THE HORUS HERESY
Graham McNeill
FULGRIM
Visions of Treachery
v1.2 (2011.11)
The Horus Heresy
It is a time of legend.
Mighty heroes battle for the right to rule the galaxy. The vast armies of the Emperor of Earth have conquered the galaxy in a Great Crusade – the myriad alien races have been smashed by the Emperor’s elite warriors and wiped from the face of history.
The dawn of a new age of supremacy for humanity beckons.
Gleaming citadels of marble and gold celebrate the many victories of the Emperor. Triumphs are raised on a million worlds to record the epic deeds of his most powerful and deadly warriors.
First and foremost amongst these are the primarchs, superheroic beings who have led the Emperor’s armies of Space Marines in victory after victory. They are unstoppable and magnificent, the pinnacle of the Emperor’s genetic experimentation. The Space Marines are the mightiest human warriors the galaxy has ever known, each capable of besting a hundred normal men or more in combat.
Organised into vast armies of tens of thousands called Legions, the Space Marines and their primarch leaders conquer the galaxy in the name of the Emperor.
Chief amongst the primarchs is Horus, called the Glorious, the Brightest Star, favourite of the Emperor, and like a son unto him. He is the Warmaster, the commander-in-chief of the Emperor’s military might, subjugator of a thousand thousand worlds and conqueror of the galaxy. He is a warrior without peer, a diplomat supreme.
As the flames of war spread through the Imperium, mankind’s champions will all be put to the ultimate test.
CONTENTS
FULGRIM
The Horus Heresy
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
PART ONE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
PART TWO
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
PART THREE
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
PART FOUR
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
PART FIVE
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
The Emperor’s Children
FULGRIM, Primarch
EIDOLON, Lord Commander
VESPASIAN, Lord Commander
JULIUS KAESORON, Captain, 1st Company
SOLOMON DEMETER, Captain, 2nd Company
MARIUS VAIROSEAN, Captain, 3rd Company
SAUL TARVITZ, Captain, 10th Company
LUCIUS, Captain, 13th Company
CHARMOSIAN, Chaplain, 18th Company
GAIUS CAPHEN, Second in command to Solomon Demeter
LYCAON, Equerry to Julius Kaesoron
FABIUS, Apothecary
The Iron Hands
FERRUS MANUS, Primarch
GABRIEL SANTOR, Captain, First Company
CAPTAI BALHAAN, Captain of the Ferrum
The Primarchs
HORUS, Primarch of the Sons of Horus, the Warmaster
VULKAN, Primarch of the Salamanders
CORAX, Primarch of the Raven Guard
ANGRON, Primarch of the World Eaters
MORTARION, Primarch of the Death Guard
Other Space Marines
EREBUS, First Chaplain of the Word Bearers
Imperial Army
THADDEUS FAYLE, Lord Commander
Non-Astartes
SERENA D’ANGELUS, Artist and imagist
BEQUA KYNSKA, Composer and harmonist
OSTIAN DELAFOUR, Sculptor
CORALINE ASENECA, Theatrical performer
LEOPOLD CADMUS, Poet
ORMOND BRAXTON, Emissary of the Administration of Terra
EVANDER TOBIAS, Archivist of The Pride of the Emperor
Xenos
ELDRAD ULTHRAN, Farseer of Ulthwé
KHIRAEN GOLDHELM, Wraithlord of Ulthwé
PART ONE
THE PERFECT WARRIOR
‘That which causes us trials shall yield us triumph, and that which makes our hearts ache shall fill us with gladness. For the only true happiness is to learn, to advance and to improve. None of this could happen without rejecting error, ignorance and imperfection. We must pass out of the darkness to reach the light!
— The Primarch Fulgrim, Attainment of Perfection
‘Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.’
— Ostian Delafour, Man of Stone
‘The only true paradises are those that are lost to us…’
— Pandoras Zheng, Philosopher Designate to the Autarch of the 9th Yndonesic Bloc
ONE
Recital
See it Through
Laeran
‘THE DANGER FOR most of us,’ Ostian Delafour would say on those rare occasions when he was coaxed to speak of his gift, ‘is not that our aim is too high and we miss it, but that it is too low and we hit it.’ He would then smile modestly and attempt to recede into the background of whatever conversation was underway feeling exposed under the spotlight of adulation, and uncomfortable with the attention.
Only here in his chaotic studio, surrounded by scattered piles of chisels, hammers and rasps, chipping away at the marble with deft strokes to create wonders, did he feel comfortable. He stepped away from the block of stone that stood in the centre of his studio and ran a hand across his high forehead and through his short, tightly curled, black hair as he took in the measure of this latest session.
The marble column was a gleaming white rectangle, some four metres tall, its surfaces as yet unblemished by chisel or rasp. Ostian circled the marble, running his silver hands across its smooth surface, feeling the structure within and picturing where he would make the first cut into the stone. Servitors had brought the block up from the Pride of the Emperor’s loading bays a week ago, but he had yet to complete his visualisation of how he would bring forth his masterpiece from the block.
The marble had come to the Emperor’s Children’s flagship from the quarries at Proconnesus on the Anatolian peninsula, where much of the stonework that comprised the Emperor’s palace had been sourced. The block had been hand quarried from Mount Ararat, a rugged and inaccessible peak, but one known to contain rich deposits of pure white marble. Its value was incalculable and only the influence of the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children had secured its shipping out to the 28th Expedition.
He knew others called him a genius, but Ostian knew that his hands were but the means of freeing what already lived within the marble. His skill (modesty forbade him from calling his talent genius) lay in seeing what the finished product would be before he laid so much as the first subbia upon the stone. The marble not yet carved could hold the form of every thought the artist could conceive.
Ostian Delafour was a slight man with a thin, earnest face and narrow, long fingered hands sheathed in silver metal that gleamed like mercury and which constantly fidgeted with whatever came to hand, as though the digits had a life beyond that dictated to them by their master. He wore a long white smock over a finely cut suit of black silk and cream shirt, the formal nature of his clothes at odds with the untidy workshop in which he spent most of his time.
‘Now I’m ready,’ he whispered.
‘I should hope so,’ said a woman’s voice behind him. ‘Bequa will have a conniption if we’re late for her recital, you know how she gets.’
Ostian smiled and said, ‘No, Serena, I meant I’m ready to begin sculpting.’
He turned and undid the ties holding his smock, lifting it over his head as Serena d’Angelus swept into his studio like one of the terrible matriarchs played so well by Coraline Aseneca. She tutted in distaste at the scattered tools, ladders and scaffolds. Ostian knew that her own studio was as neat and immaculate as his was disordered; the paints stacked neatly by colour and tone to one side, and her brushes and palette knives, as spotless and sharp as the day she had first acquired them, on the other.
Short and with the kind of attractiveness that completely eluded her as to why men found her desirable, Serena d’Angelus was perhaps the greatest painter of the Remembrancer order. Others favoured the landscapes of Kelan Roget, who travelled with the 12th Expedition of Roboute Guilliman, but Ostian felt that Serena’s skill was the greater.
Even if she doesn’t think so, he thought, stealing a glance at the long sleeves of her dress.
For Bequa Kynska’s recital, Serena had chosen a long, formal gown of cerulean silk with an unfeasibly tight gold basque that accentuated the swell of her breasts. As always, she wore her hair unbound, the long, raven-dark tresses reaching to her waist and framing her long, oval face and dark almond-shaped eyes perfectly.
‘You look beautiful, Serena,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Ostian,’ said Serena, standing before him and fussing with his collar. ‘You, however, look as though you’ve just woken up in that suit.’
‘It’s fine,’ protested Ostian as she undid his necktie and painstakingly retied it.
‘Fine, darling, is not good enough,’ said Serena, ‘as well you know. Bequa will want to preen once this damn recital is over and I won’t have her saying we artists embarrassed her by looking shabby and bohemian.’
Ostian grinned. ‘Yes, she does have rather a dim view of the practical arts.’
‘It comes of a pampered upbringing in the hives of Europa,’ said Serena. ‘And did I hear you say that you were ready to begin sculpting?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Ostian, ‘I am. I can see what’s inside now. I only have to set it free.’
‘Well I’m sure Lord Fulgrim will be glad to hear that,’ said Serena. ‘I hear he had to ask the Emperor personally to have that stone shipped all the way from Terra.’
‘Oh, well no pressure then…’ said Ostian as Serena turned away from him, satisfied that he was as presentable as he was going to get.
‘You’ll be fine, darling. You and your hands will soon have that marble singing.’
‘And your work?’ asked Ostian. ‘How are you getting on with the portrait?’
Serena sighed. ‘It’s getting there, but with the pace Lord Fulgrim is setting for the fighting, it’s a rare day I get him to sit for me.’
Ostian watched as Serena unconsciously scratched at her arms as she continued, ‘Every day it sits unfinished I see more and more I hate about it. I think I may start again.’
‘No,’ said Ostian, prising her hands away from her arms. ‘You’re exaggerating. It’s fine, and once the Laer are defeated, I’m sure Lord Fulgrim will sit for you as much as you need him to.’
She smiled, but Ostian could see the lie behind it. He wished he knew how to lift her from the melancholy that weighed upon her soul, and undo the harm she was doing to herself.
Instead, he said, ‘Come on. We shouldn’t keep Bequa waiting.’
OSTIAN HAD TO admit that Bequa Kynska, former child prodigy of the Europa hives was now a beautiful woman. Her wild blue hair was the colour of the sky on a clear day, and her features were sculpted by good breeding and discreet surgery though she wore an overabundance of facial cosmetics that, to Ostian’s mind, only detracted from her natural beauty. Just beneath her hair, he could make out aural enhancers and a number of fine wires trailing from her scalp.
Bequa had been educated at the finest academies of Terra and trained at the newly established Conservatoire de Musique – though, in truth, the time she had spent at the latter institution had largely been wasted, as there had been little the tutors there could teach her that she did not already know. People the length and breadth of the galaxy listened to her operas and harmonious ensembles, and her skill in creating music that could lift the soul and raise the rafters with its energy was second to none.
Ostian had met Bequa twice before aboard the Pride of the Emperor, and each time had been repulsed by her monstrous ego and intolerably high opinion of herself. But, for some unknown reason, Bequa Kynska seemed to adore him.
Dressed in a layered gown the colour of her hair, Bequa sat alone on a raised stage at the far end of the recital hall, head down and perched before a multi-symphonic harpsichord linked to a number of sonic projectors spaced at regular intervals around the hall.
The recital hall itself was a wide chamber of dark wood panelling and porphyry columns illuminated by subdued lumen globes bobbing on floating gravitic generators. Stained glass windows depicting purple-armoured Astartes of the Emperor’s Children ran the length of one wall and a row of marble busts said to have been carved by the primarch himself lined the other.
Ostian made a mental note to examine them later.
Perhaps a thousand people filled the hall, some clad in the beige robes of remembrancers, others in the sober black robes of Terran adepts. Others still wore classically fashioned brocaded jackets, striped trousers and high, black boots that marked them as Imperial nobility, many of whom had joined the 28th Expedition specifically to hear Bequa play.
Amongst the crowd were soldiers of the Imperial Army: senior officers bearing feathered helmets, cavalry lancers in golden breastplates, and discipline masters in red greatcoats. A profusion of different coloured uniforms circulated through the recital hall, the click of sabres and spurs loud on the polished wooden floor.
Surprised at the sheer number of uniforms he saw, Ostian said, ‘How can all these army officers afford the time to attend events like this? Aren’t we at war with an alien species?’
‘There’s always time for art, my dear Ostian,’ said Serena, procuring two crystal flutes of sparkling wine from one of the liveried pages that passed quietly to and fro among the crowd. ‘War may be a harsh mistress, but she’s got nothing on Bequa Kynska.’
‘I don’t see why I have to be here,’ said Ostian, sipping the wine and enjoying the refreshing crispness of the beverage.
‘Because she has invited you, and one does not refuse such an invite.’
‘But I don’t even like her,’ protested Ostian. ‘Why would she bother to invite me?’
‘Because she likes you, you silly goose,’ said Serena, nudging him playfully in the ribs with her elbow, ‘if you know what I mean.’
Ostian sighed. ‘I can’t imagine why, I’ve barely spoken to the woman. Not that she let me get a word in edgeways anyway.’
‘Trust me,’ said Serena, placing a delicate hand on his arm, ‘you want to be here.’
‘Really? Enlighten me as to why.’
‘You haven’t heard Bequa play have you?’ asked Serena with a smile.
‘I’ve heard her phonocasts.’
‘My boy,’ said Serena, theatrically pretending to swoon, ‘if one has not heard Bequa Kynska with one’s own ears, one has heard nothing! You will need lots of handkerchiefs, for you will cry a great deal! Or failing that, take a sedative because you will be exalted to the point of delirium!’
‘Fine,’ said Ostian, already wishing he was back in his studio with the marble, ‘I’ll stay.’
‘Trust me,’ chuckled Serena, ‘it will be worth your while.’
Eventually the hubbub of conversation in the hall began to subside. Serena took hold of his arm and placed a finger to her lips. He looked for the source of the gathering silence then saw that a vast figure in white robes with long flowing blond hair had entered the recital hall.
‘Astartes…’ breathed Ostian. ‘I had no idea they were so huge.’
‘That is First Ca
ptain Julius Kaesoron,’ said Serena, and Ostian caught the smug tone to her voice.
‘You know him?’
‘He has asked me to create a likeness of him, yes,’ beamed Serena. ‘It transpires that he’s quite the patron of the arts. Pleasant fellow and he has promised to keep me informed of opportunities that might arise.’
‘Opportunities?’ asked Ostian. ‘What kind of opportunities?’
Serena did not reply and an expectant hush fell upon the privileged assembly as the lumen globes dimmed yet further. Ostian looked towards the stage as Bequa moved her hands across the keyboard of the harpsichord. A sudden, energetic and romantic feeling overcame him as the sonic projectors precisely magnified the intensity of her overture.
Then the performance began, and Ostian found his dislike of Bequa swept away as he heard the sound of a storm take shape in the music. At first he heard raindrops, then the symphonic wind picked up and suddenly there was a downpour. He heard torrents of rain, lashing wind and the throb of thunder. He looked up, half expecting to see dark clouds.
Trombones, a shrill piccolo and thundering timpani swelled and danced in the air as the music grew bolder, transforming into a passionate symphony that told its epic story in the tones and moods created, though Ostian would later remember nothing of its substance.
Vocal soloists combined with an orchestra, though he could see no trace of either, the soaring music yearning for peace, joy, and the brotherhood of Man.
Ostian felt tears pouring down his face as his soul was given flight, then plunged into despair, before rising towards a majestic, exultant climax by the power of the music.
He looked over at Serena, and seeing that she was similarly moved, wanted to pull her close and share in the joyous expression of his feeling. Ostian looked back to the stage where Bequa swayed like a madwoman, her sapphire blue hair whipping around her face as she played, her hands moving like dervishes across the keyboard.
Movement drew Ostian’s eyes to the front of the enraptured audience, where he saw a nobleman in a silver breastplate and high collared jacket of navy blue lean over to his consort and whisper something in her ear.
Instantly, the music ceased and Ostian cried out as the beautiful concerto came to a crashing halt. Its absence left an aching emptiness in his heart and he felt an unreasoning hatred towards this boorish noble who had caused its premature end.
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