'Good,' interrupted Fulgrim. Vespasian now saw that his lord and master had three swords laid out before him. Fireblade lay pointed at a statue of Marius Vairosean, the damnable silver sword of the Laer pointed at one of Julius Kaesoron. A weapon with a glittering grey blade and golden hilt lay in a shattered pile of marble sitting between the two statues, and Vespasian could see from the remains of a carved face that the statue had once been of Solomon Demeter.
'My lord,' pressed Vespasian, 'why were Captains Vairosean and Kaesoron held back from supporting Captain Demeter? But for the intervention of Tarvitz and Lucius, Solomon's men would be dead.'
'Tarvitz and Lucius saved Captain Demeter?' asked Fulgrim, and Vespasian was shocked to see a hint of annoyance surface on Fulgrim's face. 'How… courageous of them.'
'They shouldn't have needed to,' said Vespasian. 'Julius and Marius were supposed to support the Second, but they were held back. Why?'
'Are you questioning me, Vespasian?' asked Fulgrim. 'I am enacting the Warmaster's will. Do you dare to suggest that you know better than he how we should prosecute this foe?'
Vespasian was stunned at Fulgrim's pronouncement and said, 'With all due respect, my lord, the Warmaster is not here. How can he know how best to prosecute the greenskins?'
Fulgrim smiled, and lifting the grey sheened sword from the remains of Solomon's statue he said, 'Because he knows that this battle is not about the greenskins.'
'Then what is it about, my lord?' demanded Vespasian. 'I should dearly wish to know.'
'It is about righting a monstrous wrong that has been done to us, and purging our ranks of those without the strength to do what must be done. The Warmaster moves on the Isstvan system and on its bloody fields a reckoning will take place.'
'The Isstvan system?' asked Vespasian. 'I don't understand. Why is the Warmaster moving on the Isstvan system?'
'Because it is there that we will cross the Rubicon, my dear Vespasian,' said Fulgrim, his voice choked with emotion. 'There, we will take the first steps on the new path the Warmaster forges: a path that will lead to the establishment of a new and glorious order of perfection and wonder.'
Vespasian fought to keep up with Fulgrim's rapid delivery and confused ramblings. His eyes flickered to the sword in the primarch's hand, feeling a dreadful threat from the blade, as though the weapon itself were a sentient thing and desired his death. He shook off such superstitious nonsense and said, 'Permission to speak freely, my lord?'
'Always, Vespasian,' said Fulgrim. 'You must always speak freely, for where is the pleasure to be had in our facility for locution if we restrain ourselves from freedom? Tell me, have you heard of a philosopher of Old Earth called Cornelius Blayke?'
'No, my lord, but—'
'Oh, you must read him, Vespasian,' said Fulgrim, guiding him towards a great canvas at the end of the stateroom. 'Julius introduced me to his works, and I can barely conceive of how I endured this long without them. Evander Tobias thinks highly of him, though an old man such as he is beyond making use of such raptures as may be found locked within the pages of Blayke's work.'
'My lord, please!'
Fulgrim held up a hand to silence him as they arrived at the canvas, and the primarch turned him around to face it. 'Hush, Vespasian, there is something I wish you to see.'
Vespasian's questions fled from his mind at the horror of the picture before him, the image of his primarch distorted and leering, the flesh pulled tight over protruding bones and the mouth twisted with the anticipation of imminent violence and violation. The figure's armour was a loathsome parody of the proud, noble form of Mark IV plate, its every surface covered with bizarre symbols that appeared to writhe on the canvas, as though the thick layers of stinking paint had been applied over a host of living worms.
It was in the eyes, however, that Vespasian saw the greatest evil. They burned with the light of secret knowledge, and of things done in the name of experience that it would sear his soul to know but a fraction of. No vileness was beyond this apparition, no depths too low to embrace, and no practice too vile to be indulged in.
As he stared into the lidless eyes of the image, they fixed upon him, and he felt the painting's leprous visage peel back the layers of his soul as it hunted for the darkness within him that it would bring forth and nurture. The sense of violation was horrific. He dropped to his knees as he fought to avert his gaze from the burning cruelty of the painting, and the terrifying void that existed beyond its eyes. He saw the birth and death of universes in the wheeling stars of its eyes, and the futility of his feeble race in denying their every whim.
The painting's lips bulged, twisting in a rictus grin.
Give in to me… it seemed to say… Expose your deepest desires to me.
Vespasian felt every corner of his being dredged for darkness and spite, bitterness and bile, but his soul soared as he sensed the growing frustration of the violator as it found nothing to sink its claws into. Its anger grew, and as it did, so too did his strength. He tore his eyes from the painting, feeling its anger at the purity of his desires. He tried to reach for his sword to destroy this creation of evil, but the painting's monstrous will held his power of action locked in the prison of his flesh.
He harbours nothing, said the horrifying painting in disgust. He is worthless. Kill him.
'Vespasian,' said Fulgrim above him, and he had the vivid sensation that the primarch was not talking to him, but was addressing the sword itself.
He fought in vain to turn his head, feeling the sharp prick of the sword point laid against his neck. He tried to cry out, to warn Fulgrim of what he had seen, but his throat felt as though bands of iron had clamped around it, his muscles locked to immobility by the power of the image before him.
'Energy is an eternal delight,' whispered Fulgrim, 'and he who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence. You could have stood at my right hand, Vespasian, but you have shown that you are a pestilence within the ranks of the Emperor's Children. You must be cut out.'
Vespasian felt the pressure on the back of his neck grow stronger, the tip of the sword breaking skin and warm blood trickling down his neck.
'Don't do this,' he managed to hiss.
Fulgrim paid his words no heed and, with one smooth motion, drove the blade of the anathame downwards through Vespasian's spine, and into his chest cavity until the golden quillons rested to either side of the nape of his neck.
The cargo decks of the deep orbital had been cleared of the greenskin dead by the Legion's menials, for a portion of the Callinedes battle force to assemble and hear the words of their beloved primarch. Fulgrim marched behind a line of heralds, chosen from among the young initiates who were soon to complete their training as Emperor's Children. The trumpeters fanned out before him, playing a blaring fanfare to announce his arrival, and a thunderous roar of applause swelled from the assembled warriors as they welcomed him.
Arrayed in his battle armour, the Primarch of the Emperor's Children knew he was a truly magnificent sight. His face was pale and sculpted, framed by the flowing mane of his albino white hair. He wore the golden-hilted sword that he had used to slay Vespasian, belted at his hip, eager to display the bond of brotherhood that existed between him and the Warmaster.
Lord Commander Eidolon, Apothecary Fabius and Chaplain Charmosian, the senior officers of his inner circle, flanked him. They had been instrumental in spreading the clarity of the Warmaster's vision to the warriors of the Legion. The massive Dreadnought body of Ancient Rylanor, the Emperor's Children's Ancient of Rites, also accompanied him, through tradition rather than loyalty to the Legion's new vision.
Fulgrim waited graciously for the applause to die down before speaking, letting his dark eyes linger upon those he knew would follow him and ignoring those he knew would not.
'My brothers!' called Fulgrim, his voice lilting and golden. 'This day you have shown the accursed greenskin what it means to stand against the Children of me Emperor!'
More applause rolled around the
cargo decks, but he spoke over it, his voice easily cutting through the clamour of his warriors.
'Commander Eidolon has wrought you into a weapon against which the greenskins had no defence. Perfection, strength, resolve: these qualities are the cutting edge of the Legion and you have shown them all here today. This orbital is in Imperial hands once more, as are the others the greenskins had occupied in the futile hope offending off our invasion.
'The time has come to press home this attack against the greenskins and liberate the Callinedes system! My brother primarch, Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands, and I, shall see to it that not a single alien stands upon land claimed in the name of the Crusade.'
Fulgrim could taste the expectation in the air and savoured the anticipation of his next words, knowing that they carried death for some and glory for others. The Legion awaited his orders, most of them unaware of the magnitude of what he was to command, or that the fate of the galaxy hung in the balance.
'Most of you, my brothers, will not be there,' said Fulgrim. He could feel the crushing weight of disappointment settle upon his warriors, and had to fight to control the wild laughter that threatened to bubble up, as they cried out at what was to be a death sentence for many of them.
'The Legion will be divided,' continued Fulgrim, raising his hands to stem the cries of woe and lamentation his words provoked. 'I will lead a small force to join Ferrus Manus and his Iron Hands at Callinedes IV. The rest of the Legion will rendezvous with the Warmaster's 63rd Expedition at the Isstvan system. These are the orders of the Warmaster and your primarch. Lord Commander Eidolon will lead you to Isstvan, and he will act in my stead until I can join you once more.'
'Commander, if you please,' said Fulgrim, gesturing Eidolon to step forwards.
Eidolon nodded and said, 'The Warmaster has called upon us to aid his Legion in battle once more. He recognises our skills and we welcome this chance to prove our superiority. We are to halt a rebellion in the Isstvan system, but we are not to fight alone. As well as his own Legion, the Warmaster has seen fit to deploy the Death Guard and the World Eaters.'
A muttered gasp spread around the cargo bay at the mention of such brutal Legions.
Eidolon chuckled. 'I see some of you remember fighting alongside our brother Astartes. We all know what a grim and artless business war becomes in the hands of such men, so I say this is the perfect opportunity to show the Warmaster how the Emperor's chosen fight!'
The Legion cheered once more, and Fulgrim's amusement turned instantly to sorrow as he understood that, but for Vespasian's stubbornness, a great many of these warriors would have made a fine addition to the army of the Warmaster's new crusade.
With such warriors fighting for the Warmaster, what heights of perfection would have been beyond them? Vespasian's refusal to allow his men to sample the heady delights of Fabius's chemical stimulants, or to undergo enhancing surgeries, had condemned the warriors once under his command to death in the Warmaster's trap of Isstvan III. He realised he should have disposed of Vespasian much sooner, and the mixture of guilt and excitement at the deaths he had set in motion was a potent cocktail of sensations.
'The Warmaster has requested our presence immediately,' shouted Eidolon through the cheering. 'Though Isstvan is not far distant, the conditions in the Warp have become more difficult, so we must make all haste. The strike cruiser Andronius will leave for Isstvan in four hours. When we arrive, it will be as ambassadors for our Legion, and when the battle is done the Warmaster will have witnessed war at its most magnificent.'
Eidolon saluted and Fulgrim led the applause before turning and taking his leave.
Now he had to deliver on the second part of his pledge to the Warmaster.
Now he had to convince Ferrus Manus to join their great endeavour.
NINETEEN
An Error of Judgement
The beat of hammers and the pounding of distant forges echoed through the Anvilarium of the Fist of Iron, but Gabriel Santar, First Captain of the Iron Hands, barely heard them. The Morlock Terminators stood sentinel around the edge of the chamber, the mightiest of them protecting the gates of the primarch's inner sanctum, the Iron Forge. Rendered ghostly by the hissing clouds of steam that billowed from the deck, the fearsome visage of the Morlocks put Santar in mind of the vengeful predators that howled across the frozen tundra of Medusa for which they were named.
His heart beat in time with the mighty hammers far below, the thought of once again standing in the presence of two of the mightiest beings in the galaxy filling him with pride, honour and, if he was honest, not a little trepidation.
Ferrus Manus stood beside him, resplendent in his gleaming, black battle armour and wearing a glistening cloak of mail that shone like spun silver. His high gorget of dark iron obscured the lower part of his face, but Santar knew his primarch well enough to know that he was smiling at the thought of a reunion with his brother.
'It will do my heart proud to see Fulgrim again, Santar,' said Ferrus, and Santar risked a sidelong glance at the primarch of the X Legion, hearing a note of wariness in his master's voice that echoed his own feelings on the matter.
'My lord?' he asked. 'Is something the matter?'
Ferrus Manus turned his flinty eyes on Santar and said, 'No, not exactly, my friend, but you were there when we parted from the Emperor's Children after the victory over the Diasporex. You know that our Legions did not part as brothers in arms should.'
Santar nodded, remembering well the ceremony of parting on the upper embarkation deck of the Pride of the Emperor. The ceremony was to be held aboard Fulgrim's flagship, for the Fist of Iron had suffered horrendous damage when it had intercepted the Diasporex cruisers closing on the Firebird, and the Primarch of the Emperor's Children had deemed it unfit for a ceremony of such magnitude.
Though such a proclamation had incensed its captain and crew, Ferrus Manus had laughed off his brother's hasty words and agreed to come aboard the Pride of the Emperor.
Surrounded by the Morlocks, Ferrus Manus and Santar had marched through the ranks of elaborately armoured Phoenix Guard towards the waiting forms of the Phoenician and his battle captains. The march had felt like they were running a gauntlet of enemy warriors instead of the praetorians of their closest brothers.
In Santar's eyes, the ceremony had been concluded with unseemly haste, Fulgrim taking his brother in an embrace that was as awkward as their first had been joyous. Ferrus Manus must surely have noticed the change in his brother's mien, but he had said nothing of it upon their return to the Fist of Iron. A tightening of the primarch's jaw as he watched the 28th Expedition translate into the churning maelstrom of the warp had been the only indication that he felt slighted by his brother's coldness.
'You think Fulgrim still feels affronted by what happened at the Carollis Star?'
Ferrus did not answer immediately, and Santar knew that was exactly what was bothering his primarch. 'We saved him and his precious Firebird from being blown to bits,' continued Santar. 'Fulgrim should be grateful.'
Ferrus chuckled and said, 'You don't know my brother then. That he needed saving at all is unthinkable to him, for it suggests that he acted in a manner less than perfect. Be sure not to mention it around him, Gabriel. I'm serious.'
Santar shook his head, his lip curled in a sneer. 'Too damn superior the lot of them, did you see the way their first captain sized me up when we first boarded the Pride of the Emperor? You didn't have to be old Cistor to feel the condescension coming from them. They think they're better than us. You can see it in every one of their faces.'
Ferrus Manus turned to face him, and the full power of his silver eyes bored in on Santar, their cold depths chilling in their controlled anger. Santar knew he'd gone too far, and he cursed the fire within him that surged in him at the thought of any insult done to his Legion.
'My apologies, lord,' he said. 'I spoke out of turn.'
As quickly as Ferrus's ire had risen at his fiery words, it subsided, and he leaned down close to
Santar, his voice little more than a whisper. 'Yes you did, but you spoke from the heart, and that is why I value you. It's true that this rendezvous is unexpected, for I did not request the presence of the Emperor's Children to aid us. The 52nd Expedition needs no assistance in defeating the greenskins.'
'Then why are they here?' asked Santar.
'I do not know, though I welcome the chance to see my brother again and heal any rifts between us.'
'Perhaps he feels the same and comes to make amends.'
'I doubt it,' said Ferrus Manus. 'It is not in Fulgrim's nature to admit when he is wrong.'
The great black iron gates of the Anvilarium swung open, and Fulgrim marched towards them with his flowing, fur-lined cape billowing in the heated gusts of air from the forges below. He stood for a moment at the chamber's threshold, knowing that to step across this line was to set foot on a road that might see him sundered forever from his closest brother. He saw Ferrus Manus with his first captain and chief astropath flanking him, the grim form of his Morlock bodyguards placed around the chamber's perimeter.
Julius Kaesoron, resplendent in his Terminator armour, and a full ten of the Phoenix Guard accompanied him to mark the gravity of the moment. When Fulgrim sensed the moment was right, he stepped into the dry heat of the Anvilarium and marched to stand before his brother primarch. Julius Kaesoron remained at his side, as the Phoenix Guard moved to join the Morlocks at the chamber's edge so that there was a purple and gold armoured twin for each of the steel-skinned Terminators.
The risk of approaching Ferrus Manus like this was great, but the rewards to be reaped upon the inevitable success of the Warmaster's ambition outweighed any doubts he might once have had.
The Warmaster had already begun the process of winning the other primarchs to his cause, and Fulgrim had promised that he could bring him Ferrus Manus without a shot being fired. Such was their shared history and bonds of brotherhood that Fulgrim knew Ferrus Manus could not fail to see the justice of their cause. The veil of lies had been lifted from Fulgrim's eyes, and it was his duty to reveal that lie to his closest brother.
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