Fulgrim shook his head and said, ‘Be maudlin if you must, brother. I will enjoy this moment of sweet success.’
‘This place is empty, its walls undefended,’ said Perturabo, twisting to look around as the density of structures became greater. ‘You must have known that.’
‘I suspected it might be the case,’ admitted Fulgrim.
‘Then why did we not simply launch our assault straight into the heart of the citadel on the wings of Stormbirds and drop pods?’ growled Perturabo, angry at this latest revelation.
‘Because it might not have been the case,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Besides, I didn’t want to deny you the chance to build some of your grand fortresses. To plant the flag, so to speak.’
‘You didn’t need me here,’ said Perturabo. ‘Nor my Legion.’
‘On the contrary, I’d say it’s always better to have a siege master nearby and not need him, than to need him and not have him.’
Fulgrim smiled, but there was predatory malice to it. ‘Trust me, Perturabo, I cannot do this without you. I will need you at my side before this is done, brother dearest.’
Fulgrim’s words sent a dark chill down Perturabo’s spine, but everything Fulgrim said these days was loaded with hidden meaning and secret poisons. Nothing his brother said could be taken at face value, but whatever barb these words contained would need to wait.
The buildings Tormentor passed were those on the very edge of the bombardment’s outer area of effect, and which had retained much of their former character. White-gold towers of a strange lucite material soared overhead, reflecting the spectral illumination that emanated from the city itself. Perhaps these had once been an inner precinct of the citadel, a grand approach to its magnificence. Now they were its outer edges, tombs and buildings of unknown purpose that possessed a grace and harmony Perturabo found beguiling.
Even in his most unfettered flourishes of design, when he had relaxed his obsession with straight lines, he had never known such fluid grace in his architecture. A sudden guilt touched Perturabo at this wanton destruction, and the image of burning Olympian towns and cities, the burned-meat smell of the world-pyres, and the ashen taste of loss returned to him with a powerful jolt.
‘Brother?’ said the holographic Fulgrim.
Perturabo shook off the disorientating memory as the ground opened up into a wide circuit passing around the outer walls of the citadel. Soaring hundreds of metres into the air, the citadel’s walls were smooth and unblemished, like the face of a beloved gem polished by a skilled gemsmith.
It was from these walls and the structures within that the greenish glow emanated, a soft radiance that somehow managed to illuminate an impossible world. Wondrously shaped towers rose from the battlements, looking more like organic growths of coral than anything formed by the craft of an artificer. A multitude of wide gateways led within, tall and leaf-shaped, their outer edges carved with alien letterforms. It seemed ludicrous to build such high walls only to pierce them with so many entrances.
‘There aren’t even any gates,’ he said, aiming Tormentor towards the nearest opening.
‘You sound disappointed,’ replied Fulgrim.
‘Not disappointed,’ answered Perturabo, watching the smooth battlements for any sign of a mythical army of immortals appearing above him. ‘Just suspicious.’
Tormentor passed beneath the archway and Perturabo felt a shiver of scrutiny, like the tingling sensation of a medical auspex or a biometric analyser as it penetrated flesh and bone. The feeling of being watched that he had experienced since landing increased, as though a hidden, glacially slow sentience at the heart of this world had only now become aware of their intrusion. Though tactical prudence and natural inclination urged Perturabo to keep pushing deeper into the citadel, he brought Tormentor to a halt three hundred metres inside the wall.
He climbed down from the high cupola, dropping to the ground in front of his growling Shadowsword, letting the funereal character of the interior wash over him. The Iron Circle disembarked from widened crew doors on the super-heavy tank’s side, forming a shieldwall around him.
Perturabo ignored them and craned his neck to examine the coffered panels on the upper pediments of the nearby sepulchres. Each was filled with emerald-lit murals of weeping maidens and hooded reapers. Vibrant frescoes and mosaics adorned the lower reaches of every facade, depicting the dead in the passage of their life; arms aloft in unbounded joy before being plunged into all-consuming despair in an endlessly repeating cycle.
Perturabo saw no two alike, and marvelled to see such love and care lavished upon those who would never know of it. Thousands of glittering oval gemstones of ocean green, sky blue and blood-drop red were inset on every mural: some as the necklaces and brooches of the immortalised dead, some as allegorical representations of hearts and souls.
The spaces between the mourn-towers, mausolea and sepulchres were wide, more akin to open plazas dividing grand civic structures than streets, making the city feel open and airy, like a wide park filled with sculptural architecture. Yet there was an oppressiveness that made Perturabo feel as though the buildings were pressing inwards like the crushing walls of a compactor.
The sense of being watched was stronger than ever.
The Iron Circle parted to allow the Trident through as Perturabo’s attention turned to the slender-limbed statues of bulbous-headed constructs on plinths that lined the spaces between each building. Taller than a Contemptor Dreadnought, but without the obvious bulk and power of such war machines, they were exquisite carvings, fashioned from an opaque crystal. Wing-like spines flared from their shoulders, and winking gemstones glittered deep in the centre of their elongated helm-skulls. Thousands of these statues lined the avenues and processionals of the city, silent observers to this violation of its inner precincts.
‘The army of immortals?’ wondered Forrix, following Perturabo’s gaze.
‘If so, then they are a poor choice of guardian for this place.’
Perturabo once again felt that cyclopean presence within the citadel, like a colossus that only now took notice of the ants swarming at its feet.
‘My lord,’ said Barban Falk. ‘Should we press on?’
‘No,’ said Perturabo. ‘We dig in.’
The Iron Warriors complement of Rhinos divided into three sections. The first formed a laagered bridgehead within the citadel, while the second created a cordon around the ingress points. Each of the IV Legion’s Rhinos was a specially converted Castellan variant, a design of Perturabo’s, with unfolding armour plates and impact bracing that turned them into miniature bunkers. The modular construction allowed the Rhinos to be linked together in a chain, forming a makeshift fortified line when materials for more permanent emplacements were unavailable or a defence had to be fashioned quickly.
Four hundred Rhinos assumed a perfect formation outside the walls in a layered barbican protecting the Legions’ line of retreat, while inside, an identical number of vehicles mirrored them. With the perforated citadel walls dividing them, the Rhinos became a fortified bunker complex from which to launch operations within the citadel. Another three thousand Iron Warriors and Emperor’s Children would hold this smaller fortification.
Perturabo broke the final section down still further into three smaller forces, giving command of each to one of his triarchs. Kroeger would take the left thrust, Falk the right, while he and Forrix advanced along the centre. Each blade of the Trident’s advance was comprised of around three thousand Iron Warriors, with thirty Rhinos, ten Predator tanks, four Land Raiders and assorted mobile artillery support. Warsmith Berossus led the Legion’s thuggish Dreadnoughts through the wall and attached himself to the centre, spreading his war machines throughout each blade of the Trident. Both Titans of the Legio Mortis marched straight up the middle, a pair of towering war gods walking in escort of the primarch himself. The colossal battle engines loosed braying war shouts that echoed from the buildings and shook their very foundations. Mortis came not in the shadows,
not in ambush, but loudly and with malice in their hearts. The enemy would know they were coming, and that fear would only grow with each titanic footfall that brought the war engines closer.
Each force was a concentration of martial power that could bring a world to heel by itself, its fighting strength far in excess of what would be required to capture this place. Perturabo was taking no chances; if events unfolded as he suspected, he wanted overwhelming power ready to respond in an instant.
Fulgrim’s host broke apart into individual warbands, ranging in size from around a hundred warriors to groups of nearly a thousand. Each of these autonomous groups appeared to be led by a captain, though such was the bizarre ornamentation and embellishment on each warrior’s armour, it was often impossible to discern specific rankings. Though far from standard Legion doctrine, the III Legion’s warriors at least retained a measure of their former adherence to a chain of command as they spread out and attached themselves to one of the three prongs of the Trident. Lastly came a long convoy of cargo-20s, sixty heavily laden and high-sided container haulers with their bellies riding close to the ground. Normally used to ferry the vast quantities of ammunition required by mobile artillery regiments, they were guarded by warriors in Terminator armour and a host of Dreadnoughts.
‘What are you planning, brother?’ wondered Perturabo, keeping his voice low.
Fulgrim looked over and gave Perturabo an expansive bow, his cloak flaring out behind him like the golden wings of the mythical beast to which he had always likened himself. Karuchi Vohra stood in Fulgrim’s shadow, attended by two of his brother’s Phoenix Guard. The eldar’s face was gloating, but pinched tight with wary hostility, as though the citadel’s interior simultaneously entranced and terrified him.
Perturabo decided that when they were done with this place he would kill the alien.
‘Give the word, brother,’ said Fulgrim, the feral smile and indulgent tone making it sound as though this was a gesture of magnanimity on his part.
Perturabo nodded and a howling cheer erupted from the throats of the Emperor’s Children as hundreds of vehicle engines roared to life.
His triarchs turned away to rejoin their warriors, but Perturabo stopped them.
‘Be watchful,’ he said, stealing a sidelong glance at the Emperor’s Children. ‘For anything.’
Forrix nodded in understanding. ‘Iron within,’ he said.
‘Iron without,’ answered Perturabo, and leaving the fortified bridgehead behind, he led the Iron Warriors and Emperor’s Children into the heart of Amon ny-shak Kaelis.
Lucius jogged alongside the growling Rhinos as they prowled through the plaza-streets of the citadel, irritated there was no sign of any enemy. The shimmering green light of the city illuminated well enough, but there was no life to it. One curious fact he noticed was that it reflected from nothing, no matter how polished and clear it might be. The blade of his sword showed not the slightest green tint in the gleaming silver.
Warriors of the III Legion moved in a rabble, each warband finding its own pace; some dawdling, some pushing ahead of the vehicles. Jetbikes shot overhead, weaving complex patterns through the air and sometimes flashing so close he could have beheaded the pilot had he so wished.
The dour Iron Warriors formed the centre of the advance, their combined force ridiculously overpowered for such a ludicrously easy task. This element of the assault was led by Barban Falk, one of Perturabo’s inner circle, and Lucius passed a few idle moments working out the man’s balance, reach and strength.
In case this fragile alliance should crack, he thought with delicious amusement.
Falk was a giant, even allowing for the layered bulk of Cataphractii plate, who seemed to be looking for something, judging by the way his head was darting around from place to place. Lucius saw hesitancy in the warrior, a wariness that was keeping him from matching the pace of the other two thrusts.
Lucius wondered what Falk was seeing, filing this latest fragment of information away. Lucius knew his blade would struggle to penetrate Falk’s armour, but even with that advantage the Iron Warrior wouldn’t be fast enough to get his tearing gauntlets upon Lucius. The swordsman flexed his fingers over the whip he’d taken from dead Kalimos. The textured grip was fashioned from the outer skin of a deep sea cephalopod, and micro-hooks extruded from every square millimetre of its surface, making it wondrously intense to crack.
Lucius tore his thoughts from the murder of Barban Falk to the statues lining the wide streets. Letting the armoured column slowly rumble past him, Lucius jogged over to a nearby sepulchre, drinking in the bright colours and vibrant texture of the mosaics rendered on its surface.
The figures were, for the most part, a mix of artists, sculptors, singers, acrobats and other creative types, but what seemed like a disproportionate amount were also warriors. Some made war with long pikes that spat fire, others wore screaming masks, while still others fought with twin blades. Lucius liked the grace and poise of these warriors and followed the movements of the sword-wielding eldar, adopting their poses and fighting stances as he leapt and danced, with his blade spinning a web of silver steel around his body.
Lucius grunted, moving faster and faster, each twist of his body and flickering blow a blur of pinkish-purple plate and glistening blade edge.
He spun around the statues lining the road, revelling in the rapturous glances he was receiving from his Legion brothers and those of grudging admiration from the Iron Warriors. Lucius slalomed down the length of the mausoleum, weaving a path between the crystalline statues. As he approached the end of the structure, he leapt into the air and cracked the barbed whip. The toothed length wrapped around the neck of the statue at the corner of the building and sliced cleanly through its glittering neck.
As the head fell, Lucius’s sword licked out and cut through its centre. The two halves fell to the ground and exploded into gleaming shards of glass. He dropped lightly from his spinning decapitation, blade angled up behind his body and whip twitching on the ground.
Lonomia Ruen detached himself from the advance, and Lucius cursed. Since the death of Bastarnae Abranxe, Ruen had transferred his cultish adoration to Lucius. For a while it had been an interesting diversion to have a slavish devotee, but Lucius was already tiring of the man’s desperate need.
‘Your body is a wonder,’ said Ruen.
Sycophancy was always welcome, but Lucius preferred his flunkies to have sense enough to keep their distance. Ruen remained blissfully unaware of his status as a supreme irritant, and had become Lucius’s newly acquired shadow.
‘Learning anything new?’ asked Ruen.
‘Only that eldar fighting styles don’t suit me,’ Lucius said, coiling the whip with a twist of the wrist and hooking it on his belt.
‘Looked good from where I was standing,’ pointed out Ruen.
‘Because you barely know one end of a sword from the other,’ snapped Lucius, sheathing his sword. ‘Did Abranxe teach you nothing of their use?’
Ruen’s posture stiffened, and Lucius grinned, wondering if he would go for one of his envenomed blades.
‘Abranxe was a master swordsman, but he was no instructor,’ allowed Ruen, his survival instinct restraining his sense of hurt outrage. ‘Tell me then, why is the eldar way of the blade no use to you?’
‘The postures are intended for the lightweight physiques of the eldar and their skinny bodies,’ said Lucius, in a rare moment of indulgence. ‘It’s no use to a Space Marine. Fast as we are, we’ll never be as fast as them.’
‘You could be. Some day.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Ruen,’ said Lucius, though the sincerity of the flattery touched him despite his best efforts to remain aloof.
A warrior detached himself from the advancing column of armoured vehicles and artillery moving through the city streets, a bulky, asymmetrical warrior with a long, pole-armed axe weapon that boomed and skirled with shrieking harmonics. Marius Vairosean came with a group of similarly armed warriors, and Lucius fe
lt his teeth rattling in his skull at the approach of the Kakophoni. Even with the majority of their sonic cannons sheathed, each warrior acted as a conduit for constant, nerve-jangling wails.
Vairosean’s bare head was a mass of fresh surgical scars where resonating amplification devices had been worked into the reshaped bone of his skull. His eyes were maddened black orbs submerged in pallid, doughy flesh, the skin flaking and veined with ruptured blood vessels.
‘Keep moving,’ said the master of the Kakophoni, and the pitch of his words sent a spasm of pain through Lucius. Vairosean’s stretched mouth formed words with difficulty, and expanding flesh sacs at his neck moved in time with his breathing. Every one of the Kakophoni were implanted with organic echo chambers in their necks and chests to enhance the nerve-paralysing effect of their sonic bellows.
‘Just admiring the architecture,’ said Lucius, bending to lift the smooth ruby stone lying amid the shattered remains of the head he had cut from the statue. It felt warm in his hand, and he laughed as he sensed panic emanating from within, as though the stone were afraid.
The sonic cannon on Vairosean’s back gave a barking howl, and the weapons of his men squealed and shrieked in syncopation. Lucius gave the stone a squeeze, grinning as its panic crystallised into terror.
‘What is that?’ demanded Vairosean, holding out his hand.
Lucius shrugged and placed the stone in Vairosean’s upturned palm.
The stone vibrated as though dissonant harmonics were passing through it, dancing on Variosean’s hand like a polarity-shifting magnet. With a sharp crack, the stone split in two and Lucius gasped as he felt a sudden jolt of energy slam into his body, as if a shot of the most incredible battle stimm had just been dumped into his system. He knew Vairosean felt it too, his face twisted in rapt bliss. The weapons of the Kakophoni blared with deafening power and half a dozen nearby statues burst apart as though attacked by invisible sledgehammers.
Reduced to powdered shards no larger than a fingernail, each fragmented statue bore a similar gemstone at its heart, and the shrieking Kakophoni wasted no time in falling upon them. They fought one another for the heart stones, clawing and barging one another as they snatched up the warmly glowing gems. No sooner had each stone been grasped than it exploded and sent billowing surges of blood-boiling ecstasy through every warrior close enough to feel it. Their weapons brayed and honked and let out shrieking howls of atavistic pleasure, filling the streets with atonal echoes that bounced from tomb to crypt like bloodhounds in search of prey.