Fulgrim- The Palatine Phoenix - Josh Reynolds Read online

  'You're not the first to say that.' Abdemon shook his head. 'It's the truth, nonetheless. I suspect, nothing more.'

  'Share your suspicions, then.' Pyke sipped her wine.

  He looked at her, frowning. Pyke spoke not with only her voice, but that of others. She was influential, and had the ear of certain highly placed individuals in the palace. Sometimes talking to her felt like reporting to the entirety of the War Council. He cleared his throat. 'He's angry. And ambitious.'

  Pyke nodded. 'A bad combination, normally. But in this case, it might prove beneficial.' She swirled her glass again, watching as the liquid sloshed. Abdemon couldn't help but admire her control; anyone else would have spilled it by now. Twenty-Eight One - Byzas - has the potential to be something more than just another tally on the board. If he were any of the others, that potential might be stunted, or worse, lost entirely.'

  'Guilliman-' Abdemon began.

  'It has been said that the Lord of Ultramar sees little else besides the primacy of his own culture For him, all worlds might as well be Ultramar.' Pyke waved aside his objections. 'I am well aware that I am being a trifle ungenerous, lord commander. But a woman can only hear the words 'practical' and 'theoretical" so many times before she loses all patience At least your felinoids, rambunctious as they are can discuss something other than military theory.'

  Abdemon chuckled. 'Lord Fulgrim encourages a certain robustness of learning, it's true. Then, we've never needed much in the way of encouragement when it comes to self-improvement.'

  'And that, my friend, is why I asked to accompany this particular expedition.' Pyke smiled, but the expression faded swiftly. There are concerns among the military high command. Until recently, the Third Legion was one of the most dependable, in terms of internal cooperation. Lord Fulgrim's time with Lupercal appears to have put paid to that. He seeks to go his own way, as the others have.'

  'You mean our warriors are no longer a resource to be spent freely.' Abdemon frowned as he said it. He knew that the aid of the Emperor's Children had been invaluable, in regards to certain military efforts. The Antarctic Clearance, the Fifth Raising of Jove-Sat II, a hundred other campaigns, all successfully prosecuted through the efforts of the Emperor's Children. But those efforts were rarely acknowledged save in the most detailed analysis of the conflicts in question.

  Pyke sipped from her glass. 'That was mentioned, yes.' She studied the dark liquid. 'Regardless, it's in everyone's best interests for the Third to come into its own once more. The question is one of timing. More and more, it is becoming evident that the Emperor intends for his sons to prosecute this war, and for the rest of us to follow along dutifully in their wake. That does not sit well with some.'

  'You?'

  Pyke gave an elegant shrug. 'I am a diplomat, not a soldier. And having an army of seven-foot-tall killing machines at my back makes diplomacy much easier, on the whole.' She emptied her glass and set it aside. 'Byzas is important. It might be the salvation of your Legion. But it might also be its breaking. It is up to us to ensure that it is the one, and not the other.'

  Fabius stood in his apothecarium, eyes closed, seemingly enraptured by the quiet rhythms of a Terran concerto. The sound of it swelled, filling the circular confines of the apothecarium. Fulgrim paused on the threshold, listening. The composition was lacking in grace, but there was a certain brutal elegance to it. The look of serenity on Fabius' face was such that he almost hated to disturb him. 'Apothecary,' he said, after a moment.

  The music clicked off. Fabius turned. He was sallow-featured and gaunt. Dark circles marked his eyes and his white hair was unbound. He smelled of chemicals, and beneath that, old blood. The thin limbs of his medicae harness clicked and whirred about him, continuing its appointed tasks even as Fabius bowed his head and thumped his chest in greeting. The gesture was perfunctory, rather than respectful. Instinct, not inclination. 'My lord.' His voice was thin and ragged. Like the whine of a bone saw.

  'I did not expect to find you here, Fabius. It is not currently your duty cycle.'

  'I... have grown used to a more expansive cycle, my lord.'

  Fulgrim smiled. A careful phrasing, if not quite an outright fabrication. Fabius, by all reports, did not rest. He might as well have been an automaton, engaged in a perpetual task. Under different circumstances, such dogged determination might have seen him rise high in the ranks of the apothecarion. But Fabius cared little for rank, or the trappings thereof. Only the work mattered. Fulgrim had known men of similar disposition on Chemos. Left unattended, they would work themselves to death.

  From the look of him, Fabius was heading in that direction. As yet, the Legion's apothecarion was without a master. Fabius was the sole survivor of the original command structure, but his current rank did not refleat that. No one had got around to promoting him before Fulgrim's arrival, and he'd refused the honour since, out of humility, or perhaps spite. Knowing Fabius as he did, Fulgrim suspected that it was a bit of both.

  But the apothecarion was beginning to flourish anew, under Fabius' somewhat distracted care He taught as easily as he breathed, when he could be bothered to do either. The newer recruits looked up to him, even as the older ones whispered darkly about the things he'd been forced to do, when the blight had raged openly through the ranks.

  Fulgrim had made a careful study of those mutterings. The Two Hundred were a force to be reckoned with, within the Legion command structure Even as he sought to redefine and maintain the rigid lines of authority necessary in a unified force, there was yet an unofficial hierarchy. It would not do to stamp it out entirely - such things were useful, at times - but he would not allow it to endanger the Legion's future.

  Thus, he had done his best to quash all hint of wrongdoing on Fabius' part. The Apothecary was a necessary evil. Besides Fulgrim, he alone fully comprehended the chasm the Legion had only just skirted the edge of, and how easy it would be to slip into it, even now. If the blight was to be cured, then Fabius was the one to cure it. Chemos had taught him that it was best to have the right man for the task. Fabius had chosen his duty, and Fulgrim would let him see it through.

  Fulgrim looked down at him. 'You do not seem best pleased at the honour I have bestowed upon you, Fabius.'

  Fabius hesitated. 'There is much work yet to be done. Things to see to. Preparations to be made.' He frowned. 'Might I formally request that you choose another in my place?'

  Fulgrim studied him. 'I have just said that it was an honour.'

  Fabius bowed his head. 'Yes. But I-'

  Fulgrim held up a hand, cutting Fabius' protest short. 'Do you know what they call you, when they think you are not listening?'

  'The Spider.'

  Fulgrim nodded. 'There are spiders, of a sort, on Chemos. They are industrious' creatures, ever spinning their webs; never slowing, never stopping. They refine chemical sludge into a crystalline latticework of impossible perfection. Perhaps it is a compliment.' Fabius said nothing, but from the look on his face, Fulgrim could tell that he didn't think so. Even for one so isolated as Fabius, the distaste of his brothers stung. That might change in time, if things continued as they were.

  'Compliment or not, they are right. You are a spider, through no fault of your own. But that is not what you were meant to be, Fabius. For too long you have spun your webs and kept to yourself. I would see you among your brothers once more'

  'My brothers are dead. And those who are not soon will be.'

  Fulgrim almost struck him, so great was the flash of fury those words sparked. Abdemon was right: Fabius had grown too comfortable in his web, outside of all authority. He needed to be reminded, and swiftly, of his place in the grand scheme of things.

  'Your brothers live. I have declared it so, and even the universe itself shall not gainsay me in this matter. I have made my choice, Fabius. Accept it or not, but you will be coming to Byzas. That is final.'

  Fabius bowed again, face pinched and pale. 'As you command, my lord.'

  Fulgrim glanced around. The
apothecarium was cluttered, though in a specific way. Spheres of influence, again. Particular and precise Fabius had grown too used to being alone here. Soon, the clutter would vanish, and the silence would be filled with new voices. The accoutrements of Fabius' main field of study would have to be transferred elsewhere. Somewhere more private. Fulgrim filed the thought away for later consideration. For now, there were more important matters to be discussed.

  'Tell me,' Fulgrim said, his tone more subdued.

  Fabius hesitated. 'My progress has been limited. It is not an outside agent but an... an internal flaw.' He fell silent. Fulgrim studied him.

  'A flaw in the candidates?' he asked finally.

  Fabius said nothing. Fulgrim turned away. The Apothecary's silence had been answer enough. The viral blight that afflicted their gene-seed was still a danger. A time bomb, ticking away within the cells of each of his sons. Even those born of Chemos were not immune to the malignant imperfection. The gene-seed was drawn from him; did that mean that the flaw was also his?

  Once, such a thought would have been inconceivable. But now, it seemed all too possible. Fulgrim's hand clenched about Fireblade's hilt. He longed to draw his sword, to chop apart the apothecarium and all that it contained. To deny it, and in his denial, obliterate any hint of the danger to his sons. He felt Fabius' eyes on him. The Apothecary could sense his primarch's growing anger and he lurked protectively near his equipment. Fulgrim wondered what Fabius would do if he drew his sword. Would the Apothecary try and stop him, or would he stand aside as Fulgrim vented his temper?

  The temptation to find out grew. Abruptly, Fulgrim closed his eyes His temper had become appallingly short in the years since he'd left Chemos. Decades of disappointment had frayed it to but a thin shadow of its former self. The weight of it all sat heavy on his shoulders, and sometimes he wanted nothing more than to return to the fortress-factories of his youth. He had been content, then, and his strivings simple. It all seemed too big, these days. His every waking hour seemed devoted only to the difficulties of his new existence.

  Fabius was under similar strain. The Apothecary had striven against impossible odds for so long that all he could see was the fight. It occupied his every moment, crowding out all else, even discipline. Fulgrim opened his eyes and sighed. 'Ingolstadt,' he said after a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fabius freeze. Fulgrim turned. That is where you are from, isn't it? A curious name - archaic - but with a certain potency. Do you remember it at all?'

  Fabius bowed his head. 'Somewhat.'

  'Tell me' A command, phrased as a request.

  'I remember mountains. And storms. The smell of wood burning on a fire The feel of leather bindings beneath my fingers - a library. A true library, rather than a collection of pict-captures or data-slates. I remember the sound of music, echoing through stone halls.' The Apothecary blinked. 'That's all.'

  'That is enough.' Fulgrim peered down at him. 'Hold fast to those memories, Fabius. Let them be your guiding star. Do you understand?'

  'Yes,' Fabius said.

  A lie, Fulgrim knew. But perhaps the truth, in time. He glanced at Fabius, considering. 'When this is done, remind me to promote you, Fabius. It is not seemly for a mere Apothecary to safeguard the future of his Legion.' He turned and left the Spider there, silent in his web.

  And as he departed, he heard the music start up again.

  Three

  the fire-bringers

  The vast distance between stars was often likened to an ocean, by those with more poetry in them than practicality. Fulgrim thought the comparison apt. The remaining oceans on Chemos were all but empty of life, despite his best efforts, as was the void. The black between the stars was as lifeless as those grey waters, and as cold. But like those waters, there was life, of sorts, in its depths. Hungry life. Cruel life. He could feel the reverberations of the hull plates in his marrow as the Pride of the Emperor burned itself a path through the deep waters of the empyrean. He could hear the faint screams of the astropathic choirs in the depths of his mind. They dreamed terrible dreams as the ship's Navigator sought a safe course. Precious weeks were lost to the slow navigation of the anti-reality. But it could not be rushed. It must be done perfectly, or not at all, something Fulgrim appreciated despite his frustration at the inevitable delays. Still, a crude business, warp travel. Inefficient. Imperfect. Perhaps one day, he might turn his mind to improving it.

  For now, Fulgrim had other, more immediate concerns. He weighed the sword in his hand, considering. Then, he spun with an almost languid motion, letting the blade carry him where it would. Fireblade, like all good weapons, had a mind of its own. There was something of its maker in it - a filament of anger, ever pulsing, waiting to be unsheathed and set into motion. The artist and the art were often inseparable, and there was always something of the one in the other, regardless of intent.

  He laughed to himself, remembering Ferrus' look of incomprehension when he'd tried to explain it. His silver-limbed brother had an instinctive grasp of machinery, from the most primitive clockwork to the most advanced cogitating systems. But art was beyond him. Or so he claimed. Fulgrim suspected that Ferrus Manus' creativity ran deeper than he thought.

  'We are wells yet untapped,' Fulgrim murmured. A saying of Horus'. They all had their secrets, their hidden passions. What was a man but a tangle of secrets? Not that they were men. But demigods were as entitled to secrets as the mortals who worshipped them.

  He flinched back from the thought. Worship was a taboo word in his father's kingdom. There was no worship, for there were no gods. No demigods. Only the Emperor and His sons, and the Imperium they would rule together.

  He fell into an easy rhythm, moving in loose circles about his private quarters. Every circle was a dance step and an attack in one. He had learned the war-rhythms from the Sulpha in his youth. The Sulpha tribes had produced pre-eminent swordsmen and not much else. They had been nomads, and they'd believed that the only fit occupations for men were making war and dancing. Two things they did quite well.

  He stopped, falling out of the rhythm instantly. The Sulpha had been broken, at his command. All that remained of them now were the lessons he'd learned in his time with them. They had been the last obstacle to his control of Chemos. A wild folk, unable to adapt to changing times, they had threatened the perfection he'd envisioned. And so, he had destroyed them, one clan at a time, tribe by tribe.

  Some few Sulpha remained, scattered throughout the Legion. But as a culture, they were nothing more than one memory amongst many. Still holding Fireblade extended, both hands tight about the hilt, Fulgrim bowed his head. 'I am sorry,' he murmured. He closed his eyes. The obliteration of the Sulpha had been a necessary evil. That didn't make the weight any easier to bear, however. He sometimes wondered what would have happened had he been found by such a primitive folk, rather than a downtrodden pair of factory workers. Would he have been more like Russ, or even Horus? Perhaps that might have been better. For them, imperfection was somehow turned into strength.

  He turned swiftly, letting the blade slide through his hands. It caught the light, and sheared through it, casting reflected shards in every direction. Corrin and Tullea had been capable parents, at best. Life in the fortress-factory of Callax had broken them early, and they withered, even as he flourished. He rotated his wrists, angling the blade, and brought it around until it extended towards an isolated nook, where two small plinths stood. Atop each plinth was a bust. One of Corrin and one of Tullea. Plain marble, with no colour or gilt to distinguish them. Almost identical in their expressions of weary acceptance, it was hard to tell which was which at times, even for him.

  'You did the best you could,' he said softly, in benediction. Their imperfections had been no fault of their own. He spun on his heel, drawing the sword up in a savage cut. He had taken control of Callax within a few months of being put to work there. Chemos had been dying then. Its mines tapped, its ores plundered. Civilisation faltered, crumbling at the edges. The Sulpha had n
ot been alone in their primitivism, merely the largest group. He remembered those first, fierce brawls against the cannibal tribes inhabiting factories gone cold many centuries past. The doomed expedition to Deep Processor One, and the monstrous thing he'd faced on the fourble board.

  For fifty years, he had waged war against the inevitable. And on the day he'd won it, he'd learned that his war was nothing more than a skirmish in a far greater conflict. That his light was but one of many, gleaming in a darkness more pervasive than he'd imagined.

  The Emperor had come to Chemos and illuminated the Illuminator. He had set the Phoenix's nest aflame, so that Fulgrim might be reborn into a new and greater existence. But already that existence was threatened, both within and without.

  He had made enemies merely by existing. He was used to that. On Chemos, he had been forced to navigate spheres of influence, as he slowly worked to break down and rebuild the old executive clan system. Like a machine that had outlived its purpose, the system had caused more problems than it solved.

  It was the same here, though on a much grander scale. A new bureaucracy was being born, to maintain the territories taken in the Great Crusade. And that bureaucracy had little love for elements outside its control. His brothers didn't see it yet - Horus, perhaps, had an inkling - but Fulgrim had grown to manhood among such mechanisms of influence. He recognized them instantly, and the subtle danger they could pose.

  That danger was but one reason among many that the Third must come into its own, and sooner rather than later. His sons had been spent like bolt-rounds in his absence. A few here, a few there, but it all added up. The mathematics of attrition were inescapable And broken tools were soon replaced.

  He would not let that happen to his sons. To his Legion. They would grow in strength, to rival the Legions of his brothers. The galaxy would be reminded of why they alone, of all the Emperor's sons, bore the palatine aquila. And it would begin with Byzas. He would conquer with six blades, where his brothers might need a thousand. Their superiority - and his - would be undeniable, then.