'And you killed him,' finished Lucius.
Serena looked up through her tears, hearing no condemnation in Lucius's tone. 'Yes, I killed him.'
'Then the bastard got what he deserved,' said Lucius, pulling Serena to her feet. 'He tried to violate you and you defended yourself, yes?'
Serena nodded, the exhilaration of lying to this warrior who could snap her neck with his fingers sending warm rushes of pleasure through her entire body.
'I met him in La Venice, and he said he wanted to see some of my work,' she gasped, already knowing that Lucius would not arrest her or otherwise call her to account for the killing. 'It was foolish, I know, but he seemed genuinely interested. When we returned to my studio…'
'He turned on you.'
'Yes,' nodded Serena, 'and now he's dead. 'Oh, Lucius, what am I going to do?'
'Don't worry,' said Lucius, 'this won't need to go any further. I'll have some servitors dispose of his remains and this can all be forgotten about.'
Serena threw herself against Lucius in gratitude and let her tears come once more, feeling nothing but contempt for this man and his belief that such a traumatic event, had it been real, could be forgotten about so easily.
She pushed herself from his breastplate and bent to pick up her knife. The blade was still wet with blood and the cold steel glittered invitingly in the light.
Without conscious thought, she reached up and sliced the blade across her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood from her pallid skin.
Lucius watched her impassively and asked, 'What did you do that for?'
'So that I don't forget what happened,' she said, handing him the knife and rolling up her sleeves to show the many scars and fresh cuts in the flesh of her arms. 'Pain is my way of remembering all that has gone before. If I hold onto that pain, then I will never allow it to be forgotten.'
Lucius nodded and reached up to slowly run his fingertips over the crooked line of his nose. Serena could see the anger and hurt pride within him at the marring of his perfect features. A strange sensation of power filled her, as though her words carried more than meaning in their sounds, an influence beyond understanding. She felt this power flow through her and into the very air, filling the space between them with unknown potential.
'What happened to your face?' asked Serena, unwilling to lose this remarkable sensation.
'A barbaric son of a bitch named Loken broke it when he cheated in a fair fight.'
'He wounded you, didn't he?' she asked, the sound of her words flowing like honey in his ears. 'More than just physically, I mean?'
'Yes,' said Lucius, his voice hollow. 'He destroyed my perfection.'
'You'd want to hurt him, wouldn't you?'
'I'll see him dead soon,' swore Lucius.
Serena smiled, reaching out and placing her hands on his. 'Yes, I know you will.'
He gripped the knife tightly and she lifted his unresisting hand to his face.
'Yes,' she said with a nod, 'your perfect face is already gone forever. Do it.'
He returned her nod and with a quick flick of his wrist, cut deeply into the flawless skin of his cheek. He flinched at the pain, but lifted the dripping knife to cut an identical line across the opposite cheek.
'Now you will never forget this Loken,' she said.
Fulgrim paced the confines of his staterooms, marching from room to room as he pondered the words of Emissary Braxton. He had tried to conceal his unease at the news he had been brought, but he suspected that the man had seen through his facade of indifference. He swung the silver sword in a glittering arc, its blade cutting the air with a sound like ripping cloth.
Try as he might to forget them, the words of the eldar farseer kept returning, and though he had tried to purge the alien's lies from his head, they would not leave him alone. Braxton's news of the Council of Terra's desire for him to investigate Horus and Angron's conduct only heightened his fear that the farseer had spoken the truth.
'It cannot be true!' shouted Fulgrim. 'Horus would never betray the Emperor!'
Are you so sure? asked the voice, and Fulgrim felt the familiar jolt of unease as it spoke.
He could no longer delude himself that this was simply the voice of his own conscience, but was something else entirely. Since the portrait had been delivered to his stateroom, the honest counsellor in his head had by some unknown means relocated itself within the thick paints of the canvas, reshaping the image to suit its vocabulary.
Fulgrim marvelled at his ability to simply accept this development, and each time the hideousness of the notion surfaced in his mind, it was quashed by a feeling of elation and attraction that melted his concerns like snow before the spring sun.
He turned slowly towards the magnificent picture Serena d'Angelus had painted for him, its splendour matched only by his amazement at what it had become in the days since it had been delivered to his staterooms.
Fulgrim made his way through the rain of his quarters and stared into the image of his own face on the canvas. The giant in purple armour stared at him from the picture, its features, refined and regal, the mirror of his own. The eyes sparkled as though recalling some long forgotten joke, the lips curled in the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite, and the brow furrowed as though plotting some scheme of great cunning.
Even as he stared into his own features the mouth twisted and pulled at the canvas as it formed new words.
What if the alien spoke true? If Horus has indeed forsaken the Emperor, where would you stand in such a contest?
Fulgrim felt clammy sweat coat his naked flesh, repulsed by the creeping horror of the picture, yet unaccountably drawn once again to hear its words, as though they possessed some silken, siren-like attraction to him. As much as he wanted to slice his blade through the painting, he could not bear to see it destroyed.
He is the most worthy of you, said the painting, its mouth contorting under the effort of speech. If Horus were to turn his face from the Emperor, where would you stand?
'The question is immaterial,' snapped Fulgrim. 'The situation would never arise.'
Think you so? laughed the painting. Even now Horus plants the seeds of his rebellion.
Fulgrim clenched his jaw and aimed his sword at the image of himself on the canvas. 'I will not believe you?' he shouted. 'You cannot know these things.'
But I do.
'How?' begged Fulgrim. 'You are not me, you cannot be me.'
No, agreed his twin, I am not. Call me… the spirit of perfection that will guide you in the coming days.
'Horus seeks war with the Emperor?' asked Fulgrim, almost unable to speak the words such was the horror of what they represented.
He does not seek it, but it is forced upon him. The Emperor plans to abandon you all, Fulgrim. His perfection is naught but a sham! He has used you all to conquer the galaxy for him, and now seeks to ascend to godhood on the blood you have shed.
'No!' cried Fulgrim. 'I won't believe this. The Emperor is human intelligence raised above all error and imperfection, and extended to all possible truth.'
Your belief is irrelevant. It is already happening. Grand things are necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care. If Horus, can see this, how is it that you, most perfect of primarchs, cannot?
'Because you are lying!' bellowed Fulgrim, smashing his fist into one of the green marble pillars that supported the domed roof of his staterooms. Powdered stone exploded from the column, and it collapsed in a cracked pile of splintered rock.
You waste time in denial, Fulgrim. You are already on the road to joining your brother.
'I will support Horus in all things,' gasped Fulgrim, 'but turn against the Emperor… that is too far!'
You will never know what is too far until you go beyond it. I know you, Fulgrim, and have tasted the forbidden desires you hold chained within the deepest, darkest recesses of your soul. Better to murder an infant in its cradle than nurse an unacted upon desire.
'No,' sa
id Fulgrim, raising his bloodied hand to his temple. 'I won't listen to you.'
Expose yourself to your deepest fear, Fulgrim. After that, fear has no power and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You will be free.
'Free?' cried Fulgrim. 'Betrayal is not freedom, it is damnation.'
Damnation? No! It is liberty and unfettered freedom to explore all that is and all that can be! Horus has seen beyond the veil of this mortal flesh you call life and learnt the truth of your existence. He is privy to the secrets of the Ancients, and only he can help you towards perfection.
'Perfection?' whispered Fulgrim.
Yes, perfection. The Emperor is imperfect, for if he were perfect, then such things could not happen. Perfection is slow death. Only change is constant, the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix from which you arise! Ask yourself this: what is it you fear?
Fulgrim stared into the eyes of the portrait, eyes that were his own but for the awful knowledge within them. With a clarity borne of perfect understanding, Fulgrim knew the answer to the question his reflection had posed him.
'My fear is to fail,' said Fulgrim.
The cold lights of the apothecarion were bright and hostile, staring down at Marius as he lay naked on the surgical slab. His limbs were immobile, held static by gleaming steel restraints and chemical inhibitors. The feeling of vulnerability was acute, but he had vowed to obey his primarch's orders, no matter what they were, and Lord Eidolon had assured him that this was what Lord Fulgrim desired.
'Are you ready?' asked Fabius, the silver steel arms of the Apothecary's chirurgeon machine looming over him like a great spider.
Marius tried to nod, but his muscles would not obey him.
'I am,' he said, fighting to say even that.
'Excellent,' said Fabius. His narrow dark eyes bored into Marius and examined his flesh, as a butcher might examine a choice cut of meat, or a sculptor a fresh block of virgin stone.
'Lord Commander Eidolon said you would make me better than before.'
'And so I shall, Captain Vairosean,' grinned Fabius. 'You will not believe the things I can do.'
SEVENTEEN
Nothing Against Your Conscience
The ships of the 63rd Expedition floated like a school of silver fish above the twin worlds of the Auretian Technocracy. Sharing a common moon, the space above them was alive with electronic chatter as the Warmaster's forces prosecuted the war below. Wrecked communications satellites were debris in the upper atmosphere, and what remained of the Auretian monitors had long since plummeted as fiery meteors to the planet's surface.
Fulgrim watched the slow drift of the Warmaster's ships above the second planet, their attention fixed on the conflict raging below rather than their rear defences. He smiled as he realised that, if he was clever, he could catch his brother unawares.
'Slow to one-quarter flank speed,' ordered Fulgrim. 'All active systems to passive.'
The bridge of the Pride of the Emperor throbbed with activity as its crew hurried to obey his orders. He kept his eyes glued to the readouts and hololithic projections of the surveyor station, and issued fresh orders in response to each sensor sweep. Captain Aizel watched his every move with admiration. Fulgrim could just imagine the bitter envy that must fill any man who knew that he would never approach such genius.
The eight-week journey to the Auretian system had been one of enormous tedium for Fulgrim, with every diversion delighting him for only the briefest moment before becoming stale. He had even hoped for some catastrophe to occur in their warp translation, just for something to occupy his thoughts with some new sensation, but no such disaster had occurred.
In preparation for his meeting with his beloved brother, Fulgrim's armour had been polished to a mirror sheen, the great golden eagle's wing sweeping high over his left shoulder. His armour had been restored to its familiar brilliant purple, edged in bright gold, and inlaid with opalescent stones and gilded carvings. A long, scaled cloak was secured to his armour by silver brooches, and trailing parchments hung from his shoulder guards.
He bore no weapon, and his hands continually itched to reach for his absent sword, to feel the reassuring heat of its silver grip and the perversely comforting presence that spoke to him through Serena dAngelus's masterpiece. Though he had not wielded Fireblade in many months, he missed even its balance and fiery edge. Without a weapon, especially the one torn from the Laer temple, his thoughts were clearer, uncluttered by intrusive voices and treacherous thoughts, but try as he might, he could not bring himself to forsake the weapon.
The wounds he had suffered on Tarsus had healed, such that no observer would ever suspect the seriousness of them, and to commemorate his defeat of the eldar god, a fresh mosaic had been created, and hung in the central apothecarion of the Andronius.
'Issue orders to all ships to disperse into attack formation at my order,' whispered Fulgrim, as though the glinting specks of light before him might hear his words were he to speak too loudly.
'Yes, my lord,' said Captain Aizel with a smile, though Fulgrim could see past his apparently genuine pleasure to the jealousy beyond. He returned his attention to the viewing bay, smiling to himself as he saw that Horus's fleet still had no idea that the entire 28th Expedition was within striking distance.
Fulgrim rested his hands on the command lectern as the enormity of his last thought settled on him. He could attack the Warmaster's expedition and destroy it utterly from here. His own warships were closing to the optimal firing distance, and he could unleash a devastating fusillade that would cripple the ability of the 63rd Expedition to respond in any meaningful way.
If Eldrad Ulthran had spoken the truth, then he could end the coming rebellion before it began.
'Plot firing solutions to the vessels before us,' he ordered.
Within moments, the guns of the 28th Expedition were trained on the Warmaster's ships, and Fulgrim licked his lips as he realised that he wanted to open fire.
'My lord,' said a voice beside him. He turned to see Lord Commander Eidolon holding out his sheathed sword, the silver hilt gleaming in the low light of the bridge. Fulgrim felt the dark, smothering weight of its presence settle upon him and said, 'Eidolon?'
'You asked for your sword,' said the lord commander.
Fulgrim could not remember issuing the order, but nodded and resignedly reached out to take the proffered weapon. He looped it around his waist as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and as he snapped the golden eagle buckle closed, the desire to order the attack faded like morning mist.
'Order all ships to unmask, but not to fire,' he ordered.
Captain Aizel leapt to obey, and Fulgrim watched as the fleet before the 28th Expedition suddenly became aware of his ships and began to scatter, desperately trying to manoeuvre into a position where it could avoid being blasted to pieces. Fulgrim knew that the frantic change of formation was a fruitless endeavour, for his vessels were in the perfect attack formation, and at the perfect firing range.
The vox-system burst into life as dozens of hails were received from the 63rd Expedition, and Fulgrim nodded as a channel was opened to the Vengeful Spirit, the Warmaster's flagship.
'Horus, my brother,' said Fulgrim, 'it seems I still have a thing or two to teach you.'
Fulgrim marched across the docking umbilicus, towards the sealed hatch leading to the Vengeful Spirit's upper transit dock. Lord Commander Eidolon walked beside him, and Apothecary Fabius, Saul Tarvitz and the swordsman, Lucius, followed him. Ful grim was disturbed to note that Lucius's face was heavily scarred with deep, parallel grooves. Many were fresh or recently healed, and he made a mental note to ask the warrior about them once their business with the 63rd Expedition was concluded.
He had chosen Tarvitz and Lucius because he had heard that they had forged friendships amongst the Luna Wolves, and such associations were never to be overlooked.
Eidolon accompanied him, for he feared for what Vespasian would make of what Horus might say in response t
o the allegations laid against him by the Council of Terra. As to why he had included Fabius, he wasn't sure, though he had a suspicion that the reason would be made clear to him soon enough.
As he drew near the hatch, the eagle-stamped pressure door began to rise, and warm air and light rushed to fill the umbilicus. Setting his face in an expression of calm reserve, Fulgrim stepped onto the metal decking of the Vengeful Spirit.
Horus was waiting for him, resplendent in gleaming armour of sea-green, with a brilliant amber eye at its centre. His brother's handsome, patrician features were alive with simple pleasure at the sight of him, and Fulgrim felt his worries fade at the sight of the magnificent warrior before him. To imagine that Horus might plan some treachery against their father was ludicrous, and his love for his brother swelled in his breast.
Four heroic specimens stood behind the Warmaster, who could only be the warriors that his brother called the Mournival, his trusted counsellors and advisors. Each was a warrior born, and carried himself proudly erect. Fulgrim easily recognised Ezekyle Abaddon from his bellicose stance, familiar topknot and martial bearing.
By the startling similarity between him and his primarch, the warrior next to Abaddon could only be Horus Aximand, Little Horus. The remaining two, he did not know, but each looked proud and noble, warriors to walk through the fire with.
Fulgrim opened his arms and the two primarchs embraced like long-lost brothers.
'It has been too long, Horus,' said Fulgrim.
'It has, my brother, it has,' agreed Horus. 'My heart sings to see you, but why are you here? You were prosecuting a campaign throughout the Perdus Anomaly. Is the region compliant already?'
'What worlds we found there are now compliant, yes,' nodded Fulgrim as his retinue stepped through the pressure door behind him. Fulgrim could see the pleasure the Moumival took in seeing their familiar faces, and knew he had chosen his companions wisely.
Fulgrim: Visions of Treachery whh-5 Page 27
