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 enemy 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.'
'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 that, 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.
Telmar frowned and reached for his sword. 'I think I have had just about enough of you, Apothecary.' He seemed determined to have his satisfaction. Such fire could be useful, but it had its time and place.
'Chief Apothecary,' Fulgrim corrected, gently. The two Space Marines looked at him. 'I have decided to promote Fabius to a rank equal to his responsibilities. That means that he outranks you, Kasperos. Thus, it is not seemly for you to challenge him, being of lesser rank.' That would settle it, for now. It might even provoke some ambition in Kasperos.
Telmar stared at the primarch. He wrenched his hand away from the hilt of his blade and nodded tersely. 'My apologies, Chief Apothecary,' he said.
Fabius ignored him. He looked at Fulgrim. 'I have done nothing to deserve such an honour, my lord,' he said, his voice hollow with weariness. 'My efforts have been... imperfect. Flawed.'
Fulgrim looked down at him. 'And I say that you have earned it.' He looked around. 'We are all imperfect,' he said slowly. He knew he must choose his words carefully. Whatever was said here would filter back through the Legion, one way or another. The wrong word, and all that he had so carefully rebuilt might collapse anew. 'But perfection is a process. It is the fruit of the highest branch.' He raised his hand for emphasis. 'That is why we are here, my sons. This world is the beginning of our climb. The fruit sits above us, just out of reach. We will climb until we have it in our grasp. But climb we must, lest our imperfections damn us to mere adequacy.'
The others were nodding now, hesitantly.
'Eight, against the assembled might of a world,' Fulgrim said. 'Leman boasts of eight hundred. Horus, eighty. We shall show the wolves of Luna and Fenris both what true killers look like. Here, in this fire, shall we be reborn. Here, all old sins will at last be forgiven. All failures expunged.' He turned back, meeting Fabius' gaze.
'We approach the final ascent. Let us climb it swiftly, and with grace.'
Fifteen
the hammer-strikers
Two Stormbirds sped through the dawn light. Fulgrim waited impatiently in the command compartment of the Firebird, watching as the hololithic map of Byzas responded instantly to real-time data-feed uploads. The planetary situation changed for the better with every passing hour, but it wasn't perfect. Not yet.
In the week since Bucepholos' failed coup, the renegade patricians had either surrendered or retreated into the hinterlands. Those who'd surrendered had turned over a third of their property and territorial holdings to the Gubernatorial Throne, and offered up their youngest children as hostages to the 28th Expedition. Continental army troops were currently occupying the lands of the rest. By the time this affair was done, the Hereditary Governor would once again be the most powerful individual on the planet, and the stranglehold the patricians had on Byzas would be broken.
But there was still one final lesson to be taught. And a bloody one, at that.
The renegades had retreated into the Anabas Mountains, seeking the safety of the crags and hollows. The mountains were dotted with bastions and refuelling stations - a legacy of the wars that had spelled the end of the Gubernatorial Triumvirate, so many centuries ago. One by one, those bastions had been found and eliminated. Continental army airships prowled the skies, and the mountains were burning from the constant rain of phlogiston bombs. Slowly but surely, the renegades had been forced westward.
'The western provinces are in open revolt,' Abdemon said quietly. 'They'll find support there, if you're right about where they've holed up.'
Fulgrim nodded absently. 'I am.' He tapped a point on the map, enlarging the cartographic detail. A red dot flashed. Sabazius-Ut-Anabas. 'It has cultural significance. The walls are thick and high, and its wells are deep. You noted the camouflaged refuelling station set in the crags above the monastery? It was new. The Sabazian Brotherhood have been planning to use it as a staging point for some time, I'd wager. Now, it's the last stop before they retreat across the mountains, to lick their wounds and regroup.'
'I can't believe they'd risk it. We know about it. How can they think it's safe?'
Fulgrim shrugged. 'Simple. They don't. But it's saf
e enough, if they're only worrying about the continental army.' He glanced at the lord commander. 'Why do you think I've held us back from participating until now?'
Abdemon nodded in understanding. 'If they think you're staying out of it, they won't be expecting us to suddenly show up, without support, and ram our fists down their throats.' He frowned. 'Still - only seven of us. And two Stormbirds. To be fair, I wouldn't expect it either. It seems like suicide.'
'Suicide is for the foolish or desperate. I am neither.' Fulgrim smiled. 'I have been planning this for some time, and now is our moment to strut upon the stage, and show this world, and all the galaxy besides, what we are truly capable of.' He reached out, as if to grasp the dot that represented the monastery and pluck it free of the mountains. 'With this one, perfect blow, we shall humble this world and my brothers both. Then, our work can truly begin. This is the last first step, Abdemon. Are you ready?'
'Born ready, my lord.' Abdemon bowed his head.
'What of the rest of you?' Fulgrim asked, studying the rest of his sons. He'd brought everyone save Cyrius - the swordsman had been left to protect Pandion, despite his protests. While Nova-Basilos was firmly under the control of the continental army, Fulgrim was not so foolish as to leave the Hereditary Governor completely unprotected. Not this close to the end of things. Even the best-laid plans could be undone by the actions of desperate men. The Emperor's Children had learned that lesson at Proxima.
Kasperos and the others looked every inch the demigods that the Emperor had intended them to be. Even Fabius had polished the gilt of his armour to a blinding gleam. Bandoliers of grenades and extra ammunition were strapped tight across their chest-plates, and their weapons were loose in their sheaths. Each of them was an army unto himself, armed to the teeth and ready for war. He could hear the hum of Quin's power axe, and the whining growl of Fabius' chain blade as it was activated.
The proximity klaxon sounded, and the compartment was bathed in crimson light. Fulgrim banished the hololith and stood. 'Now, at last, we come to it. I claim the honour of first blood. Unless anyone has any objections?'
Fulgrim- The Palatine Phoenix - Josh Reynolds Page 17