Indeed, the longer the expedition spent in the Perdus Region, the greater Solomon’s conviction became that these worlds had not been abandoned but were, in fact awaiting their inhabitants. He had no facts upon which to base this supposition, save a feeling that the worlds they had seen thus far were too perfect, as though they had been deliberately fashioned rather than allowed to develop on a natural path.
He spoke less and less to Julius over the course of their travels through the Perdus Region, the Captain of the First spending much of his time either in the archive chambers or with the primarch. Marius appeared to have earned back his favour in the eyes of Fulgrim, for more and more, it was the warriors of the First and Third who accompanied him to the surface of each newly discovered world.
Saul Tarvitz had become a newfound ally, and Solomon had spent a great deal of time in the training halls with him. The man believed himself to be a line officer through and through, but Solomon could see the seed of greatness within him, even if he could not. Throughout their training sessions, he would encourage him to see his potential and stoke the fires of his ambition. Saul Tarvitz could be a great leader of men, given the chance, but Eidolon was his lord commander, and it was for him to say whether Tarvitz would advance beyond his current station. Solomon had despatched numerous communications to Eidolon on Tarvitz’s behalf, but thus far the lord commander had replied to none of his messages.
After the fourth world had been passed by without an Imperial presence despatched or a planetary governor put in place, Solomon had sought out Lord Commander Vespasian. They had met in the Gallery of Swords, a mighty processional hallway where marble likenesses of long dead heroes of the Legion looked down upon their successors.
The Gallery formed part of the central spine of the Andronius, a strike cruiser that Fulgrim favoured as his second flagship, and was a place where a warrior could find solitude and inspiration from the presence of the dead heroes of his Legion.
Vespasian stood before the graven image of Lord Commander Illios, a warrior who had fought with Fulgrim against rival tribes of Chemos, and who helped in the transformation of their home from a hellish world of death and misery to one of culture and learning.
The two warriors clasped hands, and Solomon said, ‘It is good to see a friendly face.’
Vespasian nodded and said, ‘You’ve been making waves, my friend.’
‘I’ve been honest,’ countered Solomon.
‘Not always the best way these days,’ said Vespasian.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Vespasian, ‘so let us not fence with words, but simply share the truth, eh?’
‘Suits me,’ said Solomon. ‘I never did have much time for fancy words.’
‘Then I will speak plainly and believe that you are a warrior I can trust, for I fear that something terrible has happened to our Legion. It has become decadent and arrogant.’
Solomon nodded and said, ‘I agree. There’s a new superiority come over the Legion. It’s a word I’ve heard from too many throats not to notice. I’ve already heard some of what happened on Murder from Saul Tarvitz, and if what he tells me is even half true, then we are already earning enmity among the other Legions for our high handedness.’
‘Do you have any idea what might have begun this?’
Solomon shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but it was after the Laeran campaign that things changed.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Vespasian, turning and walking along the length of the gallery and passing a grand staircase that led to one of the ship’s apothecarions. ‘I believe that to be the case, though I do not know what could have engendered such a dramatic transformation.’
‘I’ve heard a lot of talk about that temple Lord Fulgrim captured,’ said Solomon. ‘Perhaps there was something inside that affected those who entered, some sickness or weapon that altered their minds. What if the Laer had some unknown power in that temple, some collective corruption in their consciousness that was passed to the Legion?’
‘That sounds farfetched to me, Solomon.’
‘Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but have you seen the renovations Lord Fulgrim has ordered to be carried out in La Fenice?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I never saw the inside of the Laer temple, but from what I’ve heard, it sounds as though La Fenice is being turned into a replica of it.’
‘Why would Lord Fulgrim replicate an alien temple on board the Pride of the Emperor?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Solomon. ‘You are a lord commander, it is your right to speak to Fulgrim.’
‘I will indeed, Solomon, though I still don’t understand what relevance the Laer temple has.’
‘Perhaps that it’s a temple is what’s relevant.’
Vespasian looked sceptical. ‘Are you suggesting that the power of their gods somehow affected our warriors? I won’t suffer any talk of unclean spirits in this place of heroes.’
‘No,’ said Solomon hurriedly, ‘not gods as such, but we know that there are foul things that can pour through the gates of the empyrean from the warp, do we not? Perhaps the temple was a place where such things could more easily pass between worlds. What if the power that filled the Laer came with us when we left?’
The two warriors stared at one another for long seconds before Vespasian said, ‘If you are right then what can we do about it?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Solomon. ‘You should talk to Lord Fulgrim,’
‘I will try to,’ replied Vespasian. ‘What will you do?’ Solomon chuckled and said, ‘Stand firm and act with honour in all things.’
‘That isn’t much of a plan.’
‘It’s all I have,’ said Solomon.
SERENA D’ANGELUS WATCHED with amazement as the work on La Fenice continued with wondrous speed and boundless creativity. Colours leapt off the walls, and music that felt as though it knew her very heart filled the once drab and seedy theatre. Artists of all description had worked on the decor, and the splendour all but took her breath away.
To be surrounded by such an embarrassment of talent made her realise just how much she still had to work on her own paintings, and how worthless her pathetic skills were. The mighty portraits of the Lord Fulgrim and Lucius still sat mockingly unfinished in her studio, both canvases torturing her with their incompleteness. To have beings of such wondrous, unimaginable beauty sitting before her, and yet be unable to blend the precise tones she needed had driven her to fresh heights of self-loathing and mutilation. The flesh of her arms and legs was scarred with cuts from a sharpened palette knife, her blood mixing with her paints to enrich the colours.
But it hadn’t been enough.
Each droplet of blood held its vibrancy for only a short time, and Serena’s mind had filled with dark terrors of what would befall her if she didn’t finish her work or if it was ridiculed for being found wanting or somehow lacking in sensation.
She closed her eyes as she tried to picture the light and colour that had filled the temple on the floating atoll, but the memory flitted beyond her, elusive and forever out of sight. Her blood had enhanced the colours of her paints, and she had turned to ever more esoteric fluids and substances of her own flesh to improve it yet further.
Her tears rendered her whites luminous, her blood, the reds to fire, while her waste gave her shades of deep darkness she had not previously imagined possible. Each colour had awakened new sensations and passions she had, until now, been unaware of. That such things would have repulsed her only a few months previously never entered her head, for her all-consuming passion was in reaching the next high, the next level of sensation, for as each one was experienced it was soon forgotten like an ephemeral dream.
Weeping with frustration, Serena had smashed yet another painting, the crack of timber, the tear of the canvas and the pain of the jarring impact giving her a moment’s pleasure, but even that had faded within seconds.
She had nothing more to give, her flesh was spent and had
exhausted the limit of sensation it could give, but even as the realisation came to her, so too did the solution.
Serena made her way through La Fenice towards the bar area, which, though it was late, was still home to a great many remembrancers without the wit to retire for the night. She recognised a few souls, but avoided them, seeking out one who would be least likely to object to her attentions.
Serena ran a hand through her long hair, unkempt compared to its normal shine, but she had at least brushed it and tied it back in an effort to look halfway presentable. Her eyes scanned the patrons of the bar, smiling as she saw Leopold Cadmus sitting alone in a booth nursing a bottle of dark spirit.
She made her way through the bar towards his table and slid into the booth next to him. He looked up suspiciously, but brightened up as he saw a woman joining him. Serena had worn her most revealing dress and a low pendant that drew the eye to her breasts. Leopold did not disappoint her, his red-rimmed eyes immediately darting to her cleavage.
‘Hello, Leopold,’ she said. ‘My name’s Serena d’Angelus.’
‘I know,’ said Leopold. ‘You’re Delafour’s friend.’
‘That’s right,’ she said brightly ‘but let’s not talk about him. Let’s talk about you.’
‘Me?’ he asked. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve read some of your poetry,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Leopold, suddenly crestfallen. ‘Well, if you’ve come to be a critic, save your breath. I don’t have the energy for another bloody review.’
‘I’m not a critic,’ she said, placing her hand over his. ‘I liked it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
His eyes lit up and his expression changed from that of a mean-spirited drunk to one of pathetic desperation, where suspicion is suddenly ousted at the faint hope of praise.
‘I’d like you to read some to me,’ she said.
He took a drink from the bottle and said, ‘I don’t have any of my books with me, but—’
‘That’s all right,’ interrupted Serena. ‘I have one in my studio.’
‘YOU LIKE TO work in a mess,’ said Leopold, wrinkling his nose at the aroma that filled her studio. ‘How do you find anything?’
He ambled around the edges of her workspace, warily stepping over discarded pots of paint and smashed pieces of timber and canvas. He examined the few pictures that still hung on the wall with a critical eye, though she could tell that the images there meant nothing to him.
‘I imagine all artistic types work in such disarray,’ said Serena. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Me? No,’ replied Leopold, ‘I work in a small cubicle with a data-slate and a stylus that only works half the time. Only the important remembrancers get to work in studios.’
She heard the bitterness in his voice and it thrilled her.
The blood was singing in her skull and she had to fight to control her breathing. She poured a deep red liquid into a pair of glasses from a bottle she had obtained from a sutler on the lower decks of the ship for just this occasion.
‘I suppose I am lucky,’ she said, picking her way through the detritus of her work. ‘Although I know I really should do something about this mess. I hadn’t known I was going to have company tonight, but when I saw you in La Fenice, I knew I just had to talk to you.’
He smiled at the flattery and took the offered glass, looking inquisitively at the viscous liquid within it.
‘I… I hadn’t expected anyone to want to hear my work,’ he said. ‘I was only able to come out to the 28th Expedition when the shuttle carrying the poets selected from the Merican Hive crashed.’
‘Don’t be foolish,’ said Serena, raising her glass. ‘A toast.’
‘What are we drinking to?’
‘To a fortuitous crash,’ smiled Serena. ‘Without which we might never have met.’
Leopold nodded and took a cautious mouthful of his drink, smiling in return as he found the taste to his liking. ‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘It’s called Mama Juana,’ explained Serena. ‘It’s a mix of rum, red wine and honey combined with the soaked bark of the Eurycoma tree.’
‘Exotic,’ said Leopold.
‘They say it’s a powerful aphrodisiac,’ she purred, draining her glass in one long swallow and hurling it across the room. He jumped as the glass shattered, leaving a red stain on the wall as the dregs of the liquid dribbled down.
Emboldened by the directness of her desire, Leopold drained his own glass and dropped it to the floor with the nervous laugh of one who cannot believe his luck.
Serena leaned forwards and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. He was stiff in her arms for a moment, startled by the sudden move, but slowly relaxed into the kiss. He put his hands on her hips as she eased herself into the curve of his body.
They stood locked together for as long as she could bear it, before she dragged him to the floor, where she tore at his clothes in a frenzy, scattering paint and overturning her easels. The sensation of Leopold’s hands on her body was repulsive, but even that made her want to cry with pleasure.
At one point he broke the kiss, blood dripping from his lip where she had bitten it, a look of bemused concern plastered across his idiot features. She pulled him tight to her body and rolled on top of him as they coupled like wild animals in the wreckage of her studio.
At last his eyes widened and his hips spasmed. She reached down to the floor to snatch up her sharpened palette knife.
‘What…?’ was all he managed before she slashed the blade across his throat. His blood sprayed in an arcing jet as he thrashed in his death throes.
Sticky red fluid covered her as Leopold convulsed, and this time she laughed at the wash of sensation that flooded her body. He gurgled beneath her as his lifeblood pumped out of him and his hands clawed at her in desperation. Blood pooled in a vast lake beneath Leopold, and Serena stabbed her knife into his neck again and again. His struggles grew weaker and weaker, while her pleasure heightened to an explosive climax.
Serena remained on top of Leopold’s body until his convulsions ceased and his flailing arms fell to the floor. She rolled away, her flesh heaving and her heart thudding against the inside of her chest in a wild drumbeat.
She heard a last rattle of breath escape his ruined throat, and smiled to herself as she smelled his bowels and bladder voiding in death. Serena lay still for some moments, savouring the sensation of the kill, and taking pleasure in the thunder of her blood and the warmth within her.
What wonders might she work upon the canvas with such materials?
ON THE THIRTIETH day after the 28th Expedition’s arrival in the Perdus Region, a great many of the questions that had arisen following the discovery of the uninhabited paradise worlds were finally answered. Travelling in the vanguard of the expedition, the Proudheart was the first to pick up signs of the intruders.
Word flashed back to the fleet, and within moments, every ship was at battle readiness, gun ports unmasked and torpedoes loaded into their tubes. The alien vessel made no overtly hostile moves, and the Pride of the Emperor surged forward to join the Proudheart over the objections of Captain Lemuel Aizel.
At last the flagship of the Emperor’s Children detected the presence of the enemy vessel, though its surveyor officers fought to keep the signal constant, for it kept fading in and out of the display.
Repeated hails were met with walls of static, though the fleet’s astropaths reported a curious deadening of their warp vision, similar to that which had long shielded the region from the sight of Navigators and telepaths.
At last the forward elements of the fleet came into visual range of the lone vessel and it appeared on screen as a faint, slightly blurred outline.
Its true size was impossible to determine with any accuracy, but ship logisters estimated its length at between nine and fourteen kilometres. A vast triangular slice curved above the hull like a billowing sail, and even as the image resolved in the
centre of the viewing bay, a voice sounded over the ship’s vox system, crystal clear and speaking in perfect Imperial Gothic.
‘My name is Eldrad Ulthran,’ said the voice. ‘In the name of Craftworld Ulthwé, I bid you welcome.’
FOURTEEN
To Tarsus
The Nature of Genius
Warning
SOLOMON KEPT A close eye on the assault warriors of the eldar delegation, their movements fluidly lethal in a way his could never be. A curving sword was sheathed across each of their backs, and they all carried delicate pistols holstered at their waists. Pale helmets of fearsome warrior aspects and scarlet plumes obscured their faces, and their smooth, segmented armour was formed of the same substance as the ruin they had seen on Twenty-Eight Four.
‘They don’t look much,’ whispered Marius. ‘A strong wind would break them in two.’
‘Don’t underestimate them,’ warned Solomon. ‘They are deadly warriors and their weapons are lethal.’
Marius looked unconvinced, but nodded in response to his fellow captain’s wisdom for Solomon had faced the warriors of the eldar before.
He remembered fighting through the wind-lashed forests of Tza-Chao, where the Luna Wolves and the Emperor’s Children had battled side by side against a piratical force of eldar reavers. What had started as a fairly straight up and down fight had degenerated into a bloody brawl in the depths of a storm, with weapons useless and brute strength and ferocity the only tools of destruction. He remembered the shrieking horror of blades that had charged from the trees with howls that chilled the blood, and he remembered watching as one Luna Wolf had garrotted a nameless eldar champion with a length of dirty, rusted wire in the rain.
Solomon remembered the walking monstrosities, taller than a Dreadnought, which had stalked the dark forest, like giants of legend, crushing Astartes in their mighty fists and destroying armoured vehicles with shoulder mounted cannons of unimaginable power.
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