Fulgrim (36 page)

‘And so I shall, Captain Vairosean,’ grinned Fabius. ‘You will not believe the things I can do.’

SEVENTEEN

Nothing Against Your Conscience

T
HE SHIPS OF
the 63rd Expedition floated like a school of silver fish above the twin worlds of the Auretian Technocracy. Sharing a common moon, the space above them was alive with electronic chatter as the Warmaster’s forces prosecuted the war below. Wrecked communications satellites were debris in the upper atmosphere, and what remained of the Auretian monitors had long since plummeted as fiery meteors to the planet’s surface.

Fulgrim watched the slow drift of the Warmaster’s ships above the second planet, their attention fixed on the conflict raging below rather than their rear defences. He smiled as he realised that, if he was clever, he could catch his brother unawares.

‘Slow to one-quarter flank speed,’ ordered Fulgrim. ‘All active systems to passive.’

The bridge of the
Pride of the Emperor
throbbed with activity as its crew hurried to obey his orders. He kept his eyes glued to the readouts and hololithic projections of the surveyor station, and issued fresh orders in response to each sensor sweep. Captain Aizel watched his every move with admiration. Fulgrim could just imagine the bitter envy that must fill any man who knew that he would never approach such genius.

The eight-week journey to the Auretian system had been one of enormous tedium for Fulgrim, with every diversion delighting him for only the briefest moment before becoming stale. He had even hoped for some catastrophe to occur in their warp translation, just for something to occupy his thoughts with some new sensation, but no such disaster had occurred.

In preparation for his meeting with his beloved brother, Fulgrim’s armour had been polished to a mirror sheen, the great golden eagle’s wing sweeping high over his left shoulder. His armour had been restored to its familiar brilliant purple, edged in bright gold, and inlaid with opalescent stones and gilded carvings. A long, scaled cloak was secured to his armour by silver brooches, and trailing parchments hung from his shoulder guards.

He bore no weapon, and his hands continually itched to reach for his absent sword, to feel the reassuring heat of its silver grip and the perversely comforting presence that spoke to him through Serena d’Angelus’s masterpiece. Though he had not wielded
Fireblade
in many months, he missed even its balance and fiery edge. Without a weapon, especially the one torn from the Laer temple, his thoughts were clearer, uncluttered by intrusive voices and treacherous thoughts, but try as he might, he could not bring himself to forsake the weapon.

The wounds he had suffered on Tarsus had healed, such that no observer would ever suspect the seriousness of them, and to commemorate his defeat of the eldar god, a fresh mosaic had been created, and hung in the central apothecarion of the
Andronius
.

‘Issue orders to all ships to disperse into attack formation at my order,’ whispered Fulgrim, as though the glinting specks of light before him might hear his words were he to speak too loudly.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Captain Aizel with a smile, though Fulgrim could see past his apparently genuine pleasure to the jealousy beyond. He returned his attention to the viewing bay, smiling to himself as he saw that Horus’s fleet still had no idea that the entire 28th Expedition was within striking distance.

Fulgrim rested his hands on the command lectern as the enormity of his last thought settled on him. He could attack the Warmaster’s expedition and destroy it utterly from here. His own warships were closing to the optimal firing distance, and he could unleash a devastating fusillade that would cripple the ability of the 63rd Expedition to respond in any meaningful way.

If Eldrad Ulthran had spoken the truth, then he could end the coming rebellion before it began.

‘Plot firing solutions to the vessels before us,’ he ordered.

Within moments, the guns of the 28th Expedition were trained on the Warmaster’s ships, and Fulgrim licked his lips as he realised that he
wanted
to open fire.

‘My lord,’ said a voice beside him. He turned to see Lord Commander Eidolon holding out his sheathed sword, the silver hilt gleaming in the low light of the bridge. Fulgrim felt the dark, smothering weight of its presence settle upon him and said, ‘Eidolon?’

‘You asked for your sword,’ said the lord commander.

Fulgrim could not remember issuing the order, but nodded and resignedly reached out to take the proffered weapon. He looped it around his waist as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and as he snapped the golden eagle buckle closed, the desire to order the attack faded like morning mist.

‘Order all ships to unmask, but not to fire,’ he ordered.

Captain Aizel leapt to obey, and Fulgrim watched as the fleet before the 28th Expedition suddenly became aware of his ships and began to scatter, desperately trying to manoeuvre into a position where it could avoid being blasted to pieces. Fulgrim knew that the frantic change of formation was a fruitless endeavour, for his vessels were in the perfect attack formation, and at the perfect firing range.

The vox-system burst into life as dozens of hails were received from the 63rd Expedition, and Fulgrim nodded as a channel was opened to the
Vengeful Spirit
, the Warmaster’s flagship.

‘Horus, my brother,’ said Fulgrim, ‘it seems I still have a thing or two to teach you.’

F
ULGRIM MARCHED ACROSS
the docking umbilicus, towards the sealed hatch leading to the
Vengeful Spirit
’s upper transit dock. Lord Commander Eidolon walked beside him, and Apothecary Fabius, Saul Tarvitz and the swordsman, Lucius, followed him. Fulgrim was disturbed to note that Lucius’s face was heavily scarred with deep, parallel grooves. Many were fresh or recently healed, and he made a mental note to ask the warrior about them once their business with the 63rd Expedition was concluded.

He had chosen Tarvitz and Lucius because he had heard that they had forged friendships amongst the Luna Wolves, and such associations were never to be overlooked.

Eidolon accompanied him, for he feared for what Vespasian would make of what Horus might say in response to the allegations laid against him by the Council of Terra. As to why he had included Fabius, he wasn’t sure, though he had a suspicion that the reason would be made clear to him soon enough.

As he drew near the hatch, the eagle-stamped pressure door began to rise, and warm air and light rushed to fill the umbilicus. Setting his face in an expression of calm reserve, Fulgrim stepped onto the metal decking of the
Vengeful Spirit
.

Horus was waiting for him, resplendent in gleaming armour of sea-green, with a brilliant amber eye at its centre. His brother’s handsome, patrician features were alive with simple pleasure at the sight of him, and Fulgrim felt his worries fade at the sight of the magnificent warrior before him. To imagine that Horus might plan some treachery against their father was ludicrous, and his love for his brother swelled in his breast.

Four heroic specimens stood behind the Warmaster, who could only be the warriors that his brother called the Mournival, his trusted counsellors and advisors. Each was a warrior born, and carried himself proudly erect. Fulgrim easily recognised Ezekyle Abaddon from his bellicose stance, familiar topknot and martial bearing.

By the startling similarity between him and his primarch, the warrior next to Abaddon could only be Horus Aximand, Little Horus. The remaining two, he did not know, but each looked proud and noble, warriors to walk through the fire with.

Fulgrim opened his arms and the two primarchs embraced like long-lost brothers.

‘It has been too long, Horus,’ said Fulgrim.

‘It has, my brother, it has,’ agreed Horus. ‘My heart sings to see you, but why are you here? You were prosecuting a campaign throughout the Perdus Anomaly. Is the region compliant already?’

‘What worlds we found there are now compliant, yes,’ nodded Fulgrim as his retinue stepped through the pressure door behind him. Fulgrim could see the pleasure the Mournival took in seeing their familiar faces, and knew he had chosen his companions wisely.

Fulgrim turned from Horus and said, ‘I believe you are already familiar with some of my brothers, Tarvitz, Lucius and Lord Commander Eidolon, but I do not believe you have met Chief Apothecary Fabius.’

‘It is an honour to meet you, Lord Horus,’ said Fabius, bowing low.

Horus acknowledged the gesture of respect, and said, ‘Come now, Fulgrim, you know better than to try and stall me. What’s so important that you turn up unannounced and give half my crew heart attacks?’

The smile fell from Fulgrim’s lips and he said, ‘There have been reports, Horus.’

‘Reports? What does that mean?’

‘Reports that things are not as they should be,’ he replied, hating that he had to bring the petty concerns of scribes and notaries to his brother’s notice. ‘Reports that suggest you and your warriors should be called to account for the brutality of this campaign. Is Angron up to his usual tricks?’

‘Angron is as he has always been.’

‘That bad?’

‘No, I keep him on a short leash, and his equerry, Kharn, seems to curb the worst of our brother’s excesses.’

‘Then I have arrived just in time.’

‘I see,’ said Horus. ‘Are you here to relieve me?’

Fulgrim forced himself to conceal the horror he felt that his brother could conceive of such a thing, and covered his consternation with a laugh.

‘Relieve you?’ he said. ‘No, my brother, I am here so that I can return and tell those fops and scribes on Terra that Horus fights war the way it is meant to be fought, hard, fast and cruel.’

‘War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueller it is, the sooner it is over.’

Fulgrim nodded and said, ‘Indeed, my brother. Come, there is much for us to talk about, for we are living in strange times. It seems our brother Magnus has once again done something to upset the Emperor, and the Wolf of Fenris has been unleashed to escort him back to Terra.’

‘Magnus?’ asked Horus, suddenly serious. ‘What has he done?’

‘Let us talk of it in private,’ said Fulgrim, desiring to end this public airing of such filthy accusations. ‘Anyway, I have a feeling my subordinates would welcome the chance to reacquaint themselves with your… what do you call it? Mournival?’

‘Yes,’ smiled Horus. ‘Memories of Murder no doubt.’

Horus indicated that Fulgrim should walk with him, and the two primarchs marched from the transit deck.

Eidolon followed in his footsteps, while Abaddon and Horus Aximand fell in behind the Warmaster, but Fulgrim could not fail to notice the accusing looks the Luna Wolves threw in the lord commander’s direction. Fulgrim wondered what had passed between the warriors on Murder, as Horus led him through the halls of the mighty ship towards his personal staterooms.

Horus spoke volubly of shared memories of more innocent times, when all that had been before them was the simple joy of warfare, but Fulgrim heard none of it, too locked in his own private misery to listen.

At last, the journey ended at a pair of simple, dark wood doors, and Horus dismissed the two members of his Mournival. Fulgrim likewise dismissed Eidolon, ordering him to attend upon Apothecary Fabius.

‘In many ways, it is fortuitous that you come to me now, my brother,’ said Horus.

‘How so?’ asked Fulgrim, as the Warmaster opened the doors and stepped inside.

Horus did not answer, and Fulgrim followed him, seeing that an Astartes in armour the colour of weathered granite awaited them. The warrior was powerfully built and his battle plate was bedecked with parchments and tightly curled script work.

His head was shaven bare, the skin covered in angular tattoos.

‘This is Erebus of the Word Bearers,’ said Horus, ‘and you are correct.’

‘About what?’ asked Fulgrim.

‘That we have much to talk about,’ said Horus, closing the doors.

H
ORUS
’
S STATEROOMS WERE
spartan and austere compared to his own, without the lush decorations and fine artworks that hung on every wall and stood proud on golden plinths. This did not surprise Fulgrim, for his brother had always eschewed personal comforts in favour of appearing to share the discomforts of his warriors. Beyond an archway veiled in white silk, he could see his brother’s personal chambers, and he smiled as he saw the mighty desk there, the piles of oath papers strewn across its surface, and the tome of astrology given to Horus by their father.

Thinking of their father, Fulgrim looked over to the wall upon which was painted a mural he had not seen in decades. It depicted the Emperor ascendant over all, with his hands outstretched, and above him spun constellations of stars.

‘I remember that being painted,’ said Fulgrim wistfully.

‘Many years ago now,’ agreed Horus, pouring wine from a silver ewer and handing the goblet to him. The wine was deep red, and Fulgrim felt as though he was staring into an ocean of blood as he raised it to his lips and took a long draught. Oily sweat bristled on his brow.

Fulgrim glanced over at the seated figure of Erebus, and felt an irrational dislike for the Word Bearer, despite never having met him or heard a single word pass his lips. He had never particularly relished the company of Lorgar or the warriors of the XVII Legion, finding their enthusiasms unwholesome, and their former zeal in proclaiming the Emperor as a figure of worship contrary to the central tenets of the Great Crusade.

‘Tell me of Lorgar,’ ordered Fulgrim. ‘It has been some time since I have seen him. He prospers?’

‘He does indeed,’ smiled Erebus, ‘like never before.’

Fulgrim frowned at the warrior’s choice of words, and sat down on the couch facing the Warmaster’s desk. The Warmaster sliced the flesh of an apple with a gleaming, serpent-hilted dagger, and Fulgrim’s rarefied senses could feel an unspoken tension in the air, a miasma of things unsaid and great potential. Whatever Horus had in mind was clearly something of great import.