'Ferrus,' he said, opening his arms to his brother, 'it gladdens my heart to see you again.'
Ferrus Manus embraced him, and Fulgrim felt his love for his brother swell in his breast as the primarch of the Iron Hands thumped his silver hands against his fur cape.
'It is an unexpected joy to see you, my brother,' said Ferrus, stepping back and looking him up and down. 'What brings you to the Callinedes system? Are we not prosecuting the foe quickly enough for the Warmaster?'
'On the contrary,' beamed Fulgrim, 'the Warmaster himself sends his compliments and bids me honour you for the speed of your conquests.'
He bit back a smile as he felt the pride of achievement fill every warrior of the Iron Hands in the Anvilarium. Of course the Warmaster had said no such thing, but a little flattery never failed to win over hearts and minds at such times.
'You hear that, my brothers!' shouted Ferrus Manus. 'The Warmaster honours us! Glory to the Tenth Legion!'
'Glory to the Tenth Legion!' bellowed the Iron Hands, and Fulgrim felt like laughing at such primitive displays of pleasure. He could show these dull warriors the true meaning of pleasure, but that would come later.
Ferrus clapped his silver hand on Fulgrim's shoulder and said, 'But come, brother. Aside from passing on the Warmaster's honour, what brings you here?'
Fulgrim smiled and placed his hand on Fireblade's golden pommel. He had deemed it impolitic to come before Ferrus without the sword his brother had forged beneath Mount Narodnya over two centuries ago, but he felt the absence of his silver blade keenly. Ferrus saw the gesture and reached behind him to lift Forgebreaker, the great hammer that Fulgrim had crafted.
The two primarchs smiled, and once again their brotherhood was obvious to all.
'You are right, Ferrus, there is more that I would speak of, but it is for your ears alone,' said Fulgrim. 'It concerns the very future of the Great Crusade.'
Suddenly serious, Ferrus nodded and said, 'Then we shall talk in the Iron Forge.'
Marius stood rigidly to attention on the bridge of the Pride of the Emperor, his flesh alive with sensation as he watched the drifting slab of steel and bronze that was the Fist of Iron through the viewing bay. The ship was an ugly beast, decided Marius, its hull still scarred and unpainted after the damage done to it during the battle of the Carollis Star. What kind of Legion would travel in a vessel so unfitted to the glory of the warriors it carried? What manner of leader did not have the pride to embellish his fleet so that it displayed the perfection of the Legion it represented?
Marius felt his choler rise and straggled to control it as he found himself crushing the brass rails around the command pulpit. His anger stimulated the newly rewired pleasure centres of his brain, and it was only with a supreme effort of will that he forced himself to be calm.
He had explicit orders from his primarch, orders that might be the difference between life and death for all those aboard the Fist of Iron, and it would be the death of them all were he to fail when called upon. Fulgrim had specifically selected him for this role, for he knew there was no warrior more reliable than Marius in the Emperor's Children, who would not hesitate or suffer any conflict of conscience at doing what might have to be done.
Ever since going under the knives of Apothecary Fabius, Marius had felt as though his skin were a prison for the universe of sensation that seethed in the meat and bone of his body. Every emotion brought an ecstasy of joy, and every hurt a spasm of pleasure. Julius had instructed him on the teachings of Cornelius Blayke, and he had passed that knowledge throughout his company. Every one of his officers and many of the fighting Astartes had been sent to the Andronius for chemical and surgical enhancement. The demands on Apothecary Fabius had been so great that he had even established an entirely new corps of augmentative chirurgeons to meet the Legion's requirements for enhancements.
With the Legion's surprise attack on Deep Orbital DS191, the Iron Hands had welcomed them with open arms, renewing the oaths of brotherhood that had been sworn amid the corpses of the Diasporex fleet. The piquet vessels of the Iron Hands had stood down, and, discreetly and without provocation, the Pride of the Emperor and her escorts drifted amongst the ships of the 52nd Expedition.
With one command, he could visit unimaginable destruction upon the Iron Hands. The thought made him sweat, and his every nerve ending leapt to the surface of his skin, singing with sensation.
If Fulgrim's mission was successful, such drastic action would not be necessary.
Despite himself, Marius realised that he hoped his primarch's mission would fail.
Ferrus Manus kept his most prized relics and personal creations within the Iron Forge. Its gleaming walls were fashioned from smooth, glassy basalt and hung with all manner of wondrous weapons, armour and machinery crafted by the primarch's silver hands. A vast anvil of iron and gold sat in the centre of the forge, and Ferrus Manus had long ago declared that none save his brother primarchs were permitted to enter this most private sanctum. Fulgrim himself had only set foot in it once before.
Vulkan of the XVIII Legion had once declared it a magical place, using the language of the ancients to describe the magnificence it contained. To honour Ferrus's skill, Vulkan had presented him with a Firedrake banner, which hving next to a wondrously crafted gun with a top loading magazine and perforated barrel formed in the shape of a snarling dragon. Its brass and silver body conxprised the finest workmanship Fulgrim had ever seen, and he paused before it, its lines and curves so beautiful that to simply label it a weapon was to deny that it was in fact a work of art.
'I made that for Vulkan two hundred years ago,' said Ferrus, 'before he led his Legion into the Mordant Stars.'
'So why is it still here?'
'You know what Vulkan's like, he loves to work the metal and doesn't trust anything that hasn't had the beat of a hammer laid upon it or the fire of the forge in its heart.'
Ferrus held up his shimmering, mercurial hands and said, 'I don't think he liked the fact that I could shape metal without heat or hammer. He returned it to me a century ago, saying that it should remain here with its creator. I think Nocturne's superstitions aren't as forgotten as our brother would have us believe.'
Fulgrim reached up to touch the weapon, but curled his fingers into a fist before they touched the warm metal. To touch such a perfect weapon without firing it would be wrong.
'I understand that there is a certain attraction in a handsomely made weapon, but to apply such artistry to a thing designed to kill seems… extravagant,' said Fulgrim.
'Really?' chuckled Ferrus, hefting Forgebreaker and pointing it at Fireblade sheathed at Fulgrim's hip. 'Then what were we doing in the Urals?'
Fulgrim drew his sword and turned it in his hands so that it caught the light and threw dazzling red reflections around the forge.
'That was a contest,' smiled Fulgrim. 'I didn't know you then, and I wasn't going to have you outdo me, was I?'
Ferrus circled the Iron Forge, pointing his warhammer at the magnificent creations he had wrought, and which hung upon the wall. 'There is nothing in weapons, machinery, or engineering devices that obliges them to be ugly,' said Ferrus. 'Ugliness is a measure of imperfection. You of all people should appreciate that.'
'Then you must be perfectly imperfect,' said Fulgrim, his smile robbing the comment of malice.
'I'll leave being pretty to you and Sanguinius, my brother. I'll stick to fighting. Now come on, what's this all about? You speak of the future of the Great Crusade and then want to talk of weapons and old times? What's going on?'
Fulgrim tensed, suddenly anxious at what he was to ask of his brother. He had hoped to approach the matter circuitously, feeling out his brother's position and the likelihood of him joining them willingly, but with typical Medusan directness, Ferrus Manus had come right out and demanded to know his purpose.
How artless and blunt.
'When did you last see the Emperor?' asked Fulgrim.
'The Emperor? What has that to do with an
ything?'
'Indulge me. When was it?'
'A long time ago,' admitted Ferrus. 'Orina Septimus. On the crystal headlands above the acid oceans.'
'I last saw him on Ullanor at the Warmaster's coronation,' said Fulgrim, moving towards the great anvil and trailing his fingers along the cold metal. 'I wept when he told us that he believed the time had come for him to leave the crusading work to his sons, and that he was returning to Terra to undertake a still higher calling.'
'The Great Triumph,' nodded Ferrus sadly. 'I was on campaign in the Kaelor Nebula and too far distant to attend personally. It is the one regret I have, not being able to say my farewells to our father.'
'I was there,' said Fulgrim, his voice choked with emotion. 'I stood on the dais next to Horus and Dorn when the Emperor told us he was leaving, and it was the second most heartbreaking moment of my life. We begged him to stay, to see out what he had begun, but he turned his back on us. He would not even say what this great work was, only that were he not to return to Terra then all that we had won would crumble and fall into ruins.'
Ferrus Manus looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. 'You talk as if he abandoned us.'
'That was how it felt,' said Fulgrim, his tone bitter. 'How it still feels.'
'You said yourself that our father was returning to Terra to preserve all that we have fought and bled for. Do you really think he would not have wanted to see the final victory of the Crusade?'
'I don't know,' said Fulgrim angrily. 'He could have stayed, what difference would a few years make? What could be so important that he had to leave us there and then?'
Ferrus took a step towards him, and Fulgrim saw the reflection of his hurt anger in the mirrored eyes of his brother, the betrayal of everything he and the Emperor's Children had fought for over the last two hundred years.
'I do not understand what you imply Fulgrim,' said Ferrus, his words trailing off as the import of Fulgrim's earlier words came to him. 'What did you mean when you said it was the second most heartbreaking moment of your life? What could be greater than that?'
Fulgrim took a deep breath, knowing that he would have to come flat out and say what he had come to say.
'What could be greater than that? When Horus told me the truth of how the Emperor had betrayed us and planned to cast us aside in his quest for godhood,' said Fulgrim, relishing the horrified expression of surprise and fury on his brother's face.
'Fulgrim!' shouted Ferrus. 'What in Terra is wrong with you? Betrayed us? Godhood? What are you talking about?'
Fulgrim took quick steps to stand before Ferrus Manus, his voice passionate now that he had taken the final step and confessed his true reasons for coming here. 'Horus has seen the truth of things, my brother. The Emperor has already abandoned us and even now plots his apotheosis. He lied to us all, Ferrus. We were nothing more than tools to win back the galaxy in preparation for his ascension! The perfect being he pretended to be was a filthy lie!'
Ferrus pushed him off and backed away, his ruddy, craggy features pale and horrified. Knowing he had to press on, Fulgrim said, 'Others have already seen this truth and are moving to join Horus. We will strike before the Emperor is even aware that his designs have been unmasked. Horus will reclaim the galaxy in the name of those whose blood was spent to conquer it!'
Fulgrim wanted to laugh as the words spilled from him, the thrill of finally unburdening himself almost too great to stand. The breath heaved in his lungs, and he could not tell whether the thundering he could hear was the blood surging in his skull or the hammers of far away forges.
Ferrus Manus shook his head, and Fulgrim despaired as he saw his brother's horror turning to fury. 'This is the new direction of the Crusade you spoke of?'
'Yes!' cried Fulgrim. 'It will be a glorious age of perfection, my brother. What we have won is already being given away to imperfect mortals who will waste the glories we won for them. What we have earned in blood and tears will be ours again, can't you see that?'
'All I see is betrayal, Fulgrim!' roared Ferrus Manus. 'You are not talking about claiming back what we have won: you are talking about betraying everything we stand for!'
'My brother,' implored Fulgrim, 'please! You must listen to me. The Mechanicum has already pledged its support to the Warmaster, as have many of our brothers! War is coming, war that will engulf this galaxy in flames. When it is over, there will be no mercy for those on the wrong side.'
He saw the colour flood back into his brother's face, a raw and bellicose red that he knew all too well. 'Terms, I beg you for the sake of our brotherhood to join us!'
'Brotherhood?' bellowed Ferrus. 'Our brotherhood died when you decided to turn traitor!'
Fulgrim backed away from his brother as he saw the murderous intent in his blazing silver eyes. 'Lorgar and Angron are ready to strike, and Mortarion will soon be with us. You must join me or you will be destroyed!'
'No,' snarled Ferrus Manus, hefting Forgebreaker to his shoulder. 'It is you who will be destroyed.'
'Ferrus, no!' pleaded Fulgrim. 'Think about this. Would I come to you like this if I did not believe that it was the right thing to do?'
'I don't know what's happened to you, Fulgrim, but this is treachery and there is only one fate for traitors.'
'So… you are going to kill me?'
Ferrus hesitated, and Fulgrim saw his shoulders sag in despair.
'I am your sworn honour brother and I swear to you that I do not lie,' pressed Fulgrim, hoping that there was still a chance to convince his brother not to act in haste.
'I know you're not lying, Fulgrim,' said Ferrus sadly, 'and that's why you have to die.'
Fulgrim brought his sword up as Ferrus Manus swung his hammer for his head with blinding speed. The two weapons rang with a clash of steel that Fulgrim felt echo in the very depths of his soul. Flames blazed from his blade and lightning crackled from the head of Ferrus's hammer. The two primarchs stood locked together, Fulgrim pressing his fiery blade towards Ferrus, and the commander of the Iron I lands holding him at bay with the haft of his hammer.
Burning light and sound filled the Iron Forge, the weapons roaring as the unimaginable forces harnessed in their creation were unleashed. Ferrus dropped his guard and hammered his fist into Fulgrim's face, the force of the blow enough to crush the helmet of Tactical Dreadnought armour, but barely enough to bruise the flesh of a primarch. Fulgrim rode the blow and smashed his forehead into his brother's face, spinning on his heel and slashing his red hot blade towards Ferrus's throat.
The blade clanged on Ferrus's gorget, sliding clear without so much as scratching the black plate. Ferrus spun away from a return strike and swung his hammer one handed as he bought some space with his wide swings. The two warriors circled one another warily, both aware of how deadly the other could be, having fought side by side in decades of war. Fulgrim saw tears in his brother's eyes, and the mixture of sorrow and pleasure he took from the sight made him want to throw down his weapon and clasp his brother to his breast, that he might share such a stupendous experience.
'This is pointless, Ferrus,' said Fulgrim. 'Even now the Warmaster is preparing to expunge the weak from his forces at Isstvan III.'
'What are you talking about, traitor?' demanded Ferrus.
Fulgrim laughed. 'The power of four Legions will be unleashed against Isstvan III, but only those portions that are not loyal to the Warmaster and his grand designs for the future of the galaxy. Soon, perhaps even already, those weak elements will be dead, cleansed in the fire of a viral bombardment.'
'The Life Eater?' whispered Ferrus, and Fulgrim relished the horror he saw in his brother's eyes. 'Throne alive, Fulgrim, how could you be party to such murder?'
Wild laughter bubbled up inside Fulgrim, and he leapt to the attack, his blazing sword cleaving the air in a fiery arc. Once more, Ferrus's hammer came up to block the blow, but it was not a weapon designed for long duels, and Fulgrim rolled the blade over the haft and stabbed for his brother's face.
The b
urning blade scored along Ferrus's cheek, the skin blackening to match his armour, and his brother cried out as the sword he had forged dealt him a grievous wound. Blinded for the briefest second, he staggered away from Fulgrim.
Fulgrim stepped in, not letting his brother widen the gap, and smashed his fist repeatedly into Ferrus's face, hearing bone splinter beneath his assault. Ferrus reeled from the punches, blood drenching the lower half of his face. Fulgrim's senses shrieked with pleasure at the sight of his brother's pain, and his every sense was stimulated by what he was doing.
As Ferrus stumbled, blinded and incoherent, Fulgrim closed and swung his sword for Ferrus's neck. The sword arced towards Ferrus, but instead of raising his weapon to block the blow, Ferrus dropped the hammer and turned into the blow, catching the descending blade in his molten silver hands.
Fulgrim cried out as the pain of the impact jarred his arms. He tried to pull his weapon free, but Ferrus had it locked tight in his hands. The blade was utterly immobile, the chrome-steel of his brother's hands swirling as though changing from solid matter to liquid metal. Fulgrim blinked as the metal of his sword seemed to liquefy and the fire of its blade rippled up Ferrus's hands.
Ferrus opened his eyes, and the fire of the sword was alive in the silver coins of his eyes.
'I forged this blade,' hissed Ferrus, 'and I can break it too.'
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Fireblade exploded in a bright flare of molten metal. Both primarchs were hurled from their feet by the force of the blast, their armour and flesh burned by white hot gobbets of molten metal.
Fulgrim rolled and blinked stars from his eyes, stunned by the force of the explosion. He still held the ruined Fireblade, though all that was left of the sword above the hilt was a smoking nub of hissing metal. The sight of the rained blade penetrated the red mist of sensation that drove him and the symbolism of the weapon's destruction was not lost on him.
Fulgrim: Visions of Treachery whh-5 Page 31
