Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Read online

  Abdemon saluted. ‘As you command, my lord.’

  Fulgrim waved him away. ‘Be off with you. I have calculations to complete.’

  Abdemon turned on his heel and departed. Fulgrim watched his reflection retreat, and allowed himself a brief moment of doubt. Was this truly the correct course?

  He had allowed himself to be goaded, that much he was willing to admit. The urge to strike out on his own had been growing since the discovery of Ultramar, and what Guilliman had accomplished there. His brothers’ success rankled.

  Fulgrim had waged incalculable wars to save but a single world, while Guilliman and Dorn had ruled entire systems. The Legions awaiting them had numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and had swelled to greater heights since. His had numbered two hundred, and though their list of honours was greater than any, it was poor consolation.

  Of them all, he’d thought Russ would understand. Fenris was but one world, as Chemos was. But Russ was arrogant. For him, Fenris was the only world worth the name, and the galaxy too small to contain its magnificence. He did not - would not - see the great tapestry unfolding around him.

  Only Horus shared Fulgrim’s understanding. Only Horus saw the galaxy for what it was, and understood what the Great Crusade really meant. The struggle towards perfection was the only task worth contemplating. The form that perfection took was debatable, obviously, but it must be achieved. The galaxy was akin to one of the great mechanisms he’d repaired as a child. It had been badly used, and now needed a sure hand to return it to its former precision.

  But was it his hand that was destined to do so? The Wolf-King thought not. The others seemed to share his disdain. Fulgrim bowed his head, suddenly weary. Seven voices, raised in doubt. Seven brothers, arrayed against the eighth. Even the normally contemplative master of the Second had broken his silence to accuse Fulgrim of hubris.

  He snorted. There was an old Terran saying, about pots and kettles. He’d refrained from sharing it at the time. His quiet brother had no sense of humour that he was aware of. Perhaps that was why he spoke so litde.

  But Fulgrim had pressed his case, and Russ had made his challenge. And so it was, for good or ill. Horus had tried to dissuade him, before their parting. The concern in his brother’s voice had been palpable. But even he had not understood.

  The Luna Wolves stood pre-eminent amongst the Legions. Their numbers were such that they could prosecute multiple campaigns at once. In contrast, there were barely enough of the Emperor’s Children to fill this one, single ship. The training cages sat dormant, the mess halls empty save for the mortal crew. Even now, on the cusp of resurgence, they faltered. One wrong step could send them reeling over the edge, back into the oblivion they had only just escaped.

  Fulgrim was gambling on the lives of his gene-sons, and their legacy. Only once the die had been cast would he know whether or not he’d made the right choice.

  ‘I suppose I shall find out soon enough,’ he murmured.

  Two

  sons of phoenicia

  Narvo Quin lowered his arm, letting the weight of the power axe do the work. He moved quickly, despite the bulk of his power armour, from one stance to the next. It felt good to be doing something useful, after being chastised by the Phoenician. The air parted before the blade with a hiss, and he grunted in satisfaction.

  ‘Fighting shadows again?’

  Quin paused, axe extended. ‘I was,’ he said tersely. He spun the weapon lightly, cutting the field as he did so, and turned. ‘Now I’m talking to you, I suppose.’ The training cages on this deck were quiet at this point in the duty cycle. They were always quiet these days. He liked it that way. He’d hoped for a few moments of peace, to compose himself. Being singled out by the primarch had been both glorious and terrifying. He still felt the weight of Fulgrim’s gaze upon his soul, and wished to hold onto that feeling for as long as possible.

  ‘My gratitude knows no bounds,’ Flavius Alkenex said. He leaned against the entrance to the training cage, arms crossed. Patrician and haughty, Alkenex was just on the bearable side of arrogant.

  Quin disliked him regardless. Thankfully, they’d had little reason to interact off the battlefield, before now. Why Fulgrim had chosen him was a mystery. Alkenex leaned forward, a half-smile on his face. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  Alkenex gestured. What do you mean, “what”? This. Us. The Phoenician.’

  ‘It’s an opportunity,’ Quin said. A questionable one, perhaps, given those involved. Evenly split between those of Terra and those of Chemos, which Quin admitted - if grudgingly - was sensible. But including creatures like the Spider was just asking for trouble.

  He twitched slightly, thinking of the Apothecary hunched in his web, his mechanical limbs clicking. Fabius was one of the original Two Hundred, and deserving of respect for that alone. But Quin had heard the whispers of the veterans, of those battered relics of ancient glories, and there was no respect in their voices when they spoke of the Spider.

  Only hate.

  Quin could not help but question why Fulgrim had chosen Fabius. It made even less sense than choosing a supercilious fool like Alkenex. He looked at the other warrior. What do you think of it, then?’

  ‘I leave thinking to the officers.’ Alkenex let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword meaningfully. ‘Care to spar?’

  With you? No.’ Quin set his axe on his shoulder. ‘You cheat.’

  ‘I win.’

  ‘Not always.’ Quin’s grin was a tight line across his face.

  ‘No, not always.’ Alkenex shrugged. ‘Fine. What do you want to do?’

  ‘I want to finish my exercises.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes you very much, Flavius,’ a new voice intruded. High, almost musical. Quin grimaced and turned, glaring at the newcomers. Kasperos Telmar and Grythan Thorn. Both Chemosian, and closer than brothers. In Quin’s opinion, there was little to mark the natives of Chemos out as suitable warriors. They were drones, drudges and dullards. That the Phoenician doted on them so was a constant irritation to him. And not just him. Telmar grinned widely. ‘Then, Narvo doesn’t like anyone. Do you, Narvo?’

  ‘I don’t like you, if that’s what you’re implying.’ Quin rested his axe in the crook of his arm. ‘Either of you.’ They were an ambitious pair, seeking to climb the ladder of rank. Quin recognised the signs, for he had similar ambitions. There were holes in the command structure, and the Phoenician was seeking to fill them as swifdy as possible. Most of those who found their way into the depleted upper ranks were bom of Chemos. An advantage Quin did not possess. His blood was of the purest unbroken line in Old Europa, but that wasn’t good enough anymore. He had to be better than his blood. Better than theirs.

  ‘What did I do?’ Thorn protested.

  ‘You’re friends with him.’

  ‘He’s got you there,’ Alkenex said.

  ‘I don’t like you, either,’ Quin said, pointedly.

  Alkenex glanced at the others. ‘I’m in good company, I suppose.’

  Telmar laughed. ‘We all are. The Phoenician chose us. He hand- picked each of us.’ He smirked. ‘Even Narvo. Though, for the life of me, I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Step into this cage, Chemosian. I’ll show you, well enough.’ Quin stepped back, arms spread. ‘I was fighting for the Legion while you were still grubbing in the mud.’

  Telmar’s face flushed, but Thorn stopped him before he could answer Quin’s challenge. ‘Don’t, brother. There’ll be plenty of fighting, before long. And more worthy challenges’ Thorn met Quin’s glare calmly. That goes for you as well.’

  ‘Don’t think to order me around, Thorn,’ Quin said. ‘You’re not my commanding officer, last I checked.’

  ‘No, but I am.’

  Quin flinched as Abdemon’s voice echoed through the training bay. The Hero of Proxima swooped down on them as swiftly as the bird of prey he resembled. ‘As far as you are concerned - all of you - I am the word Fulgrim made flesh. And I
say play nice, or there will be a reckoning. Anything less than perfection, and you will bring shame to the Legion and our gene-father both.’ The commander let his hand rest purposefully on his sword’s hilt. ‘Do you understand me?’

  Quin bowed his head, as did the others. Abdemon looked around. ‘Where’s Cyrius?’

  ‘Last I saw, he was with the old woman,’ Thorn said, with the hint of a laugh.

  Abdemon glanced at Thorn. That old woman, as you call her, is a respected diplomat and a member of one of the oldest noble houses of ancient Terra. Her blood is as pure as that of any warrior in this room. Remember that, and treat her accordingly?

  ‘It is still not clear to me why we require the presence of such individuals,’ Telmar said disdainfully. “We are the fire, iterators and their ilk are but what comes after.’ Quin’s grip tightened on the haft of his axe He was not of the Two Hundred like Abdemon or the Spider, but he had fought and bled alongside humans for decades.

  Even now, the Legion lacked the numbers to be deployed en masse as the Luna Wolves were Instead, they coordinated with and, at times, led the other, more diverse forces in service to the Emperor. In his time Quin had led the household troops of ancient military aristocracies, and fought alongside howling savages culled from barbaric frontier worlds. They were as worthy of respect as any warrior of the Legion. He made to speak, but Abdemon beat him to it.

  ‘And what use the fire, without that which follows it?’ Abdemon tapped a finger into Telmar’s chest-plate, rocking him slightly. ‘An army is a mechanism, made of many parts. All those parts are required for smooth functioning of the whole’

  Telmar bowed his head, suitably chastised. Abdemon looked at the rest of them. ‘You four are among the best and brightest of those who will carry the palatine aquila into the wider galaxy. But do not allow yourselves to become so arrogant that you forget what has come before. Lord Fulgrim is right - this is our anabasis. But if I have learned one thing at all, it is that the march upcountry is often the most difficult.’

  Abdemon strode along the observation deck, accompanied by the chill light of innumerable stars. The lumens were kept low here, at the request of the ambassador, so as to enhance the effect of the starscape beyond the curved surface of the viewport. Preoccupied, he paid little heed to the crewmembers who scurried respectfully from his path.

  Quin and the others had been on the edge of challenging one another. Something that would happen again, he feared, unless their attentions were diverted. Nobility was easily polluted by pride. The Emperor’s Children were encouraged to test themselves constantly, but the only worthwhile test of skill was against another warrior of the Legions. The success of a brother was tantamount to a challenge. Achievements were fleeting, and soon forgotten in the quest for the perfection embodied by their primarch.

  Abdemon could still recall his first glimpse of Fulgrim, standing atop his fortress of glass and steel, executive robes gleaming in the waning light, a paragon of ancient Aten, given new life light years from home. Chemos was a drab, silent world, but where the Phoenician strode, colour and sound flourished. He was a beacon of hope, both to the masses of Chemos and his remaining gene-sons.

  But for Abdemon, that hope was tempered by pragmatism. Fulgrim represented a sea-change for the Legion, even as its depleted ranks were swelled by unfamiliar faces. Abdemon frowned. The renewal of the blood-tithes with Europa and the addition of Chemosian aspirants had done much to alleviate the Legion’s slide towards irrelevance.

  Fulgrim had been their salvation. Both from the blight, and their own need to prove themselves worthy of the aquila they bore Their primarch had shouldered the burden of their imperfections as his own. Under his guiding hand, they would either be redeemed or crushed utterly by the challenges to come.

  Abdemon pushed the thought aside as he caught sight of the ambassador and her retinue. Her followers were a discordant lot - junior iterators, scribes, and members of the petty nobility from a dozen newly compliant worlds. They had all but colonised this deck for their own, and he was aware of the wary attentions of her bodyguards, among the raucous flock. He returned the favour, though not obviously.

  There were twelve of them, scattered about the observation deck. Patrician-killers, dressed in finery, but bearing weapons of utilitarian make Noble of bearing, but with an underlying savagery that he approved of. Men and women used to games of death and deceit, capable of chattering like courtiers, even as they calculated the force necessary to cripple or kill. Rumour had it that they were culled from among the extraneous children of Europa’s noblest bloodlines - those who would neither inherit tides nor be offered up as part of the blood-tithe. There was said to be a facility somewhere on Luna, where such individuals were trained in the killing arts and then sold on to the highest bidder.

  The ambassador was herself a product of the ancient bloodlines, able to trace her lineage to the dusk-rimes before the fall of Old Night She was one of the last of the old breed of iterator, more flamboyant in personality than was currently acceptable. As the Great Crusade grew in scope, so too did its apparatuses become finely tuned. Abdemon caught sight of her, at the centre of her flock of popinjays, watching intently as her killer circled one of his own.

  ‘Idiot,’ Abdemon muttered. Cyrius was pale, almost the colour of marble, and his armour had seen an artificer’s touch. Delicate scrollwork marked the flat panes of ceramite, depicting scenes from Chemos’ history. His hair was cropped short, his scalp almost shorn smooth, and his face a sharp mirror of Abdemon’s own. There was something of the primarch in both of them, a subtle cast to their features, which marked them as Fulgrim’s gene-sons. Perhaps that was why Fulgrim favoured Cyrius so.

  Cyrius held his blade low, inviting attack. His skills as a swordsman were first-rate, but flashy. He was a duellist by inclination, as many Chemosians were. They possessed a strong thread of personal combat in their cultural weave. It revealed itself not simply in blade-work, but in all forms of activity, even poetry and music.

  The bodyguard was almost as tall as Cyrius, but slender. His features were on the cusp of androgyny beneath a latticework of duelling scars. He wore a frock coat made from an iridescent material, and a ceremonial breastplate marked with a leering gorgon’s face. The blade he held was a fine thing, and well kept. Abdemon saw his limbs tense, but not the movement that followed. Swift, sure, certain and ultimately unsuccessful. Cyrius interposed his sword easily, blocking a blow that might have gutted a normal human and severely inconvenienced a Space Marine.

  The bodyguard spun away, using the force of Cyrius’ counter to carry himself out of reach. Cyrius laughed and started after him, as the rest of the popinjays clapped and cheered. The Primary Iterator, Abdemon noted, did neither. She simply watched and analysed.

  ‘Cyrius, don’t you have duties to attend to?’ Abdemon called out. Cyrius froze. He bowed stiffly to his opponent, and turned.

  ‘Lord Commander Abdemon. My apologies. I was-‘

  ‘Entertaining us,’ the Primary Iterator said, rising gracefully to her feet. Golconda Pyke was older than she looked, and she looked very old indeed. Silver hair, cropped bristle-short on one side of her head, hung down the other in a shimmering wave. She wore a pair of golden pince-nez, balanced just so on an aquiline nose. Time had marked her, but like a sculptor chipping away excess, revealing the truth of her. Her dark robes were ornate, after the current fashion, without being garish, and lent an air of formality she might not otherwise possess. In their own way, the robes of an iterator were as much armour as the ceramite plates that covered the warriors of the Third.

  Abdemon bowed slightly. A gesture of respect, rather than deference ‘Primary Iterator,’ he said. He straightened and fixed Cyrius with a stem eye. ‘Find something practical to do, Cyrius. I’m sure there are duties awaiting your attentions.’

  Cyrius sheathed his sword and crashed a fist against his chest-plate in salute. He turned and strode swiftly away, back ramrod straight. Pyke chuckled. ‘A bit hard
on him, weren’t you?’

  ‘He could’ve killed your man.’ Abdemon said it bluntly, though the bodyguard gave no sign that he cared one way or the other. ‘Even at play, we are lethal. It would be best for all concerned that such displays are kept to a minimum.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, lord commander. Still, you’ll forgive a foolish old woman her desire for a bit of excitement. It has been a long journey, and a rather boring one.’

  Abdemon grunted and Pyke gestured airily. Her popinjays scattered, flying hither and yon in a swirl of colour, leaving behind the echoes of laughter. The bodyguards stayed, though remained at a respectable distance, faces turned outwards. Pyke motioned to a marble bench. ‘Sit. I assume it will bear your weight.’

  Abdemon sat down. He noted the small table set beside her, and the fluted glass decanter sitting on it. A fruity aroma slipped from it. Not unpleasant. Some form of alcoholic liquid, he judged. ‘So?’ said Pyke.

  Abdemon smiled thinly. ‘There’s an old Terran expression about herding felinoids, and the difficulties thereof.’ He laughed. ‘The felinoids might be easier.’ He glanced after the departed Cyrius. That one, especially.’

  ‘Given what I’ve observed, possibly true.’ She swirled her glass. ‘Here, have a taste and tell me what you think.’

  Abdemon gingerly took the glass, careful not to shatter it. He sipped the wine. Pyke waited expectantly. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s wine.’

  ‘Good wine.’

  ‘If you say so.’ He handed the glass back to her. Unlike many in the Legion, Abdemon had little interest in such things. His art was war, and his skills did not extend much past it.

  She sighed. ‘Close to being perfect, in fact. Just one of the many notable exports Twenty-Eight One produces.’