‘Nothing of substance as to how Magnus is to travel to Terra? As a penitent or a supplicant?’
‘I do not know,’ admitted Fulgrim. ‘Though to send one who dislikes Magnus as much as the Wolf to fetch him home suggests that he does not travel to Terra to be honoured.’
‘It does not,’ agreed Horus, and Fulgrim could see a glimmer of relief ghost across his brother’s face. Had Magnus, like Eldrad Ulthran, seen a glimpse of the future and attempted to give warning of an imminent betrayal? If so, the Warmaster would need to deal with him before his return to Terra.
With the matter of the Lord of Prospero dispensed with to his apparent satisfaction, the Warmaster nodded in the direction of the mural and said, ‘You said you remembered this being made.’
Fulgrim nodded, and the Warmaster continued. ‘So do I, vividly. You and I, we had just felled the last of the Omakkad Princes aboard their observatory world, and the Emperor decided that such a victory should be remembered.’
‘While the Emperor smote the last of their princes, you slew their king and took his head for the Museum of Conquest,’ said Fulgrim.
‘As you say,’ nodded Horus, tapping a finger against the painting. ‘I slew their king, and yet it is the Emperor who holds the constellations of the galaxy in his grip. Where are the murals that show the honours you and I won that day, my friend?’
‘Jealousy?’ chuckled Fulgrim. ‘I knew you thought highly of yourself, but I never expected to see such vanity.’
Horus shook his head. ‘No, my brother, it is not vanity to wish your deeds and achievements recognised. Who among us has a greater tally of victory than I? Who among us was chosen to act as Warmaster? Only I was judged worthy, and yet the only honours I possess are those I fashion for myself.’
‘In time, when the Crusade is over, you will be lauded for your actions,’ said Fulgrim.
‘Time?’ snapped Horus. ‘Time is the one thing we do not have. In essence, we may be aware that the galaxy revolves in the heavens, but we do not perceive it, and the ground upon which we walk seems not to move. Mortal men can live out their lives undisturbed by such lofty concepts, but they will never achieve greatness by inaction and ignorance. So it is with time, my brother. Unless we stop and take its measure, the opportunity for perfect glory will slip away from us before we even realise that it was there.’
The words of the eldar seer echoed in his head as though shouted in his ear.
He will lead his armies against your Emperor.
Horus locked his gaze with him, and Fulgrim felt the fires of his brother’s purpose surge like an electric current in the room, feeding the flames of his own obsessive need for perfection. As horrified as he was by the things he was hearing, he could not deny a powerful force of attraction swelling within him at the thought of joining his brother.
He saw the rampant ambition and yearning for power that drove Horus, and understood that his brother desired to hold the stars in his grip, as the Emperor did upon the mural.
Everything you have been told is true.
Fulgrim leaned back in his chair and drained the last of his wine.
‘Tell me of this perfect glory,’ he said.
HORUS AND EREBUS spoke for three days, telling Fulgrim of what had befallen the 63rd Expedition on Davin, of the treachery of Eugan Temba, the assault on the crashed Glory of Terra, and the necrotic possession that had taken his flesh. Horus spoke of a weapon known as the anathame, which was brought to his staterooms by Fulgrim’s Apothecary after he had handed Fabius his seal to have it removed from the Vengeful Spirit’s medicae deck.
Fulgrim saw that the sword was a crude thing, its blade like stone-worked obsidian, a dull grey filled with a glittering sheen like diamond flint. Its hilt was made of gold and was of superior workmanship to the blade, though still primitive in comparison to Fireblade, or even the silver sword of the Laer.
Horus then told him the truth of his injury, how he had, indeed, almost died but for the diligence and devotion of his Legion’s quiet order. Of his time in the Delphos, the massive temple structure on Davin, he said little, save that his eyes had been opened to great truths and the monstrous deception that had been perpetrated upon them.
All through this retelling, Fulgrim had felt a creeping horror steal across him, a formless dread of the words that were undermining the very bedrock of his beliefs. He had heard the warning of the eldar seer, but until this moment, he had not believed that such a thing could be true. He wanted to deny the Warmaster’s words, but each time he tried to speak a powerful force within him urged him to keep his counsel, to listen to his brother’s words.
‘The Emperor has lied to us, Fulgrim,’ said Horus, and Fulgrim felt a knot of hurt anger uncoil in his gut at such an utterance. ‘He means to abandon us to the wilderness of the galaxy while he ascends to godhood.’
Fulgrim felt as though his muscles were locked in a steel vice, for surely he should have flown at Horus to strike him down for such a treacherous utterance. Instead, he sat stunned as he felt his limbs tremble, and his entire world collapsed. How could Horus, most worthy of primarchs be saying such things?
No matter that he had heard them before from different mouths, the substance of their reality had been meaningless until now. To see Horus’s lips form words of rebellion kept him rooted to his chair in horrified disbelief. Horus was his most trusted friend, and long ago they had sworn in blood never to speak an untruth to one another. With such an oath between them, Fulgrim had to believe that either his father or his brother had lied to him.
You have no choice! Join with Horus or all you have striven for will have been in vain.
‘No,’ he managed to whisper, tears welling in his eyes. The anticipation of this moment had fired his senses, but the reality of it was proving to be very different indeed.
‘Yes,’ said Horus, his expression pained, but determined. ‘We believed the Emperor to be the ultimate embodiment of perfection, Fulgrim, but we were wrong. He is not perfect, he is just a man, and we strove to emulate his lie.’
‘All my life I wanted to be like him,’ said Fulgrim.
‘As did we all, my brother,’ said Horus. ‘It pains me to say these things to you, but they must be said, for a time of war is coming, nothing can prevent that, and I need my closest brothers beside me when the time comes to purge our Legions of those who will not follow us.’
Fulgrim looked up through tear-rimmed eyes and said, ‘You are wrong, Horus. You must be wrong. How could an imperfect being have wrought the likes of us?’
‘Us?’ said Horus. ‘We are but the instruments of his will to achieve dominance of the galaxy before his ascension. When the wars are over, we will be cast aside, for we are flawed creations, fashioned from the wide womb of uncreated night. Even before our births, the Emperor cast us aside when he could have saved us. You remember the nightmare of Chemos, the wasteland it was when you fell to its blasted hinterlands? The pain you suffered there, the pain we all suffered on the planets where we grew to manhood? All of that could have been avoided. He could have stopped it all, but he cared so little for us that he simply let it happen. I saw it happen, my brother, I saw it all.’
‘How?’ gasped Eulgrim. ‘How could you have seen such things?’
‘In my near death state I was granted an epiphany of hindsight,’ said Horus. ‘Whether I saw the past or simply had my earliest memories unlocked I do not know, but what I experienced was as real to me as you are.’
The grey meat of Fulgrim’s brain was filling fit to burst as he sought to process all that Horus was telling him.
‘Even in my moments of blackest doubt, all that sustained me was the utter certainty of my ultimate achievement of perfection,’ said Fulgrim. ‘The Emperor was the shining paragon of that dream’s attainment, and to have that taken away from me…’
‘Doubt is not a pleasant condition,’ nodded Horus, ‘but certainty is absurd when it is built on a lie.’
Fulgrim felt his mind reel that he even
entertained the possibility that Horus could be right, his words unravelling all that he had ever been and all he had ever hoped to achieve. His past was gone, destroyed to feed his father’s lie, and all that was left to him was his future.
‘The Emperor is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh,’ said Horus. ‘To him we are tools to be used until blunted and then cast aside. Why else would he leave us and the Crusade to retreat to his dungeons beneath Terra? His apotheosis is already underway and it is up to us to stop it.’
‘I dreamed of one day being like him,’ whispered Fulgrim, ‘of standing at his shoulder and feeling his pride and love for me.’
Horus stepped forward, kneeling before him and taking his hands. ‘All men dream, Fulgrim, but not all men dream equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity. For men like us, the dreamers of the day, our dreams are ones of hope, of improvement, of change. Perhaps we were once simply weapons, warriors who knew nothing beyond the art of death, but we have grown, my brother! We are so much more than that now, but the Emperor does not see it. He would abandon his greatest achievements to the darkness of a hostile universe. I know this for a fact, Fulgrim, for I did not simply receive this wisdom, I discovered it for myself after a journey that no one could take for me or spare me.’
‘I cannot hear this, Horus,’ cried Fulgrim, surging to his feet as his flesh threw off the paralysis that had thus far held him immobile. He marched towards the mural of the Emperor and shouted. ‘You have no idea what you are asking me to do!’
‘On the contrary,’ replied Horus, rising to follow him. ‘I know exactly what I am asking you to do. I am asking you to stand with me to defend our birthright. This galaxy is ours by right of conquest and blood, but it is to be given away to grubby politicians and clerks. I know you have seen this, and it must make your blood boil as it does mine. Where were those civilians when it was our warriors dying by the thousand? Where were they when we crossed the span of the galaxy to bring illumination to the lost fragments of humanity? I’ll tell you where! They huddled in their dark and dusty halls, and penned diatribes like this!’
Horus reached down to his desk, snatched up a handful of papers and thrust them into Fulgrim’s hands.
‘What are these?’ he asked.
‘Lies,’ said Horus. ‘They call it the Lectitio Divinitatus, and it is spreading through the fleets like a virus. It is a cult that deifies the Emperor and openly worships him as a god! Can you believe it? After all we have done to bring the light of science and reason to these pathetic mortals, they invent a false god and turn to him for guidance.’
‘A god?’
‘Aye, Fulgrim, a god,’ said Horus, his anger spilling out in a surge of violence. The Warmaster roared and hammered his fist into the mural, his gauntlet smashing the painted face of the Emperor to shards of cracked stone. Ruptured blocks fell from the wall to crash upon the metal deck, and Fulgrim released the papers he held, watching them flutter to the floor amid the ruin of the mural.
Fulgrim cried out as his world shattered into shards as fragmented as the rubble of the mural, his love for the Emperor torn from his breast and held up for the dirty, useless thing it was.
Horus came to him and cupped his face in his hands, staring into his eyes with an intensity that was almost fanatical.
‘I need you, my brother,’ pleaded Horus. ‘I cannot do this without you, but you must do nothing against your conscience. My brother, my phoenix, my hope, wing your way through the darkness and defy fortune’s spite. Revive from the ashes and rise!’
Fulgrim met his brother’s stare. ‘What would you have me do?’
EIGHTEEN
Deep Orbital
Excision
Separate Ways
THE FLIGHT DECK of Deep Orbital DS191 was a tangled mess of twisted metal and flames. The greenskins had occupied the orbiting defence platform for some time, and their unique brand of engineering had already begun to take root. Great idols of fanged iron behemoths squatted amid piles of wreckage, and machines that looked like crude fighter planes lay scattered and broken throughout the deck.
Solomon took cover from the chattering hail of gunfire spraying from the rude barricade that had been thrown together, ‘constructed’ was too elegant a word for what the greenskins had built, at the end of the flight deck.
Hundreds of roaring aliens had fired randomly, or waved enormous cleavers at the thirty warriors of the Second when they landed on the flight deck from their Thunderhawks. As part of the Emperor’s Children’s assault, missiles had punched holes through the hull of the orbital with the intent of explosively decompressing the flight deck and allowing Solomon’s Astartes to make an uncontested boarding at this supposedly unoccupied section.
The plan had proceeded without any problems until the tide of wreckage had plugged the holes and hundreds of bellowing, fang-toothed greenskin brutes had charged from the shattered wreckage of their fighters and bombers to attack with mindless ferocity. Wild gunfire ripped through the flight deck. Corkscrewing rockets burst amongst the Astartes, and crude powder charges exploded as hurled grenades burst among the charging Emperor’s Children.
‘Whoever said that the greenskins were primitive obviously never had to fight them,’ shouted Gaius Caphen, as another greasy explosion of flame and black smoke erupted nearby, hurling spars of twisted metal into the air.
Solomon had to agree, having fought the greenskin savages on many occasions. It seemed as though there was no star system throughout the galaxy that had not been infested by the vermin of the greenskins.
‘Any sign of our reinforcements?’ he shouted.
‘Not yet,’ returned Caphen. ‘We’re supposed to be getting extra squads from the First and Third, but nothing so far.’
Solomon ducked as a rocket skidded from the knotted pile of metal he sheltered behind, with a deafening clang, and ricocheted straight up, before detonating in a shower of flame and smoke. Burning shrapnel fell in a patter of scorching scads of metal.
‘Don’t worry!’ cried Solomon. ‘Julius and Marius won’t let us down.’
At least they better not, he thought grimly, as he bleakly considered the possibility of being overrun. With the unexpected counter-attack by the aliens, he and his warriors would be trapped on the flight deck unless they could fight their way through hundreds of shouting enemy warriors. Solomon wouldn’t have given the matter a second thought against any other foe, but the greenskin warriors were monstrous brutes whose strength was very nearly the equal of an Astartes warrior. Their central nervous systems were so primitive that they took a great deal of punishment before they lay down and stopped fighting.
A greenskin warrior was not the equal of an Astartes by any means, but they had enough raw aggression to make up for it, and they had numbers on their side.
The Callinedes system was an Imperial collection of worlds under threat from the greenskins, and to begin the liberation of those worlds that had already fallen, the defence orbitals had to be won back.
This was the first stage in the Imperial relief of Callinedes, and would see the reuniting of the Emperor’s Children and the Iron Hands as they assaulted the enemy strongholds on Callinedes IV.
Solomon risked a quick glance over the lip of the smoking metal, as he heard a strident bellow sounding from behind the spars of metal and wreckage that the greenskins were using for cover. Solomon had no knowledge of the greenskin language (or even if they had anything that could be described as language), but the warrior in him recognised the barbaric cadences of a war speech. Whatever passed for greenskin leadership was clearly readying their warriors for an attack. Tribal fetishes and glyph poles hung with grisly trophies bobbed behind the rusted metal and Solomon knew they were in the fight of their lives.
‘Come on, damn you,’ he whispered. Without support from Julius or Marius, he would need to order a retreat to the assault craft and concede defeat, a prospect that had littl
e appeal to his warrior code. ‘Any word yet?’
‘Nothing yet,’ hissed Caphen. ‘They’re not coming are they?’
‘They’ll come,’ promised Solomon as the chanting bellows from ahead suddenly swelled in volume and the crash of metal and iron-shod boots erupted from beyond.
Gaius Caphen and Solomon shared a moment of perfect understanding, and rose to their feet with their bolters at the ready.
‘Looks like they’re going up the centre!’ shouted Caphen.
‘Bastards!’ yelled Solomon. ‘That’s my plan! Second, open fire!’
A torrent of bolter fire reached out to the greenskins, and the front line was scythed down by rippling series of explosions. Sharp, hard detonations echoed from the metal walls of the flight deck as the Astartes fired volley after volley into the charging enemy, but no matter how many fell, it only seemed to spur the survivors to a greater frenzy.
The aliens came in a tide of green flesh, rusted armour and battered leather. Red eyes like furnace coals glittered with feral intelligence, and they bellowed their uncouth war cries like wild beasts. They fired noisy, blazing weapons from the hip or brandished mighty, toothed blades with smoke belching motors. Some wore armour attached with thick leather straps, or simply nailed to their thick hides, while others wore great, horned helmets fringed with thick furs.
A huge brute in wheezing, mechanical exo-armour led the charge, bolter shells sparking and ricocheting from his protective suit. Solomon could see the rippling heat haze of a protective energy field sheathing the monstrous chieftain, though how such a primitive race could manufacture or maintain such technology baffled him.
The bolters of the Second wreaked fearful havoc amongst the aliens, blasting sprays of stinking red blood from great, bloodied craters in green flesh, or blowing limbs clean off in explosions of gore.
‘Ready swords!’ shouted Solomon as he saw that no matter how great the carnage worked upon the charge, it wouldn’t be nearly enough.
He put aside his bolter and drew his sword and pistol as the first greenskin warrior smashed its way through the rusted girders, not even bothering to go around. Solomon swayed aside from a blow that would have hacked him in two, and swung his sword in a double-handed grip for his opponent’s neck. His sword bit the full breadth of his hand into the greenskin’s neck, but instead of dropping dead, the greenskin bellowed and savagely clubbed him to the ground.
Fulgrim Page 29
