'Cyrius - they're armed,' Pyke hissed.
Cyrius blinked. He'd seen the swords, but hadn't thought about what they'd meant. Armed men weren't allowed in the governor's presence, unless they were his guards. 'Get Pandion to the gunship, Primary Iterator. I'll-'
He was interrupted as one of the gubernatorial guards drew his sidearm and fired. The shot skidded across Cyrius' temple, and he cursed himself for not wearing his helmet. Akurduana would have had stem words for such a display of overconfidence. And Abdemon would have had him on punishment detail.
He spun and drove his fist into the guardsman's chest, punching through the ceremonial cuirass and pulping the man's heart. 'Lady Golconda,' he shouted, as another guardsman chopped at him with a sword. 'Get to the Stormbird!' He raised his forearm and the man's sword shivered to fragments against the ceramite. Cyrius caught him by the throat and swung him into his fellows, dropping them in a tangle. The last man was taking careful aim at Pyke and the governor. Cyrius caught him by the back of the head, and squeezed. The man fell without a sound.
Cyrius drew his sword as the others tried to scramble to their feet. He was faster than they were, and they died, still on the ground. Cyrius turned as a bullet caromed off his shoulder-plate. Chancellor Corynth, a grave look on his face, lowered his smoking weapon. Treachery, then.
He wasted no time wondering how or why. As Corynth's companions raced forward, Cyrius moved to meet them. His confidence turned to confusion as his first blow failed to find its mark. He turned, roaring in anger as sharpened steel thrust through the joins of his armour, piercing seals and hoses. They surrounded him like a pack of wild dogs, stabbing and ducking away. Too late, he remembered Abdemon's warning. They'd learned, these mortals. They'd watched and taken note of the flaws in his style. Another thing Akurduana would chastise him for, if he survived.
He caught one of his attackers with a glancing blow, knocking the man to the ground. Before the swordsman could roll aside, Cyrius stamped down on his chest, killing him instantly. A second broke his blade on Cyrius' aquila. The Space Marine blinked metal fragments from his eyes, and backed away. He could hear the Stormbird's engines firing, and hoped Pyke had made it. As he rubbed the last of the shrapnel from his eyes, he heard a strange hum. Instinctively, he jerked back. But not far enough.
Corynth drove the humming blade up, into Cyrius' torso. Cut cables spewed coolant as the weapon slid through the ceramite plates and into the flesh beneath. Cyrius gasped and caught hold of Corynth's collar. He flung the chancellor aside and turned his attentions to the blade gnawing at his vitals. He groped at the hilt, trying to pull it out, even as he sank to one knee. Blood stained his hands and the ground as he finally pulled it free and cast it aside.
'Trans-sonic, I think it's called,' Corynth said, quickly retrieving the blade. 'An heirloom, passed down from one generation to the next.' He eyed the blood sizzling on the edge of the sword. 'It cuts through damn near anything. Though I never saw much point in it, until now. Until I faced something a normal blade couldn't harm.' He swept the sword out and extended it towards Cyrius. 'I am sorry for this, my friend. Under different circumstances...'
'Under different circumstances, I'd be the one apologising to you,' Cyrius grunted. He felt as if his internal organs had been liquefied. Everything inside him wanted to spill out through the wound in his torso. Nonetheless, he forced himself to one knee, and then upright. It was not fitting that a legionary should die at a mortal's hands. 'And I still might,' he hissed, between bloody teeth.
Corynth hesitated. Then, he nodded. 'As you wish.' He stepped back, falling into a guard stance. He waved Cyrius forward. 'Come then, legionary.'
Cyrius stooped and retrieved his blade. He looked past Corynth, and saw that the Stormbird was gone. Pyke and the governor were safe Satisfied, he extended his sword. 'You first,' he said.
Corynth slid forward, moving lightly. He was faster than Cyrius had expected. Not inhumanly so, but with the speed of a man who'd been preparing for this moment for some time. Fast and precise And the damage to the seals and joins of Cyrius' armour was slowing him down. Even so, he steadily forced Corynth to retreat. 'You've already lost,' he said. 'Pandion is out of your reach.'
'Who said I was after Pandion?' the chancellor said, backing away. 'He's no more than a puppet of this world's true masters, now.' Corynth extended his blade. 'You. You and your Phoenician. Immortal, unkillable. But you can die. And you'll die at the hands of a mere human. The message will go out, and this world will turn on you like the invaders you are.' He gestured with his free hand, and the rest of his men closed ranks on Cyrius. 'We will be free of our shackles, as Sabazius intended.'
They came in a rush. Cyrius staggered, defending himself as best he could with one hand. Even hampered as he was, he was more than a match for them. But every time he managed to drive them back, Corynth was there, his trans-sonic blade darting in to draw blood. Cyrius knew he was being whitded down, a bit at a time. They had his measure. He considered the bolt pistol on his hip, but discarded the idea even as it occurred to him. He refused to be forced to resort to such means. He would match them blade to blade, or die where he stood. Better an honourable death than to live knowing he had been defeated by a gaggle of mortals. But with every passing moment, that death seemed more certain.
Then, salvation.
'Belleros.'
The voice of a god, passing judgement. Cyrius turned, and felt relief flood him.
Fulgrim strode across the rooftop landing zone, and Corynth's surviving warriors retreated before his approach. The primarch's armour was chipped and blackened in places. Dried blood caked it, dulling the gleam of the gold, and his cloak was nothing more than sodden tatters. He wore no helmet, and his white hair was loose, spilling across his shoulders like a mane. He stopped beside Cyrius, and looked down at him. 'Cyrius. It seems I got here just in time.'
Cyrius bowed his head, the shame worse than any pain he felt.
Fulgrim laughed softly. 'No matter. Rest easy, Cyrius. You have done well.' He stepped past him and continued towards Corynth and the others, Fireblade held low. He raised the blade in a salute. 'Come then, Belleros. You've beaten the son... Now let us see how you fare against the father.'
Corynth stared at him. 'You should be dead.'
Fulgrim shrugged. He had returned as quickly as he could, hoping to reach Nova-Basilos before the worst happened. Thankfully, Firebird was faster than any normal gunship. 'I am rarely what people think I should be. Instead, I am what I must be. Such is the Phoenix's nature.' He faced Corynth. 'Still, an admirable stratagem. You sacrificed an army, and all just to kill me.' He gestured. 'I survived, obviously.'
'Obviously,' Corynth said.
Fulgrim frowned. 'Why, Belleros?'
'You know the answer to that. You have proven yourself a tyrant equal to the one who created the Glass Waste, Fulgrim. I - we - could not allow our world to fall into the hands of one willing to burn it to ashes, just to claim it. Better Pandion than that.' Corynth shook his head. 'Pandion, the patricians... they are a cancer. Eliminating them was the only way to save Byzas. But you - you are worse.'
'And if you had succeeded, what then? Would the Sabazian Brotherhood have emerged from the shadows, and stepped into power?'
'No, but we would have ensured that the right people did.' Corynth wiped sweat from his eyes. 'Our aims are yours. Our goals are yours. Why could you not work with us?'
'I do not work with fools, even pleasant ones,' Fulgrim said. 'What you wanted, it was nothing more than anarchy. There is a better way, but you refused to see it.'
'Your way.'
'Obviously.'
Corynth shook his head. 'Pride, then? Is that the only reason?'
'Not pride,' Fulgrim said. Fireblade drifted forward, tentatively. Corynth leapt back, slapping the blade aside. Fulgrim shrugged. 'Or, rather, not simply pride. You fight for a dream that can never be,' he said. 'A shame, for it is a beautiful dream. But dreams are useless things, when it c
omes to building something of worth. Something perfect.'
'You don't believe that,' Corynth said. 'If you did, you would not be here.'
Fulgrim smiled. 'What I believe is of little consequence. Only the harsh reality matters. And that reality is this - you cannot kill me. You will not rule this world, for good or ill. If you had come to me first...'
'We did, Fulgrim. And you denied us.'
Fulgrim frowned. 'Not the Brotherhood, Belleros. You'. He raised Fireblade. 'I gave you the opportunity, that first night. All you had to do was seize it, and none of this would have been necessary.
'I told you then, I do not care who rules. Only that they rule as I see fit.'
Corynth stared at him. Then he began to laugh. Softly at first, but more loudly as it went on. It was Fulgrim's turn to stare, and as Corynth continued to laugh, he began to grow angry. 'Stop laughing,' he snapped. 'Are you mad?'
'Not mad,' Corynth said. 'Disappointed.' He looked up at the towering, glowering primarch and smiled sadly. 'I was right. You never understood at all, did you? All our teachings, all our wisdom, and what did you learn? A few duelling techniques.'
Fulgrim shook his head. 'What else is there?'
'The true duel is within. The battle between desire and purpose, between what you wish, and what must be. And you lost, before you even picked up your blade.'
Incensed, Fulgrim took a step towards Corynth. 'What do you mean?'
'You desire to prove your superiority, above all else. You provoked a war, where you could have engineered peace, simply to root out any potential threat to your authority. To prove your might. That is the nature of your tyranny. And as long as we remain, we will have no choice but to challenge you.' Corynth looked at his sword, and then tossed it aside. 'Desire and purpose,' he said simply. 'You lost. And maybe we did as well. Maybe we should have bent knee. Maybe you are not the only one who allowed yourself to be blinded by pride.'
'Pick it up,' Fulgrim demanded. 'Belleros - pick up your sword.' Corynth sank to his knees and folded his hands. One by one, the others did the same. They cast aside their weapons and knelt behind their leader. 'What do you intend for my world, Fulgrim? Will you do all that you have promised?'
'I - Belleros, pick up your damn sword.' Fulgrim looked at the others. 'Get up, all of you. Stand up.'
Corynth bowed his head, exposing the back of his neck. The others followed suit. 'Will you bring light to the shadows? Will you raise our people up from the mire?'
'Belleros,' Fulgrim said, comprehension dawning even as his anger faded. 'Get up, Belleros. It does not have to be this way.'
'Will you do all these things?' Corynth's voice was steady. Serene. 'Will you break our chains and free our people? Will you save Byzas from itself, as you saved Chemos?'
For the first time, Fireblade felt heavy in Fulgrim's grip. He looked down at the chancellor. At the traitor. 'I will,' he said.
'Will you swear it?'
'I swear it, on my honour, as commander of the 28th Expedition, and son of the Emperor, I will save Byzas from itself.' Fulgrim said the words so quietly, he wondered at first if Corynth had heard them. Then he saw the smile twitch at the corners of the man's mouth, and knew he had.
'Perfection,' Corynth said. He closed his eyes. 'Strike, Phoenician. Strike and may your desire be fulfilled, at last.'
Fulgrim struck.
The war for Byzas ended.
Seventeen
katabasis
'Well, that's it, then. A toast, to your triumph, Lord Fulgrim.' Pyke held up her glass and emptied it. The wine was from the Hereditary Governor's private cellar. The Primary Iterator seemed to have developed a taste for the bitter vintage.
Fulgrim acknowledged the gesture with a nod, and went back to examining the sword Corynth had nearly killed Cyrius with. He held the edge of the trans-sonic blade up to the light and studied it. It was a beautiful weapon, forged on Terra in the early days of Old Night. He wished he could ask Corynth about its pedigree.
He paused. He wished he could ask Corynth many things. Too late now. He lowered the blade and looked around. The gardens were silent. Even the birds were quiet. Soldiers were unobtrusively stationed nearby, waiting to escort them to the throne room.
Pandion would be there, coming to grips with his newfound authority. Today, as part of the compliance ceremonies, he was to publicly pardon the families of those members of the patricians who had risen against him. He had resisted, at first, but Fulgrim had pointed out the obvious merits of such a reconciliation. The aristocracy had long memories, and a reputation for benevolence would serve a man like Pandion better than an iron fist.
It would also buy his heirs enough consideration to keep them safely on the throne, until the new status quo had been established. Once the bureaucrats arrived from Terra, and the Great Crusade passed on, things would begin to change.
That was the hope, at any rate. 'I called our mission here an anabasis,' he said idly. 'A march inland. The reverse is a katabasis - a march to the sea. The victors return to their ships, leaving change in their wake'
'And is that what you have done?' Pyke asked, pouring herself another glass of wine.
'Not so much as I might like, but some. The sickness which afflicted this world has been ameliorated somewhat.'
'Like pus drained from a boil.'
Fulgrim laughed. 'Exactly.' He swept Belleros' sword out and made a graceful lunge. 'Lanced by a perfect thrust.' Even as he said it, he felt a twinge of something - guilt, perhaps. Or regret. As with the Sulpha on Chemos, he had been forced to eradicate the Sabazian Brotherhood in order to save Byzas. It did not sit well with him, but he did not see how it could have been otherwise.
Or was it simply that he did not wish to see it?
The thought brought him up short. Desire and purpose. Which had driven him? Had Belleros been right? Did it even matter? In victory, his superiority was proven. Messages of congratulations were already coming in, some more grudging than others. He had succeeded. He had proven himself. Proven the superiority of his Legion. But still, he thought of the kneeling assassins, waiting patiently for his blade, and wondered.
'Hindsight is wonderful for smoothing the rough edges, isn't it?' Pyke's question struck him like a fist. He looked at her.
'And what's that supposed to mean?'
'Hardly perfect, was it? How many thousands dead? How much destruction?' The questions were pointed, and the same ones he'd been asking himself. Fulgrim felt a flash of irritation. Did she think he was not aware of the cost?
'Its perfection is obvious. Compliance was achieved, and stability ensured. In a few weeks, with barely a handful of warriors, I accomplished what would have taken my brothers months, and hundreds - if not thousands - of warriors.' It was a boast, but a truthful one. He lowered the trans-sonic blade, quieting its hum. 'I have acquired a new world for the Imperium, at minimal cost, and a new source for potential aspirants for my Legion. More, I have proven my ability to any who might doubt it.'
'Or maybe you've proven that they were right all along.'
Fulgrim shook his head, annoyed. 'If that's the case, then there is nothing that will convince them otherwise.'
Pyke frowned. 'I've been reading those Sabazian treatises you found,' she said, indicating the books scattered on the table before her. 'Desire and purpose and all that. It makes for an interesting look into the mind of our late enemies. There's much to be learned from them.'
'I have already seen to it that their martial teachings are integrated into our combat training. It will prove invaluable to my warriors, of that I have no doubt.' That they'd almost carved Cyrius out of his armour was proof enough of that.
'And their philosophy?'
Fulgrim hesitated. 'What of it?'
Pyke sighed and picked up one of the books. '"The search for perfection is a subtle drug,"' she read. '"It draws the mind along circuitous routes, deeper and deeper into itself, until nothing can be seen except the ideal. Desire blinds one to purpose, and
thus renders true perfection impossible."'
'But is attainment of the ideal not worth such a torturous journey?' Fulgrim said. 'Only through desire can perfection be imagined, and attained.'
'Some would say that the journey itself is more important.'
'Some have more patience than me.'
Pyke acknowledged the point. 'Then you must ask yourself this - is the ideal you seek worth the cost?' She hesitated. 'This could have all gone very wrong, Fulgrim. You were almost killed at Sabazius-Ut-Anabas, whether you admit it or not. You let your pride blind you, and walked into a trap designed to kill a demigod.'
'And I walked out again,' Fulgrim said softly. He didn't look at her.
'But Cyrius almost didn't. Corynth and his fellows almost killed him.'
Fulgrim turned. 'Casualties are the price of victory.'
Pyke frowned. 'And that is the very excuse those bureaucrats you so detest use to reason away the neglect of your sons. Their lives were spent like bullets, one after the next, to buy victory after victory. I thought you wanted to find a better way, Phoenician.'
Fulgrim tensed, angry. He looked down at her, so old and frail. A single twitch of his hand would serve to shatter her irrevocably. She could feel his anger - he knew she must. But she did not look away. Pyke was not speaking for herself. She was speaking with the voice of Terra, the voice of Malcador and, ultimately, the Emperor.
Worse, she was not wrong. He had acted foolishly, thinking himself clever. His desire for the perfect thrust had blinded him to the desperation of his enemies. He had left them no choice but to kill him, for the good of their world. The thought of his failure was like acid on his mind. How would his brothers judge him, should they learn of it?
He remembered Corynth, kneeling before him. The serenity of his smile. Had he achieved perfection, in his final moments? The thought haunted Fulgrim. He replayed the moment over and over again in his head, studying it from every angle. Why had Corynth allowed himself to die? Had he too been proving a point?
In those final moments, had he won the duel, between desire and purpose?
Fulgrim- The Palatine Phoenix - Josh Reynolds Page 19