No one did. Fulgrim smiled and pulled on his helmet. He drew Fireblade and strode to the hatch. The seals hissed flat and the hatch popped open without protest. Wind howled into the compartment, tugging at his limbs and cloak. He ignored it and stepped into the opening. The mountains sprawled below, like a stretch of scar tissue on the body of some primordial giant. The turrets of Sabazius-Ut-Anabas were just visible, blanketed beneath the shimmering veil of an etherdome. The crackling energy field would hamper the gunship's ability to land. It would have to be destroyed.
Without further thought, Fulgrim leapt from the open hatch of the Firebird, eager to come to grips with the shadows that had eluded him since his arrival. They had answered his challenge, fallen into his trap, and now, he would dispose of them.
Perfect.
As he fell towards the monastery, he counted airships. Large ones and small ones, anchored to the highest peaks by tensile cables, waiting to be refuelled and rearmed by the crews of men climbing up and down the craggy paths. He watched as the second Stormbird peeled away from Firebird and swooped towards the waiting flock, ignoring the streamers of anti-aircraft fire that streaked upwards to meet it. Its assault cannons opened up, puncturing refuelling tanks and ammunition crates, rather than the vulnerable shapes of the anchored airships. Fire erupted, dancing across the peaks. It crawled up the cable anchors, stretching flickering talons towards the airships.
The Stormbird banked and began to climb back towards the upper atmosphere as the first airship detonated with a sound like thunder. In moments, the entire fleet was consumed in a firestorm, and Fulgrim turned his attention back to the matter of his descent.
It could, perhaps, be seen as somewhat immature to engage in so rash a tactic as hurling oneself bodily into the heart of the enemy. Especially from such a great height, and at such speed. But there was also a great joy to be had in it.
In the end, for all his tactical and strategic acumen, he was still a primarch. A being such as had never walked the world before, and never would again. He exulted in it. He could bend steel, and survive unaided in a vacuum for hours. And he could do this. For the first time, and the last time, his foes would see a son of the Emperor unleashed. A greater honour he could not imagine. Thus, he folded his arms and let gravity draw him to his target, unresisting.
The arrival of the primarch rocked Sabazius-Ut-Anabas to its foundations. Fulgrim's lean form pierced the crackling energy field of the etherdome with ease, and struck the courtyard like a mortar round. Men were hurled from their feet by the shockwave of his landing. The generators powering the etherdome exploded, filling the lower levels of the monastery with fire and smoke.
Fulgrim rose from the impact crater, his gilded panoply wreathed in smoke. He drew Firebrand with his free hand and fired. A running figure burst into flame, explosively burning to ash in moments. Fireblade slashed out, removing the head of another. Armoured figures charged through the smoke, heavy carbines growling. Automatic fire stitched across Fulgrim's chest-plate and helmet, doing little more than drawing his attention. He spun, his volkite charger spitting heat.
One of the black-armoured warriors deflagrated, showering his companions with chunks of melted armour and burning meat. Shocked, they froze, and in doing so, sealed their fate. Fulgrim launched himself towards them. Fireblade wove a deadly pattern, and the men collapsed, their screams cut short.
Alarms blared, and officers cried out, trying to impose some sense of order on a situation spinning rapidly out of control. They'd thought their mountain fastness impregnable, and most of their weaponry was directed outwards, awaiting the approach of the continental army. Even if it had been turned inwards, it would have done them little good. Fulgrim was too fast, too deadly.
He raced through the courtyard, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Behind him, the Firebird was clearing itself a landing zone with its twin-linked heavy bolters. With the etherdome down, the gunship was free to land unhindered. Abdemon and the others would join him in moments. The thought excited him beyond all measure. He had fought beside his sons before, but this would be the first time he had done so without one of his brothers looking over his shoulder.
Fulgrim pivoted, kicking a soldier in the chest. Armour and bone crumpled as the limp figure was flung backwards to slam into a column. A bayonet shattered against his war-plate. Fulgrim back-handed its wielder, snapping his neck. They were nothing. Nothing. Where was the challenge here?
An anti-infantry weapon opened up from a nearby archway, and he staggered as the heavy-calibre slugs punched into him. Wincing, he pressed forward, ignoring the impact alarms that echoed loudly in his ears. The gunner was screaming curses as he depressed the rotating barrels, trying to halt Fulgrim's advance. The loader scrambled backwards, courage broken. Fulgrim caught hold of the barrel and shoved it aside, ripping the gun from its frame. He sank Fireblade into the gunner's chest, released the hilt, and finished tearing loose the gun. The grip was laughably small in his hand, but he easily got a finger around the trigger. It was a primitive weapon, barely deserving of the name, but it would serve.
Fulgrim turned, spraying the courtyard and those forces attempting to muster there. The weapon twisted in his grip like a petulant child until, at last, its ammunition drum ran dry. He tossed it aside and reclaimed Fireblade. Slugs whinged off his armour, ricocheting into the unlit recesses of the archway. As he ducked beneath the archway and into the monastery, his internal augurs scanned his surroundings, seeking his prey.
He'd keyed his sensors to the specific life-readings of those members of the patricians, as well as the members of the Sabazian Brotherhood with whom he'd come into contact. He could track them across the planet if he so chose. Some of them he would doubtless have to. But others had obligingly gathered themselves here. There was an old saying on Terra: cut off the head, and the body will die.
It had all been so artfully arranged. Perfect in its execution. He had forced the disparate factions into a single coalition. Many enemies had become one. And now he would behead that one, and end this revolt at a single stroke.
Perfect.
Fulgrim smiled a tiger's smile as he paced through the corridors. He followed the electronic scent down curving stone steps, and through chambers that had been carved by the hands of the faithful. At any other time, he might have paused to study the mosaics that marked the walls and floors of these chambers. He might have examined the delicate carvings that wound around the pillars. Instead, he ignored them. There would be time for such things later. Perhaps he would even have the monastery broken down and rebuilt elsewhere, as a memorial to his triumph. He might even restore the statue of Sabazius, which now lay broken in the courtyard above.
All these thoughts passed through his mind as he descended. The vox crackled with the voices of his sons, and his helmet's vid-feed showed him flashes of the massacre above. The Emperor's Children fought pragmatically, using the fire and manoeuvre tactics they'd developed campaigning alongside the Luna Wolves to good effect. He cycled through the feed, leaping from one to the next - he saw Quin press forward, into the teeth of the enemy's suppressive fire, holding their attention as Alkenex raced across a parapet above, thumbing the activator switch on a grenade.
Dust sifted down as the grenade tore apart flesh and stone alike. Would anything be left, when he returned to the surface? Abdemon's voice - stem and unyielding - surged across the vox-link, ordering Kasperos to hold his position. The legionary was singing softly to himself, a classical piece Fulgrim had last heard in the Sonnet-Gardens of Phoenicia, and timing his shots to the song, recreating its rhythm. Fulgrim smiled. No wonder Abdemon was annoyed. Such bursts of creativity were beyond the lord commander, and he lacked the patience to indulge them in others.
Carbines roared in the narrow corridor ahead of him, sharpening his focus. He was close. He plunged on, not slowing. Guards clustered, blocking off the corridor. They crouched behind a line of blast-shields and fired as quickly as they could work their weapons.
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He dove head on into the storm of lead, trusting in his armour. He crashed into the shields, shouldering them aside. Men fell back, yelling unintelligibly. Fireblade darted out, and men fell. Fulgrim trod over the wounded as he filled the corridor with a glittering web of darting steel.
One managed to avoid the blade's touch, and sought to halt the primarch's advance with brute strength, wrapping his arms around Fulgrim's waist. Fulgrim stared down at his attacker for a moment, contemplating the sheer, heroic insanity of the attempt. Then, with a laugh, he plucked the man up as if he were a child and cracked his skull against the ceiling of the corridor. Flinging the body aside, he pressed on.
By the time he reached the doorway they'd been guarding, the corridor had been stained red, from floor to ceiling. Fulgrim didn't bother to knock. Instead, he let Firebrand announce his arrival. He ducked through the molten archway, easily avoiding the droplets of melted stone that fell steadily to the floor.
The chamber was larger than any of the others he'd passed through above. It was a veritable cathedral of stone pillars and sweeping archways - the very heart of the monastery, he suspected. Were the footsteps of Sabazius buried somewhere beneath the slabs of stone on the floor? He considered asking the crowd of men facing him, but decided against it. It might cheapen the moment.
His targeting array highlighted potential threats - one, two, four, eight, a hundred. A hundred men, scattered throughout the chamber. Waiting for him. 'Well,' he said, his amplified voice echoing through the chamber. 'Here we all are.'
'As you knew we would be.' A Sabazian stepped forward, dressed in black, blade in hand. 'As we knew that you would come.'
'Were you waiting for me, then?' Fulgrim lifted Fireblade. 'How civil. But, I'm afraid the time for civility has passed. Now is the time for brute violence. Seas and messes of blood, as the old poets had it. A wine-dark sea, upon which an armada of corpses sails to the underworld.' Fulgrim pointed his sword at the Sabazian. 'That's you, by the way.'
'Perhaps. But we will not make our journey alone.'
Fulgrim laughed. 'Brave words. Then, I expected no less.'
'We showed this place to you for a reason, Phoenician,' the masked figure continued. 'Show your enemy a weak spot, and he will surely strike.'
The chamber echoed with the rattle of swords, and the harsh clack of weapons being readied. A dozen men or a hundred, it made little difference to Fulgrim. But there was something else. A sound, far below the register of the human ear. A hum. The same one he'd heard before, when he'd first visited the monastery. He'd mistaken it for a generator, then. Now he knew it was something else.
'And you came, as surely as if we had invited you. Never wondering why. Belleros was right. You are a child in a god's body, so eager to prove your superiority that you lose sight of your purpose.'
'Quiet,' Fulgrim said. He closed his eyes, trying to isolate the hum. It was familiar, that particular sound. He'd heard it before - not here. Somewhere else. Terra, perhaps. Memories of an ugly device, resting on one of Ferrus' work-benches, surged to the fore. Ferrus had been showing him how to disarm a-
His eyes sprang open. They wouldn't. They hadn't. An unfamiliar sensation filled him. Not quite fear, but something close. Firebrand pulsed in his hand, melting a section of the floor as men scattered. The ancient mosaic laid there trickled away in molten rivulets, revealing a battered mechanism, sealed below. The shape was unfamiliar, but he recognised it regardless. There could be no mistaking such a thing.
An atomic weapon. And it had been activated.
'He's found it! Take him!'
They came at him in a rush, a hundred mortal lives hurling themselves into death. He turned, Fireblade sweeping out in a wide arc, painting the air a vibrant crimson. Gunfire thundered through the chamber as he moved among them, trying to clear himself room to get to the atomic device. If he could reach it, he might stand a chance of disarming it. But a wall of bodies prevented him.
They threw themselves at him from all sides, brave men trying to pull down the monster rampaging among them. Did they know? Did they understand? The worst of it was, he thought that perhaps they did. That they had volunteered for this, to sacrifice themselves just to have a chance at killing him. Did they fear him this much? The answer was stamped on every face. And so, he killed them. One after the next, in pairs and trios, by the dozen. Firebrand grew warm and white spitting raw heat. Fireblade turned red, and grew heavy with gore. Still they came on. Bullets plucked at his panoply, marring the gilt and tearing his cloak to ragged tatters. He pivoted, chopping through a skull, crown to chin. A kick sent a body flying backwards, to crack against a sagging pillar.
The Phoenician danced and men died. And the dance would have continued, uninterrupted, save for the whim of fate. Blood squelched suddenly underfoot, and Fulgrim stumbled, fighting to hold his balance.
He slid to one knee. A sword crashed down against his helm, and he whipped Fireblade out blindly, trying to keep them back, and was rewarded with a scream. Hands caught at him. One man's strength was nothing to him, but the strength of ten or twenty was something else again. Especially when he had no leverage. Someone pressed a pistol to his chest-plate and emptied the cylinder. A useless attempt, but he felt the force of each shot as it reverberated through his chest. 'Off me - get off,' he snarled, infuriated. He forced himself to his feet, casting his attackers aside.
No time. He had no time for this. He spun, hacking, slashing. Trying to break free of the mob. Proximity warnings filled his vision, alerting him to attacks coming from all sides. He fell into an instinctive rhythm, no longer a dancer, but a machine of death. Killing himself a path to his target.
Then, with a suddenness that was startling, the last body thumped to the ground. Fulgrim tore Fireblade free of the crumpled corpse He'd dropped Firebrand somewhere, but he had no time to search for it.
He staggered towards the atomic weapon, tearing off his helmet as he went. The air tasted foul, like a slaughterhouse on the turn. The hum was louder now, audible even to mortal ears, though none were left to hear it.
He dropped to his knees beside the hole, staring at the digital readout ticking away every second. 'Ferrus, brother, I need your wisdom now,' he muttered. The mechanism was ancient, and far more complex than any of the ones he'd dismantled in Ferrus' workshop, under his brother's watchful gaze. Those hadn't been humming quite so threateningly either. He tried to remember the secrets his brother had showed him. There was always a trick to it - a wire, a panel. But if he touched the wrong thing, there would be no second chances. Only a moment of regret, and the sure, if passing, knowledge that he'd failed. And that, he could not abide.
The hum increased in volume It was building to a crescendo.
No time, now. He lifted Fireblade in both hands, and closed his eyes. He focused on the hum, trying to pinpoint it. When he thought he had it, he struck.
Fireblade pierced the casing. An electrical surge coursed up through the blade, and his muscles locked spasmodically. He screamed, and as the echoes of his cry faded, he realised that he could no longer hear the hum. Carefully, he pulled Fireblade free. The glow had faded. The mechanism was dead, or at least disarmed.
Fulgrim sagged back on his heels.
His eyes flashed open. A trap. It had been a trap. The open blade, and the hidden. And he'd walked right into it, as they'd known he would. But why risk it? Unless...
He shoved himself to his feet. Pandion.
He had to get back to Nova-Basilos.
Sixteen
the phoenician in judgement
The skies above Nova-Basilos were still thick with smoke. Airships hung watchfully in the air above the city, and their shadows crept across the tangled streets, driving people indoors. The city was quiet now, subdued in the wake of all that had occurred. Continental army units patrolled the districts, alert to any signs of resistance to the new order of things. There had been some fighting in the outer districts, and an early morning explosion had rocked the pa
lace grounds.
'Is this really necessary?' Pandion grumbled, as Cyrius hurried them towards the gunship. The third Stormbird waited to take them to the Pride of the Emperor. 'You have broken them. The field is ours.' He looked at Pyke. 'You told me I was to stay here.' The old man was drunk, or close. He had been drinking steadily for several hours, in celebration of imminent victory, and Pyke had matched him, glass for glass. But unlike the governor, the iterator was steady on her feet, and clear-eyed.
'And now we are telling you to go,' Pyke said calmly. Pandion glared at her blearily.
'You can't talk to me that way. I'm the governor.'
'Until all rebel elements have been accounted for, we must ensure your safety,' Cyrius said, trying not to let his impatience show. He wished to be fighting alongside his primarch. Something more fitting than looking after someone who had more guards than he obviously needed. How was he to prove himself, trotting after a drunken old man?
Cyrius glanced at the quintet of gubernatorial guards walking in tight formation around them. They were disciplined, but on a knife-edge. Cyrius considered reassuring them, then discarded the idea. It could wait. Getting Pyke and the governor off-world was his priority. Fulgrim's message had been clear enough. Someone had tried to kill the primarch with an atomic weapon. Sabazius-Ut-Anabas had been a trap. And that meant that Pandion might very well be in danger after all. Chancellor Corynth and Lord Commander Frazer would have to hold the city without them.
A shout from behind them caused Cyrius to turn. He saw Chancellor Corynth hurrying towards them, accompanied by a group of courtiers. Among their number were several of the young men who had unsuccessfully challenged him over the past few weeks. He frowned, puzzled.
'Cyrius,' Pyke said quietly.
'I see them,' Cyrius said. 'What could Corynth want?'
Fulgrim- The Palatine Phoenix - Josh Reynolds Page 18