He could hear the sounds of battle all around him: bolter fire, cries of pain, whickering razor-discs from alien weapons, and howling screams, like the cries of the banshees of legend. He paid them no heed, too focused on his own fight to the death. His sword pulsed with a silver glow, streamers of light and power rippling along its length as he swung it, every strike delivered with a roar of ecstasy. The gleam of purple light from the pommel stone was strong, and he could see that the fiery gaze of his foe’s eyes was ever drawn to it.
A wild idea took root in his mind, and though a powerful surge of denial washed through him at the thought, he knew that it was the only way to defeat his enemy quickly. He stepped in close to the flaming eldar god and hurled his sword high into the air.
Instantly, its burning gaze snapped upwards, the coals of its eyes homing in on the spinning blade. It drew back its arm to hurl its spear at the sword, but before it could throw, Fulgrim leapt towards it and delivered a thunderous right hook to its face.
Every ounce of his power and rage powered the blow, and he let loose a bellowing cry of hate as he struck. Metal buckled and an eruption of red light exploded from the eldar monster’s head. Fulgrim’s fist hammered through its helmet and into the molten core of its skull, and he cried out in agony and pleasure as he felt the blow smash from the back of its head.
The wounded creature staggered, its head a twisted ruin of metal and flame. Spears of red light streamed from its helmet, and the molten rivers of its blood blazed like phosphor against its iron skin. Fulgrim felt the pain of his maimed hand, but savagely suppressed it as he stepped in again and wrapped his hands around its neck.
The heat of its molten skin seared his flesh, but Fulgrim was oblivious to the pain, too intent on his foe’s destruction. Plumes of red light streamed from the eldar god’s face, the sound like a manifestation of the combined rage and heart of its creators. An age of regret and lust flowed from the creature, and Fulgrim felt the aching sadness of the necessity of its existence pour into him even as it poured out of the dying monster.
His hands blackened as he crushed the life from his enemy, the metal cracking with the sound of a dying soul. Fulgrim forced the creature to its knees, laughing insanely as the pain of his wounds vied with the powerful elation he felt in crushing the life from another being with his own bare hands and watching as the life fled from its eyes.
The sound of a great and terrible thunder built, and Fulgrim looked up from his murder to see a graceful bird of fire carve its way across the heavens. He released his hold on the dying eldar creature and punched the heavens as the Firebird streaked overhead, followed by a host of Stormbirds and Thunderhawks.
Fulgrim returned his gaze to his defeated foe as whipping light and noise poured from it like the nuclear fire blazing at the heart of a star. The light of the creature’s death flared, and its body exploded in a thunder of hot iron and molten metal. Fulgrim was hurled through the air by the screaming explosion, and he felt the touch of its power sear his armour and skin.
The released essence of a god surrounded him. He saw a whirling cosmos of stars, the death of a race and the birth of a bright new god, a dark prince of pleasure and pain.
A name formed from the raw sound of ages past, a bloody scream of birth and a wordless shout of unbound sensation building into a mighty roar that was a name and a concept all at once… Slaanesh!
Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!
Even as the name formed, Fulgrim slammed into the ground and laughed as the Emperor’s Children descended to Tarsus on wings of fire. He lay still, broken and burnt, but alive, oh, how he was alive! He felt hands upon him and heard voices begging him to speak, but he ignored them, suddenly feeling an aching longing seize him as he realised he was unarmed.
Fulgrim pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, knowing that his warriors surrounded him, but not seeing them or hearing their words. His hands throbbed and he could smell the scorched ruin of his flesh, but all his attention was fixed on the silver glow that split the night.
His sword stood upright in the grass, its blade having come down point first after he had hurled it into the air. It shimmered in the darkness, the silver blade reflecting the light of the Firebird and the descending assault craft. Fulgrim’s hands itched to reach out and grip the sword once more, but a screaming portion of his mind begged him not to.
He took a faltering step towards the weapon, his hand outstretched, though he could not remember consciously ordering it to do so. His blackened fingers trembled and his muscles strained as though forcing their way through an invisible barrier. The siren song of the sword was strong, but so was his will, and what remained of his vision of the dark god’s birth stayed his hand for the moment.
Only through me will you achieve perfection!
The words thundered in his head, and memories of the battle surged powerfully in his mind, the fire and the hunger to kill, and the wondrous elation of a god’s death by his own hands.
In that moment, the last vestige of his resistance collapsed and he slid his fingers around the hilt of the sword. Power flowed through him, and the pain of his wounds vanished as though from the most powerful healing balms.
Fulgrim stood straighter, his momentary weakness forgotten as though a wash of power suffused every atom of his body. He saw the eldar fleeing through their shimmering gateway until only the treacherous seer, Eldrad Ulthran remained, standing forlornly beside the arching structure.
The seer shook his head and stepped into the light, which vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
‘My lord,’ said Vespasian, his face smeared with blood. ‘What are your orders?’
Fulgrim’s anger at the aliens’ perfidy reached new, undreamed of heights, and he sheathed his sword, turning to face his gathering warriors.
He knew that there was only one way to ensure that the treachery of the eldar was burnt out forever.
‘We return to the Pride of the Emperor,’ he said. ‘Order every ship to make ready to fire a spread of virus bombs.’
‘Virus bombs?’ asked Vespasian. ‘But surely only the Warmaster—’
‘Do it!’ shouted Fulgrim. ‘Now!’
Vespasian looked uneasy with such an order, but nodded stiffly and turned away.
Fulgrim cast his gaze out over the night shrouded planet before him and whispered, ‘By the fire, I swear that every one of the eldar worlds will burn.’
PART FOUR
THRESHOLD
SIXTEEN
Called to Account
Scars
My Fear is to Fail
ORMOND BRAXTON CHAFED at being made to wait outside the golden doors of the primarch’s chambers. He would have expected better manners from a primarch than to make a high-ranking emissary of the Administration of Terra wait for so long. He had boarded the Pride of the Emperor three days ago, and such delays were the kind of thing he inflicted on others to demonstrate his superior rank.
Finally his petition for an audience had been approved and his menials had bathed him before Fulgrim’s servants arrived to apply perfumed oils to his skin, prior to bringing him before the primarch. The scent of the oils was pleasing enough, though somewhat powerful for his ascetic tendencies. Sweat glistened on his bald pate and mingled with the oils to produce stinging droplets that irritated his eyes and caught in the back of his throat.
A pair of elaborately armoured warriors stood to attention at the golden doors to Fulgrim’s staterooms, beyond which Braxton could hear the deafening din of what he supposed was music, but sounded like an unmitigated racket to his ears. A pair of marble sculptures of wild curves and angles stood to either side of the guards, though what they were supposed to represent eluded Braxton’s understanding.
He adjusted his administrator robes around his shoulders while letting his attention drift to the paintings that filled this great, terrazzo floored hallway. The golden frames were elaborate to the point of ridiculousness, and the g
arish colours that filled them quite defied any aesthetic appreciation, though he admitted that his understanding of art was limited.
Ormond Braxton had represented the Terran forces in the negotiations that had seen much of the solar system brought into compliance. He had been part of the delegation trained at the School of Iterators and Evander Tobias and Kyril Sindermann were his close acquaintances. His exceptional skills as a negotiator and civil servant in the Terran Administrative Corps had ensured his selection for this mission, as it called for delicate diplomacy and tact. Only one of such stature could petition a primarch, especially for such a task as was to be appointed him.
At last the doors to Fulgrim’s staterooms were flung open and booming peals of music spilled into the hall before the primarch’s chambers. The guards snapped to attention, and Braxton drew himself up to his full height as he prepared to enter into the presence of the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children.
He awaited some signal that he was to go in, but nothing was forthcoming, and so he hesitantly stepped forward. The guards made no motion to stop him, so he carried on, his unease increasing as the doors swung closed behind him without apparent aid.
The music was deafening. Dozens of phonocasters were scattered around, blaring a multitude of what appeared to be different kinds of music. Paintings of all manner of vileness hung from the walls, some depicting acts of violent barbarity and others, of unspeakably vile conduct that was beyond pornography. Braxton felt his trepidation grow as he heard arguing voices from the central stateroom beyond.
‘My Lord Fulgrim?’ he inquired. ‘Are you there? It is Administrator Ormond Braxton. I have come to see you from the Council of Terra.’
Instantly the voices ceased and the phonocasters fell silent.
Braxton glanced around him to see if he was alone, reckoning that the staterooms surrounding the central chamber were empty of life as far as he could see.
‘You may enter!’ called a powerful, musical voice from ahead. Braxton gingerly made his way towards the sound, fully expecting to see the primarch and one of his loyal captains, though the argumentative tone of the voices still puzzled him.
He stepped into the primarch’s central stateroom and pulled up short at the sight confronting him.
Fulgrim, for the mighty physique could belong to none other, swept around his chambers, naked but for a purple loincloth, and brandishing a gleaming silver sword. His flesh was like hard marble, pale and veined with dark lines, and his face had a manic look to it, like that of a man in the grip of a chemical stimulant. The stateroom itself was a mess, with pieces of broken marble strewn around and the walls chipped and stained with paint. A giant canvas stood at the far end of the chamber, though its angle prevented Braxton from seeing what manner of image was painted upon it.
The odour of uneaten food hung heavy in the air, and not even the perfumed oils could mask the stench of rotten meat.
‘Emissary Braxton!’ cried Fulgrim. ‘How good of you to come.’
Braxton covered his surprise at the state of the primarch and his stateroom, and inclined his head. ‘It is my honour to attend upon you, my lord.’
‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Fulgrim. ‘I have been unforgivably rude in keeping you waiting, but I have been locked in counsel with my most trusted advisors in the weeks since our departure from the Perdus Region.’
The primarch towered over Braxton and he felt the sheer physical intimidation of such a magnificent being threaten to overwhelm him, but he dug deep into his reserves of calm and found his voice once more.
‘I come with tidings from Terra, and would deliver them to you, my lord.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Fulgrim, ‘but first, my dear Braxton, would you do me an enormous favour?’
‘I would be honoured to serve, my lord,’ said Braxton, noticing that Fulgrim’s hands were discoloured as though from a fire. What heat could wound such as a primarch, he wondered?
‘What manner of favour would you have me do?’
Fulgrim spun his sword and put his hand on Braxton’s shoulder, guiding him towards the vast canvas set up at the end of the stateroom. Fulgrim’s pace practically forced Braxton to run, even though his generously fleshed form was unsuited to such a speed. He mopped his brow with a scented handkerchief as Fulgrim proudly stood him before the canvas and said, ‘What do you think of this, then? The likeness is quite uncanny isn’t it?’
Braxton stared in open mouthed horror at the image slathered on the canvas, a truly repellent portrait of an armoured warrior, thickly painted with all manner of garish colours, crude brushstrokes and loathsome stench. The vastness of the image only served to heighten the horror of what it portrayed, for the subject was none other than the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children, so loathsomely delineated as to be insulting and degrading to one so awe inspiring.
Though he was no student of art, even Braxton recognised this as a vulgar atrocity, an affront to the being it purported to represent. He glanced over at Fulgrim to see if this was some elaborate jest, but the primarch’s face was rapt and unswerving in his adoration of the vile picture.
‘You’re lost for words, I can see,’ said Fulgrim. ‘I’m not surprised. It is, after all, by Serena d’Angelus, and only recently finished. You are honoured to see it before its public unveiling at the first performance of Mistress Kynska’s Maraviglia in the newly refurbished La Fenice. That will be a night to remember, I can tell you!’
Braxton nodded, too afraid of what he might say were he to open his mouth. The horror of the picture was too much to bear, its colours nauseating in a way that went beyond its simple crudity, and the stench of its surface was making his gorge rise.
He moved away from the picture, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth and nose, as Fulgrim trailed behind him, idly swinging his sword in lazy circles.
‘My lord, if I may?’ said Braxton.
‘What? Oh, yes, of course,’ said Fulgrim, as though listening to another voice entirely. ‘You said something about news from Terra, didn’t you?’
Recovering himself, Braxton said, ‘Yes, my lord, from the mouth of the Sigillite himself.’
‘So what does old Malcador have to say for himself?’ asked Fulgrim, and Braxton was shocked at the informality and lack of respect inherent in the primarch’s tone.
‘Firstly, I bring word of Lord Magnus of Prospero. It has come to the attention of the Emperor, beloved by all, that, contrary to the dictates of the Council of Nikaea, Lord Magnus has continued his researches into the mysteries of the immaterium.’
Fulgrim nodded to himself as he began pacing once more and said, ‘I knew he would, but the others were too blind to see it. Even with the new chaplains in place, I suspected Magnus would backslide. He does love his mysteries.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Braxton. ‘The Sigillite has despatched the Wolves of Fenris to bring Magnus back to Terra to await the Emperor’s judgement upon him.’
Fulgrim paused, turned to face the vile painting once more and shook his head as though disagreeing with some unseen interrogator.
‘Then Magnus is to be… what? Charged with a crime?’ asked Fulgrim heatedly, as though his anger at the messenger would somehow change the facts.
‘I do not know any more, my lord,’ replied Braxton, ‘simply that he is to return to Terra with Leman Russ of the Space Wolves.’
Fulgrim nodded, though he was clearly unhappy at such a development, and said, ‘You said “firstly”. What other news do you bring?’
Braxton knew he would have to choose his words carefully, for there was more that would yet displease the primarch. ‘I bring news concerning the conduct within one of your brother primarch’s Legions.’
Fulgrim ceased his pacing and looked up in sudden interest. ‘It is Horus’s Legion?’
Braxton covered his irritation and nodded. ‘It is. Have you already heard my news?’
Fulgrim shook his head. ‘No, I was just guessing. Go on and tell me your news, but be aware that Horus i
s my sworn brother and I will brook no disrespect of him.’
‘Of course not,’ confirmed Braxton. ‘At present, the 63rd Expedition makes war against a civilisation calling itself the Auretian Technocracy. Horus came in the name of peace, but the misguided—’
‘The Warmaster,’ put in Fulgrim, and Braxton cursed himself for making such an elementary error. The Astartes detested mortals showing a lack of respect for their position.
‘My apologies,’ continued Braxton smoothly. ‘The rulers of these planets attempted to assassinate the Warmaster and thus he declared a legal war upon them to bring their worlds to compliance. In this matter he has been aided by Lord Angron of the VII Legion.’
Fulgrim laughed. ‘Then I don’t hold out much hope for there being much left of this Technocracy at the end of the war.’
‘Quite,’ said Braxton. ‘Lord Angron’s… excesses, shall we say, are not unknown to the Council of Terra, but we have received some unsettling reports from Lord Commander Hektor Varvarus, commander of the Army units within the 63rd Expedition.’
‘Reports of what?’ demanded Fulgrim. Braxton was unnerved to see that the primarch’s previous manic distraction appeared to have quite vanished.
‘Reports of a massacre perpetrated by Astartes against Imperial civilians, my lord.’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Fulgrim. ‘Angron may be many things, but massacring Imperial citizens seems a little out of character even for him, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Reports have reached Terra regarding Lord Angron’s conduct in the war, it’s true,’ said Braxton, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. ‘Though it is not of him that I speak.’
‘Horus?’ asked Fulgrim, his voice hoarse, and Braxton saw what in a mortal he would have regarded as fear in his dark eyes. ‘What has happened?’
Braxton paused before continuing. He noted that there was no denial, as there had been when Fulgrim had thought if Angron accused.
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