‘It appears that the Warmaster was grievously wounded on the planet of Davin, and some of his warriors were somewhat over-zealous when bringing him back on board the Vengeful Spirit.’
‘Over-zealous?’ barked Fulgrim. ‘Speak plainly, man. What does that mean?’
‘A sizeable crowd had gathered on the embarkation decks of the Warmaster’s flagship, and when the Astartes came back on board they smote the crowd in their haste to reach the medicae decks. Some twenty-one people are dead and many more grievously injured.’
‘And you blame Horus for this?’
‘It is not my place to assign blame, my lord,’ said Braxton. ‘I am merely informing you of the facts.’
Fulgrim rounded on him suddenly. Braxton felt his bladder loosen, and a warmth trickle down his leg, as the wild-eyed Primarch of the Emperor’s Children towered over him with his sword suddenly raised above his head as if to strike him down.
‘Facts?’ snarled Fulgrim. ‘What does a foppish scribe such as you know of the facts of war? War is hard, fast and cruel. Horus knows this and he fights accordingly. If people are stupid enough to get in the way of that, then their own foolishness is to blame.’
Ormond Braxton had seen much in the way of egotism in his time within the civil administration of Terra, but he had never been faced with such barefaced arrogance and callous dismissal of human life.
‘My lord,’ gasped Braxton. ‘People are dead, killed by the Astartes. Such things will not just go away. Those responsible must be called to account or the ideals of the Great Crusade will stand for nothing.’
Fulgrim lowered his sword, appearing only now to notice its presence. He shook his head and smiled, his ephemeral anger vanishing in the space of a moment ‘You are right, of course, my dear Braxton. I apologise for my uncivil behaviour and beg of your pardon. I am much vexed by the pain of wounds suffered battling an alien monstrosity in our previous campaign, and my temper is a fragile thing as a result.’
‘No pardon is necessary, my lord,’ said Braxton slowly. ‘I understand your brotherhood with the Warmaster and it is for that very reason that I am despatched to you. The Council of Terra wishes you to travel to Aureus and meet with the Warmaster to ensure that the principles that underpin the Great Crusade are being adhered to.’
Fulgrim snorted in derision and turned away. ‘So now we must fight with an eye forever over our shoulder? Are we not trusted to make war? You civilians want your conquests, but you do not care for how they are won, do you? War is brutality, and the more brutal it is, the sooner it is over, but that’s not good enough for you is it? In your eyes, wars must be fought according to an imperfect set of rules imposed by those who have never seen a shot fired in anger or risked their own blood alongside their brothers. Know this, Braxton, every petty, restrictive rule you civilians impose on our method of war means that more of my warriors die!’
Braxton was shocked by Fulgrim’s bitterness, but hid his surprise. ‘What response should I take back to the Council of Terra, my lord?’
Again Fulgrim’s anger seemed to melt away in the face of reason, and the mighty primarch laughed humourlessly. ‘Tell them, Master Braxton, that I shall lead my warriors to join the 63rd Expedition, that I will examine how my brother makes war, and that I shall be sure to tell you all about it.’
The sarcasm was heavy in Fulgrim’s tone, but Braxton ignored it and bowed. ‘Then, my lord, if I may take my leave?’
Fulgrim waved his hand dismissively and nodded. ‘Yes, go. Return to your courtiers and scriveners, and tell them that the Lord Fulgrim will do their bidding.’
Braxton bowed once more and backed away from the barely dressed primarch. When he had retreated a sufficient distance, he turned and made his way through the golden doors that led to normality.
Behind him, he could hear voices arguing, and he risked a glance over his shoulder in an attempt to identify with whom Fulgrim spoke. He felt a shiver travel the length of his spine as he saw that Fulgrim was alone.
He was speaking to the loathsome painting.
‘WHAT ARE YOU doing?’ asked a voice behind her and she froze. Serena clutched the knife to her breast as her mind raced to identify the questioner. In her fevered thoughts, she imagined that it was Ostian, come once again to save her, but when the question was asked again, she blinked and dropped the knife as she recognised that the speaker was the Astartes warrior, Lucius.
Her breathing was heavy and her blood was pounding as she looked down at the corpse lying next to the unfinished picture of the swordsman. She couldn’t recall the dead man’s name, an irony she found amusing given her official title as remembrancer, but he had been a talented composer once. Now he was raw material for her work, his blood pumping enthusiastically onto the floor from his opened throat.
The metallic smell of his blood filled her nostrils as she felt a hand grasp her shoulder and turn her around. She looked up into Lucius’s boyish face, his handsome features marred forever by the crooked twist of his nose where it had been broken in some combat. She reached up with a bloodied hand to touch his face, and his eyes followed her fingers as they traced the line of his jaw.
‘What happened here?’ asked Lucius, nodding towards the corpse. ‘That man is dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Serena, slumping to the floor. ‘I killed him.’
‘Why?’ asked Lucius. Even in her fugue state Serena detected an interest beyond that which would normally be aroused by such a discovery. What remained of the rational part of her mind understood the precariousness of the situation and she covered her face with her hands and began to weep uncontrollably, hoping the onset of tears would trigger the male comfort reaction.
Lucius let her weep and she cried, ‘He tried to rape me!’
‘Rape you?’ asked Lucius, aghast. ‘What?’
‘He tried to force himself upon me and I killed him… I… I fought him, but he was too strong. He… hit me and I reached out to grab the first thing I could find to use as a weapon… I suppose I must have picked up my knife and…’
‘And you killed him,’ finished Lucius.
Serena looked up through her tears, hearing no condemnation in Lucius’s tone. ‘Yes, I killed him.’
‘Then the bastard got what he deserved,’ said Lucius, pulling Serena to her feet. ‘He tried to violate you and you defended yourself, yes?’
Serena nodded, the exhilaration of lying to this warrior who could snap her neck with his fingers sending warm rushes of pleasure through her entire body.
‘I met him in La Fenice, and he said he wanted to see some of my work,’ she gasped, already knowing that Lucius would not arrest her or otherwise call her to account for the killing. ‘It was foolish, I know, but he seemed genuinely interested. When we returned to my studio…’
‘He turned on you.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Serena, ‘and now he’s dead. Oh, Lucius, what am I going to do?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Lucius, ‘this won’t need to go any further. I’ll have some servitors dispose of his remains and this can all be forgotten about.’
Serena threw herself against Lucius in gratitude and let her tears come once more, feeling nothing but contempt for this man and his belief that such a traumatic event, had it been real, could be forgotten about so easily.
She pushed herself from his breastplate and bent to pick up her knife. The blade was still wet with blood and the cold steel glittered invitingly in the light.
Without conscious thought, she reached up and sliced the blade across her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood from her pallid skin.
Lucius watched her impassively and asked, ‘What did you do that for?’
‘So that I don’t forget what happened,’ she said, handing him the knife and rolling up her sleeves to show the many scars and fresh cuts in the flesh of her arms. ‘Pain is my way of remembering all that has gone before. If I hold onto that pain, then I will never allow it to be forgotten.’
Lucius nodded and reached up to slo
wly run his fingertips over the crooked line of his nose. Serena could see the anger and hurt pride within him at the marring of his perfect features. A strange sensation of power filled her, as though her words carried more than meaning in their sounds, an influence beyond understanding. She felt this power flow through her and into the very air, filling the space between them with unknown potential.
‘What happened to your face?’ asked Serena, unwilling to lose this remarkable sensation.
‘A barbaric son of a bitch named Loken broke it when he cheated in a fair fight.’
‘He wounded you, didn’t he?’ she asked, the sound of her words flowing like honey in his ears. ‘More than just physically, I mean?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucius, his voice hollow. ‘He destroyed my perfection.’
‘You’d want to hurt him, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ll see him dead soon,’ swore Lucius.
Serena smiled, reaching out and placing her hands on his. ‘Yes, I know you will.’
He gripped the knife tightly and she lifted his unresisting hand to his face.
‘Yes,’ she said with a nod, ‘your perfect face is already gone forever. Do it.’
He returned her nod and with a quick flick of his wrist, cut deeply into the flawless skin of his cheek. He flinched at the pain, but lifted the dripping knife to cut an identical line across the opposite cheek.
‘Now you will never forget this Loken,’ she said.
FULGRIM PACED THE confines of his staterooms, marching from room to room as he pondered the words of Emissary Braxton. He had tried to conceal his unease at the news he had been brought, but he suspected that the man had seen through his facade of indifference. He swung the silver sword in a glittering arc, its blade cutting the air with a sound like ripping cloth.
Try as he might to forget them, the words of the eldar farseer kept returning, and though he had tried to purge the alien’s lies from his head, they would not leave him alone. Braxton’s news of the Council of Terra’s desire for him to investigate Horus and Angron’s conduct only heightened his fear that the farseer had spoken the truth.
‘It cannot be true!’ shouted Fulgrim. ‘Horus would never betray the Emperor!’
Are you so sure? asked the voice, and Fulgrim felt the familiar jolt of unease as it spoke.
He could no longer delude himself that this was simply the voice of his own conscience, but was something else entirely. Since the portrait had been delivered to his stateroom, the honest counsellor in his head had by some unknown means relocated itself within the thick paints of the canvas, reshaping the image to suit its vocabulary.
Fulgrim marvelled at his ability to simply accept this development, and each time the hideousness of the notion surfaced in his mind, it was quashed by a feeling of elation and attraction that melted his concerns like snow before the spring sun.
He turned slowly towards the magnificent picture Serena d’Angelus had painted for him, its splendour matched only by his amazement at what it had become in the days since it had been delivered to his staterooms.
Fulgrim made his way through the rain of his quarters and stared into the image of his own face on the canvas. The giant in purple armour stared at him from the picture, its features, refined and regal, the mirror of his own. The eyes sparkled as though recalling some long forgotten joke, the lips curled in the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite, and the brow furrowed as though plotting some scheme of great cunning.
Even as he stared into his own features the mouth twisted and pulled at the canvas as it formed new words.
What if the alien spoke true? If Horus has indeed forsaken the Emperor, where would you stand in such a contest?
Fulgrim felt clammy sweat coat his naked flesh, repulsed by the creeping horror of the picture, yet unaccountably drawn once again to hear its words, as though they possessed some silken, siren-like attraction to him. As much as he wanted to slice his blade through the painting, he could not bear to see it destroyed.
He is the most worthy of you, said the painting, its mouth contorting under the effort of speech. If Horus were to turn his face from the Emperor, where would you stand?
‘The question is immaterial,’ snapped Fulgrim. ‘The situation would never arise.’
Think you so? laughed the painting. Even now Horus plants the seeds of his rebellion.
Fulgrim clenched his jaw and aimed his sword at the image of himself on the canvas. ‘I will not believe you!’ he shouted. ‘You cannot know these things.’
But I do.
‘How?’ begged Fulgrim. ‘You are not me, you cannot be me.’
No, agreed his twin, I am not. Call me… the spirit of perfection that will guide you in the coming days.
‘Horus seeks war with the Emperor?’ asked Fulgrim, almost unable to speak the words such was the horror of what they represented.
He does not seek it, but it is forced upon him. The Emperor plans to abandon you all, Fulgrim. His perfection is naught but a sham! He has used you all to conquer the galaxy for him, and now seeks to ascend to godhood on the blood you have shed.
‘No!’ cried Fulgrim. ‘I won’t believe this. The Emperor is human intelligence raised above all error and imperfection, and extended to all possible truth.’
Your belief is irrelevant. It is already happening. Grand things are necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care. If Horus can see this, how is it that you, most perfect of primarchs, cannot?
‘Because you are lying!’ bellowed Fulgrim, smashing his fist into one of the green marble pillars that supported the domed roof of his staterooms. Powdered stone exploded from the column, and it collapsed in a cracked pile of splintered rock.
You waste time in denial, Fulgrim. You are already on the road to joining your brother.
‘I will support Horus in all things,’ gasped Fulgrim, ‘but turn against the Emperor… that is too far!’
You will never know what is too far until you go beyond it. I know you, Fulgrim, and have tasted the forbidden desires you hold chained within the deepest, darkest recesses of your soul. Better to murder an infant in its cradle than nurse an unacted upon desire.
‘No,’ said Fulgrim, raising his bloodied hand to his temple. ‘I won’t listen to you.’
Expose yourself to your deepest fear, Fulgrim. After that, fear has no power and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You will be free.
‘Free?’ cried Fulgrim. ‘Betrayal is not freedom, it is damnation.’
Damnation? No! It is liberty and unfettered freedom to explore all that is and all that can be! Horus has seen beyond the veil of this mortal flesh you call life and learnt the truth of your existence. He is privy to the secrets of the Ancients, and only he can help you towards perfection.
‘Perfection?’ whispered Fulgrim.
Yes, perfection. The Emperor is imperfect, for if he were perfect, then such things could not happen. Perfection is slow death. Only change is constant, the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix from which you arise! Ask yourself this: what is it you fear?
Fulgrim stared into the eyes of the portrait, eyes that were his own but for the awful knowledge within them. With a clarity borne of perfect understanding, Fulgrim knew the answer to the question his reflection had posed him.
‘My fear is to fail,’ said Fulgrim.
THE COLD LIGHTS of the apothecarion were bright and hostile, staring down at Marius as he lay naked on the surgical slab. His limbs were immobile, held static by gleaming steel restraints and chemical inhibitors. The feeling of vulnerability was acute, but he had vowed to obey his primarch’s orders, no matter what they were, and Lord Eidolon had assured him that this was what Lord Fulgrim desired.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Fabius, the silver steel arms of the Apothecary’s chirurgeon machine looming over him like a great spider.
Marius tried to nod, but his muscles would not obey him.
‘I am,’ he said, fighting to say even that.
‘Excellent,’ said Fabius. His narrow dark eyes bored into Marius and examined his flesh, as a butcher might examine a choice cut of meat, or a sculptor a fresh block of virgin stone.
‘Lord Commander Eidolon said you would make me better than before.’
‘And so I shall, Captain Vairosean,’ grinned Fabius. ‘You will not believe the things I can do.’
SEVENTEEN
Nothing Against Your Conscience
THE SHIPS OF the 63rd Expedition floated like a school of silver fish above the twin worlds of the Auretian Technocracy. Sharing a common moon, the space above them was alive with electronic chatter as the Warmaster’s forces prosecuted the war below. Wrecked communications satellites were debris in the upper atmosphere, and what remained of the Auretian monitors had long since plummeted as fiery meteors to the planet’s surface.
Fulgrim watched the slow drift of the Warmaster’s ships above the second planet, their attention fixed on the conflict raging below rather than their rear defences. He smiled as he realised that, if he was clever, he could catch his brother unawares.
‘Slow to one-quarter flank speed,’ ordered Fulgrim. ‘All active systems to passive.’
The bridge of the Pride of the Emperor throbbed with activity as its crew hurried to obey his orders. He kept his eyes glued to the readouts and hololithic projections of the surveyor station, and issued fresh orders in response to each sensor sweep. Captain Aizel watched his every move with admiration. Fulgrim could just imagine the bitter envy that must fill any man who knew that he would never approach such genius.
The eight-week journey to the Auretian system had been one of enormous tedium for Fulgrim, with every diversion delighting him for only the briefest moment before becoming stale. He had even hoped for some catastrophe to occur in their warp translation, just for something to occupy his thoughts with some new sensation, but no such disaster had occurred.
In preparation for his meeting with his beloved brother, Fulgrim’s armour had been polished to a mirror sheen, the great golden eagle’s wing sweeping high over his left shoulder. His armour had been restored to its familiar brilliant purple, edged in bright gold, and inlaid with opalescent stones and gilded carvings. A long, scaled cloak was secured to his armour by silver brooches, and trailing parchments hung from his shoulder guards.
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