Pandion gave her a crooked smile. ‘Very well. And what of Lord Fulgrim and his warriors?’
Pyke gestured to Cyrius. ‘Cyrius will remain here to entertain us, won’t you, Cyrius?’ The Space Marine nodded. Pandion eyed him for a moment, and then turned back to Pyke as she continued. ‘Fulgrim has ordered Flavius Alkenex and Narvo Quin - both experienced line troops - to aid Frazer in seeing to the city’s defence. Abdemon and the others will be deployed as the situation warrants.’
‘And that means what, exactly?’ Pandion asked, before gulping a long swallow of wine. Pyke raised her glass and knocked back the contents in one swallow.
She smiled.
Abdemon moved, almost gently. His sword hummed out in a wide arc. Red sprayed across the wall of the North Barracks. A headless body toppled. The rest of the renegade officers opened up, pistols snarling a threnody of protest.
There were ten - well, nine, now - of them, meeting in secret.
All junior officers, all with strong family ties to various members of the patricians. All with their own men, loyal to them. Enough to cause a problem, in the event the city came under attack. Which it almost certainly would and which meant that they needed to be removed from the equation.
The meeting hall was a wide, square space, decorated with trophies of past glories. Tattered banners over a century old hung from the ceiling rafters, and bits of armour, pockmarked by bullet holes, were displayed on the walls. North Barracks was home to the 23rd Keelson Lancers - a storied regiment, with a history of dynamic cavalry charges and influential alumni. They’d fought raiders in the western provinces, and mutants in the Glass Waste. But they’d never fought anything like a warrior of the Third Legion.
His sword swept out, removing a hand at the wrist. The wounded man sagged back, screaming. The others scrambled back, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the nightmare in amethyst and gold before them.
The fear on their faces was familiar. He’d seen it before, too many times. The slow, sick terror of one who realises that despite all of their skills, their courage, nothing they did would bring victory. When faced with the transhuman, the merely human could only flee, or die. He let the sword rise, following its weight. Another scream, cut short. Another weapon, silenced. Another life, subtracted. Battlefield mathematics.
Outside the barracks, Abdemon could hear the boom of bolter fire, as Alkenex and Quin saw to anyone attempting to interfere. There would be no mercy there. Alkenex would kill them too quickly, and Quin didn’t understand the meaning of the word. The entire North Barracks would be purged, if necessary, though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
This was to be a lesson for those garrisoned in the city, and an example to those returning from abroad even now. One swift blow, to show the rest of the army what was expected of them, and what they could expect in turn, if they betrayed their oaths. Even now, Fulgrim was making a similar assault on South Barracks, with Telmar and Thorn. By nightfall, the continental army would be firmly under their control.
The lord commander turned, twitching blood from the blade of his sword. Impacts were registered by his armour’s sensors, recorded and summarily dismissed. ‘In the name of Hereditary Governor Pandion IV of the Continental Government of Chalkedon-el-Byzas, I request that you lower your weapons and stand down.’
They didn’t. And a few moments later, they died. One by one, until the last could only back away from the blood-stained figure looming over him, emptying the pistol extended in a shaking hand. ‘Sabazius lives,’ he snarled, as he brought the smoking gun to his temple It clicked dolorously. His eyes widened.
‘You should keep a better count,’ Abdemon said, lifting his sword. Flattened bullets crunched beneath his tread. ‘Fire discipline isn’t just for rankers, you know.’
‘What are you?’ the officer whispered. “What are you?’
‘The future,’ Abdemon said, as he drove his sword home. He looked down at the body. A brave man, until the end. They were always brave.
How many brave men were going to die tonight? A hundred? Two hundred?
He trusted Fulgrim’s judgement. The plan was sound. They had chewed over the details until Abdemon could recite every one of them by heart. A perfect stratagem, given the situation. A death of a dozen cuts, each one perfectly executed and flawlessly timed.
But perfection could only be judged in hindsight.
Abdemon sighed and turned towards the shattered doors. He needed to stop Alkenex and Quin before they depopulated the entire barracks. There were few enough soldiers in Nova-Basilos as it was, and they were going to need every one of them.
* * *
Night found Fulgrim in the chambers of the palace set aside for his use, pondering the course he’d laid out. To say Pandion had been displeased was an understatement. The Hereditary Governor hadn’t pressed the issue, likely grateful that his family was safe. But he was frightened. It would be for the best if he were confined to his quarters, until it was time for him to leave. They couldn’t afford to have Pandion issuing contradictory orders.
The reflected glow of distant fires flickered across the windows of his chamber. He could hear the sounds of a city eating itself alive. Nova-Basilos was in the throes of a purge such as it had not seen in a century. Political agitators had whipped the crowds into a frenzy, forcing the local arbiters to seek aid from the continental army, which was in the midst of its own purge. Inconvenient, but not unexpected. Pyke had assured him that it would be over by morning - her deadly popinjays were out there, weeding out the loudest of the troublemakers. There would be blood on the cobbles and bodies in the gutter come sunrise. There was something to be said for having a cadre of murderers at one’s disposal.
Horus would approve, he suspected. Ferrus, not so much. Fulgrim smiled. Ferrus wouldn’t approve of much of what he was doing. Too risky, too intricate. His brother only liked intricacy in machines. He didn’t understand that the galaxy itself was a machine, and they, its caretakers. Fulgrim thought perhaps that he was the only one who did.
Byzas was a machine on the cusp of breakdown. It would take a bit of effort to keep it running. But a bit more to make it run perfectly.
His visit to Bucepholos and the reports on the other members of the patricians had convinced him that the only way forward was to simplify things. Remove the obstructions to allow the mechanism to function smoothly. That meant uprooting the nobility and dealing with whatever - whoever - was causing the disruptions. It would require a certain level of ruthlessness, but he had never shied away from the more unpleasant responsibilities of his position.
Indeed, he sometimes looked forward to them.
He fell into a loose guard stance, adapted from the Dardi of Old Europa, and let the weight of his raised blade settle along his forearms and shoulders. His panoply hung from a training mannequin, scavenged from the training field of East Barracks, after his visit. His muscles felt tight from lack of use. He rotated his shoulders, letting Fireblade fall like a reaper’s scythe, down, up and around, until he was once more in the guard stance. The rhythm came easily. Right foot forward, right side to the enemy. Sword held to the left. An imperfect guard, as it only allowed for defence.
His gaze fell upon a set of open books lying on a nearby bench. They were old, bindings cracking with neglect, pages yellow and stiff. The training manuals of the Sabazian Brotherhood. Or some of them, at least.
Once Corynth had put him on the right track, it had been easy to find the information he sought. The continental government wasn’t in the habit of throwing anything away, and there had been a wealth of material to explore.
Reading those accounts, there was much to be admired in their writings. Like his Legion, they sought to attain a perfect state of grace. But that search had led them into conflict with the continental government. And then, into exile and oblivion.
Their teachings were a mishmash of simplistic philosophical meanderings, interspersed with duelling techniques. The conflic
t between desire and purpose, between need and want, was a central principle, supposedly handed down by Sabazius. Life as a duel, fought between conflicting drives. Only by winning this duel could one attempt to achieve perfection in technique, and in life. Perfection was a state of balance, and the perfect society was one built on the concepts of equality and fair representation. A utopian ideal, never to be realised, but always to be striven for.
Fulgrim had little love for philosophy. It had always smacked of semi-poetic chastisement to him. Common sense wrapped in cryptic mysticism. But the duelling techniques were impressively advanced, and he amused himself by experimenting with them. They were easy enough to replicate, but there was nonetheless a certain artistry to them, when taken as a whole, that he found fascinating.
He shook off the Dardi and sought new balance, easily replicating the diagrams in the manuals. It was all smooth movements, crafting a slow pattern of offence or defence. Like a sculptor, shaping clay. A fortress of controlled motion, implacable and unyielding. The rhythm was hypnotic, reducing everything to muscle memory, but allowing for minute changes in response to uneven ground and blood loss. It was no wonder the Sabazians had been feared duellists. He heard the creak of the window hinges, and the sounds of the night momentarily grew louder. He smiled. Right on time.
Fulgrim turned, Fireblade whirling in his grip. A half-stroke, caught short, seared the air, but only for a moment. Then the sword was sliding upwards, reversing its course, but at a steeper angle. His feet slid across the floor, moving quickly. For a moment, he was back on Chemos, and he could hear the jangling music of the Sulpha, as they played and clapped and cheered for him. Step, step, step. A dance of small movements, growing in purpose.
‘Splendid form.’
Fulgrim did not pause. He turned sharply, his blade hissing out at head height. A killing blow, if it landed. The speaker leapt back, startled. Fulgrim laughed. ‘And what are you, then? An assassin with a flair for the dramatic?’
The intruder was clad in black, complete with cloak and a plain, featureless mask. A pantomime villain come to life. The secret societies on Chemos had been much the same. Masks and secret handshakes and childish ciphers. It was something innate in the human soul that exposed itself only in conspiracy.
Fulgrim stepped forward, Fireblade extended, dosing the distance swiftly, until he had the intruder all but pinned to the wall. The tip of his sword tapped against the man’s throat. ‘Not a very good assassin, if so.’
‘I’m not here to kill you.’ The man’s voice was distorted. Perhaps a primitive frequency modulator, built into his mask. It didn’t matter, there were other methods of identification. Fulgrim prided himself on his fluency in body language. His visitor was afraid. That was good. Fear was a helpful ally in negotiations.
‘I am very relieved to hear that.’ Fulgrim cocked his head. ‘I was expecting you earlier. Could it be that other matters occupied your attentions?’ He had ordered Pyke to begin dismanding those intelligence networks in the city that couldn’t be co-opted. The Primary Iterator had flung herself into the task with gusto. The local arbiters had already arrested nearly a hundred men and women, from all walks of life, with suspected ties to one hostile faction or another. Some had likely served the Sabazian Brotherhood. ‘No. Obviously not. What could be more important than me?’
‘You have a high opinion of yourself, Lord-Phoenician.’
Fulgrim laughed. ‘Perhaps.’ He stepped back, resting Fireblade lightly on his shoulder. ‘If you are not here to kill me, you are here to talk. So, talk.’
‘We have been watching you. Since your arrival.’
‘I fancy you are not alone in that.’
‘No. You have been looking for us.’ The man in black gestured to the training manuals. ‘Digging in corners forgotten by most. Why?’
Fulgrim snorted. You have to ask? ‘Sabazius lives.” A phrase tossed off by dead men, or murmured by starving peasants.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it required an outsider to see the strands for what they were, but it was easy enough. Childishly simple, in fact. How many times have you tried to poison me, by the way?’
The intruder hesitated. ‘None. Poison is the tool of the unenlightened.’
‘Ah. Well, that’s something.’ Fulgrim smiled. ‘To answer more simply, yes. As to why, because…’ He gestured lazily. ‘I wish to determine your nature - are you an obstacle to compliance, or something else?’
‘We seek only what is best for Byzas.’
‘Of course you do. I wager Patrician Bucepholos and his ilk would say much the same. Even poor Pandion, so frightened for his future, seeks to do what is best for Byzas.’
‘And you?’
Fulgrim paused. ‘Of course.’
‘Then we should talk.’
Fulgrim looked around. ‘I was under the impression we were.’
‘Not here’
‘Then where?’
‘Tomorrow. Where Sabazius first set foot upon the soil of Byzas.’
Fulgrim frowned. ‘A riddle? Really?’
His guest didn’t reply. He went quickly to the window and slipped out into the night, cloak swirling mysteriously. Fulgrim sighed and glanced at the training manuals.
‘I hate riddles.’
Twelve
the phoenician at anabas
It hadn’t been much of a riddle, in the end.
The answer had been in the manuals, as Fulgrim had expected. Buried amid philosophical musings on the purpose of a blade and the desires of the wielder was the name of a place. From there, it had been a simple matter of consulting the planetary records. Now, a few hours later, he stood atop a crumbled parapet, looking out over the hinterlands of western provinces. The parapet belonged to what had once been a monastery of some sort. Or so the planetary records claimed. Whatever it once had been, it was now a seemingly abandoned stack of stone, piled high in the Anabas Mountains.
‘Breathtaking,’ Fulgrim said, absorbing the view. He could see the far horizon from here, and the gentle sweep of stars scattered across the fading shroud of night. He could see the distant fields and the glimmer of a city’s lights. Another light blinked closer to hand - the Firebird, and Abdemon, awaiting his call, somewhere above. The thought of the gunship reminded him that he hadn’t come all the way out here for distant lights and gentle stars.
The monastery had been constructed on the spot where the mythical Sabazius had first appeared, striking his sword on the ground to draw up the waters that fed the well around which the structure had been raised. An old story and a familiar one. Oddly appropriate, as well. He himself had been named for the water-bringer of Chemos’ creation-myth.
‘One water-bringer to another, Sabazius, I must say that you chose a lovely spot for it,’ he said, glancing up at the cracked and weathered remnants of what had once been a massive statue, occupying the centre of the courtyard. Age and neglect had rubbed away any defining feature or sign of artistry, leaving only a rough pillar, covered in grey moss and dripping with water.
Fulgrim’s voice carried through the ruin, drifting down across the courtyard. He turned, studying the empty space. ‘Impressive as the view is, however, I cannot imagine that it is the sole purpose of my visit.’ He waited, counting the moments. He could smell sweat drying on fabric, and gun oil. There were at least fifteen distinct heartbeats within the range of his hearing, each one pulsing with anticipation, or fear. One was familiar - his visitor from the night before.
He hadn’t bothered to inform anyone other than Abdemon of the incident, or where he was going. He doubted the Brotherhood meant him harm, and even if they did, there was precious little he had to fear on this world, or any other. The Emperor had made his sons strong.
He had not made them patient, however. He sighed loudly. ‘Come, come, I know you’re here. Come out and introduce yourselves. You have gone to all this trouble to get my attention. Well, now you have it.’
‘Welcome to Sabazius-Ut-Anabas, Lord-Phoenician.’ A rustle of doth anno
unced the arrival of the speaker as he slipped out onto the parapet. Not his visitor from the night before, but his heartbeat was familiar, even so. Someone he’d already met. One of the patricians, perhaps. Like the other, this one was draped in black from head to foot, and all signs of his identity were hidden. The only difference between the two was that this one was armed - a sword, appropriately enough. ‘The heart of Byzas, some call it,’ he continued. ‘The place where Sabazius, and many besides, set foot upon this world’s soil for the first time’
‘Yes. I can see how you might believe that.’ Fulgrim made a show of looking around. The courtyard below was an open, circular space, suspiciously empty of debris. The hard-packed soil had the look of having been swept, as if to hide telltale markings. Add to that the obvious repairs recently made to the parapets and roof, and the signs of more subtle modifications on the inner walls, and he was fairly certain that this place was more than it appeared. In fact, it might even make an adequate fortress, if necessary.
He smiled. His panoply’s internal sensors were slowly mapping his immediate surroundings for future review. Whatever this place was, he would know all of its secrets in time He wondered if his hosts - these Sabazians - understood what they were sacrificing by inviting him here. Perhaps they didn’t care. If they were that confident, it was only to his advantage.
‘We are honoured that you have chosen to meet with us, Lord-Phoenician,’ the Sabazian on the parapet continued. ‘We weren’t certain that you’d come.’
‘After all the effort I went to in securing the invitation, I’d be a fool not to.’ Fabius gestured. ‘Though, I do wish the rest of you would come out of hiding.’
The figure on the parapet gestured. Down below, a crowd slipped from the shadows. All the same, clad in identical black. Fulgrim restrained a laugh, and leapt from the parapet. He landed in the courtyard with a thump, causing them to draw back hurriedly. He flung the edge of his cloak back, so that the palatine aquila was visible.
Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 14
