Fulgrim (13 page)

‘We have our own problems,’ said Balhaan. ‘The
Ironheart
is on her own.’ Then he gripped the lectern as he heard his defence officer shout once more.

‘Impact in four, three, two, one…’

The
Ferrum
rocked hard to port, the deck lurching underfoot as the torpedoes impacted on her rear starboard quarter. Warning bells began chiming, and the display on the view screen faded briefly before vanishing completely. Fire burst from ruptured conduits, and hissing steam vented into the bridge.

‘Damage control!’ shouted Balhaan, cracking the command lectern with the force of his grip. Servitors and deck ratings straggled to contain the blaze, and Balhaan watched as burnt crewmen were dragged from shattered control stations, their flesh and uniforms blackened by fire. He leaned over to gunnery control and shouted, ‘All guns open fire, full defensive spread!’

‘Sir!’ cried Axarden. ‘Some of our own craft will be in the engagement zone.’

‘Do it!’ ordered Balhaan. ‘Or there will be no ship for them to return to and they will die anyway. Open fire!’

Axarden nodded and staggered across the ruptured deck to carry out his captain’s orders.

The enemy fighters would soon find that the
Ferrum
still had teeth.

T
HE PRIMARCH
’
S CHAMBERS
aboard the battle-barge,
Fist of Iron
, were constructed of stone and glass, as cold and austere as the frozen tundra of Medusa, and First Captain Santor could almost feel the chill of his icy home world in the design. Blocks of shimmering obsidian carved from the sides of undersea volcanoes kept the chamber dark, and glass cabinets of war trophies and weapons stood as silent sentinels over the primarch’s most private moments.

Santor watched as Ferrus Manus stood nearly naked before him, his servants washing his iron hard flesh and applying oils before scraping him clean with razor edged knives. As each gleaming, oiled limb was finished, his armourers would apply the layers of his battle armour, gleaming black plates of polished ceramite that had been crafted by Master Adept Malevolus of Mars.

‘Tell me again, equerry Santor,’ began the primarch, his voice gruff and full of the molten fury of a Medusan volcano. ‘How is it that an experienced captain like Balhaan was able to lose three vessels and not manage to bring down one of our enemy’s?’

‘It appears he was lured into an ambush,’ said Santor, straightening his back as he spoke. To serve as First Captain of the Iron Hands and equerry to the Primarch of the Iron Hands was the greatest honour of his life, and while he relished every moment spent with his beloved leader, there were moments when the potential of his anger was like the volatile core of their home, unpredictable and terrifying.

‘An ambush?’ snarled Ferrus Manus. ‘Damn it, Santor, we are becoming sloppy! Months of chasing shadows have made us foolhardy and reckless. It will not stand.’

Ferrus Manus towered above his servants, his knotted flesh pale as though carved from the heart of a glacier. Scars crossed his skin from the wounds he had taken in battle, for the Primarch of the Iron Hands was never one to shirk from leading his warriors by example. His close cropped hair was jet black, his eyes like glittering silver coins, and his features were battered by centuries of war. Other primarchs might be considered beautiful creations, handsome men made godlike by their ascension to the ranks of the Astartes, but Ferrus Manus did not count himself amongst them.

Santor’s eyes were drawn, as they always were, to the gleaming silver forearms of his primarch. The flesh of his arms and hands shimmered and rippled as though formed from liquid mercury that had flowed into the shape of mighty hands and somehow been trapped in that form forever. Santor had seen wondrous things fashioned by these hands, machines and weapons that never dulled or failed, all beaten into shape or crafted by the primarch’s hands without need of forge or hammer.

‘Captain Balhaan is already aboard to personally apologise for his failure, and he has offered to resign command of the
Ferrum
.’

‘Apologise?’ snapped the primarch. ‘I should have his head just to make an example.’

‘With respect, my lord,’ said Santor, ‘Balhaan is an experienced captain and perhaps something less severe might be in order. Perhaps you might simply remove his arms?’

‘His arms? What use is he to me then?’ demanded Ferrus Manus, causing the servant with his breastplate to flinch.

‘Very little,’ agreed Santor, ‘though probably more than if you remove his head.’

Ferrus Manus smiled, his anger vanishing as swiftly as it had arisen. ‘You have a rare gift, my dear Santor. The molten heart of Medusa burns in my breast and sometimes it rises in my gullet before I can think.’

‘I am your humble servant,’ said Santor.

Ferrus Manus waved away his armourers and moved to stand before Santor. Though Santor was tall for an Astartes and was clad in his full armour, the primarch still towered over him, his silver eyes shining and without pupils. Santor suppressed a shiver, for those eyes were like chips of napped flint, hard, unforgiving and sharp. The scent of lapping powder and oil was strong on his flesh, and Santor felt his soul open up beneath that gaze, his every weakness and imperfection laid bare.

Santor was like unto Medusa himself, his craggy features like a cliff face shorn from the flanks of a mountain, his grey eyes like the great storms that tore the skies of his home world. Upon his induction into the Legion, many decades ago, his left hand had been removed and a bionic replacement grafted in its place. Since then, both his legs had been replaced, as had the remainder of his left arm.

‘You are much more than that to me, Santor,’ said Ferrus Manus, placing his hands on his equerry’s shoulder guards. ‘You are the ice that quenches my fire when it threatens to overwhelm the good sense the Emperor gave me. Very well, if you won’t let me take his head, what punishment would you suggest?’

Santor took a deep breath as Ferrus Manus turned away from him and returned to his armourers, the dreadful respect the primarch instilled leaving his mouth dry.

Angrily, he pushed aside his momentary weakness and said, ‘Captain Balhaan will have learned from this debacle, but I agree his weakness must be punished. To remove him as captain of the
Ferrum
would damage the morale of the crew, and if they are to restore their honour, they will need Balhaan’s leadership.’

‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Ferrus.

‘Something to make it clear that he has earned your ire, but which shows that you are merciful and willing to allow him and his crew the chance to earn back your trust.’

Ferrus Manus nodded as the armourers fitted his breastplate to his backplate, his silver arms extended either side of him as they dipped linen cloths into iron bowls of scented oils and applied them to his hands.

‘Then I will appoint one of the Iron Fathers to joint command of the
Ferrum
,’ said Ferrus Manus.

‘He won’t like that,’ warned Santor.

‘I’m not giving him a choice,’ said the primarch.

T
HE
A
NVILARIUM OF
the
Fist of Iron
resembled a mighty forge, huge, hissing pistons rising and falling at the edges of the audience chamber, and the distant clang of hammers echoing through the sheet metal of the floor. It was a cavernous space, with the pungent aromas of oil and hot metal heavy in the air, the space redolent of industry and machines.

Santor relished the chance to come to the Anvilarium, for mighty deeds were planned and unbreakable bonds of brotherhood were forged here. To be part of such a fraternity was an honour few would ever dream of, let alone achieve.

It had been two months since Captain Balhaan’s disastrous encounter with the Diasporex ships, and the 52nd Expedition was no nearer to achieving the destruction of the enemy fleet. The new caution engendered by Balhaan’s punishment ensured that no other vessels had been lost, but also meant that there had been few opportunities to engage in a decisive battle.

Santor and the rest of his warriors of the Avernii Clan stood at parade rest flanking the great gate that led into the Iron Forge, the primarch’s most secret reclusiam. The Morlocks gathered at the far end of the Anvilarium, the glimmering steel of their Terminator armour reflecting the red flames of the torches that hung in iron sconces on the walls. Soldiers and senior officers of the Imperial Army stood together with the robed adepts of the Mechanicum, and Santor nodded respectfully as he caught the glowing eye of their senior representative, Adept Xanthus.

As captain of the First Company, the duty of acknowledging the primarch was his, and he strode to the centre of the Anvilarium, the Legion’s standard bearers marching to stand beside him. One standard bore the primarch’s personal banner, depicting his slaying of the great wyrm Asirnoth, while another carried the Iron Gauntlet of the Legion. The devices on the banners were stitched in gleaming silver thread on black velvet, their edges ragged and torn where bullets and blades had snatched at them. Though both had seen the hard edge of battle, neither one had yet fallen or faltered in a thousand victories.

As the gates opened fully with a hiss of escaping steam and a furnace heat, the primarch strode into the Anvilarium, his armour glistening with oil and his pale flesh ruddy from the heat. With the exception of the Terminators, the assembled warriors dropped to their knees in honour of the mighty primarch, who bore his mighty hammer,
Forgebreaker
, hefted across one huge, dog-toothed shoulder guard.

The primarch’s armour was black, its every surface hand-forged, its every curve and angle perfect, its majesty matched only by the being that wore it. A high gorget of dark iron rose at the back of his neck and embossed rivets stood proud on the silver edge trims of every plate.

The primarch’s face was as though carved from marble, his expression thunderous and his heavy brows furrowed in smouldering fury. When Ferrus Manus marched among his warriors, any joviality was sacrificed to his warrior persona, a ruthless war leader who demanded perfection and despised weakness in all things.

Behind Ferrus Manus came the tall figure of Cistor, the fleet’s Master of Astropaths, swathed in a robe of cream and black that was edged with gold anthemion. His head was shaved, and ribbed cables snaked from the side and top of his skull, vanishing into the darkness of the metallic hood that rose stiffly above his head. The astropath’s eyes glowed with a soft pink light and, in honour of his position with the Iron Hands, his right arm had been replaced with a mechanical augmetic. He clutched a staff topped with a single eye in his other arm, and a golden pistol, presented to him by the primarch, was bolstered at his side.

Santor stood before the primarch and held his hands out to receive the primarch’s hammer. Ferrus Manus nodded and placed the enormous weapon in Santor’s outstretched hands, the weight enormous and unbearable for anyone but one of the Emperor’s Astartes. Its haft was the colour of ebony, elaborately worked with threads of gold and silver that formed the shape of a lightning bolt, and the head was carved into the shape of a mighty eagle, its barbed beak forming the striking face and its tapered wings the claw. The honour of holding this weapon, forged on Terra by the hands of a primarch was incalculable.

He stood to one side, placing the hammer with its head between his feet, and the two banner bearers fell into step behind their great leader as he began circling the chamber. Not for Ferrus Manus the ritual of conferences or meetings, he held his councils of war in a room without chairs or formality, where debate and questions were encouraged.

‘Brothers,’ began Ferrus Manus, ‘I bring word of my brother primarchs.’

The Iron Hands cheered, always grateful for news of their Astartes brothers throughout the galaxy. To celebrate the triumphs of other expeditions was only right and proper, but it also gave the Iron Hands the motivation to push harder and to achieve more, for their Legion would be second to none, perhaps save the Warmaster’s Legion.

‘It appears that the Imperial Fists of Rogal Dorn have been summoned back to Terra, where his warriors are to fortify the gates and walls of the Imperial Palace.’

Santor saw quizzical looks around the chamber and their confusion mirrored his own. The VII Legion was to quit the Crusade and return to the cradle of mankind? Theirs was a glorious Legion, with courage and strength the equal of the Iron Hands. To withdraw them from the fighting made no sense.

Ferrus Manus also saw the confusion on the faces of his warriors and said, ‘I know not what prompts the Emperor’s decision, for I know of no shame endured by the Imperial Fists that might occasion such a recall. They are to serve as his praetorians, and though such an honour, honestly given, is great, it is not for the likes of us when there are wars yet to win and foes yet to defeat!’

More cheering rang out over the din of hammers, and Ferrus Manus again circled the chamber, his silver hands and eyes shining in the perpetual gloom of the Anvilarium. ‘The Wolves of Russ push ever outwards and their tally of victories grows daily, but we should expect no less from a Legion that hails from a world that beats with the same fire as our own.’

‘Any word of the Emperor’s Children?’ asked a voice, and Santor smiled, knowing the primarch would enjoy speaking of his closest brother. The glacial mask slipped from Ferrus Manus’s face and he smiled at his warriors.

‘Indeed there is, my friends,’ said the primarch. ‘My brother Fulgrim journeys here even now with the best part of his expedition.’

Yet more cheers, louder than before, echoed from the metal walls of the chamber, for the Emperor’s Children were the most beloved of Legions to the Iron Hands. The brotherhood shared by Fulgrim and Ferrus Manus was well known, the two demi gods having formed an instant connection upon their first meeting.

Santor knew the tale, his primarch having told it many times over the feast table, the details known so well to him it was as though he had been there himself.