Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Read online

  The glass trembled slightly beneath him as he ascended. He could see the rounded roof of the aerodrome, rising above the treeline. There was no runway or landing platform. The etheric engines the airships used enabled vertical lift. The reverberations he felt were the result of the top of the aerodrome opening. The roof spread like the petals of a flower, revealing the hangar within, and the small fleet of gubernatorial airships.

  As Fulgrim watched, one of the airships began to rise. He could hear the crackle of gunfire and the blare of alarms. Overhead, man-made lightning crackled in sheets as the palace’s etherdomes were activated. The crude electrical fields theoretically protected the palace from airborne attack. Someone was obviously hoping the fields would also prevent the airship from escaping. He considered it unlikely, if escape was even what they were planning.

  The airship rose towards the top of the bio-dome, carried aloft by anti-gravity engines more advanced than anything else on the planet. It was smaller than he’d expected. A pleasure-craft, rather than a vessel made for long-distance travel. It resembled one of the ancient galleys that had once prowled the Ionian Sea on Terra. Its prow resembled a hawk’s beak, and sail-like fins jutted from either side of the hull, sweeping back to meet a sharply angled mast-like structure, which emitted a strange radiance.

  That structure was the engine, though Fulgrim could not say how it worked. Control nodes and cogitator circuitry studded its length. Sections of it moved independently of the frame, rotating at alternating speeds. The air throbbed around it as it rose, and the glass of the bio-dome flexed and trembled. Fulgrim reached the summit - an open, circular expanse, allowing for the free passage of airships - and picked up speed, running smoothly across the glass facets.

  The airship reached the aperture and began to rise through it.

  Fulgrim could feel the wash of the engine, and its energies played across him like soft lightning. He crouched, took a measured breath, and leapt. The airship rose and Fulgrim’s fingers slammed into the hull. The vessel sagged slightly at the unexpected burden. Exterior weight sensors brayed in alarm.

  Gilt buckled as he tore decorative plating aside with a wrench of his arm, revealing the bare metal beneath. He dug his armoured fingers into the metal, hooking the hull-panel. Feet braced, he began to peel the panel away from the frame. Rivets popped loose and ricocheted from his armour. He hurled the loose panel away and heard it crash through the glass below. The alarms were louder now. Gripping the empty frame one-handed, he drew Fireblade and, in the same motion, swept it up and across the substructure of the hull. The metal parted with a screech. Fulgrim rammed the blade into the gap and levered it open. Pressure hoses snapped, spewing their oily contents as he forced himself into the airship, shouldering aside the ravaged metal with inhuman strength.

  He wondered how it looked to those unlucky enough to witness it - a giant, in alien panoply of amethyst and gold, smashing his way into their tiny vessel, accompanied by blaring alarms, cascading sparks and the howl of escaping air. Some of those in the compartment fled. Others, braver or simply suicidal, went for their weapons.

  Targeting overlays whirred automatically, locking onto the nearest of the men. Fireblade hummed, neatly severing a hand at the wrist. The force of the blow sent the wounded man sprawling. Fulgrim turned, graceful and unhurried. His sword pinned a second man to a support strut, caving in his chest and turning his heart to slurry. Fulgrim left Fireblade there, trailing his fingers across the hilt.

  ‘You may surrender now,’ he said, arms crossed. There were three remaining. One had soiled himself. Two were reloading. He required at least one prisoner to make the exertion worthwhile. While they made up their minds, he took in the compartment at a glance. Sparking equipment, ruined by his sudden entrance. The shuddering of the deck beneath his feet hinted at its purpose - the controls for the etheric engine. And a single door, beyond which metal stairs ascended. Smoke thickened the air, rising from the broken machinery. The men stared at him, their eyes watering from the fumes.

  They wore the uniform of the gubernatorial army. Junior officers, by the pips and braiding. Had someone suborned the army? Or only its lower echelons? Fulgrim dismissed the thought. Answers would come later.

  The airship shuddered convulsively. He could hear a high, thin whine echoing down from somewhere above. The engines were failing. The ship was going to crash, and they hadn’t cleared the palace yet. The pilot’s compartment would be somewhere above.

  ‘Time’s up,’ he said. He caught hold of Fireblade’s hilt and wrenched it free, allowing the body to slump to the deck. One of the officers went for his weapon, eyes wide. Fulgrim let Fireblade drift out, removing the man’s head. A slug spanged off of the side of his helmet and he pivoted, bisecting the shooter with a single, sweeping blow. The third man ran.

  Fulgrim followed.

  The airship was in its death-throes. The vessel was more fragile than he’d assumed. The upper deck was enclosed in a glass canopy and composed of two levels. The etheric engine extended from the highest. A rounded pilot’s dais occupied the lower. The pilot’s throne was occupied by a thin, panicked man, clad in a sweat-stained uniform, who fought futilely with the ship’s control wheel. He caught sight of Fulgrim rising from the lower deck and screamed.

  Carbines barked in response. Fulgrim ignored them and strode towards the dais. His armour’s sensors pinpointed five men, including the one he’d pursued up the stairs. He yanked the pilot from his throne. The man smelled of panic. He clawed for the pistol on his hip, and Fulgrim flung him aside, hard enough to break bones. He scanned the control wheel, grasping its function instantly. He caught hold of it and spun it precisely, calculating the angle of descent needed to avoid smashing into the edge of the bio-dome The airship groaned in response as it began to tilt. It was already losing altitude. Whatever damage he’d done was taking its toll.

  ‘I estimate only a few moments before we land, in one piece or otherwise.’ Fulgrim turned, scanning the faces of the men on deck, even as they continued to fire at him. Above them, the etheric engine was rattling ominously in its support frame. ‘Surrender, and I’ll spare your lives.’

  They didn’t. Fulgrim slid across the deck as it pitched, Fireblade singing out. His opponents had nowhere to go, and no hope of success. But they fought regardless, with the grim fanaticism of the doomed. In moments, only one remained.

  Fulgrim advanced on him. The survivor backed away, pistol extended, arm trembling. Fulgrim lowered Fireblade. ‘You’ll be glad to hear that, by process of elimination, I have decided to spare you. Drop your weapon.’

  The man’s pale features tightened. He pressed the muzzle of his pistol to his head. ‘Sabazius lives.’ His finger twitched, quicker even than Fulgrim could reach him, and the pistol bucked. Fulgrim watched the body topple to the deck, and frowned.

  ‘Well. That was disappointing.’

  Five

  the suplicants

  Fulgrim stood atop a high balcony on the gubernatorial palace, letting himself sink into the ebb and flow of Nova-Basilos. Hands clasped behind his back, he listened to the noise rising from the tangled network of streets far below. The din was somewhat muffled by the omnipresent clouds of pollution which clustered about the lower levels of the palace.

  Fulgrim’s sensitive hearing could pick out the discordant sounds of industry - the cause of most of the pollution, he judged - and the crackling hum of the etherdomes that defended the palace from aerial assault. Last night’s little escapade had proved that to be more theory than fact. He’d managed to guide the damaged vessel back to earth, but had otherwise failed to discover what its passengers had hoped to achieve - whether escape or some other, less obvious purpose.

  He glanced upwards. Airships of intricate design, many marked with governmental insignia, drifted overhead, held aloft by their primitive etheric engines. They were larger than the craft he’d pursued, carrying troops to far-flung outposts, or bringing in territorial tithes. Some were merchant vessels,
owned by one of the families that made up the patricians, while others were baroquely decorated private craft.

  The palace occupied the heart of the city, sprawling in lackadaisical fashion. The remainder of Nova-Basilos was divided into districts of varying sizes. In the distance, occupying the horizon, he could make out a black line of massive defensive emplacements. The city had expanded past its original palisades, and then past the walls built to replace those. Now the emplacements marked its outermost districts.

  Fulgrim studied the far-off guns, noting their size and crudity of manufacture. Pneumatic bombards and electric hypervelocity guns of the sort not seen on Terra since Old Night. There was even a battery of antique radium cannons, akin to those that lined the walls of the oldest holdfasts on Mars. The Mechanicum representatives he’d allowed to accompany him had already written extensive reports on the pseudo-archaic nature of the weaponry on display, as well as their effects on the surrounding landscape. Especially the area known as the Glass Waste, along the southern edge of Chalkedon.

  He studied the strange aurora that rippled across the southern horizon - a permanent atmospheric disturbance. The aurora marked the tomb of the southern continental government. Once-fertile hills and plains scoured black by atomic fire, their inhabitants burnt to cinders, or reduced to barbaric tribalism in the ruins of their civilisation.

  ‘Wine?’ the governor said from behind him. His voice was reedy with age and illness. Fulgrim turned. He could still smell the cancer in the human, gnawing away at his vitality. He wondered if he ought to have Fabius look into it. It would be embarrassing if Pandion were to die before the compliance ceremonies.

  The primarch accepted a delicately shaped glass, adequately filled with wine. He sniffed it politely, parsing the mild bouquet, before taking a sip. He grimaced at the unexpected bitterness.

  ‘Indelicate, isn’t it?’ Pandion gave a thin smile. ‘It always catches me by surprise. Has to do with radiation, I’m told. The vineyards of southern Chalkedon are on the edge of the Glass Waste. The grapes that grow there are ripe and plump to the eye, but there’s a bitterness to them that only comes out when they’re pressed. I quite like it, myself, but I admit that it might be something of an acquired taste.’

  Fulgrim set the glass aside. ‘It is good to have new experiences, if only to find out which ones weren’t worth having in the first place.’

  Pandion laughed. It was a harsh sound, part cough, part croak. ‘What do you think of the Queen of Cities so far?’ he asked. ‘Have you ever seen its like before?’

  ‘It is… quite impressive,’ Fulgrim said politely. Nova-Basilos was pretty, in a provincial sort of way, though its beauty was nothing compared to Phoenicia. The capital of Chemos had withstood many of the ravages that afflicted the rest of the world, and under Fulgrim’s guidance, it had ascended to heights undreamt of by its citizens.

  Pandion’s lips quirked. ‘Once, I might’ve been insulted by such a response. But I know well enough that, for all our glory, we are but a backwater province of a far greater kingdom. And you are its prince.’

  ‘One of them, at least.’ Fulgrim smiled, pleased by the compliment. ‘And Byzas is impressive, as far as backwaters go.’

  Pandion chuckled. ‘So we are taught.’ He joined Fulgrim at the balcony rail and looked down at his city. He took a long swallow. ‘We are taught many things.’ He turned, studying the strange lights that flickered above the Glass Waste. ‘It’s almost pretty, isn’t it?’ he said, somewhat wistfully. He gulped at his wine. ‘You saved my life last night.’

  Fulgrim smiled. ‘It was my pleasure, and my duty, Hereditary Governor.’

  ‘But more one than the other, I suspect.’

  Fulgrim said nothing. Pandion grunted. ‘It isn’t the first time, obviously. He squinted. ‘I don’t remember the first time. I was a child, I think. Too young to understand why someone would want me dead.’

  ‘And now?’

  Pandion’s smile was cold and hard. ‘I know all too well.’ He sighed. ‘I am at once a symbol of decadence and an obstacle to pleasure.’ He raised his glass, as if toasting the city. ‘I am the cause of, and solution to, every problem afflicting this broken world.’ He emptied his cup with an ease borne of too much experience. Fulgrim thought it was a wonder Pandion wasn’t pickled, if he drank like that all of the time. The governor glanced at him.

  ‘You’re curious, aren’t you? Hard to tell with that face of yours and that voice, but you wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ Pandion refilled his glass.

  ‘Yes,’ Fulgrim said. There was no point in hiding it. ‘Few worlds so readily agree to compliance It was almost unseemly.’

  Pandion laughed. ‘Well, I’m desperate.’

  Fulgrim raised an eyebrow. You admit it easily enough.’ Pandion shrugged. ‘I’m too old and too sick to play games. My world is dying a death of a thousand cuts. Little by little we lose what we were. Soon, we’ll be no different from the irradiated barbarians roaming the Glass Waste.’ He frowned and drained his glass. ‘You should see them… Broken, pathetic things, riddled with tumours and waning over oases of tainted water. I won’t have that as my legacy.’

  ‘And you won’t’ Fulgrim said. ‘Once you’ve formally agreed to compliance this world will become the responsibility of the Imperium. In time it will become a jewel in the firmament.’

  ‘And more besides, eh?’ Pandion peered at him. ‘They tell me your man, the one with that… device attached to him, has been taking genetic samples from the children of the patricians. I am getting complaints. They are worried. They are wondering what he’s looking for.’ Pandion refilled his glass again.

  ‘He is testing them for genetic compatibility.’

  Pandion paused. ‘Why?’

  ‘My warriors are of noble stock, Hereditary Governor. And those stocks must be replenished. Part of compliance is the blood-tithe - firstborn sons, preferably. Though we will accept any who are compatible.’

  Pandion paled. ‘You mean hand over my - our - children?’

  ‘I was under the impression that you had been appraised of the blood-tithe,’ Fulgrim said softly. ‘It is a high honour, I assure you.’

  ‘I thought - I assumed they would be hostages. Not…’ He trailed off, unwilling to meet Fulgrim’s unyielding gaze ‘An honour,’ he finished flatly.

  ‘The highest.’ Fulgrim stepped back, hands spread. He was aware of the impact he made in his gilded panoply. He had come armoured for just that reason. Pandion must have no second thoughts. ‘They will be as my own sons, raised high in the esteem of the Emperor, and bearing his crest.’ He touched the aquila on his armour. ‘They will see wonders and glories you cannot conceive of.’

  ‘War, you mean.’ Pandion sighed. ‘We have seen much war here. Too much.’ He looked up. ‘The patricians are already on the verge of revolt. Half of them see me as weak, the other half see me as a tyrant. They’re all spoiling for a war. That foolishness last night was but a taste of what is to come. And your arrival is the excuse they’ve all been looking for to embolden their followers.’

  Fulgrim ignored the accusation. ‘Who is Sabazius?’

  Pandion grunted. ‘No one.’

  ‘Is he dead, then?’

  ‘He was never alive. He’s a folk tale. A story fools tell themselves when the world frightens them. A myth of progress.’

  ‘An odd turn of phrase,’ Fulgrim said.

  ‘Accurate.’ Pandion took a sloppy swallow. Wine dripped down his chin. ‘Byzas does not progress, Lord Fulgrim. It regresses. We retreat from the future, back into tradition. It’s just that no one can agree on what those traditions should be.’ He laughed.

  ‘That will change, soon enough.’

  ‘I’m counting on it. I will bend knee to your Emperor, if he can keep me on my throne.’ Pandion smiled. ‘I’m too old to take up another career, don’t you think? And my children, and their children, will make fine figureheads. They’re a pliant bunch. I made sure of it’ He wiped his mouth with the back
of his trembling hand. ‘And the patricians want stability more than anything else.’

  ‘Are you certain? They seem to be behind most, if not all, of your present difficulties.’

  Pandion gestured dismissively. ‘Some of them. Younger sons and penniless clans. Scrapers and scroungers, grabbing for any chance at advancement They’ll fall into line, or they’ll be destroyed.’ He looked up. ‘You did bring an army, didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  Pandion choked on his wine. ‘What?’

  Fulgrim chuckled. ‘There are forces in orbit, should the worst happen. But I intend to accomplish my task with a minimum of effort. The measure of a warrior is in the quality of his victory.’

  ‘Quality? Are you insane?’

  Fulgrim paused, and gave the governor a long, measured look. Pandion paled and stepped back. ‘I meant no disrespect,’ he said more quietly.

  ‘Of course you did. Respect must be earned, and I’ve done precious little to do so.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ Pandion protested,

  ‘Something any one of your guards could have done.’ Fulgrim waved his further protests aside. ‘No. You are correct. It does seem mad. But you said it yourself - Byzas is a much smaller part of a larger game. And the stakes I play for are greater than you can imagine. Primary Iterator Pyke mentioned that the compliance ceremonies will take place a month from now?’

  Pandion nodded. ‘On the anniversary of the continental government’s founding.’

  ‘Then in one month, this planet will be at peace.’