Fulgrim

  He saw a shadow pass over Julius’s face and said, ‘What is it?’

  Julius shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I’m just… I’m just not sure you’d have wanted to be at the primarch’s side at the end. It was… unnatural in that temple.’

  ‘Unnatural? What does that mean?’

  Julius looked around, as though checking for any who might be listening, and said, ‘It’s hard to describe, Sol, but it felt… it felt as though the temple itself was alive, or something in it was alive. It sounds stupid, I know.’

  ‘The temple was alive? You’re right, that does sound stupid. How can a temple be alive? It’s just a building.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ admitted Julius, ‘but that’s what it felt like. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was horrible, but at the same time it was magnificent: the colours, the noise and the smells. Even though I hated it at the time, I keep thinking back to it with longing. Every one of my senses was stimulated and I felt… energised by the experience.’

  ‘Sounds like I should try it,’ said Solomon. ‘I could do with being energised.’

  ‘I even went back with the remembrancers,’ laughed Julius, though Solomon could hear the confusion in it. ‘They thought it was such a great honour that I accompanied them, but it was not for them, it was for me. I had to see it again, and I don’t know why.’

  ‘What does Marius make of all this?’

  ‘He never saw it,’ said Julius. ‘The Third never made it inside the temple. By the time they fought their way through, the battle was already over. He went straight back to the Pride of the Emperor.’

  Solomon closed his eyes, knowing the anguish Marius must have felt upon reaching the field of battle and discovering that victory was already won. He had already heard that the Third had failed to reach the battlefield in accordance with the primarch’s meticulous plan, and knew that his friend must be suffering unbearable torments at the thought that he had failed in his duty.

  ‘How is Marius?’ he asked at last. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Not much, no,’ said Julius. ‘He’s been keeping himself confined to the armament decks, working his company day and night so they will not fail again. He and his warriors were shamed, but Fulgrim forgave them.’

  ‘Forgave him?’ asked Solomon, suddenly angry. ‘From what I hear, the southern spur was the most heavily defended part of the atoll, and too many of his assault force were shot down on the way in for him to have had any hope of reaching Fulgrim in time.’

  Julius nodded. ‘You know that and I know that, but try telling Marius. As far as he is concerned the Third failed in their duty, and must fight twice as hard to regain their honour.’

  ‘He must know that there was no way he could have reached the primarch in time.’

  ‘Maybe, but you know Marius,’ pointed out Julius. ‘He thinks they should have found a way to overcome impossible odds.’

  ‘Speak to him, Julius,’ said Solomon. ‘I mean it, you know how he can get.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him later on,’ said Julius, rising from the stool. ‘He and I are part of the delegation that is to meet Ferrus Manus when he comes aboard the Pride of the Emperor.’

  ‘Ferrus Manus?’ exclaimed Solomon, sitting bolt upright and wincing in pain as his wounds pulled tight. ‘He’s coming here?’

  Julius pressed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘We are due to rendezvous with the 52nd Expedition within six hours, and the Primarch of the Iron Hands is coming aboard. Fulgrim and Vespasian want some of the most senior captains to be part of the delegation.’

  Solomon pushed himself upright once more and swung his legs from the bed. His vision swam and he held tight to the bed frame as the gleaming walls suddenly grew sickeningly bright. ‘I should be there,’ he said groggily.

  ‘You are in no state to be anywhere except here, my friend,’ said Julius. ‘Caphen will represent the Second. He was lucky, he made it out of the crash with nothing but a few scrapes and bruises.’

  ‘Caphen,’ said Solomon, sinking back down into the bed. He was an Astartes, invincible and immortal, and this helplessness was utterly alien to him. ‘Keep an eye on him. He’s a good lad, but a bit wild sometimes.’

  Julius laughed and said, ‘Get some sleep, Solomon, you understand? Or did that crash scramble your brains too?’

  ‘Sleep?’ said Solomon, slumping back onto the bed. ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’

  THE UPPER EMBARKATION deck had been chosen as the location where the delegation from the Iron Hands would be met, and Julius felt a great excitement seize him at the thought of once again laying eyes upon Ferrus Manus. Not since the bloody fields of Tygriss had the Emperor’s Children fought alongside the X Legion, and Julius remembered the cries of triumph and the victory pyres with great pride.

  He wore an ivory cloak, its edges picked out with scarlet leaves and eagles, and a laurel wreath of gold upon his brow. He carried his helmet under the crook of his arm, as did his brothers who gathered with him to greet Ferrus Manus. Marius stood to his left, his austere features drawn in a sombre expression that stood out amongst the excited faces that awaited this reunion of the Emperor’s sons. Solomon was right, he decided, he would need to keep an eye on his brother and attempt to lift him from the pit of self-loathing he had dug for himself.

  In contrast, Gaius Caphen could barely contain his excitement. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to believe his luck at having come through the crash that had so grievously wounded his captain, and then being selected to join this august assembly. Another four captains made up the rest of the gathering: Xiandor, Tyrion, Anteus and Hellespon. Julius knew Xiandor reasonably well, but knew the others only by reputation.

  Lord Commander Vespasian talked quietly to the primarch, who stood resplendent in his full battle plate, the golden winged gorget sweeping up over his shoulder to the level of his high, shishak helmet, the lamellar aventail sweeping down across the shoulders of his armour in a glittering cascade.

  The golden sword Fireblade was belted at the primarch’s waist, and Julius was unaccountably glad to see it at Fulgrim’s hip instead of the silver-handled blade he had taken from the Laer temple.

  Behind them, the vicious, beaked prow of the Firebird watched over proceedings, the primarch’s assault vessel sporting a fresh coat of paint after her fiery entry into the atmosphere of Laeran.

  Vespasian nodded at whatever Fulgrim said and turned to march back towards the company captains, his face set in an expression of quiet amusement. Vespasian was everything Julius could ever desire to be as a warrior, controlled, graceful and utterly deadly. His golden hair was short and tightly curled, and his features were the very image of everything an Astartes ought to be, regal, angelic and stern. Julius had fought alongside Vespasian on countless battlefields, and the warriors he commanded would boast that his prowess was the equal of the primarch’s. Though all knew that such a boast was made in jest, it served to push his warriors to greater heights of valour and strength to emulate the lord commander.

  Vespasian was also immensely likeable, for his incredible abilities as a warrior and commander were tempered by a rare humility that made others warm to him immediately. In the manner of the Emperor’s Children, warriors who followed Vespasian would take their lead from him in all things, his example serving as a model of how they might best achieve perfection through purity of purpose.

  Vespasian moved down the line of captains, ensuring that everything was in order and that his captains would do the Legion honour. He stopped before Gaius Caphen and smiled.

  ‘I bet you can’t believe your luck, Gaius,’ said Vespasian.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Caphen.

  ‘You won’t let me down will you?’

  ‘No, sir!’ repeated Caphen, and Vespasian slapped a gauntlet on his shoulder guard. ‘Good man. I’ve got my eye on you, Gaius. I expect you to achieve great things in the coming campaign.’

  Caphen beamed with pride as the lord commander moved t
o stand between Julius and Marius. He nodded curtly to the captain of the Third, and leaned over to whisper to Julius as the red lights of the integrity field began to flash.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ asked the lord commander.

  ‘I am,’ replied Julius.

  Vespasian nodded and said, ‘Good man. At least one of us is.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you are not?’ asked Julius with a smile.

  ‘No,’ grinned Vespasian, ‘but it’s not every day we get to stand in the presence of two such beings. I have a hard enough time being around Lord Fulgrim without looking like a slack jawed mortal, but put two of them in a room…’

  Julius nodded in understanding. The sheer magnetism of the primarchs was something that took a great deal of getting used to, the force of their personalities and sheer physical charisma leaving men who had fought the darkest horrors of the galaxy trembling with paralysing fear. Julius well remembered his first meeting with Fulgrim, an embarrassing encounter where he found he couldn’t even remember his own name when it was asked of him.

  Fulgrim’s presence humbled a man with its lawlessness and exposed his every imperfection, but as Fulgrim had said to him after that first meeting, ‘This is the very perfection of man, to find out his own imperfections and eliminate them.’

  ‘You have met the Primarch of the Iron Hands?’ asked Julius.

  ‘I have, yes,’ said Vespasian. ‘He reminds me of the Warmaster in many ways.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You have not met the Warmaster have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Julius, ‘though I saw him when the Legion marched at Ullanor.’

  ‘Then you’ll understand when you do, lad,’ said Vespasian. ‘Both of them come from worlds that hammer the soul with fire. Their hearts are forged of flint and steel, and the blood of Medusa surges in the Gorgon’s veins, molten, unpredictable and violent.’

  ‘Why do you call Ferrus Manus the Gorgon?’ Vespasian chuckled as the immense form of a heavily modified Stormbird eased through the integrity field, its midnight-black hull glimmering with wisps of condensation. The engines growled as the craft turned, its increased bulk formed by racks of missiles and extra stowage compartments fitted at its rear.

  ‘Some say it’s a reference to an ancient legend of the Olympian Hegemony,’ said Vespasian. ‘The Gorgon was a beast of such incredible ugliness that its very gaze could turn a man to stone.’

  Julius was outraged at the disrespect in such a term and said, ‘And people are allowed to insult the primarch in this way?’

  ‘Don’t fret, lad,’ said Vespasian. ‘I believe Ferrus Manus quite enjoys the name, but in any case, that’s not where the name comes from.’

  ‘So where does it come from?’

  ‘It’s an old nickname our primarch gave him many years ago,’ said Vespasian. ‘Unlike Fulgrim, Ferrus Manus has little time for art, music or any of the cultural pastimes our primarch enjoys. It’s said that after the two of them met at Mount Narodnya, they returned to the Imperial Palace where Sanguinius had arrived bearing gifts for the Emperor, exquisite statues from the glowing rock of Baal, priceless gem-stones and wondrous artefacts of aragonite, opal and tourmaline. The lord of the Blood Angels had brought enough to fill a dozen wings of the palace with the greatest wonders imaginable.’

  Julius willed Vespasian to reach the conclusion of his tale as the Iron Hands Stormbird finally touched down on the deck with a heavy clang of landing skids.

  ‘Of course, Fulgrim was enthralled, finding that another of his brothers shared his love of such incredible beauty, but Ferrus Manus was unimpressed and said that such things were a waste of their time when there was a galaxy to win back. I’m told that Fulgrim laughed and declared him a terrible gorgon, saying that if they did not value beauty, then they would never appreciate the stars they were to win back for their father.’

  Julius smiled at Vespasian’s tale, wondering how much of it was true and how much was apocryphal. It certainly suited what he had heard of the Primarch of the Iron Hands. All thoughts of gorgons and tales were dispelled when the frontal assault ramp of the Stormbird lowered, and the Primarch of the Iron Hands emerged, followed by a craggy featured warrior and a quartet of Terminators, their armour the colour of unpainted iron.

  His first impression of Ferrus Manus was of sheer bulk. The Primarch of the Iron Hands was a brutally rugged giant, his width and height quite unimaginable next to Fulgrim’s slender frame. His armour shone like the darkest onyx, the gauntlet upon his shoulder fashioned from beaten iron, and a cloak of glittering mail billowed behind him as he marched. A monstrous hammer was slung across his back, and Julius knew that this was the dreaded Forgebreaker, the weapon Fulgrim had forged for his brother.

  Ferrus Manus wore no helmet and his battered face was like a slab of granite, scarred from the ravages of two centuries of war among the stars. As he caught sight of his brother primarch, his stern face broke apart in a warm grin of welcome, the sudden change almost unbelievable in the completeness of its reversal.

  Julius risked a glance at Fulgrim, seeing that grin mirrored in his own primarch’s face, and before he knew it, he too was smiling like a simpleton.

  To see such honest brotherhood between these two incredible, god-like warriors made his heart sing. The Primarch of the Iron Hands extended his arms, and Julius found his gaze drawn to the shimmering hands that shone like rippling chrome under the harsh lights of the embarkation deck.

  Fulgrim went to meet his brother, and the two warriors embraced like long lost friends suddenly and unexpectedly reunited. Both laughed in pleasure at the meeting, and Ferrus Manus slapped his hands hard on Fulgrim’s back.

  ‘It’s good to see you, my brother!’ roared Ferrus Manus. ‘Throne, I’ve missed you!’

  ‘And you are a sight for sore eyes, Gorgon!’ returned Fulgrim.

  Ferrus Manus stepped back from Fulgrim, still holding him by the shoulders, and looked over at those who had come to greet him. He released his grip on Fulgrim’s shoulders, and together they marched over towards the captains of the Emperor’s Children. Julius caught his breath at the nearness of Ferrus Manus, the primarch towering above him like a giant of legend.

  ‘You wear the colours of the first captain,’ said Ferrus Manus. ‘What is your name?’

  Julius was horribly reminded of the first time he had met Fulgrim face to face, fearing a repetition of that humiliating experience, but as he caught Fulgrim’s amused expression, he forced some steel into his voice. ‘I am Julius Kaesoron, Captain of the First, my lord.’

  ‘Well met, captain,’ said Ferrus Manus, taking his hand and pumping it enthusiastically while waving forward the craggy-faced warrior who had accompanied him from the Stormbird with his free hand. ‘I have heard great things of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ managed Julius, before remembering to add, ‘my lord.’

  Ferrus Manus laughed and said, ‘This is Gabriel Santor, captain of my veterans and the man who has the misfortune to serve as my equerry. I think you and he should get to know one another. If you don’t know a man, how can you trust your life to him, eh?’

  ‘Well, quite,’ said Julius, unused to such informality from his superiors.

  ‘He’s my very best, Julius, and I expect you will learn a lot from him.’

  Julius bristled at the implied insult and said, ‘As I am sure he will from me.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ said Ferrus Manus, and Julius felt suddenly foolish as he saw the glint of mischief in his strange silver eyes. His gaze slid from the primarch to Santor, seeing an unspoken respect there as they sized one another up in the manner of warriors who wonder which of them is the greater.

  ‘Good to see you’re still alive, Vespasian!’ said Ferrus Manus as he moved on from Julius to take the lord commander in a crushing bear hug. ‘And the Firebird! It has been too long since I saw the phoenix fly!’

  ‘You shall see her fly ere long, my brother,’ promised Fulgrim.

 
EIGHT

  The Most Important Question

  Warmaster

  Progress

  THE TWO PRIMARCHS wasted no time in convening the senior officers of the Legions in the Heliopolis to discuss strategy for the destruction of the Diasporex. The marble benches nearest the dark floor were filled with the purple and gold of the Emperor’s Children, and the black and white of the Iron Hands. So far the council of war was not going well, and Julius could see the choler rising in Ferrus Manus as Fulgrim dismissed his latest idea as unworkable.

  ‘Then what do you propose, brother? For I have no more stratagems to suggest,’ said the Primarch of the Iron Hands. ‘As soon as we threaten them, they flee.’

  Fulgrim turned to face Ferrus Manus and said, ‘Do not mistake what I say as criticism, brother. I am merely stating what I see as fundamental to the reason why you have not yet managed to bring the Diasporex to battle.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That you are being too direct.’

  ‘Too direct?’ asked Ferrus Manus, but Fulgrim held up a quieting hand to forestall any further outbursts.

  ‘I know you, brother, and I know the way your Legion fights, but sometimes chasing the comet’s tail is not the best way to catch it.’

  ‘You would have us skulk around this sector like thieves while we wait for them to come to us? The Iron Hands do not make war that way.’

  Fulgrim shook his head. ‘Do not think for a moment that I am unaware of the simple joy to be had in going up the centre, but we must be prepared to accept that other ways may advance our cause more perfectly.’

  Fulgrim walked the circumference of the Heliopolis as he spoke, directing his words to his fellow primarch and the warriors who surrounded him. Reflected light from the ceiling lit his face from below and his eyes, a dark mirror of Ferrus Manus’s silver ones, were alight with passion as he spoke.

  ‘You have become fixated on destroying the Diasporex, Ferrus, which is only right and proper given their associations with vile aliens, but you have not asked yourself the most important question regarding this enemy.’