by David Guymer
'The Gardinaal surrendered, did they not?' Fulgrim whispered, his eyes, sensitive and benevolent, never once leaving the procession's sober path. 'En masse. As soon as the fate of their capital world spread. I would argue that you saved lives.'
'I was not thinking of saving lives.'
'I know, brother.'
At the end of its procession the bier was set down before the primarchs. Warriors emerged from the most honoured centuries to drape the three caskets with Legion banners. Amadeus DuCaine stood stiffly to attention among the litter bearers, his armour glassy black and perfect, shaking with a stubborn defiance of emotion.
'What is the system to be called?' Fulgrim went on, softly. 'Fifty-two-nine?'
'You and Guilliman may fight over it. I don't care what becomes of the worlds once I am done.'
'Our dear brother looks preoccupied.' Fulgrim looked up. 'You just know he is composing an entire supplementary codicil on this campaign in his head right now.'
Ferrus glanced across the dais.
The primarch of the XIII Legion had arrived with the full might of the 12th Expedition exactly one day after the purge of Gardinaal Prime. He had expressed relief at first, emerging from the warp with weapons charged only to find a compliant system. That had turned quickly into anger as he had learned more. And then Roboute Guilliman had heard of Ulan Cicerus' treatment at Ferrus' hands and his ultimate fate. His wrath had been such that Ferrus had not been certain he would attend. But attend he had, clad like a battle king in war-plate of the proudest royal blue bedecked with gold relief, white cloak and a mighty Ultima stamped into his shoulder. He was angry, yet articulate, wrathful, yet noble - he was all that Ferrus Manus had striven to be.
'He admires you, you know,' said Fulgrim, with the near-telepathy that only the closest of brothers could share. 'Greatly. I've heard him say that he counts you and Dorn as the greatest among us.'
Ferrus snorted and looked away. 'It is not reciprocated.'
Almost overlooked by the primarchs, DuCaine began to speak. His voice broken by grief, he spoke of the Unification of the Central Afrik, and the first time he had crossed paths, and swords, with a brilliant young captain by the name of Akurduana.
Ferrus already knew the tale.
'I thought that I could lead the Legions as well I lead my own. It turns out I haven't the patience for it.'
Fulgrim emitted a whisper of muffled laughter. Ferrus glared. 'You are not imperfect, brother, you are…' His eyes turned upwards as if seeking the word amongst the stars beyond the great arched windows of the Hall.
'Say 'special' and I will hit you right here in front of everyone.'
Fulgrim's smile was dazzling, and drew all sting from his brother's words. Such was his power. There were few beings in this galaxy that would dare lay a hand on Ferrus Manus, and Fulgrim was one of them. To any who saw, it would have appeared to be nothing more than one brother offering consolation to another. There would be many, after today, who would speak of how the grim and terrible Gorgon had been moved to sorrow by the passing of Ulan Cicerus, Intep Amar and Akurduana.
Such was Fulgrim's power.
His elegy concluded, DuCaine wiped an errant tear from his cheek and withdrew from the row of caskets. Representatives of the Ultramarines and the Thousand Sons stepped forward to speak to the valour of their fallen brothers.
'It was a great honour you bestowed,' said Ferrus, 'allowing DuCaine to speak for Akurduana.'
'We are all brothers here,' said Fulgrim. 'We all come from the same place.'
Ferrus nodded.
'I have given Solomon Demeter the captaincy of Second Company.'
'Santar was impressed by him.'
'The character of the Company will inevitably change.' Fulgrim sighed. 'Akurduana was something… unique.'
'They will rebuild,' said Ferrus, his voice becoming firm. 'Stronger than they were before.'
From front to rear, the centuries came forward to salute the caskets, the litter bearers, the primarchs, before departing the Hall.
Ferrus turned fully to Fulgrim as they came, looking into the depthless purple of his eyes. 'You have heard the rumour, I assume. That the Emperor means to retire from his Crusade as soon as he is reunited with the last of his missing sons.'
'He spoke nothing of it, if that is what you are asking.'
Ferrus grunted, crossing his arms and turning his attention to the bier. 'I want you to know that it will not be me, and that whomever is chosen shall have my backing regardless.'
'Regardless?'
'You know what I mean.' Ferrus glanced at his brother sideways, his eyes remaining motionless, inscrutable as silver pools. 'Is there anything that you can tell me of our father?'
Fulgrim shrugged. 'He brought us to a world called Molech. We conquered it. Nothing more of note beyond that, as I recall. It was actually rather routine.' Ferrus doubted that. The coming together of four full Legions was either the consequence of great events or the cause. He could attest to that, and was about to, but then Fulgrim brightened, even as his expression remained the zenith of the bereaved father. 'I did meet our new brother.'
'What do you make of him?'
'He calls himself the Khan, though I'm not entirely convinced he understands what the word means. He's very… feral.' The primarch chuckled. 'I think you will like him.'
'This is why I appreciate your company, brother,' Ferrus whispered in Fulgrim's ear, eyeing the statuesque form of Roboute Guilliman at the far side of the dais. 'You only ever see the better part of me.'
Moses Trurakk pushed himself up, feeling the surgical slab beneath his hands. Raw nerve endings in his shoulders reported the pressure his weight applied to the surface, its asperity and temperature, even the ratio of iron to other minerals in the steel. But he felt nothing. With a purr of expertly integrated augmetics he raised both hands from the slab. He looked at them. Indicator lights blinked back. Minute gearing systems whirred as he rotated the wrists, tested the power of their grip. He smiled.
'Apothecary Glassius does good work.'
Moses squinted into the dimly lit apothecarion, a silvery silhouette breaking over the horrifically scarred visage of Gabriel Santar.
The First Captain had never been a picture, but now he looked like something that had been knocked out of an asteroid field. His left arm had been replaced entirely with a bionic, as had both legs. A large part of his left side and lower torso had been plated in chrome. A dark surgical robe hung off him, open on both sides, and concealing approximately nothing of his restructured physique. There was a time when the presence of a warrior as illustrious as Santar would have left Moses groping for words, but not now. The barriers of rank that separated them, if they had ever been real at all, no longer seemed relevant.
'He does,' he answered simply.
Moses looked down the length of his body. He could not feel his feet. His legs were covered by a blanket, but he did not need it removed to know what he would see underneath. He remembered the crash, even if the events leading to his return were more vague. He looked around, his augmetic eye piercing the gloom. A Legion apothecarion was unlike his mortal counterpart. The medical interventions that were capable of superseding a legionary's own ability to heal himself were few and superficially crude. The air smelled of blood, oil and concentrated alcohol. The light blinked off the dulled edges of saws, blunted on ceramite and hard Astartes bone, and vices. Amongst the apparatus of disassembly and repair, recumbent forms lay on every slab. Some lacked limbs. Others returned the muted lighting with sharp metallic glints of their own.
It must have been quite the slaughter - for a pilot of the Vurgaan Clan to be tended by the Chief Apothecary of Clan Sorrgol.
'Will they still be able to fly?' asked Santar, referring to the metal hands.
'They will fly better.' Moses clenched his new hands and drew them to him, searching for something profound but as yet unsaid. He drew back the blanket that had been placed over him, exposing the hard lines and unfeeling m
etal of two fully augmetic legs.
And it came to him. The truth of it. He looked up, and in that moment saw that his brother understood it too.
'The flesh is weak.'
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Guymer wrote the Primarchs novel Ferrus Manus: Gorgon of Medusa, and for Warhammer 40,000 The Eye of Medusa and the two The Beast Arises novels Echoes of the Long War and The Last Son of Dorn. For Warhammer Age of Sigmar he wrote the audio dramas The Beasts of Cartha, Fist of Gork, Fist of Mork, Great Red and Only the Faithful. He is also the author of the Gotrek & Felix novels Slayer, Kinslayer and City of the Damned. He is a freelance writer and occasional scientist based in the East Riding, and was a finalist in the 2014 David Gemmell Legend Awards for his novel Headtaker.
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