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 Ful-grim'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 garish 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 s
imple 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 is 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.
'It appears that the Warmaster was grievously wounded on the planet of Davin, and some of his warriors were somewhat over-zealous when bringing him back on board the Vengeful Spirit!
'Over-zealous?' barked Fulgrim. 'Speak plainly, man. What does that mean?'
'A sizeable crowd had gathered on the embarkation decks of the Warmaster's flagship, and when the Astartes came back on board they smote the crowd in their haste to reach the medicae decks. Some twenty-one people are dead and many more grievously injured.'
'And you blame Horus for this?'
'It is not my place to assign blame, my lord,' said Braxton. 'I am merely informing you of the facts.'
Fulgrim rounded on him suddenly. Braxton felt his bladder loosen, and a warmth trickle down his leg, as the wild-eyed Primarch of the Emperor's Children towered over him with his sword suddenly raised above his head as if to strike him down.
'Facts?' snarled Fulgrim. 'What does a foppish scribe such as you know of the facts of war? War is hard, fast and cruel. Horus knows this and he fights accordingly. If people are stupid enough to get in the way of that, then their own foolishness is to blame.'
Ormond Braxton had seen much in the way of egotism in his time within the civil administration of Terra, but he had never been faced with such barefaced arrogance and callous dismissal of human life.
'My lord,' gasped Braxton. 'People are dead, killed by the Astartes. Such things will not just go away. Those responsible must be called to account or the ideals of the Great Crusade will stand for nothing.'
Fulgrim lowered his sword, appearing only now to notice its presence. He shook his head and smiled, his ephemeral anger vanishing in the space of a moment. 'You are right, of course, my dear Braxton. I apologise for my uncivil behaviour and beg of your pardon. I am much vexed by the pain of wounds suffered battling an alien monstrosity in our previous campaign, and my temper is a fragile thing as a result.'
'No pardon is necessary, my lord,' said Braxton slowly. 'I understand your brotherhood with the Warmaster and it is for that very reason that I am despatched to you. The Council of Terra wishes you to travel to Aureus and meet with the Warmaster to ensure that the principles that underpin the Great Crusade are being adhered to.'
Fulgrim snorted in derision and turned away. 'So now we must fight with an eye forever over our shoulder? Are we not trusted to make war? You civilians want your conquests, but you do not care for how they are won, do you? War is brutality, and the more brutal it is, the sooner it is over, but that's not good enough for you is it? In your eyes, wars must be fought according to an imperfect set of rules imposed by those who have never seen a shot fired in anger or risked their own blood alongside their brothers. Know this, Braxton, every petty, restrictive rule you civilians impose on our method of war means that more of my warriors die!'
Braxton was shocked by Fulgrim's bitterness, but hid his surprise. 'What response should I take back to the Council of Terra, my lord?'
Again Fulgrim's anger seemed to melt away in the face of reason, and the mighty primarch laughed humourlessly. 'Tell them, Master Braxton, that I shall lead my warriors to join the 63rd Expedition, that I will examine how my brother makes war, and that I shall be sure to tell you all about it.'
The sarcasm was heavy in Fulgrim's tone, but Braxton ignored it and bowed. 'Then, my lord, if I may take my leave?'
Fulgrim waved his hand dismissively and nodded. 'Yes, go. Return to your courtiers and scriveners, and tell them that the Lord Fulgrim will do their bidding.'
Braxton bowed once more and backed away from the barely dressed primarch. When he had retteated a sufficient distance, he turned and made his way through the golden doors that led to normality.
Behind him, he could hear voices arguing, and he risked a glance over his shoulder in an attempt to iden
tify with whom Fulgrim spoke. He felt a shiver Uavel the length of his spine as he saw that Fulgrim was alone.
He was speaking to the loathsome painting.
'What are you doing?' asked a voice behind her and she froze. Serena clutched the knife to her breast as her mind raced to identify the questioner. In her fevered thoughts, she imagined that it was Ostian, come once again to save her, but when the question was asked again, she blinked and dropped the knife as she recognised that the speaker was the Astartes warrior, Lucius.
Her breathing was heavy and her blood was pounding as she looked down at the corpse lying next to the unfinished picture of the swordsman. She couldn't recall the dead man's name, an irony she found amusing given her official title as remembrancer, but he had been a talented composer once. Now he was raw material for her work, his blood pumping enthusiastically onto the floor from his opened throat.
The metallic smell of his blood filled her nostrils as she felt a hand grasp her shoulder and turn her around. She looked up into Lucius's boyish face, his handsome features marred forever by the crooked twist of his nose where it had been broken in some combat. She reached up with a bloodied hand to touch his face, and his eyes followed her fingers as they traced the line of his jaw.
'What happened here?' asked Lucius, nodding towards the corpse. 'That man is dead.'
'Yes,' said Serena, slumping to the floor. 'I killed him.'
'Why?' asked Lucius. Even in her fugue state Serena detected an interest beyond that which would normally be aroused by such a discovery. What remained of the rational part of her mind understood the precariousness of the situation and she covered her face with her hands and began to weep uncontrollably, hoping the onset of tears would trigger the male comfort reaction.
Lucius let her weep and she cried, 'He tried to rape me!'
'Rape you?' asked Lucius, aghast. 'What?'
'He tried to force himself upon me and I killed him… I… I fought him, but he was too strong. He… hit me and I reached out to grab the first thing I could find to use as a weapon… I suppose I must have picked up my knife and…'
Fulgrim: Visions of Treachery whh-5 Page 26
