An atomic weapon. And it had been activated.
‘He’s found it! Take him!’
They came at him in a rush, a hundred mortal lives hurling themselves into death. He turned, Fireblade sweeping out in a wide arc, painting the air a vibrant crimson. Gunfire thundered through the chamber as he moved among them, trying to clear himself room to get to the atomic device. If he could reach it, he might stand a chance of disarming it. But a wall of bodies prevented him.
They threw themselves at him from all sides, brave men trying to pull down the monster rampaging among them. Did they know? Did they understand? The worst of it was, he thought that perhaps they did. That they had volunteered for this, to sacrifice themselves just to have a chance at killing him. Did they fear him this much? The answer was stamped on every face. And so, he killed them. One after the next, in pairs and trios, by the dozen. Firebrand grew warm and white spitting raw heat. Fireblade turned red, and grew heavy with gore. Still they came on. Bullets plucked at his panoply, marring the gilt and tearing his cloak to ragged tatters. He pivoted, chopping through a skull, crown to chin. A kick sent a body flying backwards, to crack against a sagging pillar.
The Phoenician danced and men died. And the dance would have continued, uninterrupted, save for the whim of fate. Blood squelched suddenly underfoot, and Fulgrim stumbled, fighting to hold his balance.
He slid to one knee. A sword crashed down against his helm, and he whipped Fireblade out blindly, trying to keep them back, and was rewarded with a scream. Hands caught at him. One man’s strength was nothing to him, but the strength of ten or twenty was something else again. Especially when he had no leverage. Someone pressed a pistol to his chest-plate and emptied the cylinder. A useless attempt, but he felt the force of each shot as it reverberated through his chest. ‘Off me - get off,’ he snarled, infuriated. He forced himself to his feet, casting his attackers aside.
No time. He had no time for this. He spun, hacking, slashing. Trying to break free of the mob. Proximity warnings filled his vision, alerting him to attacks coming from all sides. He fell into an instinctive rhythm, no longer a dancer, but a machine of death. Killing himself a path to his target.
Then, with a suddenness that was startling, the last body thumped to the ground. Fulgrim tore Fireblade free of the crumpled corpse He’d dropped Firebrand somewhere, but he had no time to search for it.
He staggered towards the atomic weapon, tearing off his helmet as he went. The air tasted foul, like a slaughterhouse on the turn. The hum was louder now, audible even to mortal ears, though none were left to hear it.
He dropped to his knees beside the hole, staring at the digital readout ticking away every second. ‘Ferrus, brother, I need your wisdom now,’ he muttered. The mechanism was ancient, and far more complex than any of the ones he’d dismantled in Ferrus’ workshop, under his brother’s watchful gaze. Those hadn’t been humming quite so threateningly either. He tried to remember the secrets his brother had showed him. There was always a trick to it - a wire, a panel. But if he touched the wrong thing, there would be no second chances. Only a moment of regret, and the sure, if passing, knowledge that he’d failed. And that, he could not abide.
The hum increased in volume It was building to a crescendo.
No time, now. He lifted Fireblade in both hands, and closed his eyes. He focused on the hum, trying to pinpoint it. When he thought he had it, he struck.
Fireblade pierced the casing. An electrical surge coursed up through the blade, and his muscles locked spasmodically. He screamed, and as the echoes of his cry faded, he realised that he could no longer hear the hum. Carefully, he pulled Fireblade free. The glow had faded. The mechanism was dead, or at least disarmed.
Fulgrim sagged back on his heels.
His eyes flashed open. A trap. It had been a trap. The open blade, and the hidden. And he’d walked right into it, as they’d known he would. But why risk it? Unless…
He shoved himself to his feet. Pandion.
He had to get back to Nova-Basilos.
Sixteen
the phoenician in judgement
The skies above Nova-Basilos were still thick with smoke. Airships hung watchfully in the air above the city, and their shadows crept across the tangled streets, driving people indoors. The city was quiet now, subdued in the wake of all that had occurred. Continental army units patrolled the districts, alert to any signs of resistance to the new order of things. There had been some fighting in the outer districts, and an early morning explosion had rocked the palace grounds.
‘Is this really necessary?’ Pandion grumbled, as Cyrius hurried them towards the gunship. The third Stormbird waited to take them to the Pride of the Emperor. ‘You have broken them. The field is ours.’ He looked at Pyke. ‘You told me I was to stay here.’ The old man was drunk, or close. He had been drinking steadily for several hours, in celebration of imminent victory, and Pyke had matched him, glass for glass. But unlike the governor, the iterator was steady on her feet, and clear-eyed.
‘And now we are telling you to go,’ Pyke said calmly. Pandion glared at her blearily.
‘You can’t talk to me that way. I’m the governor.’
‘Until all rebel elements have been accounted for, we must ensure your safety,’ Cyrius said, trying not to let his impatience show. He wished to be fighting alongside his primarch. Something more fitting than looking after someone who had more guards than he obviously needed. How was he to prove himself, trotting after a drunken old man?
Cyrius glanced at the quintet of gubernatorial guards walking in tight formation around them. They were disciplined, but on a knife-edge. Cyrius considered reassuring them, then discarded the idea. It could wait. Getting Pyke and the governor off-world was his priority. Fulgrim’s message had been clear enough. Someone had tried to kill the primarch with an atomic weapon. Sabazius-Ut-Anabas had been a trap. And that meant that Pandion might very well be in danger after all. Chancellor Corynth and Lord Commander Frazer would have to hold the city without them.
A shout from behind them caused Cyrius to turn. He saw Chancellor Corynth hurrying towards them, accompanied by a group of courtiers. Among their number were several of the young men who had unsuccessfully challenged him over the past few weeks. He frowned, puzzled.
‘Cyrius,’ Pyke said quietly.
‘I see them,’ Cyrius said. ‘What could Corynth want?’
‘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 comes 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 blad
e.’
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.
Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 19
