Fulgrim

  No one rejected Bequa Kynska!

  She placed her fingertips on her temple and gently circled them in an attempt to ease the headache she could feel building behind her eyes. The smooth, artificial texture of the skin felt cold to her and she dropped her hands to the desk. Surgical augmentations had kept the worst effects of her age from becoming visible, but although she was still considered beautiful, it was only a matter of time before human artifice would not be able to disguise the ravages of ageing.

  She picked up the quill from the desk and her hand hovered over the page of musical staves, though each line was infuriatingly blank. She had spread the word that she was to compose a new triumphal symphony for the Lord Fulgrim, but thus far she had not put so much as a single note in the ledger.

  Being selected to join the Remembrancer Order had been a great, if altogether expected honour, for who else could compete with Bequa Kynska’s musical talents? It was a natural progression from her time at the Conservatoire de Musique, and the potential for new horizons and new conquests seemed limitless. In truth the spires of Terra had grown stale for Bequa, the same faces and the same platitudes heaped upon her, now ashen and tasteless after so long. What was new for her on Terra now that she had sampled every carnal and narcotic pleasure that her money could buy? What new sensations did a bleak, empty world like Terra have to offer a libertine of her epicurean palate?

  Perhaps, she had thought, a galaxy, reawakening to the manifest destiny of humanity to rule would provide new and undreamed raptures and enchantments.

  And for a time it had; the newly emergent worlds providing a surfeit of wonders. To be around others of talent had been intoxicating at first and the music had poured from her fingertips onto the sheet music as it had before she had won the Argent Mercurio robes for her Symphony of Banished Night.

  Now the music had stopped, for there was nothing left to inspire her.

  The world below spun gently on its axis and she fervently hoped that its beauty would move her to compose once more.

  SOLOMON STOOD AS he and his assembled battle-brothers rose to answer their primarch’s greeting. As great an honour as it was just to be in the presence of Lord Fulgrim, being included in such rarefied company was another level of pleasure entirely.

  ‘We welcome you, our lord and master,’ he said with the others.

  Solomon watched as Eidolon and Vespasian moved to either side of Fulgrim and planted their staffs in stirrup cups attached to their chairs before taking their seats. Immediately, Solomon could see the tension between the two lord commanders and wondered what had passed between them before their arrival.

  The Brotherhood of the Phoenix was a more exclusive warrior lodge than those within many of the other Legions. While the Emperor’s Children had fought alongside the Luna Wolves, they had formed great bonds of friendship with the warriors of Horus, and in the times between the fighting, a few loose tongues had spoken of their warrior lodge.

  The Luna Wolves lodge was, in theory, open to any warrior who desired to be a member, an informal place of lively debate where rank held no sway and a man could speak his mind freely without fear of reprisals. Eventually Solomon and Marius had been permitted to attend one such meeting, a pleasant evening of honourable camaraderie under the titular leadership of a warrior named Serghar Targost. Solomon had enjoyed the evening, despite the cloak and dagger theatrics of their masked arrival, but he could tell that Marius had been uncomfortable with the informality and mingling of ranks. In the traditionally hierarchical core of the Emperor’s Children only warriors of rank could join this confraternity.

  Fulgrim had issued the summons to this meeting of the Brotherhood, and Solomon was intrigued as to what the primarch had to say.

  ‘The cleansing of Laeran is almost complete, my brothers,’ said Fulgrim, and a great cheer went up from the warriors of the Emperor’s Children. ‘One last xenos bastion awaits our fury and I shall lead the attack, for did I not promise that I would plant our standard in the ruins of the Laer’s heartland?’

  ‘You did!’ cried Marius, and Solomon shared a glance with Julius as they both heard the tone of sycophancy in his words. Others hammered their fists on the table at the Captain of the Third’s words, and Fulgrim raised a palm to quiet their adulation.

  ‘The fighting on Laeran has been hard and we have all lost brothers in arms,’ said Fulgrim, his tone solemn and redolent with the grief they all felt, ‘but much honour has been won and when men look back and read what we achieved here, they will believe the chroniclers lie, for surely no Legion could conquer an entire race in such a short time. But the Emperor’s Children are not just any Legion; we are the chosen of the Emperor, the only warriors perfect enough to bear his eagle upon their breasts.’

  Each warrior gathered around the table slammed his palm into his breastplate, acknowledging the honour the Emperor had done them as Fulgrim continued.

  ‘Your courage and sacrifices have not gone unnoticed and the Colonnade of Heroes will forever bear the names and deeds of the dead. I honour their memory in my heart as will those who come after them.’

  Fulgrim rose from his seat and moved around the table to stand behind the two new warriors. One had the look of the eagle about him, a born warrior with a swaggering expression that Solomon immediately liked, while the other seemed ill at ease with the attention soon to be lavished upon him. Solomon could well understand the warrior’s discomfort, remembering his own presentation to the Brotherhood of the Phoenix.

  ‘Though some die, their deaths allow others to move closer to achieving perfection through war by taking their place. Welcome them, brothers, welcome them to your ranks!’

  The two warriors stood and Solomon joined with the others in applauding mightily as they bowed to the warrior lodge. Fulgrim placed his hands on the shoulders of the more modest of the pair and said, ‘This is Captain Saul Tarvitz, a warrior who has fought with great courage on the atolls of Laeran. He will be a fine addition to our ranks.’

  Fulgrim moved to stand behind the cockier of the two, ‘And this, my brothers, is Lucius, a swordsman of great skill who embodies what it means to be one of the Emperor’s Children.’

  Solomon recognised the names, knowing the warriors by reputation only. He liked the look of Lucius, seeing something of his own wildness in the man, but Tarvitz had what Marius would call the look of a line officer.

  Tarvitz clearly sensed the scrutiny and inclined his head respectfully in Solomon’s direction. He returned the gesture, understanding in a moment that there was no greatness to the warrior and that he would never amount to much.

  Both Astartes sat back down as Fulgrim circled the table, his cloak of feathers trailing on the smooth floor behind him. Solomon turned to face Marius as he sensed that the primarch was reluctant to speak. Marius shrugged imperceptibly.

  ‘The war below us is almost over and when we seize the final atoll, it will be time to plan for our next venture into the darkness. I have received word from Ferrus Manus that his Iron Hands are soon to embark on a new crusade and he requests the honour of our assistance to deal with a most vexing enemy. He is to begin a mass advance into the Lesser Bifold Cluster to engage the enemies of mankind, and this will be a fine chance to demonstrate the principles of perfection upon which our honour rests. We will rendezvous with my brother at the Carollis Star when the destruction of the Laer is complete and assist the 52nd Expedition before continuing as planned to the Perdus Anomaly.’

  Solomon felt his heart beat wildly in his chest and found himself cheering along with the rest of his fellows at the thought of once again going into battle alongside the X Legion. The brotherhood between Ferrus Manus and Fulgrim was legendary, their friendship closer than any of the other primarchs, even that of Fulgrim and the Warmaster – a brother he had fought alongside for decades.

  ‘Now tell them the rest,’ said a bitter voice from the other side of the table, and Solomon was shocked rigid that anyone would dare use such a tone to address the prima
rch. Angry stares were directed at the speaker until they realised that it was Lord Commander Eidolon that had spoken.

  ‘Thank you, Eidolon,’ said Fulgrim, and Solomon could see that he was struggling to hold his temper in check at such a breach of protocol. ‘I was just getting to that.’

  An unsettled mood descended upon the gathering, Eidolon’s uncharacteristic outburst putting everyone off-balance. Solomon felt an odd sensation in his gut, not knowing what it was, but not liking it one bit.

  Fulgrim returned to his seat and said, ‘Unfortunately, not all of us will take part in this campaign, for there are demands of conquest we must obey. The galaxy does not remain compliant without effort and determination, and the Warmaster has decreed that a portion of our strength must be employed in ensuring that those territories already won do not slip from our grasp through inattention.’

  Cries of disappointment and denial raced around the table, and Solomon felt his chest tighten at the possibility of not fighting alongside two of the greatest warriors of the age.

  ‘Lord Eidolon will take a company-sized force aboard the Proudheart to the Satyr Lanxus Belt, where he will ensure that the Imperial governors are maintaining the lawful rule of the Emperor. Captains Lucius and Tarvitz, you will ready your men for immediate transit to the Proudheart. This will be your first action as members of the Brotherhood of the Phoenix, so I expect nothing less than perfection from you both. I know you will not disappoint me.’

  Both the newly elevated warriors saluted, and though Solomon could see their regret at being denied the chance to travel with the rest of the Legion, Fulgrim’s faith in them filled their hearts with joy.

  Solomon saw that no such joy filled Eidolon’s heart and knew that the lord commander must feel shame at his exclusion, though to honour the Warmaster’s command, the force had to be led by a commander of such stature. While Vespasian commanded the forces at Laeran, there was no other choice. He realised that Eidolon must know this, but the knowledge would have been no comfort to Solomon had he been in the lord commander’s position.

  ‘We will sing songs of your bravery upon your return, but for now, let us drink and feast to the doom of the Laer,’ said Fulgrim. The Phoenix Gate was flung open as servants and menials entered, bringing platters of hot meat and case after case of victory wine.

  ‘We shall toast the victory to come!’ shouted Fulgrim.

  FIVE

  Downed

  Follow the Firebird

  The Fane of Excess

  THE FORCE OF Stormbirds and Thunderhawks that took to the air against the final Laer atoll was amongst the greatest aerial armadas yet launched in the Great Crusade. Nine hundred craft took off from a score of captured atolls as the last of the daylight faded, the timing of their launches and approach vectors calculated by the primarch to ensure that each wave arrived precisely when he intended it to.

  Howling interceptors and gunships took off in clouds of jet wash and gritty coral, followed by scores of Stormbirds and Thunderhawks. Within minutes the skies above each atoll were filled with dark, predatory shapes that circled like flocks of screeching crows set to embark on a mission of murder. At a signal from orbit, the flocks of craft angled their courses, streaking through the cloudless skies on plumes of blue fire towards their prey.

  Fulgrim launched from the Pride of the Emperor in the Firebird, a gunship he had personally designed and constructed in the armorium decks of his flagship. Its wings had a greater span than a Stormbird, curved in a graceful backward sweep, and its hooked prow gave it a fearsome war visage that struck terror into the hearts of the primarch’s foes.

  The Firebird streaked through the atmosphere of Laeran, its fiery re-entry wreathing its wings and body in ghostly flames that lit up the night sky like a glittering comet.

  THE METAL FIXTURES of Solomon Demeter’s Stormbird were gilded and the internal facings decorated with mosaics depicting the Legion’s conquests won alongside the Luna Wolves. Grey-armoured warriors fought alongside the purple of the Emperor’s Children, and Solomon felt a sudden pang of regret that they no longer fought alongside the Warmaster’s Wolves as he stared at the scenes that bounced and shuddered before him.

  ‘It’s only going to get worse,’ said Gaius Caphen, seeing Solomon’s unease.

  ‘Thanks,’ he shouted back. ‘I’m trying not to think of the wall of flak we have to fly through to reach this damn place.’

  Even though the roaring of the engines was muffled by his helmet’s auto-senses it was still deafening. The crack of explosions sounded dull and unthreatening beyond the Stormbird’s armoured walls, though he knew exactly how deadly they were.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Solomon shouted. ‘I hate the surrender to the fates that comes with being delivered to a warzone in a manner that’s beyond my control.’

  ‘You say that every time,’ noted Caphen, ‘whether we go in by Stormbird, drop-pod or Rhino. The only other way is to this battle is to walk on water.’

  Solomon said, ‘And look what happened to our speartip on Atoll 19, the bird barely made it to the damned rock! Too many good men will die in this fire before they have the chance to earn their warrior’s fate.’

  ‘Warrior’s fate?’ laughed Caphen, shaking his head. ‘Sometimes I swear I ought to report you to Chaplain Charmosian with all your talk of fates and gods of battle. I don’t like it any better than you do, but we’re as protected as we can be, yes?’

  Solomon nodded, knowing that Gaius was right. Understanding that the rest of the fleet had to share in the honour of conquering Twenty-Eight Three, Lord Fulgrim had permitted the fleet interceptors to launch several raids to knock out the worst of the Laer air defences.

  Much of the Laer’s defensive capabilities had been rendered to rubble, though there was still a fearsome amount to endure. Solomon glanced down the length of the crew compartment to see what effect their violent journey was having on his men, pleased to see that they appeared as calm as though they were on a training mission.

  His warriors might be calm, but he was not, and despite Caphen’s reassurances, he knew he wouldn’t be happy until he was at last watching the pilots guide them in. Solomon was trained to fly a Stormbird, and even had some time in the newer Thunderhawks, but he was the first to admit that he was only a fair pilot at best.

  Others with greater skill were to fly them into battle, and since the primarch’s plan required absolute, perfect precision for this assault to work, he had kept his concerns to himself until it was too late to do anything about them.

  He slammed a palm into the restraint of his grav-harness and pushed himself to his feet, gripping the brass handrail that ran the length of the ceiling.

  ‘I’m going to the flight deck,’ he said.

  ‘You going to fly us in?’ asked Caphen. ‘I feel safer already.’

  ‘No, I just want to see what’s going on.’

  Caphen didn’t reply, and Solomon turned towards the cockpit as the aircraft bucked in the air and he felt the hammering of a nearby explosion. He made his way along the companionway and pulled open the door to the flight compartment.

  ‘How long till we reach the landing zone?’ he shouted over the din.

  The co-pilot spared him a glance and shouted, ‘Two minutes!’

  Solomon nodded, anxious to speak, but not wanting to distract the pilots from their duties. The night sky beyond the armoured glass of the cockpit was lit up as bright as day with traceries of gunfire and flak, the fleet’s interceptors duelling with the remaining airborne units of the Laer to clear a path for the Legion’s warriors. Ahead, Solomon could see a bright island of light floating in the sky, the temple atoll like a beacon in the darkness.

  ‘Foolish,’ he said to himself. ‘I would have enforced a blackout.’

  The compartment was filled with an eerie red light, and Solomon suddenly found himself thinking of blood. He wondered if it was an omen for the battle to come; then shook off such a gloomy thought. Omens and portents were for weak mind
s that did not know the truth of the galaxy and feral barbarians who needed a reason for the sun to rise or the rains to fall.

  Solomon was beyond such petty superstitions, but he smiled as he realised that his obsessive habit of modifying his battle gear and entreating it to keep him safe before going into battle might be considered superstitious. No, he decided, honouring your battle gear was just sensible, not superstitious.

  He crouched down in the doorway, unwilling to return to his seat and perversely fascinated by the web of light and explosions painted on the sky. Even as he watched the intricate ballet of fire into which they flew, a blazing light filled the cockpit as the Firebird passed overhead, its greater speed meaning it would be amongst the first of the assault craft to reach the atoll.

  Flames still trailed from its wings, and Solomon smiled, knowing it was no accident that the primarch had decreed that this attack should be launched at night. The flickering red glow of the flames was reflected in the crew’s faces, and Solomon was once again seized by the certainty that something terrible was going to happen.

  Not just to him, but to his entire Legion.

  Solomon’s gut tightened as the Stormbird suddenly veered to one side and he heard the pilots swear. A thudding impact struck the side of the Stormbird, and Solomon felt a sickening lurch as the mighty craft dropped through the sky.

  His mind filled with thoughts of the yawning abyss of the world sea below, remembering the battles he had fought beneath its empty darkness and having no wish to revisit that cold, subterranean world.

  ‘Port engine’s on fire!’ shouted the pilot. ‘Increase power to the starboard engine.’

  ‘Stabilisers are gone! Compensating!’

  ‘Cut off the fuel feeds from the wing and get us level!’

  Solomon gripped the edge of the door as the Stormbird swung wildly to the side. The crew issued orders to one another and attempted to stabilise their flight. Emergency lights flashed across the command console, and Solomon could hear the warning klaxon of the altimeter. Though he could hear the strain in the pilots’ voices, Solomon also heard their training and discipline as they went through the emergency procedures with determined efficiency.