Fulgrim

by Graham McNeill

  Fulgrim raised his sword and charged.

  ELDRAD CRIED OUT as he felt the soul of Khiraen Goldhelm torn from its spirit stone and cast into the void, alone and unprotected. He felt the great and terrible hunger of the Great Enemy devour the mighty soul of the warrior, and wept bitter tears of recrimination at his folly in attempting to parlay with the barbarous mon-keigh. Never again would he trust that their intentions could be anything other than hostile, and he vowed to remember forever the lesson Khiraen Goldhelm’s loss had taught him.

  The air still shimmered around him after his transit through the webway portal from the surface of Tarsus, and he could feel the psychic roar of violence running through the naked ribs of the craftworld’s wraithbone skeleton. He could feel the lust for aggression from every eldar aboard and the racing, molten heartbeat of the Avatar of the Bloody-Handed God as it roused itself from the sealed wraithbone chamber at the heart of the craftworld.

  How could he not have seen this? Fulgrim was already on a dark path, his soul embroiled in a secret war he did not even realise it was fighting. A dark and terrible force sought to dominate him, and though Fulgrim was resisting, Eldrad knew there was only one way such a battle could end. He knew now that this dark presence had been what shielded Fulgrim from his sight, jealously keeping its victim veiled so that none might unmask its designs.

  The sword… he should have felt it the moment he laid eyes upon it, but the deceits of the Great Enemy had ensnared him with subtle illusions and rendered him blind to its presence. Eldrad knew that the essence of a powerful creature from beyond the gates of the empyrean lay bound within the sword, and that its influence was inexorably tainting the consciousness of the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children.

  Eldrad knew there was only one path open to him, and shouted, ‘To battle!’

  Fulgrim had to be destroyed before he could escape Tarsus.

  An answering roar of war lust pulsed along the very bones of the craftworld.

  Blood runs… anger rises… death wakes… war calls!

  THE LAST OF the shrieking eldar were dead, hacked down by mighty sweeps of Fulgrim’s sword, and Lucius felt the exhilaration of the fight still pounding within him like music. His sword hissed with alien blood and his muscles were alive with the skill it had taken to best them. The megarachnid had been terrifyingly swift, lethal killers who fought with blind, instinctual skill, but these howling warriors, many of whom Lucius now saw were female, were almost as skillful as he.

  Their bladework had been exquisite. One of them, a female who had fought with axe and sword had actually managed to land several blows upon him. His armour was cut open in several places and but for his inhuman speed, he knew that he would be lying as dead as the warrior woman at his feet.

  He reached down and lifted one of their swords, testing it for balance and weight. It was lighter than he’d expected and its grip was too small, but its edge was true and it was exquisitely made.

  ‘Didn’t you learn anything on Murder?’ asked Saul Tarvitz. ‘Get rid of that weapon before Eidolon sees you with it.’

  Lucius turned and said, ‘I was just looking at it, Saul. I’m not going to start using it.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Tarvitz. Lucius saw that his fellow captain was almost spent, his breath ragged and his armour stained with his own and alien blood, but despite Saul’s words, he held onto the alien woman’s sword.

  ‘Everyone still alive?’ asked Fulgrim with a laugh. Blood caked the primarch’s breastplate, where the wraithlord had struck him, and his appearance was a far cry from the regal splendour Lucius was used to seeing. Though ragged and filthy, Fulgrim had never looked more alive, his dark eyes shining with the excitement of the battle, his sword still clutched firmly in his fist.

  Lucius looked around the battlefield, only now checking to see who else had survived. Both lord commanders were still alive, as were Julius Kaesoron, Marius Vairosean and that smug bastard, Solomon Demeter. Of the Phoenix Guard there were no survivors, their skill and strength no match for the power of the wraithlord.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Vespasian, cleaning his sword on the helmet crest of one of the fallen eldar. ‘We should get out of here before they return in greater numbers. That tank’s keeping its distance after what happened to the other one, but it won’t be long before the pilot finds his courage again.’

  ‘Leave?’ said Julius Kaesoron. ‘I say we take the fight to that tank and destroy it! These aliens have betrayed the truce of a parlay, and honour demands we make them pay in blood!’

  ‘You’re not thinking, Julius,’ said Solomon. ‘We have no weapons to take out a tank and, after what happened to his friend, this one’s unlikely to let us get close. We have to go.’

  Lucius sneered. How like Solomon Demeter to run from a fight! He could see Eidolon was itching to stay and fight, but Marius Vairosean kept his counsel, awaiting the primarch’s decision before undoubtedly supporting it. Silently he urged Fulgrim to order them to attack the tank.

  Fulgrim’s eyes homed in on him, as though sensing his need to inflict more violence. He smiled, his teeth bright against the smudged inks on his face.

  ‘I think the decision has been taken out of our hands,’ said Solomon as a bright light once again built at the base of the curved structure where the farseer had vanished.

  ‘This can’t be good,’ said Tarvitz.

  ‘Stormbird One!’ shouted Vespasian into the vox. ‘Spool up the engines, we’re coming to you right now. My lord, we have to go.’

  ‘Go,’ said Fulgrim, his voice sounding as though he had just woken from a deep slumber. ‘Go where?’

  ‘Off this planet, my lord,’ urged Vespasian. ‘The eldar are returning and they would not do so unless they had overwhelming force.’

  Fulgrim shook his head as if in pain and put a hand to his temple. The first eldar warriors emerged from a blazing ripple of light held suspended beneath the apex of the alien portal. The primarch looked up and saw the eldar sprint from the light, first in ones and twos, then in squads. Like the dead aliens at their feet, these eldar wore form-fitting armour of overlapping plates, though these warriors’ armour was clear blue, and they sported yellow crests on their helms. Each carried a short-barrelled rifle, and they advanced with cautious grace towards the Astartes. Behind them came a pair of the dark armoured eldar with long barrelled weapons aimed at the Stormbird above them.

  Lucius twisted his neck and stretched his shoulder muscles in readiness for the fight, but Fulgrim shook his head once more and said, ‘We go. Everyone back to the Stormbird. We will return for our dead when we destroy their craftworld and leave them nowhere to retreat to.’

  Lucius swallowed his disappointment and followed his primarch as they fell back towards the screaming aircraft, its engines building to a shrieking howl. He kept hold of the alien sword as he jogged back up the hill towards the vehicle.

  Blinding streaks flashed overhead and Lucius was slammed into the ground by the pressure wave of a terrific explosion. More hissing streaks followed in quick succession and secondary blasts filled the air with debris and smoke. He spat dirt and looked up to see the ruins at the hill’s summit wreathed in fire. The blazing wreck of the Stormbird lay slumped like a downed bird, its wings smashed and a cluster of holes punched in its side.

  ‘Run!’ shouted Vespasian.

  ONCE MORE THE eldar were hurled back from the top of the hill, leaving their dead piled at the foot of the ruins. Whickering gunfire rattled from the cover of the ruins with musical clangs, and slashing beams of incandescent energy lit up the purpling sky in bright streaks. The wreckage of the Stormbird still blazed behind them, secondary explosions of onboard ammunition popping and crackling in the heat.

  Marius took a deep breath as he slotted another magazine home into his bolter and waited for the next assault. So far every one of them had come through the violence of the eldar attacks alive, though they all sported wounds from the hails of razor sharp discs fired by the eldar wea
pons. One of the discs lay on the ground next to him and he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It seemed ridiculous that such a thing could cause injury, but its edges were lethally sharp and could penetrate even Mark IV plate if it struck a weak area such as a joint.

  It had been a bloody battle, one that had seen desperate heroics and incredible feats of arms. Marius had watched Lucius fend off three of the howling warrior women at once. Fighting with two weapons, his own sword and an eldar blade, the swordsman had killed them in a dazzling display of unimaginable skill.

  Vespasian had fought like one of the heroes from the Gallery of Swords, his perfection and purity shining like a beacon as he hurled back green armoured eldar with bulbous helmets that spat blue fire. Solomon and Julius had fought back-to-back, killing with brutal vigour, while Saul Tarvitz fought with mechanical precision, lending his sword arm to a multitude of combats.

  But Eidolon… how had he fought?

  In the thick of the fighting, Marius had heard an ululating howl of nerve shredding ferocity and turned, expecting to see more of the warrior women charging him. Instead, he had seen Lord Commander Eidolon with a trio of shrieking enemies scattered before him. Two were on their knees, clutching their ruptured helmets, while a third staggered as though in the grip of a powerful seizure. Eidolon stepped in to finish them, and Marius had been left with the impossible, but unshakeable sensation that the scream had, in fact, come from Lord Commander Eidolon.

  ‘How long before the damn Firebird gets here?’ asked Julius, crawling through the smouldering wreckage towards him, and shaking Marius from his thoughts of the battle.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Lord Fulgrim has tried to call it down, but I think the eldar must be jamming our vox-system.’

  ‘Filthy xenos bastards,’ swore Julius. ‘I knew we couldn’t trust them.’

  Marius didn’t reply, remembering that Julius had been as vocal a supporter of the primarch’s decision to come down to Tarsus as he had. Only Solomon had spoken in opposition, and it looked as though he might be proved right after all.

  ‘We could all die down here,’ said Marius sourly.

  ‘Die?’ said Julius. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Even if we can’t get through to the fleet, it won’t be long before they send other ships. The eldar know that, it’s why they’re being so careless with their lives. A race on the edge of extinction are they? What say, you and I push them over that edge?’

  Julius’s enthusiasm was infectious, and it was hard not be inspired by his indefatigable confidence in victory. Marius smiled in return and said. ‘All the way over.’

  ‘Something’s happening below!’ shouted Saul Tarvitz. Marius scrambled to the edge of the ruins with Julius beside him and looked down at the strange alien gateway. Marius supposed it must lead onto the craftworld above, which explained why they had not detected any ships leaving the craftworld, and how the eldar had reached the surface of Tarsus first.

  A gathering of warriors surrounded the light, which flickered and danced like a candle flame. Their weapons were upraised, and they chanted in a language that sounded more like song than communication.

  ‘What do you suppose they’re doing?’ asked Tarvitz.

  Julius shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but it can’t be good for us.’

  Suddenly the light flared and its edges erupted in flames, as though a mighty fire forced its way through it. A shape began to form in the light, massive and dark, its outline humanoid, but surely too large for an eldar warrior. Marius wondered if they would have to face another of the wraithlords.

  A mighty speartip emerged first, blazing runic symbols writhing on its wide blade, followed by a brazen arm that bled molten light into the air. The limb groaned like hot iron as it flexed and the body it belonged to emerged from the gateway.

  Solomon let out a breath at the primal horror of the giant warrior that stood at the base of the hill. Towering above the eldar warriors, the mighty creature’s body was fashioned as if from dark iron, its veins rippling like rivers of lava across its surface. Curling horns of smoke and ash oozed from its skin and coiled about its head like a living crown of fire-pierced smoke.

  Its head was a roaring, wailing terror, and its eyes blazed like ingots straight from the forge. The living avatar of bloody death bellowed its promise of carnage to the skies, and raised its mighty arms, a thick red gore oozing from between its fingers.

  ‘Throne alive!’ cried Lucius. ‘What is it?’

  Marius looked to Fulgrim for an answer, but the primarch simply watched the arrival of the monstrous being with apparent relish. Fulgrim unbuckled his golden cloak, which had been shredded by gunfire and blades, and drew his silver sword, the gem at its pommel winking in the twilight.

  ‘My lord?’ asked Vespasian.

  ‘Yes, Vespasian?’ replied Fulgrim, as though only half-hearing his lord commander.

  ‘Do you know what that… thing is?’

  ‘It is their heart and soul,’ said Fulgrim, the words sounding as though they came from some distant place within him. ‘Their lust for war and death beats within its chest.’

  As the primarch spoke, Marius watched the brazen warrior take a thunderous step forward, the grass beneath its feet blackening and bursting into flame in its wake. The chanting of the eldar warriors grew more strident and they began a slow advance behind the blazing god, the rise and fall of their song in time with its every step. Dozens of the warrior women they had fought earlier ghosted through the night, and Marius could hear their piercing shrieks echoing from all around them.

  ‘Stand ready,’ warned Vespasian, silhouetted in the glow of the burning Stormbird.

  Marius knew that, while ruins and the wreckage of the Stormbird were as good a defensive position as they could hope for , there was no way the eight of them could hold the eldar at bay for much longer, even if one of their number was a primarch.

  The Bloody-Handed God picked up its pace. Marius looked at his fellow captains, seeing the same unreasoning dread of the monster across every face. The power of the dark, fiery idol spoke to their souls of the torments it would inflict and the blazing horror its wrath would unleash on those who defied it.

  Fulgrim spun his sword and stepped from the cover of the ruins, a chorus of cries following him as he marched to meet the terrifying apparition. Though its features were of carved metal, Marius saw its mouth twist in a grimace of anticipation as the primarch came towards it.

  Two mighty gods faced each other, and the world seemed to halt its progress, as though fearful of disturbing the drama being played out upon its surface.

  With a mighty bellow of rage, the eldar god attacked.

  FULGRIM SAW THE blazing spear hurtling towards him, and swayed aside as its fiery heat slashed past his head. He laughed as he saw that the eldar god had disarmed itself, but the laughter died in his throat as he heard the voice in his head scream a warning.

  Fool! You think eldar trickery is so easily thwarted?

  He turned to see the spear twisting in the air like a serpent, swooping back in a graceful arc towards him. It roared as it flew, the noise like the eruptions of a thousand volcanoes. He brought up his sword and deflected the flaming missile, the heat of its passing scorching the skin of his face and setting the plaits of his hair on fire.

  Fulgrim beat his head with his free hand, extinguishing the flames in his hair, and raised his sword in challenge. ‘Will you not fight me in honourable combat? Must you do your killing from afar?’

  The monstrous iron creature plucked the flaming spear from the air, black smoke and spitting embers drifting from its eyes and mouth as it spun the weapon and aimed it at Fulgrim’s heart.

  Fulgrim grinned as he felt the thrill of combat pulsing through every fibre of his being. Here was a foe that would truly test his mettle, for what being had he ever fought that had truly challenged him? The Laer? The Diasporex? The greenskin?

  No, this was a creature with a power to match his own, a terrible god-like bein
g that bore the heart of its fading race within its iron breast. It would not be baited or riled with petty insults, it was a warrior creature with one purpose and one purpose alone: to kill.

  Such a one-dimensional aspect made Fulgrim sick, for what was life and death but a series of sensations to be experienced one after another? Without sensation what was life?

  A wild exultation filled him and his senses seemed to rise to the surface of his skin. He felt every tiny gust of wind as it wound past his body, the heat of the creature before him, the coolness of the planet’s atmosphere and the softness of the grass beneath him.

  He was truly alive and at the height of his powers!

  ‘Come on then,’ snarled Fulgrim. ‘Come on and die.’

  The two beings leapt towards each other, Fulgrim’s sword slashing down to meet the mighty creature’s blade, which he now saw resembled a great sword, where once it had been a spear. Both blades met with a tearing shriek that echoed in realms beyond those of the five senses and an explosion of unlight that left those who saw it blinded. The roaring eldar god recovered first and its molten sword arced for Fulgrim’s head.

  He ducked, and slammed his fist into its midriff, feeling the hard impact on iron and the blistering heat that seared the skin from his knuckles. Fulgrim laughed with the pain, and raised his sword to block a murderous slash towards his groin.

  The eldar god attacked with wild, atavistic fury, its blows driven by racial hatred and the ferocious joy of unbound emotion. Flames wreathed its limbs, and dark tendrils of smoke enveloped the two combatants as they struggled. Silver sword and fiery blade sparked and clanged as they traded blows, neither able to penetrate the other’s defences.

  Fulgrim felt his anger at this blazing monstrosity surge in his veins, its inability to do more than simply fight and kill offending his refined sensibilities. Where was its appreciation of art and culture, beauty and grace? Such a thing did not deserve the boon of existence, and his limbs filled with renewed strength, as though a new-found power flowed from his sword arm and into his flesh.