Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘And you know where this supposed meeting will take place?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Fulgrim laughed. ‘They showed me.’

  fourteen

  eight against byzas

  ‘You have mobilised,’ Grythan Thorn murmured. The legionary knelt amid the coarse grasses, scrubbing gently at the wide, flat skull of a canid. The canid thumped its bushy tail, enjoying the attention. Thorn glanced up at its owner, sitting stiffly in the saddle of an equoid, a carbine resting across his legs.

  ‘We have,’ Patrician Phokas said. He was tense. Thorn could see the sweat on his brow, and hear the thready hum of his pulse. His nervousness was matched by that of his followers. There were fifty of them - minor sons, cousins and the like Out for an evening’s hunt, on the eve of battle. Thorn knew the type well enough. He was their type. The third-bom son of a minor executive clan, offered up to a superior in return for what? Influence, perhaps. Consideration.

  The army they led was small. A few thousand men, mostly agri-labourers pressed into service. Some artillery, antique even by the standards of this world. Several heavy, tracked haulers, carrying supplies and ammunition. Unimpressive, but potentially useful, in the right hands. Thorn flexed his sword arm, loosening the muscles.

  He gave the canid a last scratch and stood, servos humming. The patrician’s steed snorted and backed away. The steeds of the others shifted, stamping the ground in agitation. He had surprised them, appearing as if out of nowhere. It was inconceivable to them that one so large could move so quietly, so gracefully. In truth, he had been waiting for some time, after having calculated likely routes they would take.

  They were a day’s march from Nova-Basilos, as mortals judged such things. Close enough that messengers were riding back and forth between the converging armies on a regular basis. The renegade patricians were negotiating, bartering their loyalties to one another in return for future consideration. Any of them might try to seize the capital for themselves, if they were of a mind. But they all knew that to do so would provoke a response from the others. So, they were attempting to decide among themselves who would be king, in order to avoid such a quagmire. It was almost civilised.

  ‘For whom?’ Thorn said.

  Phokas seemed taken aback by the question. Thorn smiled. He had a pleasant smile, or so he was told. He had practised it with the same devotion Kasperos and Cyrius did their blade-work. A good smile was like a sharp blade - always useful. But when the one failed, it was good to have the other handy. He draped his hand over the hilt of the Charnabal sabre he wore. One of only six, and a gift from the Phoenician, as a sign of his esteem. Thorn had spent every day since ensuring that he never failed to deserve that honour.

  ‘Well?’ Thorn pressed. Phokas said nothing. Thorn’s smile widened. Lord Fulgrim had been right. Not that Thorn had ever doubted him. From the moment of their arrival, the Phoenician had orchestrated this moment, and all those yet to come. A grand conductor, a maestro, of the old school. ‘Come, come, we’re all friends here’

  ‘We are not friends,’ Phokas spat. You are - I don’t know what you are But you’re no friends of Byzas.’

  Thorn sighed. ‘Well, that makes two of us, doesn’t it?’ He drew his sabre and planted it point first in the ground. ‘You have two choices, my friend. With one, your story ends here. With the other… Well.’

  The same choice was even now being offered to the other patricians approaching the city, from the east and the south, by Lord Commander Abdemon and Kasperos. Three armies, defeated by nothing more than the art of gentle persuasion and the implication of sudden, horrific violence. What more perfect way to defeat an enemy, than with the mere promise of what you might do to them?

  Still, some were harder to convince than others. Phokas swallowed, nervous. ‘I have an army.’

  ‘Only a small one.’ Thorn left his sabre standing upright and unhooked his helmet from his belt. As he pulled it on and the seals snapped into place, targeting displays blinked to life. The men around Phokas drew back, stinking of fear.

  Word had spread, and even the dullest, backcountry aristocrat was aware of what a single Space Marine was capable of. True, their reputation was somewhat overblown by this point. Even Thorn couldn’t kill a thousand men by himself. Some of them would get away, while he was busy with the others.

  ‘I won’t kill them all, of course. I’ll need some of them alive.’ He rested his hands on the pommel of his sabre and looked at Phokas.

  ‘Time to choose whose side you’re on, patrician. But choose wisely.’

  Nova-Basilos shuddered beneath the hammer of war.

  The armies of the renegade patricians had mobilised swiftly, and launched their assault within hours of the initial bombardment. Their airships cleared the roads and bridges of all obstacles, allowing for the steady advance of their warriors towards the artillery emplacements of the outer districts.

  With most of the continental army still en route or diverted elsewhere, the renegade commanders were confident of facing minimal resistance. Nonetheless, the emplacements themselves were fully crewed, and they cried a deadly greeting. Radium beams glittered in the dark, and pneumatic bombards thumped out a crushing rhythm. Hypervelocity cannon cycled to life and emitted thunderous shrieks. Men died in their hundreds, scythed from the field by weapons that had waited in silence for this moment for centuries.

  But not enough. Advances faltered, retreated, recovered. Like waves lapping at the shore The aerial bombardment was unceasing, and though the occasional airship plunged to the earth in a shroud of flames, there were still almost too many to count.

  Narvo Quin watched the smoke boil upwards from the outer districts - the shanty towns that had grown up along the rail junctions were aflame - and sighed in satisfaction. This was where he belonged. Not in quiet rooms, full of soft music, but here, where his skills could be put to their fullest use. Flames painted the air in hues of red and gold, and he was moved to record them, for later exploration. In oils, perhaps. Or a sonnet.

  His reverie was disturbed by a sudden shout. He turned. ‘Yes, corporal. What is it?’

  ‘They’ve broken through on the eastern flank, my lord,’ the human said, his face slack with fright beneath a mask of ash and blood. His uniform had lost its crisp sheen, and a stained bandage was clipped tight about his bicep. He clutched a primitive cylinder pistol in one palsied hand, its lanyard of golden wire dangling forlornly in the firelight. ‘What do we do? What are your orders? Should we fall back?’

  ‘Fight or die, corporal,’ Quin said, activating his power axe. There is no third choice.’ He turned back, his augurs highlighting the dosest enemy formation. ‘Follow me, whatever your decision.’ He started walking without waiting for a reply.

  He stumped through the growing flames, leading the gubernatorial troops towards the enemy. Which enemy, he didn’t know, nor did he care. That they dared to approach him with hostile intent was enough reason for them to die. Such foolishness could not be allowed to pollute the planet’s genetic tithe.

  He and Alkenex had been left behind to oversee the defence of Nova-Basilos. Certainly not the most glorious of tasks, but a necessary one. The continental government must not be allowed to fall. Stability must be maintained, whatever the cost. Thus spake Fulgrim. That was enough for Narvo Quin. He would hold this place.

  Quin advanced into alternating fields of suppressing fire The enemy was disciplined. Determined. Even so, they were little more than a nuisance to a warrior of the Third. Quin slowed his pace ensuring that he drew the maximum amount of fire from his more fragile allies. The gubernatorial soldiers followed him hesitantly at first, then with more enthusiasm, as his axe sheared through the first of the armoured warriors to reach him.

  His armour’s sensors registered and catalogued an impact against the eyepiece of his helmet, immediately extrapolating backwards to pinpoint the firer. He turned, targeting overlays in his helmet cycling green as he lifted his bolt pistol. He snapped off two shots, knocking two more en
emy troopers head over heels. The explosive shells fairly ripped the men asunder, despite their protective gear. Quin laughed. The sound echoed across the emplacement, broadcast by his armour’s vox-unit.

  ‘Having fun, Narvo?’

  ‘I am amused,’ Quin acceded, as Alkenex’s voice echoed in his head. He backhanded a running soldier, reducing the unfortunate man to red ruin. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Close. I could get a target lock on you, if I was of a mind.’

  Quin ground his teeth and took out his frustrations on the enemy. The bolt pistol bucked in his grip as the targeting overlays cycled and flashed. ‘The city?’ he said, after he’d calmed himself. He could hear the rumbling thump-thump of a nearby pneumatic bombard. A radium cannon shrieked, somewhere to his left, and the air burned an eerie green for a moment. Screams danced through the smoke, mingling with the crack of rifle fire.

  ‘Still standing,’ Alkenex voxed. ‘They outnumber us three to one, but you’ve evened the odds some. Frazer has ordered fresh units to advance from the inner districts. Their air support is tangled up with what’s left of ours.’

  Quin looked up. Overhead, through the clouds of smoke, he could make out the round shapes of airships, sliding from the city. After the bombing raid, the continental army only had a handful of the larger craft left. But they would be enough.

  ‘Projected losses?’

  ‘Fifteen to twenty percent’

  ‘Well within acceptable parameters.’ Quin spun his axe and brought it down on a cowering trooper wearing the insignia of a breakaway province. The man burst like an overripe fruit as the power field liquefied armour, flesh and bone. Around him, mortals fought and died with a bravery he knew that few of his brothers would understand. The fragility of the human form was outweighed by the sturdiness of its soul. So long as the soul remained firm, a man could do great things indeed.

  A familiar shout caught his attention. The corporal from before was down and bleeding, one of the black-armoured enemy soldiers raising a bayonet over him. Quin shot him. He stumped towards the corporal. ‘Are you fatally injured?’ he growled, looming over the human.

  ‘I - n - no,’ the corporal said. ‘Bullet creased my skull.’ He probed his head and winced. ‘Knocked me for a loop.’ He looked up. ‘You saved me. Thank you.’

  ‘If you are not fatally injured, why are you sitting?’ Quin rumbled. He paused. ‘You are welcome.’ He holstered his bolt pistol and reached down to help the man to his feet. ‘Can you fulfil your duties?’

  ‘Yes,’ the corporal said. He fumbled with his weapon. His hands were shaking as he reloaded, but his voice was firm. He bawled out an order, and the men around them began to reform. Quin nodded in approval. They would continue the advance.

  ‘Good. We shall - eh?’ The boom of artillery interrupted him. Not from the emplacements. He straightened, searching the horizon. His armour’s sensors whirred, trying to isolate the sound and find its point of origin. A familiar ident-rune pinged - Thorn. Then another - Telmar. And finally, Lord Commander Abdemon.

  ‘Looks like the lord commander and the others were successful. We’ve got reinforcements after all.’

  Quin smiled in satisfaction as an enemy airship exploded overhead, raining debris down across the battlefield.

  ‘The Phoenician will be pleased.’

  Fulgrim made his way across the battlefield, cloak artfully arranged to avoid the worst of the carnage. Part of him was annoyed that he’d chosen to abstain from the cut and thrust, content to let his sons play their parts. He had considered leading a counterattack himself, but thought it best to reffain from revealing his capabilities too early. His absence had emboldened the renegades, encouraging them to commit more of their forces than they might otherwise have done.

  Now, what was left of those forces was retreating west, towards the Anabas Mountains. The rest of them were lying scattered across the field, awaiting the final tally. Several thousand, at least, he judged, if the smell were any indication. Caught between the city emplacements and the artillery of the newly faithful patricians, they’d been annihilated in the fullest sense of the word. Barely one man in ten had survived to retreat. Among those survivors were most of the renegade leaders. A few had died - either during the counter-attack, or by their own hands, later.

  And one had been taken prisoner.

  Bucepholos knelt amid the remains of what had been his command post in the western rail junction terminal. The heavy, square structure loomed over the railroad that linked Nova-Basilos to the westernmost cities. It had been fortified and heavily manned by two hundred crack troops, hardened by the internecine conflicts of the western provinces. Abdemon and the others had taken it in less than an hour.

  Those who’d survived knelt in orderly ranks beneath the watchful gazes of soldiers of the continental army, awaiting Fulgrim’s judgement. Some would be executed, in a summary act of decimation. The rest would be conscripted and returned to the western provinces, to aid in pacifying the region. No sense in wasting good men, when they could be put to better use elsewhere Their leader, however, could not expect such mercy. An example needed to be made. Fulgrim regretted it, after a fashion. Bucepholos was too troublesome to have ever slotted into place perfectly. He would have eventually crossed a line, and been dispatched. But he might’ve been useful in the short term.

  ‘A shame,’ Fulgrim murmured, looking down at the patrician. Bucepholos was still fat, but even so he looked shrunken, in his tattered robes and battered body armour. ‘They tell me you fought bravely. I did not expect that.’

  ‘And I didn’t expect to be kneeling here, in the mud, missing a hand.’ Bucepholos held up the stump of his wrist, swathed in red-stained bandages. ‘But here we are.’

  ‘Yes’ Fulgrim glanced at Abdemon, who stood nearby with the others. ‘I thought I gave orders that the patricians weren’t to be harmed.’ The lord commander frowned, his dark features marked by other people’s blood. He glanced at Flavius Alkenex, who shrugged.

  ‘He came at me with a sword,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Ah.’ Fulgrim smiled, amused. His other sons displayed the lazy satisfaction of sated predators, their hands resting loosely on their weapons. Five warriors of the Legion, against two hundred men. Fulgrim felt a surge of pride. There was a saga for Russ to choke on, the blustering braggart. ‘Well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped, then.’

  ‘Does it really matter if I’m in one piece when you kill me?’ Bucepholos asked. His voice lacked its former strength. It was a strained rasp of its former self. His face sagged with fatigue and pain, but his eyes were bright.

  ‘No, but I wanted to talk first.’ Fulgrim sank to his haunches. Even crouching, he loomed over the patrician. ‘Sabazius. You said the name meant nothing to you before. What about now?’

  Bucepholos smiled weakly. ‘Now… Now, I say it doesn’t matter. I have nothing to say to you, monster.’

  Fulgrim frowned and rose to his feet. ‘There’s no call for insults, patrician.’

  ‘I see the truth of you, now,’ Bucepholos said. ‘You’re no better than us, whatever you claim. Just stronger. We grind men in our factories and mills, and you grind them in war. You baited us, allowed us to kill men loyal to you, to Pandion, in order to draw us in. You let the city burn, just so you would have light to load your guns by. Those pretty faces hide an ugliness beneath. I’m glad I won’t be here to see what comes next.’

  ‘Perhaps. Then, I gave you a chance to work with me Instead, you decided to make war.’ Fulgrim spread his hands. ‘This is as much your doing as mine.’

  ‘You knew we would find your terms unacceptable. You provoked us.’

  Fulgrim smiled sadly. ‘Yes. And you allowed yourselves to be provoked. Whose fault is the greater? I find myself unable to tell.’ He drew Fireblade and laid the flat across the fat man’s shoulders. ‘If it’s any consolation, you would have chafed under the yoke of stars, Patrician Bucepholos. And your death here will serve as an example to future generations. For t
hat, I thank you.’

  Bucepholos spat. Fulgrim looked down at the gobbet of saliva sliding across his foot. His smile vanished as he lifted his sword. ‘Then, maybe it’s best if you are forgotten entirely. Your children are suitable candidates for joining my Legion, I believe. Rest assured, I shall induct them personally.’

  The patrician paled, his eyes widening. He opened his mouth, to protest perhaps, or plea for mercy, but too late. Fireblade fell, and Bucepholos with it. Fulgrim tore a strip from the dead man’s robes and used it to clean the blade. He turned to see Fabius making his way towards them. In the smoke, the Apothecary looked even more like an arachnid than usual.

  ‘Ah, Fabius,’ Fulgrim called in greeting. ‘Patrician Bucepholos has forfeited his rights and properties. We shall isolate his children immediately, and render them to the Pride of the Emperor for full gene-implantation.’ He paused, considering. ‘In fact, do the same for the children of the other patricians we’ve arrested or otherwise identified as renegades. Let us salvage something from this farce.’

  Fabius nodded. ‘I shall make the appropriate preparations immediately.’ He looked around. ‘After I’ve finished here. There’s much to be done’

  ‘Out of your hole for the duration, then, Spider?’ Telmar said, laughing. ‘Shame you weren’t here earlier, to see what real warriors are capable of.’

  ‘I was busy seeing to the wounded,’ Fabius said. You know - the mortals torn to pieces while you played at war, like the overgrown child you are.’ His armour was covered in reddish stains, and Fulgrim wondered whether the wounded had appreciated the attentions of the Apothecary, or whether they’d have preferred the ministrations of the merely human. He doubted Fabius had bothered to ask either way.