instead, you seem determined to hold Byzas in bondage of the worst sort.’ He looked at Fulgrim. ‘I asked you once what you would make of us. I have my answer.’

  ‘Belleros, I will help Byzas, but there must always be bitter with the sweet.’ He looked down at the chancellor. ‘I cannot allow this world to fall to anarchy, no matter how beneficial it might seem. There must be strong foundations to build anything of note’

  ‘And Pandion is one of those foundations?’

  ‘He is what I have. He is a recognisable figurehead, a known quantity. He has shown a willingness to work with us, and an ability to adapt to a changing situation. Necessary qualities in a planetary governor.’

  ‘Qualities you could find in a democratically elected council,’ Corynth said, his voice growing heated. ‘A representative government, chosen by the people-‘

  Fulgrim laughed. ‘Which people? The tenant farmers in the agri-circle? The men and women being worked to death in the ore facilities?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I know who you mean, even if you don’t. It would be men like Patrician Bucepholos and his ilk. A council of vipers, riven by in-fighting and politicking. Or worse, a military junta.’

  ‘You do us an injustice,’ Corynth said, almost shouting. ‘If we - if the people - were but given the chance…’

  ‘They will be. But not yet. Not this way. There must be order - peace - so that what has been forgotten might flourish anew. It is a slow thing, saving a world. It cannot be done solely at the point of a sword, or with high-minded ideals alone. It must be done correctly, efficiently, else it will simply fall apart at the first sign of strain.’

  ‘So you would condemn them to the status quo, in the name of efficiency.’

  Fulgrim hesitated. ‘That isn’t what I meant.’

  Corynth looked at him. ‘Isn’t it?’ He swallowed thickly. ‘This has never truly been about us, I think. We are nothing more than a - a test. A challenge. And you are determined to prove yourself correct, to prove your way is the best way, whatever the cost. Are we nothing more than game pieces to you and this Imperium of yours? If so, I am not sure I wish to live in it.’

  ‘Belleros…’

  Corynth slumped. ‘There is nothing more to say. You are in control, after all, and I am chancellor in name only. Soon, I might not even be that.’

  He slipped past Fulgrim, and the primarch let him go. Corynth stopped at the door. ‘Why did you turn them down?’ he asked. ‘They could have been of help to you.’

  Fulgrim didn’t have to ask who he was referring to. ‘They are children. And I have no time for children’s games.’ He frowned. ‘Byzas must be brought into compliance.’

  ‘That is your desire, not your purpose.’

  ‘It is both.’

  ‘That you think that, is proof that you don’t understand anything.’

  ‘A question for you then - why did you turn me down, that first night? All of this could have been avoided, had you seized the laurel.’

  Corynth didn’t answer. He left without a word. Fulgrim almost pursued him. He was shaking with anger. He wanted to destroy something. He spun, smashing his forearm through the practice dummy, shattering it.

  He looked down at the broken mannequin. ‘Damn it.’

  Corynth was wrong. He understood perfectly. The way forward was clear. Pandion was the best choice of a bad lot. He provided stability - consistency - in an unstable time. A known quantity. To overthrow him, to replace him with a council of unknowns, or worse, a group of men the common people of Byzas hated, was to risk planet-wide upheaval. The patricians might have accepted Corynth as regent, but they would never accept an elected body of malcontents. Just as they would not suffer one of their own to rule over the rest. No, Pandion was
the least offensive choice.

  That Corynth couldn’t see that was proof his idealism was outweighing his common sense. The changes he desired could be made within the existing system, if only he had the patience to do so. Fulgrim laughed harshly. And who was he, to fault another man’s impatience?

  How much had his impatience cost him already, in his life? How much might it yet cost him, if he wasn’t careful? His hands curled into fists. It was hard. Mortals moved and thought so slowly. It took them an inordinately long time to come to blindingly obvious conclusions. To see what must be done. That was why he had to make the choices he made, to make up for their imperfections. To see that their flaws did not cause harm to them, or others. His fists tightened, and his knuckles popped beneath his gauntlets.

  He had made the mistake of leaving mortals to find their own way once before, and they had proven themselves incapable of following the correct path. He closed his eyes, feeling again the crackle of the stun baton against the skin of his palm, and the crunch of the Caretaker’s spine as Fulgrim seized him and shook the life from him. The Callax worker protests had shown him the consequences of disorder. Instability led to violence, and violence to death. Not the deaths of the rich or influential, but the deaths of the worker and the peasant. It was the duty of the strong to protect the weak, to see that they did not suffer from their own foolishness.

  Corynth didn’t understand that. He saw only oppression, instead of necessity. He saw enforced stability as a cage, preventing growth, rather than as a necessary evil. But he would learn. Fulgrim would teach him. Teach them. He was the Illuminator, and his light would guide them on the path ahead.

  Despite his confidence, he felt a flicker of uncertainty. A skilful duellist forced his opponent to make the moves that benefitted him least, and the duellist the most. He had called the Sabazian Brotherhood’s bluff. Only time would tell whether or not that was exactly what they’d wanted.

  The floor trembled. He turned, listening. He heard a distant boom. Muffled shouts. An alarm began to sound, its piercing wail cutting across his eardrums. Fulgrim raced to the window and flung it open. Streaks of orange and red striated the sky. The shapes of low-altitude airships spun in a slow, stately duel beneath the sun, and the chatter of stub-cannons ratcheted through the air. As he watched, an airship banked, expelling its explosive cargo.